Cloaky Knows Best
The first word that came to mind when Dr. Strange considered Tony Stark was “ego.”
While Stephen at least had the decency and self awareness to admit that, yes, he himself may not have necessarily been a stranger to the term, he would still argue that his relationship was more that of being acquaintances, whereas Stark seemed to have been in a full blown affair with the word. What he means by this is that both him and Stark were warranted to have inflated egos: both publicly renowned in their respective fields, both graced with good looks and charisma, and overall, both men of immense wealth and power. Strange couldn’t say he didn’t relate.
Nonetheless, Stephen preferred to be more reserved, only utilizing his ego when he felt due necessary, though he did find it quite necessary on a many myriads of occasions (What can he say? Some people were practically begging him to remind them of their own inferiority in his presence). Strange fell more into the category of a pretentious asshole. Stark, on the other hand, was known to flaunt his ego and by any means necessary. Always one for showmanship, he seemed to want his presence alone to be testimony to his superiority. He fell more into the category of a self-obsessed asshole. (I mean, everything he did was basically a screaming demand for attention).
Post “Civil War,” as the media would like to call it (Stephen scoffs at the notion. Comparing the issue of slavery to a haphazardly thrown together group of incongruous individuals that broke up over not wanting to take responsibility for the fallout of their actions? Not quite the same in his book), Stark reaches out to him first.
Stephen had never been so grateful for his perpetually stoic face than when he meets Stark for the first time. The asshole didn’t even knock for God’s sake. The only notice he got was a quickly shouted but faintly heard “open sesame!” before the doors swung open. Loudly.
His heart hammered in his chest as his cloak instantly settled over his shoulders. Quick and heavy long strides brought him face to face with the intruder as he made his way to the entrance. Upon identifying the intruder, he was not amused.
Lo and behold, Anthony Edward Stark, pristine in a three piece suit, perfectly tailored to his every inch, dawning sunglasses even in the shade of the sanctum. Against his surprise, Stephen managed to execute his calm and collected demeanor perfectly.
“Mr. Stark,” Stephen drawled, “and to what do I owe this… pleasure.” The distaste rolling off his tongue was nearly palpable as he struggled to find the right word.
Stark, however, seemed to pay no mind to it. In fact, he seemed to not even notice his presence, or was deliberately choosing to ignore it. Stephen settled for the latter. Instead, Stark paced around the room, arms crossed around his chest as he inspected the many artifacts that lined the abode. He didn’t spare a second glance, scratch that, not even a first glance at the powerful sorcerer levitating atop the staircase.
Only when he began to fiddle with the relics did Strange’s irritation get the best of him.
“Cease that,” Stephen barked tersely. He levitated to the bottom of the stairs, transitioning directly into a stride as he approached the man.
Only then did Stark finally turn around. His gaze fell on the sorcerer, (calculating, Strange thought) but his body language remained unbothered. He removed his sunglasses, the only gesture of politeness he’d demonstrated thus far, tucking them away in his pocket before crossing his arms once more. He remained wordlessly stanced, peering straight into Strange’s eyes.
“Did you come here for a reason or are you just touring?” Stephen growled. “Say something.”
There was another beat of silence before Stark responded.
“Okay, yeah, wasn’t really sure what I was expecting” Stark muttered. “Frankly, I’m disappointed.”
Stephen’s eye twitched in growing agitation.
“You know when you didn’t know that you had a vision of how things were supposed to go until it doesn’t go that way?” Stark inquired, resuming his search around the sanctum. “Yeah, well you were supposed to bellow some absurd wizard mumbo jumbo and I was supposed to gag and tell you how gaudy you were being and to get with the 21st century.” Stark finished, matter of factly.
“If you’re done being disappointed then I suggest you leave,” Stephen countered.
Stark rolled his eyes, “Instead I feel like I’m dealing with a half assed wanna be wizard who's really a middle aged man’s midlife’s existential crisis of trying deny the loss of his youth.”
Stephen opened his mouth to retort before the cloak flew off his shoulder in a bee line to Stark, circling around him a handful of times with something akin to excitement and amusement.
“Aaaaand of course your cape is alive” Stark deadpanned.
“Cloak,” Stephen corrected sharply.
Stark waved his hand in a dismissive motion, leaving the “same difference” unsaid but hanging in the air. “What this guy’s name?” Stark inquired, watching the cloak in fascination.
Stephen exhaled in resignation, recognizing that there was no possibility he would be leading the conversation. Instead, he succumbed to Stark’s pace.
“That is the Cloak of Levitation, an ancient and powerful relic, not a pet. It has no name” Stephen stated snidely.
Stark stared at him unimpressed. “Uhh okay, first of all no.” Stark corrected, “this cape—cloak, whatever—is thoroughly anthropomorphic in every which way, so I’m nearly 100% sure you’ve given him a name.” Stark hesitated, “Actually make that 70% sure,” he corrected. “Only because you seem like the type of person who wouldn’t bother remembering their grandchildren’s name.”
The cloak remained floundering contently about the man.
“Stark, you are quickly wearing my patience,” Stephen warned, “Just state your business and then do me a favor and leave.”
“Fine, fine.” Stark collected himself, snapping his posture into something professional. “First order of business:”
Stephen waited intently.
“I hereby name this cloak Cloaky” Stark proclaimed. Cloaky twirled in glee at the declaration. Stephen died inside in both astonishment and disgust.
“For the love of—“
“Second order of business—woah!” Stephen began magically propelling Stark towards the door, finally determined to kick him out. The cloak protested and wrapped around the man’s shoulder, attempting to ground him to the spot.
“Wait, wait!” Tony rushed, “I have a legitimate purpose for being here, no more tomfoolery I swear!”
Stephen released his spell, though not because of Tony’s hasty and doubtful claim, but in response to his cloak’s behavior. He was stunned. Did the cloak choose another person? Stark for that matter? Wong had said the cloak was notoriously picky, and that it chose one master for the duration of his or her life span. Anxiety and dread curled at the bottom of his stomach. The unspoken implications were alarming.
“I’m here on official Avengers business,” Tony said. “To make you,” Tony gestured his direction, “official Avengers business.”
Stephen quirked his eyebrow.
“What?” He deadpanned.
“What I said Gandalf,” Tony grinned, “you’ve been invited to Hogwarts.”
Stephen stalled a moment, in sheer incredulity.
“No.” He stated firmly, before magically urging Stark out towards the doors once more.
Strange stopped as the cloak desperately returned to Strange’s shoulder, curling around his arms tightly. Stark was right, the cloak was anthropomorphic, and Steven could always detect its emotions. Right now, the cloak was pleading with him, urging him for something. Strange groaned internally.
He scrutinized Stark (who looked shaken and bewildered and ecstatic in the aftermath of the magic all at once) once more.
Stephen groaned in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a futile attempt to stave off the oncoming headache.
“Tea?” He offered, as he led him into the sanctum.