Archive of Our Own ^beta

The late afternoon wind cut across the Tower's terrace, bringing with it dampness and the metallic smell of approaching rain. Tony hated the smell of rain.

Stephen hated what he did with her hands.

He was there, his joints trembling, his face contorted in an expression that mixed pain and stubbornness. He tried to open the book leaning against the low wall, his fingers refusing to obey.

Tony watched silently from the entrance, his dark eyes capturing every detail as if studying a complex blueprint. He had learned to decipher the Magician's body language – the stiffness in his shoulders that betrayed bad days, the way his lips pressed together when the pain reached unbearable peaks, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head that meant "don't touch me." The red Cloak of Levitation fluttered restlessly, its ends undulating as if sensing its master's distress, sometimes wrapping protectively around his arms.

"You know you could have asked for help, right?" Tony's voice cut through the distant sound of thunder.

Stephen didn't look at him. "I'm not having any problems."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Of course, doctor. You've only been arguing with a book for five minutes. The book is clearly winning."

A heavy sigh escaped the wizard. Stark's humor had an irritating way of hitting where it hurt.

"The humidity is high," he murmured finally, his voice hoarse. "My hands... aren't cooperating."

Tony approached, her footsteps echoing on the metal floor. The scar on the left side of her face stretched down to her hand, a burning reminder of the gauntlet. Stephen followed her with his gaze, always torn between fascination and guilt.

He had never admitted it aloud, but the metallic sound of the crack still haunted him during sleepless nights.

He extended his hands, not to take the book by force, but offering them as a support board, his open palms awaiting Stephen's surrender.

For a long moment, the wizard hesitated, his pride battling physical necessity. Then, with an almost imperceptible exhale, he allowed Tony to pick up the heavy volume.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said, opening it with a soft snap. "I die to save the world, and you bring me back to it. Then the world returns me with a burnt arm and a dose of nightmares."

Stephen let out a short, bitter laugh. "I should have let you sleep."

"You should have," Tony replied instantly, leaving no room for doubt. "But it's a good thing you didn't."

The wizard looked away, fixing his gaze on the heavy clouds. The first raindrop struck the balcony window with a crystalline sound, followed by another, and then several more, until the entire terrace was enveloped in the gentle drumming of the rain. A drop escaped through the upper opening, landing on the back of Stephen's right hand with the impact of a tiny bullet. The wizard visibly shuddered.

Tony spread out a cloth, drying the water before the shaking worsened.

"You know, I'm good at engineering," he said casually. "I can do something to alleviate this. A support, perhaps, with adjustable heat. Responsive nanotechnology that anticipates spasms."

"I don't need you to fix what's left of me, Tony." Stephen's reply was sharp, but he lacked conviction.

Tony folded the cloth before putting it in his pocket. "It's not about fixing it," he replied firmly. "It's about you not pretending you're not in pain."

The silence that followed was dense, but not hostile. Tony leaned against the low wall beside him. Two broken men, stitched together by stubbornness and guilt, sharing the same gray horizon.

The rain intensified. Stephen closed his eyes, letting the sound fill the space. Tony watched his profile illuminated by distant lightning, and for the first time since returning, he felt there was something beyond the pain. Something that didn't need saving—just understanding.

__________

The workshop was shrouded in silence. The air smelled of ozone and oil, with the underlying fragrance of Tony's bitter coffee, broken only by the rhythmic sound of tools and the constant hum of the machines.

Tony worked hunched over the workbench, his body forming a tense curve of absolute concentration, his face illuminated by a bluish light. Before him, scattered in apparent chaos but organized with relentless logic, were seven different prototypes—all rejected for flaws only he could see. One had overly intrusive sensors, another overly rigid materials, a third a very complicated interface. None good enough for Stephen.

The glove was unlike anything he had ever made. It wasn't a weapon, nor armor. It was an attempt to give back something that time and pain had taken away.

Each circuit he soldered carried a bit of his own guilt.

