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Stephen knew that he was having a panic attack. He had felt it coming on, felt his world begin to lose focus when the portal closed shut and he stumbled into the kitchen. He knew what had started it – a dream at Kamar-Taj of a forgotten memory from Dormammu, of losing his hands all over again as distorted images of himself in blood-stained robes methodically dissecting his hands – but no amount of breathing was calming him.
Stephen gasped as he lost control of his breathing, a wave of dizziness rushing over him, the fading sounds of the Sanctum pressing in and in until all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears accompanied by a persistent ringing. Stephen shoved himself against the nearest wall, forcing himself into a corner as he sank to the floor, dropping his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees.
Vaguely, he recognized tears dripping onto the floor between his knees. Stephen felt his throat close up, his eyes burning and his hands shaking more than they’d been shaking for weeks.
He’d been doing so well with his anxiety and ptsd. He had started seeing a retired psychologist at Kamar-Taj, had put himself on anti-anxiety and insomnia meds with Jio’s help and his therapist’s recommendation. He had been sitting through weekly guided meditation routines with Wong for the past month. He hadn’t had an attack this bad for weeks .
And now all that work, all the progress , had been for nothing. He was shaking, sobbing on the floor of the New York Sanctum of all places. All because he couldn’t manage his damn anxiety. Because he was acting like a child, crying out for comfort after a stupid nightmare. He was nearly 50, dammit! He shouldn’t feel so alone. Millions of people across the globe had anxiety disorders. Millions had it worse than him. Thousands of people couldn’t even leave their houses from crippling anxiety while Stephen was regularly saving the planet, so why the fuck couldn’t he deal with a panic attack like the grown adult he was?
He was an Avenger . One of the most powerful ones at that, and if he couldn’t handle a tiny panic attack over a fucking dream, then maybe he shouldn’t even be one at all. Maybe he shouldn't even be alive .
In some worlds, his accident killed him. For some reason, he survived it in this one. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe the Fates had messed up, just like how Stephen had messed everything else up. He may have been a decade too late, but would the Fates be pleased if he gave up his life? If he did anything right in his pathetic life, if he ended it all with a precise surgeon's cut to his carotid artery– that he would still fail at because he messed everything up– then maybe he’d have someone to be proud of him. Something to be proud of. If he was no longer in the picture— if he just died , then he wouldn’t be there to ruin everything. The universe would right itself. People would stop dying. Wong would find his body; he might grieve, but he’d be too busy fixing Stephen’s mistakes that even he would forget about Stephen’s meaningless existence.
Stephen took a shuddering breath.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stephen remembered that not being alone used to help with his panic attacks. That having someone with him made him less likely to think of a world in which he took his own life.
When he first started having panic attacks after his crash, he would hide in his room until they passed. Then, Wong found him in the middle of one and just sat with him, offering a steady presence while Stephen collapsed against the library wall. Wong would talk to him. Hide sharp objects and tell Stephen that he was loved. Ever since then, Stephen had been working with his therapist and Wong to reach out to someone when he was drowning. To ask for help.
But Wong was asleep right now. Stephen made sure of it after Wong had acquired a nasty concussion in a fight. He was out cold in the infirmary and Stephen didn't want to wake him just to give him more duties or face Jio’s wrath at disturbing a patient.
Anyone at Kamar-Taj would understand the panic, Vishanti knew that the whole bunch of them were traumatized, but they would pity him. The Sorcerer Supreme, taken down by his own mind. Yao was dead, Hamir was in England for an exorcism, and Jio was already busy. Everyone else would only help him just to have a chance to be with the Sorcerer Supreme, then hate him when they found out how broken he was. How useless he was to the magical community with his broken hands and his shattered mind.
Christine was busy with her new husband. Stephen didn't want to bother her, either. The old ex who just couldn't let go. Who had to commit him to the hospital just because he wanted to see his own blood drip down a storm drain.
No, he didn't want to bother her.
The only other person that he was semi in contact with… Stephen let his head fall back on the wall with a satisfying thunk. His chest was still tight, his vision fuzzy, but the pain blooming in his head was good. Pain meant he was still there. Still alive. Still had the opportunity to die.
He had seen Tony Stark have a panic attack on national television when a reporter brought up Sokovia. Asked about his and Steve's falling out, when the Avengers were getting back together.
Tony Stark hated pity just as much as Stephen did.
Stephen summoned his phone to his hand. Without thinking, Stephen found Tony's contact and pressed it.
He immediately regretted it. He and Tony weren't even all that close. They only talked after Avengers missions that Stephen was a part of and had lunch every now and then. Sometimes, they sat next to each other at monthly Avengers meetings so they could watch a movie together on Tony's hidden screen under the table while Rogers rambled about the latest performance reviews.
