ourladytrees | the magician and the sorcerer

[ Listening to Stephen's excitement over the prospect of visiting Fillory one day helps to soothe the loss of his hands around her own — not entirely, she immediately misses his touch with a fierceness that doesn't quite match the nature of their relationship, but it's close enough. And his theories about all things magical are always a good distraction from the less pleasant things in her life, so she absorbs them like they're rays of sunshine and she's a cat basking in their glow.

It doesn't last nearly long enough, but she knows they'll return to the subject another day.

She feels the barest brush of the magical shift in the room, her senses apparently not completely razed to the ground, and the soft fragrance of the tea is like wrapping up in a warm blanket after too long in the cold. Her fingers itch to wrap around a cup of it.

But first. With only a slight struggle, she sits upright again, her hands braced on either side of her on the bed. (She pointedly doesn't think about or acknowledge the way her fingertips brush against his outer thigh.) ]

Thank you, that sounds wonderful. I'm just going to— [ Standing is more difficult — she gets herself on her feet but then sways slightly on the heels that had been so easy to walk in as a goddess but were more than a little impractical as a weakened magician. ] Change. And get this makeup off first.

[ There's a spattering of glitter on the blanket from her touch, and he probably has a few flecks of it on his hands as well now. And she's sure the rest of her looks as awful as she feels. ]

[ It's a well-timed interlude, since the tea has to steep for five minutes anyway. Stephen doesn't bother to set a timer, since he has a good sense of the passing of the minutes; it turns out to have been one of the minor boons of stewarding the Time Stone for years. He's acutely aware how much time has passed.

While Julia heads out to the shared bathroom (it's a vintage thing: black-and-white tiles, clawfoot tub, pipes which clank inscrutably in the night), he tries to find ways to keep himself busy. He's restless, and not good at sitting and waiting without doing anything, even for small stretches of time; even as a kid, he'd always been multitasking and getting into everything. So he tries to sweep some of the glitter off the blanket; fails. Goes and opens the window to air out the room a little, since it's been ages since it was opened. Exchanges a look ("What?") with the Cloak of Levitation. And then settles onto the armchair in the corner, pours the cups of tea when they're ready, and starts busying himself with the incantation to add curative strengthening properties to the brew. ]

[ Finding her pajamas and heading down to the bathroom feels so utterly normal that it's both comforting and jarring. The months away from the Sanctum have been so complicated and emotionally taxing that normal almost seems wrong now. She has a hundred things she should be stressed about and trying to solve, but she's too tired to think about them tonight and that feels wrong too. Her friends are being rewritten by the Library and she can't do a damn thing to stop it; the only thing she can do is regain her strength and hope the process can be reversed somehow.

The sight that greets her in the bathroom mirror is not a pretty one. Her makeup is smeared to hell and her hair is a limp, tangled mess. Once she's washed her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes stand out starkly against her too-pale skin and there's no denying the physical effect the day has had on her.

Getting out of the elaborate blouse and tight pants feels good, and putting on the loose pants and matching grey t-shirt feels even better. They're simple and soft, comfortable the way his chosen loungewear had been after the incident with the spider-demon. She wraps the shoes and everything else up in a bundle before heading back to her room, padding barefoot through the empty halls that feel welcoming instead of oppressive.

He's relocated, she notices when she walks in, and it makes her smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of her lips in reaction. The bundle of clothes, shoes, and accessories is dumped into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room without ceremony — she doesn't want to ever see any of it again but she doesn't have the strength to get rid of the items right now, so they will have to languish at the bottom of the basket for the time being.

With her hands free now, he'll have a full view of the transformation that's peeled back the sophisticated layers of protection she usually wears. Julia Wicker is just a woman now, not a powerful goddess or competent magician — a small woman who looks like a strong wind could knock her over. He'll also be able to see that her hedge tattoos are gone, along with the X-shaped scars through them. ]

The tea smells good.

