place your hand upon my mouth, whisper: shh, do you trust me now? (♫)
[ They've settled into a routine.
There's morning coffee in the tiled kitchen; afternoon tea as she pores over books from the library, and Strange plucks a few selections from the shelves and tosses over his recommendations here and there. There's his one-on-one lessons with Julia around the Sanctum, alternating between attempting spells in the warm and cozy attic or the cold containment room in the basement; he prefers the attic for so many reasons, but sometimes it's nice to have the extra wards for protection. She's a fiendishly quick learner, just as he thought on that first day: she speeds through the basic exercises and then smashes into a metaphorical wall and gets furious with herself and with the spell for not working, and he has to keep biting the inside of his cheek because, oh, he knows that look in her eye. It was the same one which had haunted him for months in Kamar-Taj.
Julia is faster than him, for all the reasons he'd outlined before: she already knows the grammar, and now she's just cobbling together a new vocabulary. But it's a strain. He watches the magic sputter and spark between her hands, and he tries to diagnose the symptoms, and he curses her old gods once or twice.
And they work, and they study, and sometimes skittish apprentices breeze through with fresh sheets and bath towels to stack neatly on the end of her bed, and it starts to feel— domestic? Is that a word which fits the bill? He's not sure, but it is nice having some additional company around the Sanctum whenever Wong is away. It means Strange has someone to walk to the bodega with him, or down to Chelsea Piers or a stroll along the nearby High Line whenever he wants some fresh air and to see some green. She eventually succeeds in her first portal, and they celebrate by breaking out the good liquor. And then the work continues: trying to hold the door open longer and longer, preventing it from rubberbanding shut the moment her attention drifts. Her portals get better and better, slowly. It isn't the same magic she once knew, but it is a kind of magic.
There are days, too, when he's summoned away to deal with— well, there's no other word for it but sorcerer business. A thrift shop stumbling across a cursed artifact and needing to call for help, or NYPD cops finding a knife at a crime scene which swallows up people who touch it, or a wayward magic-user accidentally letting a spell go wild in Red Hook. He vanishes and he goes to tidy up people's problems, generally keeping his crooked finger on the magical pulse of New York City. Sometimes he comes back dripping with black ichor, spitting annoyed as he storms off to take a shower and the novices have to mop up the hardwood floor after him. Sometimes he comes back from an evening at the Bar With No Doors, smelling of cigar smoke and whiskey, a little cheerfully tipsy. He keeps his days busy with a smaller focus, even if he's no longer the Sorcerer Supreme.
This is one of those days.
The Sanctum has been quiet and peaceful, and Julia's been left to her own devices. It seems like it's going to unfold fairly uneventfully, until—
That subway token in her pocket suddenly seems to heat up and heat up, turning painfully red-hot, and a familiar voice ripples across the ether, sounding more ragged than usual: ]
Julia? I need—
[ A scratching blare like static across the line. ]
[ That comfortable routine they settle into is perhaps the most surprising part of all of this for Julia. From the morning coffee to the afternoon tea, the hours reading every book she can get her hands on to the hours practicing spellwork under Stephen's supervision — it's nothing like it had been during her months with the hedges. There had been a sense of pressure there to learn enough to earn the next star, to be better and faster to earn access to more knowledge. And from what Q's told her, there's always pressure at Brakebills, with everyone worried about lectures and exams and making it to the next year without flunking out. But here in the Sanctum, the only pressure is what she puts on herself, that drive to learn so she can try to solve the problem of bringing back magic for the magicians.
It's hard to remind herself that she can only move so fast and not allowing herself to rest makes the magic dangerous, which she can't afford. Only a handful of people know what she's doing, yet she feels like the entire world is counting on her. No, multiple worlds are counting on her, and that's a hell of a weight on her shoulders. But... it doesn't feel that heavy when they settle into those moments where the universe condenses to just the two of them. Julia Wicker and Stephen Strange. Even when she's ready to scream in frustration, he's an anchor she can cling to, keeping her tethered so she doesn't spiral too badly into her obsessive search for knowledge.
The strangest times in the Sanctum are when he's not there. He has a life outside of working with her, she knows that; the work he does is important. Still, it's weird when he leaves, heading out into the city to take care of his Sorcerer Business while she buries her way into another stack of books. She'd never admit it because it's absolutely ridiculous... but she misses him when he's gone like that, and she looks forward to his every return.
It's during one of those times when she's missing the feeling of his presence, trying not to sneeze while opening a particularly dusty tome that was buried at the back of a shelf, that she's startled by that sudden heat in her pocket. It catches her off-guard and she nearly drops it as she pulls it from her pocket. And then— ]
Stephen? What is it, what do you need?
[ It's only through sheer willpower that she keeps panic from slipping into her voice. ]
Pop quiz time! Do you feel ready to open up a portal to upstate? That's a trick question, you're going to have to be.
[ He's trying to sound just as blasé and nonchalant as ever, but there's a tight string of strain in his voice. In the distance, faintly muted through the connection, she can hear— is that a roar? The crash of something moving through trees and bushes; the sorcerer sounds out-of-breath. ]
The woods by Storm King State Park. I've set a magical beacon on my location so you can hopefully pinpoint it better. I need— retrieval. I lost my sling ring.
[ 'Retrieval' is such a toothless word, but in that one request, it immediately paints a picture. It means help. It means get here and bring me to safety. God, he hates calling for help, especially from his student only half-trained, but... Wong's on the other side of the planet and has bigger problems besides, and Strange pissed off the head of the London Sanctum last week, so he'd rather not be indebted to the man.
So. It's time for a pop quiz, and to see if Julia can still succcessfully pry open that portal over a greater distance, and get them both through it and back again safely. ]
[ Okay, that lack of pressure she'd felt before? Very much no longer the case. The stakes of her training are suddenly now skyhigh and Julia feels almost sick with it. She can hear the strain in his voice despite the tone he's trying to put on, and that roar — what the hell has he gotten himself into?
She's out of her chair and moving to the open part of the room before he's even told her where she's going. The sling ring is in her hand and she doesn't remember reaching for it, the weight on her fingers familiar and comforting even as her heart races with fear.
Storm King State Park — she's never been there before and has nothing to picture, no mental image to which she can project her portal. The only thing she can reach for is his beacon, which feels so much less reliable than her own memories, but what other choice do they have? It's this or he d—
No. She's not losing anyone else. A cold focus falls over her, drowning out everything else in her mind. This is nothing compared to what she's survived and she can do this. ]
Hang on, I'm coming.
[ Her magic twists upon itself as she wrestles it into submission, tugging on both strange and familiar threads to weave into the portal that sparks into being. Opening the portal is easy, but keeping it open is a strain, magical muscles stretching taut until it's stable enough for her to see through. Will she have to go after him?
[ There's— relief? it's relief, he thinks, that despite not having known each other for all that long, she still jumps in. Accepts his bullshit and just says yes, and. He'll have to tell her later that if his time with the Avengers taught him anything, that's the mindset of a hero.
