Chapter Text
As eager as Tony is to get started on treatment development, he doesn’t know the first thing about neural regeneration. None of his degrees are in biology or medicine and, to be perfectly honest, Tony never really did have any desire to branch out into those fields until he had an electromagnet powered by a car engine installed into his sternum. Even then, his focus was less on how the body heals than how to chelate the palladium leaking from the arc reactor.
So it is with great necessity that Tony dives right into Wikipedia, which, despite Stephen’s disapproval, is more than sufficient for Tony’s purposes.
A handful of days after returning from Kamar-Taj, Tony calls Stephen to pose him a quick question, “Are you thinking morphogen1-directed regeneration or magical duct tape? I’m trying to whittle down my reading list.”
“Both,” Stephen says after a beat, possibly thrown off by Tony’s lack of a greeting. “You really don’t beat around the bush, do you? Cells aren’t six-piece jigsaws. I can’t put them back together even with the mystic arts unless I know all the parts, and I’m not sure that I do. Supplementing with the appropriate morphogens and allowing the body to respond to them may yield more physiologically correct healing. But before that, we need to reverse any fibrosis.”
“Fibrosis. That’s the scarring, right?” Tony mumbles as he brings up the last article he read that mentioned fibrotic tissue formation during wound healing. “Can you do that with magical scissors or is there a pathway that you need to trigger?”
“If I can learn to consistently manipulate cellular-level objects, extracting fibrous tissues shouldn’t be an issue. Even a competent surgeon could remove most of it with the right equipment.”
Tony sets aside the articles on fibrosis. If techniques for removing scar tissue are already available, then Tony can focus on the regenerative aspects of the treatment instead. “Do you need something to practise on? Model organisms?”
“I have two ruined hands. There’s more than enough nerve damage here for practice, don’t you think?”
“No,” Tony shoots down immediately. “You’re not experimenting on yourself. You could make things worse.”
Stephen chuckles, low and not entirely a happy sound. “Surely not by much.”
“You could lose function entirely. I won’t allow that,” Tony insists. He’s not letting another friend get (even more) injured on his watch. He’s already failed so many people—Rhodey, Pepper, Happy, even Peter2—and he will do his damnedest to avoid another or die trying.
“What’s your solution? I don’t have access to a lab.”
“Am I allowed to send you a crippled mouse?”
“Once again, I don’t have access to a lab. There are protocols for animal testing, and I think you’d break almost every single one of them if you do that.”
“I’m going to talk to Wong about this. He can’t keep you locked up in the Sanctum forever like some bizarre modern-day Rapunzel.” He gestures for FRIDAY to make a note to remind him to text Wong in a couple of hours. “Master Hamir seems like a reasonable guy. If he can give us another three hours every other lesson, we’ll make good progress.”
“I’ll speak with him about it,” Stephen promises.
“Good, good,” Tony mutters, and pulls up an article on spinal cord architecture.
An hour later, he only realises that Stephen is still on the line when he requests FRIDAY to call him so that he can ask another question and Stephen replies immediately, sounding amused, “I’m still here.”
Tony startles, sending a pen skittering over his workbench and flattening a palm over his suddenly racing heart. “Why are you still connected?”
“I thought you had another question when you didn’t hang up. Then I wanted to see how long it’ll take for you to notice you didn’t.” There is a strange quality to the way Stephen says that. It takes a while for Tony to recognise it as fondness, which is embarrassing because that wasn’t exactly in short supply during the time they spent at Kamar-Taj, and dear god what kind of sad existence did Tony lead before this if fondness is so hard to recognise?
“Well I do have a question now, if you’ll deign to listen to it instead of entertaining yourself at my expense.”
“Go ahead,” Stephen says. He still sounds insufferably amused.
Tony keeps the call open for the rest of the day although most of it is spent in silence, devouring article after article on PubMed as he listens to Stephen flip pages and practise magic. It’s nice to have company in his workshop again on weekdays, even if Stephen is just an unobtrusive presence on the other end of a phone call.