[ When Stephen notices her arms, he realises he probably shouldn't make a big deal out of it — should probably just leave it be, unremarked upon — but, well, when has he ever left any stone unturned? So he's back to his feet again and taking a tentative step closer. He reaches out, presses his fingertips gently against the bare skin of her forearm. Perhaps assuaging his curiosity that it isn't just a visual illusion, and that the ridges themselves really are gone too. ]

Was that part of becoming a goddess? Scar tissue healing over?

[ He asks out of mild curiosity as if he's inquiring about side-effects; a symptom of divinity.

And now that he's standing so close, he realises even more suddenly how short Julia is, the top of her head just barely coming to his collarbone. His blue-green eyes blink in honest-to-god perplexity, taken aback. It's a small detail but such a jarring one; her confidence and competence (and aura itself) had always projected a much larger energy. The Ancient One could have told you that it had something to do with a person's spirit, too, but right now Stephen has another question: ]

Also, have you always been this short? Have I really only ever seen you in heels? Good god.

Edited 2022-07-23 18:32 (UTC)

[ His fingertips against her skin provide warning for the questions that are ahead and she braces for them, her thoughts already tumbling toward another apology she owes him, another set of regrets for things she'll never be able to do now that her power is gone. But then the other questions come and the laugh that bursts out of her feels so damn good that she avoids being pulled into the pit of despair again.

For now, anyway. ]

People don't tend to take short women seriously, so I wear heels. [ By people, she means men. Obviously. ] And this was my choice. I was letting go of some of my pain.

[ It had been at Iris's direction, the messenger goddess who had taken Julia under her wing. You can put it down. Letting go of all her pain wasn't an easy thing and would take time, so she'd started small. Then there hadn't been time for anything else.

She lifts her arm, showing him there really isn't any trace of tattoos or scars, before that darkness wells up within her again and she has to give voice to her regrets. ]

I wanted to come back here. I'd planned to. I didn't know there wouldn't be time. [ Her voice is strained at the edges, pulled tight by emotion. ] I was going to offer to heal your hands the way I healed Fogg's eyes. I'm sorry I can't give you that choice now.

[ Because it would have been his choice. No matter how much she might want to help him, something of that magnitude had to be his decision. Always. ]

I— what?

[ And congratulations, Doctor Stephen Strange is completely thrown and rendered speechless. That wasn't on his radar at all. He hadn't even considered it. Reflexively, he glances down at his hand; it's not shaking at the moment, but it's always something of a coinflip as to whenever those tremors appear. He has to haul his mind onto an entirely different tack to think about what she just said.

Because that door is always, always there. He could take it at any time. But he chooses not to. It sounds like Julia's divine abilities would've meant he could keep the hands and the sorcery, but—

Would he even have said yes?

Maybe. Maybe not. The point is moot, but it still nips at him now and he finds himself needing to think about it, re-examining the question from this unexpected angle. She can practically watch the quandary rippling through his furrowed brow, his thoughtful expression. Perhaps basic practicality and pragmatism would have meant accepting the offer. He could be an even better sorcerer.

But then again.

Each twinge of nerve pain is a reminder of his mistake and his hubris: his foot on the pedal and driving too fast and multi-tasking, until he drove himself right off that cliff. The pain was an anchor to his humility. Like wearing a rubber band on your wrist and snapping it whenever you need a reminder of something: to break a thought loop, to stop biting your nails, to remember what a piece of shit you can be if you let yourself run unrestrained. His broken fingers are a constant reminder. It keeps him grounded.

So. Maybe not.

Stephen is quiet and the silence stretches out longer than comfortable, as he considers the question. He doesn't really have a conclusive, permanent answer, but he has ruminated over it enough over the years that he has some thoughts to offer. Late nights staring up at the ceiling of his room as his hands ache. And so he says, carefully, delicately, trying to puncture some of that strain in her voice: ]

Thank you, Julia. I mean that truly. The offer— it means a lot. The fact that it even occurred to you—

[ He really doesn't deserve the people around him, sometimes. Most of the time. ]

I didn't mention it before, but I actually have that choice every day. It's not that the Ancient One said it wasn't possible to heal myself with magic; she actually gave me the choice, at the end of my training. I could redirect all my focus and attention and use magic to repair my hands and keep them functioning, and I could have gone back to being a surgeon. But I chose not to. I chose to stay a sorcerer instead.

