IronStrange Haven, formerly IronStrangeHQ

“Yeah,” he said, word strained. “Are you…” He swallowed. “Are you okay?”

Because Stephen had, in some ways, just lost his hands. Again. The first time—only time—had been hard enough, but to suddenly remember the life where Stephen had never had to lose his hands… Tony didn’t think he was wrong in worrying.

“Disoriented,” Stephen said. “Very disoriented.” His lips twitched in a strained smile. “But okay.”

Tony stared at Stephen, memories in combat with each other. Stephen looked just like he had this morning. At the same time, Stephen looked like a whole new man than the other set of memories remembered him. Right now, Stephen looked much more like his multiversal counterparts than he did… well, himself. Except he looked exactly like himself. It was just… very disorienting.

Disorienting was a very good word for it.

“It worked,” he said. “Reality isn’t ripping itself apart.”

“No time loops,” Stephen added, a faint shudder running down his back.

“No one losing their mind,” Tony added, because that had always been one of the worst to see, with no way to save them, just watching them lose their mind and… fade.

“No one ending up half the world away because space was throwing a fit,” Stephen continued. 

“No oceans transposing themselves into the sky.”

Stephen nodded. “We’ll have to prepare for Thanos,” Stephen said. Stark Raving and Blue Eyes said that if we had a stone here, then Thanos will come for it. It can’t be long now.”

“We’ll beat him,” Tony said, with a confidence he wasn’t sure he had. They had to beat him. That was the reason they’d come back. Because their multiversal counterparts had said that the world needed Iron Man, had said that the world needed a Stephen who’d made his home as a sorcerer. Because Thanos was coming, and their world needed them. So they had to beat him. They had to beat him to make it all worth it. Afghanistan, losing Obie to betrayal instead of cancer, becoming Iron Man, invasions and everything that came with them. And Stephen…

“It was worth it,” Stephen said quietly, voice fierce, as though he knew. “Tony. I told you then. I would never have wanted you to reach this moment and discover I left you to go alone.” He looked down at his hand. “I chose this,” he reminded Tony. “I don’t regret any of it. Not the choices of this life. Not the choices of that one.”

Tony felt some relief. “Good. And… I’m glad you came back with me.” He wasn’t the Tony of that other life, but he wasn’t entirely the Tony he’d been when he’d gone to sleep last night.

What a strange, confusing world.

Stephen was honestly surprised he was still alive. For every year Donna lived past her fated death, Stephen lost one of his own. He had to admit that it worried him. How old was he supposed to live for? When was his fated death? He wanted Donna to die old, even if that meant that Stephen died young. But for every year he lived, he feared hers would be cut short again.

Stephen sighed, pushing the thoughts away. “Beside the point. Did you just make a deal?”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “You know, some people would consider my answering that a HIPAA violation.”

It was almost enough for Stephen to roll his eyes. “You’ve sworn no oaths.” He paused. “I just… should I tell the family to prepare themselves?” Because life for life wasn’t the only exchange a person could make. Tony was a merchant, after all. Money was a part of the trade. The Greeks had been onto something, when the Underworld had been a place of both death and riches.

Tony’s expression softened. “Yes,” he said. “You should tell them to prepare themselves. James would have struggled with cancer another four years. His daughter is about to drop out of college to take care of him and he refuses to let her sacrifice her dreams for him.”

Stephen understood. He did. It still ached. “How long does he have?”

“A week,” Tony said. His expression softened. “For what it’s worth, death will talk him gently. Because of his deal, his daughter will have enough money to take care of herself for a good decade or so, if she’s smart.” He paused. “And I might have thrown in enough to clear his debts while I was at it.”

Stephen’s only other experience with a merchant of death was Howard—though he knew others existed—and Tony was far softer than Howard had been. Kinder. “Thank you.”

Tony just arched an eyebrow, as though he didn’t know what Stephen was thanking him for. “Is there anything else you need?” Tony asked. “Because I need to go be just plain human Tony Stark. I don’t know why Howard decided to take the Stark family into the spotlight. It makes my life much harder.”

“No, nothing else,” Stephen said. “Unless you’re going to tell me when I’m going to die.”

Tony gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “You know I can’t tell you that,” he said. “But I will tell you to stop putting things on hold. You have enough life left that you should make it worth living. I still don’t know why you rejected that lovely Christine when she asked you out.”

Because Stephen was doomed to die young; he couldn’t imagine letting someone love him when he knew he’d hurt them that way. Tony should know that.

Tony looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrow arched incredulously. “Psychics?” he asked. “Absolutely not.” He gave Stephen a scrutinizing look. “Do you?”

“No,” Stephen said. “I don’t. Not really at least.”

Tony’s gaze was piercing, before he hummed and turned back to the eggs he was cooking, ending the conversation. It didn’t take long for him to finish and he moved the pan off the heat. He turned back to Stephen, brow furrowed. “What does not really mean?” he asked. “Because, I’ve got to be honest, this feels like the sort of question that doesn’t get asked unless there’s a reason for it. Especially not at 7:00 in the morning and in that tone of voice.”

Stephen wasn’t entirely sure what tone of voice that was, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there was one that gave him away. But Stephen also wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never tried to explain this knowing to anyone. “It’s nothing.”

Tony arched an eyebrow in expectation.

Stephen sighed. “I just… I’ve always just… known things. Before they happen. And the moment I met you, you felt right. And when you smiled at me… it’s the same smile I’ve been dreaming of for years.” He licked his lip nervously. “It’s the smile I’ve wanted for years.”

