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The Sanctum smelled like paper and coffee and something faintly citrus—probably whatever incense Wong had decided to burn that morning. Tony liked it. It was cozy, which was not a word he used often or comfortably, but it fit.
He leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers while Stephen rang up a customer. His gaze snagged on the pair of black-rimmed glasses sitting beside the register, folded neatly next to a mug of tea. They weren’t particularly stylish—practical, understated, the kind of accessory you’d expect from someone who owned more turtlenecks than friends.
When the customer left, Tony grabbed them before Stephen could react.
“Don’t touch those,” Stephen said flatly, though he didn’t move to stop him.
Tony, predictably, slid them on anyway. “Oh, come on. What’re you gonna do, ban me? You’d miss me too much.”
He blinked, squinting around the room. “Wait a second.” He took them off. On. Off. On.
His vision didn't change.
“These don’t even do anything.”
“I like the way they look,” Stephen said simply. “And before you say it, they are real. The lenses just don’t have a prescription.”
“So… fake,” Tony said, smug grin in place. “Fake glasses, fake nerd. You’re living a lie, Overlord.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Stephen replied, sliding his mug of tea closer to himself, “your sunglasses make you look like you’re trying too hard.”
Tony clutched his chest theatrically. “Low blow, doc. These are iconic.”
“They’re mirrored aviators.”
“Exactly.”
Stephen shook his head and went to grab a stack of books, effectively ending the conversation.
The Sanctum was having one of those rare, quiet afternoons where everything just… worked.
The espresso machine wasn’t hissing in protest, Wong had actually gone home on time, and the handful of customers browsing the shelves were all either whispering or too absorbed in their reading to make noise.
Stephen stood behind the counter, scanning inventory, the picture of calm professionalism—until the bell over the door jingled and chaos incarnate walked in wearing a leather jacket and the world’s most satisfied grin.
“Afternoon, Doc,” Tony greeted, sauntering up to the counter like the place belonged to him.
Stephen didn’t look up from his clipboard. “You’re early. It’s Wednesday.”
“Yeah, well, inspiration struck.” Tony tapped his temple. “Had to write it down before it escaped. You wouldn’t understand—you’re too busy alphabetizing literature.”
“If that was supposed to be an insult it didn't work out,” Stephen said dryly.
A customer approached the counter then—a girl, maybe in her early twenties, clutching a copy of Pride and Prejudice.
Stephen smiled politely, scanning it and giving the total. Tony, of course, didn’t move aside.
“So,” Tony said far too charmingly, leaning an elbow on the counter, “fun fact for you: his glasses are fake.”
Stephen froze. “Excuse me?”
The girl blinked, halfway through fishing change out of her wallet. “What?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tony said, perfectly casual, like this was normal conversation. “Total fraud. Zero prescription. Man’s got the eyesight of a hawk. It’s all a con.”
Stephen slowly turned to glare at him, the kind of look that could curdle milk. “Tony.”
Tony just shrugged, grin sharp and infuriating. “What? You lie to people for aesthetic reasons.”
The girl gave an awkward laugh, taking her book and receipt. “They look good on you, though,” she said before escaping toward the reading nook.
Stephen exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of said glasses. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” Tony said, genuinely pleased with himself.
“You just embarrassed me in front of a customer.”
“Correction: I enlightened a customer. I’m performing a public service.”
The postcard arrived on a Tuesday.
Stephen found it wedged between a delivery invoice and a flyer for a poetry slam, the edges bent and faintly burnt, like it had survived something. Which, considering it came from Rio de Janeiro and had Tony’s handwriting on it, wasn’t exactly surprising.
The front showed a sunset—gold bleeding into tangerine over a beach, the kind of picture you could buy at any airport kiosk.
He flipped it over.
Thick, loopy cursive, black ink that had definitely smudged under his thumb at least twice, a couple ink blots here and there, and a ridiculous gold flourish that looked suspiciously like it came from a fountain pen far too expensive for postcards.
"To my favorite four-eyed fraud,
Greetings from sunny Rio!
If you got my other postcards you'll know tourings going well. My drummer had to go home so her replacement's coming in tomorrow. Pepper said they've got a "reputation." Whatever that means in this context. Pray for me. Even if they'll already be here by the time you get this.
Also: it’s hot enough to fry an egg on my guitar case. Just thought you'd like to know.
Anyway, hope the Sanctum hasn’t spontaneously combusted without me there to provide moral support (and unpaid labor). Tell the fake glasses I said hi.
Always yours,
Tony The Hot Rockstar
P.S. Found a bookstore cat that hates me. Thought you’d appreciate the solidarity.
P.S.S Pepper let me use her dip pens for this, isn't it fancy?"
Stephen read it three times. Once to confirm it was real, once to absorb the audacity, and once because—fine—just because he couldn't put it down.
Wong noticed Stephen's attempt at hiding his grin, raising a knowing brow.
“Bad news?”
“The worst,” Stephen said, tucking the postcard into his drawer like it was a stupidly precious artifact. “He’s still alive.”
“I’m just saying,” Tony said, leaning against the shelf with all the poise of a man who’d never respected personal space in his life. “You’re committing to the lie beautifully. I mean, I’ve met people who fake smiles, fake humility, fake orgasms—but fake glasses? That’s a new tier of dedication.”
Stephen sighed. “You done?”
“Not even close,” Tony said. “Because honestly? It’s kind of hot. You’re like Clark Kent, if Clark Kent’s biggest secret was bad branding choices.”
Stephen turned, raising an eyebrow. “You’re flirting with me while accusing me of fraud.”
