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“There’s gotta be a way out of here,” Tony pants, faceplate retracting. He observes the wall of rock before him, trying to find the slightest of crevices. “We are not going to just sit here and wait till Cap saves our asses.”
“It’s our best bet,” Strange says, watching him, sitting where he is against the cave-in’s wall of stone. “My slingie’s not anywhere I can find it. Your suit took significant damage. Both our comms are non-functional. Dislodging any of the rocks is not an option—that might just lead to another cave-in. Waiting for the team is our best bet, Tony.”
“No,” Tony insists, frantic now. He feels along the massive boulders blocking their way. “I still have some thruster power left, maybe if I float up there and have a look, I’ll find a way to make a gap—”
“And send the whole thing crashing down on us? Oh sure, why don’t you just move that rock over there, or maybe that one, see what happens.” Tony clenches his jaw, grinds it. Trust Strange to be a real beacon of hope during a situation like this. “Look,” Strange continues in a different voice, “We can’t afford to be reckless now. We can trust the rest of the team to continue the fight—we were already at an advantage, earlier, they just need to push back a little and—” His breath stutters here, and Tony whips his head back in alarm.
“Wizard?” He frowns. “Something the matter?”
“I’m fine,” is Strange’s immediate, tight reply. “I just— I might’ve taken a hit. It’s not a big deal.”
“Jesus,” Tony mutters, making his way over. He hadn’t noticed with how dark it is here, and the cloak having concealed practically Strange’s entire torso, but Strange seems to slump at an angle, favouring one side. All of a sudden his refusal to do anything but sit there completely immobile seems a lot less like apathy, and a lot more like something else. He crouches beside the sorcerer to get a better look. “Let me see,” he asks. Reluctantly, the cloak pulls back, and Tony gently places a hand against his side. It comes off warm and wet. “Jesus,” he mutters again, sharper.
“It’s fine,” Strange snaps. Tony presses against it again, getting the smallest of flinches, feeling something else underneath; a rhythmic tremor in the muscle, subtle but unmistakable.
“You’re going into shock,” Tony realises. Stephen’s eyes shut tightly, breath audibly ragged, now that Tony’s close enough to hear it.
“I’m—fine.”
“No you’re not, for fuck’s sake. And you call yourself a doctor.” Tony tries to take a closer look at the wound with the dim light from the arc reactor. Not good. “Okay, I’m gonna need to move you. It’s going to help, but it’s also going to hurt, so tell me if it gets too much, okay?”
“Okay,” Strange rasps, actually complying.
Slowly, Tony shifts him to lay down. Strange seems to be trying very hard not to make any noise—he’s pretty sure the average person would be screaming and writhing in pain by now. He makes sure to position Strange in a way that slightly elevates his legs, while ensuring his injured side isn’t too aggravated. Strange’s hands are clenching painfully.
“Little help here, Red,” he says once settled, hastily grabbing the edge of the cloak. It bundles itself up as he presses against the dark gash, hard. Strange bites his lip to stifle a groan, and something about that makes Tony’s insides clench. The man hardly ever shows any outward signs of pain—to see him actually hurt like this makes Tony want to fly back out there and rip out the heads of those purple-blooded creatures. He allows himself a brief mental image of himself tearing through its flesh, down to the bones and ligaments as it screeches and writhes in pain underneath him.
“Okay, there. We’re going to try and stop the bleeding—hey, no, stay with me now. Strange, you can’t fall asleep. You need to stay conscious, okay? At least until the others find us. Strange, hey, come on.”
Strange nods his head incrementally, just a jerk of the chin. “Fuck,” he pants.
“Yeah,” Tony says, breathless all of a sudden. He’s pleased to note that the tremor in Stephen’s body is slowly subsiding. “They’re going to find us, okay? Wong is out there, and I’m pretty sure he’d tear through hell and back just to get to you.”
“He’s… I don’t know if they saw where—we were cut off,” Strange says, “Tony, I don’t know if…”
“Hey, no, come on. Stay with me. They’re going to find us, okay? They will.” He tries to calculate how much time Strange has left: rate of blood loss against time since they’ve been trapped. The rest have about a half hour window here to find them—surely they’ll make it in time?
