Chapter Text
The wards flare.
Stephen is already moving before Peter’s voice reaches him. The Sanctum’s alarms are a symphony of wrongness — cracks in reality, collapsing wards — but the boy’s ragged shout through the coms is sharper than all of it.
“Strange!”
He finds them on a rooftop, under the glow of fractured Christmas lights hanging from streetlamps. Peter is crouched with both hands locked on Tim’s shoulders like the boy is the only thing keeping him tethered.
Tim glitches in and out of Peter’s arms, half-transparent in the seconds that he’s truly there. The oxygen mask Spider-Man cobbled together from webbing and desperation is fogging shallowly.
“Please.” Peter’s voice cracks. “He just— he was falling—”
Stephen kneels. Reflexes that belong to another life — another man — rise to the surface. Two fingers to the carotid. Faint, thready pulse. Skin hot to the touch. Breathing too shallow.
Malnourished , his mind supplies. Hypothermia, too.
He opens a portal without thinking, the golden circle widening as sterile light spills across the snow. “Hold him tight,” he tells Peter. “We don’t have much time.”
———
Metro-General hits him like a punch to the sternum: the sterile smell, the fluorescent lights, the chaos.
A nurse looks up, startled. Stephen doesn’t waste breath. “Gurney. Trauma two.”
They’re moving instantly — training kicking in, even if they don’t recognize him anymore. At the very least, most of them don’t.
“Stephen?”
Christine stands frozen in the hallway, hair in a bun, chart in her hands. Her eyes flick from him to the boy half in his arms — too thin, half-conscious, shivering. The chart slips from her fingers.
Then the doctor in her takes over.
“Get him in trauma two! IV access, both arms. Hang fluids, wide open. CBC, CMP, lactate, blood cultures, and page ID.”
They sweep Tim away. Peter tries to follow, but a nurse blocks him. “Family only.”
“I am family!” Peter’s voice cracks. “I– he—”
Stephen’s voice is sharp as a scalpel. “He stays.”
The nurse falters. Peter stumbles after them, still clutching Tim’s wrist like a lifeline.
———
Inside trauma two, Christine is a storm. She snaps gloves on and barks orders. The nurses move in tandem.
“Malnoruished,” she mutters, eyes on the monitor. “And close to hypothermia, fever-hot. Heart rate one-forty. Febrile. BP eighty over fifty. He’s circling the drain.”
The words land like blows.
Stephen’s hands twitch at his sides. He can feel every nerve screaming at him to do something, but magic can only do so much here. It can’t fix septic shock. It can’t fix a body already failing.
“Start broad spectrum,” Christine snaps. “Vanco and cefepime, now. Get cultures before the next dose.”
A nurse pushes meds. Fluids run wide open. The monitor numbers waver, dip, and hold.
Peter hovers next to Stephen, whispering something almost too quiet to catch: “Stay. Please, stay.”
Christine presses along Tim’s abdomen, brow furrowing. “Scarring. Upper left quadrant.” Her tone shifts, darkening. “He doesn’t have a spleen.”
Stephen’s head snaps up. “What?”
“No palpable splenic tissue. Post-splenectomy, unless he was born without one. Either way, it makes this ten times worse.” She glances up, eyes sharp. “He’s immunocompromised, Stephen. Every infection risk is a loaded gun.”
The monitors beep, shrill and insistent.
Stephen’s mouth goes dry. He knows exactly what she means: asplenic patients are fragile. What a healthy body brushes off in days, theirs can’t survive in hours.
He hears himself asking, “When?” though he doesn’t know if he means when did he lose it or when will he crash again?
Christine ignores him, already calling for another round of labs.
———
They get him steady. Barely. Enough that the other nurses flit away, but Christine stays.
The ER smells of antiseptic and coffee. Somewhere down the hall, a radio is faintly playing It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas. The song claws at Stephen’s ribs.
Trauma two is lit in the sharp white of fluorescents, but someone taped a string of green tinsel over the doorway. It looks obscene against the monitors screaming vitals.
Peter’s back at Tim’s side. His mask is tugged halfway up, eyes red. One hand clamps around Tim’s wrist, the other smoothing back damp hair in a repetitive, frantic rhythm. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, Tim. Just– just hold on.”
———
The doors bang open, and Tony Stark bursts in.
His tuxedo jacket hangs open like he’d run there, bow tie askew. Pepper follows, heels clicking, her coat still dusted with snow. They’ve clearly been pulled straight from some gala — festive, glittering, safe.
