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The workshop smelled faintly of burnt circuitry, cold coffee, and ozone.
It always did after one of Tony’s marathon sessions.
The tower had long since settled into silence hours ago. Outside the glass walls of the penthouse, New York glittered in fractured gold beneath the dark, the city alive in the way only New York could be at three in the morning. Inside the lab, however, the atmosphere had become sluggish and stale, thick with exhaustion.
Holographic screens flickered weakly in the dimness.
A robotic arm twitched once and powered down.
And in the center of it all sat Tony Stark, slumped over his workbench with a screwdriver still loosely trapped between his fingers.
He had not meant to fall asleep.
Or perhaps he had. At some point the line between stubbornness and unconsciousness tended to blur.
The half-finished gauntlet prototype beside him emitted a tiny unhappy beep.
“Boss,” Friday said carefully into the quiet, “your heart rate indicates severe fatigue.”
“M’fine,” Tony mumbled into his folded arms.
“You said that six hours ago.”
“Still true.”
A pause.
Then, almost delicately: “Doctor Strange has arrived.”
Tony lifted one hand blindly in the air. “Tell the wizard I’m busy dying heroically in the name of engineering.”
“You already told him yourself,” came a dry voice from behind him.
Tony groaned immediately.
Of course.
Of course Stephen had heard that.
Stephen Strange stood near the entrance to the lab, still wrapped in dark blue robes that looked offensively elegant for the middle of the night. The Cloak of Levitation hovered behind him like a judgmental crimson ghost.
There were faint shadows beneath Stephen’s eyes too, but unlike Tony, he somehow still looked composed. Annoyingly composed.
His gaze swept across the workshop.
The overturned coffee mugs.
The holograms.
The scattered tools.
Tony.
Stephen sighed the sigh of a man witnessing an entirely predictable disaster.
“How long?” he asked.
Tony raised his head enough to squint at him. “Define long.”
“Tony.”
“Time is a social construct.”
“That bad, then.”
Tony tried for a grin but only managed something crooked and exhausted. “You know what’s really sexy? Being interrogated in your own home.”
Stephen ignored that completely and walked deeper into the lab. The Cloak floated after him, brushing against tables and discarded blueprints like an irritated cat.
“You missed dinner,” Stephen said.
“Friday snitched?”
“She was concerned.”
“Traitorous AI.”
“She also informed me you’ve consumed enough caffeine to kill a horse.”
Tony blinked slowly. “Weak horse.”
Stephen stopped beside the workbench and looked down at the project Tony had apparently sacrificed sleep for.
The gauntlet’s exposed circuitry glowed softly.
Complicated.
Brilliant.
Dangerous.
Tony followed his gaze and immediately straightened with defensive pride despite looking half-dead.
“See that?” he said hoarsely. “Adaptive nanofiber response system. I almost got the recalibration stable.”
“You nearly recalibrated yourself into cardiac arrest.”
“Progress requires sacrifice.”
“Not your internal organs.”
Tony opened his mouth for another argument and then promptly lost the fight against a yawn so violent it nearly bent him in half.
Stephen’s expression softened instantly.
It was unfair, honestly.
The softness.
The concern.
The way Stephen’s sharp edges always blurred around him when Tony stopped performing invincibility long enough for cracks to show through.
Tony hated how much he loved that look.
“Hm,” Stephen murmured quietly.
Tony frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re exhausted.”
“I’m inspired.”
“You’re hallucinating from sleep deprivation.”
“I’m always hallucinating. I hang out with Norse gods.”
Stephen reached forward before Tony could react and gently removed the screwdriver from his hand.
The contact sent a warm flicker up Tony’s wrist.
Even after everything—aliens, battles, impossible timelines—Stephen touching him still felt strangely unreal.
Because Stephen was careful.
Always careful.
Not because he feared hurting Tony physically, but because Stephen Strange carried gentleness like something sacred and dangerous at the same time.
Tony leaned back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re judging me.”
“I am.”
“Kinky.”
Stephen rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You need sleep.”
“I need approximately seven more hours and three breakthroughs.”
