[ This feeling of being comfortable with someone is something she's missed desperately. Her circle of friends has gotten very small as of late, one thing or another robbing her of companionship until she was left with Quentin and a precious few others. It's easy with Strange in a way she hadn't expected; she can only hope it continues as they work together.
At least she might have made a friend in a magical flying cloak. ]
The cloak has good taste.
[ She grins, leaving it up to interpretation who exactly she's referring to. But really, she doesn't care much about appearances. Not in that way, anyway. Sure, she has her own sense of style that's been cultivated from a wealthy upbringing that allowed her to afford a spacious apartment in the heart of NYC, but she didn't really judge others for their possessions. She might have once, but she's having trouble remembering life before magic and everything wonderful and horrible it brought into her life. ]
[ And Julia grins at him, and for the first time all night, Stephen Strange suddenly remembers that she isn't just a mystery to be solved; that behind this magical puzzle is a flesh-and-blood woman, with a sense of humour and a charming personality and everything. It's a small jolt, a startling realisation that he's actually enjoying this. In his worse years, he'd started to see people only as the case studies they represented. Patients were complicated medical puzzles wheeled into his operating theater, unconscious; they'd only existed insofar as their sparking neurons and cerebella were of interest to him. He could carve into the meat and he could fix it by himself. Whether or not the human being was present or not was ultimately irrelevant.
But here is a person, here is a human being, and she's smiling at him.
Strange blinks, then tries to shake it off just as he'd shaken off that view into her aura. He holds the door open for her, out into those long hallways, and says, ]
Shall we? Also, it goes without saying, but don't touch any of the magical artefacts once we reach the loft. You'll know it when you see it. Glass cases like a museum, except more cursed. Although most museums are cursed— well. Anyway. Onwards.
[ Most museums are cursed. That's not exactly something she'd heard before but she doesn't doubt it. Too many generations of invaders stealing conquered lands' artifacts are bound to produce some bad mojo, and when you put more than a few pieces together... Well, suddenly, she never wants to visit a museum again. Not without a whole lot of protection on hand.
But the ever-curious part of her does want to find a museum with a host of cursed objects to research and study. How does the curse manifest? What are the histories surrounding these objects? Are there others studying them? There have to be, of course — some Brakebills alum with a niche specialty in spooky old crap who has written a dozen papers published in journals that no one outside of magical academia will ever see...
Julia stops her thought spiral and focuses back on the matter at hand as she steps out into the hallway and starts walking, trusting he'll tell her if she heads in the wrong direction. ]
No touching the cursed artifacts is actually a pretty easy rule to follow.
[ So long as none of those artifacts are needed for a spell that might bring back magic, then all bets are off. Her own safety is nothing in the face of that end goal. But until that point, better safe than sorry. ]
I'm curious how often you follow that rule, though.
[ He's not looking directly back at her as he leads the way down the hallway, but at the corner of his mouth in profile, she can just catch that flicker in his expression which means another bitten-back smile. Well. Julia's certainly got his number down, hasn't she. ]
Mm. Not as often as I should. How in the world did you know? [ Strange keeps his voice dry and droll, but he doesn't sound shocked: there's already that hum of a sympathetic thread between them, taking each others' measure, and like recognising like. ] My very first trip to the Sanctum was very Aladdin in the Cave of Wonders. Maybe I'm only saying that because the Cloak and the Carpet share a certain resemblance, though.
[ Yes, he's seen the 1992 Disney animated classic; who hadn't? (It had been one of Donna's favourites.) ]
But for each helpful artefact, there's another one which might swallow your soul, so it's kind of a crapshoot— mind your step, we're not going in there, there was a portal mishap.
[ One of the side doors in the hallway, instead of leading to a parlour, seems to open into a bottomless pit. ]
[ For every hint of a smile, she feels she knows him a little better. Like they've taken a step closer to each other, even if there might still be a dozen yards stretched between them. Even with that distance, every inch closer feels like a mile, slowly cementing the feeling that she truly can trust him.
It does help that she recognizes so much of herself in him, of course. She knows he's full of surprises but deep down, she has a feeling they'll understand each other.
He's the right age to have seen Aladdin and yet the reference takes her back a bit. There's that surprising side of him — she wouldn't have thought him to be one for pop culture references. Maybe it's a one-off, or maybe little things will slip out every now and then, but she'll be shocked if he suddenly goes full Buffy with them.
Might swallow your soul results in raised eyebrows while she makes a slightly horrified face that shifts into shock and awe when he points out the portal mishap. This place really is like Hogwarts — or Brakebills, maybe. Except she'd just walked into the Sanctum and been given a place in less than ten minutes when she'd been barred from Brakebills and forced to figure things out on her own.
(Yes, she knows there was a reason for it and she'd always been meant to attend the school... but it still stings. It will probably always sting.) ]
Is there any part of this building that isn't potentially incredibly dangerous?
[ Asked as she carefully moves past that gaping nothingness that threatens to overwhelm her with a feeling of vertigo that she's never experienced before in her entire life. Nope, no thank you. ]
My bedroom, [ Doctor Strange answers automatically, distractedly, as they skirt past that void and continue down the hallway, which looks like a Victorian townhouse when it's not terrifically haunted: a creaking wooden parquet floor in various geometric shapes; old vases and lamps adorning the side tables; classical paintings hanging on the walls, and ornate wall-sconces glowing merrily. The aesthetic treads somewhere between Gothic and cozy, somehow accomplishing both at once.