Tony tilted his head. “You’ve probably seen me smile in any number of press ventures over the years, subconsciously you might have picked it up from any of those. I’ve been told I have a nice smile. It doesn’t mean anything.”

It would be a fair point if not for the fact that… “You don’t give me your press smile,” Stephen said. “Even that first night, it wasn’t a press smile.”

That earned him a thoughtful hum. 

A hope that Stephen hadn’t fully realized he’d been carrying dimmed. “You didn’t feel that way when we met?” he asked. Some part of him had hoped… well, that it wasn’t just him. That Tony felt this knowing too.

“No,” Tony said. “I didn’t.” For a long moment he just examined Stephen, something thoughtful in his eyes, maybe he could see some of Stephen’s disappointment, because he added. “For what it’s worth you do feel right. Maybe not then, but… now. Now you do.”

His looked back at where Stephen had won by a landslide. “I can’t believe they think you—”

“If we can start this meeting,” Steve said, cutting Tony and everyone else talking off.

Tony handed Stephen back his phone, but he found it hard to concentrate fully on the meeting as his brain revolved annoyingly around the poll. It wasn’t the weirdest thing, seeing people vote about his love life like they had any sort of say, but he couldn’t understand why Stephen.

Stephen was… well, he’d be a catch for anyone who earned his affection. There was no question about that. Between the intelligence, competence, dry humor, keen insights, brilliant smile, snarky commentary,  hard-won but beautiful laugh, and— All right, so Tony didn’t need to finish that list. The point was, Stephen was a catch. 

And Tony…

Tony was a disaster. Sure, conventionally he had a lot of winning points: rich, smart, and good-looking. But go any deeper than that and… well, there were distinctly fewer winning points.

So why would anyone want to saddle Stephen with Tony?

The thoughts kept whirling as the meeting went on and Tony forced himself to contribute a normal amount.

He almost regretted when the meeting ended, though, because Stephen turned back to him. “Should I be offended that you can’t believe they think I’d be a good match?” he asked.

Tony blinked. “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” he said.

The arch of Stephen’s eyebrow made it clear that he suspected that was exactly what Tony had been about to say.

“You don’t deserve to be saddled with me,” Tony corrected him. “Most people don’t, but especially not you. You’re kind of a catch.”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed, clearly in thought. “I’d like to put it to the test,” he said.

What? “What?” Tony asked, verbalizing the thought.

“I want to see how hard it is to be saddled with you,” Stephen said. “I happen to think I’d enjoy it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Tony warned.

Stephen shrugged. “Well, I’ve been warned.” He didn’t seem to be taking the warning very seriously. “I’d still like to test the hypothesis.”

Tony should say no. He really should.

Friendship itself isn’t a novel concept to him, obviously, but on account of his deficiency in skills of the interpersonal relationships kind… It comes as no surprise at all that what best constitutes as friendship in his current life only exists in the form of what he has with Wong—other Masters and fellow sorcerers of Kamar Taj he only ever interacts with on a rudimentary level, as the Master of the New York Sanctum, and as a trainer to students and novices seeking knowledge of the Mystic Arts, and little else. 

And before that, on a previous life—or what feels like it anyway—he hadn’t been the best with friends, either. There was Christine, but what they had was not quite friendship, or even what one would call lovers, but they were neither of them too bothered with a label there. And his coworkers at Metro General hardly count as friends; he knew then—and winces at the memory now—that most of them had despised his guts, be it borne of envy or general contempt at his then-brash-and-overconfident nature, which he didn’t and doesn’t blame them for. And before that, he had been a naive farm boy in a big bustling city, full of young desperate hope to escape the darkness that lurked back home, to make something of himself, too focused on running a race he is always left behind on than to form any meaningful relationships. 

So no, apparently he has no real basis of comparison when it comes to friendship, and Wong, bless him, isn’t nearly as sufficient data. But if he is to really compare them, there are a few things in his friendship with Tony that he doesn’t immediately find in Wong, and vice versa; knowledge of personal boundaries, for a start. Wong has always respected and understood his boundaries the same way Stephen does his. He has never pried into subjects Stephen has made clear he prefers not to discuss—unless absolutely necessary, and by that he means things like, Stephen did you steal a book from the library again or Stephen where the hell did my tuna sandwich go or Stephen that broken vase better not have anything to do with you or any number of little petty grievances he likes to blame Stephen for that day—and he does not push when Stephen says no. 

Tony, however, seemingly cannot mentally digest the word no, like being rejected is some foreign intricate concept requiring elaborate mental gymnastics and geometrical reasoning to make any semblance of sense. Which says a lot about him as a person, billionaire-from-birth, and supposed only child. Go figure. 

“Like I said, Tony, I will be busy,” he says to the man for the millionth time on the phone, hovering over his ear as he shifts through several pages of a book he is still planning to return to Wong’s library later. Which he will. Eventually. 

A dimensional anomaly has stranded a small, mostly harmless creature here, and they have contained it safely but have not tracked down the rift it came from, and not only that but he must first find its origin, and find out if there are things one may need to be wary of about it, but after pouring through several relevant books he had so far turned up with no such luck. The cloak floats over with what it probably assumes would be a helpful book, and Stephen skims through that quickly, mostly to appease it. The cloak likes to feel helpful. 

So yes, he’s made it clear that the last thing he should do is join an Avengers-and-associates-exclusive party Tony is holding in celebration of surviving their recent battle. 

