Archive of Our Own

May 1970

The hospital room was hushed except for the faint beeping of a monitor and the sound of nurses in the hall. Maria lay exhausted but glowing, hair plastered to her forehead, cradling the tiny, squirming bundle that had just changed everything.

Howard was hovering in the corner, probably still reeling from when she'd yelled at him earlier. Maria ignored him. Her world had narrowed to the warm, fragile weight in her arms.

Anthony Edward Stark blinked up at her, still pink and wrinkled, his expression somewhere between bewilderment and indignation. And his eyes—oh, his eyes—were the clearest, brightest blue she had ever seen.

Maria gasped, soft and awed, her smile trembling. “Look at you,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his downy cheek. “Big blue eyes, just like mine.”

The baby blinked again, gaze locking onto hers like he already knew her, like he already trusted her completely. Tears blurred her vision, but she couldn’t look away.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you there’s anything wrong with them,” she murmured, voice fierce in its gentleness. “They’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

Howard finally stopped pacing, glancing over with a rare softness that almost startled her. “He’s got your eyes,” he admitted quietly.

Maria smiled, leaning down to kiss her son’s tiny forehead. “Yeah, he does.”

February 1972

Maria sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, hair loose around her shoulders, while Tony toddled in circles with his wooden blocks, chattering nonsense words that only she could decipher.

He plopped down suddenly, staring up at her with big, wondrous eyes.

"Blue." He announced, pointing at her.

Maria blinked. "My eyes?"

Tony nodded, then pointed to his own. "Blue." He grinned, like he'd just discovered rocket science.

"Yeah," Maria smiled. "The same blue, huh?"

Tony nodded excitedly, crawling onto her lap. "Pretty."

“They’re beautiful,” Maria agreed, kissing his head. “The most beautiful blue.”

Tony leaned against her shoulder, satisfied, already distracted by a toy he could chew on.

December 1974

The kitchen always smelled like comfort when Ana was in it. Warm butter, sugar, cinnamon, challah bread just out of the oven.

Tony had one hand full of bread, the other sticky from playing with dough he certainly wasn't supposed to be touching. Ana didn't mind of course, just laughed everytime he starting reaching up to the counter.

“Alright, young man,” she said, holding up two different bottles of food coloring like they were serious science instruments. “Which looks closest?”

Tony blinked, crumbs dotting his shirt. “Closest to what?”

“Your eyes, kicsikém.”

That perked him right up. He leaned on tiptoe, face close to the jars. One was a sharp turquoise, the other a softer sky blue. He frowned, squinting like a scientist.

“That one.” He jabbed a finger at the sky blue. “It’s shinier. My eyes shine.”

Ana chuckled, brushing flour off his cheek with her thumb. “They certainly do.”

“Jarvis got cookies that matched his eyes,” Tony reminded her solemnly. “So I want mine too.”

"That's right," Ana agreed, tilting his head up. "Let me see. Open your eyes. Wide."

Tony widened his eyes, standing up on his tippy toes.

Ana bent down until she was nearly nose-to-nose with him, pretending to study him the way a jeweler inspects a rare diamond. Tony didn’t even blink, eyes open wide as saucers, like the fate of the cookies depended on his cooperation.

Finally, Ana gave a decisive nod. “Yes. Definitely the sky blue. The other one is far too cold for you.”

Tony beamed, rocking back on his heels. “Told you my eyes shine.”

“You did, and you were right,” Ana said, turning back to the bowl of frosting. “Now, if we’re making cookies, you’ll have to promise to share them. Otherwise, poor Mr. Jarvis will feel left out.”

Tony crossed his arms, pouting. “He can’t have my eyes. He already has his own.”.

Ana laughed, soft and musical, and reached out to tap his nose. "You'll have more than enough, Tony, don't worry."

Tony frowned like she was suggesting he hand over his favorite toy. “But what if he likes my eyes better? And he eats them all himself?”

Ana’s chuckled, her hands busy stirring the color into the frosting. “Impossible. Mr. Jarvis is quite fond of his own eyes.”

"Still don't trust him…"

Ana smiled as she tilted the bowl, letting Tony watch as the coloring mixed in, turning the white frosting a pale blue. "Well, then, we'll make sure to set aside a plate just for you. With your eyes on them. Safe and sound."

That earned her another solemn nod, as though they were signing an important treaty. “Good. ’Cause they’re mine.”

She slid the bowl toward him, placing a little butter knife in his flour-dusted hand. “Then you’d better help protect them. Careful strokes. No rushing.”

Tony concentrated so hard his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. His little hand wobbled, smearing more frosting on the counter than the cookie, but Ana never once corrected him, just hummed and sprinkled sugar stars when he was finished.

When they were done, she held one up to the light. A wonky dreidel shape, frosted in blue that did look like his eyes if you squinted. She set it gently in his palm.

"There we go. How's that, sweetheart?"

Tony turned it this way and that, holding it up like it was a priceless jewel. His grin stretched wide, cheeks dimpling.

“It’s perfect,” he declared, and then, after a beat, lowered his voice to something secretive. “Can I eat it?”

Ana gasped dramatically, hand over her chest. “Eat your own eyes? Oh, heavens no.”

Tony froze, cookie halfway to his mouth, eyes wide in horror. “…Wait. You mean I gotta keep it forever?”

Ana’s laugh bubbled out, quick and bright. She took his free hand, folding his fingers gently around the cookie. “No, drágám. You can eat it."

Tony let out a relieved little “hmph,” then finally bit into the cookie with a satisfying crunch. Crumbs tumbled down his shirt, frosting smudging his lip. He chewed, squinting up at her like a tiny critic.

"It's yummy!"

Ana smiled so warmly her eyes crinkled, tugging him into a floury hug. “Of course it is, sweetheart. You helped me with it.”

April 1976

The backyard smelled like frosting and sun-warmed grass. Balloons bobbed lazily against the fence, and kids in paper hats darted past with stick hands. Tony was standing off to the side, eyeing the cake table, when one of the moms swept over.

She crouched down, hands on her knees, and gasped like she'd discovered treasure. "My goodness, your eyes are beautiful, darling."

Tony frowned, shifting his weight. "They're just eyes," he muttered. "Lots'a people have blue eyes."

She laughed, reaching up to brush his cheek. "Not like yours. Yours are striking."

Tony squirmed a little before making himself relax. He promised mom and dad he wouldnt make a scene today.

"My mom has blue eyes," he said firmly, pointing at Maria, who was chatting with some of her friends across the yard. "Same ones. So they're not special. They're normal."

The woman blinked, momentarily thrown, then smiled indulgently like he didn’t understand his own argument. Tony crossed his arms, scowling, already hating how it felt to be looked at like that.

Cake couldn’t be served soon enough.

November 1978

Howard’s colleagues filled the Stark mansion, tuxedos and brandy glasses clinking under chandeliers. Tony tried to make himself useful, handing out canapés on a silver tray because it was better than being told to “stay out of the way.”

One man plucked a bite from the tray, then squinted at him. “Those eyes,” he said, chuckling, “you could sell a fortune on them alone. Dangerous, though. Women won’t trust you a bit. Too sharp. Too pretty.”

Tony didn’t know what to say, so he smiled, the same smile his mom does. Later, when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t feel dangerous. Just small.

September 1979

Tony heard the too familiar uneven steps before anything else. He slumped down, pulling his comic higher up, pretending not to notice. Pretending always worked better.

He jumped when the door creaked open. Howard stumbled out, tie loose, shirt stained, eyes bloodshot. He blinked down at Tony, surprise cutting through the haze for a moment.

“What are you doing up?” The words were slurred, heavy.

Tony shut his comic quickly, like he’d been caught stealing. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Howard huffed. He leaned on the doorframe, studying his son with an expression Tony couldn’t read. Then his gaze snagged on Tony’s face—on the eyes.

“Blue.”

Tony blinked up. “…What?”

"Your eyes."

"Oh… y-yeah?" Is he just noticing now? Tony knew his dad's never paid much attention to him, but he couldn't possibly not have picked up on his eye color before tonight, right?

Howard’s brow furrowed, like he was squinting at something that shouldn’t be there. “Blue,” he said again, quieter this time. The word dragged out of him, slow, like it hurt to admit it.

Tony just nodded. He knew not to argue with his dad when he's drunk, so he just waits for him to continue.

"You got Maria's eyes. Not mine."

Howard’s jaw tightened. He glanced away, back toward the shadows of the workshop, as if he could still see someone else there. “But they don’t look like hers. Not really.” His voice dipped lower. “They’re too sharp. Too bright. Too… blue.”

Tony didn’t move. His fingers dug into the edges of his comic book, the paper threatening to tear.

Howard laughed then, short and humorless, and finally looked back at him. “You know who had eyes like that?”

Tony did. He didn’t answer.

“Steve." Howard sighed, like it physically hurt. "Eyes just like that. Like they could cut through you. Like they were made for something better.” His hand waved vaguely through the air, unsteady. “Hero’s eyes.”

Tony’s chest tightened. The silence stretched, and he didn’t know if he was supposed to feel proud or ashamed. Maybe both.

"Whatever," Howard pushed himself off the doorway teetering down the hall. "Get to bed, Anthony."

Tony sat frozen long after his father’s footsteps faded, the words still echoing in the empty hall. Hero’s eyes.

He wanted to smile at that. He wanted it to mean something good. But the way his dad said it—it didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a mistake.

Like those eyes belonged to someone else, and Tony had stolen them.

He stood up, putting the comic away on its shelf, and slowly crept back to his room.

He climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up tight around his shoulders. His eyes burned, and for once it wasn’t from the reading lamp he’d kept on too long.

He rolled onto his side and buried his face in the pillow. If he pressed hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

Blue. Too blue. Not his.

When sleep finally came, it brought dreams of a man with the same eyes, standing taller, brighter, stronger than Tony could ever be. A man his father looked at with pride.

And when Tony woke, heart heavy, the dream clung to him. He shuffled to the mirror in his bathroom, peered up into his own reflection. The blue stared back.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown.

Just stared.

October 1980

Tony tugged on the Captain America costume Auntie Ana made for him, adjusting the gloves and helmet.

Then he stepped in front of the mirror.

And froze.

The blue of his eyes caught the light, reflecting off the shiny plastic shield he was holding up. And he realized—they weren’t just blue. They were Captain America blue. Bright. Strong. Certain.

Hero's eyes. Just like his dad said.

For a moment, Tony imagined himself standing on some battlefield, the flag flying behind him, people looking to him for hope. He didn’t have a super-soldier serum. He didn’t have a shield made of vibranium. But those eyes… those eyes could sell the idea of heroism. Could make people believe in him before he ever even lifted the shield.

He leaned closer, scrutinizing them. “Not bad,” he whispered to himself, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Pretty heroic, Tony. Pretty heroic indeed.”

He spun the shield, practiced a stiff salute, and imagined the crowd cheering, the blue in his eyes matching the blue of his costume like it had been meant to be all along.

Even if it was just Halloween, even if the most dangerous thing tonight was a neighbor’s overly excited German shepherd, Tony felt… right.

And for the first time, the mirror didn't reflect a boy with his mother's too-blue eyes, it reflected a hero.

November 1983

Obie had said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "Your eyes are a distraction, Tony. People focus on them too much. They don't trust them."

Tony looked up from the workbench, goggled perched crooked on his head. "That's stupid," he said immediately.

Obie chuckled, all patronizing warmth. “I’m just telling you what people see, kid. Sharp blue eyes, they’ll assume you’re hiding something. Or they’ll think you’re too young, too soft. Doesn’t matter what the truth is—what matters is what people think.”

Tony crossed his arms, trying to look taller than he was. “Yeah, well, I like my eyes.”

“You’ll learn,” Obie said, not unkindly. He patted Tony’s shoulder like he was closing the matter.

But Tony didn’t let it close. Not this time. “No. You’re wrong.” His voice cracked a little, but his chin stayed high. “Mom has the same eyes. Exactly the same. And there’s nothing wrong with hers. So there’s nothing wrong with mine either,"

Obie's hand stilled on his shoulder, grip a little too tight, not that Tony noticed. "Well, believe what you wanna, son. But you've gotta admit, all the comments can get annoying."

“People say annoying stuff all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

Obie gave him that look—the one that was half-smile, half-smirk, like he was humoring Tony while already filing the argument away as kiddie nonsense. “You’ll see what I mean one day. Distractions get you killed in business.”

Tony rolled his eyes, goggles slipping further down his forehead. “Maybe I don’t wanna be in business.”

“Sure you do,” Obie said smoothly. “You’re a Stark.”

Tony didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back to the workbench, fiddling with the tiny circuit board he’d been soldering. His hands were too small for the iron, but he was steady anyway.

He glanced at the mirror his father always keeps on the workbench, and his eyes caught in the light—blue and bright and familiar. His chest eased. Mom’s eyes. Not a weakness. Never a weakness.

He grinned at the reflection, and said over his shoulder, “Distractions can be good, y’know. Sometimes people need something nice to look at.”

Obie barked a laugh. “That’s one way to spin it, kid.”

November 1984

The dorm room smelled like stale food, weed, and whatever perfume had been left behind by the lady Tony's invited over the other night. MTV blared from the corner TV, a Twisted Sister video looping, the guitars making his chest thrum in a way that had nothing to do with music.

He lay sprawled across his bed, pillow under his chin, hands scraping down the raw lines along his forearms.

Every scratch, every nick, every sting felt like something he could control in a world that otherwise didn’t make sense.

Rhodey sat on the edge of the desk, hands folded in his lap, trying very hard not to hover. Not to lecture. Not to mother him. He’d learned that lesson about a month ago, when the little gremlin had hissed at him for even breathing in his direction.

But then Tony’s hands drifted higher, fingers brushing near his eyelids. Not his arms, not his legs, but his eyes.

“Whoa,” Rhodey said softly, voice steady but low enough to startle. “Hands. Off. The eyes.”

Tony froze mid-scratch, and turned to face Rhodey. His pupils were constricted from whatever concoction he’d taken tonight. “Mmm,” he hummed, almost hypnotic, almost like a lullaby he was humming to himself. “What? No. It’s fine. I can—don’t—”

“Tony,” Rhodey pressed, leaning closer, careful not to invade, careful not to start the fight he knew wouldn’t end well. "No. Eyes are off-limits. We don't want you blinding yourself, right?"

