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Dying in an ice-cold abandoned bunker in Siberia, Tony Stark firmly believed everything to be his fault.
There was nothing new about it, really. It’d been long established that Tony Stark was to blame for many of the world’s problems. Naturally, he was to blame for his current circumstances as well. If he'd been more level-headed, if he'd been able to persuade Rogers and others before everything went to shit, he would not have ended up with a vibranium shield stuck in his armor and between his broken ribs. Hell, if not for his anger issues, he could've been drinking bot-made cocktails in his lab right now or teaching Dum-E poker—it could've been a genuinely fun evening!
Freezing his butt on the concrete floor was definitely not fun. Same as bleeding out from a punctured lung and being buried by the weight of a dead-ass piece of engineering. Or watching his parents being killed. Oh, and fighting with someone whom he'd once considered a friend, couldn’t forget that!
Tony seriously considered complaining to the manager. Or the scriptwriter. His story was lazily written and the character arc made no sense—zero out of ten, would not recommend.
The annoyingly smiling manager might argue that this particular day wasn’t the worst in Tony Stark’s life—even if it would likely become his last—and that was a fair point. But Tony believed it to be a pretty good contender regardless. This day absolutely was worthy of a spot on his shit list. Right behind all those bleak torture days in Afghanistan. Or maybe the one when Yinsen had died? Although, there was also the day of Ultron’s attempted genocide in Sokovia—that had been a really shitty one. And the Chitauri invasion, too. Ah, and the one when he’d almost drowned in his own vomit back at the uni—that time he'd gotten so drunk and high that it’d been only Rhodey’s prompt actions that kept him from dying.
If you thought about it, it was a miracle that Tony Stark had survived to his age, with the kind of life he’d lived. His luck running out sooner or later was something to be expected.
Still, Tony refused to accept his fate this easily.
He tried to move his body. His arm rose just a bit before falling back to the concrete floor. His leg couldn’t even do that with the weight of the thrusters keeping them on the ground, and although he could wiggle his toes all he wanted, this wasn’t very useful. Tony gritted his teeth and tried again, but soon realized that it was a hopeless endeavor.
He wondered if Friday had already deployed a backup suit. She should've by now, but Siberia was huge—not so easy to cover, even for a cool-ass flying armor. With how cold it was getting by the hour, Tony’s chances of dying of hypothermia before the arrival of help were pretty high—if blood loss or internal damage didn’t finish him first, of course. Honestly, if he died here all alone after desperately trying to keep things from falling apart, it’d be just the kind of cosmic joke that’d make sense.
He laughed, but his voice was so hoarse that it sounded more like a bark. Or maybe a choke. The echo in the bunker was atrocious, and the fog in Tony's head didn't help matters either, blurring all the information his senses were getting into one endless stream of background noise.
Tony was lazily solving equations in his head, trying not to lose consciousness, when a hole suddenly opened in the air above him. He slowly moved his head to look up, the armor as stiff as ever.
The thing above him wasn’t just a hole—it was a portal, a bright cloudless sky on the other side of it that looked surreal among the greys of the snowy wasteland around him. As if a randomly appearing magical portal wasn’t surreal enough.
The portal was small, about the length of his hand, and had a bright blue glowing contour. It reminded Tony of the tesseract magic, actually, and that thought made him tense in preparation, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to defend himself in his current state. But the circle didn't blow up or suck him in or do anything else equally violent—it just shimmered there for a moment, so out of place it was ridiculous, before dropping something tiny right into Tony’s metal lap. The object bounced a bit before rolling off of him and onto the floor.
Its mission evidently fulfilled, the portal shrank into a dot and disappeared. Tony waited a minute in case something else would follow, but when nothing happened, he glanced at the object. Even the fire in his chest and the buzzing in his ears couldn’t stop him from observing it with curiosity.
The object was just a few centimeters in length, faintly rectangular, and wrapped in a thick layer of what looked like really old inked bandages. Not the strangest thing he’d seen but still an oddity, even by his standards.