“Aw, come on. The world isn’t gonna end if you take a single evening off.” 

“It in fact has every possibility to, actually.” 

“Oh, please. It’ll be fine. Get someone else to handle it for once.” 

“You know I can’t—”

“There’ll be free drinks! And someone is for sure going to get sloshed as all hell trying to drink Cap or, god forbid, Thor under the table—not me, I learned from last time—and you are going to want to be there to witness it. We’ll have so much fun, I promise. I’ll pick you up at three tomorrow.” 

“Tony, I told you I can’t—” 

But of course Tony has already hung up, because the man does not understand that not every instance they’ve succeeded in avoiding universal extinction for at least a couple more weeks is a call for celebration. He sighs, clicks his phone off and portals it god knows where—anywhere he wouldn’t get disturbed by it anymore. The cloak will know, it always seems to know where to find it when he asks. So he turns back to his research, squinting at the small, handwritten latin of an ancient grimoire, and tries not to think too much of the dreadful tomorrow. 

The thing is, Tony doesn’t so much cross his boundaries as he flattens them like a raging bulldozer demolishing everything within its general line of sight. It’s almost as though he isn’t even aware Stephen had refused; his attempts at saying no are like squirrels ground into dust beneath the strength of his juggernaut, and Stephen can only really do nothing more than watch. It certainly annoys him, greatly in fact, but it is just another in the line of things you get used to once you let someone like Tony Stark around in your life. 

Though for some reason he, in equal parts, finds it fascinating, to live with the kind of impulsivity that Tony does, to do things simply because he wants to, without regard to anything in the way or anything that it might entail, and sometimes it isn’t all that bad to get roped into doing something he had initially refused to do simply because Tony asked (read: forced) him to. 

And then even more interesting is when this is paired with his not insignificant paranoia—how does one choose to live in quite the way Tony does, oscillating constantly between afraid and uncaring? But then again he doesn’t have much say in the matter himself. It’s not like Tony had been the one to face death in the eye and strike a bargain with it, of all the ridiculous, unthinkable things. 

Of course, that impulsivity and inexplicable sense of adventure has its benefits to their friendship, even though it isn’t always the best trait to carry into the field. Tony has such an approach to life that is curiously intriguing to him—often Stephen would be roped into doing random activities with the man on an unsuspecting day, and sometimes it’s something ordinary like bar diving, but other times he rings Stephen out of nowhere and says things like, so there’s this museum in Iceland that’s whole thing is displaying preserved male genitalia—anyway you can portal anywhere in the world, right? or ever heard of competitive butter sculpting? No? Nevermind that, I’m coming over, you better have butter in that creepy kitchen of yours. His idea of fun is as confounding as it is, well, admittedly, fun. 

But then there are moments like this, where Stephen’s genuine, plain refusal goes flying right over Tony’s head, and he has to deal with having to free up time tomorrow, and also mentally prepare himself for a social outing, and also find someone to keep watch of the Sanctum for him, and also also choose a presentable outfit from his severely lacking wardrobe, maybe they wouldn’t mind him showing up with a black turtleneck again for the bazillionth time, wait is he expected to bring something to the party, and oh god he hasn’t replaced the wards, Wong is going to kill him, what if something terrible happens while he’s away, what if Mordo suddenly decides to go on a killing spree, what if this mystery creature of theirs goes on a rampage in the wild streets of New York, what is he going to do then. 

But of course, tomorrow comes anyway, and so he goes, because Tony asked (read: forced) him to. 

—

So admittedly the party isn’t so bad. Or at least it starts out fine. He drinks and chats and mingles and tries not to feel incredibly out of place. Tony occasionally shoots him a smirk from across the room when they aren’t in conversation with the rest, and he isn’t sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or what. The bar has a selection of basically every alcoholic beverage thinkable, but Stephen sticks with a simple glass of beer, which he sips at incrementally, just to have something to occupy his hands. Thankfully they’re in good shape today—or at least as good as they can get these days, anyway—so hopefully the shaking isn’t too noticeable. 

And then at some point things become quite a bit much, as they tend to after one spends a good chunk of their social battery, so he falls quiet and just sits there, watching everyone. At some point he decides to slip out onto the balcony to get some fresh air, standing against the railing, nursing his drink, watching the city, the darkening sky. 

He gets a few moments of solitary peace before the balcony door slides open. 

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you. Thought you left,” Tony says. Stephen nods at him, smiling faintly. “You’re not, though, right? Leaving, I mean. Not like it’s your first time ditching a party by jumping off a balcony. Which, Christ, you gotta stop doing that.” 

“I always have the cloak with me.”

“Well, when you jump off a balcony the average witness’ first thought usually isn’t, oh don’t worry he’s got a flying cape, he’ll be fine.” 

Stephen snorts. “Cloak.” The cloak, who has winded itself around his neck as a scarf, flutters as if in offense.  

“Yeah, whatever. Tomato to-mah-to.” 

Stephen only rolls his eyes at that. Then they fall silent, quietly drinking their respective beers, watching the scenery. 

“So. Listen. I’ve been—meaning to ask you something.” 

Stephen arches a brow, turning to him. “Okay.” 

“Right. So here, look. You and me, we had a rocky start, when we met, right?” 

“I’m not exactly to blame for that, I believe.” 