Tony blinked slowly, the motion exaggerated, like he was testing the world through a haze. His hands lingered near his face for a moment longer, then dropped limply to his lap.

“Yeah, yeah… fine,” he muttered, voice small, fragile. “Not touching.”

Rhodey let out a soft sigh, leaning back just enough to give Tony some space, but staying close enough that he could intervene if necessary. “Good. Look, Tones… I don’t care how messed up the day’s been. Your arms, legs—whatever. Those heal. Eyes? Not so much.”

Tony gave a humorless chuckle, the kind that scraped at the edges of the room. “Yeah… tell that to my brain. Eyes see everything. Don’t wanna see.”

“Then don’t,” Rhodey said quietly, letting the words hang. “Close them. Take a break from the world. You don't have to punish yourself.”

Tony rolled onto his back, head falling against his pillow. His hair fell into his eyes, he'll have to get it cut soon, its getting too long.

“I don’t even know why I… why I let it get like this,” he muttered, voice tight and raw. “Everything’s—too much. Brain’s too loud. Arms hurt. Eyes hurt. Life hurts.”

Rhodey just nodded, letting the storm inside Tony run its course without trying to fix it. He knew better than to jump in with platitudes. That never worked.

Tony's fingers twitched again, but instead of scratching he just ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

"Can I—" Tony's voice cracked, he cleared his throat. "Feel free to say no if its weird. It's definitely weird. I— I don't even know what—"

"Just ask, Tony."

Tony breathed in, looking away. "Could I.. sleep in your bed tonight?" He winced. "Ew. That's really weird."

"It's not the weirdest thing you've asked me." Rhodey replied, sitting on his own bed. "Right now I'd take a bath with you if it'd make you feel better, give you a massage, even."

The comment had the desired effect, considering Tony laughed. Sharp and high pitched and genuine. "Okay, see, that's weird." He got up regardless, moving across the room and lying down beside Rhodey. "Thanks, man, seriously."

Rhodey shifted, making more room for him.

"It's no problem."

October 1985

Rhodey’s key rattled in the lock before the door swung open.

Tony was standing near his bed, Halloween costume half-on (Rhodey has no idea what he's supposed to be), staring into the mirror on the wall.

He didn’t even blink when Rhodey came in. Just kept squinting, leaning closer to his own reflection, then leaning back again like he was testing depth perception.

“Jesus, Tones,” Rhodey muttered, setting the books down. “What’d you take this time?”

Tony didn't answer. He just leaned in again, squinting enough that his eyelids hid the little ring of blue that was still there.

"Can't… see 'em," tony finally murmured, voice soft.

Rhodey frowned, taking a cautious step closer. “See what?”

Tony jabbed a finger at the mirror. “The blue. Everyone… always goes on 'bout my eyes. Pretty, sparklin', whatev. An right now… nuthin'. Just… blackness. No one can see 'em… No one can see... Fits better this way.”

Rhodey’s stomach knotted. He crossed the room and carefully nudged Tony’s hand down. “That’s just the drugs, man. Your pupils are dilated. Doesn’t mean the blue's gone.”

Tony hummed, leaning sideways until his shoulder bumped Rhodey’s. His breath smelled sharp, it made Rhodey flinch. “Kinda like it better like this,” he slurred. “No one staring. No one comparing. Just—dark. Empty. Feels right.”

Rhodey swallowed hard. He wrapped an arm around Tony's shoulders to keep him up.

“Look at me, Tones,” He said softly, tilting his head so their eyes met. “You’re not gone. Not empty. Not dark. You're brilliant. You're kind.. You’re… you. Blue eyes or not, drugs or not, you’re still you.”

Tony blinked slowly, pupils still huge, and for a moment his expression softened—not clarity, not fully awake, but just enough to see Rhodey there. “…You sure?” he mumbled, voice small, almost childlike.

"Yeah," Rhodey replied. "I'm sure. Now lets get you to bed before you fall on me, alright?"

Tony laughed, stumbling over his own feet as Rhodey slowly walked them to his bed. "I'm s'pposed to be goin' to a party, though…"

Rhodey groaned softly, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “Yeah, well, the party can wait. You’re not exactly… looking party-ready right now.”

Tony flopped onto the bed, pulling Rhodey down with him. He let out a long, lazy sigh, eyes half-lidded, still struggling to focus. "It's Halloweeeen though. Gotta get fucked up."

Rhodey shook his head, chuffing. "I think you're plenty fucked up already, Tones."

Tony let out another laugh, staring up at the ceiling. "Whadda you think, honey? Y'like the blue?"

"Yeah," Rhodey muttered, as he tugged the blanket over them both. "I like the blue."

March 1986

The dorm room, as always, smelled faintly of weed, cologne, and stale pizza. MTV blared from the little TV on top of a dresser—some neon-drenched music video from a pop band Tony can't remember the name of right now—but Rhodey barely glanced up. MTV basically 24/7 in the dorm. Rhodey tried to turn it off once in the early days and Tony shot awake just to flick it back on. Eventually he learned to just let it play, Tony's parents paid rent anyways.

Either way, Rhodey was too focused on his work to worry about whatever song had Tony's attention tonight. He had a textbook open on the bed beside him. A notebook balanced on one thigh, and Tony's head resting on the other.

Tony exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Y’know what’s funny?” he drawled.

“No,” Rhodey said without looking up, pencil scratching.

“My eyes,” Tony continued, like Rhodey hadn't even answered. “Everyone’s always on about my eyes. Grown-ups, hookups, whoever. Like they’re this—this magical, sparkly thing. And sure, yeah, they’re pretty. But I don't get why people act like its a brand new thing every time. It's always 'oh, Tony, you've got such pretty eyes. They're so blue. Blah blah blah."

Rhodey flipped a page in his textbook, unfazed. “Maybe they’re just being nice.”

Tony tilted his head back in Rhodey’s lap, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “Nooo, see, that’s the thing. It’s not nice. It’s… fixation. Like I’m some kind of zoo exhibit. Like, ‘look at the rare Stark in his natural habitat, blinking with his big blue eyes.’”

Rhodey snorted, finally glancing down at him. “You’re high.”

“I’m right,” Tony insisted, waving the joint like it was a professor’s pointer. A few ashes fell on his shirt; he didn’t notice. “And you know what? I don’t even care. Because they’re the one thing I’ve got from my mom. Everyone says I’m Howard's kid—his nose, his hair, his stupid chin, his temper, yeah yeah yeah. But these?” He jabbed a finger toward his own face, nearly poking himself in the eye. “These are hers. The only part of me that’s Maria.”

Rhodey sighed, sliding the notebook off his lap before Tony knocked it to the floor. “So you’re saying your eyes are the best part of you.”

Tony grinned, too wide and too smug. “Exactly! The best damn thing I’ve got. And that’s why people notice them. Not ‘cause of me. ‘Cause of her.”

Rhodey stared down at him, pencil twirling between his fingers. “You ever realize how sappy you get when you’re baked?”

“Not sappy,” Tony muttered, already drifting, eyelids heavy. “Accurate.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes, running a hand through Tony's hair. “Yeah, Stark. Whatever helps you sleep.”

June 1987

Tony was at yet another party, this one to celebrate graduation. He was, as usual, among the youngest people there. Though that was only really a problem when Rhodey was with him, which of course he was this time.

Tony loved parties. The noise, the bodies pushing each other around as everyone shoved and weaved through the crowds.

He was leaning against the kitchen island, waiting for Rhodey to get back with more drinks, when a girl leaned in just a little too close to his face.

“God, your eyes are ridiculous,” she said. “Like, unfair ridiculous. You know that, right? It’s like you’re edited. Like a magazine cover.”

Tony smirked, down the last of his drink. "Yeah? Like 'em?"

"I think they're—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Rhodey returned, sliding back into place beside Tony as the girl rushed off.

"Did I scare her away?" He asked, raising an eyebrow,. The smirk on his face said he knew exactly why she ran off, even if Tony didn't.

Tony took a sip of the drink he was handed, grimacing a little when he realized it was water and not more beer like he'd asked for. "Probably sensed the party pooper energy."

August 1989

The boardroom reeked of cigars and cynicism. Tony sat at the far end of the table, restless and out of place.

Howard had suggested he sit in for a meeting. Said he should start getting into the business now if he's going to take over one day.

One of the older executives leaned back, eyes narrowed. “Kid’s got those piercing blues. Makes it hard to take him seriously.”

Howard didn't defend him. Of course he didn't. Just sighed and said, “We’ll teach him how to tone it down.”

December 1991

The phone was still off the hook, dangling against the nightstand like it had given up. Tony couldn't even remember setting it down, just the words echoing long after the voice on the other end had gone quiet.

Car accident. Didn't make it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, bathrobe slipping off one shoulder, staring at the mirror. Or maybe not at the mirror. Through it. Somewhere else entirely. Who knew?

All he knew was his chest felt hollow and too full all at once—like trying to breathe water.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until sparks danced across the dark. But when he pulled his hands away, the blue was still there in his reflection. His eyes. Her eyes.

Mom's.

And the thought nearly knocked him sideways. Because what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

He stood up. Or, well, tried to. He stumbled to the floor right in front of the mirror, staring like he could argue with his own face. “They’re not yours,” he muttered. His voice cracked, but he kept going, louder. “They’re not—God, they shouldn’t be mine.”

He swallowed, throat raw.

Because hers had been soft, warm, full of every ounce of kindness he’d never deserved. Hers had looked at him and seen more. Not a failure, not a disappointment. Just her son.

And now they were gone. And all that was left was his reflection staring back—sharp, hollow, unworthy.

Blue eyes. The wrong blue eyes.

He let himself fall forward, forehead hitting the mirror as the tears finally fell.

January 1992

Tony’s reflection had been holding him hostage for longer than he wanted to admit.

He stared at the pale blue of his eyes and hated it. Not because blue was bad—he’d always liked the blue, actually—but because people always noticed. People always asked. And right now, that was the absolute last thing he wanted.

Obie’s words drifted into his mind like a mantra. “Your eyes are distracting. People don’t trust them.”

He’d used to argue against it in high school, but now, standing in his bedroom, suit jacket in hand, it sounded like gospel.

He reached for the small case on his dresser and slid out the contacts he’d picked out on a whim last week. Brown. Dull. Boring. Safe. Nothing to see here.

He read the little 'how to', and popped one in. Then the other. Blinked twice. The reflection staring back at him was almost… forgettable.

Not Tony Stark, grieving son thrust into a boardroom he wasn’t ready for. Just a man in brown eyes, trying to disappear under the weight of everyone else’s expectations.

He exhaled, straightened his tie, and re-rehearsed the lines he’d give Monday. Maybe it would be easier, now that no one could get lost in his eyes.

Or maybe not. But at least, for the first time in a month, he felt like he was in control.

Tony parked outside Rhodey's place, tapping his fingers on the wheel in a rhythm that was far too excited. He hadn't felt this giddy in weeks—not since before the funeral.

But today, he was going to test the ultimate experiment: how long would it take Rhodey to notice his new brown eyes?

He slid on his sunglasses and stepped out of the car, squinting a little against the afternoon sun. "This is gonna be fun," he muttered to himself.

Rhodey was already on the porch, hands shoved into his pockets, looking... like Rhodey. Cool, calm, unimpressed by Tony's bullshit, yet still amused regardless.

Tony waved, already feeling the grin start to form, just by being in the vicinity of his best friend.

"Hey, Rhodey. Say hello to the CEO of Stark Industries."

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, not even waiting for Tony to take off the glasses. "Whats with the brown?"

Tony froze, hand mid-air. Blinking behind his sunglasses. "Im sorry?"

"You switched your eyes," Rhodey said, leaning on the railing. "Boring, corporate brown. Saw it on the news."

Tony laughed, part disbelief, part admiration. Because of course Rhodey noticed. "Seriously?"

Rhodey shrugged, smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Noticed it the second you showed up on the broadcast. Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

Tony pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, letting the sunlight hit his face. He walked up the steps, pretending to be casual, but inside he was buzzing.

Eight years. Eight years of friendship. Rhodey always knew. Always. And even when Tony tried to be clever, Rhodey was there, already one step ahead.

“Well, guess the jig’s up,” Tony said, grinning like a schoolboy caught sneaking cookies. “No more brown-eye experiments for me.”

Rhodey laughed as well, shaking his head. "Please. Next thing I know you'll be showing up to dinner with bright green eyes."

"Well, now you're just giving me ideas."

July 1992

The second Tony stepped into the house, Zeke ran across the living room, toy car falling from his hand, sticky fingers smearing against Tony’s slacks as he tugged on them.

“Tone-Tone!” Zeke beamed up at him. Then he froze, squinting. Staring too long.

Tony felt the prickle of it, that too-sharp recognition, and for once it wasn’t a shareholder or a reporter. It was a toddler.

“Your eyes changed,” Zeke said matter-of-factly. “They were blue. Now they’re brown.”

Tony forced a smile, the kind he used on cameras. “Guess I’m just keeping you on your toes, huh, kiddo?”

But Zeke’s little brow furrowed. He hugged Tony's legs tighter. “I liked them blue. They were pretty.” He hesitated, voice wobbling now. “Are my eyes gonna change too? I don’t want them to.”

And Tony—Tony Stark, master of quips, heir to a fortune, practiced liar—found himself completely blank. His throat tightened. What the hell was he supposed to say?

No script for this one.

He crouched, slow, hands resting awkwardly on Zeke's shoulders. “No, buddy. Yours’ll stay the same. Promise.”

“You sure?”

Tony nodded, forcing his voice steady. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Zeke's little shoulders relaxed under Tony's hands. He stared for another long second. "Good."

And just like that, the worry was gone. Zeke peeled himself away and scooped up his toy car, already vroom-vrooming it across the carpet like the last thirty seconds hadn’t been anything at all.

November 1993

The room smelled faintly of cheap coffee and recycled air. Cameras clicked, recorders hummed, and the reporter’s eyes were bright behind oversized glasses, like she thought she’d caught him off-guard.