But then, a moment later, he realises how that sounded, and Strange makes a strangled noise. ]
No, sorry, that's not a come-on, I mean that literally. You're at your most vulnerable when you sleep, particularly with the amount of astral projection and corporeal visits to the dream dimension I do. My bedroom's covered in wards and protection spells. It's important to guard your unconscious mind.
[ If only it could do something for the nightmares themselves, though. ]
[ For the brief moment before his clarification, Julia goes through a whirlwind of emotions: shock because she really hadn't expected something like that from him; intrigue because he is very good-looking and incredibly intelligent; remorse because no way is she ready for something like that, no matter how much she might want to be; and finally, disappointment when he makes that noise. It's dumb to be disappointed when she's not ready to dive into something, but doesn't everyone want to be wanted by someone?
So she's just gonna move right past it for both their sakes. ]
You have anything in there to help with nightmares?
[ She'll ask her dozen questions about the dream dimension and astral projection later. They're important but not as much as fighting off her nightmares. Those twisted memories dig into her like razor-sharp talons and try to drag her down into the darkness. ]
[ He's been striding briskly along with the kind of walk-and-talk speed bred into most doctors, leading them towards the stairwells where he can tell her what's downstairs, and introduce her to Wong upstairs, and then finally detour towards the living quarters... but at that particular question, Strange stops his march outright. And he looks at Julia and shrugs one dismissive shoulder; tips a hand with a gesture of what can ya do. He's been sleeping in tangled panicked sweaty sheets for too long now, and it's been taking its toll. ]
No, unfortunately. They're the one thing I haven't really sorted out. I have my own sleep demon who's taken a dislike to me, too, and he's very insistent.
[ Which might sound like a joke, but there's something to the cast of his expression — and those exhausted lines around his eyes — which hint that he's more than serious. ]
So if you ever find the trick, just saying: do share.
[ The way he just stops conveys how serious his answer is. No flippant remarks or casual jokes, only signs of exhaustion serving as confirmation that he gets it. More than she could have guessed, apparently — a sleep demon? She'd worked with sleep magic before but a demon is way beyond that. ]
I will.
[ A serious promise for a serious problem, and one she intends to make good on. For every waking moment she's not working on her problem, she'll be working on theirs. Maybe there are books at Brakebills that Strange hasn't studied yet; with the wards down, she can visit there easily now, and convincing Fogg to extend her library privileges shouldn't be too hard...
Already, there's an idea nagging at her, so with a concerned yet determined frown, she poses a suggestion. ]
If having someone stand guard would be of any help, I'm happy to do it. I don't know anything about sleep demons but I'm a quick study.
[ Strange tamps down his initial kneejerk response, the whiplash honest one: No, I just don't sleep. Maybe he shouldn't actually tell the nice magician about that part; people tend to get such a concerned look on their face whenever it comes up. ]
What, standing in the corner and watching me sleep? I'm afraid it'll be dreadfully boring, and voyeuristic besides.
[ And there's that flippant humour, mustered together like a mask sliding back into place, and running with the silliest possible interpretation for convenience. But he can tell that the offer is made with the best of intentions, so he relents more politely after a moment: ]
No, thank you, Julia, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe someday.
[ It's delivered with the same gentle dismissiveness of a we should do brunch sometime, the option inspected and then discarded as not viable. (Although it doesn't mean forever: down the line, with more trust bricked up between them, and when she's not just a stranger wandering in off the street, then. He'll be lying awake and his thoughts will start to wander irrepressibly back to that offer, and he'll wonder, and maybe he'll come knocking on her door.) ]
[ Ah yes, there's that humor, carefully steering them back into safer territory than things that are Personal and thus must be handled Personally. She knows all too well how that goes and so she'll respect his decision — for now. Because there might come a day when he needs help more than he's willing to admit. ]
Well, the offer stands. Even when I'm not here anymore — hopefully, by then I'll actually have this portal thing down.
[ It's both a joke and a promise that she's always going to be there for him, so long as he doesn't royally fuck this up. Julia is nothing if not fiercely loyal to her friends. She'd lost that for a while, back when she'd lost just about everything else, but bit by bit she's reclaiming who she's supposed to be.
But, back to the task at hand. ]
This place is beautiful — so what else do I need to worry about? The wallpaper's not going to try to eat me, is it? [ Asked with a smile, of course. ]
Oh no, thankfully the wallpaper is just wallpaper. Bit old-fashioned, though.
[ They've reached the end of the hallway and one of those stairwells, so Strange clears his throat, readies himself for the schpiel. He hasn't actually had to give it to someone yet, he realises; this is the first person he's invited to stay at the Sanctum himself, personally. America will probably get the tour someday, but she's still studying in Nepal. ]
Alright. So. We're on the second floor right now. My bedroom and Wong's bedroom is here, plus all of the guest rooms, we'll find yours right after this. There's libraries scattered throughout all the storeys, and you're free to use any of the actual spaces for study, although you should check with myself or any of the other masters or even apprentices before choosing specific books.
First floor, downstairs, is the foyer where you came in, plus the kitchen. Everything there is safe, feel free to help yourself to any snacks except, obviously, someone's labelled Tupperware. Laundry and storage and occult containment is down in the basement. And upstairs...