The sight of Tim on the bed strips all of that away.
Tony’s breath hitches. “Oh my god.”
Pepper’s eyes widen but she doesn’t flinch. She moves closer, calm settling over her like armor. “Vitals?” She asks Christine, voice level. “Status?”
Christine doesn’t look up from the chart. “Septic shock. Malnourished. No spleen. We’ve been fighting to stabilize him.”
Tony’s head snaps toward Stephen. “You– you brought him here instead of — what? Magicking it away? Isn’t that what you do?”
Stephen’s jaw tightens. “Not everything can be fixed with magic, Stark.”
“Convenient.”
“Enough.” Pepper’s voice is steel, slicing through the tension. She moves to Peter’s side, kneeling until her face is level with his. “Hey. You’re doing great, okay? He’s in the best hands now.”
Peter nods, but his eyes don’t leave Tim’s face. “He doesn’t — I don’t think he likes hospitals. I told him I’d stay.”
Pepper’s expression softens. “Then you stay.”
———
Wong slips into the room quietly, unnoticed until the lights flicker faintly in response to his wards settling. He doesn’t speak, just stations himself near the door, arms folded, eyes scanning for threats no one else can see.
Christine looks up from the chart, catching the gathering of sorcerers, superheroes and billionaires crammed into trauma two around one boy that barely looks alive. She arches her brow.
“Is there anyone else I should expect to crash my ER tonight?”
No one answers.
———
For a while, the only sounds are beeping monitors and whispered reassurances. Nurses rotate in and out, adjusting drips, checking lines. Tim’s breathing hitches, then evens out, shallow but steady.
Christine straightens. “He’s holding. Barely. If we can keep him stable, he’ll go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Peter echoes.
“ICU,” she clarifies. Her voice softens a fraction when she looks at Peter, who’s since ripped his mask off fully, secret identity be damned. “He’s very sick. But he’s alive.”
Peter presses his forehead to Tim’s arm, eyes squeezed shut. “You hear that? You’re alive.”
Tony turns abruptly, pacing to the far corner. His hands shake so badly he shoves them into his pockets. Pepper follows, her hand brushing his sleeve.
“He’s skin and bones,” Tony whispers, voice cracking. “Jesus, Pep. I can see his ribs.”
Pepper squeezes his arm. “He’s here. That’s what matters.”
Tony’s eyes flick to Stephen again, burning. “You should’ve stopped this before it got this bad.”
Stephen doesn’t respond. Because Tony is right.
Because in another life, in a different hospital, he took oaths about that very thing.
———
Christmas lights blink faintly through the frosted ER windows. Red. Green. Red. Green. A rhythm almost like the monitor beside Tim’s bed, each pulse a fragile proof of life.
Stephen’s chest aches as he watches.
He isn’t the Sorcerer Supreme or Master of the Mystic Arts here. He is just a man remembering what it feels like to lose a patient.
And this time, he can’t.
Not this boy.
Not Tim.
———
The elevator to the ICU rattles faintly, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A garland droops from the ceiling, dusted with glitter that catches on Stephen’s sleeve as he presses a hand to the gurney rail.
Tim looks impossibly small under the weight of blankets, cheeks hollow and lips cracked. Monitors hum a fragile song. Peter’s eyes dart to every fluctuation on the screen as though he can will the numbers steady.
Stephen stands too close. He knows it, but he can’t step back. Every beep scrapes his nerves raw. His heart lurches each time Tim’s breath catches, each dip in oxygen like a physical blow.
He’s fading, he’s falling—
He keeps cataloguing symptoms automatically — tachycardia, hypotension, delayed cap refill — but his hands shake uselessly at his sides. He can barely hold a scalpel. What can he even do?
Worry, that cruel voice inside him whispers. You’re good at that.
———
The ICU is quieter, but no less harsh. Snow clings to the windows. A small Christmas tree blinks in the corner, red and green alternating with the pulse of Tim’s heartbeat.
Nurses work swiftly to transfer him. Christine barks orders, efficient and sharp, but her hand brushes Tim’s forehead once more than necessary when she adjusts the oxygen.
Peter drags a chair as close as he can and sits, hand locked around Tim’s wrist. His other hand smooths Tim’s hair again and again, both frantic and soothing.
“I’m here,” he whispers again, voice cracking. “I’m not leaving. I promise.”