“So… your eyes,” she said, leaning forward. “I couldn’t help noticing—they’re brown now, but you used to—”

Tony's grin sharpened already. It's not the first time he's been asked about it, yet it still makes him a little nervous every time."

"—have blue eyes. Did you get some kind of cosmetic surgery before taking over Stark Industries?"

She held the microphone out to him, eyebrows raised like she'd caught him.

Tony leaned back slightly. “Cosmetic surgery? Oh, darling.. I think you’ve been watching too many daytime specials.” His voice was light, teasing—like a cat batting at a bird it didn’t mean to hurt.

He tapped the arm of his chair, mock serious. “I’ve never had blue eyes. Not really. Maybe as a baby? But, y’know, tons of babies are born blue-eyed. It’s a thing. Genetics. Biology 101.”

The reporter—Joanne, Tony's pretty sure—blinked. Like she wasn't sure if he was serious or just dancing around the question.

Tony tilted his head, letting a playful shrug follow. "They're brown. Have been as long as I can remember. Sorry to disappoint."

September 1995

The whiskey burned pleasantly as he took another slow sip, robe loosely tied, one foot propped on the balcony railing. The forest stretched below him, shadows pooling in the late afternoon sun.

He leaned against the railing, eyes closed, savoring the quiet. Contacts off. No masks, no performances. Just him. Blue eyes staring unguarded at the night.

It was calm. Later, Tony might say the calm was suspicious, but for now it's just nice.

He let the quiet sink in, letting the hum of the city—and the constant hum of cameras and expectations—fade to a distant buzz.

Then, a flash.

Not like paparazzi blitz, just a flicker. Faint enough that someone not trained to notice it might have missed it. But Tony wasn't like those someones.

Tony let the glass lower slowly, setting it on the table beside him, the liquid catching the last light. He breathed out a slow, deliberate sigh.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, voice low, almost sardonic. “Guess we’re not off the clock anywhere, huh?”

He considered going inside, grabbing his contacts, and pretending the moment never happened. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t quite. The forest was quiet. The air was calm. And for a second, he let himself just be.

His hand went to his face reflexively. Of course, he should've known better. When does he ever get a break? Why would he think he'd be able to relax.

The flash went off again.

He sighed, shaking his head and pushed himself off the railing, stepping back through the sliding door.

He'll call Obie in the morning and have him take care of it.

July 1998

The party was humming around him— glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off high ceilings, the faint tang of too-expensive cologne. Tony was three drinks in, right in that sweet spot where the room softened around the edges and his smile felt natural for once.

He leaned on the bar, swishing his drink, when someone brushed past him. She lingered just long enough to say, “You know, your eyes are gorgeous. That shade of brown? It’s warm. Makes you look.. real... I'm sorry, that doesn't make any sense. I should—" She motioned vaguely behind her.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Tony blinked after her. Real.

He doesn't think he's ever heard that. Gorgeous. Warm. Real. Not about the brown eyes.

When he was younger, it was always about his eyes. "Striking." "Beautiful." "Piercing."

He’d hated it. Hated how they looked at him like the color meant something. Like he hadn’t already tarnished everything those eyes were supposed to stand for.

So he fixed it. Easy. A box of lenses and a steady hand. Brown was nothing. Brown was safe. Brown was the background color of the world.

And now? Someone looked at him—looked at that lie—and said it made him look real.

Tony tipped his drink back harder than he meant to, liquid burning down his throat. His laugh slipped out sharp, wrong.

“Real,” he muttered into his glass. “Yeah, that’s me. Real as plastic.”

Tony pushed off the bar a minute later, retreating to the bathroom. Locked the door, braced his hands on the marble counter, stared into a mirror that stared back with eyes that weren’t his.
Brown. Gorgeous. Warm.
Fake.
He splashed water on his face. Didn’t help.
He remembered a different mirror. A different face. A boy with eyes too bright, too earnest, who thought maybe he could be something like the man he dressed up as.
He sighed heavily, running his hands down his face.

Brown.

Still brown.

Okay. He grabbed a tower, wiping his hands off. Just gotta go back out there and mingle for a couple more hours. Just long enough that noone gets offended or conspiratorial about his early departure.

Maybe he can find someone safe to take home. Party's huge, there's gotta be someone here that wont spread rumors if he uses them as a scapegoat.

April 2000

Tony was sprawled on the couch like he’d been dramatically shot, one arm slung over his face, groaning like the world was ending. The dim light in the penthouse wasn’t helping his headache, but at least it wasn’t stabbing at his eyes the way the sun had earlier.

His eyes were bloodshot, lids swollen, the contacts long since abandoned.

"This is exactly why you have an assistant," Rhodey muttered as he walked in.

Tony cracked one eye open, squinting to try and see him through the blurriness. "Oh, yay. You're finally here. You bring soup?"

“I brought antibiotics.” Rhodey dabbed carefully at the corner of Tony’s eye with a cloth. “Soup comes after I stop you from going blind.”

“Blind’s dramatic. My doctor said I'll be fine.”

"..As long as you take care of yourself," Rhodey finished. "Which you don't have a very good track record with, now do you?"

Tony made a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan, dropping his arm back over his face. “Track records are overrated. I like to keep the board guessing.”

Rhodey made what Tony likes to call his "colonel face." Flat, disappointed. A look Tony's been seeing since the first time he came back to their dorm stoned at 3am. "10 hours. You get 10 hours to wear them at a time. That should be more than enough."

"I had company."

"Of course you did, Tony—” Rhodey pinched the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t optional. You don’t get to ‘wing it’ with your health. You wanna drink yourself stupid, fine. You wanna blow a million on cars you’ll never drive, whatever. But this? This is your eyes. You’ve only got two of them.”

Tony let his arm fall to the side, peeking out at Rhodey through watery lashes. His grin was weak, but it was there. "Two eyes. Two big blue eyes."

Rhodey sighed. “You think this is funny, but you scared the hell out of Pepper, and now I’ve got to babysit you through eye drops like you’re five.”

"Didn't know you two were on a first name basis."

Rhodey arched a brow. “She calls me when you’re being an idiot. Which, shockingly, is often.”

Tony groaned theatrically, tipping his head back into the cushions. "She's supposed to be on my side."

"She is on your side. That's why she called me." Rhodey ran the cloth over Tony's face again. "You ever heard of this thing called rest? Revolutionary concept.”

“Sounds boring. Pass.”

Rhodey gave him yet another flat look. “You keep pulling this crap, you’re not gonna make it to forty.”

"Wow. Rude. But I guess I can't really argue with that."

“That’s because you’re not supposed to argue right now.” Rhodey held up the tiny bottle of eye drops like a weapon. “You’re supposed to hold still.”

Tony obeyed, which was rare enough to make Rhodey’s stomach twist a little. He leaned in, carefully dropping the saline into Tony’s irritated eyes. Tony hissed and jerked, but Rhodey’s hand was steady on his face.

“There. Better?”

Tony blinked hard, watery eyes meeting Rhodey’s. He gave a small shrug, then smirked weakly. “Your bedside manner needs work.”

Rhodey sighed, sitting back on his heels. “You’re lucky you’ve got me. Anyone else would’ve let you go blind.”

"Yeah. I know, snookums."

October 2002

It'd been about a decade since he'd done the big ol' switcheroo. And it's been going great. It's like the worlds forgotten that Tony Stark was once a 'blue eyed beauty.'

And now here he is, in some expensive yet dingy hotel room, with one Doctor Stephen Strange pressing kisses to his jaw.

Tony pulled back a little, muttered a "one sec," and disappeared into the bathroom.

Once inside, he peeled off his brown contacts, blinking at his blue eyes in the bright lights.

He was used to it by now, wearing the contacts for as long as he was able to, then slipping away so he can give his eyes a much needed break. But if this little arrangement with Strange was going to become a regular thing, he couldn't be over-wearing them too often.

He continued to stare into the mirror for a little while, quickly going over possible reactions in his head.

He took a second to imagine possible jokes Strange might make. Possible teases, complaints.

And once he finally decided he was ready for whatever was about to be thrown at him, he stepped back out into the room.

Strange was still there, not that Tony really expected him to have left.

He looked him over, once, twice, then muttered, infuriatingly calm, "really, Stark? Don't tell me you were hyperventilating in there over your eyes. I thought you were dying or something."

Tony froze mid-step. "Hyperventilating? I—no. Not even a little. There’s no proof. I was—breathing normally.”

Strange just hummed, closing the space between them and pressing a soft kiss to Tony's jaw. "No, I definitely heard a bit of hyperventilating in there."

Tony let out an exasperated laugh, the tension falling from his shoulders as he leaned into Strange. "Okay, fine. Maybe I was panicking a tiny bit. But it was totally rational!"

"Rational?" Strange echoed, hands sliding up to undo the buttons of Tony's shirt. "Panicking over your eye color is rational?"

"Hey, listen, I've been doing this image management thing for over a decade, okay? I can't just—bam—reveal the blue like it’s a party trick."

Stephen rolled his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. "Right, your eyes are gonna destroy the world one of these days, huh?"

Tony snorted. "Exactly. Finally, someone gets it." He leaned up just enough to press a quick kiss to Strange's lips. "So yes, totally rational."

"Alright, Stark," Stephen chuckled, stepping back toward the bed, bringing Tony along with him.

Tony let out a sigh as he's pulled down onto the bed, straddling him. “You know, I could’ve just left the contacts in. You probably never would've noticed.”

Strange rolled his eyes again. "All fun and games until you get a corneal ulcer."

Tony grinned, finger trailing over Strange's chest. "Jokes on you, it's already happened."

Strange's eyebrows shot up. "Already happened? Seriously, Stark?"

"What can I say? I like to live dangerously." Tony leaned down, kissing the corner of Strange's mouth. "Besides, now you get the exclusive Tony Stark. Friends-only model."

Strange huffed out a laugh, tilting his head back against the pillow. "Friends, huh? That what we are?"

Tony froze, lips still ghosting over Strange's skin. Friends. He hadn't meant to let that slip.

He pulled back just enough to squint at him. "What, would you prefer 'associates with benefits'? Because that sounds like paperwork, and I don't sign anything without my lawyer present."

Strange smirked, slow and sharp, but there was a flicker in his eyes that wasn’t all humor. “Just seems like a funny word to land on, that’s all.”

Tony rolled off him to the side, flopping onto the mattress with theatrical exaggeration. “Listen, it’s a perfectly respectable word. Covers everything. Friends. Buddies. Pals. Comrades-in-arms. Occasional lovers. See? Multifunctional. Like a Swiss Army knife.”

Strange turned his head, propping himself up on an elbow, studying him with that unnerving focus. The one that made Tony feel like he was under a microscope slide. "So it doesn't mean anything, then? Just.. an all of the above? A 'whatever sounds right today' kind of thing?"

Tony shot him a crooked grin. Deflect, deflect, deflect. “Oh, it means plenty. It means you’re on the list of people I let see me without my very expensive eye disguises. I could count the people on that list and still have fingers left over, my friend. Practically VIP access.”

Strange huffed, lying back down, but his smirk had softened into something Tony didn’t want to name. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are,” Tony said. “Sharing a bed with the exclusive, blue-eyed, friends-only Tony Stark.”

February 2004

“Tony, you’re going to be late—” Pepper’s voice preceded her into the penthouse, heels clicking on the marble.

“In a minute!” Tony called back, standing in front of the mirror with one eye squeezed shut, fingertip carefully pressing a contact into place. He blinked furiously, trying to get it to settle before she got close enough to—

The door swung open.

Pepper stopped dead in the doorway, files in hand, eyes narrowing. “...Are you putting in contacts?”

Tony froze, one brown iris staring back at her, the other still glaringly blue. “Uh. No. These are… vision correcting. Medically necessary. Doctor stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

Her eyebrows shot up. "Right. A doctor that I, your personal assistant, didn't schedule an appointment with?"

Tony grimaced. “Okay, when you put it like that, it sounds like I’m lying.”

“That’s because you are lying,” she said, crossing her arms.

He sighed, leaning on the counter, caught red-handed—blue-eyed. “Fine. You got me. They’re… cosmetic. I don’t like my eyes. Or I don’t like what people think when they see them. Or something equally neurotic. Congratulations, you cracked the case.”

Pepper studied him for a long moment, the weight of her silence pressing harder than any lecture Obie had ever given. Finally, she said, softly but firmly, “Your eyes are fine, Tony. Better than fine. They’re yours.”

He opened his mouth for a snarky comeback—had one ready about how “fine” was the last thing anyone should aspire to—but it died on his tongue. Pepper had already turned away, swiping through whatever's on her tablet like the conversation was over.

Tony just sighed, and turned back to the mirror to put his second lense in.

January 2005

The door clicked shut behind him with that expensive-hotel hush, and Tony was already working his shirt buttons loose, staring up with whatever rant he'd prepared during the gala he'd just returned from.

On the armchair by the window, Strange didn’t even glance up from his book. His voice cut through, cool and precise as ever.

“Contacts out first.”

Tony froze mid-button. Blinked. Then huffed out a laugh, all air and no amusement. “You know, most people go for ‘hello’ first. Or maybe a little small talk before they start policing my vision accessories.”

“Contacts, Stark,” Strange repeated, not unkind, but unyielding. He turned a page, still not looking at him.

Tony sighed dramatically, like he was the most put-upon man in the tri-state area. "You're bossy, y'know that?"

"I know," Strange said, and Tony could swear he heard a smile, even if his face didn't match it.

But he did it. Went to the bathroom sink, tugged them out, rinsed his hands, came back with his eyes sharp and unhidden. Blue. Too blue sometimes, if you asked him. Like they belonged to someone else.

Strange finally looked up then, gaze meeting his without flinching. Not cataloguing. Not assessing. Just seeing.

It was infuriating. And grounding. Both at once.

“You always this demanding with your houseguests? Or, hotel-guests?” Tony asked, trying for flippant. He shrugged his shirt off his shoulders, letting it hang in his hand like a flag of surrender.

"Only with the ones who pretend to be someone else," Strange said smoothly, setting the book aside. He gestured lazily toward the bed, as though this were the most mundane situation he could possibly be in.