At a quarter to seven, Stephen finally speaks again. “I’m leaving for Kamar-Taj. I don’t suppose you’re joining me?”
“Not today. I can’t get to the Sanctum in time unless you open a portal, and I am not walking through one of that.”
“All right. Don’t forget to sleep, Tony.”
“I won’t. I know for a fact that you know that Peter sends me bedtime reminders because the two of you are in perpetual cahoots these days. Go impress your adoring public in peace.”
“Don’t worry, I still like you better,” Stephen says with a smile that is painfully obvious even though Tony can’t see him, and hangs up before Tony can do anything more than splutter.
Seven words. Seven more words that Tony doesn’t know what to do about. Stephen has a terrible habit of saying things like that—simple things that somehow make Tony feel important beyond his contributions to the tech industry—and then just leaving Tony hanging. Is this a soulmate thing? It feels like a soulmate thing. Although, granted, it’s probably also a didn’t-know-Tony-when-Tony-was-a-genuine-asshole-who-hated-any-mention-of-emotional-vulnerability-because-Stark-men-are-made-of-iron thing.
Stephen is so honest about liking Tony that, sometimes, Tony wonders if it’s all a lie. It wouldn’t be the first time. People have tried all sorts of things to get another sound bite out of him or earn that coveted spot in his (admittedly rarely used) bed. The friends he does have express their concern in more practical ways like running his company or backing him up when the government tries to possess his Iron Man suits. They never tell Tony that they like him.
And for the longest time Tony appreciated that. Until Stephen, Tony was utterly contented with how his friends look out for him.
It’s funny how a few words that, on their own, have no power at all managed to make Tony so viscerally aware of his heart pounding away behind the scars where his arc reactor once was. Words are nothing without action to back them up, action that Pepper and Rhodey and Happy have time and time again demonstrated to the point where Tony never doubts that they care for him so, so much. They don’t have to say anything because Tony already knows where he stands with them.
Perhaps it’s the novelty. It’s being told that he matters, and then being swaddled in a sentient cloak and laid on a bed even though Tony would’ve been perfectly fine sleeping upright; words matching actions in a way that never happened with other enhanced beings that he knows. Not Steve, not Natasha, and sometimes not even Bruce. They spent nearly every waking hour on his property and called themselves a team, yet here they are, four years on, scattered like a meteor burning up into a million tiny pieces as it enters the atmosphere.
Tony really hopes that he can convince Stephen to hang around for longer than four years.
---
Calling and forgetting to hang up happens a couple more times, and by the fourth Tony decides that he might as well abandon any idea of hanging up entirely until Stephen leaves for Kamar-Taj or Peter’s clockwork-precise reminder to sleep forces the both of them into bed.
Like the first time, he and Stephen don’t talk much while Tony plays catching up with the ridiculous number of articles that Stephen recommends to him for ‘light reading.’ Mostly, they leave their phones sitting nearby and Tony asks for clarification every half hour or so. Occasionally, Stephen makes a comment about a spell that might be useful and they spend a few hours throwing theories back and forth.
When Tony receives a call so early in the morning that he can’t even keep his eyes open yet, he accepts it expecting a perfunctory good morning and a brief description of a new spell that will surely prevent him from falling back asleep. He hears Wong’s voice instead.
“There’s been an incident.”
Suddenly, Tony’s blood runs cold and sleep is the last thing on his mind. A quick glance down at his arm reveals a fresh patch of scarred marks. “Where is he? Is he all right? Can you get me to him?”
“Stephen is resting at the new York Sanctum. He is physically unharmed but spiritually drained,” Wong says, frustratingly inflectionless. “I can’t open a gateway to you unless I know where you are. A photo will suffice.”
