ourladytrees | the magician and the sorcerer

[ 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. ]

I can still walk, I'm not an invalid—

[ 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.

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.) ]

Edited 2022-07-13 16:23 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

What? No, thank you for helping.

[ 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. ]

So does this happen often?

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.

Edited 2022-07-14 01:09 (UTC)

[ 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.

Edited (forgot a word) 2022-07-14 02:05 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Was that part of it?

[ He doesn't pull away from her and that means... so much. There's no distance between them, and when he touches those stars that used to be her entire world, she feels like she can tell him anything. It's a little bit terrifying if she's honest.

She's quiet after his question, the seconds ticking by in thunderous succession, and then she smiles sadly. ]

The beginning. Close enough to it, anyway.

[ His shoulder still needs to be cleaned and bandages need to be applied, but she can't bring herself to move and break whatever this is that's binding them together. So she keeps talking, watching his hands because some part of her is terrified that he'll judge her for the person she used to be. ]

My best friend, Q, and I took the Brakebills exam together. He got in and I didn't. I managed to resist the spell to wipe all memory of it from my mind and as soon as I woke up, I started searching. I tried so hard to find that school because I couldn't just go back to being normal when I knew magic was real, and when I found out Q was already there, I begged him to get them to give me another chance.

We weren't in a good place. I was desperate and cruel and he wanted to be special. The hedges found me. I joined the most powerful safehouse in the city and the head witch offered me a way to get a little revenge.

[ Thinking back to that time is hard. It feels like a lifetime ago but it still hurts like yesterday, the guilt still just as strong. ]

Q nearly died in the dream we created and when I turned to Fogg to help get him out of the spell, I was kicked out of the safehouse. That's when I got really desperate.

[ That's when people died. ]

[ Kicked out of Brakebills and she'd somehow resisted the mindwipe and kept going. Kicked out of a hedge safehouse and she'd kept going. It's the kind of obsessive, stubborn, bloody-minded persistence which he knows so well that it almost hurts: that sensation of bitter understanding and recognition, of looking into a shattered mirror and seeing his own face reflected in her actions. Desperate and cruel was an apt summary for how he'd treated Christine, too, at his nadir.

Stephen leaves his hand resting against her forearm, just as she keeps hers around his palm; equally reluctant to break the spell, whatever this is. ]

If the Ancient One had been less patient and less understanding with my own flaws and she'd thrown me out again after getting so close, I would've become desperate, too. God knows I gave her more than enough reasons to give up on me. I was already half-crazed and desperate with it even when I was in training.

[ Breaking into the woman's private library, stealing forbidden tomes, and casting the spells without heeding the warnings was not his finest moment. From the sounds of it, he suspects Julia could have done with a more principled mentor. Perhaps, in the end, that was where the differences lay. ]

What happened then?

[ All those times she'd seen glimpses of him that she recognized, every instance when she'd related to some perceived similarity between them... It really hadn't all been in her head. Their stories were so different in the details but so much the same at their core. ]

I fucked up. Over and over again. [ The agony and regret in those words are impossible to miss. ] I started going to every safehouse I could find, demanding to see whatever spells they had. It wasn't enough. I tried internet magic that backfired. I fucked someone to get information and the asshole wiped every trace of me from my boyfriend's mind. I met another hedge who'd been cast out and I came up with this stupid plan to steal spells from Marina, the one who cut us off, but it was a trap and it got Hannah killed.

[ She can still hear the screams, still see Kady's face when she told her how her mother died. She still feels every ounce of guilt and shake for the part she'd played. ]

I ended up in rehab because I didn't have anywhere else to go. I met a man who showed me that I could magic to do good and he invited me to join his coven.

[ Her voice becomes quiet and lost. ] They're all dead now.

[ Everyone except Kady. Her best bitch who'd stood beside her through the worst weeks of her life and who hates her now because of the choice she'd made. ]

[ He tries to imagine what it would have felt like if he had found this home with the Masters of the Mystic Arts, his own equivalent of a coven, only to have them die. The casualties from the Scarlet Witch's attack had been bad enough, but it still hadn't been all of them. ]

I'm so sorry.