“Great, wonderful, you’re ten years old. Also, that is some major fucking historical revision there, but I’ll let it slide. What I was trying to say,” Tony leans forwards, licks his lips, shuffles on his feet, leans back again, all the while blinking rapidly. “What I’m trying to say,” he begins again, stops, then starts again, and Stephen wonders if the man had maybe hit his head at some point during their last mission because all signs were leading to a concussion of some kind. Brain damage is also possible. “Look, you and me, we may have started out on the wrong foot, in the beginning, but where we are now, right, how our relationship—as in, professionally, but also as like—like friends, you know, we’re not—we are better, right, like I mean—we’re good. We’re in a good spot. At the moment. As friends. Right?” 

Stephen frowns. Not only is Tony acting strange, and rambling erratically, he is not making any sense at all. Where the hell is Tony going with this, he wonders, but then again it is impossible to decipher the man’s line of thought most of the time. Has he had one too many beers? But that doesn’t make sense, Stephen is sure this is his first one.  “...Right,” he says obligingly. 

“Okay. Good. Because I mean, that’s great. And the thing is, right. I was wondering, you know. I mean, I’m not— I don’t want to make assumptions or anything in case this isn’t the case, you know, but when we met I sensed… You know that feeling, when a guy has certain preferences? Like, guys like us can sense it. You know. But again! I’m not trying to make assumptions or anything. But me, personally, I am— I go out with all sorts of people. Like, I’m not picky in that department.” 

Stephen only frowns very, very deeply. “What on Earth are you implying?” he asks. “Are you trying to hook me up with one of your exes as an attempt to escape them?” 

“No, no, god no.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay this isn’t really going well, is it? Look. My point is. I’m just, you know. I was wondering if you’d be interested in—”

The balcony door slides open and in pops Rhodey’s head. “Hey Tony, you gotta get in on this, they’re running a bet for—”

“Rhodes,” Tony says tightly, and he has never heard the man speak in such a tone at his presumably best friend of years and years, nevermind call his name like that. 

Rhodey quickly spots him standing beside Tony, and does a double take before going, “Oh shit, right, my bad,” and slips back inside. Whatever the hell that was about. 

“Right,” Tony turns back to him, nervously pulling at his collar. “Uh. So.” He clears his throat, a little too loudly. Stephen is beginning to get concerned for his state of mind, frowning intensely in puzzlement. “I was wondering if you would be amenable… if you would like to maybe, sometime, or—or any time you’d like, really, in the foreseeable future, if you would like to… to…” Stephen continues to watch him, trying very hard to understand the words coming out of the man’s mouth, and he sees the moment Tony changes his mind, eyes turning suddenly downcast. “I… Nevermind. Just—nevermind, forget I said anything.” He turns for the door, but Stephen catches his arm quickly. 

“Wait,” he says, and Tony stops reluctantly, not fighting against his hold but not looking at him either. Tony is chewing on his lip. “Where are you going?” 

“I— I gotta leave.” Stephen only frowns deeper. Tony Stark does not leave parties. This is a known fact. He either started them, left them to do otherwise inadvisable things, or saw them to the end, which means there is always a likely possibility one would find him passed out in the morning in somebody’s arms or draped across a piece of furniture, and one would be lucky if he is half dressed. “There’s some—boring board meeting I have to attend tomorrow, non-negotiable. Which means Pepper will flame my ass if I don’t at least show up, okay? Sorry.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“What?” 

“You’re not looking at me,” Stephen tells him, releasing his arm. “Which tells me you’re lying.” 

“Since when do you think you know shit about me? Just—I need to leave, alright.” 

“You were going to ask me something.” 

“And I said to drop it.” 

“It sounded important.”

“It’s—look, I’ll ask another time, okay? Just, you know, not now.” 

“You can ask now,” Stephen insists, “Is it about last week’s mission?” 

“No, it’s not about— It’s not.” 

“Then spit it out,” Stephen says, “What the hell are you trying to ask me?” 

Tony huffs a frustrated breath, then—“Out!”

“What?” 

“That—dammit, that’s what I was going to ask you.”

“Out of where?” 

“Fucking pigshitting godfucking cocknuzzling motherfucking god, will you just—fucking forget it, I’m leaving.” 

“Tony, wait, what do you mean by—” And then his brain comes online. “Ask me out,” Stephen realises. “You were going to ask me out?” There is a slight upward lilt at the end there which implied a question, but he didn’t mean for it to come out as one. 

Tony is just watching him, silent for a moment, eyes flitting about, analysing the lines of his face. Stephen just watches back. “Yes,” Tony mutters after a moment of this, then quickly looks away in—embarrassment, for god’s sake. The man’s embarrassed. “Look,” Tony says, and his voice has changed. “I know, alright, it’s ridiculous. Just—forget I said anything. It’s stupid.” He turns away. “I have to go.” 

“No,” Stephen says, and Tony stops in his tracks. 

“What.” 

“No, I can’t… just forget what you said.” 

“Goddammit, Strange, do you gotta make everything so goddamn difficult?” 

“No, I just meant…” Stephen falters here, and Tony turns back around to watch him. “I didn’t know you had that kind of… interest. In me. I didn’t realise that was a possibility for you. For either of us.” 

For a beat too long, long enough he grows uncomfortable under Tony’s eyes, a silence hangs between them. Then, with what sounds like some cocktail of realisation and a comically great deal of exasperation, “You didn’t…” Tony runs a hand down his face, huffing out a laugh. “God. Of course. Stephen, I’m more than a little interested, is the thing. Have been for some time now.” 

“In me,” Stephen thinks aloud. 

“Yeah.”

“I think I am, too,” Stephen blurts out. “In you, I mean.” 

