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The waves crashed far below, white foam flickering under the fading sunlight. Stephen stood at the edge of the cliff, shoulders rigid, cloak drawn close like a second skin, shielding his battered body from the sting of salt in the air. The arcane ward he’d carved into the air was fading now—whatever slumbered beneath had been coaxed back into stillness, for now.
The timestream entanglement had destroyed everything. Perhaps a bit dramatic to think, but he figured he was entitled to a little melodrama. He had just wrestled an astral sea beast into submission, after all—on his own, mind you—and sent it crawling back into its slumbering prison. Even the astral realms had started to fray under the strain of the Dooms, and this one had found a crack to slip through. It wouldn’t be the last.
And he didn’t know how to fix it.
He dragged a shaking hand down his face. The arcane battle had drained him; he’d pushed himself too far. Every spell had cost more than the one before, and he had kept going until he couldn’t see straight. He was going to be in pain for a while. At least it would keep his mind preoccupied and away from his existential doubt, the fear that even his best might no longer be enough
He wasn’t expecting company. But he sensed it: the soft drip of water, the subtlest shift of air. He didn’t need to look behind him to know who it was.
“I thought you had left with the others.”
A beat passed. Then a voice, steady and low, “I returned. When I realized you hadn’t.”
Stephen said nothing. What was he supposed to say? Thank you? He wasn’t in the mood. He had barely survived and could feel his strength fraying with every breath. Besides, what did his unexpected guest expect? Gratitude? A nod of acknowledgment from the wounded mage standing on the edge of the world?
The sea’s breath filled the silence.
Namor stepped beside him, gaze fixed on the horizon. The churning blue of the sea seemed to fall off the edge of the earth, the sky bleeding darker with each passing second. Night was coming. Stephen had managed to contain the creature just before sundown. That was probably the only reason he’d survived its tentacles. If it had escaped into the night sky to draw its power from the stars—well, perhaps an alternate Stephen Strange would’ve had better luck in his passing.
“The ancient arcane deities you battle… have you ever found it peculiar how closely they resemble the creatures of the deep?” Namor questions.
Stephen blinked slowly, and gave a small nod, “I have noticed the similarities.” He allowed a wry grin, caught in a memory—only humorous because he was still alive to recall it. “Particularly when ensnared in their tentacles.”
A small twin grin curves Namor’s lips. “Should you ever encounter one you cannot defeat, perhaps I ,” emphasis, “could communicate with them for you.” He offers.
Stephen finally allows himself to look at his companion. Namor stood there, as effortlessly composed as ever—half his sculpted muscled body on display. His semi aquatic life proved too intense for anything more than tights, sparse armor, and jewellery fit for the warrior king of Atlantis. A golden hoop glinted from his ear, catching the dying sunlight and casting a shimmer across his sharp jaw. He looked untouched. Regal. Indomitable.
The mission must have gone smoothly, even without Dr. Strange there to shield them.
Stephen had made the call to split them up. Sent the others away when he felt the arcane pressure spike, when he sensed the shift in the veil. He didn’t want them tangled in something they wouldn’t be able to sense as well as him. They had protested—loudly, fiercely—but he’d dismissed them regardless. There was nothing they could do against an astral sea beast. Better for them to complete the mission and let the Sorcerer Supreme deal with the arcane beast.
His chest shudders painfully as he tries to take a deep breath, his ribs still feeling the crush of the tentacles. Perhaps he had been too quick to push them away, he thinks wryly.
The adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel it in the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the ache behind his eyes. He sighs, taking care to not agitate his bruised body.
“I may take you up on that offer,” his lips quirk up, “Should I manage not to be devoured first.” His words were laced with humor, but it didn’t land. Not entirely. Because the image was still there—those jaws, rows and rows of spiraled, monstrous teeth—the way the creature saw him, not just physically but through his soul. It had known him. Hungered for him.
Namor’s voice dropped lower–too gentle to be admonishing, but clearly displeased.“Then do not wait until your end to call on me.”
Namor turns to face him, his pale eyes locking with Stephen’s dark ones. His gaze—not calculating or bemused, but open . Searching.
And suddenly… Stephen saw it. Really saw it.
He wasn’t offering commentary. He wasn’t teasing or posturing.
He was offering himself.
Support. Strength. Presence .
Not just as an ally, but perhaps… something more. Not a shield, not a sword, but a constant—something Strange hadn’t let himself want in a very long time. And maybe, even now, he was still unwilling to let himself want it.
That realization bloomed slowly. Not a spark, but a warm, creeping tide rising through him. It melted into the marrow of his bones, chasing away the lingering cold of the beast’s touch.
Namor had been the loudest protester. The most insistent. And Stephen, in his arrogance or fear or whatever damn thing kept him isolated, had ignored it. He had assumed it was irritation at a king being ordered around by a mere air-breather, even as powerful of a mage as the human was. He’d dismissed the king’s words as pride, when maybe it had always been concern. Not for the mission.
For him.
Namor steps closer. The scent of sea salt clung to him, sharp and clean. His posture eased, the usual severity softening. His brows unfurrow, Stephen takes in the scar splitting one of them; the sharp angles and planes of his face. Those features had once seemed untouchable—chiseled by gods, cold and imperious. Like nothing could crack his facade.
Now they looked steady. Solid.
And beautiful.
The last of the golden light caught in the unnatural blue and gold of his hair. Shifting in waves like sunbeams over the water, reassuring in a way the sea below them could never be.
Stephen leaned in, slowly, uncertainly, and reached out. Namor crossed the bridge, closing his rough palms around the trembling hands reaching for him. His fingers brushed over old scars, scars that had once ruined Stephen’s life and left him a shell of a man, grounding in the solidity of someone warm and real .
“I won’t,” Stephen breathed.
Namor’s long ears flick, a pleased wiggle. His hands tightened gently around Stephen’s.
A breeze stirred Strange’s cloak, catching its edges and folding them around the both of them.
And somewhere far beneath them, the deep murmured.
Restless.
But silent.
For now.