Tony wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand—the one that still burned, even after so much time. The phantom heat from the snap came in waves, as if the gauntlet were still there, stuck to his skin.

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he observed his distorted reflection in the polished metal of the table. The jagged scar ran across his face, down his neck, and disappeared beneath his shirt collar before reappearing on his wrist—a topographical reminder of sacrifice that never ceased to throb with real and imagined pain.

The soft sound of limping footsteps—a distinctive shuffling sound that Tony had learned to recognize—pulled him from his thoughts. He didn't turn around, continuing to work on the tiny circuit board between his fingers, but all his attention was now focused on the presence in the doorway.

Stephen appeared in the doorway, enveloped in the shadows of the corridor, his cloak hanging from his left shoulder like a living, restless entity. The cloak rippled gently.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked, his voice hoarse, but curiously soft.

"Three... maybe four hours." Tony shrugged. "Or thirty. Who's counting?"

"And I thought I was the insomniac among us." There was a hint of irony in Stephen's voice.

Stephen approached slowly, his gait a little more unsteady than usual. He stopped beside the workbench, keeping a careful distance, his eyes—incredibly blue even in the dim light—scanning the intricate tangle of cables and metal alloys that twisted like silvery roots. One of his hands rested on the edge of the workbench, his fingers trembling slightly against the cold metal.

Is this what I think it is?

Tony finally looked directly at him, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "A gift," he said, slowly rotating the device in his hand so Stephen could see better. "Or a disastrous attempt at medical engineering, depending on the outcome."

Stephen lowered his gaze.

The glove was elegant, thin, molded to the contours of his hands, with flexible microplates and a line of red energy pulsing beneath the metal.

- What does he do?

Tony picked up a calibration tool — "Small thermal and electrical pulses," he explained, without the dramatic flourish that usually accompanied his demonstrations. "The thermal pulses relieve muscle tension and increase blood flow to the joints. The electrical pulses interfere with pain signals before they reach the brain and stabilize tremors through neuromuscular microcorrections. Basically, a technological hug for your ego."

The wizard let out a low, almost inaudible laugh. "You didn't need to…"

"Yes, I needed to," Tony interrupted him, without looking up. "I saw how you were looking at the book yesterday. It wasn't just frustration—it was that specific expression of someone watching yet another part of themselves slip through their fingers. I know what that's like. I recognize every version of that look in my own reflection."

Stephen fell silent. The sound of the machines seemed to fade, giving way to a heavy stillness. He reached out one hand—trembling, marked with almost invisible scars—and lightly touched the cold metal of the glove.

I don't want to be a burden, Tony.

"Then don't be," the engineer replied bluntly. "Be someone worth losing sleep over."

The wizard blinked, surprised. For a moment, the tension dissolved, and something lighter lingered between them. Something that neither time, nor pain, nor guilt could completely break.

Tony adjusted the final piece, testing the fit with delicate movements. When his fingers accidentally brushed against Stephen's, the wizard visibly flinched—not from pain or discomfort, but from the rarity of the deliberately gentle touch—but he didn't recoil, allowing the contact to linger for a second longer than socially required.

"It'll take a few days to calibrate," Tony said, almost in a whisper. "But I'll get there."

"I don't doubt it." Stephen smiled, a small, genuine smile. "You always show up."

__________

The room was enveloped in a rare tranquility.

The windows let in the pale light of a cloudy late afternoon—the kind of light that made everything slower, softer, more intimate. The sound of the rain drummed against the glass, insistent and constant.

Stephen was on the sofa, an open book on his lap. The letters trembled slightly before his eyes—not from emotion, but from difficulty focusing. His left eye, blurred since the accident, made the world seem like an uneven mosaic. He frowned, trying to compensate, his hands moving with restrained stiffness.

That's when Tony showed up. He was wearing only a worn-out t-shirt with the logo of an '80s rock band, and the weariness etched on every line of his weathered face. He was carrying two bottles of water, one in each hand.

Without saying a word, he crossed the room and sat down next to him on the sofa, the leather creaking softly under her weight.