“Tony.”
“Yes?”
“Tony?”
“I’m here, right here. You gotta stay conscious, Gandalf, come on.”
“I’m… trying.”
“I know. Look, you’re coming to the party this Friday, right, remember? My birthday. Everyone’s coming. You could do your magic tricks. Balloon animals, and shit.”
“I can’t actually make those. Balloon animals.”
“Sure you can.”
“No,” he says, smiling weakly. Tony smiles back. “Listen,” Strange is saying, and his voice is frayed. Tony shuffles closer, pressing against the wound. Strange lets out a small wince at it. “Listen,” he says again, “I might not make it out, Tony.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I can. I’m not afraid of death, Tony, I’ve—always known the risks, going in,” he says, “I estimate twenty minutes.”
“I was going for half an hour.”
“Well, one of us is a little less optimistic and a little more pragmatic.”
Despite it all, Tony snorts. “Always gotta be an asshole,” he says, shaking his head, “even half an hour to death’s door.”
Strange tries a laugh, but ends up wincing in pain. “Twenty minutes,” he repeats, “I… lost quite a lot of blood.”
“You should’ve fucking said something.”
“Yeah. I… might not have realised how bad… until it was too late,” Strange replies, and there’s a sleepy slur in his voice that jolts Tony.
“Hey, hey, come on, no, you gotta stay awake. Let’s just—let’s talk about shit, okay? I oughta say something stupid soon, you are gonna want to be awake to hear it.”
“You’re not.”
“What?”
“You’re not stupid. You’re one of the most brilliant men I know.”
“Jesus, you really are dying, huh?”
Strange laughs again, and at first Tony thought it was a choke or some sort of convulsive cough or something far more concerning. But his laugh, strained with pain as it is, sounded… warm.
“Yeah, no, I’m brilliant and I know it. Genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist, remember? Part of the package.”
“Yes,” Strange slurs.
“Hey, stay awake. You wanna know a story? I can talk about that one birthday party where I got completely obliterated because I ran a bet with this guy, told him I can drink him under the table, right? Now at this point I’ve built up quite the tolerance, that’s kind of what getting yourself sloshed every other night does to you, so I was pretty confident. But here’s the thing about trying to drink a literal viking under the table, you fucking can’t. Pretty sure this guy can hold his liquor better than even Thor.” He laughs. “I woke up in the morning under a table with various articles of clothing around me. It’s not as bad as some of the other guys in the party, all of us were just draped against various furniture in various states of undress—pretty sure one guy was literally half naked and fell asleep hugging a houseplant—but I still had to be in a board meeting that morning, so I showed up late looking predictably like something the cat dragged in, and then immediately tried to bury, sporting the hangover of the goddamn century.”
Strange attempts what could’ve been a soft snort of sorts, but instead only manages a short gust of breath. “Idiot.”
“I thought we’ve established that I am in fact a genius.”
“Those two things can coexist. You are brilliant, but you can also be so…” Strange trails off.
“Hey, no, stay with me now. Stephen. Come on.”
“Yes. ‘M awake. I… What’s happening?”
“I was telling you a story about that time I tried to drink a viking under the table.”
“Mm. Viking. Interesting.”
“Yep. Now you tell me a story about a wild birthday party. You ever got one of those?”
“Not really.”
“Come on, never partied so hard you woke up on the floor in just your underwear?”
“Not on my birthday, no.”
“Fair enough.”
“I never celebrated my birthdays,” Strange admits. “Never did since I was little. Eugene thought they were frivolous.”
Tony just watches him. Is he just imagining it, or is Strange getting paler and paler by the minute? His face is stretched white across his cheekbones. Fuck, they’ve got to find them soon. Any time now. “Who’s Eugene?”
“Eugene is… nobody. Forget it,” he says, “Tell me… another story.”
“Right, okay,” Tony says, racking his brain. “Another story. Uh. Well.”
