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The hospital no longer smelled of disinfectant to Tony. After two years, the cold, metallic air had become almost familiar, like a kind of home he would never choose. The white walls seemed to watch him, and the constant sound of the heart monitors was the soundtrack to a life on pause.
That morning, the dawn light painted pale stripes through the half-closed blinds, and Stephen entered room 305, his lab coat impeccable, his gaze seemingly piercing the silence.
"Good morning, Mr. Stark. Did you sleep well?" the doctor asked, in the neutral tone of someone who knew the answer didn't matter as much as the patient's condition.
Tony turned his head on the pillow, his smile a tired imitation of the arrogant expression that had once graced magazine covers. His stubble scratched the collar of his hospital gown, and his eyes—so vibrant in memories now faded—were still fresh.
"I slept enough to keep annoying you, miracle doctor." His voice came out rough.
Strange raised an eyebrow, almost smiling, but he restrained the impulse. "Great. If you have the energy for sarcasm, it means things aren't getting worse."
"Or it means you inspire me," Tony replied, watching the doctor jot something down on his clipboard.
There was an invisible, taut, and constant thread between them. Stephen pretended not to notice, but Tony felt it—and in recent months, that clinical gaze seemed longer, more… human. Perhaps it was the imagination of a man who had already had too much time to think.
The ensuing silence was broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the machine beside the bed. Tony looked away towards the ceiling.
"Do you think... there's still hope, Strange?" The question came out softer than intended, less challenging and more vulnerable, like a child asking if the monsters under the bed were real.
The doctor observed him for several long seconds. " As long as I'm here, Stark, you won't lose."
The sentence slipped out before it could be filtered through by professionalism. Stephen looked away and picked up his clipboard, his face returning to its usual composure.
Tony just smiled, tired but genuine. "That almost sounds like a wedding vow, doctor."
"Don't get used to it," Stephen said, his back already turned, his posture rigid as he headed for the door, but the corner of his mouth trembled slightly.
________
A light rain was falling outside, pattering against the window of room 305. Tony watched the drops trickle down the glass.
Stephen entered silently.
"Did the weather decide to match your mood, Stark?" he asked, setting the clipboard down on the small table beside him with a fluid movement.
Tony gave a short, rough chuckle. "And I thought doctors didn't make jokes. What a surprise, doc."
Strange sat down in the armchair beside the bed, a rare gesture. He usually preferred to stand, distant, with the impeccable posture of someone who didn't want to be mistaken for a friend. But that day seemed to call for less formality.
"Two years and you still call me 'doc'?" Stephen commented, his fingers automatically adjusting his lab coat.
"Do you want me to call you Stephen?" Tony teased, raising an eyebrow.
"I prefer you to call me “the doctor responsible for your survival”.
Tony chuckled softly, then became serious.
"You know, sometimes I forget I'm sick," she confessed, her voice softening to almost a whisper. "Then comes this headache, these flashes of light... and I remember that my brain is trying to sabotage me. My own brain, the only thing I've ever been able to count on."
Stephen looked at him, and the air seemed heavier for a moment. "I know it's difficult. But you've stayed strong."
"Strong?" Tony gave a tired half-smile. "I'm a man trapped in a white room, surrounded by machines that remind me I'm alive only because they beep. That's not strength, that's stubbornness."
There was a silence. Stephen didn't answer immediately. He observed the man in front of him—the same arrogant genius he once saw in the headlines, now thin, with deep dark circles under his eyes and a quiet courage.
"Sometimes, Stark, stubbornness is what keeps someone alive when all other reasons have gone," he said finally, in a low voice.
Tony looked away, but not before Stephen saw the moisture blurring his eyes, yet with a glint that mixed vulnerability and gratitude.
"Two years of listening to you say those cold things..." Tony shook his head slowly, "and just today, you decide to sound almost human."
Stephen gave a brief smile. "Blame the rain," he replied, his gaze following the same liquid path Tony had observed moments before. "It makes me sentimental."
"Then let it rain more often," Tony murmured, resting his head on the pillow.