When Julia carves that circle out of reality, her view looks onto a forest at dusk. And there's... some kind of large spider-like creature with too many legs and long stabbing limbs, and Doctor Strange is in the middle of grappling it with long magical chains, bright light cordoning it into place. He's bleeding from his forehead and there are rents in his blue robes, and every time he almost gets the creature to the ground, it gets another leg free and takes another swipe at him.
At the familiar sound of a portal opening up, he spares only the quickest glance over his shoulder. There's a glowing... javelin, thing, embedded in the monster's side as it thrashes. ]
The spear will send it to containment after we leave, but I don't have any way to get out of here myself. It ate my sling ring.
[ Which is fucking embarrassing because it had been specially-made for him, as all the masters' rings were. Strange is going to have to rip it out of the monster afterwards, and then send it through like a dozen different rounds of cleansing both mundane and magical. But, more importantly, he's bleeding and probably poisoned and weakening and he has no way home. At least the spider-demon hadn't eaten his whole hand; small blessings. ]
[ Even her wild experiences in Fillory couldn't have prepared her for the scene that waited on the other end of the portal. The creature is the stuff of nightmares, its legs and limbs too numerous to count and its strength formidable enough to resist even a Master's magic. If she were smart, she'd stay on this side of the portal — after all, she doesn't have any magical combat training, just street smarts and an assortment of half-functioning spells.
But no one's ever accused Julia Wicker of being smart. Intelligent, absolutely, but smart? Not usually. (Not by men, anyway.)
So she jumps through the portal.
It nearly closes behind her as her magic flickers with the change in circumstances, her internal calculations trying to balance out in a way they don't need to with Stephen's brand of magic, but she spins around to fling her hand out and stabilize it. She can't just hand over her sling ring for Stephen to use, he's a little busy at the moment, so this is on her. She has to keep their way home open and ready. But maybe she can do something else, too.
Half-turning back, she holds out her free hand, reaching for that indescribable something that has been building inside her, that spark of magic she couldn't explain or properly control. She grabs onto it and throws it wildly at the creature — and holds it in place, its limbs restrained like those chains are already in place. But since they're not, she raises her voice and gives a strained shout at Stephen. ]
I don't know what I'm doing and this isn't going to hold, so you should probably hurry!
[ Julia's magic has been so scattershot and unpredictable that, whatever he was expecting, that wasn't quite it. She contributes to the immobilisation, helping pin down the creature so he can get further away.
(and there's a different taste to the magic crackling in the air, some unfamiliar fingerprint to it which both is and isn't her)
but he doesn't have time to consider it in detail, so instead he simply reacts once she buys him that heartbeat, that little space of time in which to move. Strange slings those ethereal chains around a nearby copse of trees while the spider's temporarily immobilised, anchoring it like a dog tied up in a backyard. And then Strange is scrabbling backwards, his robes bloodied and his demeanour frazzled, and he seizes Julia's arm as an anchor to hang onto and hopefully not be left behind during the teleportation. He can sense the air thrumming with energy; feel that hook tied to the ring around her fingers and which leads to that yawning portal. Their path back to the Sanctum. ]
Thanks— I know we don't have any ruby slippers, but there's no place like home—
[ Thank fuck Stephen doesn't hesitate and just moves because Julia can already feel her control slipping, the magic falling through her fingers like sand. She holds on long enough for him to anchor the chains and grab onto her and then the magic falls loose, dissipating into the universe and letting loose the spider. It makes that terrifying roar again and fights against the chains, shaking the trees with the strength of its struggles. ]
Yep, time to go, Tin Man.
[ Adjusting her arm, she grabs Stephen and half pulls, half pushes him toward the just barely stable portal, sending up a desperate prayer to Our Lady Underground that they'll make it to the other side in one piece. Whether the goddess is actually listening or not, Julia manages to shove them both none-too-gently through just before the portal collapses. ]
[ They go stumbling through the portal, just barely landing on the other side before it snaps shut behind them; the Cloak of Levitation yanks itself through a moment before it would've lost a corner to the ethereal doorway closing up. The pair of them hit the hardwood floor of the Sanctum, rolling; Julia's elbow collides with Strange's solar plexus and accidentally drives the breath out of him, and he manages to fling himself to the side before his body sprawls over hers and he lands on her completely. And then they're lying on the floor side-by-side, staring up at the chandelier in the library where she'd been studying.
His heartbeat is roaring in his ears but he feels terrifically alive, and there isn't a spider-demon currently trying to eat his face any longer, which is an improvement on circumstances. ]
Tin Man. If I only had a heart. I wonder if I should be offended, but I suppose it's better than missing a brain or courage.
[ He's very, very tired. He's just gonna stay on the floor for a little while longer. ]
[ It is a very good thing there's no one else in the library as they arrive because they are a mess. Julia feels her shirt catch on something, the thin fabric at the hem tearing as she rolls, and she's pretty sure that's a smear of Stephen's blood he's left behind on the hardwood. Eventually, they come to a stop, sprawled on the floor trying to catch their breath — alive.
Alive is good. ]
Sorry. It's pretty slim pickings in that book.
[ Groaning, she sits up, her stiff body protesting her rough treatment of it. Continuing to lay on the floor isn't an option, though, not when someone has to take care of Stephen; he's in no shape to do so himself. She slides a little closer and leans over him, reaching up to carefully smooth wild locks of hair back from his forehead to examine the cut there. ]
We need to get you cleaned up. [ Frowning in concern, she glances down at his robes that look half-destroyed and are covered in blood. ] Do you think the cloak could help us get you to your room?
[ The touch to his forehead is surprising in how surprising it is (when was the last time someone gently smoothed the hair back from his forehead? unclear); and as she leans over him, his position sprawled on the the floor gives a fleeting view of bare skin through her torn shirt which he assiduously tries to ignore. Instead, mirroring Julia's movement, he touches the smear of blood at his temple. ]
Head wounds always look more dramatic than they actually are.
[ But as he tries to straighten, he grunts with the exertion, mostly from a slash in his shoulder and another across his forearm; both of them combined with his weak and wobbly hands make it hard for him to shove himself back to his feet. The wounds thankfully didn't go too deep, but the cuts still need tending to, and the cloak is a good suggestion. ]
It can. You know, I'm not grievously injured, this is nothing, but sometimes it's still very aggravating not having the benefits of a super-serum or Asgardian physiology. Earth's mightiest heroes have a bit of an unfair biological edge on the rest of us... that was well-done, though. Your furthest portal so far, correct?
[ Behind him, already having understood Julia's suggestion, the cloak rises up and hauls Strange to his feet. He's accustomed enough to maneuvering with it that he almost manages to make it look like he's in control; but she's more familiar with his constant levitation by now, so she can see how the cloak is carrying most of his weight as they start to move down the hall, his boots only occasionally grazing the floor. He protests a little to the cloak as they go. ]
[ Sure, Stephen. Head wounds always look more dramatic until it turns out they caused brain damage. Seriously, as a former neurosurgeon, you'd think he would be well aware of that. Of course, maybe he is and he's just proving the old adage true — doctors make terrible patients.
