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Stephen Strange is was a neurosurgeon.
Tony Stark never knew who or what he was.
Stephen Strange found his calling after a horrific accident, became something great, something incredible.
Tony Stark built himself an armor and shut everyone out.
Stephen Strange likes his coffee black, he loves the morning sun and waking up early.
Tony Stark was is was an alcoholic, he hates sleeping and despises the nightmares lurking under his bead.
I'm Tony Stark. I build neat stuff. I got a great man. And occasionally save the world. So why can't I sleep?
Maybe he has saved the world too many times. Maybe that’s why he can’t sleep anymore. Maybe Thanos was the last straw.
He should be dead.
He spends hours thinking about it. Thinking about death. Death seems almost boring now. Normal. Stephen has died multiple times, millions of times, but Stephen never says a word. He never falters. He never breaks down crying. Tony feels pathetic.
Stephen Strange is off to save the world again. Tony doesn’t even know where he is. He left with a quick kiss on Tony’s lips and a wave of a hand. Tony feels empty. It is normal, he’s used to it. That night Tony doesn’t sleep, he never sleeps when Stephen is not home. When Stephen is away from him.
Tony’s life inside the armor is over. He couldn’t control it even if he wanted to. His hand has not recovered from the snap and his fingers are cold and numb most of the time. Tony doesn’t understand how Stephen can be so casual about his own hands. Maybe he’s used to it like he’s used to everything else too. Tony tells himself that it doesn’t matter. It actually matters a lot. Tony doesn’t want to admit it. Tony Stark misses Iron Man, misses living, misses flying, misses being in control, misses loving the way the wind cries in his ears, the adrenaline of the battle. Misses everything he knows he can’t have. That is normal. People often crave things unavailable to them. Tony just can’t think of anything he could have. Retirement sucks. It is terribly dull, all of his days filled with echoing emptiness.
The problem is not a lack of understanding. The problem is not a lack coping mechanisms, he has plenty of those, some of them healthy (introduced to him by therapists and doctors and his husband), some of them less healthy (unfortunately he prefers them). It is about the lack of interest in actually doing things again. Objectively speaking, there is a severe lack of will to live. It bothers Tony. He has a lovely, heroic husband who would probably burn down the multiverse for him, he has a penthouse, he has money, he has whatever the fuck he wants. Somehow it still feels like he has nothing. He is being ungrateful. He is an asshole, that’s not new. He has always been horrible, and maybe it is incurable. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life as a miserable alcoholic- Scratch that, he is no longer an alcoholic, Stephen has taken care of that. Tony is grateful, of course he is, but sometimes he feels like it would be easier for both of them if he just drank himself dead.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t.
Seriously. He doesn’t want Stephen to worry. He attempts to sleep just to make the voice of Stephen reason in his head a bit happier. He wakes up covered in sweat, screaming. Fuck sleep, it’s not like he needed it anyways. Caffeine does wonders to him, or at least it used to.
A few days later Stephen comes home. He is battered, his whole body bruised, and small cuts decorate his face. Tony still kisses him and tastes blood on his tongue. Stephen doesn’t explain. Tony doesn’t know why. Maybe he wants to spare him. Tony is useless, he knows it. Still, he swallows his anger and cleans Stephen’s wounds. Stephen doesn’t cry, doesn’t even flinch and Tony hates it, hates it so much. The hatred is irrational, he knows, but his feelings have always been irrational. Their conversation feels trivial, unimportant, scripted. Stupid. Tony assures himself that it's just because they’re both tired. Maybe Tony can sleep tonight with Stephen back.
He can’t sleep.
So why can’t I sleep?
He thanks all the gods that he didn’t wake Stephen up with his screams. The room is dark, and everything feels hazy. It is almost like the air around him has suddenly become heavy and ill-willed, ready to choke him. Tony gets up and almost falls on his way to the bathroom.
Everything feels so very useless. Tony has emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet and he flushes it, gritting his teeth at the noise. He washes his hands and takes one of their bathrobes with him and quietly sneaks out of their bedroom door. Tony puts the bathrobe on and identifies it as Stephen’s. It smells like him, safe and homey, and Tony wonders if he can still save himself and their marriage. He sits down on the sofa and lifts his feet up too. He curls into himself and breathes slowly. The ring on his finger shines in the moonlight that comes in through the window. It is a beautiful ring, simple and golden with a few runes carved into it for magical protection.
Stephen had been the one to propose. The engineer remembers the smug smile of the taller man when he knelt in front of Tony in their living room on an ordinary Sunday. Tony had always had a flair for dramatics, but it had been perfect. A moment just for them.
Miserable how their situation has changed. It is Tony’s fault, and he knows it. His husband has not changed, it is him who has ruined everything. A little thought slips into his mind from the heavy air around him:
Maybe they have cooking wine somewhere.
It seems like something Stephen could overlook when removing all alcohol from their apartment. Tony gets up from the sofa to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. No alcohol. Not even vanilla extract. For a moment Tony curses Stephen’s thoroughness. He sits down on the table and lets his bare feet dangle in the air.
“Morning”, says a familiar voice from the door. Tony doesn’t even bother to look up. He knows it’s Stephen.
