Three days after his return, a familiar Audi R8 purred to a stop in front of Dracon's Cave Tavern. The morning sun caught the chrome dragon emblem above the door, glinting like a living thing.
Alan looked up from cleaning the counter as the door opened. Tony Stark walked in, still pale from recovery but with the same confident smirk.
"Didn't think wizards ran taverns," Tony said lightly. "Figured I owed you a thank-you… and maybe an explanation."
Alan smiled. "You owe me nothing. But you're welcome for the breakfast rescue."
Tony chuckled, pulling up a chair. "So… magic, huh? That wasn't Stark tech I saw in that cave, was it? Tell me what kind of field generator you're using. Nano-plasma, hidden EM emitters—?"
Alan waved a hand, and the glass on the table floated into the air before gently lowering back down. "Closer to imagination than science."
Tony blinked, eyebrows raised. "Levitation without repulsor assistance. That's… new."
Alan grinned. "Basic Wingardium Leviosa. I could show you transfiguration, too."
He pointed at a steel spoon on the counter. It shimmered, twisted, and turned into a tiny silver dragon that flapped its wings before melting back into metal.
Tony leaned forward, fascinated. "Okay, that's definitely not tech. What's the power source?"
"Life itself," Alan replied, tone soft. "Magic draws from what exists — will, emotion, vitality. Think of it like energy that listens."
Then he added, gesturing toward the simmering pan on the stove, "Watch this."
Greenish light swirled around his hands as herbs and ingredients floated into the air, blending perfectly into a golden-brown omelet. The smell filled the tavern — warm, earthy, rich.
Tony's stomach rumbled audibly.
Alan laughed and set the plate in front of him. "Eat. It's cooked with household magic and spiced a little bit of magic. Helps replenish body energy — perfect for post-trauma recovery."
Tony took one bite and froze. "Okay, that's the best thing I've tasted since… ever. You sure you're not poisoning me?"
"Positive," Alan said, smirking.
They talked for a while — about recovery, business, and the strange line between science and sorcery. Then Tony, curious as always, leaned forward. "So how many people can do this kind of thing?"
Alan wiped his hands and leaned against the counter. "Out of a hundred thousand? Maybe one. Magic awakens naturally between the ages of eight and eleven. If it doesn't, it never will. And even then, most spend a lifetime learning how to control it."
Tony nodded slowly. "And you're saying magic can make wishes come true?"
"In theory," Alan said, eyes glimmering faintly. "But that's the domain of archmages — those who've mastered the will to shape reality itself. Until then, we rely on structure — spells, runes, knowledge."
Tony tilted his head, intrigued. "So you're basically saying magic is structured imagination like codes and programs."
"Something like that," Alan replied. "You'll see more in a few weeks — maybe two or three. For now, you've got your own miracles to build, right?."
Tony gave a mock salute. "Fine, keep your secrets, Gandalf."
Alan chuckled. "You'll thank me later."
As Tony stood to leave, a familiar voice drifted from the back room.
"Mr. Stark?"
Tony turned, disbelief flickering across his face. "Yinsen?!"
The older man smiled warmly, now dressed in clean clothes and wearing a physician's badge. "I owe him more than I can repay so I'm working here now."
Alan shrugged. "You're already paying me back. He's our tavern's resident doctor now — takes care of the neighborhood, the veterans, the elderly. No emergencies, just small things people neglect."
Yinsen nodded modestly, turning back to the small counter that served as his makeshift clinic. "It's peaceful here. I like it."
Tony smiled faintly. "Yeah… peaceful sounds good."
The following week saw life return to its strange rhythm. Matt Murdock stopped by after evening patrols, swapping jokes with Alan over coffee. Peter Parker and Ned dropped in with their families for Sunday brunch. John Wick's wife brought fresh flowers from her shop, decorating the bar with gentle colors.
Veterans came by in groups — some introduced by the gym coach, others by John — finding quiet companionship and a sense of calm they hadn't felt in years.
At night, the tavern glowed with soft magical firelight, Nyx sleeping on the counter, tail twitching lazily.
A week later, the door opened again — this time revealing Agent Phil Coulson. Immaculate suit, calm smile, the picture of polite persistence.
Alan looked up from the bar and smirked. "Welcome, Son of Coul, to my humble abode."
Coulson blinked, caught off guard. "I beg your pardon?"
"Long story," Alan said, his grin never faltering. "Have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger?"
"Tea will do, thank you," Coulson said, settling into a chair across from him. His eyes subtly scanned the room — noting the faint shimmer in the air, the runic carvings hidden along the tavern's beams, and the faint hum of power beneath the floorboards.
They talked over tea — polite, measured conversation that eventually circled toward S.H.I.E.L.D.'s true purpose.
"You've demonstrated capabilities we can't quite classify," Coulson began carefully. "Director Fury would like to extend an invitation. There's a place for you with us."
Alan leaned back, expression unreadable. "I appreciate it, but I'm not a government man. Too many meetings, not enough soul." He smiled faintly. "Besides, I don't take orders easily."
