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Stephen wakes to the soft sound of someone crying.
He’s surprised he managed to sleep at all; the spaceship is big but they hadn’t been able to find anything resembling sleeping quarters and the metal flooring is hard and unforgiving, but he must’ve dropped off at some point. His eyes are scratchy when he blinks them open, neck cramping from the awkward angle he’d slept at. The cloak, which had been bundled up beneath his head, slips out from under him once it realises he’s awake and soars off into the darkness.
Stephen thinks at first that it’s the kid he can hear and slowly sits up, peering through the gloom to try and spot him. He hasn’t decided yet if he’s going to say something or be a coward about it and ignore the hitched breathing; he’s never been very good at dealing with emotions, his own or other peoples’. But the kid is sleeping soundly in the web hammock he’d strung up, swaying gently from side to side, one limp arm hanging down. He’s still encased in the Iron Man-esque armour, for which Stephen is glad; who knows what dangers could appear out of nowhere in deep space like this.
But it makes him realise, with a jolt, that it’s Stark he can hear.
Stephen gets to his feet and moves toward the central console, where he can see Stark sitting in front of the huge viewscreen, beyond which stretches endless space, and, to his surprise, the cloak. It’s hovering beside him, one corner reaching for his shoulder, hesitating. Stephen doesn’t think Stark’s noticed it yet and he stills, watching.
The cloak taps him and it’s gentle but it’s still enough to give Stark a fright, startling him up onto his knees before he realises there’s no danger.
“Wow,” Stephen hears him say, settling back down. “Hi. What’s your deal, huh?”
The cloak seems to take that as permission to smother him because it throws itself over Stark’s shoulders, scooping itself around him like…like a hug, Stephen realises abruptly. He doesn’t think the cloak has ever hugged him and tries not to feel jealous.
“So are you alive or what?” Stark asks it, allowing the treatment. “You can’t talk, huh? That’s okay. You’re something though, aren’t you?”
He sighs and his shoulders slump as he turns his attention forward once again, back out to the stars. Stephen can hear how shakily he breathes even across all the space between them.
“I guess this doesn’t mean much to you,” Stark continues. “What does it matter to a cloak if we’re home in New York or dying in space, right?” His hand comes up, stroking absently. “I hope you guys get home. I really do. You got a cloaky girlfriend or something? Is there a Sorting Hat back home you’re sweet on?”
The cloak, predictably, doesn’t reply.
“No, me either,” Stark says softly. “The kid, though…” His voice chokes off and Stephen can’t help himself; he’s crossing the distance between them before he can think better of it.
“Stark,” he says. He keeps his voice quiet but Stark still flinches, turning away as Stephen drops to sit down beside him, wiping his face on his sleeve before reeling back as the cloak tries to help, rubbing his cheeks.
“Not your turn for watch yet,” Stark says, keeping his face turned away.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Stephen says simply. He sighs. “Look, Stark…what I said earlier…”
“It’s fine, Strange,” Stark cuts him off.
“It’s not,” Stephen disagrees. “You’re right. As moral compasses go, it’s not a great one. But…it’s not about morals. It’s about something a lot bigger than any of us.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“You don’t,” Stephen tells him. “But it’s not your job to get it, it’s mine. And I want you to know, Time Stone aside—whatever I can do to get him home, to get you both home, I will.”
Stark ducks his head, shoulders coming up, and the cloak gets tighter around him, part of its collar twisting toward Stephen in something like indignation.
“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Stark mumbles. “I tried to send him home. But he stayed, because I told him to help you. Because he trusts me. And now he’s probably gonna—”
His entire body seems to clench and he cuts himself off, bringing one hand up to press tightly over his mouth. Stephen can see, from the corner of his eye, that Stark has both of his own eyes squeezed shut.
“He’s sixteen,” Stark says roughly. “Got his whole damn life ahead of him. Had.”