Tony blinked innocently. “I can multitask.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And if you’re wondering,” Tony added, lowering his voice as he leaned in closer, “if you ever wanted to role-play the sexy professor thing—”
“Out.”
There was a box on his counter.
A big one. Red and gold ribbon, of course. Because, as hes figuring out, Tony couldn’t do subtle if his life depended on it.
Stephen found it sitting there when he came in that morning, a note taped to the top in handwriting so messy it might as well have been drawn by a caffeinated toddler.
“To: The Book Overlord
From: Your Local Rock God.
PS: Don’t open this without witnesses.”
Stephen debated ignoring it, truly.
He stood there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the box like it might explode—or worse, start playing music. He wasn't falling for that one again
Then curiosity won.
Inside was chaos.
And by chaos, he meant at least twenty pairs of fake glasses.
Some were normal enough—thin frames, tortoiseshell, matte black. But then it got worse. Some were filtered. Neon pink. Glitter-covered. Cat-eyed. A pair with hearts for lenses. One that had what looked like windshield wipers.
Stephen just stared at them, speechless, as Wong leaned over his shoulder.
“...I think he’s mocking you.”
Stephen sighed. “Unfortunately, I think that’s his love language.”
Right on cue, his phone pinged. A message from Tony.
Tony: So???
Stephen: So what?
Tony: Which pair are you wearing today?
Stephen: None.
Tony: Tragic. I designed those cat-eyes with your bone structure in mind.
Tony: Also the red ones help with concentration.
Stephen: You have too much time on your hands.
Tony: Correction: I have the right priorities.
Tony: Also, take if from someone whos been in the public eye his whole life
Tony: If youre gonna fake it, at least fake it with style.
Stephen sent back a single period.
Five minutes later, another ping.
Tony: That a period of exasperation or a period of sexual tension?
Stephen turned his phone off.
It was late.
The kind of late that blurred the lines between one day and the next, where the world outside the shop windows was nothing but fog and streetlight haze.
Stephen was nearly done sweeping when he noticed it. Again.
Tony, sitting in his usual corner, head bent over his notebook, squinting so hard it was a wonder he didn’t give himself wrinkles.
Not the cute, “thinking” kind of squint either. No, this was the “my vision is terrible but I refuse to admit it because it would make me mortal” squint.
Stephen had been watching it for weeks.
Maybe months.
The way Tony tilted his head just slightly, leaned in close, even blinked hard like he could force clarity into existence.
Stephen had told himself to let it go—Tony Stark could afford a little myopia if he wanted it—but, yeah, no.
He was done.
“Tony,” he said, setting the broom aside and crossing his arms.
Tony didn’t even look up. “Mm?”
“Can you even read what you’re writing, or are you just guessing?”
That got his attention. He looked up, blinking, pen paused halfway through a word. “I can read just fine.”
Stephen pointed toward the wall by the door. “Great. Then read that.”
Tony turned in his seat, squinted. Tilted his head.
The poster was ten feet away, big block letters announcing yet another poetry night he had been roped into hosting.
“Uh,” Tony said slowly, "…Books.. are.. cool?"
"Did you actually read that or was it an assumption?"
"Depends, was it close?"
"Spoken word," Stephen corrected, deadpan. “You need glasses.”
“No, I don’t,” Tony said, a little too fast.
“Yes, you do."
“I don’t look good in glasses,” Tony countered.
Stephen scoffed, leaning against a shelf. “You wear glitter eyeliner on stage, but glasses are where you draw the line?”
Tony frowned, dragging a hand through his hair in that way that meant he was trying very hard to look casual and absolutely failing. “That’s different. That’s performance. And I rock the glitter, thank you very much.”
“This is also performance,” Stephen said. “Except the role is ‘guy who can see.’ You’re doing terribly at it.”
Tony huffed, flipping his notebook shut like that’d somehow assert dominance. “You’re hilarious, you know that?”
"I've been told."
"Doubt that."
“Mm." Stephen watched him for a while before speaking again. "Well, fortunately, you gave me your work email. I'm assuming your manager's in charge of that one?”
Tony froze. “You wouldn’t.”
Stephen arched an eyebrow. “Watch me.”
For a long beat, Tony just stared at him, then sighed dramatically and slumped back in his chair. “You know, for someone who wears fake glasses, you sure get a lot of joy out of humiliating me.”
Stephen’s smirk sharpened, just slightly. “Call it poetic justice.”
Tony slouched deeper into the chair, kicking his heels against the leg of the table. “You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.
Stephen blinked, thrown for exactly half a second before recovering. “Lucky isn’t the word I’d use.”
Tony grinned, that little lopsided thing that made him look hotter than he had any right to. “Okay, but if I put on glasses, I’ll have to start acting like a responsible adult. Next thing you know, I’ll be paying taxes or something.”
“You already pay taxes.”
“Yeah, but Pepper handles those. I just sign things.”
Stephen sighed and went back to the counter, switching off one of the lamps. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m charming.”
“Delusional.”
“Hot.”
“Nearsighted.”
That got a laugh—real, bright, unguarded. Tony tipped his head back against the chair, the sound bouncing off the shelves. “You know, Stephen, you could just say you think I’d look good in glasses.”
Stephen didn’t answer right away. He stacked a few stray books, deliberately slow. “You’d look tolerable.”
Tony gasped, mock-offended. “Tolerable? That’s the best you’ve got? And here I thought you were secretly pining.”
“I’m not pining,” Stephen said automatically, too fast.
“Sure you’re not.”
He turned off another light, if only to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Finish your writing, Stark. You’re on borrowed time as it is.”
"Next thing I know, you’ll be emailing Pep about a dentist appointment too.”
“Don’t tempt me.”