The boy doesn’t stir.
Stephen’s gut twists, the words echoing louder in his skull than Peter probably means. I’m not leaving.
———
Pepper is coaxing Tony into a seat in the corner, murmuring steady words that barely restrain his fury. Wong stands by the door, wards shimmering faintly like a second skin.
Christine turns to Stephen. “Outside. Now.”
They walk just beyond the ICU doors, next to a lopsided wreath taped above the nurses station. Holiday cheer mocks them in glitter and plastic.
Christine crosses her arms. “What are you doing here, Stephen?”
He blinks. “Making sure he’s alive.”
“No. I mean with him.” She jabs a finger toward the ICU. “I haven’t seen you in a year, Stephen. And then you show up with this— this boy that’s on the edge of death. He’s not just some stray you patch up between saving the world. You’re hovering over him like– like–” she breaks off, then takes a breath and says it flat. “Like a dad.”
The words land like a spell.
Stephen’s chest tightens. “He’s not–”
“Yes, he is,” Christine snaps. “Don’t insult both of us by denying it. Everyone can see it, Stephen: the way you unravel every time his vitals dip. The way you look at him like the whole world’s about to crack if he doesn’t make it.”
He can’t breathe.
Christine softens, but only slightly. “You can’t half-do this, Stephen. I know how you are — you give and then you pull. You can’t do that to children. They can’t take it the way the rest of us can.”
For a moment, all Stephen can hear is the rushing of a river and the screams of a sister he couldn’t save.
“I know,” he tells Christine, and he means it more than he’s meant anything before. “I’m not— I’m not walking out on him, okay? Never.”
Christine nods, hand coming up to rest on his arm. “You still worry like a doctor, you know. Make sure you learn to love like a father. That’s the choice in front of you.”
———
When Stephen returns to the ICU, his chest feels raw and hollow.
Peter is slumped sideways in his chair, exhaustion dragging him down, but his hand is still wrapped around Tim’s wrist. Tony sits stiff in the corner, pretending not to watch. Pepper murmurs soft logistics to a nurse. Wong hasn’t moved.
Stephen pulls a chair to the opposite side of the bed and sits, close enough that his knee brushes the frame.
Tim’s breaths are shallow. The monitor blinks green and red, still keeping rhythm with the tiny Christmas tree. Snow presses heavily against the window.
Stephen leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his eyes fixed on Tim’s face.
Stay. Stay. Stay.
———
The ICU is quiet except for the steady hiss of oxygen and the fragile beeps of Tim’s heart monitor.
Wong has since gone back to the Sanctum, but he told Stephen to call him if anything happens, and the entire room echoed a chorus of “We will.”
Peter sits rigid in the chair, Tim’s wrist clutched tight in his hand, head bobbing with exhaustion. His eyes are red and glassy, the kind of raw that comes from crying too much and sleeping too little.
“Kid,” Tony says gently, crouching beside him. “You need a break.”
Peter shakes his head instantly. “No. I can’t— I can’t leave him. He— what if—” his voice cracks, brittle.
Pepper touches his shoulder. “Peter, he’s safe here. You’re not abandoning him. But you’ve been awake for almost two days. You’re running on fumes, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” Peter lies, though his whole body trembles with exhaustion. His grip on Tim tightens. “He needs me.”
Tony’s throat works. He reaches out and pries Peter’s fingers carefully off Tim’s wrist. The boy resists, panic flashing, but Tony manages to hold his hands to his chest.
“Listen, Underoos,” Tony says, voice thick. “I know what it feels like, watching somebody hooked up to all these machines. Feels like if you look away, if you so much as blink, they’ll be gone. But that’s not how it works. You staring won’t make him wake up or keep him here. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
Peter swallows hard. “But— what if—”
That’s when Stephen speaks. He hasn’t moved from his post at Tim’s other side, but now he leans forward, his voice low, deliberate.
“Peter.”
The boy turns, eyes wild and wet.
“I’ll stay,” Stephen says.
Peter blinks at him.
“I’ll stay with him,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I won’t leave. Not until you come back. He won’t be alone.”
Peter’s lips tremble. “You mean it?”
Stephen’s chest burns. “I promise.”
Peter finally sags against Tony.
Pepper brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Why don’t you come with us? Just for a little while. We’ll go to your aunt’s, get you some food, let you shower. You’ll feel better.”