“Stark,” Stephen says. He reaches out, hesitates for a moment, then grasps his arm through the cloak and squeezes. His grip isn’t very tight but he hopes it’s reassuring. Stark doesn’t pull away, at least. He wants to say they’ll do whatever they have to, that they’ll send the kid home no matter what, but he’s not about to make a promise he can’t keep and he knows they’re all heading toward something that’s very likely to kill them.
“Maybe he was following you, but he made his own choices the first time he put on that outfit and stepped out into the world to be a hero,” Stephen says eventually.
“He became Spider-Man to stop bank robberies and bullies,” Stark shoots back roughly. “Not get beamed up into space to die millions of miles from home.”
“And you became Iron Man to stop people from trading illegal weapons,” Stephen replies. “Circumstances change, Stark. The world changed.”
“He shouldn’t have to deal with it,” Stark insists. “He’s a kid. He should be at school, having first dates and worrying about his grades.”
“You really think if he’d gone back down, he’d be in school right now? He’d be worrying about some girl?” Stephen asks. “He’d be in the middle of it, just like he was when we were in trouble earlier and he realised and came to help.”
“But he wouldn’t be here,” Stark says, defeated.
“No,” Stephen agrees, “he’d be down there, waiting for Thanos to arrive, and he’d be in just as much danger then.”
“We’re going to stop him,” Stark says firmly. “We have to.”
“Yes,” Stephen says. “We. I hate to say it but we’ve got a much better chance with him here.”
Stark ducks his head, the picture of defeat. “I know we do,” he says quietly. “But I’d rather die alone than drag him down with me.”
Stephen tightens his hand on Stark’s arm. “If you die, Stark, it’s not going to be alone,” he says. He doesn’t know if that’s reassuring or not; all it is is true. Whatever else, whatever happened before, whether Tony wanted it this way or not, the three of them are here together to face down whatever comes next.
“It will,” Stark replies. His voice is even, calm. There’s no self-pity there, just acceptance. “It was always going to happen this way.”
Stephen frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It means I went through a portal in the sky six years ago and should’ve died up there,” Stark says flatly. “Every moment since has been borrowed time.”
“I don’t think that’s how almost-dying works,” Stephen tells him.
“No,” Stark agrees. “But I just…know. From the moment I opened my eyes out there and saw…” He shudders, fists clenching, and the cloak rustles more tightly around him. “Saw it all. Everything. All that—that space, and I realised how much is out there, and how big it is, and how small we are. And it was just me and the suit and the dark and I just knew.”
Stephen sits with that for a moment, effectively stunned. He’s seen the footage of Stark during the Battle of New York, of course; he’s seen him fly through the wormhole with a nuke on his back and he’s watched the shaky footage of him falling back down, tumbling through the air like a dropped toy. He’d never really thought about it before, though; Stark was Iron Man. That was what those sorts of people did. And then Stephen became one of those sorts of people, and he did that shit, too. But it’s not easy. Sometimes he has a dream that he’s still stuck in an endless loop, dying over and over and relinquishing any hope that it might ever stop, just accepting that that was it, his lot, and it was worth it, but it cost.
He can never go back to sleep on those nights; always ends up in the library, reading until his eyes water, or else practicing spells until he’s shaking from exhaustion.
“I never used to believe in fate,” Stephen says after a long moment. He can feel Stark turn to frown at him but he keeps his own gaze forward. “It’s bullshit, right? We’re men of science. But when I started studying the mystic arts, my teacher showed me how small we are. I get that, Stark. We are small.” Stephen does turn to look at him, then. “But not insignificant.”
Stark’s mouth twists and he looks away.
“If you were meant to die out there in the dark, alone, then why didn’t you?” Stephen asks him when it becomes clear that Stark has no response.