“You need sleep,” Stephen repeated.
Tony looked toward the holograms like they might save him.
They did not.
Traitors.
Stephen crossed his arms. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee?”
Tony thought about it.
That was apparently answer enough.
“Right,” Stephen said.
“Oh, come on.”
“No.”
“I’m literally on the verge of scientific revolution.”
“You are on the verge of face-planting into your own arc reactor.”
Tony glanced downward.
Fair.
His reactor glowed pale blue through his Black Sabbath shirt, casting weak light across his exhausted features.
He suddenly became aware of how terrible he probably looked.
Grease smeared across his cheek.
Bloodshot eyes.
Shaking hands.
Stephen noticed the shaking too.
Tony knew because Stephen’s gaze sharpened immediately.
Before Tony could hide them, Stephen gently took both of his hands.
Warmth spread instantly through Tony’s cold fingers.
The trembling became embarrassingly obvious now.
Tony tried to joke automatically. “Careful, doctor. Buy me dinner first.”
Stephen ignored that too.
His thumbs brushed lightly over Tony’s knuckles, careful around old scars and newer burns.
“You pushed too far,” Stephen said quietly.
Tony looked away first.
That happened less often than he would ever admit.
The thing was—Tony didn’t always notice when he crossed the line from focused into destructive. Obsession felt productive right until his body started shutting down around him.
And lately…
Lately the nightmares had been worse again.
So he worked.
Because working was easier than sleeping.
Stephen knew that.
Of course he knew.
Sometimes Tony forgot how terrifyingly observant Stephen could be.
“You could’ve called me,” Stephen said softly.
Tony huffed a tired laugh. “At two in the morning?”
“You have opened portals into my bathroom to complain about code.”
“In my defense, your shampoo is weirdly expensive.”
Stephen finally smiled properly then, small but real.
It made something ache warmly in Tony’s chest.
God.
He was doomed.
Completely, utterly doomed.
The Cloak floated closer and wrapped itself briefly around Tony’s shoulders.
Tony blinked in surprise.
“Oh, now you like me?”
The Cloak patted his cheek once.
“Okay, wow. Condescending.”
Stephen’s smile widened slightly.
“Even the Cloak thinks you need rest.”
“Everybody’s a critic.”
Tony tried to stand and immediately regretted it as dizziness crashed into him hard enough to tilt the room sideways.
Stephen caught him before he could stumble.
Strong hands steadied against his arms.
“Easy.”
“I’m good.”
“You almost collapsed.”
“I almost collapse stylishly.”
Stephen gave him a deeply unimpressed look.
Tony grinned weakly.
Unfortunately the grin dissolved when another wave of exhaustion hit him.
Stephen’s hands shifted more securely around him.
“You’re freezing,” Stephen murmured.
Tony shrugged. “Lab gets cold.”
“No,” Stephen said quietly. “You forgot to take care of yourself again.”
There was no accusation in it.
That somehow made it worse.
Tony swallowed.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
The city lights shimmered beyond the windows.
Machines hummed softly around them.
And Stephen looked at Tony like he was something precious instead of difficult.
It was unbearable sometimes.
“C’mon,” Stephen said finally, voice gentler now. “Bed.”
Tony immediately pointed at the gauntlet. “But—”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish the sentence.”
“I know the sentence.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Rude.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you remain obsessed with me.”
Stephen guided him carefully toward the elevator.
The Cloak drifted behind them smugly.
Tony shuffled alongside Stephen with all the dignity of a sedated raccoon.
“You know,” Tony muttered, “in the old days people respected genius.”
“In the old days people also died of the plague.”
“Harsh but fair.”
The elevator ride upward was quiet.
Tony leaned heavily against the mirrored wall, eyes drifting shut despite himself.
Stephen watched him with that same impossible softness.
When the elevator opened into the penthouse living area, Tony barely registered it.
He only knew he was tired.
Bone-deep tired.
The kind that settled behind his ribs.
Stephen steered him toward the kitchen first.
Tony made a sound of protest.
“You’re eating,” Stephen said.