“Oh,” Tony says, and if that doesn’t make him feel ridiculous. Of course. Of course. All these years of dancing around each other, and he had thought it was strictly playful flirting. He had thought there couldn’t possibly be a chance Tony would be at all interested in him in that way, that it was only by some playboy instinct that Tony considered hitting on him at all. But looking at Tony now—could it be possible he had been wrong? Could it be possible that the thing he had not allowed himself to think of, the thought he had never allowed himself to entertain, is a very real and likely possibility after all? 

In a flash something cold and frightening runs through his middle. Reality is beginning to rapidly set in—is this real? Did they just… do what he thinks they had? Is this happenning?—and it takes a while for him to realise he has not, in fact, answered Tony’s question yet. 

It’s just that—it’s been a while, is the thing. It’s been a while since he’s allowed someone in, in that particular sense. Not ever since Christine, and even that particular wound hasn’t sealed itself completely shut. And then there was finding Kamar Taj, and the Mystic Arts, and everything that came afterwards—he has come to terms with the fact that this kind of life does not allow space for romantic entanglements, or anything that requires any sense of commitment. 

Then again, if there is anyone who understands the kind of things this line of work demands, it would be someone who knows what it’s like, deep in their bones, the need to do good, to protect this fragile life of theirs, the fallibility of every human life, the need to shield their loved ones from the terrible dangers of the universe—someone like Tony. But there is the other thing, the unnameable, terrifying thing, that if they are to involve themselves in such a way it would only put them both at risk, and Stephen cannot afford that. The last thing he needs is his enemies finding a new target, a way to exploit the weakness that is his human heart. 

And even more dangerous is himself. It has been proven time and time again on numerous occassions that relationships are not exactly his forté. Exhibit A: Christine. One way or another, Tony will get hurt, whether directly or indirectly, because of him. Not that he thinks Tony is any better in that department, either—with how things ended with Pepper, bizzarely amicable as they are now, he gets the sense that he isn’t the only relationship fuck-up. But that doesn’t make things any better. 

All in all, this is a recipe for disaster. It wouldn’t end well at all. No, it is far better for him to avoid that kind of fuss, to avoid tangling himself in such a situation again. The temporary joy is never worth the pain of the aftermath.  

But then… But then Tony is drawing near, and nearer, and nearer still, and too late he realises he’s been frozen, almost paralysed on the spot as he spirals into deeper and deeper thought. The thing he thought dead in his chest begins to pound and ache, and in his panic he recoils a little, and Tony must’ve noticed this because his face does a minute shift, and he draws back some, and—no, wait, that was not what he wanted to happen, he didn’t mean— 

“Stephen,” Tony is saying in this low, tentative voice. Stephen swallows. “Is this…” Tony comes nearer again, and there is a thread of need in his voice, in his beautiful eyes—is he allowed to think that now? Is he allowed to acknowledge how unfairly beautiful this man is?—attention honed completely, solely on him, “Tell me if this is okay,” he says. The cold feeling runs down his spine again, the fear, the knowing of what he is about to let himself be led into… The door of possibilities they are about to push open would be more akin to Pandora’s box than anything. 

But there is something inexplicably earnest in Tony’s eyes, and when those eyes flick down to his lips, he thinks: fear is for people who have never executed a flawless free-hand extraction of a hardened bullet from inside a brain. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and their lips meet. 

It feels—indescribable. He wouldn’t know where to begin if asked. 

It’s like he’s back again, all those years ago, in that time The Ancient One thrust a hand upon his chest and slammed him backwards into the realm of things unseen, things unknown, things undiscovered, opening his eyes to the vastness of their reality. All the things he only knew of in the theoretical sense, only knew of intellectually, and so much more than that, he suddenly saw clearly, viscerally, tangibly—an infinite terrible and beautiful and bizarre and impossible things, insurmountable in its boundlessness, incomprehensible in its complexity. Kissing Tony Stark feels like discovering new secrets of the universe. 

“Oh my god,” Tony says when they part, “Stephen.” 

Stephen makes a sound, he isn’t even sure what, but he needs to put his lips on Tony’s again. Suddenly what he thought he knew in absolute certainty only moments ago was not completely true, and it is like his entire worldview is being shifted by a single kiss. 

Tony Stark is interested in him. Tony Stark has been interested in him for some time, which implied a timeline, which implied planning. It makes so much sense now—the nervousness, how he responded to Rhodey walking in on them, the incredibly vague tip-toe-y broach in asking Stephen about his sexuality. It makes him feel light, heady with the knowledge. Tony is kissing him like he means it, and—how could there have ever been a doubt? Of course. Of course.

He presses the line of his body close against Tony, who has a hand on his waist and the other pulling him nearer by the nape and—oh Jesus, those fingers are carding upwards into his hair, pulling slightly, making him shudder and moan, and is this the right time to point out he has particularly sensitive follicles? Doesn’t matter, Tony is licking into his mouth like he’s carving something out in there, walking him backwards until his back is braced against the railing, and he can’t think of anything else but the press of their bodies, the slick slide of their tongues, the shocking masculinity of their goatees rubbing against each other. They are about to trip off the goddamn balcony and he doesn’t even find it in him to care. 

“Wait,” Tony pulls back, sounding as breathless as he feels. He is keeping their hips apart, and Stephen knows it’s because he doesn’t want him to be aware of the evidence of his arousal, but Stephen just presses back, letting his tenting hardness press against Tony’s hip instead. Tony lets out a low groan, hips bucking against him. The thought that he has the same effect on Tony as Tony has on him is—god, he feels like his head is being steadily filled with helium, ready to float away. “Fuck, wait. I want to do this right. God, I wanted to do this right.” 