After so many years of living with it... I think I've just come to terms with it. Some things happen for a reason. Some things bring you to something greater. It doesn't hamper my magic use and I don't have any intentions of doing surgery again, so I think... I'm fine with it. If there was no trade-off, maybe I would have said yes anyway, because why not, but— I think I need the reminder.

And that's just to say, the healing isn't impossible even now. I choose this, every day. [ A flicker at the corner of his mouth, a glimpse of his usual sardonic expression breaking through the sincerity. ] So please don't beat yourself up over it too much.

Edited 2022-07-23 20:18 (UTC)

[ It hurts to watch him process what she's said. The entire matter could have gone completely unmentioned and he never would have known it was even a possibility, but she couldn't do that. Julia had to say something and now she worries that she might have made things worse. He's done so much for her and she hates that she can't do more for him.

But apparently, he doesn't need her to fix his problem. He can do it himself if he ever wants to. And she understands the need for a reminder possibly more than anyone else ever could. She'll carry her own reminders with her for the rest of her life.

So she nods her acknowledgment and acceptance of his choices — and then she can't help herself. He's so close and she really did miss him so much, so she steps forward and slips her arms around his middle for a hug. Not a long one, probably, she knows things like this aren't his usual style. She just... really needs a hug. ]

[ Stephen really isn't accustomed to physical affection like this — that standoffish demeanour projects a figurative personal bubble about five feet in radius — but he's realising that he doesn't actually mind it that much once it happens. Julia wraps her arms around him, and he's caught all over again by how unexpectedly, uncharacteristically short she is. She's even smaller than America, which is bizarre to think about.

So he goes a little rigid at first, but then he eases into it and wraps his arms around her. His face buried in the top of her head, chin against her hair as they melt into that hug. It's a good height, and his arms loop around her shoulders. He doesn't say anything just yet; he's talked enough for the moment. ]

[ The second his arms go around her, Julia lets herself really relax into the hug, leaning against him and committing this feeling to memory. In the warmth of his embrace, she feels safer than ever, like absolutely nothing stands a chance of even getting close to her when she's with him. Not that she needs him to protect her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate feeling protected.

With her cheek pressed against his chest, she just barely feel his heartbeat. His lungs expand and she feels each exhale against her hair. It's a perfect moment and she doesn't want it to end. ]

Thank you. I really needed this. [ Another few seconds and then, without moving, she concedes: ] The tea's getting cold.

[ As she presses her face against his shirt and he feels the warmth of that embrace, a single thought crystallises like it's formed out of thin air: Strange, you're in danger.

It's not the same mental alarm going off when encountering, say, a spider-demon or a tentacled eye-beast or an alien invasion. Nothing quite so extraordinary and out-of-this-world as that. No, this one is very banal and very simple when one gets right down to it: it's the same alarm which kicked in the back of his skull (and wrenched in his chest) when Christine first made him laugh, standing next to the shitty coffee vending machine in the hospital hallway. The first time he found himself lingering in the break room a few minutes longer, reluctant to get back to his rounds, because he simply wanted to keep talking to her a little longer. The first time he asked her out for drinks at the end of their shift, and she kept him dangling on the hook for a full minute with a cheeky smirk before answering yes.

In short: Oh, Stephen, you're fucked.

(His internal saw-this-coming chastisement sounds a lot like Wong's know-it-all tone; yes, he knows, his conscience sounds like his friend and it is very aggravating.)

He's glad Julia can't see his face. But her words still make him chuckle, and: ]

Well, then it's a good thing I know magic.

[ Still a showoff. But accelerating the particles in the tea to warm it again is easy enough — like putting the kettle back on, or microwaving the cups for a few seconds — and he does that very thing as he reluctantly pulls away from her. ]

Welcome back, Julia. I should let you rest and settle back in.