[ In a way, he's glad that Thanos' coinflip had landed on turning him into dust. It meant Stephen hadn't been around for those five years and seeing the damage rippling out from his choice, and having to look in the eyes of the people who had lost everything. Perhaps that's cowardly, but.

Stephen's hand rises, makes a half-aborted motion towards Julia, but then drops again — he's self-conscious about the gruesome ugliness of his hands, doesn't feel quite comfortable enough yet to touch her face, her cheek, as he could with Christine, who had already seen him at his rock-bottom worst. So instead he takes one of the gauze pads, presses it to the cut to his arm which she'd already cleaned out, stemming the rest of the bleeding.

And his next question might sound like a heartless one, a matter of cold intellectual curiosity, but he is curious. As someone who had gone to great lengths himself— he always wonders. ]

Was it enough, in the end? You're a magician now, so— something must have eventually worked.

[ Free Trader Beowulf had been... everything. They'd welcomed her in without hesitation, sharing their life stories and not judging her for hers. Each member had supported the others through their pain and joy, and they'd been so sure they were doing the right thing. They'd never even guessed—

Julia tries to keep things in perspective as much as she can. Sure, her life had been beyond shitty for a while now, with one thing after another piling up to crush her into the ground, but what was her pain in the face of what the world had endured during those five years. (It's still so completely wild to think that aliens are real, but it had certainly made it easier to embrace magic, because why wouldn't it be real too?) Even with that perspective, though, there are days when she struggles not to drown in that dark ocean of grief that lives inside her. Grief for her friends, for the people she hadn't been able to save, and for the woman she used to be.

His question feels like a knife slowly turning in her chest, awakening old wounds and making them fresh again. She knows that hadn't been his intention, he's not that cruel, but the pain is enough to make her finally pull her hand away from his, that emotional distance immediately rushing in. ]

That's...

[ Standing, she reaches for the wet towel again, wringing it out so she can work on cleaning his shoulder. The water has cooled slightly since they began but it isn't cold yet, so she stands beside him for a better angle as she very carefully begins dabbing at the sticky streaks of blood on his skin. ]

We tried to petition a god. Our Lady Underground. [ The words sound flat and like she's speaking of someone else, but maybe it's better that way. Better flat and empty than broken. ] Everyone had something they— Mennoly was dying of cancer, Silver suffered because she'd been born in the wrong body, Richard wanted to find his son who'd died. I just wanted to help my friends.

We believed it would work. We followed all the signs and believed in her. But when we finally did the summoning, she wasn't the one who came. He murdered my friends, raped me, and then just left. I had to scrub their blood off my floor... I lost my shade in the abortion and spent the next few months hunting him while he murdered dozens of other hedges. When I finally found him, when I found a way to kill him, when I had him right there, Our Lady showed up and begged me to show mercy because he was her son.

[ It's better that she has something to do with her hands. There's a numbness that's taken the place of the seething anger she'd carried with her for months but it still hurts to talk about. It probably always will. ]

That's why she gave me back my shade. Then a few days later, I really did help kill a god. Ember, the god of Fillory, because he'd grown bored of it and wanted to just destroy it and start over. An entire world full of sentient beings who deserved to live. So we stopped him, even though I'd been warned that killing a god has consequences, and now the Old Gods have taken away magic.

[ Sighing quietly, she turns to rinse out the towel again, already numb to the memories the red water brings up. ]

I think all that gets me through the day now is the hope that I can still do some more good because without that, I...

[ He hadn't been expecting to have the full story already, but perhaps it's like ripping off a band-aid: getting it all out there in one rush, rather than Julia having to mete out her story in drips and drabs over the next several weeks or months. Maybe it's better to get it all done with at once.

She's standing just beside him, dispassionately working on his shoulder, and Stephen understands how useful it is that he can't see her face from this angle, and that he doesn't have to think about how to rearrange his own expression upon hearing these horrors. 'I'm sorry that happened to you' doesn't encompass it. He can't even conceive of it. So instead, when he finally speaks, his voice has a thread of sympathetic anger: ]

Fuck those gods. It sounds like you did the right thing, even if they retaliated. If there's one universal constant causing misery, it's beings who carry an inordinate power over others. They treat humans like ants. They misuse our desires. I've seen a man gone half-mad with grief over losing his family, trying to summon a god to be reunited with them, even if it would destroy our dimension— that god brought him to more misery in the end. I'm starting to suspect they always do.