"You look like you're about to curse the entire alphabet," he commented, in the light tone he used when he wanted to disguise her concern.

Stephen looked up, his expression a mix of irritation and tenderness. "The book is dense."

"Sure." Tony opened one of the bottles, the sound of the plastic breaking the silence. "Or maybe your hands are asking for a truce."

Stephen didn't answer. He just watched as Tony handed him the already opened bottle. A simple gesture, but carefully thought out. Tony didn't ask if he needed help. He just did it.

"Thank you," murmured the wizard, accepting it.

Tony took a sip of his own water and leaned back. "The glove prototype is almost ready. I need to adjust the sensitivity, but I think it will work."

"Tony, you don't need to…" Stephen began.

"We've had this conversation before," he interrupted gently, turning sideways on the sofa to face him directly, his knee almost touching Stephen's. "And I still win every time."

Stephen sighed, carefully closing the book. "You're unbearable."

"Only for others," Tony smiled slightly. "For you, I'm practically a saint."

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only by the rain and the slight creaking of the wooden structure.

Stephen adjusted his posture, trying to disguise the slight discomfort in his right leg. Tony noticed. He always noticed. He pretended not to.

He took the book from Stephen's hands, leafing through it as if he truly cared about its contents. "Magic and Parallel Dimensions?" he read the title aloud. "I bet you don't have time to deal with magicians who refuse to accept help."

— nor about dealing with stubborn engineers

They both smiled.

The rain intensified, beating harder against the glass. Tony put the book down on the small table and rested his elbows on his knees, looking ahead.

"You know, sometimes I still dream about the snap," he said, his voice low, almost emotionless. "Not the flash, not the light, not the pain. Just the sound. That dry snap that seems to echo through everything. And when I wake up, for a second—just a second—I think I'm there again. That I haven't come back. That I'm still holding that damn thing and feeling every atom of my body disintegrating."

Stephen turned his face toward him, his gaze gentle. "You're back." The words were simple, but firm. "And not alone."

Tony nodded without saying anything. The sound of rain filled the space between them.

A small gesture—the bottle still in Stephen's hand, the quick touch of Tony's fingers as he adjusted it so he wouldn't drop it. As brief as it was intimate.

______

The sound of tools filled the air — a familiar, almost comforting hum that seemed to translate the rhythm of Tony's thoughts.

Stephen watched silently, seated on one of the high stools, his hands wrapped around the test prototype that glowed faintly under the bluish light of the laboratory. The elegant structure seemed more like an organic extension than a medical device, its microplates adjusting imperceptibly to the residual movements of his fingers.

Tony adjusted a floating holographic panel in front of him, his dark eyes focused on the streams of data dancing in the air, the scar on his face standing out as he frowned.

"Try moving your middle finger," Tony asked without lifting his eyes from the display, his fingers sliding across the holograms to adjust invisible parameters.

Stephen did it. The movement was hesitant, but steady. The metal reacted with a subtle glint. "It's... less painful," he admitted, with a hint of surprise.

Tony turned around, a satisfied smile on his face. "See? I told you the genie here still works. Even a bit toasted and with bad memories, I can still work magic when needed."

Before Stephen could formulate a proper response, a familiar voice echoed from the entrance.

Wow, this is new! What are they building?

Peter appeared, still with his schoolbag precariously slung over one shoulder and his soaked sneakers leaving damp footprints on the immaculate floor. His disheveled brown hair betrayed that he had run through the rain to get there, and his eyes gleamed with the insatiable curiosity that Tony so admired and sometimes lamented.

Tony let out a deeply theatrical sigh. "A doorbell, Peter. It's a modern invention, you know? It's used to announce your arrival before you barge into the boss's workshop."

"I knocked," the boy replied, raising his hands. "But you were... busy."

Stephen hid a discreet smile behind his gloved hand, while Tony rolled his eyes with an affectation that couldn't quite disguise his affection for the youthful intruder.

