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The bad days have been more common since he left Pepper.
Tony kind of hates that it’s true. He doesn’t like the idea of his happiness being dependent on another person. And it isn’t, not really. The good days outnumber the bad by a considerable margin. But he has to admit, if only privately, that having a partner around helped. Maybe it was the reminder that people cared about him. Maybe it was the company. But even when they were arguing, Tony had fewer bad days with Pepper than without her.
Whatever. The world doesn’t stop for the bad days, so Tony drags himself off to the Compound for the latest Avengers meeting. Today’s group consists of Rogers, Barnes, Carol, Hope, and Scott. Not Tony’s favorite mix, but not the worst, either. The others can clearly tell something is wrong, but they don’t say anything.
Except Scott catches Tony’s gaze and hangs back when the meeting is done, waving Hope on without him.
Tony doesn’t really want to talk to anyone right now, especially after sticking it out for an entire Avengers meeting, but Scott doesn’t ask for a lot. If he wants to talk to Tony, Tony should probably hear him out. So he waits.
When they’re alone, Scott digs something out of his bag. “I found this a couple weeks ago,” he says, and it comes out like an admission. He’s holding a piece of paper, folded in three like a letter. Scott slides it from hand to hand like he’s nervous. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it, but… It seems like it might do you some good.” He holds it out.
The moment Tony takes the paper, Scott hurries away. Tony looks after him, bemused, and then down at the paper he’s holding. He unfolds it.
Dear Tony,
My love.
You’ll never read this, so I suppose I can be forgiven for calling you that.
Tony quickly looks up, but there’s no one around. He looks back down at the letter—that’s definitely what it is—and then folds it up again. This isn’t something he should read in a meeting room in the Compound, if he should be reading it at all.
By the time Tony gets back to his penthouse, the letter practically burning a hole in his pocket, he knows he’s going to read it. Maybe that’s wrong: it’s clearly not for him, no matter how it’s addressed. But the idea that someone loves him enough to feel compelled to put it on paper is too tempting to ignore.
On bad days, it feels like no one ever really cared for him at all.
So Tony gets back to the penthouse and asks FRIDAY for privacy and opens the letter again. The first thing he does is glance at the bottom, but there’s no signature. He hadn’t really expected one; Scott would have returned it to the author if he’d known who the author was.
Tony starts reading at the beginning.
Dear Tony,
My love.
You’ll never read this, so I suppose I can be forgiven for calling you that. It’s not a good idea—I shouldn’t get in the habit—but lately I feel like the words are crowding my tongue anyway. There are parts of this life that remind me of all the lives we couldn’t have. It’s hard to remember sometimes that you barely know me.
I dream of it. A life with you.
I imagine waking up to the warm weight of you spooned up against my back. I linger in bed, because I know that you probably didn’t get to sleep until hours after me. Or perhaps I wake to the scent of coffee and come to find you in the kitchen, muttering about how surely there’s some way coffee can be brewed faster without losing the flavor. I could kiss you hello, and distract you until the pot has brewed, and tease you that I made it happen.
I fantasize about finding you in your lab, about being trusted enough to linger, to watch quietly while you work. It always takes my breath away. You probe at all angles of a problem, stubbornly looking for the right direction to attack it from. Anyone who calls you impatient hasn’t seen you in moments like those.
At those mind numbing hero galas we attend for the sake of PR, I picture arriving on your arm. I’d poke fun at the stuffed shirts under my breath, and you’d laugh openly, and I’d have to come up with an innocuous reason why. You’re capable of diplomacy, but you rarely bother at events like that.
I dream of it, and I hope that my private desires don’t spoil the friendship we are, slowly, building.
I hope that, one day, my devotion will be reason for happiness instead of suspicion.
I hope that putting these words to paper might make them easier to swallow, because that day is some way off.
Tony finishes the letter and sits there for a minute, just absorbing it. Then he goes back to the beginning and reads it again.
He’s never had anything like his admirer describes. Pepper’s usual state had been fond exasperation. She loved him, Tony knows she did, but it had always felt like she loved him in spite of many of his qualities rather than because of them. She had always felt the need to manage Tony. The life this person describes in three short paragraphs sounds like it could be a real partnership.
Tony wants that.