Stark shrugs. “So I could…” His voice breaks and he clears his throat. “So I could warn everyone what was coming. Because I saw it. I saw how big it was and I knew we didn’t stand a chance. And now here we are…” He lifts an arm and spreads it out, the cloak using the movement to wrap more tightly around him, sneaking its hem up beneath his arm to hug in close against his chest. “And we still don’t stand a chance. So what was the point? I even had a…a vision. I saw them all dead—Nat, Bruce…Cap. Everyone. And it was my fault, because I should’ve done more. And it’s too late. It’s here, he’s coming.” He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “So I don’t know why I didn’t die back then, Doc, because I sure as shit haven’t done anything good with the time not dying bought me.”
“That is bullshit,” Stephen says firmly. “And that’s coming from me. I don’t do compliments, Stark, but you’ve done a hell of a lot of good in the past six years. That’s not a compliment, it’s just the truth. I know you can’t be so stupid you can’t see that, you’re one of the most intelligent men on the planet.”
“What good?” Stark snaps at him. “Pissing off a terrorist group so they blew my house up? Creating Ultron? Do you have any idea how many people died in Sokovia? Or how about splitting the Avengers up over the Accords? So even now, with Thanos planning on invading, Earth doesn’t even have a team ready to defend it? That’s on me, Strange, I—” Stark nearly trips as he tries to get to his feet, tangled in the cloak, and Stephen’s hand darts out to grab his wrist and pull him back down.
“Ssh,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “The kid’s asleep. He should rest.”
Stark doesn’t try to get back up again but he drags his knees in, resting his elbows on them and burying his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples.
“I’m not going to pretend I know the ins and outs of what happened with Rogers,” Stephen begins, “or in Sokovia. But I do know that when I see Iron Man on the news, it’s because you saved someone. And I know that you and the kid aren’t the rogue Avengers the news has been warning us all about, either. Whichever side you’re on in that fight, Stark, it seems the rest of the world is, too.”
“He’s going to go straight for Vision,” Stark says weakly. “I didn’t even warn him.”
“You’re going to take on the blame for that, too?” Stephen asks. “You were in the middle of dialing when we were attacked, Stark. I don’t think you need to add it to this list of your perceived crimes. Banner’s in New York; he can contact Rogers, they can dig up whoever they can. There’s nothing you can do about that, now,” Stephen says. “It’s on them.”
“I should’ve done more,” Stark insists hoarsely.
“What?” Stephen demands before catching himself and lowering his voice. “What more, Stark? Come on, tell me. What’s the great plan?”
“I don’t know—”
“Then how could you have done more?” Stephen asks him.
“I should know.”
“If we’re being pedantic about it, actually, I’m the one who’s supposed to protect Earth from other-worldly threats, Stark. So if you’re looking to blame anyone, blame me.”
Stark turns to stare at him, blinking. “That’s ridiculous, how could you—”
“Exactly,” Stephen interrupts him, seizing his shoulder. “None of us are prepared for this. None of us could ever have prepared for this. But we’re here now, and we’ll see it through. Whatever happens, happens. But I stand by what I said before.”
Stark raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“You’re not going to die alone, Stark,” Stephen repeats.
Stark meets his eyes for a few seconds, his own wavering, before he has to look away. Stephen sees him swallow, sees it bob in his throat, and pretends he doesn’t notice just how shiny Stark’s eyes have gone.
There’s a long moment of silence before Stark says, quietly and seriously: “Thanks.” His shoulders are rounded over but his head’s no longer down and the cloak has loosened its death-grip on him. “You can call me Tony, y’know,” he adds. “If we’re gonna be dying together and all.”
Stephen’s mouth curls up at the corner. “Tony,” he says, trying it out. He likes it. “Alright. You can call me Doctor Strange,” he adds, watching carefully and smiling wider when his words have the desired effect; amusement flashes across Tony’s face.
“Your ‘made-up name’,” Tony mutters to himself, shaking his head. “God. He thinks Aliens is a really old film. What the hell does that make me?”
“Us,” Stephen points out.
Tony’s head jerks and he looks over at Stephen in surprise. “Us?” he repeats.
“As in, we’re similar ages,” Stephen says hastily. “Not…I didn’t mean there’s an us.” He gestures between the two of them. “I wasn’t saying this is…something.”