“I… don’t think I can… stay conscious for long…”
“No, hey, come on, don’t sleep on me now. Come on, Stephen.”
“I… can’t. I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
“Tony,” Strange is saying, “Tony, I… I need to tell you. Before it’s too late, I need…”
“Tell me what? Come on, what is it?”
“I’ve always thought… Always thought you…”
“That I what? Always thought I had a nice ass? Come on, I know you check me out from time to time. Admit it, you’ve got the hots for me, wizard.”
“No,” he says, voice fading a little. “No, it’s… more than that. I’ve always thought you were… were…”
“Stephen,” Tony says, desperate.
“I’ve always thought you were beautiful…”
His eyelids finally flutter close, and his head can’t stay upright anymore, lolling to the side and rolling over his shoulder.
“Stephen? Fuck! Stephen, don’t do this, don’t fucking do this to me, fuck—” He grabs ahold of Strange’s shoulders and shakes them, who cares if it hurts, and he realises he is shouting in panic but also in rage and frustration, because why now? He thought they had all the time in the world, why now? “No! Stephen, come on! No, no no no! Fuck you! You didn’t just fucking—”
He tries desperately to feel for a pulse, where is it, why can’t he find it, and he presses close to feel his breath, but there is nothing but stillness. There is a distant roar, some hoarse animal cry, and he realises it is his own scream, wrenched out of his throat, crashing against the walls around them, crumbling the rocks and shaking the foundations of the cave, only then he realises there is light, blessed bright light as the ceiling suddenly tears off above them, familiar faces hovering near and nearer. They’ve been found, but it’s too late, it’s no use—
He is slicing through the sky at breakneck speed not a second later, using whatever reserves of power is left of the suit, Stephen’s body clutched tight against his chest and the cloak a flurry of red around them both.
—
Stephen had been patched up in the Medbay after the battle, and he hadn’t been lying about the blood loss, and the wound was a horrible thing that tore through his flesh and would surely scar, but he came out alive and that is all that really matters. He also attended the mission debrief they had about two days later, Wong at his side, even though he’s pretty sure Stephen shouldn’t even be out of bed and not resting.
And the debrief went like always, Steve droning on about incredibly boring, do-gooding shit he only keeps half an ear on and both sorcerers chiming in on how best to deal with future interdimensional breaches, then the occasional input from other members. Tony said his part and tried not to stare, he really did, but then suddenly his eyes strayed to the side against his will, and they had met Stephen’s, and he realised Stephen had been watching him, too, and it was that look. He couldn't unknow that look. They were the same watchful eyes as the ones that looked straight at him in that cave, the same ones that he looked at as Stephen spoke those gently rasped words.
I’ve always thought you were beautiful.
And somebody must’ve called Stephen’s name, then, because the man turned his head away and never looked back.
So that was that. Whatever had happened, whatever things Stephen meant to say to him, they were left in that cave with the rocks and the dark. They never brought it up again, and suddenly everything went back to the way they were before, and really, what had he even been expecting? What had he thought would happen, afterwards?
But then Friday comes, and it’s his birthday, and every year he wonders how it is that he’s still alive after a lifetime of constantly working against that. Well, he’s not the only one actively knocking at death’s door, apparently.
He’s embarrassed to admit he spends the first few hours of the evening watching the front door, waiting for a familiar dark head with streaks of grey. Will he even come? Tony had invited him, but the sorcerers aren’t really the type to hang around with them much. Stephen hardly ever shows up at team gatherings, even if he had been invited. But still, there is a part of Tony that holds out hope that he’ll show up.
And he does.
Bringing balloon animals with him.
It is cradled in a pile in his arms, little dogs and cats and horses and snakes, squeaking as they slide against each other. Tony can’t help it, he laughs, hard and long, because god if that isn’t such a ridiculous sight, and Stephen is balancing them all precariously with a pleased look on his face, he must have involved some magic or something, and Wong’s face, oh god Wong’s face, he’s looking at Stephen like he’s resigned to this fate of being publicly embarrassed every time he brings Stephen out to literally anywhere, and Tony just can’t stop laughing, he is in tears by the end of it.
