Comfortably Numb

"There is no pain, you are receding

A distant ship smoke on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves

Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

When I was a child I had a fever

My hands felt just like two balloons

Now I've got that feeling once again

I can't explain, you would not understand

This is not how I am

I have become comfortably numb."

            - Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"

____________________________________________________________

Tony Stark's funeral was a blur of muted color—dark greens and grayish blues of every shade. Stephen can't remember if he said a word the entire time. Maybe he did. He hopes he muttered an apology at the very least, as empty as it would seem.

14,000,605 different futures; 1 that led to victory (at least a victory that would last).

A week after the final battle and three days after Stark's funeral, Stephen Strange still couldn't stop thinking of every future he didn't choose. There had to have been something he missed because victory shouldn't feel like a knife to the chest.

It shouldn't be this unfair.

Why couldn't a universe where he died have been the one that led to victory? He wonders how many people would have gone to his funeral.

The Avengers? Maybe. Wong? Hopefully. Mordo? Potentially. Christine?—

—Stephen can't think of her without a wave of regret pulling him under.

He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. It's too early for this. Awake for ten minutes and he's already giving himself a crisis. Nice going, Stephen.

He glances at his alarm.

5:23a.m.

He may as well get ready for the day; there's no way he's getting any more sleep tonight.

Strange has spent the past week at Kamar-Taj, and so much has changed since his last visit. Last year, they had finally cleared out the third storage room in the west wing and made it into a meditation room. After a training incident with a new recruit two years ago, the cliff on the hillside next to the South wall looks just like Bob Ross' afro if one tilts their head exactly 37° to the right. The tailors made new uniforms for everyone just a few months ago: a golden-yellow this time. Wong became Sorcerer Supreme.

Wong  became Sorcerer Supreme.

Stephen doesn't hate the idea. He understands why his position was given to Wong; and, if he's honest, it should have been given to Wong back in 2016. Stephen is many things (not many of them good), but he is not and has never been a leader.

As a surgeon, he never worked alone, but everyone had their own jobs. The biggest orders he issued were just regurgitations of standard procedure. There was an answer to every error in a surgery; he just had to know which answers fit which questions. When he improvised, he just  trusted in his own abilities and took everything into his own (fully functioning, tremor-less) hands. 

The Sorcerer Supreme has to lead. They have to teach; to delegate jobs; choose which embroidered tapestry goes on which wall...

That's never been Stephen. In the relatively short time he was Sorcerer Supreme, he did his best. However, he mostly just hid in the New York Sanctum, studied as many spells as he could, and let Wong deal with the rest. So, yeah, Wong should have been made Sorcerer Supreme from the get go.

But he knows why Wong wasn't originally made Sorcerer Supreme.

He would have to be naïve to not know.

And Stephen is many things (not many of them good), but he isn't naïve.

The previous Sorcerer Supreme saw the world in shades of gray. She believed that sometimes one had to use dark magic to defeat dark magic. That the greater good could justify the worst of evils.

Stephen understands that. He understands in a way few others do or ever could. She saw his innermost being. She knew he understood. He wishes he didn't. 

Wong doesn't understand. Mordo definitely doesn't.

Stephen knows it makes them better men than he is and could ever hope to be.

After getting dressed in a set of standard golden-yellow robes, he makes his way to the plaza. The sun has not yet risen, but there are always sorcerers outside for guard duty or for early morning (or very late night) practice. Strange is there for neither, but he figures he may as well meditate while he waits for the rest of Kamar-Taj to awaken. He settles down on a stone slab with his back facing the main building and closes his eyes.

"—phen?"

"Stephen?"

"Stephen!"

A tap on his shoulder.

Stephen flinches back—not from the tap but from the sheer brightness of the sun when he opens his eyes. He squints and blinks a few times.

Oh, it's Wong. He shouldn't be surprised; it's always Wong.

"Good morning, Wong."

"Good morning, Stephen," his friend replies. The older man moves to sit next to him. "I was content to let you meditate as long as you needed to, but I think breakfast would be a good idea. I got some sweet buns at the market this morning."

From the position of the sun, it was at least 9:00am. 

"Y-yeah, thank you. I was just about done anyway."

He totally didn't let his mind wander and lose track of time. No way. Stephen is always in control.

Wong nods in acknowledgement. He doesn't ask questions when the answers are obvious. He stands up and brushes off his robes. With a fond look, he offers the younger man a hand.

Stephen takes it.