“Hi”, he mutters. Stephen walks closer. Deducing from the steps, he isn’t limping, and Tony breathes in relief without even realizing.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen asks. He reaches forward to touch Tony’s arm, but Tony shakes his head. Stephen freezes.
“Dear?” he tries again. Tony doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to.
So why can’t I-?
“Please”, Stephen says. Tony looks up and sees the sorcerer’s pale face. His eyes are pleading.
So why can’t-?
“Stephen”, Tony says and hates himself. A pang of guilt hits him like a bullet, leaving his ears ringing. He wants to scream and doesn’t even know why. Maybe he wants to scream because Stephen looks practically unharmed, maybe he wants to scream because there is no alcohol in this god-forsaken house or maybe he just wants to scream so that Stephen would know that something is wrong.
“Tony, what is it?”
Stephen’s eyes are too tender, they’re too kind.
So why-?
“Why are you always so okay?” Tony asks, trying so hard to not sound angry and failing miserably. He knows he has said it the wrong way when he sees the shadow of pain in Stephen’s face. It should calm him down, make him rational, but it just makes him angrier. Why is he so okay? Why is he so calm and collected when Tony is a mess? Why?
“What do you mean?” Stephen asks, still looking mostly worried.
“Why are you so fucking cold? Why are you never in pain? Why are you never angry? Why are you not feeling anything? How the fuck are you okay? How the fuck do you not want to kill yourself every day?”
Tony closes his eyes immediately after saying his last thought out loud.
He wasn’t supposed to say it, not like that.
Stephen just stares at him. He is even paler than before and his wounds are standing out, crimson against pale white. Tony refuses to apologize.
“Do you want to kill yourself?” Stephen asks, his voice strangely high-pitched. Tony doesn’t want to say it but the silence is so much more of an answer than an actual answer.
“No”, Tony says like an idiot. He hates this new turn of conversation.
“Tony”, Stephen says in a voice that is frustratingly soft. Tony feels even more like shit. Now he’s made the other man worry. Lovely. Just amazing. What time is it? There can’t be much longer until the liquor store nearby opens.
“No, you can’t make this about me! I know you don’t want to talk about your feelings or whatever, but you can’t expect me to confide in you when you refuse to trust me with you”, Tony snarls and Stephen blinks, his façade breaking.
“It’s not about that”, Stephen whispers. He looks desperate. Tony is looking for a clock. There must be one somewhere.
“FRIDAY, what time is it?” Tony asks, ignoring Stephen. Stephen looks hurt and confused and Tony is unsure what to do about that. He doesn’t usually stick around to see the aftermath of him yelling at someone.
“It is 7 in the morning, boss”, FRIDAY says and Tony nods. A store nearby opens at nine, Tony recalls, so two hours. He can live with that. Two hours.
“Why would you want to know the time?” Stephen asks, crossing his arms in front of him, uncaring once again. His face shows no emotions, not even his eyes betray him. Something inside Tony twists painfully.
“Why would it matter?” Tony asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Of course it matters”, Stephen says, his eyes softer. He reaches towards Tony, but Tony shoots an angry look towards him.
“Sure”, Tony sneers, “good to know. I promise to let you know every time I look at a clock from now on.”
“Tony”, Stephen almost pleads.
“Stephen”, Tony says, mocking the sorcerer. His brain is sloppily counting the seconds towards 9 am.
“Tony of course I- you know you’re the only reason I-” Stephen starts, and Tony finishes the sentence for him:
“Stay on this planet? In this universe? In this shithole? Doc, I’m sure you can do better than this, better than-”
“Don’t want to die.”
Oh.
Oh.
Well shit.
The whole dramatic argument isn’t worth it anymore. Suddenly Tony is the one worried.
“Of course I’m in pain, Tony, of course I am, I just didn’t want you to know or think that I’m too weak to love you or care for you or-”
“Stephen I’m- Stephen, you don’t have to pretend to be happy or whatever. Stephen, I just want you, not this character you’ve created. I want you, all the horrible shit included.”
Tony finds that he means it. He means all of it. He just wants Stephen to stay, and he wants Stephen to want him to stay too.
“I don’t think so”, Stephen says bitterly, “Tony, I don’t sleep, I can’t anymore, I just see you dead, I see Dormammu, I, you know I can’t pile all of that on you.”
“I just want you to be honest.”
“I-”
“Please.”
“Tony-”
“Please.”
Stephen just reaches out to him, and Tony lets him. The taller man envelops him in a hug, and they breathe together. Maybe they will make it. He wants them to. Everything feels just tolerable enough for him to postpone his liquor store visit. Just tolerable enough.
“Okay.”
“I can’t sleep either.”
“Really? I have not noticed.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
“Never.”
“No douchebag for me this time?”
“You’re clearly more in need of love this time.”
“I’m offended, there is no clearer declaration of love than you calling me a douchebag.”
“Whatever, douchebag.”
“You know, we gotta make this work, I love you too much to let you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s sleep instead.”
“You’re a bore.”
“I know, dear.”
“I want at least cuddles. I feel like shit.”
“I will cuddle the hell out of you, Stark.”
“You better.”
I'm Tony Stark. I build neat stuff. I got a great man. And occasionally we save the world. Honestly, no wonder we can’t sleep.