"We're working on a confidential project," Tony declared, with the dramatic tone of someone deliberately trying to provoke curiosity. "The ultra-secret kind, classified as 'none of your business, nosy teenager'."

Peter approached, curious. "Confidential, like 'new armor' or 'something that will explode if I touch it'? Because I learned my lesson last time, I promise."

"Neither," Stephen replied calmly, observing his own fingers as if witnessing a miracle. "It's... a help. Something personal."

Peter tilted his head. It was then that he noticed the subtle tremor that ran through Strange's hands as he carefully removed the prototype glove. The young man looked at Tony, then back at the magician.

— Help... for his hands?

Tony crossed his arms. "He didn't need you to find out, kid. Some of us prefer to keep our... needs... private."

Stephen interrupted him, his voice firm but completely devoid of anger or irritation. "It's all right. He'd notice sooner or later."

Peter stepped forward, his animated expression giving way to genuine concern that made his youthful face momentarily more mature. "Doctor Strange... does it hurt a lot?"

The wizard hesitated, his eyes meeting Tony's for a moment before returning to the teenager. Almost no one asked him that so directly—people assumed, speculated, but rarely asked.

"Sometimes," he replied simply. "Especially when the weather changes."

Peter nodded slowly, processing the answer. "So... Mr. Stark is doing anything to help with this?"

Tony momentarily looked away, focusing on a tool on the workbench as if it suddenly demanded his full attention. "Yeah. A glove that stabilizes nerve impulses. Something simple."

"Simple for you," Peter replied, smiling. "I've never seen you do something just to help one person before. Usually it's 'saving the world' or 'protecting the city.' This is... different."

Tony opened his mouth to reply, probably with a sarcastic denial, but Stephen spoke first. — He does more than you realize.

The silence that followed was light, but laden with meaning. Peter looked from one to the other, noticing something that perhaps neither of them would admit aloud.

"Can I help?" he asked anxiously. "I can adjust the haptic feedback system, if you'd like. I've been working on the sensors in my suit, and..."

Tony sighed dramatically, but the corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile that belied any genuine irritation. "Okay, kid. You can stay. But don't touch the power modules, understand? The last thing we need is another explosion in the workshop. Pepper hasn't recovered from the last one yet."

Peter laughed, excited, and began to take off his backpack, his movements quick and efficient as he prepared to dive into the project.

Stephen simply watched—his serene face, his dark blue eyes following Tony's every gesture with a silent affection he would never allow to be put into words. He saw how the engineer's shoulders relaxed slightly in the boy's presence, how his stern expression softened into something approaching contentment.

______

The night was cool, the air still heavy with moisture after the rain.

From the balcony of the Tower, the city lights reflected in the puddles scattered across the rooftops below. Tony leaned against the glass railing, a mug of coffee in his hand—his third that night—while Rhodey approached, supporting himself with his usual care, his weight balanced on his prosthetic leg.

"You haven't slept in a while, have you?" Rhodey commented, watching his friend sideways.

"Sleep is overrated." Tony took a long sip of his bitter coffee, avoiding his friend's gaze, his fingers drumming lightly against the porcelain mug. "Besides, I have work. Projects. Inventions. The world doesn't save itself, you know that."

Rhodey let out a short laugh. "Work, of course. And that work has a name, a British accent, and a stony sense of humor."

Tony nearly choked on his coffee, coughing slightly as he slammed the mug down on the wall more forcefully than necessary. "Excuse me, what?"

"Oh, please," Rhodey crossed his arms, smiling slightly. "Strange this," "Strange that." You talk about him all the time, Tones. If you're not inventing some new outlandish act for him, you're staring blankly into space with that look on your face like you're thinking about... I don't know, magic.

Tony looked away, feigning interest in the horizon. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rhodey raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You've practically been living with the guy for the past few months. You share breakfast, exchange sharp sarcasm like modern-day love letters, and exchange glances that would make anyone with two functioning eyes think you're… well, married in some strange, metaphorical way."

