ourladytrees | the magician and the sorcerer

[ Stephen watches and follows her movements, an eyebrow arched in bemused curiosity, but then gamely slides a little further down so she can join him on his side of the booth.

It's a small shift, but it still feels significant: closing that distance, crossing over to the entirely uncustomary seat, broaching the barrier made by the table between them. So Stephen twists a little sideways, one elbow still propped against the table, shoulders tilted so he can look at Julia a little better, wondering where this is going. ]

[ That distance bridged, there's no way he can avoid or brush off what she has to say. This is personal and it's big, so she lowers her voice slightly and turns the same way he has. There's hardly any space between them now, but she bridges that distance too, setting her hand on his wrist, so close to those scars he's self-conscious about. ]

When you helped me, why did you do it? I'm just one person, the impact is nothing like that of defending a planet from a crazy alien or protecting an entire plane of existence. You didn't know me or the journey I was on, so why?

[ Stephen considers that question, examining it from all angles. Because you reminded me of myself is his initial thought, but he also thinks that only came later, after he’d learned more and more about her. But at the very start? Before he knew anything, when she’d walked in and he’d been the one to receive their new guest, and her introduction had been so simple: My name’s Julia and I’m here because I’m having a little… magical problem. ]

Because that’s what we do. The Masters of the Mystic Arts have the remit of safeguarding the world against mystical threats, on the large- or the small-scale. People come to our door asking for assistance, and we provide it. I mean, obviously I can’t help if someone has a clog in their plumbing or whatever, but if it’s a relevant issue— and you said you had a magical problem. So it was relevant.

[ The question itself seems so self-evident to him — of course a sorcerer would help — that he’s not quite tracking the point Julia’s making, looking at her steadily and a little quizzically. And even when discussing something personal and big, Stephen still can’t help that occasional jovial lilt to his voice, a joke slipping in. He’d still be cracking jokes even at the end of the world, and had in fact done so. ]

The Masters of the Mystic Arts protect against threats large and small.

[ She paraphrases his answer, saying each word slowly as if tasting them on her tongue or judging the weight of their meaning. The shape of each syllable hangs between them as she nods her understanding of that mission. ]

So it's like what a doctor does. You followed the Hippocratic Oath when you were a surgeon, vowing to help others where you could. On a small scale, you helped a single person with each surgery, but on a larger scale — did you help in the aftermath of the Battle of New York? Or would you now, if you could go back and do it over?

[ Julia wants to believe that he did help in the aftermath of that first alien invasion, that he'd been one of the thousands of people who came together in those first days to help those who'd been injured, but she knows he'd been a different person back then, just as she'd been a different person not too long ago. They are both better than they were for the hardships they've faced and she won't judge him for that. ]

In an emergency, yes, absolutely. The ERs were overwhelmed that day, and they pulled anyone with trauma surgery experience into the rotation. I was operating for hours.

[ He's remembering now, though, the particular details of the phonecall he'd been on when he crashed his car. It's like a single perfect snapshot of everything that had been wrong with him back then. So Stephen takes a deep breath, and tries to explain. ]

But under normal, non-extenuating circumstances, outside of things like the Battle of New York? I was... arrogant. I would turn down cases if they were too simple and other people could perform them; not out of some sense of staffing and resourcing efficiency, but because I thought it was a waste of my time. I looked for interesting cases, stimulating ones, ones that excited me. [ He tries to wring this confession loose, picking his way through the right way to describe this and his uglier sides. ] I had the luxury of choosing who I helped, and I was picky. I maintained a perfect record on the table because I didn't take on impossible and hopeless cases, either. Towards the end, it probably became more about the artistry of the work than about the patients themselves.

So. I just want to be honest. You have a— very nice image of me as some heroic do-gooder, I think, and it's very flattering, it'd be easy for me to just sit back and bask in that, but— honestly, Julia, plainly put, I was a goddamn asshole back then. Nurses actually say that a lot about surgeons, too: we help people, but we can be callous. You get removed from the human element. I'm trying to be better now. It's better with more face-to-face contact, and I know I'm better now because the Ancient One wouldn't have allowed me to take on the mantle otherwise, but I just don't want you to have an inaccurate image of me. Back then. I was saving lives but the lives had become incidental.

[ He takes a deep swig of his drink. ]

Sorry, I talked a lot.