That earned him a sharp look. Not angry—Tony didn’t have the energy for that tonight—but pointed. The kind of look that usually preceded some quip. Only this time, none came. He just…exhaled, dragging a hand over his face.

“Maybe,” he admitted, the word muffled against his palm. Then, quick as ever, he snapped the mask back into place. A grin, crooked and shiny. “Better than stamp collecting. Fewer papercuts.”

Strange didn’t bite. He just sat there, calm, still, maddeningly patient. The silence stretched until Tony swore he could hear the second hand on the wall clock, tick-tick-ticking like a countdown.

Finally, Tony gave in, dropping onto the bed with more weight than necessary. “You’re really annoying, you know that? I come here for a little…friendly company—”

“—late at night, shirt half-off—”

“—and what do I get? A lecture about my eyewear.”

Strange’s mouth curved, subtle, almost imperceptible. “Not a lecture. A reminder. There’s no one here to impress, Stark. No cameras. No board members. Just me.”

Tony looked at him then, really looked. The words caught somewhere in his throat. He wanted to joke. Deflect. Anything. Instead, what came out was quiet. Too quiet.

“Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

Strange didn't move, just let the words settle.

Tony broke first, falling backward onto the matress with a groan, covering his eyes with his hand.

"God, you're the worst."

August 2006

The hotel bathroom light was far too bright at such a late hour, but Tony really didn't want to fall asleep with them in again, so it seemed he had to deal with it.

He braced himself with one hand on the sink, the other carefully pinching the edge of a contact. He tugged it free with a practiced flick and blinked at his reflection—one brown eye, one startling blue.

"Jesus, I look like a bad sci-fi villain," he muttered to himself, reaching for the case.

And then movement in the mirror. A figure behind him.

He startled, nearly dropping the contact. Spinning, he found his latest conquest—Chloe? Claire? Definitely something with a C—standing in the doorway, the hotel sheets wrapped around her like a toga.

“Oh,” she said, blinking at him. “So the blue’s real.”

Tony opened his mouth, half-formed excuses firing through his brain—vision correction, lighting, prototype ocular tech—but she just leaned on the doorframe, smirking.

"Relax, Tony. I get it. You think I'm naturally brunette? Just part of the job, right?"

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re not… freaked out?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Please. You think you’re the only one who gets tired of being picked apart like a headline? People’ll stare at anything if you let ‘em. Eye color. Shoes. Wrinkles. If you found a trick to control it, good for you.”

Tony blinked, slow, the tension easing out of his shoulders. He turned back to the mirror, carefully sliding out the other lens. Two bright blue eyes stared back at him, unmasked for once, and he almost forgot she was still watching.

“Guess we’re both in on the same scam then,” he said finally, lips quirking into a grin.

She shrugged, padding back toward the bed. “Welcome to the club.”

Tony chuckled under his breath, tucking the contacts away. It's been a while since someone just.. understood. It's relieving.

February 2007

The floor was cold concrete beneath him, and that was the only thing keeping him tethered. Cold meant real. Cold meant he wasn’t floating away entirely.

The bottle in his hand was empty. Or maybe it wasn’t. He shook it. No sound. Empty, then.

Good.

Bad.

Both, probably.

Didn’t matter.

The car in front of him gleamed like it had been waiting for this exact moment, perfect coat catching the fluorescent light and throwing it back at him like a mirror. Blue paint. Impossible blue.

It matched. Too well.

Even if it wasn't his eye color. Not even close, Tony doesn't buy stuff in that particular shade.

He laughed, high and brittle. "Of course. Of fucking course. Of all the cars I could've fallen in front of.."

His voice cracked down the middle, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls like the garage was laughing back at him.

Tony dragged himself closer, palms scraping along the floor, until his reflection stared back at him from the curve of the fender. The eyes were the first thing he saw, always the eyes, too sharp against the wash of his flushed, wasted face.

“Why couldn't I've gotten dad's eyes?” he muttered, leaning his forehead against the metal. It was cool, grounding for half a second. Then he leaned back, opened his eyes, and there it was again.

Blue blue blue.

The word buzzed over and over in his head like feedback, louder and louder, until the pressure had to go somewhere.

His hand shot out before he even thought about it, knuckles cracking against the bumper.

Pain bloomed. Real. Sharp.

For a second, the reflection shuddered, split. For a second it didn't look so blue.

So he hit it again. Harder. Again. Again. His skin split, red dripping down onto flawless paint, his blood dark against the bright.

Not bright enough. Not red enough. The eyes were still there, still watching.

He pressed his hand flat against the fender, smearing blood across the paint like maybe he could blot himself out. Cover the blue with red, overwrite it, anything.

But the reflection didn’t change. It just kept looking back.

"Don't." His voice was hoarse, ragged. "Stop it. Stop—Stop staring at me."

He gasped, taking in as much air as he could, then slammed his hands against the car yet again. The sound that ripped out of him was half a laugh, half a sob, wet and broken.

"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."

He brought his bloodied hands up to his face, running his nails down his cheeks.

It stung. For one dizzy second he almost thought he’d carved the blue right out, like he’d dug deep enough to scrape it away. He blinked, hard, and all that did was make his eyes water. Made the reflection swim, haloed in red and tears and fluorescent light.

Still there. Still blue.

He did it again. Scratched from his lower lid down to his chin.

Blood beaded up under his nails, streaking down over his jaw. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The sting was nothing compared to the roaring ache in his chest, the one that screamed every time he caught his own reflection.

Blue. Always blue. Blue blue blue blue.

Somewhere behind him, a soft whirr cut through the air. Wheels squeaking faintly on concrete.

“Not now,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

But Dum-E didn’t listen. The bot rolled closer, claw arm extended awkwardly, like a dog nosing at its wounded owner. Dum-E bumped against his shoulder, a clumsy nudge. He beeped uncertainly, mechanical arm twitching like it wanted to do something—fix this, patch him up—but didn’t know how.

Tony barked out something like a laugh, sharp and ugly. “You think this helps? Huh? You think—” His voice cracked. Tony swallowed hard, the taste of copper and liquor clinging thick in his throat. His hands shook as he shoved at the bot’s claw, smearing red across the worn yellow paint.

“Go. Away.”

Dum-E whirred, bumped him again, stubborn as ever. A low beep warbled out of its speaker, almost questioning.

Tony’s chest hitched. He shoved harder, the movement sloppy, uncoordinated. “I said go! You don’t—you don’t get it, okay? You can’t—” His breath broke off, ragged, too tight in his lungs.

The bot froze. Then he moved away.

Tony sighed, let himself fall against the car again.

Before the relief could come, the whirring came closer again. He looked up just in time to see Dum-E shove a rag in his face.

Tony stared at it. His vision swam, eyes burning, blood dripping into his lap. He let out what was probably meant to be a laugh, but really just sounded broken, even to his own ears.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t even know what you’re trying to fix.”

But he didn’t push the rag away. He let Dum-E press it clumsily against his bloody cheeks, the bot whirring uncertainly like it was waiting to be scolded.

The rag smelled like oil. The cut stung. Dum-E beeped again, and again, quieter this time. Almost in a rhythm.

The beeping slowed, steadied. One, two. One, two.

Tony’s hands twitched. He hated it—hated how his chest wanted to fall in line, to sync up with the metronome.

“Not fair,” he muttered, his voice ragged, shaking. He sputtered a little when Dum-E accidentally pressed the rag to his mouth. “You don’t get to—you don’t get to trick me into breathing.”

Another beep. Another whirr. Dum-E's arm moved down, pressing the rag against his raw knuckles now.

His chest hitched, then, finally, he let himself try and follow the beats. One, two. One, two.

The sob slipped out of him before he could stop it. Quiet, wrecked, pulled out of the center of him like something had finally cracked.

He let himself cry. Just this once. It's not like anyone was here to hear it.

His hands hung limp in his lap now, smeared with red despite Dum-E's attempt to clean them, knuckles swelling. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, not at the reflection, not at the eyes still waiting for him.

Instead, he closed his eyes. Hard. Until stars burst behind his eyelids and Dum-E's steady beeping was the only thing he could sense.

Maybe if he kept them shut long enough, he wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

Maybe if he kept them shut long enough, he’d forget.

It was a stupid thought. Tony knew that wasn't possible. He could never forget.

Regardless, it was nice to think about. There was no harm in entertaining it.

Maybe he'll actually be able to get some sleep that way.

May 2008

The steady beep of a heart monitor was the first sound that reached Happy's ears as he cracked his eyes open. The blur of the ceiling tiles slowly came into focus—hospital. Right. Explosion. Pain.

Then he tilted his head and saw Tony.

Slouched in the world’s least ergonomic chair, rumpled hoodie, a bruise shadowing his cheekbone. And no contacts.

Blue eyes, raw and tired, staring right back at him.

Happy croaked, “You forget something?”

Tony startled, then huffed out a laugh that was all nerves. “Yeah, my toothbrush, my dignity, a solid eight hours of sleep—take your pick.”

Happy waved a weak hand. “Contacts.”

“Ah.” Tony leaned back, rubbed a hand over his face like he could hide the evidence. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

Happy gave him a look—the same one he’d been giving Tony since the late ‘90s when his boss-slash-friend thought he could bluff his way through anything. “I’m not blind, Tony. Well. Not totally. Yet.”

Tony chuckled, then fell silent. He just stared at the IV drip, jaw working. “Figured… if I’m gonna sit here and watch you wake up from a coma, I didn’t need a layer of plastic between me and the world, y’know?”

Happy hummed, the sound scratchy but steady. He studied Tony the way he always had—like he was both his boss and his brother rolled into one inconvenient, brilliant package.

“Looks better this way,” Happy said at last, voice low. “Less… staged.”

Tony tilted his head, smirk trying to tug its way up but not quite making it. “Careful, Happy, people hear you say that, it'll ruin my brand."

“You're ruining your brand by spending a friday night sitting around with me.” Happy’s tone was simple, not accusing, not even questioning. Just fact.

Tony’s hands fidgeted with the drawstrings of his hoodie. He was suddenly all nerves, eyes darting anywhere but the bed. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the monitor’s steady beep, beep, beep. Then Happy’s lips quirked in what was probably the closest thing he could manage to a grin with all the meds in his system.

“Blue suits you, boss.”

Tony snorted. “You’re delirious. Blame the morphine.”

“Still true,” Happy muttered, already drifting back toward sleep.

And Tony just sat there, eyes unhidden, watching over him until he inevitably woke up again.

June 2008

The workshop was too quiet. No music, no clanging tools, no babbling monologues aimed at DUM-E. Just Tony, hunched at his workbench, a half-polished repulsor gauntlet sitting useless in front of him.

Pepper came in softly, carrying a folder she knew he wouldn’t look at right now. He didn’t even glance up—just kept rubbing at his temple, eyes shadowed.

“Pep,” he said suddenly, voice rough, “do you think I should even keep wearing them?”

She blinked. “Wearing what?”

“The contacts.” He flicked a finger toward his face, almost absently. “Obie always said—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, like the name itself was poison.

“Obie said my eyes were a distraction. That people didn’t trust me with them. And I—god, I believed him. For years. Built my whole… brand around it. But now—” His voice cracked into a bitter laugh. “Now I don’t know if he actually thought that, or if it was just another way to… pave the road. To make me easier to manipulate later.”

Pepper set the folder down and moved closer, carefully, like she was stepping toward a wounded animal. “Tony…”

He finally looked at her, brown contacts dull under the harsh workshop lights. “What if it’s all lies? What if every single thing he told me about who I should be was just another… another goddamn lever to pull?”

Her heart ached. She'd seen him angry, smug, sad—but this was different.

Pepper reached out, touched his hand. “Then you stop letting him have a say. If you don’t want to wear them, don’t. If you do, fine. But don’t go off what he said. He doesn't deserve that."

Tony swallowed hard, throat bobbing. He didn’t answer right away, just sat there staring at their joined hands, like he was trying to remember how it felt to choose something for himself.

Finally, he whispered, “Blue’s not so bad sometimes, huh?”

Pepper smiled. “Blue’s perfect.”

May 2010

Pepper was sitting at her desk—her desk—reading through contracts. The office has been officially hers for a few weeks now. CEO. It still felt surreal. Tony was stretched out on the couch across the room, tie half-undone, arc reactor faintly glowing under his shirt. He looked like he’d fought three wars in a week. Technically, he had.

She set her pen down. “Tony?”

He cracked one eye open. “Hmm?”

“You don’t have to keep doing it.”

“Doing what? Sleeping? Because I assure you, I do.”

“Your eyes.”

That woke him up a little more. He blinked, pushed himself up on an elbow, squinting at her like she'd just spoken in tongues.

"You're not 'Tony Stark, CEO' anymore. That’s me. Well, the CEO part, not the Tony— anyways, you’re Iron Man. The world already knows you’ve got a glowing chest piece; I don’t think the color of your eyes is going to ruin the brand.”

For a moment, Tony didn’t answer. He just rubbed his thumb against the seam of his slacks, restless. Finally he said, “You know how many magazine covers I’ve been on? How many press junkets? Every photo, every interview, every smear campaign—brown eyes.”

Pepper crossed her arms. “And? Blue is hardly scandalous.”

“Not the point, Pep.” He gave a humorless laugh. “It’s… easier this way. Safer. You know how many people have… opinions about me already? If I change it now, it’s not just, ‘Oh, Stark swapped out his contacts.’ It’s conspiracy theories. It’s 'what else is he hiding?'”

“You don’t care what people think.”

“Sure I do,” he shot back, faster than he meant to. He caught himself, softened. “I care when it keeps the stock from tanking. I care when it puts a target on us. And you—” His eyes flicked up, very briefly. “You don’t need more chaos on your plate.”

Pepper studied him, long enough for him to shift uncomfortably. Then she sighed. "Fine. Only because you've had about a hundred chances to stop. And I know that if you're still doing it now, this argument isn't gonna change your mind."

He smirked, faintly, because he couldn’t help it. “You know me too well.”

“I do,” she said simply. Then she turned back to her contracts, because they both knew the conversation wasn't going anywhere new.