“You planned,” he rasps, “You had all this planned in your head.” 

“Yes, fuck,” Tony laughs, “I was gonna— I wanted to take you out, someplace nice, maybe, we were supposed to have dinner, this beautiful evening, I was going to charm the pants off you, I was imagining something—slower.” 

“You wanted to woo me.” 

“Well I mean, I wanted to ease you in.” 

“Forget about easing me in,” Stephen decides, “We’ve waited long enough.” 

“Fuck, you’re right, baby, come here,” Tony murmurs, kissing him again, and that word—baby—makes him feel all sorts of things in his chest, and perhaps a bit lower. “You think they’ll notice if we ditch?” 

“Since when does courtesy matter to you?” 

“Well we can’t walk out there with full fledged boners.”

“I can make portals.”  

“Oh,” Tony says, “Right. I forgot that. Excuse me, my brilliant brain did not think of that, on account of the fact all my blood seems to be down south. Will you fucking portal us out, please, because I am about ready to explode in my pants, here.” 

“What happened to taking things slow?” 

“Stephen, I swear to fuck, any slower and my balls are going to fall off.” 

Stephen laughs, and then obeys, because Tony asks (read: forces) him to. 

      EPILOGUE

 “Stark. Your phone,” Stephen rasps at him, nudging him awake with needless force, and then giving up to instead bury his head underneath the pillow. Tony rouses from his sleep at the insistent buzzing noise, blinking confusedly, and dear god, will it just stop. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, hand blindly searching for the source of the obnoxious sound vibrating the entire goddamn room. 

“Incoming call from Ms. Potts, sir,” FRIDAY chimes helpfully from above. Tony makes a vague noise of acknowledgement. 

What’s got her panties up in a twist this time? Tony considers burying his face underneath a pillow also, but then Stephen’s rumpled head pops out and he says, “I am going to portal your phone into the Sahara if you do not get it to stop making that goddamn noise.” 

“All right, Jesus. It’s a custom model, kindly do not.” 

Stephen plops his face back down, voice muffled when he says, “You can afford another.” 

Tony does not dignify that with a response, instead choosing to clamber over the pile of limbs beside him to get to his phone, which clatters to the floor when he reaches for it. He mutters a word that would impress a sailor and bends down for it, knocking his elbow on Stephen’s arm in the process, who doesn’t even budge or protest. Figures he’d be dead asleep again already—the man probably hadn't been sleeping for a while now. 

He accepts the call, because declining Pepper’s call is suicide. 

“Anthony Edward Stark.” 

“Oh no,” he says. Middle name means nothing good. “Good morning to you, too, Pep. And speaking of which, it is barely six in the fucking morning.” 

“Yes, and you should be up.” 

Tony rubs up and down his face. “There are worse sins than waking after dawn, you know. Homicide. Animal abuse. Milk before cereal.”

“Sloth is the root of all those,” Pepper responds without missing a beat. “You have a board meeting in an hour, which is ample time to nurse that hangover and go over the notes I sent you.” 

“What notes,” he rasps, “And I’m not hungover.” 

“Oh?” Pepper says across the line. “Is that so.”

“That so.” 

“Fine. Check your email. I need you to at least consider the points I made there. The last thing we need is you offending the shareholders.” 

“I’m never offensive. I’m plenty likable. I always know the right words to say.” 

A sigh crackles across the line. “Check it regardless. And you better not be late.” 

Tony shifts to a more comfortable position, sighing at the pleasant ache in his muscles, courtesy of last night’s vigorous activities. “Can’t you push the meeting, I don't know, to tomorrow at least?” 

“No!” Pepper says exasperatedly, “I’ve told you how important this is, Tony, I’ve told you that—”

Suddenly his phone is snatched off of his hand. 

“Good morning, Miss Potts,” Stephen says pleasantly, “I’ll be sure to send Tony off in time for his meeting. Rest assured he will not be late. Good day.” And then he clicks the phone off. 

“You asshole,” Tony says when Stephen hands him back his phone, who then promptly pulls the blankets back up around him, like the blanket-hogging monster he is. 

“So you weren’t lying about the meeting. Good to know. Wake me up when you need a portal,” the lump in the blankets says. 

“Asshole,” Tony says again, “Unbelievable.” But then he couldn’t quite contain his laugh, because now he is imagining what Pepper’s face might look like, after Stephen’s little stunt. Well, not the first time Pepper is accidentally privy to the people he takes to bed. Except, of course, Stephen isn’t just someone he’s taken to bed, because this sure as hell isn’t going to be a one time thing, and it sure as hell would entail a lot more than helping each other get off. 

A smile tugs up his lips as he skims through his phone notifications, ignoring Pepper’s and a million other emails in favour of scrolling through the litany of text messages, stopping to click into Rhodey’s. 

Hope I didn’t mess it up for you and the good doctor, the text says. 

Nah, he types. Actually it went very well.

Oh? Rhodey immediately replies, and Tony isn’t surprised he’s awake at this hour. Military habits, he thinks. How well?

Stephen suddenly turns to him, draping a heavy arm across his chest and pulling him down. “Mmmmgfffhhhh,” the blanket hogger says. Tony chuckles fondly, bending down to kiss his forehead. Stephen’s nose scrunches up adorably, and then his eyes are open. His hair is a torpedo, his eyes are puffy, and he looks deliciously gorgeous. 