The doctor lingered there for several seconds longer than necessary, watching Tony's breathing deepen, the muscles in his face gradually relax. As he left, he hesitated at the door and glanced one last time at the bed – Tony's eyes were already closed, his body succumbing to exhaustion, but a slight smile still lingered on his lips.
_________
Night fell calmly over the hospital, and room 305 was immersed in almost absolute silence. Only the rhythmic sound of the heart monitor and the constant hum of the air conditioner broke the stillness. Tony tried to sleep, his body tossing and turning restlessly on the hospital mattress, his eyes scanning the cracks in the ceiling.
The pain began not as an explosion, but as a distant buzzing, then it turned into heaviness, a growing pressure behind the eyes.
He blinked, took a deep breath through his nose—his body recognized that warning, the secret language his ailing brain used to announce storms.
But this time it was different.
The world spun, and the pain exploded like a lightning bolt.
The monitor started firing off with high-pitched, continuous sounds.
"Stark?" Nurse Patterson's voice echoed as if from the bottom of an underwater tunnel. Her face appeared blurred above him, features dissolving into pale patches. "Call Dr. Strange! Now!"
Stephen arrived in a few seconds that felt like hours – his lab coat open, revealing the dress shirt underneath, disheveled, his normally impeccable hair tousled as if he had repeatedly run his hands through it.
"Tony, can you hear me? Stark!" His hands gripped the patient's shoulders with a firmness that was both anchoring and diagnostic. His fingers pressed on specific points, testing neurological responses while his eyes scanned every microexpression on Tony's face.
Tony tried to smile, but his words came out shaky and drawn out. "I... thought it was just a headache..."
"Stay with me," Stephen said, his deep voice breaking slightly on the last syllable like thin glass under pressure. He didn't look at the nurses when he gave the order. "Prepare the operating room! Now!"
The hallway seemed like an endless tunnel as they carried the stretcher. The sound of the casters echoed on the tiled floor, mixed with the irregular rhythm of Tony's heart.
Stephen walked beside her, his hands steady, but his gaze revealing everything he was trying to hide: fear.
__________
Hours later.
Room 305 was silent again.
Stephen entered slowly, exhausted, his mask hanging around his neck and his gloves stained with a light reddish hue.
Tony was pale, but breathing steadily. The wires and tubes seemed more numerous than before.
Stephen approached and placed his hand on the headboard of the bed. "You gave me trouble, Stark," he murmured, his voice too low to be heard. "You almost made me break my own promise."
A soft moan answered.
Tony opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light. "You... never sleep, doctor?" The words came out harsh, worn down by intubation, but carrying that familiar spark of provocation that Stephen...
Stephen let out a sigh of relief that seemed to carry with it the weight of all the agonizing hours spent in the operating room, his shoulders finally relaxing from the tense posture he had maintained while fighting death for the right to keep this man breathing. The lines of worry on his face softened momentarily.
I had to make sure you'd still have someone to annoy tomorrow.
Tony tried to laugh, but the sound came out weak. "And did he succeed?"
"I always manage," Stephen replied, with a half-smile.
_______
Room 305 was quieter than it had ever been in all the days Tony had called home.
The window let in a pale late afternoon light that didn't warm the room, only illuminated the wilted flowers on the table.
Tony lay against the pillows, which seemed to gradually engulf him, his eyes half-closed, breathing heavily. Time seemed to stretch between one blink and the next.
Stephen was there, as always. His lab coat hung on the chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing his forearms, his face marked by the weariness of someone who doesn't allow himself to sleep.
He watched every movement, every breath.
Tony opened his eyes and tried to smile. "You... still here, doctor?"
"Where else would I be?" Stephen replied, approaching. "Apparently, you make a point of keeping me in a state of permanent alert."
Tony let out a weak laugh, almost a sigh. "You could take a vacation... forget about that stubborn patient."
"I already tried," Stephen confessed, lowering his gaze. "I couldn't do it."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was a kind of silent, profound understanding, as if words were no longer necessary.