[ It's a good thing I know magic is the most Stephen response and she adores him for it. The way his laugh reverberates through his chest feels a bit like a cat purring and she wishes they could stay like this for hours. That isn't the nature of their relationship, though, and she knows Stephen isn't like some of her friends like Q who are more accepting of casual contact with those they're close to. She'd love it if he was but she's not going to push him that far out of his comfort zone.

Her hands linger on him until the last possible second, that magnetic pull of warmth and comfort not wanting to let her go. But it's when he indicates his impending departure that she has to fight the instinctive reaction to grab hold of him again to keep him with her. ]

Could you stay? [ She blurts the words out awkwardly, her emotions feeling like she's on the edge of something and spinning her arms to keep from tumbling over. ]

Just for a little while. To have tea and— [ And what? ] and talk. I want to hear about the excitement I've missed.

Oh, you really haven't missed much. It sounds like you took all the excitement with you. Let's see... They finished the repairs at Kamar-Taj, and my—

[ Ward? Student? Apprentice? He hasn't actually been in charge of America's training — Julia had been a closer thing to being the sorcerer's apprentice — so he's not quite sure how to describe what America Chavez is to him. Did I ever tell you about the time I semi-adopted a multiverse-hopping orphan that another version of me tried to kill? ]

One of my apprentices— well, not 'one of', technically the kid is my only one outside of you— has been advancing well in her training there, which was good news. Otherwise, things have been quiet on this front outside of the regular magical errands around the city. Which is a relief. I usually like excitement, but there's been a bit too much of that over the past year.

[ Stephen doesn't outright say I'll stay, but the agreement is unspoken as he takes up his seat again, reaching for his cup of tea, nursing the warmth of the china against his palms. Conversation and companionship, while she settles in for the night and goes to crawl under the covers. An easy enough thing to give her, particularly since she'd asked. He's slowly realised over time — also tied inextricably to his revelation a moment ago, god, he's slow on the uptake — that he just can't refuse Julia Wicker anything she asks. ]

[ Even if things have been boring at the Sanctum, Julia finds that she wants to hear him talk about it. The way he speaks is comforting; she's used to the precise word choice that matches his privileged background and the sometimes arrogant tone that hides how deeply he cares about others. And then there's the sound of his voice, the thread of roughness woven into the cadence that sounds... The only word she can think of to describe it is delicious because it's like an aural feast for the senses. She could listen to him speak for hours and never tire of it.

Taking her own cup of tea back to the bed, she carefully climbs under the covers and props up against a pile of pillows. The warmth of the cup feels good cradled in her hands, the heat seeping into her bones. While the rest of the day had been complete shit, this right here is really nice. ]

Tell me about this other apprentice. Should I be worried? Is she going to suddenly show up, demand all your attention, and force me to go ask Wong to teach me?

[ It's a joke, of course. She's hoping it'll earn her a smile. ]

[ It does; he grins at her, and then considers that question over the edge of his tea. ]

Honestly? It's possible. She kind of barges in like the Kool-Aid Man, so you might find her in our kitchen someday eating all the best snacks.

It's a... long story, I'll give you the full rundown another day, but her name is America Chavez. She's a teenager and she's actually from another universe. Like a Traveler, actually, with variations. She punches star-shaped holes in reality and you can walk right through them into an alternate universe. It's pretty neat. Once she knows how to portal, however, then she'll be able to get around better within this one. She came tumbling into our reality a while back and I helped— no, we helped each other. You'll probably meet her eventually.

[ The list of people Stephen cares about is vanishingly short, but here's one more card for the deck. ]

[ America Chavez. A teenager who can move through the multiverse like a Traveler. It makes her think of Penny-23 and the way he'd crossed over to Timeline-40, which of course leads to thoughts of how he'd very firmly stayed by her side the past few weeks. She isn't his Julia and she knows Kady explained just how different they are, but he'd still been set on supporting her and keeping a watchful eye. She's not his Julia but that's almost made him more determined to make sure she doesn't meet that Julia's fate.

But that's not a road she's interested in traveling down. She isn't looking for a relationship with anyone but— ]

I hope so. It'd be nice to meet someone else you actually like.