The balloon animals are shared evenly to everyone in the party, and finally Stephen presents Tony with a little red dog. “Happy birthday,” he says. Tony grins as he accepts it, and Stephen grins back.
Then the evening goes on, and Tony plays his part as the host, laughing and talking and sipping occasionally at his drink. At some point he loses sight of Stephen, excuses himself and extracts from his group, and finds the man standing out in the balcony.
“There you are,” he says as he slides the balcony door shut. “Thought you left. Was quite the entrance you made there. Thought you said balloon animals aren’t your specialty.”
“I may have learnt a spell or two.”
“Yeah, you must know a heckton of weird spells. Hey, I’ve got some magic tricks up my own sleeve. Ever opened a bra one-handed? Enough practice from sneaking in the back of movie theaters.”
Stephen snorts.
“So anyway,” Tony says, leaning on the railing with him. He considers the man. Lowers his voice. “You remember it all, then?”
Stephen turns to look at him, then, and those eyes. Tony can’t help but be a little mystified by them, sometimes. They’d catch against the light, and the colours would shift, and nothing in the world is quite like them. He searches them, and Stephen’s face is open, and there is something in that look, something he wants to believe, and he’s sure he’s got the same look all over his own face.
“In the cave,” Tony says, then stops. He could say a million things here. He could say, what did you mean? Or even, I can’t look at you the same way after that, I couldn’t unsee the look in your eyes, couldn’t forget them. Or maybe, did you mean it? You called me beautiful. I don’t know why. You called me beautiful, even though you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid my eyes on. But instead he says, “You said you’ve always known the risks, going in. What did you mean?”
“What did I…” Stephen frowns, appearing to have a hard time remembering. And then, “Oh,” he says. “Well, I just meant that…” He tilts his head a little in thought, seems to be considering his words. “When I learned the Mystic Arts, I did it with the expectation of… fixing myself. But I was faced with a choice, which was that I either get my life back, or I fight to defend our reality, and become a sorcerer of Kamar Taj. And I knew choosing the latter would be putting myself in the line of defense against reality’s worst enemies. That’s what I meant. It’s not so different from you putting on the suit.”
“Yeah, well.” And he doesn’t really know what else to say. “Maybe. I mean, it’ll get us all eventually, anyway.”
“Death, you mean?”
“Yeah. Pretty dark conversation we’re having here, about death and all. Considering it’s my birthday party. We should go back to balloon animals.”
Stephen chuckles a little, and it is this rumbling, soft sound that makes something seize in Tony’s chest a little. He is reminded of the cave again, Stephen’s weak attempts at a laugh, remembers how it sounded… warm. It sounds warm.
“Death is…” Stephen says, and now those eyes look far away. “...not unfamiliar to me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it gets boring after the first or second time.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Nope. You’re right, let’s go back to the balloon animals.”
Tony’s the one to laugh this time, and Stephen watches him. There is a crinkle at the edges of those eyes, a wry tilt of his lip, and Tony is struck with the sudden need to kiss it, because all he can think of is how beautiful Stephen looks, like this. How beautiful this man is.
I’ve always thought you were beautiful.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs, and dives forward. He kisses Stephen hard and inelegantly, and Stephen makes this soft noise in the back of his throat that sends a jolt of something down his spine, and lower still. Stephen is kissing back. Tony twines his fingers into the hair at the back of his head, tilting it just so, and Stephen seems to like that, seems to kiss him deeper—
“Hey, when can we slice the cake? Come on, Tones, everyone’s— Jesus,” Rhodey says as the balcony door slides open.
“Fucking hell, Rhodey,” Tony whips his head to him.
“Woah, sorry. I mean, about time, anyway, right?” Rhodey smirks, hands up in surrender. He winks. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” And then he disappears behind the door, sliding it firmly shut. They both stare at it, silent.
“Well.”
Then suddenly Stephen bursts into laughter, and Tony joins him, and well, what do you know. Turns out this is definitely one of his best birthdays.