You barely know me, the writer says, and it feels like potential instead of a warning. Scott found the letter in the Compound, which means that it’s either one of the Avengers or their support staff, all of whom have been thoroughly cleared by security. And hero galas we attend tips the options strongly toward an Avenger. There are only a few Avengers that Tony wouldn’t be willing to take a chance on, and he’s confident that the letter doesn’t fit any of them. If he’s wrong, he can destroy it and pretend he never read it.
“FRIDAY,” Tony says aloud, “check the security camera recordings in the Compound and identify the person who dropped this letter before Scott picked it up.”
“On it, boss,” FRIDAY responds.
While she searches, Tony reads the letter again. Something is tweaking his brain.
You barely know me.
All the lives we could have lived.
“I’ve identified the originator of the letter,” FRIDAY says.
Tony looks up. “Lay it on me.”
FRIDAY projects an image of the letter fluttering slipping from the author’s pocket even as she announces, “It was Doctor Strange.” Tony finds he isn’t surprised, and his lips quirk into a small smile. FRIDAY ventures, “I take it this news is not unwelcome?”
“He’s not on the ‘forget this ever happened’ list,” Tony says, which isn’t exactly an answer. His gaze drops to the letter again.
I hope that my private desires don’t spoil the friendship we are, slowly, building.
He and Strange have been building a friendship. Tony has been feeling cautiously optimistic about it, even, which is noteworthy for him, given how the last few friendships he attempted worked out. Maybe finding out that Strange is carrying a torch for him should be upsetting, implying that Strange had begun their friendship under false pretenses, but it doesn’t feel like that to Tony. It feels more like he cares enough to put in the work to build a foundation that can support something real. He hasn’t thrown his love at Tony and expected him to be grateful for the offering, he’s working for it.
Tony likes that.
“Now what, boss?” FRIDAY asks.
Tony folds the letter up again and taps it against his hand as he considers. “Now I go see the wizard,” he says finally.
When Tony arrives at the Sanctum Sanctorum, the doors swing open like they’re expecting him. Or maybe just like they know him—some of Strange’s comments about the place imply that it’s more than just a building. Just in case, Tony pats the door jam in thanks as he steps inside. “Anybody home?” he calls out as he crosses the foyer.
A moment later Strange appears at the top of the stairs, in his robes but sans Cloak. “Tony!” he says, and he isn’t exactly smiling, but his voice is warm. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“No, I just came to return something,” Tony says. He meets Strange at the bottom of the stairs and pulls the letter out of his pocket. He doesn’t unfold it, and it’s a little battered now, but judging from the way Strange freezes, he recognizes it anyway.
After a long, silent moment, Strange reaches out and carefully takes the letter from Tony. “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable,” he says quietly.
“Well, that depends,” Tony says. He smiles when Stephen looks up at him. “What do you say to a date?”
Stephen hesitates. “A real date?”
“As opposed to a fake date?” Tony asks, amused, but Stephen doesn’t smile. “Yes, a real date.” Stephen still doesn’t respond, studying Tony silently. Tony swallows a sudden bout of nerves. “Is this a ‘too good to be true’ moment,’ he asks, “or a ‘the fantasy was preferable to reality’ moment?”
“The former,” Stephen says, and Tony relaxes. “I’m sorry, I just…” Stephen looks down at the letter he’s holding before meeting Tony’s gaze with a wry smile. “I had convinced myself that I had months of work ahead of me earning your trust. Perhaps even years. I may need a moment to adjust.”
“Does that mean no date?” Tony keeps his voice light, but disappointment twists in his belly.
Stephen looks at him and smiles suddenly. “You’ve already made reservations, haven’t you?”
“I read the letter less than an hour ago,” Tony protests.
“And you’ve already made reservations,” Stephen says knowingly.
Tony grins. He had, on the drive over. “It’s not fair that you already know me that well. I need to even the score, here.”
“Well,” Stephen says, tucking the letter into his robes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “that’s what dates are for, right?”
“So I’m told,” Tony says cheerfully. He hasn’t actually done the dating thing before, not like this. Before Pepper, he hadn’t been interested in his bed partner’s personality, and with Pepper they’d already known each other. The idea of a getting to know you period is novel.
He’s looking forward to it.