[ He swivels in his seat, reaches up and catches her elbow; just enough to draw her attention back to him. ]

Julia. Listen. You'll always have a home here, if you need it. I grouse about them sometimes, but the Masters of the Mystic Arts can and do do good. They can be annoyingly principled, even, but I'd rather that over the alternative. They took me in when I was at loose ends and didn't have anywhere else to go. So if I can at all offer the same to you—

[ Because in one dizzying moment, it feels like he's looking at an even more shattered and broken version of himself. A chance to reach out the same helping hand which had lifted him up from the dirt. ]

Edited 2022-07-14 18:06 (UTC)

[ Now that it's out there, she feels better for it. No more skirting around secrets and keeping things carefully out of context. There's no taking it back, she'll have to live with whatever the consequences of her confession might be, but at least she doesn't feel like she's hiding anymore.

Stephen's response surprises her in the best way. Fuck those gods, indeed. Gods are assholes, there's not anything that could convince her otherwise, and his agreement on that point just raises her estimation of him.

And then he breaks her heart and puts it back together in a way that hurts a little less. She can feel her soul healing with every uttered syllable and it makes her feel... ]

Thank you.

[ Wonder and gratitude fill her voice, giving more importance to two very simple words. She can't follow them with the typical you have no idea what that means to me because he does know. More than possibly anyone else on this entire planet, he knows how much those words mean to her, and because of that, she knows he doesn't say them lightly.

Lifting her free hand to rest gently on the back of his head, she leans in and presses a kiss to his hair. Normally, she'd hug him, but since he was just filleted by a giant spider, this will have to do instead. ]

[ After having doors being slammed in their face over and over, he knows the value of an open door, a turned key. He knows the value of having a place to land, and somewhere which promises answers. He'd latched onto it as a safety line for a drowning man, in a way he wouldn't have been able to predict beforehand. The Sanctum Sanctorum's name was more true for these two than most: a sanctuary, a sacred location.

That kiss to the top of his head is unexpected, too, but he finds it warming some old and forgotten hearth in his chest. Stephen was often so prickly and acerbic that casual physical affection didn't come easily to him, or others often didn't feel comfortable offering it. So he shifts on the chaise— a little skittish, like a cat unaccustomed to the fond contact, but he flashes her a reassuring smile to show it wasn't unwelcome.

He's still reeling from all that information, spinning loose as he jots it into his mental catalogue on Julia Wicker. And he has his own addendums they haven't covered yet — did I ever tell you about the time I died fourteen million times? — but they've probably plumbed enough awful shit for today. There's time.

Which reminds him— ]

I really did think I'd get us a bottle of wine or something before we had to talk about any of that.

[ That smiles helps. It clues her in that it wasn't a misstep, just maybe a little too much for the moment. She can work with that, factor it in, and change course accordingly. Which is easy to do when he shifts the subject like that.

Giving him a bright smile in return, she grabs the disinfectant for his shoulder. ]

Rain check. [ A pause, then her expression shifts into a smirk with just a hint of mischief. ] Unless you need something now to take the edge off. I'm sure these hurt like a bitch.

[ Though his tolerance is probably very different than it used to be, given what he went through with his hands. She can't even imagine the months he must have spent in constant pain as he went through one surgery and treatment after another.

[ Pain is an old friend, he thinks, as he girds himself for that acrid sting of disinfectant in the shoulder.. ]

It's fine. I'm used to it.

[ Because she's right: considering those long helpless months after the accident, and even the daily throb of nerve damage in his hands and which doesn't respond to average painkillers... these gouges were nothing. One of the most recurring tools in Stephen's arsenal was his ability to weather pain, and to suffer. It turned out that dying well was a skill like any other. ]

But there's a difference between need and want. I'll fetch us something after you're done here. What's your poison?

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