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“So, what’s the prognosis, Doc?”
Stephen considered the object in front of him, turning it this way and that without touching it. The statue, carved from obsidian and turquoise, was currently oozing black fluid that reeked of dark magic.
“Remove a few layers of curses and it should be safe to return to…” Stephen let his sentence trail off and cast a meaningful look at Tony Stark.
The man arrived at the Sanctum about twenty minutes ago, with the statue in his arms. He’d flown here in the armor and when Stephen let him in, he left it standing in the lobby as casually as one hung up a coat. With the armor removed, Stephen could see that he was fresh off a black tie event, dressed to the nines in a tuxedo. The spicy scent of his cologne lingered in the air.
Stark grimaced, finished tapping out his message on his watch, and then obliged, “Cap said they were some sort of angry fish people? Kind of Meso-American themed?”
“Right,” Stephen said. He turned back to the statue.
In the years Stephen had known Stark, they had worked with each other only sparingly, though each occasion had been memorable. Stephen would call their relationship functionally antagonistic. Stark would say or do something to rile Stephen up, Stephen would return what he got with all the respect Stark was due (not much), but in the end they’d get the job done.
“It won’t take long. Come back in a few hours, perhaps after you finish out whatever event they dragged you out of. I’ll have it ready for you.”
“No can do. The outfit that did is looking to finish the job. I’m security until that thing can be returned to its rightful owners. Besides sipping drinks with a bunch of brown-nosers was getting old.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. The Sanctum had its own security, most significantly Stephen, but a much as Stark’s motivations were suspect, Stephen knew when to pick his battles with him.
“Fine. Just keep out of my way. Find Rintrah downstairs, he can show you to the parlor—or a parlor anyway.” The geometry of the Sanctum tended to be a bit fluid and rooms popped in and out of existence when no one was looking.
There was a bold grin on his face and a glint of mischief in his dark eyes as he turned to leave. “Don’t worry, I won’t poke anything that looks too dangerous on my way down!”
“Don’t even poke the ones that don’t look dangerous!” Stephen shouted after him, and then more quietly to himself, “Those are the most annoying.”
And so, Stephen got to work. Layers of curses bathed the room in a light reminiscent of an old bruise or spilled oil. Each one aimed at subverting the statue’s true purpose—purification and protection.
Stephen tugged at the first one with his own magic to little effect. He tried putting a little more force into it and a strand of greasy light slowly peeled away from the statue. Once removed, the curse crumbled away to nothing, but still yet more remained on the statue. Stephen prepared to remove the next layer.
“What?” Stephen paused mid-spell. The magical energy in the building changed. He felt a disturbance in the Force so to speak. Not hostile or dangerous, most likely, more like an artifact’s enchantment— “Stark.”
In an instant, Stephen bent the sanctum’s space around him, bringing him to the epicenter of magical activity. It was an archive room down the hall or in the attic, depending on the day. The room pulsed with magic, it’s source clear—Penrose’s manifold triangle, twisting upon itself, reflecting different images, different universes, upon its surface. The archive’s contents had been completely upended starting at the magical blast zone and had each undergone a change—a once cracked breastplate was now whole, a red umbrella was now green, and so on and so forth. In the center of it all, stood a small black and white cat.
“Stark?” Stephen called.
Meow.
A streak of black and white zipped across the room, barreling into Stephen’s feet, and began winding around his legs, meowing plaintively. The Cloak billowed up around Stephen to avoid the cat—who in all likelihood was Tony Stark.
Stephen whipped together a quick spell, one that would reveal the feline’s inner voice. “I’m going to regret this.”
Immediately—
“What the hell is this? What happened to me?” Rung out in Stark’s voice.
Stephen relaxed, enough that he found himself needing to suppress a grin. “It appears that the manifold triangle switched your form with that of one of your counterparts in the multiverse. Who happens to be a cat.”
“Fix this now!” Stark said, his fur fluffing up in anger.
“I did warn you about touching the artifacts in the sanctum.”