Because the object was wrapped, it was difficult to say for sure what it was, but Tony had some ideas. This thing might be a sophisticated piece of metal or a world-ending magical mambo-jumbo or maybe even a divine alien chocolate bar. Tony would’ve actually taken a bite if it were the last one—not like he had much to lose at the moment, and dying of divinity sounded memorable, at least—but he suspected it wasn’t something cool like that. With aliens, even things that sounded cool were very disappointing more often than not.
And if it wasn’t a severely overrated chocolate bar…
Well. Tony had no actual evidence for this, but the slight curve of the object, its proportions… He couldn’t help but think that this was a finger. A human or a humanoid finger.
And it fell out of a portal. Right into his lap.
Tony stared at it, calculating the chances of him being delirious. Given his physical injuries and unstable emotional state, the probability was actually pretty high. But why the hell would he hallucinate bandaged corpse fingers being dropped on poor, inconsequential, dying him by some unknown extraterrestrial entities? Wasn’t this a bit too much, even for ineffable alien assholes?
If he were dreaming, what could possibly be the meaning of such a thing? That he’d need to be careful at the lab not to accidentally cut off a finger? That Pepper would be mad at him for dying? That aliens had a weird sense of humor? He’d already known all of that, so what was the point?
Tony was still trying to come up with an explanation when another portal opened to his right, a sparkly yellow one this time. Yep, a second one. Tony Stark couldn’t even die peacefully like a normal person, apparently.
At least no more body parts fell out of this one. Just a human male look-alike in a fancy medieval-style attire, a respectable beard, and an impressive scowl.
Tony greeted him with a wide, if a bit deranged smile. He would’ve waved, too, but the armor was just as dead as ten minutes ago and his broken body confidently on its way there.
"Stark?"
The supposed alien looked surprised to find him here. Maybe the guy didn’t expect company when he teleported the finger to the abandoned Earth facilities in the middle of nowhere. Or (crazy!) he wasn’t the one who’d dropped it here at all, and it was a simple coincidence that had him teleport to one half-dead engineer minutes after said engineer got a mummy body part dumped onto him.
Struggling to hold in a laugh, Tony absently considered the possibility that portal colors meant something besides stylistic choices. Could this be a bad alien/good alien power play? Or maybe different Hogwarts houses, since magic was definitely involved in this bullshit? Did this mean some brave Hufflepuff came to save the gorgeous, funny, and unbelievably smart Princess Anthonia from an evil Ravenclaw mastermind?
Tony squinted at the man towering over him. The guy didn’t look like a Hufflepuff—and his cape was red, too. Was he a fellow Gryffindor? That could work, too, Tony supposed…
“Stark!”
The Gryffindor alien was suddenly crouching next to him, the frown lines now etched even deeper into his handsome face. Yeah, the guy was surprisingly handsome, especially with that beard. The beard was fire! Tony knew a thing or two about men’s facial hair and he knew quality work when he saw it.
“Yes?” he replied, barely stopping himself from complimenting the beard. He wasn’t that out of it yet.
“You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question. Tony tried to shrug—unsuccessfully, it seemed, because the Gryffindor didn’t seem reassured. “Can you get out of the armor?”
“Nope,” Tony said, popping the ‘p’. He nodded at his lower body. “Have a shield in my chest, you see? And the reactor is dead.” Tony let out an exaggerated sigh, wondering why he’d never arranged for himself to win an Oscar. Thor knows, Tony had the skills and not just the pretty face. “I’m like a forgotten doll now. Seems fitting that this is my Barbie World, don’t you think, Mr. Potter?”
The alien gave him an inscrutable look and decided not to respond to this, which was fair. The guy looked over the armor, probably trying to find a way to take it off of him. Unsuccessfully, of course—all the manual disassembly mechanisms Tony had built into the armor didn’t work when said armor was a mangled coffin. He’d need to come up with something else, should he survive this after all.
"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," said the alien in a calm, even tone. His eyes were very expressive and not lizard-like or demon-black—nope, perfectly human. He was a wizard though, so the pretty façade could be a Loki-style illusion. “I can help you get out of the armor, but I’ll need to use magic to do it.”
“Are you an alien?” Tony blurted out. Sew him, but he really needed to know. If he died with the mystery unsolved, he’d probably haunt Rogers for the rest of the bastard’s life.