September 2011

Strange was halfway to the door when he said, almost idly, “I’m thinking of asking Christine out.”

Tony went very still.

He knew Christine, of course. She’d been at a few of the galas he only attended because he knew Strange would too—sharp, competent, amused in that way people are when they’re used to being the smartest person in the room. She and Strange worked together. It wasn’t shocking. If anything, it was overdue.

And yet.

He forced a smile, the kind that was all teeth and no sincerity. “Really? I think she's a little out of your league.”

Strange glanced back over his shoulder, not even offended—if anything, faintly amused. “Out of my league?” He smoothed the edge of his scarf, preening like Tony had just flattered him instead of jabbed. “Please. You forget who you’re talking to.”

Tony huffed a laugh, let it rattle in his chest like it didn’t cost him anything. “Yeah, yeah. World’s greatest hands, photographic memory, blah blah blah.”

The smirk stayed plastered to his face until Strange turned away again, fussing with his watch.

Of course this was temporary. They both knew it. Strange wasn’t going to keep sneaking around lofts and hotel rooms forever, not when he could have someone like Christine. Someone he could actually be with in public, take to dinner, keep. Someone who didn't do something as dumb as hide their eye color.

Still, Tony’s chest ached in a way that felt stupid and raw. Because he’d wanted it—God help him, he wanted it—and he’d given Strange more than he’d meant to. Told him about the eyes. Walked around him without the contacts. Handed him a truth no one else got to keep.

And now, looking at Strange smoothing his scarf in the mirror, Tony realized the disappointment wasn’t in Strange at all. It was in himself. Of course he’d gotten attached. Of course he’d bet something fragile on a man he could never keep.

Tony propped himself up on an elbow, tilting his head just so, making it look like laziness instead of the sharp twist in his chest. “Well, do me a favor, will you? Try not to bore her to death on the first date. Normal women aren’t contractually obligated to listen to you lecture about surgical technique for three hours straight.”

Strange chuckled, buttoning his coat. “She likes me,” he said, almost dismissive, almost casual. “And I like her. It’s… different.”

Different. Yeah. Tony swallowed hard, masking it with another grin. “Different’s good. Hell, maybe she’ll even convince you to stop buying scarves from the Dracula collection.”

Strange shook his head, but he was still smiling as he gathered his keys. Oblivious. Blissfully so.

“Don’t look so tragic,” He said, catching Tony’s reflection. “It’s not like I’m abandoning you.”

Tony grinned, all teeth. “Tragic? Me? Nah. I’m thrilled. She’s prettier than I am. You’re trading up.”

The door closed behind him a moment later.

When Tony finally sat up, the room was empty, but the mirror across the loft caught him off-guard. Blue eyes stared back at him, too sharp, too exposed, a betrayal written into his own face. He blinked hard, reached for the case on the nightstand, and slid the brown lenses back in until the reflection dulled into something safer.

May 2012

The kitchen was quiet, save for the familiar hum of the various machines. Natasha padded in barefoot, still in sweats from the gym, hair pulled back. Normal morning—or whatever counted as morning when half the Tower seemed to operate on vampire hours.

Tony was hunched at the espresso machine, robe on, hair a mess, muttering to himself. Looking more like a mad scientist than a playboy. Which was normal for him, on the days he actually woke up in the morning.

Natasha didn't think twice until he turned around, mug in hand, and—

Her breath caught.

Blue.

Natasha’s body reacted before her brain could. Weight shifted to the balls of her feet. Shoulders loose. One hand reaching for a knife on the counter behind her.

Tony blinked at her over his cup, then frowned. “What? Do I have foam on my face? Is this a milk mustache situation?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just stared.

He set the cup down slowly, confusion knitting across his brow. “Okay, wow. Either this is the deadliest staring contest in history or you just realized I’m not a natural blonde.”

The joke landed flat. Natasha’s lips tightened. “Your eyes.”

Tony’s hand twitched toward his face—then stopped, like he’d been caught. His mouth opened, closed. For once, no quip on deck.

“Nat,” he said carefully, and it was the caution in his voice that made her grip on her knife loosen just slightly. “They’ve always been this color. I wear contacts. Brown. Pepper can vouch. Files, too. Nothing… alien. Nothing magic.”

Her jaw worked. She wanted to believe him. Hell, she knew his file said blue. She knew. But the image of Clint, glassy-eyed and not-Clint, burned too bright behind her eyelids.

Tony must’ve seen something in her expression, because his voice gentled in a way it almost never did. “You’re not the only one who hates bright blue, alright? Trust me, if I could switch these out permanently, I would.”

The words snapped something. Natasha blinked, shoulders easing by degrees, placing the knife back on the counter. She studied him one last moment, searching for that Loki-glare, that off-kilter vacancy. It wasn’t there. Just Tony. Just tired, jittery, human Tony.

Finally, she exhaled. Walked over to grab a mug. "Give me some of the whiskey."

Tony smirked, relieved as he grabs the bottle. "Of course, m'lady."

June 2012

The lab smelled faintly of solder and burnt sugar—Tony’s latest attempt at inventing an “arc reactor–powered cotton candy machine” (look, theyre bored, okay?) had gone spectacularly sideways an hour ago. Now they were working on something more volatile: some kind of energy containment unit that, if Bruce’s calculations were right, had a small chance of exploding.

Tony squinted into the housing, grumbling. “Okay, so if this thing goes kaboom, the last thing I want is shards of contact lens melting into my retinas. That’s not on my to-do list today.”

Bruce looked up from his notes just in time to see Tony pinch the first lens out of his eye. Bright, startling blue blinked at him. Then the second lens came out, leaving both eyes shining like cut glass.

Bruce didn’t even pause. Just jotted another equation on the whiteboard.

Tony, meanwhile, froze. He’d been braced for at least some reaction—the double-take, the “Wait, weren’t your eyes brown?” or the awkward curiosity. Instead, nothing. Like Bruce hadn’t noticed.

Tony cleared his throat. “Uh. You’re not gonna say anything?”

Bruce hummed distractedly, still scribbling. “About what?”

“My eyes,” Tony prompted, waving vaguely at his face. “Y’know, the whole… shocking reveal, cue the dramatic soap opera music. This is the part where you gasp and demand answers.”

Bruce finally glanced over his shoulder, expression soft and maddeningly calm. “Tony, I turn into a nine-foot rage monster when my blood pressure spikes. If you don’t want people to know something about yourself, I get it. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Tony blinked. The usual quip died somewhere in his throat.

“Besides,” Bruce added, already turning back to his equations, “blue’s a good color on you. Now pass me the flux regulator before this thing actually explodes.”

Tony handed it over in silence, lips twitching despite himself.

January 2013

Bruce was pacing.

Tony sat slouched on the lab's couch, arms crossed, shirt rumpled, trying very hard not to look like a guy who had almost been dissolved into AIM-flavored soup.

“So let me get this straight,” Bruce said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You—came back from.. blowing up terrorists… covered in god-knows-what, didn’t stop to decontaminate, didn’t check in with anyone, and your first priority was putting in your contacts?”

Tony drummed his fingers against his bicep, squinting a little so he can see Bruce. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds dumb.”

“It IS dumb,” Bruce snapped. The sharpness surprised even him—he never raised his voice. Not at Tony. He exhaled, tried again. Softer this time. “It’s… really dumb, Tony.”

Tony smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Brand management waits for no man. Besides, nobody wants their Iron Man looking like a washed-out Cap knockoff. Eyes are everything in PR, Banner. Windows to the soul and all that crap.”

Bruce gave him a long, heavy look. The kind that stripped all the jokes bare. “So your soul’s worth less than the illusion you sell of it?”

Tony swallowed, gaze skittering sideways. “…Depends who you ask.”

Bruce’s chest ached. He wanted to shake him and hug him at the same time. Instead, he sat beside him, close enough their knees brushed. “You could’ve lost your vision. Worse. You don’t get that, do you?”

Tony’s mouth twisted like he was about to fire off another quip, but nothing came. His jaw clicked shut again, and he stared stubbornly at the floor tiles like they might start offering stock tips.

“I get it,” Tony muttered finally. “You think I’m reckless, irresponsible, self-destructive. You're not the first person to say that to me.”

“That’s not what I think,” Bruce said, quiet but firm.

Tony flicked his eyes toward him, blue, sharp and wary despite the redness. “No?”

“I think you’d rather poison yourself than let anyone see you struggling,” Bruce said. He didn’t mean for it to sound so brutal, but the words landed anyway, heavy and true.

Tony froze. Just for a second. A crack in the armor. Then his shoulders twitched in a parody of a shrug. “You make it sound dramatic.”

"It's not dramatic," Bruce shot back. Then he sighed. "Trust me, Tony, I get it."

Tony let out a humorless laugh, low and cracked. He shifted on the couch, turning to face Bruce directly and pulling his knees up to his chest. “Yeah, well… trust can be tricky."

"I know," Bruce nodded, mimicking his position.

Tony leaned his chin on his knees, looking smaller than Bruce had seen him in a long time. “You think I don’t trust you?”

Bruce shook his head slowly. “I think you trust me with your life, but not with your.. self.”

That one landed like a sucker punch. Tony’s jaw worked, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. For once, no comeback. No smartassery. Just… silence.

Bruce softened his tone, careful, measured. “The eyes. The contacts. You don’t do that for the board, or the press, or even the team. Not really. You do it because you don’t want anyone to see you.”

Tony’s laugh this time was jagged, like broken glass. “Congrats, Dr. Freud. You cracked the code.”

But Bruce didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just sat there, quiet and steady in a way Tony never could be. “Do you even know what Freud did? Or are you just naming people now?”

Tony huffed, curling tighter against himself. “Fine. Jung, then. Or Pavlov. Pick your shrink of choice, Banner. Point is, you’re doing the thing—psychoanalyzing me until I confess my sins.”

Bruce tilted his head, calm. “I’m not asking for a confession.”

“Good,” Tony muttered, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Because you’re not getting one.”

“...Okay.”

The silence that followed was thick. The kind that pressed in on Tony until he had to fill it. “You’re annoying, you know that? Sitting there with your puppy-dog empathy face, waiting for me to crack like a… like a—what cracks? Egg? No, too obvious. Glass? No, too poetic. Whatever. Point is, it’s manipulative.”

Bruce almost smiled. “And yet you’re still talking.”

Tony groaned, rubbing his face. "I just—I dont know, Bruce. Contacts mean I get to choose what they see, I guess. Control the narrative."

"That it?"

"I—" Tony took a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. "I—Blue eyes are… symbolized. They're unique. Brown is normal. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it makes sense," Bruce agreed. "But I'm getting the feeling its not really about the contacts, is it?"

Tony barked a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Not about the contacts. Of course it’s not. Nothing’s ever about what it looks like on the label.”

Bruce waited.

Tony's hands clasped together, he squeezed hard enough for his knuckles to go white. "I have my mom's eyes. And—and when I was a kid, everyone always talked about them. They're beautiful, they're distracting, they're—they're dangerous. And I guess I just.. I don't know.."

"Just talk, Tony, I'm listening."

Tony took a deep breathe. "I— It's embarrassing."

Bruce shook his head. "Come on, Tone, not like I'm gonna gossip about you or anything."

"When I was a kid I used to love Cap, y'know? Like father like son, I suppose." Tony chuckled humorlessly. "And I.. I always thought I had 'hero eyes.' And thats, well.."

"And that's why you cover them up now?" Bruce guessed. “Because you don’t feel like one.”

Tony let out a choked laugh, bitter as burnt coffee. “Ding ding ding. We’ve got a winner. Great job, Dr. Banner. Let me tell you what you've won—"

"Tony, I'm serious."

"I know," Tony agreed, clearly trying to force casualness back into his voice. "And you know I make everything into a joke. So, I guess we're at an impasse."

Bruce didn't answer. Once again letting Tony sit in his thoughts, choose how to continue.

Tony shifted, restless. “What, no lecture? No speech about self-worth or identity or whatever other problems I've probably got?”

“I’m not your therapist,” Bruce said simply.

Tony's grin was sharp, defensive. "You keep tellin' me that. Yet here you are, therapizing me."

"I'm not therapizing you." Bruce's voice stayed calm. Soft. Despite everything Tony's throwing at him. "I'm just.. sitting with you."

Tony’s throat went tight. He stared down at his knees, trying to will the moment into dissolving. “Cute line,” he muttered, voice scratchy. “You practicing for Hallmark?”

"Tony—"

"It's fine, Brucie." Tony cut him off, wringing his hands together again. "I mean, its not like I—I hide myself completely. Just from the public."

Bruce reached out, slow, careful, and covered Tony’s restless hands with his own. Just glad Tony isnt trying to dodge the topic anymore. “And that's going so great for you. Yeah?”

Tony’s lips twitched, half a smirk, half a grimace. “Well, I’m still breathing. That’s a win in my book.”

“Is it?”

Tony tried to tug his hands back, but Bruce’s grip was firmer than it looked. Not unkind—never unkind—but unyielding.

“I'm serious, Tony,” Bruce said softly. “Is it?"

Tony finally looked up, eyes narrowed like Bruce had just pried open a lock that wasn’t meant to be touched. “You really gotta ruin everything with feelings, huh?” His voice was thin, not quite steady.

Bruce still didn’t let go. “That's not an answer. I need an answer, Tony.”

Tony swallowed. Once, twice. Like he was physically trying not to choke on his words.

"It's more than I deserve. So, yeah, it's a win."

Bruce’s hands tightened over Tony’s, though not enough to hurt. “Don’t say that.”

Tony gave a thin smile, shaky around the edges. “Don’t say what? The truth?”

"That's not the truth, Tony." Bruce's tone sharpened. "You don’t get to write yourself off like that. Okay?"

Tony’s laugh was brittle. “You sound real sure of that.”

"I am. You think I’d still be sitting here if I wasn't?”

For a second, Tony’s façade cracked hard enough Bruce thought he might actually cry. Instead, he jerked his hands free and scrubbed them through his hair, muttering, “Jesus, Bruce, you’re relentless.”

“Only when it’s important."

"Yeah, well, congrats. You've figured out my super secret vulnerability. What's next? You gonna hug me until I see the light?” Tony’s words came sharp, but the bite was hollow.