Tony doesn’t even hesitate to snap a quick picture of his room and send it to Wong. His world has narrowed to a fuzzy spot of awareness and he barely registers the sizzling of a sparking orange portal opening in the middle of his room seconds later, which is retrospect is a good thing since he might not even have managed to stumble through it if he had the presence of mind to freak out about the portal.
They’re in a bedroom.
“Should he be here? Doesn’t Kamar-Taj have some kind of infirmary?” Tony says as he crosses the room on legs he cannot feel to where Stephen lies, deathly still, the Cloak laid across him.
“Our healers cannot do anything for him. Tampering with the spirit, even with good intentions, is dangerous.”
“Who did this to him?”
“A rogue sorcerer.”
Tony hisses. “Mordo?”
“Stephen told you about him?”
“He told me about Pangborn. Mordo came up,” Tony says tightly. “Can he still use magic? How much longer will he be out?”
“It’s hard to say, but from what our healers can tell, no more than a day. Mordo did not successfully take his power away from him. Stephen should still be in full possession of his abilities.”
“Good. Who’s guarding this place if Stephen’s—,” Tony swallows, trying to find the right words, “—not conscious?”
“Me,” Wong says. “I won’t allow him to come to more harm. You have my word, Stark.”
“Thank you,” Tony says curtly.
After Wong leaves the room—Stephen’s room, judging by the pile of esoteric books and a cup of cooled tea on the side table—Tony collapses into an armchair next to the bed. It smells like the same oddly crisp air that’s everywhere in Kamar-Taj, and Tony takes a deep breath of it as he drags it closer to the bed.
Stephen manages to look pale even on white sheets.
Tony lays a hand on the bed and edges it closer to Stephen until his fingers brush the back of Stephen’s hand, the Cloak lifting off a little so that Tony can have just that bit more access to him. It’s warm, but just barely. He can’t even pretend that Stephen’s just asleep because nobody looks so drawn when they’re sleeping. Tony gently turns Stephen’s hand over and presses his fingers to Stephen’s wrist for good measure. The pulse is strong.
The colour of Stephen’s skin against his, flesh to flesh, flesh to mark-stained black, reminds him that Stephen will be all right. He still has many more deaths to endure before it’s permanent.
Tony pulls his hands back.
He feels a bit silly now. The fact that his skin is still mostly black should be a comforting assurance that whatever life-threatening situation Stephen just experienced isn’t life-threatening enough to have him stay dead. That eventuality will be a while yet.
But, god, if this is what it feels like every time Stephen has a brush with death even though Tony knows that Stephen won’t be dying for good any time soon, Tony is in for a very rough future. On one hand, he really wants to hate Stephen for doing this to him, but, on the other, it takes a stupidly good sort of person to keep at it despite the pain and lack of recognition, and Tony won’t change that part of Stephen even if he could.
Besides, it’s unreasonable to ask Stephen to weigh Tony’s failing cardiac health against the rest of the world. There’s no competition. The rest of the world will always win, and Tony won’t have it any other way.
All he can do, really, is help to make the world just that little bit more worth saving in any way he can. New prostheses, charity fundraisers, Iron Man. He was already doing that before Stephen came into his life. Now he just has another motivation.
Tony taps his watch. “FRIDAY, have the MK47 deliver a change of clothes and my phone. Use stealth mode if possible. Let me know before it arrives so I can let it in.”
“Yes, Boss.”
While waiting for the suit, Tony buries his head in his arms, suddenly exhausted. It was probably best that he didn’t try to force himself to stay in the workshop today. He’s not sure he’ll be capable of much while he’s sick with worry even though he knows—he knows—that Stephen will be all right. He has the marks to prove it.
There is a divisive discourse to be had about free will and how the marks deprive people of that, but right now Tony couldn’t care less about free will. He just needs Stephen to pull through.
The suit comes, and with it gloves and a jacket to cover up his skin. After so long fully covered in public, it’s uncomfortable showing this much skin even in the relative privacy of the Sanctum in the company of two people who have already seen his arms.
