The clock blinks: it's three thirty-six in the morning. He's laying in bed, but he's wide awake. This is when the doubts come rolling in— it isn't easy to fall asleep when you know you're not a good person. You have to live with that each night, every mistake —
and sure, some people might be able to grasp how that feels, but—
not really. Not a lot of people make mistakes that cost thousands of lives.
First, his company selling out weapons under the table. Weapons he built to do good. He thought he was doing good.
What a joke.
Then, get this. Ultron— an artificial intelligence created to protect the planet and those living on it when he couldn't— killed so, so many people. Solvokia. He'd never forget the place at this rate.
Three-forty, the clock now blinks. He turns over and pulls the blanket close.
The room is quiet, and he listens. Then, he hears it softly.
Breathing. He isn't alone anymore. Right beside him is Stephen Strange. This man who used to be a total stranger, (ha, get it? He's Doctor Strange. It's okay, you can laugh now. It was funny.) is now his saving grace.
He draws closer, taking comfort in the company.
His mind can finally pipe down as he focuses on listening to each slow breath.
Strange is like... a blessing he never consented to receiving. He definitely wasn't worthy of him, if that meant anything, but that is the thing. It didn't matter that he was a piece of shit, the good 'ole doc didn't see him that way. For some reason, he chose to settle for Tony.
Couldn't be the money, he was pretty sure wizards could conjure that shit, and despite his dashing looks, his personality was lack-luster. He has a history of being world-scale alien-invasion accident prone. Really, there wasn't a lot of viable reason to stick around. Even Pep had the sensibility to ditch (more than once, too), but Strange? Never. He always said he just liked him.
And if someone like Stephen Strange can like him, then he can't be all bad, right? It's a lot of cards to stack on one guy, but Tony's always been an all-in kind of guy. Lost him more than a few bucks in casinos. It might be a real, real small chance, but he's willing to bet on it and ride it out.
Because comfort is strange, and Doctor Strange is comfort. Okay, mushy and didn't make a ton of sense, but it's now three-fifty, so what better could be expected of him? Poetry? Shakespeare? There's a library you can go to for all that. Get a library card, too, while you're at it. Invest in your future!
...It's cloying, yeah, but Strange is the only one who ever made him feel this way.
There's always been worlds of walls between him and other people. And Tony Stark could tell you, tearing down walls is a pain. It also doesn't come easy— no key-lime pie for this one.
But Strange? For some Goddamned reason (though really, isn't God simply work of fiction?) the walls were just... never a part of it. He could love Stephen Strange and the walls didn't get to input jack shit about it.
And that was nice, but also vaguely terrifying because Tony Stark has gone his whole life building these defenses to keep people out, but whoopsy-doo-da, looky here at monsieur wizardo and his cute face, he's wormed his way in through Stark's internal air tight defenses that make S.H.I.E.L.D. security look like a motherfucking joke (at least, more of one. It already kinda is one.) Like really, man? You gotta do that?
Tony Stark closes his eyes. It should be impossible, but here, beside Stephen Strange... it all goes quiet. And now, they're breathing together.