Stark hissed, “I just looked at it!” He turned away and began licking his paw.
“Sulk as long as you like,” Stephen said, cleaning up the mess with magic. “The effect will wear off when the triangle returns to it’s original position.”
The Cloak reached one corner down to give Stark a cautious pat. Stark batted it away with an affronted look.
Then that piercing feline gaze landed back on Stephen. “How long?” Stark’s tail flicked.
“Most likely somewhere between a few hours and days.”
Claws gripping Stephen’s pant leg. “Most likely? I can’t stay like this! What if those guys come after the statue?”
Stephen was regretting giving Stark the means to argue with him. He was regretting even granting Stark entrance to the Sanctum.
“I am more than capable of protecting the Sanctum from intruders.”
“It’ll be my fault if you get hurt.”
That was—that was unexpected. Not only that Stark cared, but also that was a bit more vulnerability than Stark typically showed. Stephen wasn’t sure he knew what to do with that.
“I promise, if an enemy breaches the Sanctum it shall be the responsibility of no one but myself.”
“You know that’s not true.” Somewhere a grandfather clock struck the hour and Tony shrank in on himself. “Everything is too big and loud. I don’t like it.”
“If you have not regained your original form within due time, I will seek further recourse.”
“If you don’t, I’m peeing on your bed.”
“Until then, I must finish purifying the statue. Hold on.” Stephen bent space around both him and Tony. Tony’s fur stood on end in a look of affronted startlement. “Now, do try not to get in my way.”
Completely contrary to what Stephen requested, Tony stayed close, practically beneath Stephen’s feet. Stephen would trip on him at this rate. “This magic requires a degree of concentration.”
Tony circled around Stephen’s feet again, winding between his legs, before finally declaring, “I’m bored.” Then he left to pad around the room, cautiously sniffing things.
“Do keep your paws to yourself. Much worse can happen to you than turning into a cat.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Stephen felt a sense of foreboding at those words. Visions of shelves of delicate artifacts toppled off marched through his mind.
How does one keep a genius cat occupied and out of trouble? For a lack of better ideas, Stephen summoned a puzzle ball. Not too different from a magical rubix cube. It was used for certain forms of meditation.
“Play with that.”
Tony poked at it with a single paw. His tail lashed with interest as he watched it roll across the floor. Satisfied that Tony would be occupied, Stephen set to work. Obligingly the Cloak floated him in the air to keep his ankles free from a furry assault.
When Stephen turned back, piece of the meditation sphere were scattered and Tony was sticking his nose in something he really shouldn’t. Stephen snatched him up before tendrils reached out to drag him in.
“Stay here.” Stephen sat, in midair, and placed Tony on his lap. Clearly, the only way to keep him out of trouble was to keep him in close contact. For a moment it seemed as if Tony was going to jump off, but then he settled in, a comfortable weight in Stephen's lap. The Cloak began petting him, and rather than resist, he began to purr.
Stephen continued his work. With each flake of the spell that was removed, the light in the room got less—wrong, for lack of a better word—like sunlight filtered through water.
The last of the curse peeled away and a rush of water burst from the statue. The unexpected blast pushed Stephen back, slamming him into the table, before he could react. The room flooded in seconds. Thinking quickly, Stephen contained the statue in a bubble of magic. The rushing flow stopped with nowhere to go. Stephen banished the water from the room and, with another twist of his hands, evaporated the water from his clothes.
“Tony?” Stephen looked around. There were no signs of the cat—Tony was missing. “Stark? Come out now!”
Stephen gritted his teeth and began searching. A small cat could have easily gotten hurt in that flood, hell, even Stephen was bruised from that initial blast of water. Stephen should have seen it coming and taken measures to protect them.
When Stephen found Tony, wedged under a bookcase, he was shaking. He looked so small—his tiny body curled up in on itself, his fur plastered down. “Tony? Stark? Are you injured?”