Edited 2022-08-03 22:57 (UTC)

[ Everything Stephen says fills in the gaps she'd had in her picture of him Before. He had been the man sitting beside her but a much worse version who was too wrapped up in his own ego. The glimpses she'd been given of that version of him are nothing compared to hearing his painfully stark appraisal of himself. But, in the end, it doesn't change a single thing in the way Julia sees him. ]

You always talk a lot. And honestly, Stephen, I'd already kind of guessed you were an asshole back then.

[ She smiles to soften the serious tone of the joke and moves her hand to his, gently covering those ridges of scar tissue that changed his entire life. He can pull away easily if he wants but she's hoping he doesn't. ]

Even more honestly, I don't care who you were back then. You're not that person now. Hell, if you'd met me when I started on this path, you wouldn't have liked me, and I wouldn't have deserved your friendship, but I'm not that person now either.

[ Sighing, she looks to the side briefly, using the moment to choose her next step. ]

Before I came to you, but after I'd learned I still had magic, I ran into a friend at a party. Well, he wasn't a friend back then, but we knew each other, so we talked. He was so lost without magic, it was like his entire world had been ripped away from him. So I decided I needed to show him — I did a silly trick with smoke rings. I thought it wouldn't mean anything, that it might just cheer him up a bit, but it gave him hope and got him back in the fight. He was part of our quest and he helped us bring back magic.

It might sound ridiculous, but— That simple act means more to me than remaking the keys. Making a difference in a single life means more.

[ She pulls her hands back to her lap, suddenly feeling like she's fucked this entire thing up and missed her point entirely. Instead of leaving him with something uplifting to hold onto, she's just led him to dredge up horrible feelings about himself. ]

That's the point I was trying to make, though I think I've done a shit job of it. I just wanted to make sure you knew that making a single life better could mean as much as saving a world if you let it.

Don't worry. I think I do know what you're getting at: it's the little things. The fact that the pest extermination matters too.

[ All of a sudden, Stephen wants to ask her about the trolley problem. He wants to ask her about trillions of lives. He wants to ask her about Tony Stark's death. It's the more brutally pragmatic side of the sorcerers and the calculus they're taught to balance: they save lives, they help anyone who comes to them, but they also sacrifice the few for the many if necessary. It's what they'd taught him to do: throwing Tony Stark into the fire like a lamb to the slaughter; being ready to kill Spider-man's multiversal visitors; a version of himself being ready to kill America, and even Wong encouraging it when the chips were down. It's ugly but it's necessary. When all of reality is at stake.

It's a sticky moral question he's been wondering about lately, ever since managing to avoid swinging that metaphorical axe with America.

But it'd be unfair to force Julia to be his conscience, so he bites back the question. They can talk about it another time. Maybe he just doesn't want to see how it might finally change the way Julia looks at him, the way she believes in him so wholeheartedly. ]

Thank you for trying.

[ There's no hiding the way her smile is a little more forced this time, the strain showing around the edges, the emotion not quite reaching her eyes. Thank you for trying. She'd wanted to help and had failed in the attempt — it's hard to remember that you can't change a person's worldview with a single conversation. ]

You're welcome.

[ But even if she failed this time, she'll keep trying. Somehow, she'll find a way to help him to repay the way he's helped her. It might take years to manage it, but they've got the time.

Giving a light pat to Stephen's knee, she rises to move back to the other side of the booth. Heart-to-heart's over, no reason to stay. ]

[ It turns out that he knows Julia Wicker well enough by now, and knows exactly what one of her genuine incorrigible smiles looks like, that he now realises when it’s strained and forced. So as she starts to shy away, with the skittishness of a gift spurned and an overture shot down — although that wasn’t exactly what he’d meant, at all — Stephen instinctively reaches out. He catches her elbow through those gauzy sleeves, then slips his grip lower so he isn’t grabbing at the delicate material of her dress. He catches her hand instead, halting her movement, to draw her back to him and to keep her seat.

To stay. ]

You haven’t done a shit job of anything. For the record.

[ It's exactly what she needs to hear. They've known each other for such a relatively short time and yet he knows her well enough to understand that fear she could never give proper voice to. With fewer than a dozen words, he heals the wound they'd both caused and leaves her better than before.

She settles back beside him, staring into those mesmerizing eyes for a long moment... And then she leans in, crossing those few inches between them to wrap her free arm around his shoulder and pull him in for a hug. It's not precisely what she's yearning for, what her heart is screaming for, but it's the next best thing. ]

Thank you.

[ The angle is a little awkward at first, managing a sideways hug while they're seated like this, but they eventually find the right position where his shoulder isn't jabbing her in the side and they settle into that hug.