Well as in, I need to go now, he shoots back at Rhodey.

You’re kidding, he manages to catch, but misses the several other messages popping up, setting his phone on the nightstand. He bends down to kiss Stephen’s cheekbone, the edge of his brow, the side of his nose, then down to his lips. Stephen reciprocates easily, sighing into the kiss, hand reaching up to cup the back of his neck. 

“Mm,” Tony hums, “We’ve got an hour to spare. You know, just to put it out there.” 

“Looking to put that time to good use?” Stephen rasps. God, how can a voice be that sexy? it’s criminal levels of hot. “How about those notes Pepper mentioned,” he suggests. 

“I was thinking of something else.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“Like this,” Tony says, and kisses him again. They kiss languidly, and Tony is struck again with the same kind of surprise he was last night, when he found out how enjoyable kissing can be with Stephen Strange. Normally kissing is just an overly moist prelude to more exciting activities, but with Stephen, just the act of kissing is pleasurable in itself. 

He gently lays Stephen back on the bed, pressing his weight down purposefully just to hear that delightful catch in his breath. Slowly he trails kisses down Stephen’s neck, collarbones, chest, making a stop to catch a nipple into his mouth, earning a groan from above, and then further down still to hover over his prize; Stephen’s morning wood stands proud before him, and the sight makes Tony lick his lips.

He starts by kissing the head first, languidly stroking the long, gorgeous length of the shaft. He licks along the slit teasingly, fondling the balls, smirking slightly when Stephen’s hips buck up in desperation. 

“Tony,” Stephen says from above, already a hoarse, broken thing. 

“Shh, baby, let me take care of you,” he murmurs lovingly, finally pushing his mouth down and bobbing his head slowly. Stephen throws his head back and lets out a delicious groan, neck straining. Tony keeps his eyes on the man as he takes his time. 

He plays with Stephen’s balls some more before letting his fingers dip lower, down to his perineum. Stephen’s voice cracks on a moan, breathing raggedly. 

“Please,” Stephen groans, “Oh god, please.” 

Deliberately, Tony swallows him down to the hilt, nuzzling down until his nose is pressed flush to his trim pubic hair, letting him feel the clench and contraction of his throat, then drifts a finger lower to press into his hole, still a little loose from last night, crooking it just so. 

Stephen lets out a cry as his hips buck up involuntarily, rope after rope of cum pulled out of him that Tony swallows obediently. He sucks him a bit more, letting Stephen ride his orgasm to oversensitivity, until he shakes and shudders, and only pulls back when Stephen begs him to. 

Only once he’s finished does Tony become aware of his own pressing need. 

“Let me—” Stephen tries to sit up, but Tony only pushes him down. 

“On your side,” he orders, unsurprised by how gravely he sounds. Stephen obeys, turning onto his side. Tony settles behind him, and adjusts them so that he has his cock pressed between those strong thighs. Stephen’s hand wanders backwards to clutch at him, murmuring, “Come on, sweetheart, fuck my thighs.” 

Tony does not need any further prompting. He starts off slow, finding his way, and only begins thrusting in earnest when Stephen presses his thighs together tighter. He’s leaking just enough to slick the way, and dear god, the flex of those muscled thighs will be the death of him, he’s clutching at Stephen’s shoulder by the end of it, groaning endlessly as he spurts his load all over the mattress and Stephen’s thighs.

He lays there for a moment, enjoying the post-coital bliss. Stephen’s hand has reached up to start a slow, gentle scratch up and down his head. After a while he gets up, planting a kiss on Stephen’s temple as he goes, who hums contentedly. He smiles as Stephen stretches like a cat, curling, soaking up the warmth of the bed with an open yawn. 

He heads to the bathroom for an epic piss. When he returns, it is with a damp cloth, which he uses to wipe away the drying cum between Stephen’s legs. Stephen cranes his head back to kiss him in thanks. 

Once finished Tony settles back against the sheets, sighing. He turns to watch the New York skyline stretched across the floor to ceiling windows of his glass-and-steel behemoth of a modern minimalistic penthouse. He can see the little A perched atop the Tower from here, buried in a sea of skyscrapers. He has never noticed it before, but the Tower stands vaguely to the East—which means that as the sun rises and her rays unfurl to the slowly bluing sky, he can see the light catch at the very top of it, marking the beginning of a new day; the branches of possibilities spreading out before him. 

He’s got half an hour to spare, he thinks. Half an hour to enjoy this new, fragile, beautiful thing—and maybe even several years more of it. He smiles faintly, heart alight. 

“Hey FRIDAY,” he calls, “Book a reservation in The Algonquin tonight, will you?” 

“On it, sir.” 

“Thanks.” 

“So we’re actually getting that date now, are we,” comes the rumbling voice beside him. 

“We kind of did everything in reverse, but hey, I meant what I said last night.” 

“Which part? Because most of it was hardly decipherable.”

“Asshole. It was a good speech.” 

A snort. “I was convinced you were either drunk, concussed, or suffering some form of brain damage. Or a combination of those. It was less a speech and more like watching an active forest fire.” 

“Well at least I made a move. Which was more than what you were planning on doing.” 

Stephen makes a humming noise, which is technically a response but linguistically useless. He is obnoxious like that. 