[ Since she can already see the sprawling staircase leading downwards to where she came from, he leads her up instead, and takes her up into the attic. And there are all those promised magical artifacts, the tall glass-fronted display cases lined up in neat rows. The taste of magic — already in the back of her throat from the moment she walked into the Sanctum Sanctorum — is even more powerfully present here. It prickles at the fingertips like static electricity. ]
This is where we do a lot of our practical magic, beneath the Seal of the Vishanti for protection. The Rotunda of Gateways is also down the hall, which functions like permanent portals onto different places all over the world. You can use it as a shortcut, but since you can't sling yourself back, I wouldn't recommend it just yet. It's nice to have the ever-changing view, though. I like to think of them as very pretty screensavers. And this is—
[ Floating and meditating in the middle of the room, beneath the Anomaly Rue, is Wong. He cracks open an eye, looking a little irritated at having been interrupted. "Stephen, I'm in the middle of something. I have to finish studying this sutra before heading back to Kamar-Taj—" ]
Yes, yes, but more importantly, meet Julia... I'm sorry, I never caught your surname? Anyway, she'll be staying with us and training for a while.
[ Wong shoots Strange a silent look which manages to wordlessly convey 'You asked someone to move in and you don't even know her last name?' but then his demeanour settles back to his usual gruff friendliness. He straightens his legs and sinks back to standing on his own two feet, and bows a hello to her. ]
[ The tour is an interesting one, to say the least. She almost feels like she should be taking notes, both on things to ask more questions about later and also on all the absolutely bonkers shit she'll have to tell Q about later. Sure, some of the stuff seems perfectly normal, like all the libraries and study spaces, the snacks in the kitchen... But then there's the occult containment in the basement with laundry and storage and it's a very 'one of these things is not like the other' moment.
Telling Q about this place is something she's so looking forward to. Now that they've mended bridges and repaired their friendship, he's told her all sorts of stories about Brakebills, and as excited as she'd been for his magical scholastic adventures, some part of her has always remained a little bitter that they couldn't have them together. But now she'll have her own stories to share, and hopefully, she'll get them closer to finding a way to bring back magic so he can continue on his journey as well.
She basks in the increased presence of magic as they move upstairs, that static electricity sparking at her senses and fanning the flames of hope that she's clinging to with a vice-like grip. This is where she's supposed to be, this is what the world is supposed to feel like. It's only been a few months; how could she have forgotten so quickly?
The pieces of Who Is Stephen Strange fit together a little more snuggly as she watches the exchange between him and the other sorcerer, the irritation and easy manner between them speaking volumes of their rapport and respect for each other. It's not something everyone would notice or interpret correctly, but she recognizes the signs of friendship and implicit trust.
Smiling cordially, she bows in return, the motion a little awkward but hopefully the correct greeting for the occasion. She wants to make a good impression. ]
Julia Wicker. [ Her smile turns a little pointed as she glances over at Stephen. ] Dr. Strange has agreed to help me with a magical problem I'm having and offered to let me stay here. I hope that's okay.
[ Because that look between them says pretty clearly that Wong has opinions on the matter. Perhaps more so regarding Stephen's decision-making process than her actually staying at the Sanctum. ]
The other man glances between the two of them, clearly running some mental calculus of his own — do they know each other from the old life? does Stephen Strange have other friends? that seems unlikely — but whatever he sees seems to confirm the story. They are strangers to each other, albeit amiable ones.
"More than okay," Wong says. "You're welcome here. Be warned, though. He gets annoying. And as the Sorcerer Supreme, I won't be here that often; I have duties elsewhere."
Strange casts his gaze skyward. He's fairly certain that Wong finds any possible excuse and opportunity to rub the title in his face. "We should start a swear jar, except it's for every time you mention that you're the Sorcerer Supreme."
"But I am the Sorcerer Supreme. It's just a fact."
"You're still putting a dollar in the jar. I thought humility was one of the tenets of the Masters of the Mystic Arts."
"You're one to talk, Strange—"
All of it has the sound of a well-worn comfortable argument they've had over and over, and there's no real teeth behind it for either of them; instead, they settle into it like old colleagues and friends. Finally, Strange flicks a corner of his cloak dismissively, conceding the point. "Her problem, actually, is of professional interest to the other sorcerers too. There's something hinky going on with the magicians' magic, while ours is untouched. Apparently it's affecting Brakebills too."
"This is why you should stop sending the dean's calls straight to voicemail," Wong says, shaking his head. Then he turns his attention back to their guest. "Doctor Strange is actually pretty talented, attitude aside. You'll be in good hands. And the rest of us will chip in where we can."
The ensuing interaction between the two sorcerers only serves to confirm Julia's suspicions about them. If they weren't friends, then this banter between them would be a lot more heated and tense, more of a battle of words than a casual game of tossing them back and forth. It's actually kind of fun to watch — she almost wishes she had popcorn for it.
And then they get back to the matter of why she's even here, to begin with. Stephen's explanation is succinct but practical, but Wong's response nearly results in an untimely and unladylike snort — she just barely manages to hold back the reaction.
"Thank you, I appreciate that," she replies with a grateful smile. "Things have been getting pretty desperate on our end, so we'll take all the help we can get."
Even help with attitude, though she certainly hasn't minded his thus far...
Wong nods. "I'll mention it to the other Sanctum keepers. Maybe they'll have some ideas," he says, then adds: "A pleasure, miss Wicker. I'll see you around. Keep him in line for me."