Tony sighed wearily, trying to hide the blush that rose up his neck and stained his cheeks. "We just... work well together. He understands me in ways that... well, he just understands."

"Yes, of course. That's all." Rhodey stifled a laugh that threatened to escape, his eyes shining with affectionate amusement. "And Peter?"

"What's wrong with Peter?" Tony's defense sounded instantaneous, almost reflexive.

"You two basically adopted the kid as a joint, unconventional parenting project. A traumatized genius taking care of another traumatized genius, and a wizard limping around the house like a reluctant but completely devoted second father. It's a family, Tony. One of those strange, dysfunctional, and troubled families that somehow works perfectly."

Tony remained silent. The city lights reflected off the scar that cut across his face, and for a moment he seemed too tired to keep up the facade.

“I owe him so much, Rhodey.” The voice came out lower, almost a whisper. “I should have died there, when I closed my fingers around that damned gauntlet. It should have been the end. But he… he brought me back. He ripped my soul from the void and stitched it back into this broken body, even knowing he would carry the weight of that act for the rest of his life. Even knowing that every bit of magic he used to bring me back left a mark on him too.”

"And since then you've been trying to reciprocate," Rhodey added, his tone softer. "I understand, man. But... maybe this has become something bigger than guilt."

Tony laughed, a humorless sound. "I don't know if I deserve the kind of thing he represents, Rhodey. Purity of purpose. Genuine sacrifice. He's… well, he's good in ways I can't even fully comprehend."

Rhodey gave him a light pat on the shoulder. "Tony, if there's anyone in this world who understands what it means to break down and keep standing, it's him. Maybe you two are what the other needs to keep going."

The wind picked up then, ruffling Tony's disheveled hair and carrying with it the distant scent of rain on concrete. He stared at the horizon, lost in thought.

"Do you think he knows?" The question came out so softly that it was almost lost in the noise of the city below.

Rhodey smiled, already turning to go inside. "He's a Wizard, Tony. Of course he knows."

Tony stood there alone on the porch, the night chill beginning to penetrate his thin shirt, and let out a low, muffled laugh. "Damn, maybe I do know."

And for the first time in a long time, the laughter sounded light.

______

The morning sun filtered through the tower's large windows, tinging the floor with golden hues. The world seemed calm—too calm for someone like Tony Stark.

He was in the kitchen, distractedly stirring a mug of coffee with a silver spoon, as if the simple act of dissolving sugar crystals in the dark liquid was a way to keep his hyperactive mind occupied with mundane tasks. Rhodey had left before dawn, and the silence that followed in his absence seemed greater than it should have been.

"Age normal," he repeated mentally, the words pounding against the inside of his skull like a centuries-old mantra. Normal. Easy. He was great at faking normalcy—he'd built an entire public persona on the foundation of manufactured nonchalance. 

Or at least it used to be.

The familiar sound of limping footsteps made Tony lift his eyes from his mug.

Stephen appeared in the doorway. His silver hair was still disheveled from sleep, the levitation cloak noticeably absent from his shoulders, and he wore only a simple dark cotton shirt and comfortable trousers that didn't completely conceal the stiffness in his right leg.

"Good morning," he said, his voice hoarse and still sleepy, his blue eyes half-closed against the morning light.

Tony disguised his nervousness by raising his mug. "Coffee? A universal cure-all."

Stephen smiled slightly, accepting the mug that Tony was already offering him—open and without a lid, as always. The engineer remembered that opening bottles or holding glasses was a challenge on days when his hands were stiff.

"Thank you," he replied, his hands trembling slightly as he carefully brought the coffee to his lips.

Tony leaned back against the granite counter, trying to appear casual while every fiber of his being was hyper-aware of the other man's proximity. "Did you sleep well?"

"As much as possible," Stephen admitted, his eyes closing for a moment as he savored the first sip of coffee. "My hands ached all night. The dampness still hasn't completely subsided, even though the storm passed hours ago."