Peter shakes his head weakly. “I don’t—”
“Kid.” Tony cuts in, gentle but firm. “You can’t take care of him if you collapse, too. And right now you’re about two hours from face-planting into that heart monitor. Let us help, please.”
Peter’s gaze flickers to Tim again, desperate and torn.
Stephen leans closer. “Peter. Look at me.”
The boy does.
“I know what it feels like to watch someone you love fight for every breath,” Stephen says softly, the words scraping out of old scars. “But I also know this: staying upright, eating, resting — that’s how you make sure you’re here when he wakes up. And he will wake up.”
Peter sniffles. “Are you sure?”
Stephen’s jaw clenches. The truth is: he doesn’t know. He won’t even follow his own advice, but he’s old enough to understand the decision he’s making. Peter isn’t.
And he’s watched Tim fight too hard, too long, to believe this is the end.
“I’m not leaving,” he says simply. “And I won’t let him go without a fight.”
Peter’s breath hitches, but slowly — hesitantly — he nods.
Tony helps him up, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Pepper gathers his jacket, fussing like a mother hen. Stephen watches him go.
———
The doors hiss shut behind them, and silence sweeps back over the room.
Stephen sinks into the chair beside Tim’s bed, dragging a hand down his face.
The boy’s skin is waxy under the dim light, his chest rises shallowly beneath the blankets. Every blip of the monitor pulls at Stephen’s nerves. Every dip makes his stomach twist. He catalogues each one — tachycardia, irregular rhythm, oxygen dips — but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t here as a doctor.
He’s here as something far more dangerous.
A guardian. A father.
And the worry is a live wire under his skin.
What if the fever spikes? What if the infection spreads? What if his spleen — his goddamn missing spleen — already left him too vulnerable to fight? What if, what if, what if?
Stephen presses his fists against his knees, trembling. He hasn’t felt this helpless since Donna’s hospital bed. Since the car accident. Since his hands couldn’t even hold a spoon.
You can’t run this time, Christine’s voice echoes in his head. You either show up, or you break him.
Stephen’s eyes burn. He leans forward, elbows on the bed rail, so close that Tim’s shallow breaths brush his knuckles.
“I’m here,” he whispers, voice raw. “Do you hear me, Tim? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not for the world, not for the Sanctum, not for anyone or anything. I promised I’d catch you, remember? So you fight, and I’ll stay.”
The monitor beeps, steady and fragile.
And Stephen stays.
———
The room is draped in a quiet hush, punctuated only by the steady beep of machines and the faint whisper of ventilation. Stephen sits stiffly beside Tim’s bed, eyes locked onto the fragile figure beneath the thin hospital sheets.
Then Tim’s eyelids flutter — slow, uncertain.
His eyes open fully, glazed and searching, as if navigating a dream where nothing was quite solid. They settle on Strange, a flicker of recognition tangled with confusion.
“Bruce?” The word is fragile, barely there, like a question cast into a void.
Stephen’s heart twists. Whatever it was he expected to happen — it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the ghost of another life creeping in like a shadow.
“No, Tim,” he says, steady and gentle. “It’s me. Stephen.”
The question in Tim’s eyes dissolves into something different — raw, desperate, starving. His fingers twitch and reach out, slow and trembling, toward Strange’s hand.
Stephen doesn’t hesitate. He closes the space, hand capturing Tim’s shaky fingers with a sure, warm grip. The boy’s breath catches sharply, hiccuping, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
Then, without warning, Tim flings his body forward, collapsing into Stephen’s chest with a desperate weight. His arms wrap tightly, clutching like a lifeline, seeking shelter from a storm too brutal to face alone.
Strange catches him instantly, folding Tim in with a tenderness that is close to fierce. His fingers slip through damp, tangled hair, stroking slow and soothing, tracing invisible patterns of comfort like that could chase away years of pain.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay, Tim. I’m here.”
Tim’s breath comes in small, uneven hiccups, each one a tremor in the quiet. Stephen presses his cheek to the top of Tim’s head, murmuring more soft, steady reassurances.
“I won’t let go,” he promises. “It’s okay.”
The words are simple, repeated in a low rhythm, a calm against the tremors shaking Tim’s body. Each whispered syllable weaves around them like a spell: steadying, grounding.
Tim’s hiccups gradually soften, losing their sharpness and slowing until they melt into the steady cadence of his breathing. His grip loosens just enough to relax, but not too much to lose contact.
