Chapter Text
The ballroom at Buckingham Palace had never seemed so golden, so suffocating, so absurdly British-Wakandan as it did that night.
The light from the chandeliers reflected simultaneously on the polished vibranium and the Swarovski crystals because, apparently, when Wakanda and the British Crown decide to hold a joint wedding, good taste disappears. Shuri was radiant in white and gold, Namor with that air of someone who conquered an entire kingdom just to prove a point. Everyone smiled for the cameras.
Everyone except Tony Stark.
He was in a corner, with his third glass of Dom Pérignon in hand, his bow tie slightly undone and his eyes red as if he'd spent the previous night arguing with his father – President Howard Stark – about “ diplomatic responsibilities that you, Anthony, seem incapable of understanding.” And he still had to keep an eye on Peter, the 15-year-old boy Tony considered a son – protégé, intern, whatever – who had insisted on coming because “hey, it’s a royal wedding, Mr. Stark! I’ve never seen a real king!”
Peter Parker stood there, his ill-fitting suit ill-fitting because he was growing too fast, trying not to look dazzled by the vibranium gadgets scattered throughout the decor. Tony had promised May he would keep the boy out of trouble.
"You're going to smile, you're going to shake hands, and you're going to stay away from anything that could become a negative headline," Howard had said. "And take the kid with you. He needs to learn diplomacy."
So, of course, the universe decided to laugh in his face.
Tony turned to grab another glass from the passing tray and came face to face with a wall of red fabric that definitely hadn't been there two seconds before.
The wall had an owner.
Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, guest of honor of Queen Ramonda, was standing in exactly the worst possible spot, looking at Tony as if he were an equation he refused to solve.
“Stark,” Stephen said, his voice low and sharp as glass. “Try not to discourage everyone just because your ego doesn’t fit in here.”
Tony opened his mouth to give a brilliant answer, probably involving "mall monk" or "Harry Potter in a midlife crisis," but then Peter came along.
The boy, blessed be his heart, tripped over his own feet trying to avoid the Cloak of Levitation, which had decided, for reasons known only to sentient artifacts, to float right in the middle of the path.
The result was a perfect choreography for disaster.
Waiter → Cape → Stephen → Tony → the seven-tiered table with the official wedding cake.
The cake that cost fifty thousand dollars...
The cake was now on the floor.
Along with them.
Tony felt the world slow down, which was ironic considering who was below him.
He fell face-first into the buttercream, his right arm reflexively extended, and when he opened his eyes he was literally on top of Stephen Strange. Noses inches apart. One hand—his own—gripping firmly what was definitely Stephen's backside beneath the expensive fabric of the ceremonial robe.
Peter, for his part, had landed on the side, covered in icing, laughing hysterically because "that was like a scene from a movie, Mr. Stark."
Cloak, that traitorous son of a bitch, hovered above the three of them, his tails trembling as if he were dying of laughter.
Stephen stared at him with those grey-blue eyes that seemed capable of opening portals with just the weight of his contempt.
"Get me off you now," Stephen hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't move. Maybe because half the room was screaming. Maybe because the camera flashes were already exploding like in a war.
Tony tried to steady himself to stand up, but only managed to sink his knee further between Stephen's legs. Great. Perfect. Ten out of ten.
"Sorry, Houdini, you know I always mess things up when I hate the things I hate the most," he managed to say, his voice hoarse with champagne and panic.
Peter, still laughing, tried to help by pulling Tony's arm. "Hey, Mr. Doctor Sorcerer, are you alright? Sorry, it was your cape that pushed me!"
Cloak decided to help, lifting all three at once, like puppets. Buttercream flew everywhere.
And that's where the photo was taken.
For photo.
Tony's hand was still firmly positioned on the curve of Stephen's buttocks.
Stephen, with his lips slightly parted, his face flushed with anger, his impeccable hair now adorned with sugar flowers.
Peter in the background, with icing in his hair, unintentionally giving a thumbs-up to the camera.
The three of them, drenched in whipped cream, clung to each other as if they had just stepped out of a very specific pornographic film.
In the corner of the photo, Cloak was making a heart shape with the tips of his hands.
Twenty minutes later, the whole world had already seen it.
#IronSorcerer started the trend in seven different languages.
At 11:47 PM, the official Sanctum Sanctorum Twitter account posted a single sentence:
"We are assessing whether this constitutes a violation of the treaty."
At 11:48 PM, Tony received a text message from his father.
Howard Stark: You have 24 hours to fix this before I kill you with my own hands. And get Peter back home before May sues me.
At 11:49 PM, another message arrived. Sender: S. Strange.
You're dead, Stark.
And this time, no armor will save you. Tell the boy that Cloak apologizes.
Tony stared at the screen.
And he smiled.
Let the chaos begin.