Julia reaches out as he tries to rise, though whether to stop him or help him even she couldn't say. She doesn't know where to put her hands, those cuts to his arm and shoulder partially obscured by his robes, and who knows what other injuries he might have sustained. What if, in trying to help, she makes something worse? That would be just great — save the man from a giant spider and then fuck him up herself instead.
Thankfully, the cloak takes her suggestion and gets him upright. She's so grateful to that piece of magical fabric that she could hug it. (She might later, actually, and give it a good brushing to clean off any gunk from their misadventure.) And she is absolutely appreciative of it having a mind of its own as it doesn't heed a word of the sorcerer's ridiculous protests. ]
We know you're not an invalid. You're a very powerful sorcerer who was nearly just skewered by a giant spider from hell, so how about you just let us look after you for five minutes, okay? We can talk all about my portal success and your complaints regarding superhero physiology later.
[ Now that the adrenaline of the quick chaotic rescue is beginning to wear off, Julia is having to push her usual dozen questions to the side to concentrate on making sure her friend is okay. (Because that's what he's becoming, isn't he?) She might pull out a few later to keep him distracted, but for now, she's on a laser-focused mission and nothing is going to get in her way.
Addressing the cloak as they walk, she brushes her hand against the fabric in a small gesture of gratitude. ]
Get him to his room, okay? I'm going to grab some supplies. [ And then, much more firmly to Stephen: ] If you do anything stupid before I get back, so help me, master sorcerer or not, I will make you regret it.
[ Doctor Strange is indeed a terrible patient, sorry, Julia. At least this time he's not astral projecting to backseat-drive his own medical treatment and tell her what to do. He's a control freak who hates handing his care into someone else's hands, but the cloak hauls him off to his quarters and he has no choice but to go with.
Hiswing of the Sanctum Sanctorum really is bigger on the inside than it should be, expanding out beyond the confines of the street. There's a whole parlour seating area, various desks, walls lined in bookcases; and just visible through an open doorway, his sleeping area with the four-poster bed and, to no one's surprise, covered with even more books. He sits down on the chaise longue and the cloak gives him an affectionate nudge before it floats off to hang on a coat hook, still at the ready in case it needs to swoop back in.
With a gesture, Strange conjures himself a glass of water and tips his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, resting. He cracks open an eye when there's the sound of footsteps on the creaking floor, and Julia approaching. ]
Has anyone told you that you're very bossy?
[ He sounds dry, bemused; but there's an undercurrent of fondness in his tone. (He won't say it aloud, but it's a trait that he finds himself drawn to, over and over. Christine's sheer refusal to take any of his shit had always been one of the things he liked best about her, and what first drew him to her on those late nights on the ward. Julia taking charge reminds him startlingly of it, even as much as he doesn't want to be reminded.) ]
[ Julia's experience with first aid is fairly limited but she knows the basics. Cuts need to be cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged so that nothing gets into them. Whether there's a more efficient magical way of doing it than normal pharmacy supplies, she doesn't know, but as she grabs those very things from where she'd found a stash a few days ago in a random closet, she makes a mental note to add that line of inquiry to her list of things to research. (Because if this is a normal occurrence at the Sanctum, she'll be an expert in no time.)
With arms full of probably too many supplies, she hurries to Stephen's rooms, giving the space only a cursory look as she approaches him — though she will absolutely be perusing those bookshelves later because holy shit he's been holding out on her. ]
More than once. They're not wrong.
[ She smiles at the tone of his voice, knowing he doesn't mean it as a complaint. Her take-charge attitude has always been one of Julia's defining characteristics, so it's good that he doesn't seem to mind it because she's not changing anytime soon.
Depositing her pile of supplies on a nearby table, a package of wrapped sterile dressings tries to fall off the edge and the pile of towels nearly follows, but she gets everything settled before grabbing the large bowl she'd picked up from the kitchen. With a well-practiced hand movement, she...
Doesn't fill it with water. Frowning in frustration, she tries a second time, then holds huffs a sigh and holds the bowl out to him. ]
Water, please. Then we'll work on getting your shirt off.
[ The no-nonsense look on her face says she dares him to argue with her. ]
Well, now you really have to buy me that drink first.
[ Strange can't not be snarky, it's like breathing for him. But he conjures some warm water for the bowl (it's one of his favourite party tricks when it's wine), and then he starts the process of peeling himself out of his bloodstained clothing. He unties and shrugs out of the sleeveless over-robes, then unwinds the forearm wraps and tosses them onto a nearby glass table; but then his fingers slip on trying to undo the front clasps of the long-sleeved shirt beneath. He exhales a frustrated breath.
He'd successfully avoided revealing the clumsiness of his hands for so long, using magic to constantly sidestep the matter... but if Julia's going to clean out those gashes on his forearms, then she's finally going to get an up-close look at his hands regardless. Cat's going to be out of the bag, so.
(He still hates this.) ]
Could I get an assist with these clasps.
[ It's phrased a little more passively, the way he might've asked for someone to pitch in on the operating table: could I get an assist versus can you help me. ]
[ That snark brings out an affectionate smile that isn't the least bit forced. Stephen Strange can be prickly and arrogant and a dozen other moderately unsavory qualities, but he's also been exceptionally kind in helping her, and never once has he been cruel. The man has been worming his way under her skin since the moment he portalled into the foyer that first day and she's not mad about it.
While he slowly undresses, her hands stay busy sorting the supplies in an effort to give him some space. If it were anyone else, she would have jumped right in at the first sign of his struggles, but she understands that Stephen needs to do this himself as much as he can. She respects that. And she respects him enough to not offer any sort of commentary when he does finally ask for assistance.
Taking a seat next to him on the edge of the chaise, she doesn't look at his hands to see why he'd had trouble, instead focusing on the task at hand. Each clasp is quickly undone with utmost efficiency, and it's only when she finishes the last one that she looks up with an open, earnest expression. ]
Thank you for letting me help.
[ Because he is an incredibly powerful sorcerer and he could have very easily locked her out of his rooms and stubbornly insisted on handling all of this on his own. She would have been pissed as hell at him for it but she wouldn't have been able to stop him. This is better. ]
[ Strange sounds a little perplexed, but a second later he tips his head, a wordless indication of nevermind, I get it. Because okay, yeah, she's still got an accurate handle on his personality. Of course he'd be recalcitrant to letting someone help. (He always has to hold the knife—)
With the clasps undone, he can shrug out of his half-ruined shirt and they both get a better look at his injuries. The damage mainly amounts to two deep gouges across his forearm, and another across the meat of his shoulder. He probably could've dealt with the former himself, but the latter stretches where it's hard for him to reach, so he realises now how useful it is to have Julia assist. And it's... better, actually, to have someone outside the organisation treat him. All of the novices are mute and terrified around him, and he'd like to maintain that sense of distant intimidated respect. So sue him.