"Hey—"
But the other man is already opening up a portal and then stepping neatly through, vanishing back to Kamar-Taj in a blast of warm humid air, sunshine, and a glimpse of cobblestones. Then the portal's shut again, and they're alone in the attic. Strange exhales a deep, woebegotten sigh and then finally shoots Julia a sheepish look.
"I used to be Sorcerer Supreme, you know. Save the world once or twice or thrice and this is the thanks you get."
It's one thing for a portal to open up to a different part of the same building, but seeing Kamar-Taj on the other side... It's the exact opposite of where they're standing now, and that glimpse leaves Julia itching to continue her attempts at creating her own portal.
Smiling in sympathetic amusement at Stephen's plight, she reminds him, "No good deed goes unpunished."
And then, because there's no way she can let it go, she crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side before asking, "Do you really send Fogg's calls straight to voicemail?"
Oh, he should've known this would come back to bite him somehow. Although, judging by the fact that Brakebills hadn't taken her, perhaps the faculty aren't Julia's favourite people either—
"He keeps asking me to guest lecture for a semester," Strange groans by way of explanation, with audible exasperation. "Do you have any idea how tedious it is to put together a curriculum? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the sound of my own voice, but I don't love the idea of dealing with students. There's a reason I never went to a teaching hospital. I don't have the patience."
There was always that nagging itching feeling at the back of his mind whenever he had to observe someone else doing a procedure: he could do it faster and better.
"So for both their sake and mine, I let others handle the visits to Brakebills. It's a nice campus but whenever I'm there, it feels like someone's about to ask me for a generous donation to," he does airquotes with his fingers, "fund the next magical generation, and I don't have that kind of money anymore. I'll stick to helping you instead."
Julia hasn't had many interactions with Fogg, certainly not enough to have a fully-formed opinion of him yet, but she's less angry about Brakebills not taking her than she used to be, so he's got that going for him. The idea of Stephen guest lecturing there strikes her as hysterical, though, and reminds her of how she used to be with the hedges. If she could do things faster and better than them, then why bother trying to teach them?
She's changed since then, her patience slowly returning as she strives to use her magic for good. And the fact that he's willing to help her at all means he probably has that side to him too. In fact, she's counting on it.
"I'm okay with that," she informs him with a smile, letting it sink in for a moment before continuing. "So you used to be rich, huh? What happened?"
He's the one who mentioned it so she assumes it's a safe thing to ask about.
Stephen's mouth has a tendency to run off without him, scattering details he realises only a second too late that he's not quite ready to broach in full. He hesitates, still looking at her, and his gaze does not drift down to his hands.
He could lie — could hide behind the monks' values, mention something about Wong trying to teach him to detach from the material world — but as slippery and evasive as he can be with the truth and his actual feelings, an outright lie seems a bit too far. So instead, he settles for an abbreviated version of the truth, his voice staying at a calculated even keel.
"It's a long story," he says. "The doctorate isn't symbolic. I actually used to be a neurosurgeon at Metro-General in Manhattan. I blew through all of my hard-earned riches when I made my pivot to magic, though. Buy me a drink someday and I'll tell you all about it."
Because it isn't the sort of story he wants to broach dead-eyed sober. There's a psychosomatic twinge of pain in his knuckles just thinking about it.
He'd been a neurosurgeon. Julia's eyebrows raise slightly at that, this new information casting him in an entirely different light. That very specific profession takes time, a whole lot of it, and more skill and intelligence than most people possess. Add in the wealth that inevitably comes with it and...
Something happened to him. The details aren't important right now; no matter how curious she is, he's not ready to tell her and she'll respect that. What is important is that she knows something happened and that she should be careful with that knowledge until she better understands him.
"Leaving one life for another isn't easy, even when it's for magic," she acknowledges sympathetically. "I was a different person when I started down this path and I can't go back to being her. I tried: spent a few months at Yale trying out law school, but it... For better or worse, that's not who I am anymore."
He arches his own eyebrow; bemused, despite himself. "A doctor and a lawyer walk into a haunted house," Strange says. "Sounds like we'll need to swap those stories later. We'll have time, since you're staying here."
Because there's probably a tale there, too: unlike Brakebills' standardised testing and their preliminary examination with its pass/fail, he's aware that every hedge has a far more chaotic path to magic, unique to them. Probably with more than a few similarities to his own journey, too: catching a glimpse of something you can't explain, chasing down leads, digging your fingers into the cracks of a door closed to you, prying it open come hell or high water. And it occurs to him that maybe his own tale isn't all that long, really. He could technically summarise it quickly enough, gloss over the details: I was in a car accident and ruined my hands, I tried to fix it with science, I found magic instead. Skip the months and the operations and the agony and the ruin, jump straight to the fun part in Nepal and once that door opened.
But the devil's in the details. And Strange had recoiled at the aphorism magic comes from pain, but— there is that small grain of truth in it, isn't there? That's how his path had started, too.
They'll talk it through someday.
For now, though, he glances back to the stairwell. "Speaking of your stay: I suspect the Sanctum's got a room ready for you by now. Want to go find it?"
Those stories... There's certainly a lot she could tell him about her journey to magic, like how she forced herself to remember Brakebills after she'd 'failed' the entrance exam, using pain to resist the memory wipe that had been attempted on her. How she'd spiraled into depression in the weeks after when she'd been unable to find a way back. And then she'd been approached by the hedges...