"I told you to bring the lab dehumidifier up here," Tony tried to sound practical, not worried, keeping his tone light while his eyes involuntarily scanned Stephen's hands for signs of increased distress. 

Stephen raised an eyebrow, the ironic tone slowly returning. "Yes, of course. Because nothing says 'elegant decor' like a noisy machine in the middle of the room."

Tony smiled genuinely, almost relieved to see the return of the dry humor he secretly adored. "Ah, he's back. New York's favorite sarcastic wizard."

Stephen's gaze softened. "And the engineer who doesn't know how to rest is still alive." Surprise.

Tony shrugged. "Resting is for those who don't have geniuses to polish or universes to save. Besides, sleep is terribly overrated when you could be inventing brilliant things or bothering wizards before breakfast."

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the soft hum of the kitchen appliances and the distant sound of morning traffic beginning far below. Stephen sat on one of the stools, watching Tony pace back and forth, pretending to fix something on the kitchen panel. The way he looked away betrayed his unease.

"You're acting strangely today," Stephen said suddenly.

Tony froze in place, his hand stopping mid-gesture to adjust a control that didn't need adjusting. "Strange? Me? No, I'm the epitome of walking normalcy. The definition of conventional behavior. The epitome of..."

"You're trying to look normal," Stephen corrected calmly, his blue eyes fixed on Tony. "Which is different."

Tony took a deep breath. "Rhodey talks too much. I should have remembered he has this annoying habit of noticing things that aren't his business."

Stephen stared at him for a moment, genuinely surprised by the involuntary admission, then let out a soft laugh that echoed in the kitchen. "So he said something that shook you."

"It didn't faze me," Tony replied too quickly. "Nothing fazes me. I'm unshakeable. It's literally my unofficial codename."

The wizard rested his chin on his hand, curious. "Should I guess the topic of conversation?"

Tony looked away, focusing on the steam rising from the coffee maker. "No need."

"Tony," Stephen's voice softened, losing its playful tone. "You don't need to explain yourself to me."

Tony finally looked him directly in the eye, his brown eyes meeting Strange's blue ones. The sorcerer's gaze reflected understanding, not judgment. For a moment, the silence between them spoke louder than any words.

Tony sighed, lowering his gaze to his own hands. "I just... don't want to ruin what we have. This works. You... work for me in ways nothing else has. And I have an impressive track record of ruining things that work."

Stephen blinked slowly, absorbing the veiled confession. "Then don't mess it up," he replied simply. "Just... be here. Like you always have been."

The engineer nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile forming on his lips. "That I can do."

They stood there, side by side, drinking coffee in silence.

And, for the first time since the conversation the previous night, Tony stopped pretending.

_______

The night was too silent — the kind of heavy silence that only exists in the dead hours between midnight and dawn.

Stephen was in his office, trying to read. The letters danced slightly before his blurry left eye, and his hands ached more than he cared to admit. The air was still damp, and the discomfort pulsed in slow, predictable waves. He had grown accustomed to it by now.

But what finally snapped him out of his forced concentration wasn't the physical pain, however persistent it was. It was a muffled sound coming from the dark hallway beyond the half-open office door.

First, a muffled metallic noise, like something heavy made of metal being dropped with restrained force. Then, a dull thud, like a body hitting a solid surface. And then, the most unsettling of all—absolute silence.

Stephen stood up immediately, his body reacting before his reasoning. He limped to the door. As he turned the corner of the dark hallway, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, he found Tony leaning against the wall, his body slowly sliding down as he struggled to catch his breath, his lungs working like broken bellows, his eyes wide with an expression of pure panic that Stephen had never seen in him before.

"Tony?" the voice came out low, but firm.

Tony tried to respond, but his vocal cords refused to cooperate, his face contorted into a mask of silent agony as the trembling in his left arm intensified into visible spasms. The scar that snaked from his temple to below his jawline seemed more vivid under the cold light of the nighttime emergency lights, the skin around the internal metal and tissue grafts appearing taut and inflamed, almost throbbing with a pain that transcended the physical.