"Stephen..." Tony's voice was low, raspy. "You know what's funniest about all this? I always thought death was the end of everything. But now... it seems like it's just another detail."
"Don't talk like that," Stephen interrupted too quickly, his voice trembling. "You're still here."
Tony looked at him for a long time, tired but serene. "I am. But... if one day I'm not, I want you to know that... you were the only one who made me forget that I was dying."
The words hit him like a scalpel — precise, inevitable.
Stephen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice came out low. "So don't remind me of that anytime soon, Stark."
Tony smiled slightly, his eyes already heavy. "No promises, doc. You know I've never been good at meeting deadlines."
Stephen stayed there, watching him fall asleep.
Outside, the sky was darkening — and room 305 was filling with the soft light of the night.
________
A cold dawn fell upon the hospital.
The hallway on that floor was silent, except for the distant sound of footsteps and the continuous hum of fluorescent lights.
In room 305, Tony slept—or tried to. His body no longer obeyed him as before. Each breath seemed to require more effort than it should.
Stephen was leaning against the window, watching the cloudy sky.
In recent days, he had learned to fear silence. Silence meant that Tony's heart was secretly struggling.
He turned around when he heard the sound — a low moan, followed by a persistent alarm.
The monitor went off.
"Tony?" Stephen approached quickly. "Tony, can you hear me?"
Tony was pale, his gaze lost. His body trembled slightly.
"It hurts..." she murmured, her voice breaking. "My head... again..."
Stephen pressed the emergency button, but kept his hand firmly on his shoulder. "Stay with me, Stark. Breathe, listen to me."
"I... I'm trying..." her words came out broken, almost a whisper. "But... it seems like the world is... slipping away..."
Stephen felt his heart sink.
The medical team came in, but he didn't leave his side.
"Reactive epilepsy!" shouted a nurse. "We need to stabilize him!"
Stephen took control.
The orders came out quickly, almost automatically, but the tone betrayed the tension:
"Diazepam, now! Monitor the blood pressure!"
The minutes dragged on until the sound from the monitors began to stabilize.
The room fell back into a tense silence, broken only by Tony's uneven breathing.
Stephen kept his hand on Stephen's, his fingers trembling.
"I told you not to scare me anymore, remember?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Tony opened his eyes slowly, his gaze blurry and confused. "I... broke... another promise, didn't I?"
Stephen swallowed hard, his face close enough for Tony to see the weariness and fear in his eyes. "This time, I forgive you. Just... don't do it again."
Tony tried to smile, but the effort was too much.
His eyes closed, and he fell asleep again, exhausted.
Stephen stood there for long minutes, watching him breathe.
When he finally stepped away, his lab coat was wrinkled, and his eyes—red.
But the monitor next to the bed was still pulsing.
And that, for now, was enough.
_________
The days following the crisis were a blur of bright lights, medication, and exhaustion.
Tony would wake up and go to sleep without knowing exactly what time it was.
His body ached, his head throbbed at irregular intervals — and blood would occasionally stain the handkerchief on the pillow.
Stephen read the reports with his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding silently as his eyes scanned lines of data.
The scans and charts showed downward curves that not even the most aggressive medications could reverse; the numbers all said the same thing with brutal honesty: the tumor had become inoperable, weaving its tentacles through brain regions where not even the most legendary hands in the world would dare to venture.
The previous surgery had given Tony only time, a generous loan from fate that now demanded repayment with exorbitant interest. And now, even time was beginning to slip through his fingers like fine sand.
That morning, Stephen entered the room with slow steps.
Tony, half-awake in the dim light, smiled weakly as he recognized the familiar silhouette.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" he murmured. "You usually start the day complaining about how I make your job difficult."
Stephen placed the clipboard on the table and sat down next to him. "You always made it difficult," he agreed, his eyes fixed on Tony's. "And even so..." he hesitated. "Even so, I don't regret a single day of those two years."
Tony chuckled softly, a sound that quickly turned into a dry cough that shook him all over, forcing him to instinctively bring his hand to his nose. When he pulled out the handkerchief, the white fabric was stained with those familiar crimson patterns.