With a small wince, he reaches out and gives her his arm. The man is pale and on the skinnier side, but still fit, his arms and shoulders corded with lean muscle: he might not be a supersoldier or a demigod, just like he'd groused, but being a sorcerer apparently still means he's more in shape than your average doctor. He's been trained in hand-to-hand combat and stick fighting, even if his style is more slippery and elusive to avoid actually needing to strike a direct hit with his hands — also, running around wrestling spider-demons is good cardio. ]
I have a few cleansing spells I can run later in case there were toxins, but for now, regular disinfectant and bandages ought to do.
[ Julia cringes at the sight of those deep cuts, their jagged edges looking incredibly painful. Fuck. If he hadn't called to her when he had, or if she'd hesitated at all, he could have... Examining the what-ifs of the situation won't help, and Stephen needs her to be helpful. Later, she can overanalyze all the ways things could have gone wrong, but for now she has a job to do. ]
"In case there were toxins," he says so casually...
[ She mutters the words sarcastically as she tugs at her sleeves, pushing them up to her elbows so they won't be in the way and finally revealing the five tattooed stars on her right forearm for the first time since they've met. Stephen will finally get his answers about her level among the hedges, though the numbers themselves are obscured by healed X-shaped scars. Picking up one of the small towels, she dips it into the warm water, wrings it out, and then begins to carefully clean his arm. She keeps her touch gentle as she holds him steady with her free hand, trying not to cause him much pain as she tries to wipe off the sticky blood around the cuts. ]
Not a spider specifically, but in general? Often enough. You came in a bit too late, you just missed the giant tentacled eyeball monster. I actually preferred this one— the eyeball was in the middle of Manhattan, so I had to keep most of my attention on limiting the collateral damage. It's harder when there's bystanders around.
[ Strange's attention drifts to the scarred stars and he can't help himself from automatically counting them for her level. Wondering, of course, why they're obliterated now, but perhaps the polite thing is to not ask about it. (Oh, he's going to cave soon and ask about it, even though he knows the questions will probably follow from her in return. Tit for tat. Equivalent exchange.) ]
The Masters of the Mystic Arts protect this dimension from magical threats. Most of the time the danger is smaller, other times it's greater but we manage to restrict it so no one even knows what happened. The duties vary.
[ He cocks his head again, listening, extending his magical senses like a cat stretching its limbs into a yawn, claws reaching out. He can't hear the spider-demon down in the basement but when he concentrates, he can feel it down there. ]
It's in one of the containment cells downstairs now. The transport spear worked.
[ A giant tentacled eyeball monster. Yeah, she's not sad she missed that one. It sounds beyond gross.
But the part about protecting people... That resonates with her like nothing else ever has before. When she'd started learning magic, it had been a thrill, exciting and addictive and something she needed like air. Addictions so often turn deadly, though, and hers was no exception. Hearing about a group of people who use their knowledge and abilities to do good strikes her as the right thing to do. ]
It's good it worked. It would've been really shitty if you'd gone through all this and it didn't.
[ The comment is conversational and a bit distracted as she turns to dip the towel back into the water and wring it out again. A hue of pink stays behind, fine whispy trails of blood arcing through the bowl, and she tries not to think about it. He doesn't need her baggage in addition to his own. ]
You know, for magicians, it's... different. Not always in a good way. [ She dabs the towel gently around the wounds, trying to get the last stubborn streaks of blood. ] Everyone does their own thing and it's all very... Selfish. Not many I've met want to make the world a better place, or a safer one.
[ Turning the towel in her hand, the blood is vibrant against the white cloth, reminding her of— Her jaw clenches and she closes her eyes for just a moment before returning the towel to the bowl and picking up the disinfectant. ]
So I've gathered. From my interactions with various alumni. No offense, but the fact that Brakebills-trained magicians are set loose into society with all that power but without instilling any idea of community service at the same time— well, it's practically a danger. I easily could've been just as much of an asshole if Kamar-Taj hadn't taught me better.
[ Because his own initial pursuit of magic had, of course, started off as selfish too. One shudders to think what Doctor Strange would've been like if he could just seize what he wanted and then left, and if the Ancient One hadn't taken the time to shatter those notions first. Break him down and then build him back up again. ]
Then again, Brakebills is like the Ivy League of magic, and the Ivy Leagues are full of selfish assholes too. [ There's a Columbia University mug in the kitchen downstairs; it's not much of a surprise who it came from. It certainly wasn't Wong. ]
[ He makes a very good point about Brakebills. The hedges at least have a sense of community, they work together and protect their own. With Brakebills, it always feels like it's each magician for themself, only collaborating when it's personally beneficial. Even Fogg had only helped her because she'd been his student in thirty-nine other timelines. ]
As a fellow Columbia grad, I can confirm.
[ Yeah, she'd noticed the mug.
Julia goes quiet for a moment, her gaze visibly finally straying to his hand and all those horrible scars. Just looking at them makes her want to cry. She glances up at his face, just a flicker to gauge whether it would be okay, and then she asks her question while disinfecting the wounds he got while being a hero. ]
They're what brought you to magic, aren't they? Something happened and you were trying to fix it.
[ There's no judgment or pity in the words, only sympathetic understanding for what must have been a truly horrible situation. ]
[ A fellow alumn— he's about to follow that safer train of thought, but ah, there it is. The inevitable question. ]
Smart girl.
[ It runs a very thin line of sounding patronising, maybe — always a risk with Stephen Strange — but there's a serious enough cast to his voice. He just sounds quiet, and contemplative, and a little somber. As Julia looks down at his hands, he turns one of them over, his crooked fingers splayed: it quivers and trembles and can't stay still, and so he closes the fingers into a clenched fist instead. There's a sharp twinge of pain and so he loosens the grip again.
Even now, after years' worth of healing, it's a whole web of scars carving their way up and down his fingers, curling down his knuckles, marking where the metal pins and joins had held him back together. A map of his wounds: the occasional palsy, the tremors. ]
A doctor's handwriting is already notoriously bad, but I can't actually write anymore. I have to use telekinetic magic to hold a pen. I use speech-to-text on my phone more often than not.
[ Offhand. It's a way of easing into the truth of it, and how much he lost. Strange takes a deep breath; readies himself for telling this story, while Julia's hands are so gentle on his own. ]
I suppose it's actually pretty simple, when you get right down to it. I was in a car crash — it was my own fault — and my hands were ruined. And I— didn't accept it. My career was gone, and my career was the only thing I knew, it was the most important thing to me. I couldn't hold a scalpel like this. So I tried everything possible. Experimental treatments, groundbreaking surgeries.
That's where all the money went. Procedure after procedure after procedure. More operations. None of them took. In the end, I started casting the net wider. I found out one of my former patients had made a miraculous recovery, and so I demanded to know how he did it, and he told me about Kamar-Taj. I thought Eastern mysticism was a complete pile of superstitious bullshit — reiki, healing energies, all that — but I bought a plane ticket to Nepal with the very last of my money. And I found them.