"Shit..." Tony muttered through clenched teeth, cold sweat forming beads on his forehead. "Just... just one of those damn phantom pains. It's passed before. It'll pass again."

Stephen approached, his gaze filled with controlled calm. "This doesn't seem like it's going to pass."

"You don't need a doctor," the engineer retorted, trying to force a laugh that dissolved into a broken, breathless sound as another tremor ran down his arm. "I'm the doctor, remember?"

"No, you're the most stubborn man I've ever met," Stephen stated with gentle authority, carefully kneeling beside him, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his own right leg. "I'm the doctor. Let me see. Please."

Tony hesitated, but couldn't resist when Stephen held his affected arm. The wizard's fingers were firm, though trembling. He slid his hand over the scar, feeling the uneven warmth of the skin. The touch made Tony hold his breath.

"It's burning," Stephen stated in a low voice.

— Whenever the cold weather subsides, he does this. As if the heat returns all at once.

Stephen looked at his face, the shadow of pain reflected in every line.

"You should have called me before it got to this point," he said, his voice softer now. "You didn't need to wait until you were leaning against the hallway wall, trembling uncontrollably."

"I didn't mean to bother you," the reply came out automatically, a reflex conditioned by decades of dealing with his own crises alone. "You already have your own pain to manage. Your own demons."

"Tony," the word came as a gentle warning. "When are you going to understand that taking care of you isn't a bother?"

The engineer tried to laugh, but gave in to exhaustion. His body relaxed under the touch.

Stephen kept his hand there, channeling a minimal beam of mystical energy, enough to ease the nerve pain, not to heal it. He knew he couldn't erase scars that belonged to the other's history. He could only make them bearable.

Tony let out a trembling sigh, his whole body seeming to deflate as the sharp pain subsided to a manageable throb. "That... helps."

"It's the least I can do," the wizard replied, his voice almost a whisper. "You've already carried too much pain alone."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of Tony's breathing subsided, and Stephen, without realizing it, let his thumb slide lightly across Tony's forearm.

Tony opened his eyes, which had closed against the pain, meeting Stephen's gaze in the semi-darkness. There was something there that neither pain, nor time, nor guilt could erase. — Thank you.

The wizard then stood up, his own body protesting the kneeling position, and offered his hand to Tony to help him to his feet. The engineer accepted without hesitation, his fingers closing around Stephen's wrist.

And together, they walked back to the sofa, supporting each other.

________

Dawn was slowly breaking, dragging the cold through the tower windows.

The sofa was bathed in a soft twilight — the lights on the panels blinked rhythmically, reflecting off the glass, and the distant sound of rain created a calm, almost hypnotic backdrop.

Tony was leaning back next to Stephen, his body finally relaxed against the soft cushions of the sofa, his left arm still enveloped by a faint band of bluish energy that seemed to breathe softly with his pulse—a visible remnant of the pain-relieving spell Stephen had cast. He stared blankly out the dark windows, his gaze weary. His fingers rested lightly on the arm of the sofa, so close to Stephen's that they almost touched.

"I never thought that..." Tony began, his voice hoarse, "...phantom pain could be so literal."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Science and magic have this in common. They both like to mock our logic."

"Yeah." Tony let out a muffled, almost weak laugh. "And I thought being a genius prepared me for everything."

"None of us prepare for pain. We just... learn to negotiate with it," Stephen replied, his tone calm.

Tony turned his face away, watching the wizard in the dim light. There was something in his gaze—an ancient weariness, a sad wisdom—that made Tony's chest tighten.

"You speak like someone with experience," Tony murmured, his words coming out softer than he intended.

Stephen looked away, adjusting his posture. — Maybe.

Silence settled in again, a comfortable silence this time. Tony rested his head against the soft back of the sofa, his eyes beginning to feel heavy.

Stephen noticed the rhythm of his breathing change, slow, deep.

"You know, Stephen…" Tony murmured, fighting off sleep, "...sometimes I think you're the only one who understands what's left… after all."