“Can’t. Dead.”
“You are not dead.”
“Debatable.”
Stephen sat him at the kitchen island with firm inevitability.
Tony dropped his forehead dramatically against the countertop.
“This is oppression.”
“This is soup.”
“That’s worse.”
Stephen moved around the kitchen with surprising familiarity.
At some point he had apparently learned where Tony kept everything.
The realization sent another quiet warmth through him.
Tony watched through half-lidded eyes as Stephen heated leftovers, sleeves rolled slightly upward.
The Sanctum’s sorcerer supreme standing in Tony Stark’s kitchen at three in the morning warming soup because Tony forgot humans required food.
Ridiculous.
Domestic.
Dangerously nice.
“You’re staring,” Stephen said without turning around.
Tony smirked faintly. “You’re pretty.”
Stephen paused just slightly before continuing.
“Sleep deprivation has clearly damaged your judgment.”
“Counterargument,” Tony murmured. “You’re very pretty.”
Stephen set a bowl in front of him.
“You flirt like a disaster victim.”
Tony looked down at the soup suspiciously.
“Is this organic?”
“Yes.”
“Cruel.”
“Eat.”
Tony obeyed mostly because arguing required energy he no longer possessed.
The warmth hit his stomach almost painfully.
Stephen sat beside him instead of across from him.
Close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally.
Tony tried not to focus on it.
Failed completely.
“You know,” Tony said quietly after several minutes, “I was close.”
Stephen hummed softly. “To what?”
“The stabilization matrix.”
Stephen rested his chin briefly against his hand, listening with genuine attention.
Tony always loved that.
Most people tolerated his rambling at best.
Stephen listened like Tony’s thoughts mattered.
Like Tony mattered.
“The nanofibers were rejecting the energy transfer,” Tony continued tiredly. “I kept trying to brute-force it but the thermal feedback loop kept destabilizing and then—”
“You forgot the human body has limits.”
Tony gave him a crooked smile. “Mine especially.”
Stephen’s expression dimmed slightly at that.
Tony instantly regretted it.
There were too many ghosts attached to his body now.
Too many surgeries.
Too many scars.
Too many close calls.
Stephen reached over and quietly took the spoon from Tony’s hand when his grip started slipping.
“You’re falling asleep sitting up.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Tony.”
Tony blinked at him slowly.
Okay.
Maybe a little.
Stephen stood and held out a hand.
“Come on.”
Tony stared at it.
At the elegant fingers.
The faint scars across Stephen’s hands.
Hands that had once been ruined.
Hands that still shook sometimes when the pain got bad.
Hands that nevertheless held the universe together on a regular basis.
Tony placed his own hand in Stephen’s.
Stephen helped him up carefully.
The bedroom was dim and cool when they entered.
Tony stopped near the doorway while Stephen moved automatically around the room turning on softer lights.
There was something surreal about seeing Stephen here.
Not visiting.
Not temporary.
Comfortable.
Like he belonged.
Maybe he did.
Tony was trying very hard not to think too deeply about that.
“You have grease in your hair,” Stephen informed him.
Tony touched his curls weakly. “Fashion.”
“It’s literally motor oil.”
“Avant-garde fashion.”
Stephen walked closer.
Very close.
Tony’s breath caught stupidly.
Stephen reached up and carefully wiped a dark smear from Tony’s cheek with his thumb.
The touch lingered for half a second too long.
Or maybe not long enough.
“You’re impossible,” Stephen said softly.
Tony looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the exhaustion hidden behind composure.
At the concern Stephen never tried to disguise around him anymore.
At the affection resting quietly beneath every exasperated word.
And suddenly Tony felt something sharp and aching in his chest.
Because nobody had ever stayed through the ugly parts before.
The panic attacks.
The insomnia.
The obsessive spirals.
The self-destruction disguised as productivity.
But Stephen did.
Again and again.
“You came all the way here because Friday tattled on me,” Tony said quietly.
Stephen’s expression gentled immediately.
“You sounded exhausted earlier.”
Tony swallowed.
“Oh.”
It came out smaller than intended.