[ The gentle teasing comes naturally, like stepping back into an old familiar routine. And she really is looking forward to meeting America one day. We helped each other bodes well for the friendship established there, and if there's one thing Stephen Strange needs in his life, it's more friends. ]

It's a very limited, very privileged list. You're very special to be on it.

[ Just as teasing in return. But then it occurs to him, sitting in this chair by her bedside — with Julia in her pyjamas, in bed, exhausted from having her power and her divinity ripped out of her — that he hasn't really been in this position before. Even as a doctor, he'd done his job and then gotten out. Other people had always been in charge of the convalescence, the consoling bedside manner, the slow recovery afterwards.

And yet Christine had sat patiently by his bedside. Had waited there for hours so he would have company when he first woke up after the accident, after the surgery. Had read books while he slept. Had sat there and sat there and come back again and again.

The shoe is on the other foot for once and now he's in this position, and he should be terrified of it, but he finds that he isn't. But he does internally flounder for a second, before grasping at a thing he can safely offer: ]

Would you like me to put the same wards on your bed that I have on mine? I never offered it before because there wasn't much chance of people tracking you down in your dreams, but now, all things considered... The Sanctum should be enough and I still don't think it's much of a risk, but if you're worried about being found, it could help.

[ There's something about hearing him say she's special to be on that list. He's just teasing her right back, she knows that, but it still makes something in her chest go tight and fluttery in a way she hasn't experienced in a very long time. Even with James, she'd never really felt any sort of heart-pattering romantic vibes, they'd just sidestepped from friends to something more, like that's what they were always supposed to do. This feels different. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't a little scary, but that fear has nothing to do with her past trauma and everything to do with her not wanting to lose this.

She doesn't want to lose him.

His offer leaves her stunned for a second, followed by a moment of her expression crumbling into something far too emotional before she gets herself pulled back together. Nodding, she offers him a slightly watery smile in genuine gratitude. ]

Please. That would mean a lot to me.

[ Even if the Sanctum does provide enough protection, she'll sleep better knowing there's that little bit extra. And it means the world that he'd thought to offer it. ]

I'll cast the spell when I head out. It's no trouble.

[ And it is staggeringly simple and easy, it turns out, to just sit here and keep her company and talk. Stephen is so chatty that he can more than easily carry the conversation in a gentle roll of words, filling her in about the Sanctum's everyday happenings (which aren't so everyday compared to the life of a civilian, but y'know), a new antique book purchase he thinks she might be interested in, and so on, and so on. Whenever Julia starts to peter out, he picks up the slack, the conversation like a susurrus to start to lull her towards sleep.

She's here; she's home; she's safe. ]

[ Is it hours they spend together or just a collection of minutes? They drift by easily as the conversation continues, the sound of Stephen's voice and the topics themselves combining to relax her mind and body. She's home; she's safe. Each word they share reinforces those feelings as she finishes her tea and settles properly back into the pillows, propped up slightly but in a way where she'll still be able to fall asleep.

And before long, she does begin to drift off, her eyes staying closed for longer and longer stretches as she fights to hold on for just a bit more. But then she realizes she doesn't have to — she will still be at the Sanctum tomorrow and Stephen will still be in her life. She can rest now.

So she does, falling into slumber in the middle of one of his stories about a new book he's acquired. It really does sound interesting — but she'll ask him about it tomorrow. ]

[ The minutes trail by and her responses come slower and slower, until they don't come at all, and then Stephen leans a little forward to check on her. Julia's breathing is steady and low and even, as she's curled up against those pillows; she's finally fallen asleep.

Getting back to his feet, he reaches out and carefully retrieves the long-empty cup from her hands. He magics away the tea set, tiptoes across the room trying not to make the floorboards creak, and then stops at the foot of her bed to press various corners of the bedposts with his fingertips, his mouth forming incantations that he doesn't say aloud (once again, it's the intent that matters). Then there's a faint glow of light as the runes layer themselves into the wood, protective wards established. They require topping-up every six months, but it'll do for now.

And that done, Stephen quietly leaves, closing the door behind him. ]

the magician and the sorcerer — psl

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end ♥