"And what's left, Tony?" the wizard asked quietly.

Tony blinked slowly, his voice almost fading away. "The broken parts."

Stephen was quiet for a moment. Then, in a rare gesture, he let his hand rest on Tony's good forearm.

"Broken is not the same as lost," he said, with a sweetness that was almost hidden beneath her firmness.

Tony didn't reply with words—his head simply tilted slightly to the side until his temple rested against the curve of Stephen's shoulder, his dark hair contrasting with the fabric.

The wizard froze for a moment, genuinely surprised by the unexpected contact. But he didn't pull away—he couldn't, even if he wanted to. Instead, he let his body gradually relax, accepting the weight, his gaze fixed on the dark window, the gentle warmth of Tony's head warming his shoulder through the fabric.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of metal and coffee—the smell of someone who had survived against all odds.

And there, in the silence between the unfinished sentences, Stephen allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a moment.

Two survivors, side by side, in a rare moment of peace.

_________

Tony woke slowly, as if his own body hesitated to let him return to full consciousness, reluctant to abandon the deepest rest he had experienced in weeks—a sleep without nightmares, without the usual images of purple titans and cosmic dust. 

The first thing he noticed was the warmth — a human warmth, firm, constant.

The second was that he was not alone.

Blinking cleared the lingering fog of sleep from his eyes, and only then, as his vision adjusted to the morning twilight that filled the living room, did he fully grasp what had transpired during the night: sometime between dusk and dawn, Stephen had slipped to the side, lying partially on the narrow sofa that definitely hadn't been designed to comfortably accommodate two grown men. Tony, for his part, must have shifted unconsciously, rolled in his sleep, until he ended up half-lying on top of him—his chest pressed against the wizard's chest, his right leg trapped under Stephen's thigh, his good arm casually draped over the other man's torso as if it belonged there.

For a second, instinct made him hold his breath.

Stephen was still fast asleep, his face unusually peaceful, but his neck was twisted at a clearly uncomfortable angle, his head slightly resting on his own bent arm in a way that spoke of exhaustion overcoming physical discomfort. Tony knew that this position would result in a nasty neck ache when he finally woke up, perhaps even a debilitating migraine that would persist for the rest of the day.

"Damn it, Doc…" Tony whispered, with a half-smile.

He tried to move slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the wizard's sleep, but each subtle attempt to pull his body away seemed only to make things worse. The soft leather sofa creaked loudly at the slightest weight adjustment, and his right arm, with its still-sensitive scar, throbbed distinctly as he tried to use it to leverage his body away.

Stephen murmured something incoherent and sleepy, his fingers moving lightly across Tony's chest, as if the body recognized his presence. The touch, involuntary and simple, was enough to make Tony stop.

He relaxed back into the impossible position, breathing deeply and allowing his body to settle again against Stephen's solid, warm form.

For a long moment, Tony simply observed the other man, studying the details he rarely had the opportunity to examine so closely. The way the gray strands spread across Stephen's temples, silvery in the dim morning light, how his hands—even at rest—laid slightly open, the fine scars that snaked between his joints, and an almost imperceptible tremor that never truly disappeared, not even in the deepest sleep.

Without thinking, Tony brushed a strand of hair that had fallen across Stephen's face.

"You should sleep in a real bed, you know that?" he murmured, his voice low and raspy from not-quite-dissipated sleep. "And I should stop turning designer sofas into minefields of mutual discomfort."

Stephen didn't respond with words, only breathed deeply and evenly, his face turning slightly towards the sound of Tony's voice like a flower following the sun, an expression of unconscious contentment further softening his already relaxed features.

Tony smiled, tired but genuine.

Finally, he gave up fighting the ridiculous position altogether. Instead, he settled more deeply against Stephen, resting his forehead lightly against the wizard's firm shoulder and closing his eyes once more, allowing the other man's rhythmic breathing to lull him back to the brink of sleep.

The world could wait.