Bruce’s answer was maddeningly calm. “If that’s what it takes.”

“…You ever get tired of being the only adult in the room?” Tony asked, voice quieter.

"Oh, all the time," Bruce admitted, chuckling. "But I don't mind right now."

Tony let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “Lucky me, huh?”

April 2013

The Keener house was cramped but warm. Alive in a way none of Tony's residences rarely seem to be. Tony had half-woken when the smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen, Darla moving around as she got ready for work.

Tony stretched, blinking blearily at the ceiling, already feeling all the aches of sleeping on the couch. He'll have to buy them a more comfortable one if he's planning to make these visits a thing.

He'd meant to get up early, sneak into the bathroom, slip the contacts in before anyone saw. The same ritual he'd done every morning for decades.

But before he could so much as swing his legs off the couch, there was the pitter-patter of feet running toward him.

"Tony!"

Harley thundered down first, hair sticking up in a half-dozen directions, followed closely by Daphne in a tangle of pink pajamas. They made a beeline straight for him, no hesitation, like they’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.

Tony pushed himself upright, heart suddenly hammering for a reason that had nothing to do with kids launching themselves at his ribcage. A joke about him being here all week died in his throat.

Because Harley stopped dead in his tracks. Stared. And Daphne, already climbing onto the couch, leaned in until her nose was almost touching his.

“Your eyes,” she whispered, in that breathless little-kid way that made it sound like she’d just discovered treasure.

Tony froze. Shit. He hadn’t—he hadn’t gotten the lenses in. Two bright, unguarded blue eyes were staring right back at them.

For half a second he considered lying. Spinning something about lighting or allergies. But Harley’s mouth had already broken into the biggest grin, and Daphne’s tiny fingers were pressing to his cheek like she was checking to see if he was real.

“They’re blue!” she announced triumphantly, bouncing on the cushions.

Tony managed a crooked smile, though his throat felt tight. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell anyone. Trade secret.”

Harley rolled his eyes. “Relax, Tony. They’re just eyes.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Just eyes. Just eyes. How many years had it been since someone said that without it sounding like a judgment?

Daphne, satisfied, tucked herself against his side like she’d already decided blue-eyed Tony was her favorite version. Harley flopped down on the other side, remote in hand, already flipping channels like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tony sat there, caught between laughing and crying, with two kids pressed against him and no armor in sight.

July 2014

Steve stood across from him, arms folded, jaw set tight. He hadn’t sat down yet. That was never a good sign.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said.

Tony, sprawled in the pilot’s chair, tipped his head back and smirked. “Doing what? Saving your ass? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Steve didn’t bite at the joke. His eyes narrowed. “Keeping secrets.”

Tony laughed, low and sharp. “Oh, that again. Really, Cap? Can’t we have one day without lectures on my honesty?”

“This isn’t a lecture,” Steve said, voice tight. “It’s a warning. You did it again, Tony. Just sent out a weapon without running it past the team. One day someone’s going to get hurt because of something you didn’t share.”

Tony shifted in the chair, letting the smirk slip just slightly, like it had cracks in it he didn’t quite want Steve to see. “Warning received, loud and clear,” he said, voice casual, too casual, like the words didn’t mean anything at all. “But hey, I’ve been keeping trade secrets since before you were out of the ice, Steve. You should know by now, it’s kind of my thing.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not 'your thing,' Tony. It’s a problem. And I’m not only talking about the tech. I’m talking about everything. The plans, the armor, hell, even your eyes are fake—who knows what else you’re not telling us?”

Tony’s smirk twitched, just slightly, like a reflex he couldn’t stop. “Wow,” he said, voice sharper now, teasing, defensive. “You’re really going there. My eyes? Really? That’s the hill you’re dying on?”

Steve didn’t flinch. “I’m not joking, Tony. Every time you hide something, you put people at risk. One day, one of these secrets is going to hurt someone."

Tony let out a laugh, brittle around the edges. “Cute speech, Cap. Really. Ten out of ten on the righteous indignation scale. Do you practice those in the mirror, or is it all-natural?”

Steve didn’t rise to the bait. His voice stayed low, even. “You think this is funny?”

"You know I always do," Tony said, a little too quickly. "I just dont think you should be lecturing anyone on trust."

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.” Steve’s voice was tight, like he was holding something back, trying not to let it spill out all at once. “I don’t build weapons and deploy them without warning. I don’t keep everyone guessing about whether they can trust me.”

Tony tilted his head, smirk razor-thin now. "Wow. A little defensive there. What're you hiding, Cap?"

Before Steve could answer, Natasha’s voice cut through from the doorway, cool and unamused. “Boys. As fun as this little pissing contest is, some of us would like to get the debrief over with before sunrise.”

Steve pulled back half a step, exhaling through his nose. Tony managed a cocky little salute, though his hands felt unsteady.

“Saved by the bell."

September 2014

The argument was still ringing in his ears. Cap’s voice, sharp and disappointed; Tony’s, sharper and defensive. A script they’d both been rehearsing since New York. Since before, maybe.

He slammed his bedroom door shut, leaned against it, and let the silence swallow him whole. His hands went to his eyes automatically, tugging the contacts free, dropping them in the case with a soft click. When he looked up, the mirror above the dresser stared back.

Blue eyes. Too blue. Too bright.

They didn’t belong to him. Not really. Not anymore.

They belonged to some wide-eyed kid in a plastic Captain America suit, saluting himself in the mirror, pretending the world saw him as someone worth following.

They belonged to Maria Stark’s son, the boy she believed could do no wrong.

They belonged to every dream of heroism he’d ever been stupid enough to hold onto.

But Tony? Tony wasn’t a hero.

He was the guy who built weapons that killed people.

He was the guy who screwed up again and again until people paid the price.

And every time he looked in the mirror with those eyes staring back, it felt like a lie. Like he was wearing a mask that went deeper than skin.

Tony didn't notice his breathing start to speed up until it got too fast. His chest hitched, ragged and shallow, his arc reactor glowing too bright under his shirt.

Why did he choose to wear blue today?

“Stop,” he hissed at the mirror, at himself, at the blue. His hands curled into fists, then opened again, helpless. “You don’t—you don’t get to look like that. You don’t get to look like her.”

The room tilted. His body went hot-cold, hot-cold, sweat breaking across his skin.

He braced one palm against the dresser, the other against the wall, grounding himself on the chill surface, nails digging into the paint.

It was happening again.

The reactor’s steady thrum beneath his ribs became thunder, a countdown, a ticking bomb, and he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t slow it down.

It was too much like Afghanistan. Too much like New York.

Too much like everything.

His gaze flicked back up, and the boy in the mirror stared back—eyes clear, wide, almost innocent. A stranger.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look.

He slid down the wall until he was on the floor, head in his hands, gasping around the kind of tight, breaking breaths that sounded too close to crying.

He wasn't—He wasn't a hero. He knew he wasn't one.

He didn't know why he had to be born with hero's eyes. Why he had to be taunted with them.

He didn't know what he did to deserve that.

Well, he did know.

He knew exactly what he's done.

His breaths were sharp, ragged, tearing at his throat. His fingers clawed at his hair, his face, anything to distract from the burn in his lungs and the blue still seared into the backs of his eyelids.

A choked sound scraped its way out of him—half laugh, half sob. Happy birthday, Mom. Your boy’s a murderer. Your boy’s a fraud.

Okay. No. No.

Don't think about that.

Don't think about Mom.

He tossed his head back, hitting it against the wall, hard enough to sting, but it didn’t quiet anything.

So he did it again.

And again.

Each thud rattled down his spine, sharp and useless, like hitting a bruise just to prove it still hurt.

The sound echoes in the hollow of the room, muffled by drywall and silence.

He could keep going. He wanted to keep going. Maybe if he rattled his skull hard enough, he could shake something loose—guilt, grief, all the words Steve had spit at him like he hadn’t thought them himself a thousand times before.

But his body betrayed him before his will did. His arms trembled. His breath hitched. The pressure in his chest edged into dangerous, into familiar, into something he couldn’t claw his way back from if he kept pushing.

But his body betrayed him before his will did. His arms trembled. His breath hitched. The pressure in his chest edged into something dangerous, familiar, into something he couldn’t claw his way back from if he kept pushing.

Not again. Not tonight.

Tony shoved his palms against his eyes, blotting out the world, blotting out blue, blotting out everything until all he could see was orange behind his lids.

He forced the inhale, shaky, then another. Not enough, never enough, but more than nothing.

He counted—four in, seven hold, eight out—just like Bruce taught him.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He hated that it worked, even a little. Hated that his body was able to calm down before his mind caught up.

He hated that he could feel his heart pounding throughout his body, reminding him he was still alive.

Alive.

Alive meant he still had to carry it. The lies, the blue, the weight of being the wrong man for the eyes his mother left him.

Tony dragged his hands down his face and barked out another broken laugh, one that scraped his throat raw. The mirror still waited across the room, patient, cruel. He didn’t look at it. He couldn’t.

Instead, he groped for the case on the dresser with shaking fingers, wiping the tears from his eyes so he can put them in. Brown for the rest of the day. Brown forever.

The blue was gone. The lie was gone.

Tony Stark, brown-eyed fraud, could face the world again.

December 2014

Tony wouldn't trade Christmas with the Keeners for anything.

It might not be big or bustling or expensive like the Christmas parties his mom used to throw, but it was fuller, somehow. Just a plastic tree in the corner, lights strung haphazardly around the porch, and way too much tinsel, thanks to the kids.

He was halfway through a cup of cocoa when Daphne ran over, shoving a little box in his face. She bounced on her toes, grinning wide, a couple teeth missing.

“Open it! Open it!”

Tony held up his hands. “Alright, alright, relax, sweetheart. I'm opening it.” He was already smiling as he pulled off the cheap wrapping paper.

Inside was a little string bracelet. Blue with red and gold highlights. It was a little advanced for a seven-year-old, so Tony's sure she probably got Harley's help with it.

Daphne beamed like she’d just solved world hunger. “See? Red and gold for Iron Man. And the blue’s your eyes. Harley helped me pick it ‘cause I wanted the exact colors. So even if you’re wearing your boring brown eyes you can still remember the real ones.”

Tony cleared his throat. Looked down. Then back up. His vision blurred, but no way in hell was he admitting that.

“Well,” he managed, voice rough. “That’s… That’s pretty great, kid. Top-tier gift. Stark Industries could never.”

Darla, from the kitchen, called out, “Eyes watering already? I thought I put too many onions in the casserole.”

“Exactly,” Tony muttered, tightening the bracelet on his wrist. “Onions. Nothing else. Definitely not feelings.”

Daphne just hugged him around the middle, satisfied, before running off to terrorize Harley with her new Barbies.

Tony glanced down at the string again, thumb brushing over it. The color was pretty spot on. He smiled, blinked the tears away, and went to grab one of the dolls.

March 2015

Bruce was sitting at one of the many workbenches, measuring out some kind of chemical. Tony doesn't pay much attention unless Bruce is talking to him directly, which he hasn't been doing today despite Tony sitting right beside him.

It's been a slow day, Tony's finished with every gadget, experiment, or toy he's able to. And no one on the team needs any new gear. So watching Bruce play ("work") is the most entertainment he'll be getting until the rest of the team returns from whatever training regimen they're doing.

Tony grinned, leaning a little closer. “If you blow us up, I’m gonna have to haunt you, and I’m not a quiet ghost.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Not gonna blow us up.” He set the vial down, adjusted his glasses, then finally gave Tony a once-over.

And frowned.

“Tony. Contacts out.”

Tony blinked, thrown. “Excuse me?”

“The fumes from this stuff bond with plastics. Which includes contact lenses.” Bruce nodded his head toward Tony. “It’ll hurt like hell, and I don’t want to risk damage. Take them out.”

Tony tilted his head, searching Bruce’s face for even a hint of teasing. None. Banner looked dead serious, steady in that calm, grounding way he had.

Normally, this was the part where Tony would launch into a speech or joke—something about FDA regulations being for lesser men, or how he’d lived through worse than chemical fumes, or maybe just a classic “my eyes are fine, thanks, Mom.”

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, he sighed, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out the little case. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re bossy,” he muttered, flipping it open.

Bruce arched a brow but didn’t rise to the bait, only waited while Tony carefully slid one contact free, then the other. He blinked, blue eyes sharp and startling in the bright lab light, before dropping them into the solution.

“Happy?” Tony asked, tone flat, but his mouth quirked upward.

Bruce’s gaze softened. “I am. Thanks.” He turned back to his beakers, but not before Tony caught the flicker of relief on his face.

May 2015

The roof was quiet—just the low hum of the city below, the wind tugging at his shirt, the reactor’s steady glow against the dark. Tony sat cross-legged near the edge, nursing a glass of something expensive enough to sting but not strong enough to drown out thought. Not tonight.

His forty-fifth birthday. Big number. Big enough that, in some other life, he might’ve turned it into a circus. Fireworks, a live band, a scandal or two splashed across Page Six.

Instead, he was hiding.

Because the last thing he wanted was to see celebration reflected back at him from anyone’s face. Didn’t feel like he’d earned a candle, let alone a whole cake.

“Y’know, most people go inside when they don’t want to be found.”

Tony startled—just a twitch, but enough to slosh the drink in his glass. He turned. Sam stood a few yards back, wings folded, helmet tucked under one arm. He looked casual, but his eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“Guess I’m not most people,” Tony said, voice dry, a little hoarse. “Don’t tell me you and Rogers were playing hide-and-seek.”

“Something like that,” Sam said, moving closer but not too close. He stopped at a respectful distance, like he was giving Tony a choice. “You’ve been MIA all day. Figured you’d have a parade planned. Balloons, maybe. A clown, even.”

Tony huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah, well. The party store was fresh out of jugglers. Had to settle for this.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast, then drank.

Sam didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, steady and unflinching, in a way that made Tony shift uncomfortably.

Finally, Sam asked, “You alright?”

The question was simple. Too simple. No strings, no subtext, no lectures about responsibility or hubris or whatever headline Steve liked to paste on him. Just—alright?