Strange stared as if he was questioning Tony’s mental faculties.
“You’re bleeding inside that armor, aren’t you?” Tony opened his mouth to answer but Strange continued talking. “No, I’m not an alien. I’m a human sorcerer from Earth.” Tony opened his mouth again but didn’t get a chance to talk this time either. “I’m not a ghost, an illusion, or a hallucination. This is my true body and appearance.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re like Maximoff?” He didn’t know if this was better than the friendly alien hypothesis or worse.
Strange’s face soured spectacularly.
“No, I’m nothing like her,” he said harshly. “Our powers stem from different sources and I actually know what I’m doing.”
“Huh. Well, that’s very nice to hear.” And Tony wasn’t even lying—he was indeed relieved to hear that. “So you want to use magic on my armor?”
“Yes,” Strange nodded, his eyes sharp. “I don’t know what happened here, but I can see that you need to get to the hospital as fast as possible. Cutting the armor off of you with normal methods will take hours.”
True. Tony still hoped for Friday’s haste arrival but knew it’d be foolish to refuse help, even if from a wizard with a sentient red cape. Yes, Tony had been prepared to die any moment, but when given a choice, he’d still prefer to go out with a bang and not alone, buried under a weight of his own mistakes.
Plus, the guy was a Gryffindor. Surely it counted for something?
“Fine,” he declared and took on a haughty billionaire tone. “You may use your magic, Mr. Potter.”
Strange huffed and shook his head but didn’t reprimand him. Tony thought he saw a corner of the man’s mouth tilt up a bit.
A few flowing hand movements brought about some glowing esoteric mandalas, and the armor around Tony slowly disassembled itself, especially careful around his midsection. When the metal stopped squeezing him from all sides, Tony felt the relief immediately. The shield went next, since his chestplate couldn’t be lifted without unsticking the vibranium first, but Strange was quick to put pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding. Judging by the surety in the guy’s actions, Strange definitely had had other patients before him.
Tony was grateful. He still felt cold and hurting, but it was way, way better now. He almost felt like he was about to float up into the air like a spirit or something. Maybe he was a discorporated soul already and just didn’t know it yet.
Did this mean Strange was his guardian angel? Or was he one of those obscure pagan deities? That’d explain the magic and the good looks.
Tony closed his eyes, getting ready to fly off into another dimension or maybe just have some rest.
“Stark!” Tony heard Strange’s voice but didn’t open his eyes. He was too comfy. Sorry, oh the Holy One. “You have severe hypothermia and blood loss. I’ll have to use a spell to stabilize your condition before we could get you to the hospital. Do you consent to this?”
“Mh-hm,” Tony mumbled, half-asleep. One spell more, one spell less—why should it matter? Tony already had an extra finger, maybe the new spell would grant him another leg or liver. Actually, a spare liver would be really nice…
Something glowed in front of him, and then Tony had a curious tingling in his body. His thoughts were still muffled, but he suddenly found the energy to open his eyes. He blinked, confused.
His body was glowing faintly now, too. He didn’t feel healed, his chest still burning like hell, but he suspected he wasn’t actively dying anymore. That probably meant that he shouldn’t poke at the spell for now.
Tony’s logic didn’t have full control of his body, however, so he raised a finger to poke at the field shimmering around him. It didn’t do anything, not even a wobble. Tony was disappointed.
“We’ll get to the hospital in a minute,” Strange said, choosing not to comment on his behavior, and stood up. “I just need…”
Strange took a few steps, crouched down, and picked up the wrapped-up alien object.
“…This,” he ended with, narrowed eyes scrutinizing the thing like it was an annoying pest. "Just how many are there?" Strange murmured. A few more mandalas—these looking vaguely destructive—but they didn’t seem to do anything. Strange moved his hands in another pattern, and the probably-finger got enclosed in a yellowish magic box. Some type of barrier, most likely.
Tony wondered if pretending to be dead would be wiser than initiating a conversation. This was magical bullshit, not science stuff. And he was an engineer, not a magician. He shouldn’t be interested, right?
Nope, not right, he really needed to figure this out.
"So, you're a wizard?" he asked nonchalantly like this was a completely normal situation. Could it be that the stasis spell or whatever had a palliative effect, too?