Stephen brushed his thumb once more along Tony’s cheekbone before lowering his hand.
“You don’t have to run yourself into the ground alone.”
The words landed heavily.
Dangerously.
Tony looked away because vulnerability still felt like standing in open air without armor.
“That’s kind of my thing,” he tried joking weakly.
Stephen stepped closer.
“So let me help anyway.”
God.
That voice.
That softness.
Tony was going to combust.
Instead he muttered, “You know, for a wizard you’re extremely emotionally manipulative.”
Stephen huffed a quiet laugh.
“There’s a very advanced mystical technique called caring about you.”
Tony pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Devastating.”
“You need sleep.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
Tony opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Stephen’s smile turned smug.
“Ha,” Tony said tiredly. “Hate when you’re observant.”
Stephen guided him toward the bathroom. “Brush your teeth.”
“This relationship has become oppressive.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because every time you deny me my constitutional right to become nocturnal.”
“Brush your teeth, Tony.”
Tony saluted weakly. “Yes, mom.”
Stephen leaned against the doorway while Tony went through the motions half-asleep.
At one point Tony nearly walked into the counter.
Stephen caught him by the waist before impact.
Warm hands.
Steady presence.
Tony stared up at him dazedly.
Stephen looked equally startled by the position.
Neither moved immediately.
The air between them shifted strangely.
Heavy.
Soft.
Intimate.
Tony became abruptly aware of Stephen’s hand spread against his side.
Of how close they were standing.
Of Stephen’s gaze flickering briefly toward Tony’s mouth.
Oh.
Oh.
Tony’s heartbeat stumbled.
Then Stephen cleared his throat softly and stepped back.
“Bed,” he said, slightly too quickly.
Tony tried not to grin like an idiot.
By the time they finally collapsed onto the mattress, Tony felt barely conscious.
Stephen sat beside him while Tony struggled unsuccessfully with blankets.
“You are losing a fight against fabric,” Stephen observed.
“Fabric’s cheating.”
The blankets suddenly lifted themselves and settled properly over Tony.
Tony pointed accusingly at the Cloak hovering nearby.
“You stay out of this.”
The Cloak flicked one corner smugly.
“Everybody gangs up on me.”
Stephen shook his head fondly.
Tony curled deeper into the mattress with a long exhausted exhale.
Stephen moved to stand.
Tony reacted before thinking.
His hand caught lightly around Stephen’s wrist.
The movement froze both of them.
Tony blinked.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Stephen looked down at where Tony held him.
Tony’s sleep-deprived brain failed entirely at pretending casualness.
“Uh,” Tony said eloquently. “You can stay.”
Stephen’s expression softened so much it nearly hurt to look at.
“Only if you want me to.”
Tony tightened his grip slightly.
“That’s generally what ‘stay’ means, yeah.”
A small smile appeared on Stephen’s mouth.
He settled beside Tony atop the blankets, close enough that their shoulders touched.
The room fell quiet.
Tony could hear the faint hum of the tower.
The distant city beyond the windows.
Stephen breathing beside him.
Safe.
Warm.
Real.
Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now that he had finally stopped moving.
Stephen glanced toward him.
“You should sleep.”
Tony stared at the ceiling.
“Can’t always.”
Stephen was quiet for a moment.
“The nightmares?”
Tony hated how easily Stephen understood him sometimes.
“Yeah.”
The answer barely emerged above a whisper.
Stephen shifted slightly closer.
“You don’t have to talk about them.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then carefully: “Do you want company until you fall asleep?”
Tony laughed softly without humor. “That sounds suspiciously like emotional support.”
“Yes.”
“You’re disgustingly healthy.”
“I try.”
Tony turned his head toward him.
Stephen’s face looked softer in the low light.
Less guarded.
Beautiful, honestly.
Tony felt suddenly, overwhelmingly fond.
“You know what your problem is?” he murmured sleepily.
Stephen raised an eyebrow. “I suspect you’re about to tell me.”
“You care about me way too much.”
Something vulnerable flickered across Stephen’s face then.
Barely visible.