Tony opened his mouth, closed it again. The truth was pressing, jagged, right there. No. No, I’m not. I built a monster and lost one of the only people who care about me, and every time I look in the mirror my eyes dont look like they belong to me, and I don’t know how to live with it.

Obviously he couldn't say that, so instead he just took another swig of his drink, the alcohol burning his throat like it could cauterize the words before they escape. He set the glass on the concrete beside him.

“Yeah,” he said finally, stretching the word out, lazy, like it didn’t cost him anything. “Peachy. Forty-five never looked so good.” He spread his arms in a mock display, reactor humming in his chest.

Sam’s expression didn’t change. He wasn’t buying it. Not hostile, not pitying—just… steady. Like he’d been trained for this. Which, Tony's almost positive he actually had been. Of course the one person with training would be the one to find him.

“You know,” Sam said, dropping down into a crouch a few feet away, “I used to run group session. Guys who’d been through it, didn’t want to say a word. But they’d show up anyway. Sit there with their arms crossed, glaring at the floor. You’d ask how they were, they’d say ‘fine.’ Every time. Fine. Peachy. Living the dream.”

Tony arched a brow. “And then what, you Jedi-mind-tricked them into spilling their guts?”

Sam shrugged. “Nah. Just sat there with ‘em. Sometimes that’s enough.”

The silence stretched. The city roared below them, alive and uncaring.

Tony glanced sideways, caught the way Sam wasn’t pushing, wasn’t prodding—just there. It made his throat feel tight. Too tight.

“Just not feeling like much of a birthday guy this year i guess,” Tony said, voice quieter now, almost lost to the wind. He rubbed at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand, like he could scrub away the thought that threatened to slip through. “Guess the confetti budget’ll roll over to next year.” If there is a next year. He doesnt say that either.

Sam nodded like that made perfect sense. “Nothing wrong with low-key.” He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “Besides, can’t compete with last year anyway. I heard the fireworks set off car alarms in three boroughs.”

Tony smirked, just a flicker. He should’ve kept it light, deflected, moved on. He's sure Sam would've let him, too. But that might be exactly why the words spilled out anyway, bitter and fragile.

“I don’t feel like celebrating,” he admitted, barely audible.

Sam nodded. "Tell me to go screw myself if I'm going too far, but it got anything to do with why you're wearing the contacts more?"

Tony stiffened. He didn't expect that.

His hand twitched toward his face before he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist.

He wasn't about to fidget. Not now. Not while Sam was watching him like a hawk. (or, well, like a falcon. Do falcons have good eyesight? Tony doesnt even know.)

"No clue what you're talkin' about Cap Jr.. Sorry."

Sam didn't bite at the deflection. Didn't roll is eyes, or get indignant, or anything like that.

He just hummed. Low, noncommittal. Then pulled his legs into his chest, still watching Tony. Like they were just two guys hanging out on a rooftop.

Tony waited for him to say something. Anything. But he didn't. Just kept staring. Like he was expecting Tony to continue. So he did.

"It's fine Sam, really. Thanks for coming to check though."

Sam tilted his head, eyebrow raising like he knew exactly what Tony was doing.

“Seriously,” Tony added, flapping a hand like he was swatting a fly. “You did your Good Samaritan bit. Found the birthday boy, confirmed I haven’t thrown myself off the roof yet. Mission accomplished. You waiting for a reward?"

Sam just raised his brows. “That what you think this is? A mission?”

Tony snorted, but it came out thinner than he meant. “Well, you’ve got the tactical stance, the surveillance, the whole Falcon thing going. Hard not to read it like an op.”

Sam smirked. “It's not an op, Stark. We wouldn't still be here if it was.”

“Whatever,” Tony muttered, reaching for his glass. The whiskey caught the city lights, glittering gold. He swirled it, watching the way it clung to the edges. “But yeah, you can relax. Not about to swan-dive just to get out of 'Happy Birthday's.”

“Didn’t think you were,” Sam said easily. “If I did, I’d be sittin' close enough to reach you.”

Tony looked at him sidelong. “That supposed to be comforting?”

Sam shrugged. “Supposed to be honest.”

Tony tossed back the rest of his drink, sighing. "Look," he muttered, "you don’t gotta babysit me. I’m fine.” He tapped a finger against the glass beside him. “Got my drink. Got my view. Got…” He trailed off before he could say nothing else.

Sam didn’t push. Didn’t even look at him. Just leaned back, casual as could be, gaze tipped toward the stars that weren’t visible through the light pollution. “Got… a hell of a view,” he supplied softly, like he was giving Tony an escape hatch.

Tony nodded, grateful that Sam isn't pushing, not like the others probably would.

Sam leaned a little closer, elbows on his knees, voice steady but gentle. “Look, man. You don’t have to celebrate. You don’t have to explain yourself, either. But if you ever feel like talkin’, you don’t gotta do it alone on a roof with whiskey. You got people. Me, for one.”

Tony stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes catching the faint glow of the reactor. It's been a while since anyone's actually said that to him. The last person who did…

“…Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he said at last, voice quieter than the wind.

Sam didn’t hesitate. “I mean it.”

And for the first time all day, Tony felt the corners of his mouth twitch toward something that might’ve been the start of a real smile.

April 2016

The room was too quiet. That was the first thing Tony noticed—no clacking keyboards, no voices drifting through the glass, not even the faint hum of JARVIS piping up to remind him of a meeting. Just him, Pepper, and the kind of silence that pressed down like a weight.

She sat in front of him, hands clasped in her lap. Calm. Always calm. Tony used to find that grounding. Now it just made his chest ache.

“I love you,” Pepper said, and Tony flinched, because the way she said it didn’t sound right. “You know that, right?”

“Sure,” he said, voice too fast, too light. “I mean, who doesn’t? I’m lovable. Hugely popular. Ask my fan club.”

“Tony.”

Just his name, soft but firm, and it stripped the joke right out of him. He swallowed hard, tried to grin, failed. “This is the part where you tell me you’re dumping me, isn’t it?”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften it either. “This isn’t working,” she said. Not sharp, not cold—just honest. Honest in the way she always was with him. “Not for me. Not in the way it should.”

It was ridiculous how much that stung. He’d been prepared for a thousand kinds of disaster, but not this. Not her standing there, kind and steady, telling him he wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

“I thought we were…” The words stuck in his throat, snagged on something he didn't want to name. He stared at the carpet, at her hands, at anything but her face. “I thought you were happy.”

“I was,” she said gently. “I am. But happiness isn’t the same as… having a life. And Tony, I can’t build one with you when you’re halfway gone all the time. I’m always waiting for you to come back to me, and you never really do.”

The ache in his chest twisted. He wanted to argue—he was there, wasn’t he? Every gala, every board meeting, every morning coffee. But even as the words formed, he knew they’d ring hollow. Because he knew she was right. He was always half a step away, mind elsewhere.

“Pep…” He tried for her name, but it came out more like a plea.

She reached over, covered his restless hand with hers, and it was unbearable—her warmth, her steadiness, the way she could still touch him with so much care even as she broke his heart.

“I love you,” she said again. “But this isn't what either of us needs.”

He laughed, because the alternative was breaking apart right there in front of her. The sound scraped out of him, sharp and humorless. "I know.. I know you do."

Her hand squeezed his, just once, before letting go. “Take all the time you need,” she said softly. “I’ll handle the company. And we'll talk again when you're ready. Okay?”

That was the worst thing she's said. She knew. She knew what this would do to him, and she was already stepping in to catch the fallout.

He forced a nod, sharp and mechanical. “Yeah. Sure. Time. Got loads of it.”

April 2016

Snow crunched under Strange's boots as he stepped out of the portal, wind slicing through his coat like knives.

Rhodey hadn’t exaggerated.

Tony Stark lay sprawled in the ice, armor cracked and smoking, helmet discarded beside him. His chestplate flickered erratically, a dying heartbeat in blue. His face was pale under streaks of blood, lips tinged with gray.

“Jesus,” Strange muttered, crouching beside him.

Tony’s head lolled weakly toward him, mouth twisting in something that might have been a grin if it weren’t so broken. “What, no-no flowers? How—How long's it b-een?" His breath fogged shallowly, uneven.

The words stuttered into a hiss of pain as Strange’s magic unraveled the metal plating piece by piece, discarding it in the snow with neat efficiency. It was slower than he wanted—it had to be, or he’d risk damaging the man inside—but each groaning plate felt like wasted seconds.

"Stay still,” Strange said, sharper than intended. “You’re hypothermic, bleeding, and your chest—God, Tony, what the hell did you do?”

“Couples’ therapy,” Tony rasped. His laugh rattled, broke into a cough. “Did—Didn’t go great.”

The armor peeled back at last, exposing the arc reactor’s cracked housing. Strange’s stomach lurched at the stuttering light beneath it. Carefully—so carefully—he steadied Tony against the snow, brushing sweat-matted hair back from his forehead.

Strange let out a stuttering breath. The cloak moved off his shoulders, wrapping around Tony instead.

“Aw, you do care,” Tony whispered, but his eyes drifted closed mid-sentence.

And when they snapped back open, Strange noticed it.

The contacts, dulled and clouded from the cold, had slipped crooked against Tony’s irises. One was already half-folded, irritating the eye beneath. Strange swallowed, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. He conjured a shimmer of clean water, steadying Tony’s head with hands that trembled despite him, and removed the lenses one at a time.

Tony stirred, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Not… a fan… of brown?”

Strange’s mouth twitched despite everything. “Not when it’s killing you.”

Tony blinked slowly, lashes crusted with frost, the raw blue of his irises startling against the ruin of his face.

Strange carefully pulled him into a sitting position, the cloak wrapping itself tighter around him.

“Save the witty commentary,” Strange said, before Tony could even open his mouth. “You need your strength.”

“Strength’s… overrated.” Tony’s lips curled faintly, teeth chattering. “That’s why… I built a robot suit. Outsourced it.”

The joke collapsed into a groan, his head tipping toward Strange’s shoulder as if the effort of holding it up was too much.

Strange’s hands froze mid-gesture, betraying him. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered, and he wasn’t even sure if Tony could hear him. “Not here. Not now.”

Tony’s eyes cracked open again, startlingly lucid for half a second. He searched Strange’s face, blue burning through the haze. “Huh. Still bossy,” he breathed. “Always liked that.”

Strange swallowed hard, tightening his grip on Tony’s shoulders as if sheer force could keep him upright. “Then listen to me for once and don’t talk.”

Tony huffed a ragged sound that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t shake so violently through his frame. His lips were nearly blue.

“You’re going to live,” Strange continued, half to convince Tony, half to convince himself. “Do you hear me? You’ve got too much work left to do to stop now.”

Tony’s eyelids fluttered. “You— you sound like Pep,” he muttered, almost fond.

Strange flinched, just for a heartbeat, but forced it down. “Then maybe you should start listening to the people who care about you.”

Tony’s mouth twitched, if fell open, but no words came out. His head sagged fully against Strange’s shoulder.

Panic flared, sharp and cold. Strange snapped a portal open with one hand, the other pressed tight over Tony’s chest. New York shimmered on the other side, the warm light of the Sanctum’s foyer spilling across the snow.

“Hold on, Stark,” Strange murmured as he pulled them both through, cloak tightening its grip around Tony like a lifeline.

July 2016

Tony’s bed was cranked halfway upright, but it didn’t make sitting up any less miserable. Every blink felt like sandpaper, his chest still hurt where Steve had caved in the reactor, and his whole body had that numb, cold ache leftover from Siberia.

He’d been trying to watch the TV muted on the wall—key word trying considering he can barely even see the shape of it right now—when the door eased open and Rhodey wheeled himself in. Tony blinked hard (which didn’t help), forcing a smirk.

“Hey. Look at you. Speed racer.”

“Don’t start,” Rhodey muttered, maneuvering the chair close. He studied Tony for a beat, then frowned. “You look like hell.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere.”

Rhodey didn’t bite. His gaze dropped to Tony’s eyes. “Contacts?”

Tony sighed, rubbed at the bruise on his cheek. “Tried. Didn’t… end well. Couple corneal scratches. Doc says no lenses for a while.” He gestured vaguely at his bloodshot, very obviously blue eyes. “Ta-da. Stark family heirlooms on display. Don’t all clap at once.”

Rhodey leaned back, unimpressed. “You ever think maybe it's time to drop it?"

Tony tilted his head, squinting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been doing this contacts thing for, what? 20 years?” Rhodey said flatly. “Like you’re some undercover agent hiding in plain sight. Newsflash, man: nobody cares that much about your eyes.”

“Wrong,” Tony shot back, quick as a reflex. “Everybody cares. Every time I forget the contacts, suddenly it’s—‘oh wow, Tony, your eyes are so striking, so piercing, are you even human?’—like I’m some side-show freak. They don’t want to talk to me, they just want to look at me. Like I’m not distracting enough without glow-sticks in my chest.”

“Tony—”

“And Obie used to call them distracting,” Tony went on, words sharper now, tumbling like they’d been stored too long. “Said people wouldn’t take me seriously. So guess what? Brown eyes, problem solved.” He made a little flourish with his hand, like he was pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Rhodey frowned harder, but didn't interrupt him again.

Tony sagged back against the pillows, smirk dissolving. “Besides. They’re hers. My mom’s. And I—” He stopped, throat tight, as if the words were trying to splinter. He waved a hand weakly instead. “I don’t get to have nice things. Not anymore.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the beeping monitor and the low hum of the hospital vent.

"And who the fuck decided that?"

Tony blinked (ow) in surprise. "Im sorry?"

Rhodey didn't back down, instead he just repeated himself. "Who the fuck decided that?"

Tony stared, caught off guard. Rhodey’s glare was steady, Tony felt it even through the blurriness.

“I mean it,” Rhodey said, voice firm. “Who the fuck decided you don’t get to have nice things? Stane? The press? Ross? Rogers? Who?”

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it. For once, he didn’t have a snappy comeback ready.

“Because last time I checked,” Rhodey went on, “you’ve been breaking your ass for years keeping the entire planet in one piece. You’ve bled, you’ve lost, you’ve—” his voice hitched just slightly “—you’ve nearly died more times than I want to think about. And still, here you are. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re not allowed to keep the parts of yourself that remind you of the people you love.”