Strange keeps his hand in Tim’s hair, fingers gentle, nails barely grazing his scalp as he shushes softly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace settling over the room.
The Cloak unfurls itself, rippling down Stephen’s shoulders and curling protectively around them both. It shimmers faintly in the dim light, a quiet promise woven of magic and fierce care.
Strange kisses Tim’s temple and whispers again, "I'm here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Tim’s breaths even, the tremors fading into stillness as sleep begins to reclaim him. Stephen holds him closer, every movement deliberate and tender, anchoring the fragile moment against the darkness.
In the quiet hospital room, with the world held at bay, Stephen stays — their shared heartbeat the only sound that matters.
———
May’s kitchen smells faintly of cinnamon and dish soap, the king of ordinary comfort that should steady Peter the moment he walks in.
It doesn’t.
The second he sees her — her hands already coming up, her face folding into worry — the brittle scaffolding he’d built around himself gives way.
“May–” his voice breaks in half. And then he’s in her arms, smaller than he ever lets himself be, shoulders shaking.
“Oh, honey.” May catches him like she used to when he was six and woke from nightmares too vivid to outrun. Her hands smooth the back of his head, her voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Let it out, baby. You don’t have to hold it in.”
Peter clutches her tighter, muffled words spilling against her shirt. “He was— he wasn’t breathing right, May. He was so cold and so hot and— I didn’t know if— If Strange—” his chest hitches, body jerking with sobs that come out too fast to stop. “I can’t lose him too. I can’t .”
May just rocks him, whispering, “You won’t, Pete. He's in the best hands now. You’re safe. He’s safe.”
Behind them, Tony and Pepper stand awkwardly in the doorway, watching the collapse. Pepper’s hand slides into Tony’s. This isn’t their space, not really. But Peter’s pain claws at something deep in Tony’s chest all the same.
When Peter finally turns, red-eyed, Pepper crosses first, crouching so she’s level with him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says softly, brushing a tear track from his cheek. “You did everything you could. You saved him.”
Peter shakes his head violently. “No, I didn’t— if Strange hadn’t— if I had been faster— ”
Tony cuts in, sharper than he means to but unwilling to let the kid spiral more. “Stop right there, kid. You kept Tim alive long enough for the doctors to take over. You didn’t fail, you hear me? You don’t get to call that failure.”
Peter blinks at him, startled by the force.
May’s hand tightens on Peter’s shoulders. “Listen to him, Peter. You saved him. He’s gonna be okay.”
Peter’s lip wobbles. He buries his face against May’s shoulder again, but his free hand crept out blindly. To his own surprise, Tony catches it. The kid’s fingers cling tight, shaky but desperate, and Tony doesn’t let go.
They stay like that for a long beat: May rocking her nephew, Pepper rubbing slow circles on his back, Tony holding his hand like an oath.
Finally, Peter whispers, voice raw, “He needs someone. Tim. He can’t— he can’t just be alone anymore.”
Tony’s throat tightens, and he says, steady as the iron he’s named for, “He won’t be. Not while we’re around.”
May glances up, eyes glossy but fierce. “That’s a promise?”
Tony nods once — no flippancy, no jokes. “That’s a promise.”
And for the first time since they pulled Tim out of hell, Peter’s shoulders ease, just barely.
———
The next time Tim wakes, it isn’t soft.
The room is the same — sterile, dim, machines humming with indifferent rhythm — but Tim’s breathing is jagged, shallow, fighting against the edges of panic even before his eyes open.
He shifts suddenly, a sharp sound tearing out of his throat. Stephen, who dozed upright in the chair, startles awake.
“Tim—”
“Don’t.” The word is clipped, ragged. Tim’s voice cracks under the weight of it, but the venom still lands. He pushes himself upright too quickly, the IV tugging in protest, monitors screaming a rapid spike of beeps.
“Careful,” Stephen says, standing, reaching out instinctively.
But Tim recoils like the hand is a brand. “Don’t touch me.”
The space between them thickens, humming with electricity. Stephen freezes, fingers curling back, retreating just a step but not quite giving up.
Tim’s jaw sets. His hands tremble as he yanks at the wires, trying to free himself with stubborn, panicked efficiency.
Stephen tries again to get closer. “You need to stay—”
“I’m leaving.”
“Tim, you’re not well. You need rest.”
Tim’s laugh cracks sharp, humorless, and so bitter it stings. “Rest. Right.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold tile, a sound that echoes in the quiet room. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Strange tries again, gentler. “You do. You need time. A place where you’re safe.”