Part of her is uneasy about telling him everything, though. It would be so tempting to skip the parts she's ashamed of — nearly getting Q killed with her revenge dream; actually getting Kady's mom killed; the months of rehab as she found her way to Free Trader Beowolf and everything that followed. But if he shares his story with her, she owes him the same, doesn't she? It's only fair.
They'll need a lot of drinks that day. But that day isn't today. Today, she's exploring Hogwarts.
"After seeing all this?" she says with a gesture to the room around them, leaning back into the excitement she'd felt earlier. "Hell yes."
"Oh, good. Because you're about to experience one of the most miraculous pieces of NYC real estate— we'd probably be screwed if this place wasn't bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, but y'know. Magic."
Strange leads the way back downstairs, to the residential hallway branching off from the one they'd been in earlier. As they pass each ornate wooden door, he points out the Sorcerer Supreme's room ("although he's right, he's not often here anymore"); his own living quarters ("in the event of an emergency and you need to reach me"); and then he's passing the various guest rooms, making a contemplative hm! noise as he checks the doors, trying to suss out which one is new and unoccupied. There's signs of life in most of the ones they pass — apprentices' robes, stacks of papers and books, half-finished studies — but then, finally, he finds the right one.
"Here we go," the man says, shoving open the door. It creaks and opens onto a bedroom which hadn't existed this morning. The single room isn't as large and sprawling as Doctor Strange's own set of multiple rooms (the benefit of seniority), but it's nice: there's a large window which looks out onto the Chelsea street and lets in light, the bed is large and lavish, and the lamps are cozy even if they're in the form of strange Victorian cherubs. There's a desk and a bookcase on the other side of the room, both empty; the wallpaper is forested trees.
"The Sanctum spins up a new bedroom whenever we have another sorcerer or trainee staying here with us. It's handy. I'll send one of the apprentices to get some towels for you, but otherwise, you can just move your belongings in at leisure, and we'll resume our portal exercises later." Strange pauses. "Can you think of anything else you need? I haven't actually done the whole housekeeping speech before."
Making specific note of Wong's and Stephen's rooms, Julia peers curiously into the other rooms that have clearly been claimed by others who frequent the Sanctum. She's looking forward to meeting some of those apprentices whenever they finally do visit again; she's always been a social person and at least they have something pretty big in common.
When they reach her room, the window catches her attention before anything else. The view is stunning, the quintessential New York City streetscape that she'd grown up loving and that makes her feel right at home. She half-listens to Stephen as he continues speaking, taking in the desk and bookcase just waiting to be her own, the elegant bed that looks incredibly comfortable, and the wallpaper—
"What?" she asks absently, unable to tear her eyes away from those trees that are both beautiful and painful to behold. His words catch up with her and she shakes her head. "No, I don't need anything else..."
Hesitantly, she walks over to rest her fingertips on the wallpaper, as if she needs to reassure herself they're just an image and nothing more sinister. Even though she's a little afraid of the answer, she quietly asks, "Does the Sanctum design the room to match the occupant?"
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ourladytrees) wrote2022-06-18 12:21 am
no subject
At least she might have made a friend in a magical flying cloak. ]
The cloak has good taste.
[ She grins, leaving it up to interpretation who exactly she's referring to. But really, she doesn't care much about appearances. Not in that way, anyway. Sure, she has her own sense of style that's been cultivated from a wealthy upbringing that allowed her to afford a spacious apartment in the heart of NYC, but she didn't really judge others for their possessions. She might have once, but she's having trouble remembering life before magic and everything wonderful and horrible it brought into her life. ]
no subject
[ And Julia grins at him, and for the first time all night, Stephen Strange suddenly remembers that she isn't just a mystery to be solved; that behind this magical puzzle is a flesh-and-blood woman, with a sense of humour and a charming personality and everything. It's a small jolt, a startling realisation that he's actually enjoying this. In his worse years, he'd started to see people only as the case studies they represented. Patients were complicated medical puzzles wheeled into his operating theater, unconscious; they'd only existed insofar as their sparking neurons and cerebella were of interest to him. He could carve into the meat and he could fix it by himself. Whether or not the human being was present or not was ultimately irrelevant.
But here is a person, here is a human being, and she's smiling at him.
Strange blinks, then tries to shake it off just as he'd shaken off that view into her aura. He holds the door open for her, out into those long hallways, and says, ]
Shall we? Also, it goes without saying, but don't touch any of the magical artefacts once we reach the loft. You'll know it when you see it. Glass cases like a museum, except more cursed. Although most museums are cursed— well. Anyway. Onwards.
no subject
But the ever-curious part of her does want to find a museum with a host of cursed objects to research and study. How does the curse manifest? What are the histories surrounding these objects? Are there others studying them? There have to be, of course — some Brakebills alum with a niche specialty in spooky old crap who has written a dozen papers published in journals that no one outside of magical academia will ever see...
Julia stops her thought spiral and focuses back on the matter at hand as she steps out into the hallway and starts walking, trusting he'll tell her if she heads in the wrong direction. ]
No touching the cursed artifacts is actually a pretty easy rule to follow.