Tony’s throat tightened. He tried to cover it with a crooked grin. “Rhodes, you’re getting dangerously close to a Hallmark card. Dial it back before you sprain something.”

Rhodey didn’t so much as blink. “I’m serious, Tone. You think wearing brown lenses makes the world easier to deal with, fine. That’s your call. But don’t you dare try and say it’s because you don’t deserve to have your mom’s eyes. That’s bullshit.”

Tony looked down, fingers picking at the edge of his blanket. His chest ached, and not just from the reactor-shaped bruise. “…She always said they were the best thing about me.” The words came out soft, unguarded, like they’d been waiting years to be let out.

Rhodey’s expression softened. “Then stop hiding them. At least from yourself.”

The monitor beeped between them, betraying the anxiety Tony was trying to keep hidden. Tony scrubbed a hand over his face, careful of his eyes, exhaling like the fight had gone out of him.

“God, you’re bossy,” he muttered.

Rhodey smirked. “And you love me for it.”

“Debatable.” But there wasn’t much weight behind it.

August 2016

Ever since Peter—well, Spider-Man—had been joining Tony for patrols, he's been talking about how his Aunt May is not Tony's biggest fan.

So, of course, Tony suggested brunch. A chance for May to decide that Tony is actually a great influence on her kid so that Peter will stop worrying.

The bell over the door jingled as Tony pushed it open, sunglasses still on. The place smelled like frying oil and coffee—comfort food for the soul, even if he was pretending not to have one lately.

Peter and May were already in a booth. Peter practically bounced in his seat when he spotted him. May… didn’t.

Tony slid in across from them, tugged his sunglasses off and setting them down beside the napkin dispenser. His eyes—bright, unshielded blue—caught in the neon glow from the pie case.

Peter blinked. And blinked again. Then his voice shot up a little too loud:
“Holy SHIT, Mr. Stark, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

Heads turned from other tables. May’s eyebrows climbed, unimpressed.

Tony leaned forward sharply, fake-glaring at Peter. “Language. You kiss your dog with that mouth?”

"I dont have a—wait, no. That's not the point—" Peter gestured to his face helplessly. "They're BLUE. Like—like really blue. Like ocean blue. Since when?!"

“Since birth,” Tony deadpanned, reaching for the menu. “Congratulations, kid, you’ve cracked the case. Add that to your résumé.”

Peter was still gawking. “But—wait—no, you have brown eyes. You've had brown eyes the whole time we've known each other! In your old pictures too!"

"Okay, didn't realize I had a stalker."

May gave Tony a long, appraising look over her iced tea. “You’ve been lying about your eye color?”

Tony sighed, leaned back in the booth. “Not lying. Just… editing. PR 101. Blue eyes make people get weird, they ask questions, they stare too long—Obie used to say they were ‘distracting.’ So.” He tapped the table with two fingers. “Brown’s easier. Less memorable.”

Peter frowned, processing that. Then he muttered, “They don’t look distracting to me. They look like—” He cut himself off, ears pink. “Uh. Normal. For you. You know.”

"And you'd know whats normal for me. Considering you apparently stalk me."

"I dont—!" Peter groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "Obviously I've seen pictures of you! You're Tony fucking Stark."

"I am Tony fucking Stark." Tony smirked, smug and sharp. “You hear that, May? I’ve got a stalker. You should be proud of your nephew. Great initiative, apparent obsessive tendencies—"

“Mr. Stark, please stop.” Peter peeked at him through his fingers, face red.

"—he's a great intern, really." Tony finishes, the teasing tone dropping into sincerity.

May’s mouth quirked like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or roll her eyes. “So far, Mr. Stark, all I’ve learned is that you enjoy making my nephew squirm.”

“Character building,” Tony said smoothly, waving a hand. “World’s cruel, Mrs. Parker. Better he get used to it from me than from, say, a BuzzFeed article.”

Peter groaned again. “This is the worst brunch ever.”

“Kid, brunch hasn’t even started.” Tony leaned over, snagged the laminated menu from the holder. “Relax. Have some pancakes. Carbs solve everything.”

Peter muttered into his hands, “This was supposed to make Aunt May like you…”

“Oh, relax, Petey. I'm sure she loves me already.” Tony glanced up from the menu. “Don’t you, May?”

May sipped her iced tea, unblinking. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Tony froze just long enough for Peter to choke on a laugh. He covered it with a cough, but Tony shot him a look anyway.

“Right,” Tony said lightly, looking down at the menu again like her words hadn’t hit their mark. “Tough crowd. Noted.”

A waitress swung by with coffee and water. Tony thanked her automatically, then grabbed the sugar. For a moment, May just looked at him—really looked, not at the designer suit or the reputation, but at the man with bruises fading on his jaw and dark circles under his too-blue eyes.

She set her glass down. “Peter says you drag him into dangerous situations.”

Tony arched a brow. “Drag? The kid practically vaults out his bedroom window the second I text him.”

Peter sat up straight. “It’s true. I, uh—volunteer.”

May’s gaze flicked to her nephew, then back to Tony. “And you let him.”

Tony leaned forward, arms on the table. His voice was casual, but it carried that steel edge that always slipped in when he stopped joking. “I don’t let him. He’s already doing it. The difference is, if I’m there, I can keep him from getting killed.”

May’s eyes narrowed. “And what if you can’t?”

Tony’s mouth twitched, half a smile, half something sharper. “Then at least I’ll be there trying. Not sitting at home pretending he’s not sneaking out to break both femurs.”

Peter groaned. “Oh my god, you don’t have to say it like that—”

“Shush up, Spidey.” Tony didn’t look away from May. “Look, I know I’m not winning any Parent of the Year awards. I don’t even make the short list. But he’s got powers, May. Real ones. And kids with power who don’t have anyone watching out for them—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “—they don’t usually end well.”

Something in May’s expression shifted, to something softer. She studied him like she could peel away the bravado layer by layer.

Peter glanced between them, nervous. “Uh. We were… gonna order pancakes?”

"Pancakes," Tony echoed, finally leaning back. He grabbed the menu once more. "Yes. Right. Order whatever you want, Pete, I'm paying."

Peter perked up immediately. “Wait, whatever I want? Like, anything?”

Tony didn’t look up. “Knock yourself out, kid. Order the entire menu, I’ll just expense it under ‘team bonding.’”

Peter grinned, already flipping through the laminated pages like it was the holy grail.

May, however, hadn’t let Tony off the hook. She stirred her iced tea slowly, her voice calm but steady. “Peter tells me you don’t sleep much.”

Tony froze, spoon halfway into his coffee cup. His eyes flicked to Peter. “Does he now.”

Peter shrank into his seat, caught. “I—uh—I might’ve mentioned you’re… um… busy. A lot.”

May’s gaze didn’t waver. “Busy and tired aren’t the same thing.”

Tony forced a smile, stirring sugar into his coffee like it was his lifeline. “Well, Mrs. Parker, some of us carry the weight of the world on our very attractive shoulders. Just part of the job.”

May didn’t blink. “You’re not invincible, Mr. Stark. Pretending you are doesn’t make it true.”

Tony’s smile faltered, just slightly, before he hid it behind the rim of his coffee cup. “Trust me, I’m well aware. Got the scars to prove it.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, voice sharper now. “Peter looks up to you. If you run yourself into the ground, what kind of example does that set?”

Across the table, Peter tried to intervene. “Aunt May—”

But May lifted a hand, not taking her eyes off Tony. “He tells me you take care of him out there. Good. But you realize you wont be able to if you drop, right?”

Tony set his cup down with a quiet clink, his smirk not quite reaching his eyes anymore. “Well, good news then—I don’t drop. Ask anyone. Stubborn bastard, that’s me.”

“Stubborn doesn’t equal immortal,” May countered. She leaned forward now, elbows on the table, matching his posture without even realizing it. “And you can’t expect Peter to believe he needs to take care of himself if you treat your own body like it’s disposable.”

For once, Tony didn’t have a quip ready. His fingers tapped restlessly against the porcelain mug.

Peter looked between them. "Should I—I'm just—I-I'm gonna call the waiter over.."

Tony chuckled. “Relax, Underoos. No one’s gonna throw hands in a pancake house.”

May’s eyes were still on Tony, though softer now. “You think everything’s a joke.”

“Not everything.” He gave her a crooked smile, but it was weary, not charming. “Just the things I don’t wanna answer.”

May almost smiled back. Almost. “You know, you remind me a lot of Peter’s dad.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Mm.” She stirred her tea again. “Smart, funny, impossible to argue with. And just as reckless.”

Tony tilted his head. “Well, I’d say thank you, but it sounds like a setup.”

“It is.” May’s mouth curved. “I'm sure you know what happened to him.”

"Yeah." Tony swallowed, nodded. "I've read the file."

The two of them fell into silence. Tony sipped his coffee slowly.

Before he could break the tension, Peter sat up, waving at the passing waiter like a drowning man reaching for a life raft. “Hi—yes—uh.. Pancakes. Please. chocolate chip. With whipped cream and—”

The interruption gave Tony an out, and he took it, leaning back in the booth like the conversation was already finished. Sunglasses folded neatly beside his coffee, shoulders loose, a picture of ease. He let Peter order for the table, nodding along.

But his hands stayed restless, one thumb tapping the ceramic mug in a jittery rhythm that didn’t match his smirk.

Peter's order came with a eye-roll from the waitress, but she scribbled it down anyway before walking away.

“Habit of yours?” May asked finally.

Tony looked up, brows furrowed. “What?”

“The tapping. The stirring. The fidgeting.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just… observant. “Peter does the same thing when he’s anxious.”

Peter made a strangled sound. “Aunt May—”

Tony tilted his head, lips twitching like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to deny it or turn it into a punchline. He went with the latter.

“Please. I’m not anxious, I’m kinetic. I’m like—uh—perpetual motion. Human innovation at its finest.” He drummed his fingers against the mug for emphasis, then shot her a grin that didn’t quite stick.

May raised an eyebrow. “Human innovation doesn’t usually wear itself down to the wires.”

Peter groaned into his hands. “Why are you like this, Aunt May?”

“Because someone has to be.” She didn’t look away from Tony, her tone still calm, but steady enough to feel like a scalpel. “You hide behind the jokes, Mr. Stark. But you don’t hide them very well, though maybe that's just 'cause you've got your walls down right now.”

"You're rather perceptive." Tony sipped his drink again, trying to hide the way his eyes started to water just a little bit. He really wasn't expecting to get cracked open like this. Not today.

Peter blinked between them. “Sooo…do you like him yet?”

May finally laughed. “I’m not sure ‘like’ is the word.”

Tony raised his cup in a mock toast. “I’ll take ‘tolerated.’ It’s a step up from ‘menace corrupting my nephew.’”

“Jury’s still out,” May said, but her tone had thawed a little.

Peter grinned, relieved. “Okay, okay, progress! Pancakes fix everything.”

"Told you,” Tony muttered into his coffee, "carbs."

Tony had the AC blasting, playlist switching back and forth between rock and indie and pop because Tony made the mistake of letting the kids pick what to listen to.

Daphne had claimed the middle seat and was already humming along with the radio, kicking her sneakers against the back of Tony’s chair in a rhythm that might have driven anyone else insane. Harley and Peter were on each side of her, both still clearly upset they weren't allowed to sit shotgun.

For the first time in a while, Tony didn't have his contacts in. He hadn't even noticed until he got into the car, He's just so used to leaving them out in Tennessee that now its just.. normal. Whenever he goes out with the Keeners, its just him, his ridiculous blue eyes in the rearview mirror.

And somehow he didn’t feel like people were staring. Or if they were, it didn’t matter.

At a stoplight, Daphne leaned forward, chin on the center console. “Dad, can I get sparkly shoes?”

“No,” Harley and Peter said in perfect unison.

“Yes,” Tony said at the same time, grinning at their twin looks of betrayal. “Obviously sparkles are a necessity. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t encourage maximum glitter?”

“An actually responsible one,” Harley muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Responsibility is a myth," Toni insisted. "The only truly responsible person I know is Bruce, and he's not here. So we're getting the sparkles."

Daphne squealed, kicking his seat harder. “Yes! Yesyesyesyesyes—”

“Seriously gonna break the car,” Harley said, but his mouth twitched, betraying a smile.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel the familiar itch of paranoia. No one was staring. No one cared. Just a man with his kids, heading out for school supplies.

When they pulled into the parking lot of the massive office supply store, Harley groaned. “You realize we’re about to be recognized, right? You’re Iron Man. You can’t just walk around with—” He gestured vaguely at Tony’s face. “—all that.”

Tony shut the car off and grinned. “Relax. Today, I’m not Iron Man. I’m Dad. And Dad is about to buy you way too many highlighters.”

December 2016

The Bentley purred to a stop outside the Sanctum, sleek black paint gleaming in the faint light from the streetlamps. It wasn’t the flashiest car in Tony’s collection—not by a long shot—but it was his favorite for nights like this. Classy. Comfortable. The kind of car you took someone on a date in.

Strange was waiting on the steps, coat collar turned up against the cold. He looked unfairly good like that—regal and sharp and maybe a little smug, because of course he knew Tony would come to the door instead of honking like some teenager.

Tony climbed out, scarf swinging, grin already tugging at his mouth. And he wasn’t wearing the contacts. His eyes—unhidden, unfiltered—caught the light, bright and startling in the dark.

Strange noticed immediately. Of course he did. His breath hitched in that subtle way Tony had learned to recognize.

“No contacts tonight?” Strange asked, stepping down the stairs.

Tony spread his arms like, ta-da. “New year, new me. Thought I’d start 2017 with radical honesty. Besides, you’ve seen me at my worst. Seems only fair you get the good stuff too.”

“Good stuff,” Strange echoed, and there was something warmer than amusement in his tone. His hand brushed Tony’s arm, casual but grounding. “I’d call it more than that.”

Tony huffed a laugh, ducking his head just enough to betray that the compliment landed somewhere deep. “Careful, Doc. Keep that up and you’re gonna ruin your reputation for being an arrogant jackass.”

Strange smirked. “I think I can live with that.”