Coulson tilted his head. "Then perhaps you can tell me about something else instead — like how you and John Wick managed to pull Tony Stark out of a terrorist compound in Afghanistan." "The bodies we can find show signs of animal bites and such which does not make any sense at all and we would like to know how"
Alan raised an eyebrow. "Then the explosion didn't do the job well."
Coulson didn't flinch. "You can understand why that raises questions. Stark was presumed dead. and You somehow found where he was and there were no traces of animals apart from the bites. Are you… enhanced? Alien? Ability-user?"
Alan chuckled softly. "Let's just say I get what I wished for sometimes".
Coulson's gaze sharpened. "You're not going to give me a straight answer, are you?"
"No," Alan said pleasantly. "But I'll give you a useful one. If you ever find something truly strange — something your science can't file away or quantify — then you call me. Ghosts, demons, cursed relics, divine leftovers. That sort of thing."
"Why only supernatural things though?" Coulson asked.
Alan reached for his wand, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Because that's what I'm best at. "
He flicked his wrist lightly. "Now, before you go, hold still."
A faint light shimmered and brushed over Coulson's scalp.
The agent blinked and instinctively reached up — his hair was now noticeably thicker, softer, and perfectly styled, the subtle bald patch at the crown gone entirely.
"What—?"
"Call it a parting gift," Alan said smoothly. "Compliments of Capillaro Reparo. Helps with confidence."
Coulson gave a stunned, almost sheepish smile. "I'll… keep that in mind."
Showing Coulson the same trick he showed Tony again, Alan said Goodbye to the man.
As he turned to leave, Alan added, "And tell your boss — he shouldn't come snooping here. My wards don't like uninvited guests." pointing to the runes shimmering around.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
A few hours later, Coulson and Maria Hill walked into Director Fury's office. Fury was already standing by the window, coffee mug in hand, watching the skyline of Washington D.C. through the glass.
"Report?" he asked without turning.
Coulson, unusually composed, took a seat. "He declined the offer. Says he's not a government man. But…"
Fury turned, one eyebrow arched. "But?"
"He offered cooperation — on supernatural incidents. Ghosts, curses, demons, that kind of thing."
Maria frowned slightly. "You mean myths?"
Coulson ran a hand through his newly restored hair, then hesitated.
Fury noticed immediately. "What the hell happened to your head?"
Coulson coughed lightly. "He… did this."
Fury squinted. "He what?"
"Magic," Coulson said matter-of-factly.
Silence.
Fury blinked once. Then slowly set his mug down. "…Explain."
Coulson sighed and leaned forward. "He showed me what he can do with a little stick and also barehanded. When I pressed, he performed a few… minor demonstrations."
Maria crossed her arms. "Minor?"
"He levitated a cup of tea," Coulson said evenly. "Turned a steel spoon into a small dragon. And, uh… repaired my hairline."
Fury just stared. "You're telling me we have a wizard running a bar in New York City?"
"Essentially, yes."
Maria frowned, disbelief creeping in. "Do we have any scientific explanation?"
Coulson shook his head. "None that fits. He called it magic — said it draws from will, emotion and vitality. Apparently, only one in a hundred thousand people ever awaken it and also that no one else will have same magic like him that I cannot understand. "
Fury rubbed his temples. "So let me get this straight: Stark survives a kidnapping, a wizard and an assassin rescued him, and now one of them running a magic pub in Manhattan?"
"That's the short version," Coulson replied.
Maria leaned forward slightly. "Do you think he's a threat?"
Coulson shook his head. "No. If he wanted to hurt anyone, he could've done it long ago. The bodies of the Ten Ring Gang has animal bites and some have stabs we presume to be rock and such. He seems… selective. Carefree, Powerful, but detached. More interested in keeping balance than causing trouble."
Fury exhaled slowly. "Detached people make me nervous. They pick sides too late."
Coulson stood, smoothing his tie. "Then maybe we should stay on his good side."
Fury stared out the window again, muttering, "Magic. The hell am I supposed to file that under…"
Maria quirked a brow. "New division?"
"Yeah," Fury said dryly. "Right after I figure out what to call the guy who just gave my agent perfect hair."
Coulson smiled faintly. "I believe the term was Capillaro Reparo, sir."
Fury gave him a flat look. "…Get out."
As Coulson and Hill exited, Fury poured himself another cup of coffee and muttered, "First Aliens, now wizards. What's next — Gods?"
A faint rumble of thunder rolled outside as if some Thunder God somewhere had heard him.
Meanwhile
Back in the workshop beneath his mansion, Tony Stark hunched over glowing schematics — refining designs, building, adjusting. The Iron Man armor was taking shape piece by piece, born from pain, genius, and the faint memory of a tavern where a dragon-eyed wizard told him that magic means making your will real.
Somewhere in the city, Alan smiled faintly, feeling the ripple of change in the air.
"Red Queen," he murmured, "track Stark Industries' progress and keep tabs on our investments."
"Already done," she replied smoothly.
Outside, the city lights shimmered, reflecting off the dragon emblem above the door.
The world was changing. And Dracon's Rest Tavern stood quietly at its heart — a meeting place of men, myth, and destiny.