[ So long as none of those artifacts are needed for a spell that might bring back magic, then all bets are off. Her own safety is nothing in the face of that end goal. But until that point, better safe than sorry. ]
I'm curious how often you follow that rule, though.
no subject
Mm. Not as often as I should. How in the world did you know? [ Strange keeps his voice dry and droll, but he doesn't sound shocked: there's already that hum of a sympathetic thread between them, taking each others' measure, and like recognising like. ] My very first trip to the Sanctum was very Aladdin in the Cave of Wonders. Maybe I'm only saying that because the Cloak and the Carpet share a certain resemblance, though.
[ Yes, he's seen the 1992 Disney animated classic; who hadn't? (It had been one of Donna's favourites.) ]
But for each helpful artefact, there's another one which might swallow your soul, so it's kind of a crapshoot— mind your step, we're not going in there, there was a portal mishap.
[ One of the side doors in the hallway, instead of leading to a parlour, seems to open into a bottomless pit. ]
no subject
It does help that she recognizes so much of herself in him, of course. She knows he's full of surprises but deep down, she has a feeling they'll understand each other.
He's the right age to have seen Aladdin and yet the reference takes her back a bit. There's that surprising side of him — she wouldn't have thought him to be one for pop culture references. Maybe it's a one-off, or maybe little things will slip out every now and then, but she'll be shocked if he suddenly goes full Buffy with them.
Might swallow your soul results in raised eyebrows while she makes a slightly horrified face that shifts into shock and awe when he points out the portal mishap. This place really is like Hogwarts — or Brakebills, maybe. Except she'd just walked into the Sanctum and been given a place in less than ten minutes when she'd been barred from Brakebills and forced to figure things out on her own.
(Yes, she knows there was a reason for it and she'd always been meant to attend the school... but it still stings. It will probably always sting.) ]
Is there any part of this building that isn't potentially incredibly dangerous?
[ Asked as she carefully moves past that gaping nothingness that threatens to overwhelm her with a feeling of vertigo that she's never experienced before in her entire life. Nope, no thank you. ]
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But then, a moment later, he realises how that sounded, and Strange makes a strangled noise. ]
No, sorry, that's not a come-on, I mean that literally. You're at your most vulnerable when you sleep, particularly with the amount of astral projection and corporeal visits to the dream dimension I do. My bedroom's covered in wards and protection spells. It's important to guard your unconscious mind.
[ If only it could do something for the nightmares themselves, though. ]
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So she's just gonna move right past it for both their sakes. ]
You have anything in there to help with nightmares?
[ She'll ask her dozen questions about the dream dimension and astral projection later. They're important but not as much as fighting off her nightmares. Those twisted memories dig into her like razor-sharp talons and try to drag her down into the darkness. ]
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No, unfortunately. They're the one thing I haven't really sorted out. I have my own sleep demon who's taken a dislike to me, too, and he's very insistent.
[ Which might sound like a joke, but there's something to the cast of his expression — and those exhausted lines around his eyes — which hint that he's more than serious. ]
So if you ever find the trick, just saying: do share.
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I will.
[ A serious promise for a serious problem, and one she intends to make good on. For every waking moment she's not working on her problem, she'll be working on theirs. Maybe there are books at Brakebills that Strange hasn't studied yet; with the wards down, she can visit there easily now, and convincing Fogg to extend her library privileges shouldn't be too hard...
Already, there's an idea nagging at her, so with a concerned yet determined frown, she poses a suggestion. ]
If having someone stand guard would be of any help, I'm happy to do it. I don't know anything about sleep demons but I'm a quick study.
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What, standing in the corner and watching me sleep? I'm afraid it'll be dreadfully boring, and voyeuristic besides.
[ And there's that flippant humour, mustered together like a mask sliding back into place, and running with the silliest possible interpretation for convenience. But he can tell that the offer is made with the best of intentions, so he relents more politely after a moment: ]
No, thank you, Julia, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe someday.
[ It's delivered with the same gentle dismissiveness of a we should do brunch sometime, the option inspected and then discarded as not viable. (Although it doesn't mean forever: down the line, with more trust bricked up between them, and when she's not just a stranger wandering in off the street, then. He'll be lying awake and his thoughts will start to wander irrepressibly back to that offer, and he'll wonder, and maybe he'll come knocking on her door.) ]
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Well, the offer stands. Even when I'm not here anymore — hopefully, by then I'll actually have this portal thing down.
[ It's both a joke and a promise that she's always going to be there for him, so long as he doesn't royally fuck this up. Julia is nothing if not fiercely loyal to her friends. She'd lost that for a while, back when she'd lost just about everything else, but bit by bit she's reclaiming who she's supposed to be.
But, back to the task at hand. ]
This place is beautiful — so what else do I need to worry about? The wallpaper's not going to try to eat me, is it? [ Asked with a smile, of course. ]
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[ They've reached the end of the hallway and one of those stairwells, so Strange clears his throat, readies himself for the schpiel. He hasn't actually had to give it to someone yet, he realises; this is the first person he's invited to stay at the Sanctum himself, personally. America will probably get the tour someday, but she's still studying in Nepal. ]
Alright. So. We're on the second floor right now. My bedroom and Wong's bedroom is here, plus all of the guest rooms, we'll find yours right after this. There's libraries scattered throughout all the storeys, and you're free to use any of the actual spaces for study, although you should check with myself or any of the other masters or even apprentices before choosing specific books.
First floor, downstairs, is the foyer where you came in, plus the kitchen. Everything there is safe, feel free to help yourself to any snacks except, obviously, someone's labelled Tupperware. Laundry and storage and occult containment is down in the basement. And upstairs...