They wouldn't let me in at first, but I was stubborn. Sat on their doorstep all day. Refused to leave until they told me. And through them, I finally discovered magic— real magic. I trained for months thinking I would use it to fix my hands, but in the end I chose to stick around. [ His nose crinkles; this is the part which sounds horrifically self-aggrandising and he can't touch on it without feeling mortified, even if it's the truth. The way he chose duty and the greater good over his own healing. He can't phrase it that way. ] I became a sorcerer instead of going back to being a surgeon.
[ A car crash. A normal fucking car crash had ruined his life and led him to a new one. It makes her want to scream and rage and cry to listen to his story, and it takes intense focus on her work to keep her from doing any of the above. Because this isn't about her — it's about him and his pain, both emotional and physical, past and present. Her entire purpose in this precise moment in time is to be there for him in every way she can be and she takes that very seriously.
She finishes disinfecting the cuts on his forearm before he finishes speaking but she waits until he's done before she sets the disinfectant aside and gives him her proper attention. ]
You chose to protect the world instead of going back to the life you'd always known. That's big.
[ They're honest but those aren't the words she needs to say to him. What she needs to say is so much bigger... so much harder. But she has to do it; she owes him this much.
Julia doesn't know if he'll let her hold his hand but she has to try. With just one hand, she slips her fingers under and around his palm, her grip loose enough for him to pull away but firm enough for him to hopefully know this isn't some empty gesture. ]
I know that when most people say "I know how you feel" it's because they're searching for some sort of platitude to get through a tough conversation when they really have no fucking clue how you feel, but— [ She falters, her voice breaking with emotion. ] That pain and loss, that... struggle to find your way back to who you are and then discovering you can't be that person anymore...
[ Her own emotions are laid bare to him as she takes in the lines of his face, imagining the suffering he endured for so long. ]
I get that. I understand. And I am so sorry it took all that pain to bring you to who you are now.
[ The kneejerk skittishness is there: the strangled urge to yank his hand out of hers, and withdraw from this unexpected surge of vulnerability. He might be sitting shirtless beside her but this conversation, more than anything else, is what makes it feel like his ribcage has been pried open and she's caught an inadvertent glimpse of his beating heart. That tin shell, being ripped open.
But it's nice, too. Feeling that muted pressure against his fingers, even if it feels like pins-and-needles and the sensation isn't as solid as it would've before the accident. Julia's hand curling around his. He squeezes back, once. ]
I appreciate the non-trite, non-platitude sympathy.
[ Stephen's not a happy man. He'd been grilled about it often enough, recently, to finally come to that realisation and accept this fact about himself. But something feels different about someone else calling it out and fully understanding, too, rather than simply pitying. Getting sympathy rather than empathy. Anyone could have Googled him and learned about the accident, but they wouldn't see the second half of the tale: the meandering path to magic, the obsessiveness, the worldview splintering into something new.
He's often had the sense that there's a lot Julia hadn't been telling him, either, those still waters running deep. Every hedge has a story.
He takes another deep breath. And he reaches out with his free hand, pressing his fingertips lightly to the constellation on her forearm, like he's mapping those stars. ]
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ourladytrees) wrote2022-06-18 12:21 am
suture cuts, i'll dry your eyes —
[ They've settled into a routine.
There's morning coffee in the tiled kitchen; afternoon tea as she pores over books from the library, and Strange plucks a few selections from the shelves and tosses over his recommendations here and there. There's his one-on-one lessons with Julia around the Sanctum, alternating between attempting spells in the warm and cozy attic or the cold containment room in the basement; he prefers the attic for so many reasons, but sometimes it's nice to have the extra wards for protection. She's a fiendishly quick learner, just as he thought on that first day: she speeds through the basic exercises and then smashes into a metaphorical wall and gets furious with herself and with the spell for not working, and he has to keep biting the inside of his cheek because, oh, he knows that look in her eye. It was the same one which had haunted him for months in Kamar-Taj.
Julia is faster than him, for all the reasons he'd outlined before: she already knows the grammar, and now she's just cobbling together a new vocabulary. But it's a strain. He watches the magic sputter and spark between her hands, and he tries to diagnose the symptoms, and he curses her old gods once or twice.
And they work, and they study, and sometimes skittish apprentices breeze through with fresh sheets and bath towels to stack neatly on the end of her bed, and it starts to feel— domestic? Is that a word which fits the bill? He's not sure, but it is nice having some additional company around the Sanctum whenever Wong is away. It means Strange has someone to walk to the bodega with him, or down to Chelsea Piers or a stroll along the nearby High Line whenever he wants some fresh air and to see some green. She eventually succeeds in her first portal, and they celebrate by breaking out the good liquor. And then the work continues: trying to hold the door open longer and longer, preventing it from rubberbanding shut the moment her attention drifts. Her portals get better and better, slowly. It isn't the same magic she once knew, but it is a kind of magic.
There are days, too, when he's summoned away to deal with— well, there's no other word for it but sorcerer business. A thrift shop stumbling across a cursed artifact and needing to call for help, or NYPD cops finding a knife at a crime scene which swallows up people who touch it, or a wayward magic-user accidentally letting a spell go wild in Red Hook. He vanishes and he goes to tidy up people's problems, generally keeping his crooked finger on the magical pulse of New York City. Sometimes he comes back dripping with black ichor, spitting annoyed as he storms off to take a shower and the novices have to mop up the hardwood floor after him. Sometimes he comes back from an evening at the Bar With No Doors, smelling of cigar smoke and whiskey, a little cheerfully tipsy. He keeps his days busy with a smaller focus, even if he's no longer the Sorcerer Supreme.
This is one of those days.
The Sanctum has been quiet and peaceful, and Julia's been left to her own devices. It seems like it's going to unfold fairly uneventfully, until—
That subway token in her pocket suddenly seems to heat up and heat up, turning painfully red-hot, and a familiar voice ripples across the ether, sounding more ragged than usual: ]
Julia? I need—
[ A scratching blare like static across the line. ]
Are you there?
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It's hard to remind herself that she can only move so fast and not allowing herself to rest makes the magic dangerous, which she can't afford. Only a handful of people know what she's doing, yet she feels like the entire world is counting on her. No, multiple worlds are counting on her, and that's a hell of a weight on her shoulders. But... it doesn't feel that heavy when they settle into those moments where the universe condenses to just the two of them. Julia Wicker and Stephen Strange. Even when she's ready to scream in frustration, he's an anchor she can cling to, keeping her tethered so she doesn't spiral too badly into her obsessive search for knowledge.
The strangest times in the Sanctum are when he's not there. He has a life outside of working with her, she knows that; the work he does is important. Still, it's weird when he leaves, heading out into the city to take care of his Sorcerer Business while she buries her way into another stack of books. She'd never admit it because it's absolutely ridiculous... but she misses him when he's gone like that, and she looks forward to his every return.
