"Sometimes people can have the address and the means to get here, and yet wind up spending hours wandering in circles because 177A Bleecker Street doesn't seem to exist," Stephen explains. "I haven't quite managed to figure out how the Sanctum does it. It's either some kind of perception manipulation, or folding of space. Either way, it can get annoying."
He pauses thoughtfully.
"Or funny, depending on how much I hate the visitor."
He leads Steve into a room off the stairs. It's part library, part parlor to the relic room; an open space with books lining the walls, glass cases and pedestals bearing all sorts of objects close enough to see but not close enough to interfere. Today, there's two chairs and a tiny table between them, both angled to look out towards the relics. Stephen busies himself with the tea tray on the table, setting out pots of sugar and honey and milk.
"And yes, I live here. There's a surprisingly functional kitchen, although the fridge is haunted, and there's an energy slug from another dimension behind the dishwasher," he says, like it's all totally normal. It would have been weird for him when he'd first come here -- it was weird, all of it -- but now it's just his house, and workplace. Steve's probably totally unfazed, too.
He gestures to the second chair, for Steve to sit.
"So, one of my jobs as Master of the New York Sanctum is to monitor various... people of import," Stephen explains, pouring a cup of tea for him. It's a magic pot, because of course it is, dispensing whatever kind of tea is Steve's favorite. "You may have given up the shield, Captain, but you're still very much on that list. I've been falling behind on that duty lately, and I thought it might be far more interesting to simply ask what you've been up to rather than scry on you."
no subject
He pauses thoughtfully.
"Or funny, depending on how much I hate the visitor."
He leads Steve into a room off the stairs. It's part library, part parlor to the relic room; an open space with books lining the walls, glass cases and pedestals bearing all sorts of objects close enough to see but not close enough to interfere. Today, there's two chairs and a tiny table between them, both angled to look out towards the relics. Stephen busies himself with the tea tray on the table, setting out pots of sugar and honey and milk.
"And yes, I live here. There's a surprisingly functional kitchen, although the fridge is haunted, and there's an energy slug from another dimension behind the dishwasher," he says, like it's all totally normal. It would have been weird for him when he'd first come here -- it was weird, all of it -- but now it's just his house, and workplace. Steve's probably totally unfazed, too.
He gestures to the second chair, for Steve to sit.
"So, one of my jobs as Master of the New York Sanctum is to monitor various... people of import," Stephen explains, pouring a cup of tea for him. It's a magic pot, because of course it is, dispensing whatever kind of tea is Steve's favorite. "You may have given up the shield, Captain, but you're still very much on that list. I've been falling behind on that duty lately, and I thought it might be far more interesting to simply ask what you've been up to rather than scry on you."