[ Since she can already see the sprawling staircase leading downwards to where she came from, he leads her up instead, and takes her up into the attic. And there are all those promised magical artifacts, the tall glass-fronted display cases lined up in neat rows. The taste of magic — already in the back of her throat from the moment she walked into the Sanctum Sanctorum — is even more powerfully present here. It prickles at the fingertips like static electricity. ]
This is where we do a lot of our practical magic, beneath the Seal of the Vishanti for protection. The Rotunda of Gateways is also down the hall, which functions like permanent portals onto different places all over the world. You can use it as a shortcut, but since you can't sling yourself back, I wouldn't recommend it just yet. It's nice to have the ever-changing view, though. I like to think of them as very pretty screensavers. And this is—
[ Floating and meditating in the middle of the room, beneath the Anomaly Rue, is Wong. He cracks open an eye, looking a little irritated at having been interrupted. "Stephen, I'm in the middle of something. I have to finish studying this sutra before heading back to Kamar-Taj—" ]
Yes, yes, but more importantly, meet Julia... I'm sorry, I never caught your surname? Anyway, she'll be staying with us and training for a while.
[ Wong shoots Strange a silent look which manages to wordlessly convey 'You asked someone to move in and you don't even know her last name?' but then his demeanour settles back to his usual gruff friendliness. He straightens his legs and sinks back to standing on his own two feet, and bows a hello to her. ]
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Telling Q about this place is something she's so looking forward to. Now that they've mended bridges and repaired their friendship, he's told her all sorts of stories about Brakebills, and as excited as she'd been for his magical scholastic adventures, some part of her has always remained a little bitter that they couldn't have them together. But now she'll have her own stories to share, and hopefully, she'll get them closer to finding a way to bring back magic so he can continue on his journey as well.
She basks in the increased presence of magic as they move upstairs, that static electricity sparking at her senses and fanning the flames of hope that she's clinging to with a vice-like grip. This is where she's supposed to be, this is what the world is supposed to feel like. It's only been a few months; how could she have forgotten so quickly?
The pieces of Who Is Stephen Strange fit together a little more snuggly as she watches the exchange between him and the other sorcerer, the irritation and easy manner between them speaking volumes of their rapport and respect for each other. It's not something everyone would notice or interpret correctly, but she recognizes the signs of friendship and implicit trust.
Smiling cordially, she bows in return, the motion a little awkward but hopefully the correct greeting for the occasion. She wants to make a good impression. ]
Julia Wicker. [ Her smile turns a little pointed as she glances over at Stephen. ] Dr. Strange has agreed to help me with a magical problem I'm having and offered to let me stay here. I hope that's okay.
[ Because that look between them says pretty clearly that Wong has opinions on the matter. Perhaps more so regarding Stephen's decision-making process than her actually staying at the Sanctum. ]
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"More than okay," Wong says. "You're welcome here. Be warned, though. He gets annoying. And as the Sorcerer Supreme, I won't be here that often; I have duties elsewhere."
Strange casts his gaze skyward. He's fairly certain that Wong finds any possible excuse and opportunity to rub the title in his face. "We should start a swear jar, except it's for every time you mention that you're the Sorcerer Supreme."
"But I am the Sorcerer Supreme. It's just a fact."
"You're still putting a dollar in the jar. I thought humility was one of the tenets of the Masters of the Mystic Arts."
"You're one to talk, Strange—"
All of it has the sound of a well-worn comfortable argument they've had over and over, and there's no real teeth behind it for either of them; instead, they settle into it like old colleagues and friends. Finally, Strange flicks a corner of his cloak dismissively, conceding the point. "Her problem, actually, is of professional interest to the other sorcerers too. There's something hinky going on with the magicians' magic, while ours is untouched. Apparently it's affecting Brakebills too."
"This is why you should stop sending the dean's calls straight to voicemail," Wong says, shaking his head. Then he turns his attention back to their guest. "Doctor Strange is actually pretty talented, attitude aside. You'll be in good hands. And the rest of us will chip in where we can."
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And then they get back to the matter of why she's even here, to begin with. Stephen's explanation is succinct but practical, but Wong's response nearly results in an untimely and unladylike snort — she just barely manages to hold back the reaction.
"Thank you, I appreciate that," she replies with a grateful smile. "Things have been getting pretty desperate on our end, so we'll take all the help we can get."
Even help with attitude, though she certainly hasn't minded his thus far...
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"Hey—"
But the other man is already opening up a portal and then stepping neatly through, vanishing back to Kamar-Taj in a blast of warm humid air, sunshine, and a glimpse of cobblestones. Then the portal's shut again, and they're alone in the attic. Strange exhales a deep, woebegotten sigh and then finally shoots Julia a sheepish look.
"I used to be Sorcerer Supreme, you know. Save the world once or twice or thrice and this is the thanks you get."
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Smiling in sympathetic amusement at Stephen's plight, she reminds him, "No good deed goes unpunished."
And then, because there's no way she can let it go, she crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side before asking, "Do you really send Fogg's calls straight to voicemail?"
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"He keeps asking me to guest lecture for a semester," Strange groans by way of explanation, with audible exasperation. "Do you have any idea how tedious it is to put together a curriculum? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the sound of my own voice, but I don't love the idea of dealing with students. There's a reason I never went to a teaching hospital. I don't have the patience."