Stephen looked away for a second, swallowing the discomfort that rose in his throat.
"The test results came back," he said finally. "The tumor has progressed too far."
"So that's it, right?" Tony asked calmly.
"This... what?"
"The end of the line. The final stop. The last chapter."
Stephen remained silent. He hated the honesty of medicine in these moments—the inability to lie with dignity.
"You can go home, Tony," he said, her voice choked with emotion. "No machines, no monitor, no hospital. But... you'll still have to live with the pain. The flare-ups."
Tony looked out the window, lost in thought.
Pain, bleeding, epilepsy... it sounds like a list of memories to keep me from forgetting the hospital.
"I don't want you to think that way."
"I know," Tony replied quietly. "But the truth is, there's no 'cure' anymore, is there? Just... continuity."
Stephen didn't answer. He simply reached out and took Tony's hand.
It was the first time there was no hesitation in the gesture.
"Continuing is also a way of winning, Stark," he said with effort. "Sometimes, winning is simply... continuing to breathe."
Tony watched him for several long seconds. "You speak nicely for someone who hates comforting people."
Stephen smiled — a small, sad, but genuine smile. "I learned from you."
The silence that followed was almost comforting.
Outside, the light of dusk began to filter through the half-open curtains, tinging the room with golden hues.
Tony rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, exhausted.
Stephen stood there, not leaving, his hand still wrapped around Tony's.
________
The hospital corridor seemed longer that morning.
Tony walked slowly, leaning on a cane, the soft sound of his shoes echoing on the smooth floor.
The nurses watched him with discreet expressions of relief and longing — two years was enough time to become part of the place.
Stephen was with him, his lab coat folded over his arm.
He wasn't the impeccable doctor he always was, but a man who, for the first time in a long time, had set aside his routine.
When they reached the exit, Tony stopped and looked around.
The fresh air outside hit him like something he'd forgotten — the feeling of the wind, the smell of the street, the distant sounds of the vibrant city.
"So that's it," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm leaving here alive, but with the most tragic instruction manual on the planet. Take your medicine, rest when you feel pain, come back if there's bleeding... it sounds like one of those contracts you sign without reading the fine print."
Stephen adjusted his coat. "You're still alive, Stark. The rest... we'll manage."
Tony laughed, but then quickly brought his hand to his face—the nosebleeds were recurring frequently now. He discreetly wiped it with a tissue and murmured:
"And does "us" include you? Because as far as I know, your jurisdiction ends at the hospital door."
Stephen glanced at him sideways, serious, but with the subtle glint of something softer. "I requested a vacation."
Tony blinked, surprised. "What? You... Strange, you don't take vacations. You're the kind of guy who complains when others do. I remember the time Patterson took a week off and you grumbled about "questionable priorities" for days."
"Exactly for that reason," Stephen replied calmly. "I thought it was time to try something new. Twelve years without a single day off... maybe it's time to find out what's outside these walls."
Tony was silent for a moment, trying to understand. "You... did this for me?"
"No," Stephen said with a half-smile. "I did it for myself."
"For you?"
"Yes. My vacation time had been piling up for years. I never knew what to do with my free time. Now I know."
Tony looked away, swallowing hard. "Still... I don't want to be the reason you give up everything."
Stephen stepped forward and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"You're not the reason. You're the reminder."
"About what?" asked Tony, his voice low.
"That there is still life outside the hospital. And that some things are worth more than work."
A heavy, yet calm silence settled between them.
Tony took a deep breath, his eyes tired, yet alive. "Okay, doc. But I'm warning you now—I'm not good company for vacations. I'll complain about the sun, I'll get tired quickly, I'll probably have a meltdown in the middle of the movie and ruin it for everyone."
"It doesn't have to be good company," Stephen replied. "It just has to be here."
And, for the first time in a long time, Tony felt that the weight on his shoulders was a little lighter.
The hospital was behind us, and the cold morning wind seemed to promise—not a new beginning, but a less lonely continuation.