Chapter Text
We cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever. We must stand up and move on to the next action.
-
Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
Stephen suspected that he was becoming a sort of traveling sorcerer. Or perhaps an international representative? If an official title existed, he didn’t know it. But whenever he decided on a travel destination, and let one of the masters know about it – Wong, usually – it often ended one of two ways. With him looking into some sort of issue, or with him learning something about the local magical practices or duties from the native magic users.
Stephen hardly minded. He was always ready to learn something new. Plus, he was a part of the Order. A master. He took his oaths seriously, and it was his responsibility to defend the world against mystic threats. If he was taking advantage of what he’d learned to travel, then it only made sense to investigate any relevant problems along the way.
That said, he was rather relieved to leave Egypt at the end of the week. Not that the area hadn’t been interesting, and the archaeological dig fascinating (though not as exciting as the movies made it seem). But after taking a week’s rotation to guard against any cursed objects that might be dug up at the site…
Well, Hollywood had also vastly oversold just how many curses one was liable to stumble across in Egypt. Although what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in quality. Stephen had hardly slept when, even from miles away, one of the pyramids had pulsed against his senses with a feeling that he could only describe as pure evil. The local magician had assured him that that was normal, completely hidden from anyone who couldn’t sense it, and securely contained.
It had not, as Stephen had half-feared, somehow escaped containment while he was in the area and exploded across the desert, or worse. Something the masters at Kamar Taj had no doubt feared as well, if the side-eyes and nervous glances upon hearing of his destination had been any indication.
In fact, the only hiccup had been when his own magic had brushed against the one defensive ward with lingering power behind it, and he ended up trapped in a tiny, windowless room with bricked over doors. It took hours for the magician guide to find him and get him out. The intervening wait had been made worse by the spots of color and flashes of light his eyes were tricked into seeing in a pitch-black space. It was all too similar to the Dark Dimension, and the more that thought lingered, the more similarities he imagined he saw.
Stephen had a feeling he was going to have to overcome a new fear of small, enclosed spaces. But he’d gotten an Egyptian ward breaking lesson out of it, so he supposed he couldn’t complain too vehemently.
But for all that, he was mostly relieved to get away from the sand. It really was coarse and rough and irritating. And it got everywhere. It didn’t matter how well wrapped the food was, nor how secure the tent flaps. He always found himself crunching down on at least a few grains of sand. And the grittiness of his dirty skin lingered uncomfortably. It certainly wasn’t like a trip to a beach, where at least he could leave it all behind after a few hours.
Really, the call to learn the upkeep on a seal in an Indian temple had been very well-timed. It had even gotten him out of teaching foundational casting motions to a group of novices. No doubt the last-minute substitute was cursing him out. But all Stephen really cared about, as he stepped from desert sand to white walls festooned with brightly colored fabrics, was whether there was at least a basin of water he could use to rinse off some of the grime.
Unfortunately, it looked like he was going to have to wander a bit to find one of the priests. Unless they had sensed him arrive?
Stephen decided to wander and trust his luck to stumble upon some place to clean up or someone who could direct him. It looked like the temple had been decorated for some kind of event; not normally self-conscious, he was feeling a bit out of place in dusty robes and boots.
He sighed to himself a little as he reached up to lower the Cloak – shifted into a shemagh that wrapped around his head, face, and neck. It had been windy when he’d left Egypt, and even despite the protection of a shemagh, he wanted to rinse out his mouth, too.
Stephen couldn’t help the sound of surprise when the Cloak abruptly tightened back up around his face.
And then Tony Stark, of all people, walked around the corner.
Tony was on guard the instant he laid eyes on the man in the dusty blue robes and bright red headscarf. Only his eyes were visible. He was certainly not dressed for a wedding, not even as one of the staff. And yet he’d managed to get past security, through the crowd, and into the temple somehow, without being stopped or turned away.
He surreptitiously fiddled with his repulsor watch, trusting Friday to be watching through his tinted glasses. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford to find that anything but suspicious. Nor could he afford to assume guilt and attack first. Seriously, what was his luck? He’d just been about to leave, it was why he’d even cut through the temple in the first place.
“Can I help you find something?” he asked.
The man watched him for a long moment. Tony tried to pick out some kind of identifying feature, something beyond height, and could only make out that his eyes were a light color. Maybe gray or blue, so he was unlikely to be a local.
Probable trespasser shook his head, and then shifted to move around him. Reluctant to speak, not a good sign. Or maybe unable? But Tony wasn’t lucky enough for weird encounters to be innocent ones.
“Hey, whoa, I can’t in good conscience let a party crasher,” maybe criminal, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud, “interrupt a buddy’s wedding. I mean, I’m a dick, but not that big of one. Anymore.”
Possible troublemaker narrowed his eyes at him. There was a long, awkward moment of silence.
“Lucky, then, that I’m not here for the wedding,” he said at last.
Tony tensed in preparation for a fight. That was some cliché beginning of a supervillain monologue, wasn’t it? And there was a nagging sense of familiarity at the sound of his voice, obstructed as it was by fabric.
“I was invited to consult with one of the priests. The wedding was a bit of a surprise.”
Tony felt a little as though he’d missed a step, but mentally. Wow. Lucky he hadn’t made any declarations in turn, or summoned his suit. Had his paranoia really gotten so bad? Except the feeling of familiarity was keeping him on edge, for some reason. Why did he think he recognized this guy? And how?
The look in those pale eyes said he knew exactly what he had been thinking, and mocked him for it. It made him bristle.
“As I only have your word for it, why don’t I accompany you until I can get confirmation?”
“Iron Man as my escort, hm? An honor.”
The tone conveyed quite the opposite, and the irritation that surged through Tony snapped the memory into place. Few people could get under his skin quite like this. And he’d met one of them only a few months ago. He paused mid-step and turned back to the stranger, attention laser-focused.
“Have you ever been to Tibet, by the way?”
“A few times. It’s not so far from where I’ve been living,” the other man said easily. “There are some beautiful hikes and ornate temples.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in what felt like a smirk. He held Tony’s gaze, neither looking away. “Why do you ask?”
“Recently?” Tony pressed.
“It depends on what you mean by recent.”
He stepped closer. “I mean - ”
“Sirs?” An accented voice jolted them back to reality. They looked up to see a priest approaching with a furrowed brow.
The possible villain – he was the same cloaked figure Tony had run into in the mountain base, he knew it – extricated himself with a quick, “excuse me,” and then murmured something to the priest, too low for him to make out.
“I know it was you,” Tony called after him as they headed toward one of the back rooms. “In the mountain.”
The priest looked back at him in confusion.
“I don’t know what you mean, Stark,” he tossed over his shoulder. “But thanks for the company.”
Tony flexed his hands in his frustration. With no evidence, no proof, he couldn’t go after the man. Couldn’t detain him, or fight him. And he still had no idea who he was or what he was doing. No one in the temple could, or would, answer questions about him, no investigation into the temple revealed anything untoward, and he could hardly identify a probably-American when the only identification he had was height, approximate body type, and an image of his eyes.
Stephen…probably shouldn’t have goaded Stark. But when it became evident that he couldn’t just avoid him or keep silent, well. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t going to go running through the temple to escape him. And refusing to speak would have been just as suspicious.
Besides, he’d been completely covered up both times they’d met. There was nothing to identify Stephen by. And even if there had been, Stephen spent part of his time traveling the world, and the rest of it more or less hidden away in Kamar-Taj.
So he didn’t suppress the urge to mess with Stark a little. There was just something about him… It was basically consequence-free fun. Small joys, and all that. Some might even say it was a sign of healing.