Tony’s still watching him, smiling properly now, laughing at him. Stephen doesn’t love being laughed at but he’ll take it over the tears every day of the week.
“Racing toward imminent death but there’s still time for a gay panic, huh?” Tony asks.
Stephen frowns. “I wasn’t having a gay panic,” he says, a little offended.
“Ah,” Tony says, nodding slowly. “Do you…wanna have one?”
Stephen’s frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Tony waves a hand out in front of them again, indicating the stars outside, space as it passes them by. “It’s terrifying but it’s kind of beautiful, too. And if we’re going to die when we land, this could technically be our last night ever, and we’re both here, and it seems a shame to not…have fun.”
Tony won’t look at him, keeping his gaze fixed firmly forward, but Stephen can see his cheek turning pink.
“Tony…” he murmurs.
“It’s a dumb idea,” Tony says quickly. “Forget I said anything. Lack of oxygen’s probably getting to me.”
“Tony,” Stephen says again, and this time he lifts a hand and uses it to take hold of Tony’s chin and turn his head toward him. “I just meant…I wasn’t having a gay panic, because I already know what I like. No panic necessary.” He leans in, eyes intent on Tony’s, which have widened in surprise.
Stephen pauses before their lips touch. “Are you having a gay panic?” he asks teasingly.
Tony answers by closing the distance between them, pushing forward and putting both hands on Stephen’s shoulders to kiss him properly, following him down as Stephen lies back, slotting his legs either side of his hips.
The cloak disentangles itself and flurries away in what Stephen suspects might be a strop but he can’t bring himself to worry about that now; Tony’s body is warm despite the chill in the air, the perfect weight on his hips, and his tongue is very distracting.
Stephen lets himself get caught up in kissing him for a long while before he moves, slowly so Tony can tell what he’s doing, rolling them both until he’s settled on top of him instead, pushing his hands beneath Tony’s shirt.
“Do you mind?” he mutters. “I prefer it like this.”
Tony shakes his head. “Nope,” he gasps. “Not at all. You sure you’re up for this?”
“Seems like it’ll be more fun than thinking about our imminent deaths,” Stephen says dryly, dropping down to flick a tongue over Tony’s nipple once he’s pushed his shirt up enough to expose them. His chest is a mess of scar tissue and Stephen spends a few minutes tracing the damaged skin with his own trembling fingers. “Whichever surgeon did this should have their license revoked,” he mutters, surfacing.
“Well it was done in a cave in Afghanistan with knives and a car battery,” Tony says, “and I’d really rather not talk about it right now. Or ever, actually.”
Stephen nods, running his hands further up. He wishes he could take Tony’s shirt off altogether but it’d leave him too cold so he resists, sliding his hands into his hair instead and holding him still while he kisses him again. Tony groans beneath him, soft and wanting, and Stephen presses his hips down, grinding into him before he starts undoing Tony’s pants.
He tugs them down his thighs and Tony shudders as his bare ass touches the cold metal deck beneath him.
“Oh, fuck that’s freezing,” he hisses, arching up into Stephen.
Stephen chuckles and pauses in undressing him to pull his outer tunic off, pulling Tony half-upright so he can get it underneath him. “Better?”
“Much,” Tony breathes, relaxing.
“So I can take these all the way off?” Stephen asks, already pulling his pants the rest of the way down and tossing them to the side, pushing Tony’s knees apart as he shuffles forward.
“My suit has motor lubricant, if I—” Tony’s hand’s already reaching for the casing on his chest and Stephen catches it, stopping him.
“Stark,” he says, “would there be any point in being a sorcerer if I couldn’t magic up some lube?”
Tony’s eyes widen then his mouth falls open in shock as Stephen presses two fingers very gently against him and they’re both warm and slick. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Now I get why you learned these mystic arts of yours.”