It's during one of those times when she's missing the feeling of his presence, trying not to sneeze while opening a particularly dusty tome that was buried at the back of a shelf, that she's startled by that sudden heat in her pocket. It catches her off-guard and she nearly drops it as she pulls it from her pocket. And then— ]
Stephen? What is it, what do you need?
[ It's only through sheer willpower that she keeps panic from slipping into her voice. ]
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[ He's trying to sound just as blasé and nonchalant as ever, but there's a tight string of strain in his voice. In the distance, faintly muted through the connection, she can hear— is that a roar? The crash of something moving through trees and bushes; the sorcerer sounds out-of-breath. ]
The woods by Storm King State Park. I've set a magical beacon on my location so you can hopefully pinpoint it better. I need— retrieval. I lost my sling ring.
[ 'Retrieval' is such a toothless word, but in that one request, it immediately paints a picture. It means help. It means get here and bring me to safety. God, he hates calling for help, especially from his student only half-trained, but... Wong's on the other side of the planet and has bigger problems besides, and Strange pissed off the head of the London Sanctum last week, so he'd rather not be indebted to the man.
So. It's time for a pop quiz, and to see if Julia can still succcessfully pry open that portal over a greater distance, and get them both through it and back again safely. ]
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She's out of her chair and moving to the open part of the room before he's even told her where she's going. The sling ring is in her hand and she doesn't remember reaching for it, the weight on her fingers familiar and comforting even as her heart races with fear.
Storm King State Park — she's never been there before and has nothing to picture, no mental image to which she can project her portal. The only thing she can reach for is his beacon, which feels so much less reliable than her own memories, but what other choice do they have? It's this or he d—
No. She's not losing anyone else. A cold focus falls over her, drowning out everything else in her mind. This is nothing compared to what she's survived and she can do this. ]
Hang on, I'm coming.
[ Her magic twists upon itself as she wrestles it into submission, tugging on both strange and familiar threads to weave into the portal that sparks into being. Opening the portal is easy, but keeping it open is a strain, magical muscles stretching taut until it's stable enough for her to see through. Will she have to go after him?
(With her luck? Probably.) ]
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When Julia carves that circle out of reality, her view looks onto a forest at dusk. And there's... some kind of large spider-like creature with too many legs and long stabbing limbs, and Doctor Strange is in the middle of grappling it with long magical chains, bright light cordoning it into place. He's bleeding from his forehead and there are rents in his blue robes, and every time he almost gets the creature to the ground, it gets another leg free and takes another swipe at him.
At the familiar sound of a portal opening up, he spares only the quickest glance over his shoulder. There's a glowing... javelin, thing, embedded in the monster's side as it thrashes. ]
The spear will send it to containment after we leave, but I don't have any way to get out of here myself. It ate my sling ring.
[ Which is fucking embarrassing because it had been specially-made for him, as all the masters' rings were. Strange is going to have to rip it out of the monster afterwards, and then send it through like a dozen different rounds of cleansing both mundane and magical. But, more importantly, he's bleeding and probably poisoned and weakening and he has no way home. At least the spider-demon hadn't eaten his whole hand; small blessings. ]
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But no one's ever accused Julia Wicker of being smart. Intelligent, absolutely, but smart? Not usually. (Not by men, anyway.)
So she jumps through the portal.
It nearly closes behind her as her magic flickers with the change in circumstances, her internal calculations trying to balance out in a way they don't need to with Stephen's brand of magic, but she spins around to fling her hand out and stabilize it. She can't just hand over her sling ring for Stephen to use, he's a little busy at the moment, so this is on her. She has to keep their way home open and ready. But maybe she can do something else, too.
Half-turning back, she holds out her free hand, reaching for that indescribable something that has been building inside her, that spark of magic she couldn't explain or properly control. She grabs onto it and throws it wildly at the creature — and holds it in place, its limbs restrained like those chains are already in place. But since they're not, she raises her voice and gives a strained shout at Stephen. ]
I don't know what I'm doing and this isn't going to hold, so you should probably hurry!
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(and there's a different taste to the magic crackling in the air, some unfamiliar fingerprint to it which both is and isn't her)
but he doesn't have time to consider it in detail, so instead he simply reacts once she buys him that heartbeat, that little space of time in which to move. Strange slings those ethereal chains around a nearby copse of trees while the spider's temporarily immobilised, anchoring it like a dog tied up in a backyard. And then Strange is scrabbling backwards, his robes bloodied and his demeanour frazzled, and he seizes Julia's arm as an anchor to hang onto and hopefully not be left behind during the teleportation. He can sense the air thrumming with energy; feel that hook tied to the ring around her fingers and which leads to that yawning portal. Their path back to the Sanctum. ]
Thanks— I know we don't have any ruby slippers, but there's no place like home—
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Yep, time to go, Tin Man.
[ Adjusting her arm, she grabs Stephen and half pulls, half pushes him toward the just barely stable portal, sending up a desperate prayer to Our Lady Underground that they'll make it to the other side in one piece. Whether the goddess is actually listening or not, Julia manages to shove them both none-too-gently through just before the portal collapses. ]
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His heartbeat is roaring in his ears but he feels terrifically alive, and there isn't a spider-demon currently trying to eat his face any longer, which is an improvement on circumstances. ]
Tin Man. If I only had a heart. I wonder if I should be offended, but I suppose it's better than missing a brain or courage.
[ He's very, very tired. He's just gonna stay on the floor for a little while longer. ]
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Alive is good. ]
Sorry. It's pretty slim pickings in that book.
[ Groaning, she sits up, her stiff body protesting her rough treatment of it. Continuing to lay on the floor isn't an option, though, not when someone has to take care of Stephen; he's in no shape to do so himself. She slides a little closer and leans over him, reaching up to carefully smooth wild locks of hair back from his forehead to examine the cut there. ]
We need to get you cleaned up. [ Frowning in concern, she glances down at his robes that look half-destroyed and are covered in blood. ] Do you think the cloak could help us get you to your room?
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Head wounds always look more dramatic than they actually are.
[ But as he tries to straighten, he grunts with the exertion, mostly from a slash in his shoulder and another across his forearm; both of them combined with his weak and wobbly hands make it hard for him to shove himself back to his feet. The wounds thankfully didn't go too deep, but the cuts still need tending to, and the cloak is a good suggestion. ]
It can. You know, I'm not grievously injured, this is nothing, but sometimes it's still very aggravating not having the benefits of a super-serum or Asgardian physiology. Earth's mightiest heroes have a bit of an unfair biological edge on the rest of us... that was well-done, though. Your furthest portal so far, correct?
[ Behind him, already having understood Julia's suggestion, the cloak rises up and hauls Strange to his feet. He's accustomed enough to maneuvering with it that he almost manages to make it look like he's in control; but she's more familiar with his constant levitation by now, so she can see how the cloak is carrying most of his weight as they start to move down the hall, his boots only occasionally grazing the floor. He protests a little to the cloak as they go. ]
I can still walk, I'm not an invalid—
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Julia reaches out as he tries to rise, though whether to stop him or help him even she couldn't say. She doesn't know where to put her hands, those cuts to his arm and shoulder partially obscured by his robes, and who knows what other injuries he might have sustained. What if, in trying to help, she makes something worse? That would be just great — save the man from a giant spider and then fuck him up herself instead.