“Sentry mode,” he says to the armour, and it settles into position with a good vantage point of both the window and the door.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. Wong comes in with lunch—authentic Nepalese food—around noon but it remains largely untouched. It is only when Stephen starts to stir as the sun begins to dip below the horizon that the world comes back into focus again.
“Tony,” Stephen mumbles. He looks surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”
“You asshole,” Tony says, and he’s relieved enough that he doesn’t even try to hide the affection that turns the insult into what almost passes for an endearment. “You died again. You weren’t supposed to die.”
“Did the people who saw you light up like a Christmas tree bother you?” He’s surprisingly coherent for someone who’s just awoken up after dying more than once. And he’s also smiling. Why is Stephen smiling? Did some wires get crossed in his head? Tony personally never wakes up in a good mood, especially not if he was recently dead.
“What? No, there wasn’t anybody around. I wasn’t even awake yet.”
“Ah. Sorry for worrying you, then,” Stephen says, still smiling. Is this a side-effect of spiritual exhaustion? Tony will have to check with Wong.
“I’m not worried about you, I’m pissed off at you!”
“Mm. If there wasn’t anybody around, why are you so agitated?” Stephen asks, apparently entirely unconcerned for his own health when there are such interesting topics to ponder like Tony’s completely justified displeasure.
“Because we had an agreement!”
“The point of which was to avoid having others know that I’m dying.”
Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. At least he knows that Stephen hasn’t lost any of his mental acuity if he’s observant enough to run Tony into a corner, even if Tony can’t say that Stephen has his priorities entirely in order. “Fine. I was worried.”
Stephen smiles, dopey and floppy and all sorts of stupidly soft. “Thank you for worrying.”
“It’s part of my job description, isn’t it? Bedside vigil is probably expected of ‘Master Strange’s soulmate.’”
“You didn’t have to. But you did.” Stephen really shouldn’t sound so happy while he’s bedridden. “That’s really good of you.”
“I think you’re confused about who has the tougher job here. You’re out there, dying a crazy number of times so that the world goes on spinning as it hurtles around the sun in the vast nothing of space, and all I have to do is park myself next to your bed afterwards.”
“The difference is that you had a choice.”
And Tony can kind of see where Stephen is coming from. The consequences of not saving the world are dire—they’re literally world-ending. Tony would’ve chosen to fight in a heartbeat too. But whether Tony sits at Stephen’s bedside makes almost no difference at all in the grand scheme of things, and, from a purely utilitarian standpoint, Tony would make better use of his time working on one of his many projects.
“Yeah, well, my choices weren’t between dying multiple times and probably not dying at all. Between you and me, I think I got off easy.”
“Easy is relative.”
“I really wish you’d just take the compliment.”
“And I wish you’d just accept my gratitude.”
Tony huffs. “I’m not going to argue with a recently dead man. Do you want me to call Wong in?”
“Wong’s here?”
“He’s guarding the Sanctum in your stead.”
“Then leave him to it. Just let him know I’m fine on your way out.”
“All right,” Tony says, pulling up his phone. “Are you hungry? It’s almost dinner time and you haven’t eaten. There’s a great Thai place down the street and they do takeout.”
Stephen makes a sound that Tony interprets as ‘yes please I’m famished and sick of Kamar-Taj food,’ and says, “Get the basil chicken if they have that.”
They do, in fact, have basil chicken. Tony makes sure to get enough for Wong as well in case he too wants something other than food from Kamar-Taj for a change. When Tony sinks back into the armchair again after placing the order, Stephen says, “Really, thank you. You didn’t have to come and you didn’t have to stay. But you did anyway.”
“I know. But the other option was to tinker alone in the workshop.” Tony pauses and looks straight at Stephen. “I like you better.”
And he does. The work can wait.
Stephen’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, still dopey, still floppy, still stupidly soft.
Yeah, the work can wait.