Stephen smirks. “They do have their advantages,” he agrees. He lowers himself back down to recapture Tony’s mouth, rubbing gently between his legs, keeping his fingers as stiff and strong as he can as he smears the lube around and teases at Tony’s opening, trying to coax his way inside but there is no way both of his fingers will fit at the same time just yet, and he doesn’t have the strength in just one to prep him.
He sighs, breaking off their kiss and letting his head drop down onto Tony’s shoulder. “Tony,” he mutters.
“Oh my God,” Tony says. “If you’re changing your mind now I’m gonna need some alone time to—”
“No,” Stephen says quickly. “But my hands, I’m not going to be able to…” He lifts one of them and turns it around to show Tony the scars that run along the back of it, the way it trembles. “My fingers aren’t strong enough.”
Tony smirks. “My ass is that tight, huh?” he says lightly. “I can do it.” He shifts onto an elbow and as he lifts his right hand, Stephen takes hold of it, smothering his fingers in lube before he settles back.
“You’re not gonna kiss me?” Tony asks, pouting just slightly but dropping his hand between his legs and working a finger inside with a lot less delicacy than Stephen had been trying to show him.
“In a minute,” Stephen says. “I want to watch you.”
He feels Tony’s thighs tremble at that and hooks his arms under Tony’s knees to pull him a little closer, eyes focused on where Tony’s finger disappears into himself. He reaches down with his own hand after a minute or so, cupping Tony’s to add more lube and gently holding onto him as he works a second finger inside, feeling the bones and muscles shift beneath his palm.
“This is—weirdly hot,” Tony gasps. “Do you get off on watching?”
“Apparently,” Stephen says, not taking his eyes away from the sight between them. “Do you get off on being watched?”
Tony groans. “Apparently,” he parrots. “Ah, fuck. How big are you? I can probably take you like this,” he says impatiently.
Stephen laughs. “You’ll need a third,” he advises.
“Seriously?” Tony demands, pausing and staring up at him. “Come on, it’ll be fine, I’m ready now.”
“Tony,” Stephen says, abandoning the show and kissing him again, stopping after a second and hovering a millimeter from his mouth. “Add a third.”
“Fucking hell,” Tony mutters, closing his eyes. “That stern thing is really working for you, by the way, and by really working for you I mean it’s really working for me.”
Stephen snorts. “This isn’t stern,” he counters. “I can be stern, if you’re into that.”
“I’m into whatever gets your cock in me the quickest,” Tony tells him, gazing at him imploringly.
“Well the quickest way,” Stephen says, hitching Tony’s legs up further so he’s balanced on Stephen’s knees, tipped up toward him at the perfect angle, “is to do as you’re told.”
“Oh fuck,” Tony breathes, and instantly starts working a third finger into himself.
“That’s better,” Stephen says, rewarding him with a kiss but not before Tony’s moan spills out between them and goes directly to Stephen’s cock. “So you do like stern?” he adds smugly.
“Yeah, it’s really fucking hot,” Tony says all in a rush. “But I swear to God, Strange, if you don’t fuck me soon I’m going to come anyway.”
“Well we can’t have that,” Stephen says, wrapping his fingers around Tony’s wrist and pulling his hand away from himself, which has Tony groaning again. “And I think, at this point…” He shifts his robes aside and presses the head of his cock just against him as he talks, “You may as well call me Stephen.”
“I kinda like Doctor St—oh, fuck,” Tony gasps, his back curving as Stephen presses down into him.
He’s careful and slow but the angle he has Tony at makes him just glide, sinking into him like one long, perfect breath until he can’t any more. “You can call me that if you like,” Stephen says once he’s fully inside, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Feels kind of kinky.”
“It’s your name,” Tony says, but he’s holding back a smile, Stephen can tell.
“Mm,” Stephen agrees, “but I like the idea of you calling me doctor while we’re like this.”
Tony lets out a strangled little gasp and doesn’t actually get a chance to utilise that because Stephen pulls back and thrusts in just then and after that, words and sense are pretty much just robbed from him.
He wraps an arm over Stephen’s shoulders when he comes down close to kiss him and clings on as Stephen presses in, fucking harder when Tony’s heels knock insistently into the backs of his thighs.