There was always that nagging itching feeling at the back of his mind whenever he had to observe someone else doing a procedure: he could do it faster and better.
"So for both their sake and mine, I let others handle the visits to Brakebills. It's a nice campus but whenever I'm there, it feels like someone's about to ask me for a generous donation to," he does airquotes with his fingers, "fund the next magical generation, and I don't have that kind of money anymore. I'll stick to helping you instead."
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She's changed since then, her patience slowly returning as she strives to use her magic for good. And the fact that he's willing to help her at all means he probably has that side to him too. In fact, she's counting on it.
"I'm okay with that," she informs him with a smile, letting it sink in for a moment before continuing. "So you used to be rich, huh? What happened?"
He's the one who mentioned it so she assumes it's a safe thing to ask about.
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He could lie — could hide behind the monks' values, mention something about Wong trying to teach him to detach from the material world — but as slippery and evasive as he can be with the truth and his actual feelings, an outright lie seems a bit too far. So instead, he settles for an abbreviated version of the truth, his voice staying at a calculated even keel.
"It's a long story," he says. "The doctorate isn't symbolic. I actually used to be a neurosurgeon at Metro-General in Manhattan. I blew through all of my hard-earned riches when I made my pivot to magic, though. Buy me a drink someday and I'll tell you all about it."
Because it isn't the sort of story he wants to broach dead-eyed sober. There's a psychosomatic twinge of pain in his knuckles just thinking about it.
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Something happened to him. The details aren't important right now; no matter how curious she is, he's not ready to tell her and she'll respect that. What is important is that she knows something happened and that she should be careful with that knowledge until she better understands him.
"Leaving one life for another isn't easy, even when it's for magic," she acknowledges sympathetically. "I was a different person when I started down this path and I can't go back to being her. I tried: spent a few months at Yale trying out law school, but it... For better or worse, that's not who I am anymore."
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Because there's probably a tale there, too: unlike Brakebills' standardised testing and their preliminary examination with its pass/fail, he's aware that every hedge has a far more chaotic path to magic, unique to them. Probably with more than a few similarities to his own journey, too: catching a glimpse of something you can't explain, chasing down leads, digging your fingers into the cracks of a door closed to you, prying it open come hell or high water. And it occurs to him that maybe his own tale isn't all that long, really. He could technically summarise it quickly enough, gloss over the details: I was in a car accident and ruined my hands, I tried to fix it with science, I found magic instead. Skip the months and the operations and the agony and the ruin, jump straight to the fun part in Nepal and once that door opened.
But the devil's in the details. And Strange had recoiled at the aphorism magic comes from pain, but— there is that small grain of truth in it, isn't there? That's how his path had started, too.
They'll talk it through someday.
For now, though, he glances back to the stairwell. "Speaking of your stay: I suspect the Sanctum's got a room ready for you by now. Want to go find it?"
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Part of her is uneasy about telling him everything, though. It would be so tempting to skip the parts she's ashamed of — nearly getting Q killed with her revenge dream; actually getting Kady's mom killed; the months of rehab as she found her way to Free Trader Beowolf and everything that followed. But if he shares his story with her, she owes him the same, doesn't she? It's only fair.
They'll need a lot of drinks that day. But that day isn't today. Today, she's exploring Hogwarts.
"After seeing all this?" she says with a gesture to the room around them, leaning back into the excitement she'd felt earlier. "Hell yes."
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Strange leads the way back downstairs, to the residential hallway branching off from the one they'd been in earlier. As they pass each ornate wooden door, he points out the Sorcerer Supreme's room ("although he's right, he's not often here anymore"); his own living quarters ("in the event of an emergency and you need to reach me"); and then he's passing the various guest rooms, making a contemplative hm! noise as he checks the doors, trying to suss out which one is new and unoccupied. There's signs of life in most of the ones they pass — apprentices' robes, stacks of papers and books, half-finished studies — but then, finally, he finds the right one.
"Here we go," the man says, shoving open the door. It creaks and opens onto a bedroom which hadn't existed this morning. The single room isn't as large and sprawling as Doctor Strange's own set of multiple rooms (the benefit of seniority), but it's nice: there's a large window which looks out onto the Chelsea street and lets in light, the bed is large and lavish, and the lamps are cozy even if they're in the form of strange Victorian cherubs. There's a desk and a bookcase on the other side of the room, both empty; the wallpaper is forested trees.
"The Sanctum spins up a new bedroom whenever we have another sorcerer or trainee staying here with us. It's handy. I'll send one of the apprentices to get some towels for you, but otherwise, you can just move your belongings in at leisure, and we'll resume our portal exercises later." Strange pauses. "Can you think of anything else you need? I haven't actually done the whole housekeeping speech before."
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When they reach her room, the window catches her attention before anything else. The view is stunning, the quintessential New York City streetscape that she'd grown up loving and that makes her feel right at home. She half-listens to Stephen as he continues speaking, taking in the desk and bookcase just waiting to be her own, the elegant bed that looks incredibly comfortable, and the wallpaper—
"What?" she asks absently, unable to tear her eyes away from those trees that are both beautiful and painful to behold. His words catch up with her and she shakes her head. "No, I don't need anything else..."
Hesitantly, she walks over to rest her fingertips on the wallpaper, as if she needs to reassure herself they're just an image and nothing more sinister. Even though she's a little afraid of the answer, she quietly asks, "Does the Sanctum design the room to match the occupant?"
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