Thankfully, the cloak takes her suggestion and gets him upright. She's so grateful to that piece of magical fabric that she could hug it. (She might later, actually, and give it a good brushing to clean off any gunk from their misadventure.) And she is absolutely appreciative of it having a mind of its own as it doesn't heed a word of the sorcerer's ridiculous protests. ]
We know you're not an invalid. You're a very powerful sorcerer who was nearly just skewered by a giant spider from hell, so how about you just let us look after you for five minutes, okay? We can talk all about my portal success and your complaints regarding superhero physiology later.
[ Now that the adrenaline of the quick chaotic rescue is beginning to wear off, Julia is having to push her usual dozen questions to the side to concentrate on making sure her friend is okay. (Because that's what he's becoming, isn't he?) She might pull out a few later to keep him distracted, but for now, she's on a laser-focused mission and nothing is going to get in her way.
Addressing the cloak as they walk, she brushes her hand against the fabric in a small gesture of gratitude. ]
Get him to his room, okay? I'm going to grab some supplies. [ And then, much more firmly to Stephen: ] If you do anything stupid before I get back, so help me, master sorcerer or not, I will make you regret it.
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His wing of the Sanctum Sanctorum really is bigger on the inside than it should be, expanding out beyond the confines of the street. There's a whole parlour seating area, various desks, walls lined in bookcases; and just visible through an open doorway, his sleeping area with the four-poster bed and, to no one's surprise, covered with even more books. He sits down on the chaise longue and the cloak gives him an affectionate nudge before it floats off to hang on a coat hook, still at the ready in case it needs to swoop back in.
With a gesture, Strange conjures himself a glass of water and tips his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, resting. He cracks open an eye when there's the sound of footsteps on the creaking floor, and Julia approaching. ]
Has anyone told you that you're very bossy?
[ He sounds dry, bemused; but there's an undercurrent of fondness in his tone. (He won't say it aloud, but it's a trait that he finds himself drawn to, over and over. Christine's sheer refusal to take any of his shit had always been one of the things he liked best about her, and what first drew him to her on those late nights on the ward. Julia taking charge reminds him startlingly of it, even as much as he doesn't want to be reminded.) ]
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With arms full of probably too many supplies, she hurries to Stephen's rooms, giving the space only a cursory look as she approaches him — though she will absolutely be perusing those bookshelves later because holy shit he's been holding out on her. ]
More than once. They're not wrong.
[ She smiles at the tone of his voice, knowing he doesn't mean it as a complaint. Her take-charge attitude has always been one of Julia's defining characteristics, so it's good that he doesn't seem to mind it because she's not changing anytime soon.
Depositing her pile of supplies on a nearby table, a package of wrapped sterile dressings tries to fall off the edge and the pile of towels nearly follows, but she gets everything settled before grabbing the large bowl she'd picked up from the kitchen. With a well-practiced hand movement, she...
Doesn't fill it with water. Frowning in frustration, she tries a second time, then holds huffs a sigh and holds the bowl out to him. ]
Water, please. Then we'll work on getting your shirt off.
[ The no-nonsense look on her face says she dares him to argue with her. ]
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[ Strange can't not be snarky, it's like breathing for him. But he conjures some warm water for the bowl (it's one of his favourite party tricks when it's wine), and then he starts the process of peeling himself out of his bloodstained clothing. He unties and shrugs out of the sleeveless over-robes, then unwinds the forearm wraps and tosses them onto a nearby glass table; but then his fingers slip on trying to undo the front clasps of the long-sleeved shirt beneath. He exhales a frustrated breath.
He'd successfully avoided revealing the clumsiness of his hands for so long, using magic to constantly sidestep the matter... but if Julia's going to clean out those gashes on his forearms, then she's finally going to get an up-close look at his hands regardless. Cat's going to be out of the bag, so.
(He still hates this.) ]
Could I get an assist with these clasps.
[ It's phrased a little more passively, the way he might've asked for someone to pitch in on the operating table: could I get an assist versus can you help me. ]
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While he slowly undresses, her hands stay busy sorting the supplies in an effort to give him some space. If it were anyone else, she would have jumped right in at the first sign of his struggles, but she understands that Stephen needs to do this himself as much as he can. She respects that. And she respects him enough to not offer any sort of commentary when he does finally ask for assistance.
Taking a seat next to him on the edge of the chaise, she doesn't look at his hands to see why he'd had trouble, instead focusing on the task at hand. Each clasp is quickly undone with utmost efficiency, and it's only when she finishes the last one that she looks up with an open, earnest expression. ]
Thank you for letting me help.
[ Because he is an incredibly powerful sorcerer and he could have very easily locked her out of his rooms and stubbornly insisted on handling all of this on his own. She would have been pissed as hell at him for it but she wouldn't have been able to stop him. This is better. ]
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[ Strange sounds a little perplexed, but a second later he tips his head, a wordless indication of nevermind, I get it. Because okay, yeah, she's still got an accurate handle on his personality. Of course he'd be recalcitrant to letting someone help. (He always has to hold the knife—)
With the clasps undone, he can shrug out of his half-ruined shirt and they both get a better look at his injuries. The damage mainly amounts to two deep gouges across his forearm, and another across the meat of his shoulder. He probably could've dealt with the former himself, but the latter stretches where it's hard for him to reach, so he realises now how useful it is to have Julia assist. And it's... better, actually, to have someone outside the organisation treat him. All of the novices are mute and terrified around him, and he'd like to maintain that sense of distant intimidated respect. So sue him.
With a small wince, he reaches out and gives her his arm. The man is pale and on the skinnier side, but still fit, his arms and shoulders corded with lean muscle: he might not be a supersoldier or a demigod, just like he'd groused, but being a sorcerer apparently still means he's more in shape than your average doctor. He's been trained in hand-to-hand combat and stick fighting, even if his style is more slippery and elusive to avoid actually needing to strike a direct hit with his hands — also, running around wrestling spider-demons is good cardio. ]
I have a few cleansing spells I can run later in case there were toxins, but for now, regular disinfectant and bandages ought to do.
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"In case there were toxins," he says so casually...
[ She mutters the words sarcastically as she tugs at her sleeves, pushing them up to her elbows so they won't be in the way and finally revealing the five tattooed stars on her right forearm for the first time since they've met. Stephen will finally get his answers about her level among the hedges, though the numbers themselves are obscured by healed X-shaped scars. Picking up one of the small towels, she dips it into the warm water, wrings it out, and then begins to carefully clean his arm. She keeps her touch gentle as she holds him steady with her free hand, trying not to cause him much pain as she tries to wipe off the sticky blood around the cuts. ]
So does this happen often?