“Anyway, what I was saying. I meant it when I said I wanted to do this right. Even though we sort of caved the first night, but you know. Sometimes you gotta take them to bed before taking them to dinner. Not that I think you don’t deserve to be wined and dined, because god knows I can treat you right that way, I just mean—look, it’s not my fault we practically climbed each other the moment we could, even though—okay, wait, what I meant to say is that I’d really love to—” 

Stephen rumbles out a low, pillow-muffled chuckle. “Like I said. Active forest fire.” 

“Asshole,” Tony says again, face flushing. But he laughs along anyway, because when you have  Stephen Strange looking gorgeous in the morning light and laughing a beautiful laugh like that, you can’t help but be filled to the brim with joy and disbelief at this wonderful miracle the universe has landed in your life. 

“But you do,” Steve said, absolutely certain of that fact.

A smile flickered around Bruce’s lips. “As best friend, it is my sacred duty to not reveal Tony’s secrets.”

No! Steve needed someone on his side, because no one was listening to him. Bruce had been his best shot.

“But,” Bruce said. “Have you actually asked Tony or Stephen if they’re in a relationship?”

Well… no. “No,” he admitted.

Bruce shrugged. “If I were you, I’d just outright ask them during lunch. Get the answer from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, where everyone else can hear.” Bruce patted him on the arm. “Good luck.”

That was not at all helpful. Steve wasn’t entirely certain that either Tony or Stephen would tell the truth, especially since they’d been hiding their relationship. Tony might lie just to push Steve over the brink of sanity. But at the same time, if he had to deal with Natasha or Sam suggesting that maybe he needed a CAT scan, then he was going to lose it. According to them, if there weren’t any fumes—which there weren’t—then maybe he’d taken a hit to the head instead.

Tony and Stephen were the last to show up for lunch, discussing something that went right over Steve’s head. There was a reason he was an art professor, not a scientist.

“Hey, Stephen,” Steve said, deciding he was Steve’s better bet. Tony would be far more likely to mess with him. “What’s up with you and Tony? Are you two dating?”

The room went silent, eyes focused on Stephen who was pulling out a tupperware of leftover pasta—and was that Tony’s famous fettuccine alfredo? Evidence, right there.

Stephen arched an eyebrow. “Dating? Absolutely not.”

Natasha gave Steve a smug look, practically saying see. She was going to make him go for a cat scan, wasn’t she? Steve had seen it happen. They’d been kissing. Steve was about to make that point, try and put the two on the spot, when Tony spoke up.

“Technically, we are,” Tony said. “Because you refuse to accept my proposal. So we haven’t moved to the next stage, yet.”

“Correction,” Stephen said. “You refuse to accept my proposal.”

“Because I proposed first. It’s on you to accept!”

Stephen scoffed. “My proposal was more romantic. It’s on—”

“Wait,” Sam interrupted, expression one of sheer flabbergastment. “What!?”

Stephen and Tony looked at Sam, cutting their argument short. “What’s so confusing?” Stephen asked. “We’re engaged.”

“We’re not engaged,” Tony countered. “We’re dating, because you haven’t said yes, yet.”

The rest of the room burst into chaos. Steve sat back, finally validated. 

He also wasn’t sure he wanted it. He admittedly wasn’t sure he didn’t want it either. But he’d pissed off a lot of people with his little press conference and Strange was probably one of the few people not angry with him now. It was… a little bit of a relief to not be dealing with that low-burning frustration from just about everyone.

Obie. Rhodey. Even Pepper.

But Tony wasn’t in the right mental space to be dealing with that right now. Mostly he just wanted to go down to his lab and be. But first…

“All right,” he said. “You can check me over.”

Strange took several quick steps to close the space between them. His hands, when they touched Tony, were anything but clinical.

Though they were cold.

“So,” Tony said, unable to stop his curiosity. “How much of vampire lore is accurate and how much is nonsense?”

Strange looked up at him, and Tony noted that his eyes were magnetic. He was pretty sure there were some lores about Vampires being able to entrance their prey and Tony quickly looked away, feeling unnerved at the thought.

“Well,” Strange said. “We don’t sparkle.”

That had Tony looking back, utterly confused. “What?”

Strange laughed. “It’s a fresh concept from a very popular book series. I don’t believe it’d be to your tastes.”

Sparkling vampires? Yeah, Tony was going to bet Strange was right about that one. “You can obviously be in the sun,” Tony said. “Given you came for me in Afghanistan.”

Strange tilted his head a little. “The more powerful a vampire, the more capable they are of withstanding the normal deterrents.”

Tony snorted. “And let me guess, you’re on the more powerful end of that spectrum.”

“I’ve been alive for a very long time,” Strange said. “I’ve become very hard to kill.”

Tony had joked about not warding his house from vampires. Now he wondered if he’d even be able to. It was… a little disconcerting to think about. 

Strange finished his checkup before drawing back slightly. “There’s some truth to most lore,” Strange said, returning to Tony’s question. “But most certainly not all. There are books on the subject, if you’d like.”

“Would they tell me how to ward myself from you?”

Pain flickered across Strange’s expression. “The only thing you need to do to keep me away is to tell me you don’t want me here,” he said quietly. “I will respect your choice above all things.” He looked away. “Do you wish for me to leave?” The words had an ache to them.

“No,” Tony admitted. “I just… I don’t like feeling powerless.”

Strange nodded. “I will provide you any material you want. And it is not a terrible idea to protect yourself. Over the years I have developed enemies. Should they ever find out about you, they’d find you a tempting target.” He met Tony’s eyes. “But know that you’ll never come to harm from me.”