Chapter Text
The pale morning light of Manhattan was barely beginning to filter through the skyscrapers when Stephen Strange pushed open the cafeteria door with his shoulder, holding Peter against his left hip while Harley shuffled behind him. His eldest son had that irritatingly satisfied look of a nine-year-old who knew exactly what he had done.
"Dad looks like a zombie," Harley commented cheerfully, shaking him school bag.
"Shut up, Harley," Stephen muttered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. Peter, at least, was quietly against his shoulder, his thumb firmly planted in his mouth—a habit Stephen had been trying to break for months without success.
The cafeteria was nearly empty at that obscene hour. Stephen had surgery at 7:30—a complex craniotomy that would require at least twelve hours of absolute concentration. And he had slept, at most, forty minutes in the last thirty-six hours.
All thanks to the little brown-haired devil who was now examining the menu with exaggerated interest.
"Can I order a chocolate muffin?" Harley asked.
"No."
"Please?"
"I said no. You're either going to eat something with protein or you're going to school hungry. Choose."
Last night—or rather, this morning—had been a personal hell. Peter had woken up at two in the morning crying because of a nightmare. Stephen had barely managed to get him back to sleep when Harley showed up in his room at three, claiming there was a "giant spider" in the bathroom.
There were no spiders.
There was, however, a bored nine-year-old boy who decided it would be fun to rearrange Stephen's entire collection of vintage watches in "order of coolness," which apparently meant scattering them all over the living room floor.
By five in the morning, Stephen had given up on sleeping altogether.
"Next!" the barista called, and Stephen stepped to the counter, adjusting Peter on his hip. The boy weighed almost nothing, but after hours of holding him, Stephen's arm ached.
"Coffee. Triple espresso. Venti. Black," he ordered, his voice sharp with the efficiency of someone who had no patience for small talk.
"Anything else?"
Stephen looked at Harley, who was staring pleadingly at a candy display case. "Orange juice. And..." He sighed. "A banana and walnut muffin."
"I wanted the chocolate one—"
"Harley. Don't test me today."
The boy rolled his eyes — something he had definitely learned from Stephen — but remained quiet.
Stephen paid, took the table number, and turned around, only to bump directly into another person.
The coffee—the blessed, sacred, absolutely necessary coffee—flew from the cup he hadn't even realized he was holding, spilling across the front of his light blue shirt. The same shirt he planned to wear under his surgical scrubs. The same shirt that was now soaked in hot coffee.
"For God's sake—" Stephen began, looking down and then up, directly into the eyes of a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a surprised expression. "Can't you watch where you're going?"
The man blinked. "I—you were the one who turned away without looking."
"I was holding a child," Stephen retorted, his tone icy enough to freeze the East River. "What's your excuse? Blindness? General incompetence?"
Peter snuggled against Stephen's neck, and Harley took a step closer, his eyes wide as he watched the scene.
The man—wearing ridiculous sunglasses in a coffee shop at six in the morning—opened his mouth, then closed it. There was something almost... stunned in his expression. As if Stephen had just spoken in Aramaic.
"Well?" Stephen pressed. "Are you going to stand there or are you going to apologize?"
"I..." The man removed his sunglasses, revealing brown eyes that studied Stephen with disconcerting intensity. "You really don't know who I am?"
Stephen frowned. "Should I? Are you the incompetent manager of this coffee shop? Because if so, I have a few words about the layout of this place."
A slow, almost incredulous smile began to form on the man's face. "No. I'm not the manager."
"Then no. I have no idea who you are, and frankly, I don't care." Stephen looked at his ruined shirt, then back at the stranger. "But now I'll have to go home, change, and possibly be late for surgery because you apparently didn't learn basic motor skills in kindergarten."
"Dad," Harley whispered, tugging at Stephen's sleeve. "Dad, this is—"
"Not now, Harley."
The man—inexplicably—began to laugh. It was a rich, genuine laugh, completely inappropriate for the situation.
"Something funny?" Stephen asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that made residents tremble.
"Just..." The man shook his head, still smiling. "It's been a long time since someone spoke to me like that."
"Maybe if you weren't a complete—" Stephen looked at Peter, then at Harley, and recalibrated. "—idiot bumping into people, this wouldn't be necessary."
"Tony Stark," the man said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr...?"
Stephen looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a venomous snake. "Strange. Doctor Stephen Strange. And no, it's not a pleasure." He adjusted Peter again and turned to the counter. "I need another coffee. Immediately."
Behind him, he heard the man — Tony Stark, whoever the hell he was — laugh again.
"Hey, Doc," the voice followed him. "Let me pay for this coffee. For the trouble."
"I don't need your charity," Stephen replied without turning around.
"It's not charity. It's common sense. And perhaps..." there was clear amusement in his voice now, "an apology for my 'basic kindergarten motor skills'."
Stephen turned slowly. The man was still smiling, but there was something more in his expression now—curiosity, perhaps. Interest.
"Dad," Harley whispered again, more urgently this time. "That's Iron Man."
Stephen looked at his son. "What?"
"Tony Stark. Iron Man. You know, with the armor? He saved that plane two months ago—"
"I don't watch TV, Harley." Stephen turned his attention to Tony Stark, reassessing. Iron Man. Right. That billionaire playboy who decided to play superhero. Wonderful.
"I still need that coffee," Stephen said firmly. "If you want to apologize properly, you can start by making sure I get one before my brain completely shuts down."
Tony Stark — because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humor — smiled even wider.
"I think I can do that, Doc."