It is better that Steve Rogers has been all too busy with the turning tides of the every day world, trying desperately to help guide citizens returned to a life after five years of absence. There is no explaining it away - not even Steve fully understands the mechanics of the Snap, but he doesn't need to.
He can feel the hurt and loss steeped in the world around him by simply existing in it. A tired, old soldier on a different battlefield.
The Sanctum, as it's called, is a curiously elegant space - and though Steve himself isn't inherently magical, he does get the feeling that something about this place feels different. But of course it does - no one Steve knows is without some kind of gift or talent, and the man coming into view at the top of the stairs is no different. Either way, Steve looks around for a moment, surprised to hear the door click shut behind him.
"Doctor."
There's a nod of recognition, the barest glimmer of amusement behind his eyes. "I had no trouble at all. You gave me the address, I walked up, and the door was open. What do you mean by hide?"
He doesn't really have to ask the question, but it fills the air as he starts toward the stairs. A pot of tea shared in a magical, mysterious mansion with a magical and mysterious man should be odd beyond belief to the average person. Steve doesn't bat an eye.
It's strange meeting up after everything. Nothing feels the same. - All things he wants to say, but the familiarity isn't there. He shakes the eerie feeling that they should be busying themselves with something more urgent than tea and talks. He'll shake the feeling one day.
"Thanks for having me. This is where you live?"
He's afraid to say that it almost looks understated for a man named Doctor Strange - but he is his mother's son, and politely keeps his mouth shut.
"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."
"From what I've heard, that list of visitors might be a long one."
It isn't like Stephen Strange has exactly earned a warm and fuzzy reputation. But Steve can respect someone who, despite a temper here and there and a lack of patience (sounds like yet another hero he knows), speaks honestly and directly. Sometimes, in the modern world he now calls home, people waste their time on mincing words more than they should.
He follows the man up the stairs to the sweeping parlor lined with bookshelves. In another life, he might have liked a room like this - wall to wall with books and trinkets, with just enough light let in through a window to be comfortable. He was a simple man with simple comforts once - he's not even sure much has changed now. Strolling up to one of the cases with hands in his pockets, he peers inside at some of the mystical artifacts, but it's the books his eyes skim past - ornate, worn spines and the occasionally gilded page.
"Haunted fridge and energy slug? Sounds complicated. I might know a guy," he says as though they're talking about simple electrical repairs or plumbing. Not inter-dimensional creatures and whatnots. Once he makes it to the halfway point of shelves it turns back. The magical teapot won't fail to surprise him. He's used to a lot - new tech, new terminology, new abilities - but even this feels like the stuff of storybooks sometimes.
Moving toward the table and pulling out the chair set out for him, he sits, a wry sort of smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Ah. People of Import. Steve isn't stupid.
"Potential threats. Hazards."
Better to call a horse a horse, is it not? He'd figured as much when he was called here - after all, despite working together toward the same cause? They hadn't exactly had time to become friendly.
"You can phrase it how you like, Doctor, but that doesn't change the fact that I've heard it said before. I was still fugitive of the State not too long ago, and I'd imagine that me being in any way who I am and what I am? I understand why you'd need to keep tabs on me."
He reaches for the cup, pleased by the warmth of the cup. He can't guess the flavor until it he breathes in the steam of it - black tea, steeped overlong to the point of near bitterness. It's honey he adds to his after a sip.
"I've been helping the cleanup. Getting people back to their families. Helping those who didn't have families to come back to."
"I don't even remotely care about what the State thinks of you," Stephen says blandly, pouring his own tea, a Nepalese green tea he'd grown fond of in Kamar-Taj. Despite the shaking in his hands, he keeps them steady enough. "Nor do I care who was on what side during that kerfuffle about the Accords."
That had been just before he'd had his car accident, and though it had been all over the news, Stephen hadn't much cared about it. He doesn't care about it now, either, though for a very different reason -- the sorcerers as an order do their best to stay out of politics. They have enough of their own politics to keep them busy for centuries. Just last week, Novice Cheng's mispronunciation of the Latin for to misplace had offended several visiting dignitaries, and that's going to be the talk of the water cooler for weeks.
He sits, then, cup cradled in his hands. The warmth goes a fraction of the way toward easing the constant ache in his fingers.
"As a superhero, you're reasonably strong and athletic -- your sense of strategy is probably your biggest weapon. As a man, you hold incredible influence," Stephen explains, though he suspects Steve knows it already. "If you decided you wanted to take over the world, I imagine you could get further than most."
Still, he believes Steve when he says that he's been helping with cleanup and family reunification. He seems the type to always need a mission of some kind, to always be helping. Still, there's this tiredness about him that Stephen can't quite get a read on. He's retired, shouldn't he be well-rested?
"Don't worry, we're not going to attach an ankle bracelet to you," he says dryly. "If we did, we'd be hypocrites." Of the two of them sitting in this room, whose alternate variations have ended multiple universes? That's right, it's not Steve. "My main reason for inviting you here was... well, to see how you're doing." It comes out a little awkward, because Stephen's not used to trying to be friends with people.