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[ Strange's attention drifts to the scarred stars and he can't help himself from automatically counting them for her level. Wondering, of course, why they're obliterated now, but perhaps the polite thing is to not ask about it. (Oh, he's going to cave soon and ask about it, even though he knows the questions will probably follow from her in return. Tit for tat. Equivalent exchange.) ]
The Masters of the Mystic Arts protect this dimension from magical threats. Most of the time the danger is smaller, other times it's greater but we manage to restrict it so no one even knows what happened. The duties vary.
[ He cocks his head again, listening, extending his magical senses like a cat stretching its limbs into a yawn, claws reaching out. He can't hear the spider-demon down in the basement but when he concentrates, he can feel it down there. ]
It's in one of the containment cells downstairs now. The transport spear worked.
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But the part about protecting people... That resonates with her like nothing else ever has before. When she'd started learning magic, it had been a thrill, exciting and addictive and something she needed like air. Addictions so often turn deadly, though, and hers was no exception. Hearing about a group of people who use their knowledge and abilities to do good strikes her as the right thing to do. ]
It's good it worked. It would've been really shitty if you'd gone through all this and it didn't.
[ The comment is conversational and a bit distracted as she turns to dip the towel back into the water and wring it out again. A hue of pink stays behind, fine whispy trails of blood arcing through the bowl, and she tries not to think about it. He doesn't need her baggage in addition to his own. ]
You know, for magicians, it's... different. Not always in a good way. [ She dabs the towel gently around the wounds, trying to get the last stubborn streaks of blood. ] Everyone does their own thing and it's all very... Selfish. Not many I've met want to make the world a better place, or a safer one.
[ Turning the towel in her hand, the blood is vibrant against the white cloth, reminding her of— Her jaw clenches and she closes her eyes for just a moment before returning the towel to the bowl and picking up the disinfectant. ]
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[ Because his own initial pursuit of magic had, of course, started off as selfish too. One shudders to think what Doctor Strange would've been like if he could just seize what he wanted and then left, and if the Ancient One hadn't taken the time to shatter those notions first. Break him down and then build him back up again. ]
Then again, Brakebills is like the Ivy League of magic, and the Ivy Leagues are full of selfish assholes too. [ There's a Columbia University mug in the kitchen downstairs; it's not much of a surprise who it came from. It certainly wasn't Wong. ]
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As a fellow Columbia grad, I can confirm.
[ Yeah, she'd noticed the mug.
Julia goes quiet for a moment, her gaze visibly finally straying to his hand and all those horrible scars. Just looking at them makes her want to cry. She glances up at his face, just a flicker to gauge whether it would be okay, and then she asks her question while disinfecting the wounds he got while being a hero. ]
They're what brought you to magic, aren't they? Something happened and you were trying to fix it.
[ There's no judgment or pity in the words, only sympathetic understanding for what must have been a truly horrible situation. ]
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Smart girl.
[ It runs a very thin line of sounding patronising, maybe — always a risk with Stephen Strange — but there's a serious enough cast to his voice. He just sounds quiet, and contemplative, and a little somber. As Julia looks down at his hands, he turns one of them over, his crooked fingers splayed: it quivers and trembles and can't stay still, and so he closes the fingers into a clenched fist instead. There's a sharp twinge of pain and so he loosens the grip again.
Even now, after years' worth of healing, it's a whole web of scars carving their way up and down his fingers, curling down his knuckles, marking where the metal pins and joins had held him back together. A map of his wounds: the occasional palsy, the tremors. ]
A doctor's handwriting is already notoriously bad, but I can't actually write anymore. I have to use telekinetic magic to hold a pen. I use speech-to-text on my phone more often than not.
[ Offhand. It's a way of easing into the truth of it, and how much he lost. Strange takes a deep breath; readies himself for telling this story, while Julia's hands are so gentle on his own. ]
I suppose it's actually pretty simple, when you get right down to it. I was in a car crash — it was my own fault — and my hands were ruined. And I— didn't accept it. My career was gone, and my career was the only thing I knew, it was the most important thing to me. I couldn't hold a scalpel like this. So I tried everything possible. Experimental treatments, groundbreaking surgeries.
That's where all the money went. Procedure after procedure after procedure. More operations. None of them took. In the end, I started casting the net wider. I found out one of my former patients had made a miraculous recovery, and so I demanded to know how he did it, and he told me about Kamar-Taj. I thought Eastern mysticism was a complete pile of superstitious bullshit — reiki, healing energies, all that — but I bought a plane ticket to Nepal with the very last of my money. And I found them.
They wouldn't let me in at first, but I was stubborn. Sat on their doorstep all day. Refused to leave until they told me. And through them, I finally discovered magic— real magic. I trained for months thinking I would use it to fix my hands, but in the end I chose to stick around. [ His nose crinkles; this is the part which sounds horrifically self-aggrandising and he can't touch on it without feeling mortified, even if it's the truth. The way he chose duty and the greater good over his own healing. He can't phrase it that way. ] I became a sorcerer instead of going back to being a surgeon.
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She finishes disinfecting the cuts on his forearm before he finishes speaking but she waits until he's done before she sets the disinfectant aside and gives him her proper attention. ]
You chose to protect the world instead of going back to the life you'd always known. That's big.
[ They're honest but those aren't the words she needs to say to him. What she needs to say is so much bigger... so much harder. But she has to do it; she owes him this much.
Julia doesn't know if he'll let her hold his hand but she has to try. With just one hand, she slips her fingers under and around his palm, her grip loose enough for him to pull away but firm enough for him to hopefully know this isn't some empty gesture. ]
I know that when most people say "I know how you feel" it's because they're searching for some sort of platitude to get through a tough conversation when they really have no fucking clue how you feel, but— [ She falters, her voice breaking with emotion. ] That pain and loss, that... struggle to find your way back to who you are and then discovering you can't be that person anymore...
[ Her own emotions are laid bare to him as she takes in the lines of his face, imagining the suffering he endured for so long. ]
I get that. I understand. And I am so sorry it took all that pain to bring you to who you are now.
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But it's nice, too. Feeling that muted pressure against his fingers, even if it feels like pins-and-needles and the sensation isn't as solid as it would've before the accident. Julia's hand curling around his. He squeezes back, once. ]
I appreciate the non-trite, non-platitude sympathy.
[ Stephen's not a happy man. He'd been grilled about it often enough, recently, to finally come to that realisation and accept this fact about himself. But something feels different about someone else calling it out and fully understanding, too, rather than simply pitying. Getting sympathy rather than empathy. Anyone could have Googled him and learned about the accident, but they wouldn't see the second half of the tale: the meandering path to magic, the obsessiveness, the worldview splintering into something new.
He's often had the sense that there's a lot Julia hadn't been telling him, either, those still waters running deep. Every hedge has a story.
He takes another deep breath. And he reaches out with his free hand, pressing his fingertips lightly to the constellation on her forearm, like he's mapping those stars. ]
Was that part of it?
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