That was the wrong word.
Tim’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide, manic, haunted. “Safe?” He repeats, like the word itself is poison. “Don’t pretend. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean it—”
“No!” The word is a roar, tearing his throat raw. His fists clench at his sides, every line of his body shaking. “I heard you. I know what you said.”
Stephen’s brow furrows. “What? What did you hear?”
Tim’s breath stutters, breaking into something frantic. “I’m not his dad , Tony,” he spits, parroted words coming like glass shards. “I’d send him back in a heartbeat. No question. No second thought. No– no glance his way. I’d just do it, if I could.”
The room goes dead silent.
Stephen’s own words — butchered by context, stripped bare of their intent — hang like a curse between them.
“Tim,” Stephen begins, slow and deliberate, trying not to let his own fear leak through, “that’s not what I meant.”
Tim shakes his head violently, curls sticking to the damp of his forehead. “You don’t have to lie to me. It’s fine, anyway. I get it.”
“You don’t.”
“I do!” His voice cracks, and suddenly the sharpness dissolves into something raw. “I know I’m not supposed to be here. I know I’m— wrong. A mistake. And you—” his breath heaves, wild, broken— “You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to pretend.”
Stephen takes a step forward carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “I wasn’t saying I’d send you back because I didn’t want you, Tim. I was saying I wish I could undo what happened to your world. That you never had to–”
“Stop.” The words cut like a blade. His eyes glisten but don’t spill. He backs further toward the wall, his body trembling, searching for an exit where there isn’t one. “You don’t get to rewrite it now.”
“I’m not rewriting —”
“Yes, you are!” His voice cracks upward, desperate, hoarse. His fists slam against his chest as if trying to claw the feelings out and he looks anywhere but at the man in front of him. “It’s fine, Stephen. Really. It is. I’m not your responsibility.”
“You are,” Stephen says. “You have been since you asked me for a place to stay.
“ No. ” His head snaps toward Strange at that one, eyes wide and manic. He looks like a cornered lion. “You offered a place to stay. You offered to help me. You offered to teach me magic. I never asked. ”
Stephen’s mouth opens, but no words come.
Tim’s chest heaves, wild. He laughs, then — not joyful, but a sharp, twisted sound that barely holds back another sob. “You’re not my dad, Stephen. You’re not my mentor. You’re just— you’re just in my way.”
The words slice deeper than any blade.
Stephen inhales slowly, grounding himself, pressing down on the instinct to snap back with equal sharpness. This wasn’t about him. This was Tim — bruised, broken, angry because anger was easier than grief.
“You’re right,” he says finally, voice low but steady. “I’m not your father. I’m not Bruce. I’m not trying to be.”
Tim’s shoulders jerk at the name.
“But,” Stephen continues carefully, “I am someone who doesn’t want you collapsing alone on rooftops in the snow. I’m someone who doesn’t want to see you bleed yourself dry until there’s nothing left.”
Tim’s throat works around a sound that doesn’t quite escape. His fingers dig into his palms, white knuckled.
Stephen softens further, voice just above a whisper. “I’m someone who wants you alive, Tim. That's all. Not because I have to. Not because anyone told me to. But because I–” he stops himself and swallows. “Because I want to.”
The boy’s lip trembles, betraying the smallest crack in the mask he wore like armor.
“I don’t care if you never asked,” Stephen says, stepping forward again. “You deserve it anyway.”
Tim shakes his head like a wild thing. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
Stephen’s eyes burn, but his tone remains steady. “Maybe not, but I can choose to stay anyway.”
The silence stretches long, taut, trembling on the edge of collapse.
Tim’s body sags against the wall, fists still clenched, his breaths still jagged. He looks so small in the moment, caught between fight and surrender. His eyes shimmer, glassy, but his jaw locks harder to keep the flood from spilling.
Finally, his voice breaks, no louder than a breath: “I don’t know how.”
It’s the rawest confession, carved from bone.
Stephen steps closer, slowly, deliberately. This time, Tim doesn’t push away.
“You don’t have to know,” he says gently. “Not right now.” He reaches out again — not fast, not imposing — and lets his hand hover. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
Tim’s body trembles like a taut wire. After a heartbeat stretches too long, he lets his forehead drop forward. It lands against Stephen’s chest, hesitant, fragile.