The idea that anyone beyond the US Government would be watching him as a possible threat for world domination actually makes Steve laugh. It's not big or loud, but there's amusement in it that even reaches his eyes. He hasn't laughed, genuinely, in such a long time that it almost feels foreign.
Everything lately has felt so heavy and dark.
"Well, let me assure you that I don't exactly have any world- takeovers planned in the near future. Just trying to help put it all back together instead. It's what people expect of me."
And it isn't that Steve doesn't want to do it, but he can't remember a moment of reprieve since he came out of the ice. He woke and hit the ground running, with all eyes on him, expecting him to be the very same energetic, optimistic hero he'd been before he crashed that plane into the water. Even now, when he stands before the public eye, he has a person that they inherently expect, and it's a role he has to fill.
Time away, though, doesn't sound terrible. Even if it fills him with an aching sort of guilt for even having the thought. It's Stephen's follow-up question that has him pausing, blinking over the cup of hot tea. They're colleagues in battle, and not truly friends, and yet something about all of this seems to disarm Steve, his shoulders rounding just a little.
The facade, slipping.
"I'm doing as well as anyone."
How do you do what they did and come out feeling whole again? Maybe it's easier for the others - who finished the battle, attended a funeral, and went back to their lives. It's only just started ending for Steve, really.
"I returned the Stones to their rightful places, came back. Took me a little longer than expected, but. Now I'm just trying to lend a hand where I can. Not sure where else I am better needed than that."
Steve is acutely aware that that is not the question he was asked. "How about you?"
Now that is an interesting thing to say. The Captain America of times past would, perhaps, have stopped at saying that he was just trying to help put the world back together. But that little add-on, and the tiniest of slumps in Steve's shoulders, are adding up towards a picture that Stephen hadn't expected.
"I just spent the last week skipping between dimensions trying to stop a grief-stricken witch from killing a teenager, I'm very well-rested," Stephen replies dryly, taking a sip of his tea. It's a little spicy, a little fruity, and exactly what he needs to reinvigorate the senses. Steve clearly isn't telling the whole story; Stephen isn't going to either. Telling Steve everything wouldn't serve any kind of useful purpose right now.
He watches Steve thoughtfully, eyes bright in the afternoon light coming in through the nearby window. Golden motes of dust, dust that seems to permanently accompany everything in this place, dance in the air as he shifts, crossing one leg over the other.
"I'm a little surprised you didn't choose to stay in the past," he says, blunt as ever. "One of the Stones came from your original timeline, didn't it? It would have been an easy thing to save that one for last, and simply stay in a time you're more familiar with." Captain America's struggles with adjusting to the present time are well-documented, though Stephen really only knows about it because of the occasional headline he'd glimpsed and not through any heart-to-hearts with any of the Avengers.
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piscesnebula2024-01-23 02:28 pm
no subject
He can feel the hurt and loss steeped in the world around him by simply existing in it. A tired, old soldier on a different battlefield.
The Sanctum, as it's called, is a curiously elegant space - and though Steve himself isn't inherently magical, he does get the feeling that something about this place feels different. But of course it does - no one Steve knows is without some kind of gift or talent, and the man coming into view at the top of the stairs is no different. Either way, Steve looks around for a moment, surprised to hear the door click shut behind him.
"Doctor."
There's a nod of recognition, the barest glimmer of amusement behind his eyes. "I had no trouble at all. You gave me the address, I walked up, and the door was open. What do you mean by hide?"
He doesn't really have to ask the question, but it fills the air as he starts toward the stairs. A pot of tea shared in a magical, mysterious mansion with a magical and mysterious man should be odd beyond belief to the average person. Steve doesn't bat an eye.
It's strange meeting up after everything. Nothing feels the same. - All things he wants to say, but the familiarity isn't there. He shakes the eerie feeling that they should be busying themselves with something more urgent than tea and talks. He'll shake the feeling one day.
"Thanks for having me. This is where you live?"
He's afraid to say that it almost looks understated for a man named Doctor Strange - but he is his mother's son, and politely keeps his mouth shut.
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."
no subject
It isn't like Stephen Strange has exactly earned a warm and fuzzy reputation. But Steve can respect someone who, despite a temper here and there and a lack of patience (sounds like yet another hero he knows), speaks honestly and directly. Sometimes, in the modern world he now calls home, people waste their time on mincing words more than they should.
He follows the man up the stairs to the sweeping parlor lined with bookshelves. In another life, he might have liked a room like this - wall to wall with books and trinkets, with just enough light let in through a window to be comfortable. He was a simple man with simple comforts once - he's not even sure much has changed now. Strolling up to one of the cases with hands in his pockets, he peers inside at some of the mystical artifacts, but it's the books his eyes skim past - ornate, worn spines and the occasionally gilded page.