Tony gets his hand between them to wrap around his cock, tipping his head back into the hard floor as he finishes himself off, groaning loudly through his teeth as come splatters on both of them.
In a few minutes that will be annoying and messy but right then Stephen can only think about how hot that was, how good Tony sounds, how perfect he feels, and he finds himself holding his breath as he thrusts, hard and thoughtless, until his own orgasm spills out of him. He doesn’t even think to warn Tony, too caught up in chasing the feeling, in losing himself in it; he just lets it happen, clutching Tony’s face in both hands and kissing him for all he’s worth.
As last nights in the living realm go, it’s pretty up there.
Stephen eventually pulls out and collapses down beside Tony, struggling to catch his breath while Tony lies there doing the same, still bare from the waist down. Stephen’s come is already trickling down his thigh and Stephen thinks that he should apologise but he can’t find it in himself to be sorry because it’s really fucking hot.
“Well, fuck,” Tony says eventually. His voice is thin and tired but satisfied.
“Fuck,” Stephen agrees, feeling slightly dazed. He’s not sure if that was really good or if it’s just been too long since he last had sex. Or maybe it’s because they’re staring death in the face and endorphins feel better than ever right now. Or maybe it’s everything combined.
“Fuck,” Tony says again. Then, after a few minutes, he manages to sum up everything Stephen’s feeling and trying not to let himself feel when he says: “Damn, I wish I’d met you sooner.”
Stephen rolls onto his side, bringing one hand up to run his finger along Tony’s cheek. He knows it’s probably useless to think those kinds of things now, but he knows what Tony means. “Well if we both make it back,” he finds himself saying, “I’ll take you out.”
Tony blinks at him, then frowns. “Like…a date?”
“Exactly like a date,” Stephen agrees. He’s never really done much dating in his time but this feels like the perfect prize to promise himself if he can just live. Something to live for, something to look forward to. Something to stop them from regretting the fact that this maybe is something that could have worked and it’s the worst kind of luck to discover it on the eve of their deaths.
“Sure,” Tony agrees, in the sort of way that tells Stephen he has no hope at all of making it back. “Where are we gonna go?”
“Wherever you want,” Stephen says lazily, letting his arm drop down onto Tony’s chest, hand curling over his shoulder. “What do you fancy?”
“Ice cream,” Tony says immediately.
Stephen snorts. “Let me guess…Ben and Jerry’s?”
“You are magic,” Tony fake-gasps. “Do you really think mine is chalky?”
“No,” Stephen says honestly. “It’s my favourite, actually. I just said that to piss you off.”
Tony preens, like his ice cream flavour has absolutely anything to do with him as a person or Stephen’s opinion on it matters at all in the grand scheme of things, then they both sit bolt upright when they hear footsteps.
Tony’s armour’s half-formed around him and he’s got his legs in his pants before they realise it’s Peter.
“Kid?” Stephen says, subtly stepping in front of Tony to give him a few extra seconds to finish dressing himself before he scars the kid for life.
“Hey, Doctor Strange,” Peter says, stepping into the pale glow of the viewscreen just as Tony gets to his feet. “Mr Stark.”
“You, uh…you’re awake,” Tony says intelligently. “How, uh. How much did you…how long have you…?”
“Not long,” Peter answers, yawning as if to prove this point. “Guess it’s hard to sleep up here, huh?” He steps around them both and walks over to the view-screen, settling himself on the edge of the podium where Stephen had found Tony earlier and looking out at the stars.
Stephen glances at Tony for a moment before they both silently move as one, following Peter over. Tony sits beside him and Stephen sits next to him, quietly tucking an arm around Tony’s waist as Tony throws his other arm over Peter’s shoulder.
None of them say anything; they don’t need to. At some point the cloak re-emerges and drapes itself around all of them, Tony’s head drops down onto Stephen’s shoulder, and they all just sit, side by side, and watch as the ship carries them further and further away from home.