Stephen catches him instantly, folding his arms around the boy with the same fierce gentleness as before. Tim doesn’t collapse this time, but he leans forward, shaking silently, his breath hot against Stephen’s shirt.
“I heard you,” Tim whispers, so faint that it’s almost lost.
“And you heard wrong,” Stephen murmurs back, hand moving in steady strokes across Tim’s back. “I don’t want you gone, Tim. Not for a second. Not for a heartbeat.”
Tim shakes his head again, but the fight is ebbing out, leaving him trembling and fragile in Strange’s hold.
The machines beep on, steady and grounding. The Cloak drifts down again, curling loosely around them in a protective embrace that Stephen didn’t ask for but silently thanks.
In the quiet, he whispers again, “You’re not alone. Not while I’m here.”
And this time, Tim doesn’t argue. He only sags further, breath still uneven but his weight pressed trustingly against Stephen’s chest.
For now, it’s enough.
———
The hospital room is dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp in the corner and the blinking of red and green. Machines hum their patient rhythms, steady and low like a lullaby.
Snow drifts faintly against the windowpane, a silent reminder that the world beyond these walls has turned itself over into Christmas morning.
Inside, time has slowed to something gentler.
Tim is curled against Stephen’s chest, small and slack in sleep, his fist still tangled in the folds of Strange’s shirt as if, even unconscious, he refuses to let go.
For the first time since he crash-landed into their world, the boy looks painstakingly young. Not Cardinal. Not Robin. Just Tim: pale, bruised, with lashes brushing cheeks still damp from earlier tears. There’s a fragile peace in the way his face has gone slack.
Stephen, on the other hand, looks anything but peaceful.
He’s slumped awkwardly on the too-small hospital bed, his legs dangling far over the edge, shoulders hunched in a position that no human spine should tolerate for long. The Cloak drapes itself over both of them like an oversized blanket, tucking around Tim protectively while leaving Stephen’s long limbs comically exposed.
The door creaks open.
Tony sticks his head inside first, one hand full of a half-finished coffee. Peter Parker follows, mask tugged halfway up his face so he can sip from his own paper cup, eyes wide and curious.
Tony starts to say something flippant — something about Christmas miracles, probably — but the sight before him halts the words on his tongue. He blinks, then squints.
“Well,” he says at last. “This takes the cake for weirdest holiday nativity scene I’ve ever seen.”
Peter nearly chokes on his hot chocolate. He muffles a laugh against the rim of the cup, though his eyes soften as they fall on Tim. There's a quiet awe in his face — relief, even — at seeing Tim so still.
Stephen stirs, one bleary eye cracking open. He looks like hell — stiff, unshaven, hair a mess. The Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts, reduced to a cramped pillow.
“Stark,” he rasps. “Keep your voice down.”
“Sorcerer Claus speaks,” Tony mutters, but he does drop his volume. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, taking the scene in with one arched brow. “Not gonna lie, Doc. It’s kind of adorable. Like a Hallmark card, if Hallmark did post-apocalyptic trauma chic.”
Stephen sighs. It’s easier than arguing. He adjusts his grip minutely as Tim shifts in his sleep, tucking the boy closer with instinctive care.
Peter, quieter than Tony by nature, edges closer to the bed. He peers at Tim with something tender in his gaze, then glances at Stephen. “He looks… okay,” Peter whispers. “Like he’s not carrying it all for once.”
Stephen doesn’t answer right away. His hand ghosts through Tim’s hair again, absentmindedly. Finally, he says, “Yes. For now.”
A silence settles.
The machines keep their vigil. Snow presses its hush against the window. For a moment, it feels like the whole world has gone still just to let them have this: a boy at peace, a man holding him steady, and two others bearing witness.
Peter bites his lip, eyes lingering on Tim’s hand, which is still fisted tight in Stephen’s shirt. “He trusts you, Doc. Even if he doesn’t know how to say it.”
The Cloak shifts, tucking more snugly around the boy’s shoulders, as if seconding the thought.
Another silence fills the room, softer this time, companionable. Snow continues to fall outside. Somewhere in the distance, bells ring — faint and muffled.
Tony is the first to move, straightening with a wince. “Alright. I’ll go raid the vending machines, see if we can conjure up a proper holiday feast. Jello cups for everyone.”
Peter snorts, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Tim. “I’ll stay,” he says quickly, then hesitates. “If that’s okay.”
Stephen studies him for a long moment, then inclines his head. “Quietly.”