Tony wasn’t saying, thinking, anything, wasn’t reacting to Stephen’s words. Hoping to at least stop the shivering, Stephen dried him like he dried his own clothes. Tony’s fur returned to its previous fluffy state, but there was no other reaction.
Stephen reached under the bookcase. The next thing he knew, sharp feline teeth had sunk into his hand. Stephen shouted and pulled back, fire shooting up his arm. Tears in his eyes, he suppressed a scream.
“Shit.” Stephen sat down, cradling his hand. The pain in his nerves would linger for days.
In that brief moment he got a good look at Tony’s eyes. There was nothing but pure animal fear there.
Could this reaction have been caused by cats’ hatred of water? Perhaps, but Stephen felt that there had to be something beyond that. A trigger? It wouldn’t be shocking if someone with Tony’s history developed a few triggers.
Stephen was somewhat familiar with PTSD, at least from a neuroscience perspective. The dysfunction in the prefrontal cortex, an overactive amygdala, and an overwhelmed hippocampus—it was little wonder that patients react the way they do when triggered.
It wasn’t like Stephen didn’t know what it was like to have the past hang over him. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he still saw that frozen lake. Was Tony just barely holding it together like Stephen was? Had his past left him a bundle of traumas and regrets?
“I know I’m not exactly a comforting presence,” Stephen said, wincing at how awkward he sounded. He needed to say this, on the off chance it would get through to Tony and even if it didn’t, wasn’t that what you were supposed to do in these situations? Talk them through it?
He forced himself to continue. “I tend to put people on edge. Probably something to do with my brilliant intellect.” or his asshole-ish tendencies. Or the walls he puts up. Or any number of the things shouted at him during break ups. “But my lack of bedside manner doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving. You’ll just have to suffer through my presence and I’ll tell you why.”
Stephen sighed. “The truth is, though we don’t always get along, I admire you.”
The confession hung in the air for a moment. Tony remained silent, hidden away under the bookcase.
“I owe you my life, several times over now. You’re brilliant, even with sorcery, which I know you hate.” Stephen bet there was somewhere in the multiverse that, with the right impetus, he became the Sorcerer Supreme instead of Stephen.
“You’re the heart of our community. You always work to bring people together, to get them the resources they need to keep doing this job.”
“I can’t abandon someone like that,” Stephen said. “Because you shouldn’t be alone.”
Tony crawled out, covered in dust and cobwebs. One paw on Stephen's knee, he examined Stephen's hand with a sniff. "Did I bite you?"
"Very unprofessional of you. And it hurts like a son of a bitch." Stephen extended his hand to show him. "I'll be alright though."
The worst of the pain passed, but there was still a twinge of it along his nerves. Tony slinked into Stephen's lap and started to purr. Tentatively, Stephen pet him. Just a brush at first, then more fully as Stephen attempted to search for signs of injury. Thankfully, nothing seemed to be bleeding or broken.
Stephen didn’t consider himself much of an animal person. He didn’t dislike them, he just didn’t have much interest. But Tony’s fur was soft and his purrs soothing.
Stephen stopped. He was going to miss this. Yet somehow the idea of adopting a cat seemed hollow.
A paw caught on his sleeve. “More.”
“Yes, fine,” Stephen said, smiling.
Tony rolled over, exposing his fluffy belly. “For the record, I like your ‘brilliant intellect.’”
“How much of that did you hear?” Stephen paused raking his fingers through Tony’s belly fur.
“Enough.” Tony wiggled beneath Stephen's hand, spurring him to resume his petting.
As Stephen pet Tony, a tinge of magic—multiversal resonance—gathered in the air. “It seems the effects are wearing off.”
Between one blink and the next, Tony was human again and staring up at Stephen from his lap. He went beet-red and scrambled to get off of Stephen. Stephen stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. “Stay.”
Tony coughed. “I think we can both agree that this was a little less weird when I was cute and cuddly.”
“You were certainly lighter.” Stephen snorted. “But I don’t mind this.”
Tony smiled. “You know what? I don’t mind it either.”