"I thought we’ve already established that I’m a sorcerer. Not an alien and not a wizard.” Strange didn’t look away from the finger, frowning at it like it’d dropped into his lap and not Tony’s. Although, maybe Strange actually had had others being dropped into his lap, if his comment was any indication.
"As you say, Dumbledore. Is it normal for you to collect creepy teleporting fingers?"
Strange didn’t contradict him. So, wrapped up in the bandages was indeed a finger. Good to know.
“I thought I was Potter?” Strange mumbled absently. Tony laughed and then groaned when his chest was seized with pain again. Strange glanced at him in concern, but Tony waved him off.
“I’m fine, your magic spell holds really well.”
Strange nodded but still hurried up with whatever other charms he was casting on the finger.
"This is the fourteenth I've found today. Someone is sending them to our universe," Strange said, running through spells so fast Tony had to look away to not get dizzy.
Also, 'Our universe'? There were others?
What a day of revelations.
"Why would an alien do that?" Tony asked instead.
"I don't know," Strange admitted, and he didn't seem to like it. "But the fingers emit a malevolent, corrosive energy like nothing I’ve seen before. They need to be destroyed.” Stange winced and made an especially abrupt movement with his arms. Another elaborate mandala lit up and got sucked into the glowing box. “Once I find a way to destroy them, that is."
Tony hummed thoughtfully. He’d lain there alone with the finger for a few minutes, and it didn’t do anything. It didn’t do anything even now when it was being actively threatened by Strange. The thing was creepy, sure, but could it really be that powerful?
"So... fourteen mummy fingers?”
Strange lowered his hands and observed the cube floating in front of him. Looking for any defects in the casing, most likely.
"Yes. I hid them for the time being, but it’s not a permanent solution. They're not of this universe, and the energy they emanate..." Strange tsked and rotated the cube with a wave of his fingers. "They could do disastrous things if not taken care of."
"So, if you can't destroy the fingers with magic, then you'll need my help destroying them with science," Tony concluded.
"There might still be some magic capable of that that I haven’t tried yet," Strange countered. Tony rolled his eyes.
"You'll need all the options you can get, no? Besides, I owe you now.” Tony glanced at his glowing half-dead body. “Or I will if I don’t die, of course.”
That seemed to shake Strange out of his musings, because he put the cube away somewhere (or did he turn it invisible?) and crouched next to Tony again.
“I’ll teleport you to my friend at the hospital. I’ll have to lower the spell once we get there, but I promise you’ll be in good hands,” he said, and Tony was fairly sure now that this guy’s title was the medical kind and not the science kind. Strange clearly had been taught psychology and patient care at college to say all the right words even in their non-standard situation.
“Okay, doc,” Tony agreed. Strange nodded, then lifted Tony’s body into the air. He was about to open a portal when Tony grabbed at his sleeve, stopping him. “But! You will come to me if you don’t find a way to destroy the fingers by the time I’m all patched up, Strange. Because if you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you, and I doubt you want me appearing at your doorsteps.” Tony grinned. “Although, if you do want me appearing at your doorstep, all you need to do is—”
Strange leveled him with a stern look. Tony grinned wider. Strange sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Fine. I’ll ask your help if I couldn’t destroy them myself.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can we teleport now so that you don’t go septic?”
Tony nodded, mollified. Strange teleported them right after, not waiting for Tony to try something else.
Soon after Tony was deposited onto a hospital bad and felt the spell lifting up. After that, he distantly registered some people talking around him and heard the beeping of medical machines, but everything was moving farther and farther away until it got reduced to a faint buzzing at the corner of his consciousness.
Tony found himself floating in the air again. The pure baby blue sky was above him and a weightless crimson cloud was below him, crooked long-nailed fingers sticking out at random.
He took one and swallowed it at once. This summoned Strange in Dumbledore’s garb—with the fashionable beard still in place though, none of that long gray-haired old man look—who growled at him and poked at Tony with his magic wand. Tony giggled—he was very, very high, Strange’s cape not fast enough to keep up with him—and ate another finger. He hummed in appreciation.
The fingers tasted like Tapatio-flavored Doritos.