"Haunted fridge and energy slug? Sounds complicated. I might know a guy," he says as though they're talking about simple electrical repairs or plumbing. Not inter-dimensional creatures and whatnots. Once he makes it to the halfway point of shelves it turns back. The magical teapot won't fail to surprise him. He's used to a lot - new tech, new terminology, new abilities - but even this feels like the stuff of storybooks sometimes.
Moving toward the table and pulling out the chair set out for him, he sits, a wry sort of smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Ah. People of Import. Steve isn't stupid.
"Potential threats. Hazards."
Better to call a horse a horse, is it not? He'd figured as much when he was called here - after all, despite working together toward the same cause? They hadn't exactly had time to become friendly.
"You can phrase it how you like, Doctor, but that doesn't change the fact that I've heard it said before. I was still fugitive of the State not too long ago, and I'd imagine that me being in any way who I am and what I am? I understand why you'd need to keep tabs on me."
He reaches for the cup, pleased by the warmth of the cup. He can't guess the flavor until it he breathes in the steam of it - black tea, steeped overlong to the point of near bitterness. It's honey he adds to his after a sip.
"I've been helping the cleanup. Getting people back to their families. Helping those who didn't have families to come back to."
Staying busy so his mind won't run away on him.
no subject
That had been just before he'd had his car accident, and though it had been all over the news, Stephen hadn't much cared about it. He doesn't care about it now, either, though for a very different reason -- the sorcerers as an order do their best to stay out of politics. They have enough of their own politics to keep them busy for centuries. Just last week, Novice Cheng's mispronunciation of the Latin for to misplace had offended several visiting dignitaries, and that's going to be the talk of the water cooler for weeks.
He sits, then, cup cradled in his hands. The warmth goes a fraction of the way toward easing the constant ache in his fingers.
"As a superhero, you're reasonably strong and athletic -- your sense of strategy is probably your biggest weapon. As a man, you hold incredible influence," Stephen explains, though he suspects Steve knows it already. "If you decided you wanted to take over the world, I imagine you could get further than most."
Still, he believes Steve when he says that he's been helping with cleanup and family reunification. He seems the type to always need a mission of some kind, to always be helping. Still, there's this tiredness about him that Stephen can't quite get a read on. He's retired, shouldn't he be well-rested?
"Don't worry, we're not going to attach an ankle bracelet to you," he says dryly. "If we did, we'd be hypocrites." Of the two of them sitting in this room, whose alternate variations have ended multiple universes? That's right, it's not Steve. "My main reason for inviting you here was... well, to see how you're doing." It comes out a little awkward, because Stephen's not used to trying to be friends with people.
no subject
Everything lately has felt so heavy and dark.
"Well, let me assure you that I don't exactly have any world- takeovers planned in the near future. Just trying to help put it all back together instead. It's what people expect of me."
And it isn't that Steve doesn't want to do it, but he can't remember a moment of reprieve since he came out of the ice. He woke and hit the ground running, with all eyes on him, expecting him to be the very same energetic, optimistic hero he'd been before he crashed that plane into the water. Even now, when he stands before the public eye, he has a person that they inherently expect, and it's a role he has to fill.
Time away, though, doesn't sound terrible. Even if it fills him with an aching sort of guilt for even having the thought. It's Stephen's follow-up question that has him pausing, blinking over the cup of hot tea. They're colleagues in battle, and not truly friends, and yet something about all of this seems to disarm Steve, his shoulders rounding just a little.
The facade, slipping.
"I'm doing as well as anyone."
How do you do what they did and come out feeling whole again? Maybe it's easier for the others - who finished the battle, attended a funeral, and went back to their lives. It's only just started ending for Steve, really.
"I returned the Stones to their rightful places, came back. Took me a little longer than expected, but. Now I'm just trying to lend a hand where I can. Not sure where else I am better needed than that."
Steve is acutely aware that that is not the question he was asked. "How about you?"
no subject
Now that is an interesting thing to say. The Captain America of times past would, perhaps, have stopped at saying that he was just trying to help put the world back together. But that little add-on, and the tiniest of slumps in Steve's shoulders, are adding up towards a picture that Stephen hadn't expected.
"I just spent the last week skipping between dimensions trying to stop a grief-stricken witch from killing a teenager, I'm very well-rested," Stephen replies dryly, taking a sip of his tea. It's a little spicy, a little fruity, and exactly what he needs to reinvigorate the senses. Steve clearly isn't telling the whole story; Stephen isn't going to either. Telling Steve everything wouldn't serve any kind of useful purpose right now.
He watches Steve thoughtfully, eyes bright in the afternoon light coming in through the nearby window. Golden motes of dust, dust that seems to permanently accompany everything in this place, dance in the air as he shifts, crossing one leg over the other.
"I'm a little surprised you didn't choose to stay in the past," he says, blunt as ever. "One of the Stones came from your original timeline, didn't it? It would have been an easy thing to save that one for last, and simply stay in a time you're more familiar with." Captain America's struggles with adjusting to the present time are well-documented, though Stephen really only knows about it because of the occasional headline he'd glimpsed and not through any heart-to-hearts with any of the Avengers.