The boy nods, settling himself in a chair at Tim’s side, close enough that if Tim stirs, he’ll see a familiar face waiting for him. His eyes soften, and a small, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at his mouth.
For the first time in a long time, Tim Drake sleeps soundly.
———
Tim’s eyes flutter open slowly, like the world is still a half-formed dream. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Everything is blurry: the soft hum of machines, the faint warmth against his cheek, the odd weight of fabric presses beneath his fingers.
Then he realizes. He’s on Stephen.
Somehow, he’s still nestled into the longer, warmer body of the sorcerer, the Cloak pooled awkwardly around them both. Panic flickers in his chest, that reflex to pull away, to make himself small and separate, but his muscles are too tired, too broken, and the warmth is too — safe.
So he sinks back, just a little, letting himself exist in the space he hasn’t allowed himself to occupy in days.
“Where…?” His voice is small and fragile, barely more than a whisper.
Stephen shifts slightly, careful not to wake him fully. “You’re here,” he says gently, the words slow and deliberate. “You’re safe.”
Tim blinks, taking in the dim hospital light filtering across the sheets. There’s soft movement next to him, the scrape of a chair.
He glances to the side to see Peter, perched half-on, half-off a chair by the bedside, eyes wide and soft. His hair is damp. Peter doesn’t reach for him or prod, and Tim can’t help the small, almost guilty laugh that escapes him.
“You’re — here,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse, still unsure.
Peter grins faintly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Not going anywhere.”
Tim hesitates, tucking his face back into Stephen’s chest. “I thought I was supposed to be the one catching you.”
That draws a short, honest laugh from the boy, and a faint blush to his cheeks. “I figured it was my turn.”
Before Tim can respond, there’s the faint jingle of boots on tile, a new voice cutting through the quiet.
“Who’s ready for Christmas Jell-O?” Tony Stark announces, brandishing a small tray like a trophy.
Tim’s head turns, blinking slowly. Tony crouches near the foot of the bed, tray balanced in one hand, while Pepper trails in with cups of steaming cocoa. Wong silently appears behind them with a small tray of fruit.
The room is suddenly alive with light, warmth, and absurd chaos.
“Kid-genius,” Tony says cheerfully, eyes twinkling. “Welcome back. I hope you’re not planning to sleep through the Christmas miracle that is Jell-O.”
Tim exhales a small laugh, the sound fragile but real. He shifts a little, realizing Stephen has been holding him in an awkward, half-off-the-bed pose. The Cloak is tangled around both of them, and Tim can’t help the tiny smirk at the ridiculousness of it.
“You’re — ridiculously tall for this bed.”
Stephen huffs, adjusting slightly. “And yet, somehow, the patient takes up all the room.”
Tim sinks a little closer into the warmth, letting himself breathe out some of the tension that’s been wrapped around his chest for days.
Peter leans closer, holding out a cup of Jell-O. “Try the strawberry one. It’s the best.”
Tim takes it, glancing down and murmuring, just barely audible. “It’s Christmas. You should all… be with your families.”
Stephen presses a hand gently to the back of Tim’s head, voice calm, warm and grounding. “We are. All of us. Right now.”
Peter grins. “Yeah, we are.” Then, a little louder, he adds: “We’ve got some free dessert here too.”
Tim lets out a shaky breath.
The laughter in the room — Tony making exaggerated gestures about dessert priorities, Pepper teasing about caffeine, Wong silently smiling — blends with the soft hum of machines, and the faint snow beyond the windows.
“You’ve done enough,” Stephen murmurs, like he can hear every thought in Tim’s head. He threads fingers through Tim’s hair. “Today, just be here. Let the world wait.”
Tim nods faintly, closing his eyes for a moment. The weight of everything — A-01, Thanos, collapsed universes — feels lighter, held at bay by the gentle gravity of the room. For the first time in days, he can just exist without fear, without guilt, without running.
Tony leans forward, waving a spoon in the air like a baton. “We all mean it, ninja-boy. Today, you live. You eat Jell-O. You don’t save the world. Capisce?”
Tim exhales a real, steady breath, and manages a quiet, “Capisce.”
Tim curls a little tighter, and finally allows himself to breathe in the warmth, the absurdity, and the chaotic love that surrounds him. Outside, the snow falls softly on New York streets. Inside, a boy is at peace, nestled among family.
It’s Christmas. And just for now, that’s enough.