Gone almost instantly.
But Tony saw it.
“You say that,” Stephen replied quietly, “like it’s a bad thing.”
Tony’s chest tightened painfully.
Because there it was again.
That impossible gentleness.
That terrifying sincerity.
No one had ever loved him gently before.
Passionately, maybe.
Chaotically.
Destructively.
But gently?
Never.
Tony looked away first.
“Careful, Strange,” he murmured. “You keep looking at me like that and I might start developing feelings.”
Stephen went very still.
Then, softly: “Might?”
Tony blinked.
Well.
Shit.
Sleep deprivation had apparently murdered his filter completely.
He buried his face briefly in the pillow. “Okay, in my defense, I’m running on approximately three brain cells.”
Stephen laughed quietly.
The sound wrapped warm around Tony’s exhausted mind.
When Tony looked back up, Stephen was smiling at him with unbearable fondness.
“You should sleep,” Stephen repeated gently.
Tony studied him for a long moment.
Then, very carefully, he shifted closer.
Stephen immediately opened one arm instinctively.
Like it was natural.
Like holding Tony close was the easiest thing in the world.
Tony settled against him slowly, suddenly aware of everything.
Stephen’s warmth.
His heartbeat.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Strong fingers brushing lightly through Tony’s curls.
Tony made a soft noise before he could stop himself.
Stephen’s hand stilled briefly.
“Okay?” he asked quietly.
Tony melted a little.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah. Just…nice.”
Stephen resumed the gentle motion immediately.
The tenderness of it nearly undid him.
“You work yourself too hard,” Stephen murmured after a while.
Tony huffed sleepily against his shoulder. “Pot, kettle.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You literally protect reality for a living.”
Stephen’s fingers threaded carefully through Tony’s hair again.
“But I’m not talking about me right now.”
Tony closed his eyes.
It felt dangerously easy to relax like this.
Dangerously easy to let someone else hold the weight for a while.
“You know what the worst part is?” Tony muttered.
“Hm?”
“I didn’t even notice how bad it got.”
Stephen’s hand shifted to the back of his neck, warm and grounding.
“You were focused.”
“I was avoiding sleeping.”
Stephen didn’t deny it.
Tony appreciated that too.
No false reassurances.
No pretending.
Just understanding.
“I hate nightmares,” Tony whispered tiredly.
“I know.”
Tony swallowed hard.
“And sometimes if I keep working long enough, I don’t have to think.”
Stephen held him a little tighter.
“You can wake me next time.”
Tony laughed faintly. “At three in the morning?”
“At any time.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Tony felt his throat tighten unexpectedly.
God.
This man.
“You make it really difficult to maintain emotional repression,” Tony muttered.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s one of my core personality traits.”
Stephen pressed a soft kiss into Tony’s hair before he could apparently stop himself.
Both of them froze instantly afterward.
Tony’s brain short-circuited.
Stephen looked faintly alarmed by his own actions.
Tony stared up at him slowly.
“…Again,” he said.
Stephen blinked. “What?”
“Kiss me again, wizard.”
Something warm and helpless crossed Stephen’s face.
Then Stephen cupped Tony’s jaw gently and kissed him properly.
Soft.
Careful.
Unhurried.
Like Stephen was handling something precious.
Tony made a quiet broken sound into the kiss because apparently his dignity had fully left the building.
Stephen smiled faintly against his mouth.
The kiss deepened only slightly.
Warm lips.
Gentle hands.
Sleep-heavy affection.
Tony melted completely.
When they finally separated, Tony rested his forehead against Stephen’s shoulder with a dazed laugh.
“Well,” he murmured. “That seems emotionally significant.”
Stephen laughed softly too.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Tony looked up at him.
At the tenderness in his eyes.
At the affection Stephen no longer tried to hide.
And suddenly the exhaustion didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
Neither did the nightmares.
Stephen brushed another gentle hand through his hair.
“Sleep,” he whispered.
This time Tony let himself.
~end~
Curled safely against Stephen Strange while the city glowed beyond the tower windows and the workshop downstairs finally fell silent.