They did nothing else. Stephen didn't know anything about Tony's private life. He didn't even know if Tony had a partner or not. Tony didn't know about Wong, nor about Stephen's frustration with the newest batch of apprentices.
They barely knew each other and Stephen expected Tony to– what? Save him from himself?
“ Hello? Stephen? ”
Everything felt like it came to a standstill. Even his tears seemed to stop falling, if only for a second, before they continued, falling harder yet.
“Tony–” he managed to choke out. “I-”
“ Stephen, what's going on? ” Tony asked, his voice filled with concern.
Stephen could barely breathe. Tony wasn’t supposed to know about this. He wasn’t supposed to know that Stephen was weak. That Stephen wasn’t the man that Tony thought he knew.
“ Stephen? ”
Tony kept calling his name, his voice fading as the weight of his mind pressed into Stephen’s ears. He dropped the phone, his shaking hands cramping, and cried.
Some time later, Stephen felt the Sanctum pull at his subconscious the moment that the large oak doors opened into the foyer. The tears had subsided somewhat, but every new thought about the disastrous call with Tony or his failure as the Sorcerer Supreme and a human being only brought fresh tears to his eyes.
Stephen didn’t even realize that someone was with him until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Through drying tears, Stephen looked up. Tony Stark was crouching in front of him, concern in his eyes. Concern for Stephen. Concern that meant nothing when Stephen was destined to fail.
“Stephen, can you breathe with me?”
Some part of Stephen wanted to break away from the touch. To ignore Tony entirely and hide in his room and pretend that nothing was wrong. That nothing could ever go wrong, because he was the protector of the universe and everything he did was wrong . All the blame was shoved onto his shoulders because he made himself the biggest target around just to keep the world safe. It made no sense to force the blame oh himself because he could handle it when the others couldn’t , but wasn’t that the point of a sacrificial lamb–
Someone was counting.
“C’mon Stephen, breathe in… 2… 3… 4… hold… 2… 3… 4…”
It felt like Stephen was trapped, that his lungs couldn’t expand, but he could see Tony in front of him. He knew that he could breathe. He forced himself to exhale, to kickstart his breathing. A miniature Stephen, a younger, carefree Stephen in a lab coat explained what a panic attack was from the hidden confines of an older Strange’s mind…
Tony said to hold. Stephen kept breathing.
Tony told him to take a breath. Stephen struggled through a lungful of air, his chest was moving, his ribs swinging up, diaphragm contracting as lungs expanded.
Slowly, Stephen’s heart rate calmed. Tears stopped and dried. Tony’s hand had never left, its warmth burning into Stephen’s shoulder and engraving itself into his mind.
“Hey there, wizard,” Tony said when Stephen truly looked at him for the first time.
Amber eyes filled with so much love that it took Stephen’s breath away. The good kind, this time. Warmth radiated from Tony..From the way that he was sitting on the grimy Sanctum floor— grimy because Stephen hadn’t gotten around to cleaning this week after he had spilled another bowl of ramen, broken another cup of tea, and dropped a piece of pie in the face of an emergency. The way that Tony had come to his aid when Stephen couldn’t even speak.
Stephen felt another wave of traitorous tears wash over him and Tony pulled him into a hug.
“It’s okay,” Tony whispered in his ear, soft hands rubbing his back and petting his hair, “I get these attacks all the time. It helps when there’s someone there. Being vulnerable, like this, doesn’t mean that you’re any less of a human being. If anything, it proves that you’re still a person with real people feelings underneath those robes and the magic mumbo jumbo. Real people feelings are valid, and no one is going to think any less of you. I certainly don’t. And this won’t change our movie nights, I’ll still be here for you. I know what you’re going through, and I know that you’re worth fighting for, even if it’s against your own mind. Even if you don’t think that you deserve it. Okay?”
Stephen sniffed. Tony didn’t seem to care that Stephen had gotten snot and tears all over his shirt and neck, or that he was sitting in a pile of human failures, holding the worst failure of them all. All that mattered to him was that Stephen was still there, still breathing, following along with a faint heartbeat that pulsed in time with the universe. Tony didn’t know about the suicidal thoughts — about the way that Stephen begged for his enemies to strike him down because that was easier than pointing a scalpel into his own heart— and Tony still sat with him and told him that he was real. That he was a person worth fighting for.
“Okay,” Stephen shakily agreed. He wasn’t okay yet, and he didn’t know if he ever could be, but Tony had come when he had called and there was never even a shred of pity in his voice or soft, hazel eyes. The universe was never okay, but maybe Stephen could be for just a few seconds, as long as he was wrapped in Tony’s arms. If Tony said that Stephen was worth fighting for, then maybe he could be.