He's still getting accustomed to this and finding himself cherishing each moment of contact like this, even if it's so earnest that it makes his heart twinge, this way that Julia hangs onto him like she's drowning. He wraps his arm around her, tips his head against hers carefully, in order to not displace the braided part of her hair. It's a startlingly heartfelt and private moment, but the bar is dark and torch-lit and magic-users are known for their privacy: people are probably selling their soul in some gloomy corner, so a hug between friends (is that all?) is by far the strangest thing to be witnessed in the Bar With No Doors. The worst thing he might undergo is some light teasing from a more distant colleague later: so who was the pretty brunette in your booth?

When they finally let go, he stays next to her too. They're sitting closer now, his leg against hers and the billowing layers of her skirt. ]

Thank you for coming out tonight, anyway. You're inadvertently rescuing me from karaoke or having to make stilted small-talk with apprentices. I much prefer your company.

[ Not all hugs are perfect cinematic moments. Sometimes bodies are awkward, limbs and angles getting in the way, but they're always worth it in the end. Julia drinks in the warmth of Stephen's body that she can feel through his touch, wishing he wasn't wearing the stylish suit jacket so she could soak in even more of it. There just isn't enough time, the seconds speeding by, and letting go leaves a physical ache in her chest. If only he was the sort of person who enjoyed being close with friends — she and Q have always been that way, but she knows the sorcerer just isn't much of a cuddler.

They stay closer than they were, though. That's something. (It's everything.) ]

One day, I'll get to see your karaoke skills.

[ It's part threat and part promise, said with a genuinely happy smile before she picks up her ridiculous tiki cup and holds it up to him in a toast. ]

To good company.

To good company, [ Stephen repeats, toasting her, their glasses clinking against each other. And the moment passes, that temporary rough patch smoothed over, and it gives way instead to more of their usual conversation. It’s an amiable, easy chatter, as they discuss magic, Brakebills, the Sanctum, their recent adventures, the otherworldly people around them at the bar. There’s the occasional dip into a more serious topic, but nothing quite so heavy as before; they’re back to simply enjoying each others’ company now, sitting a little closer, savouring that contact.

And they finish their drinks, and order more.

And then another round.

Stephen, talkative to begin with, becomes moreso. He’s animated; gesticulates wildly with his hands when he’s telling a story, which is a far cry from how he’d been the very first day they met, enigmatic and hiding his hands within the folds of his cloak. As they cheerfully meander past ‘tipsy’ and firmly into the realm of ‘drunk’, he finds himself touching Julia’s arm when he laughs, or for emphasis or attention. When they go up for refills, they get derailed by meeting and socialising with other attendees of the midsummer party; Stephen introduces Julia to others, makes the rounds, chats with a few people he’d meant to catch up with, but he always comes back to her side and he’s glad of it.

And they pass the evening like that, the hours flying by, until the doctor’s drink is empty again and his crazy straw is making an ungainly suction noise as it reaches the bottom. He peers into the empty cup, and considers his own state like he’s checking his own pulse, measuring his level of intoxication, and concludes… ]

Hm. I’m not sure another round is wise. Too-drunk portalling— has led to accidents.

[ While Stephen becomes more chatty than usual, Julia becomes more of a listener as the alcohol flows, breathing in every word he says like they're made of pure oxygen. She participates in the conversations, of course, and becomes quicker to laugh as the night wears on, the giggles tumbling freely as he details his magical escapades, but she never dips into the ridiculous or brash behavior that people usually associate with drunkenness. Her tolerance is fairly high after so many years of parties and self-medication, so she's able to keep pace with her companion without making a fool of herself (which can't be said for everyone she meets that evening).

And she does enjoy meeting dozens of new people from within the magical community, the names and faces jumbling a bit together at times but each of them making a distinct impression all the same. Even when Stephen wanders off on his own, she still feels like she has a place among this group — but she feels right when he's back at her side.

Another giggle trickles quietly out of her at the idea of portal accidents (because he's obviously survived them) and she takes his empty cup to set beside her own on the nearby table. Her steps wobble just the slightest bit, her hard-earned skill at walking in heels saving her from a broken ankle more times that night than she cares to acknowledge. ]

I'm gonna need to hear about those accidents. Did you end up anywhere interesting?

Either interesting or the opposite thereof. Once it was the middle of a field in Nebraska, very dull, nothing but cows as far as the eye can see. Another time it was over the Marianas Trench and I fell into the ocean. Nothing like getting plunged into water to sober up very quickly; I came back to the Sanctum dripping wet. The Cloak was very upset.

[ His head cocked, he extends and probes his magical senses, like testing his own walking balance and ability to walk along a straight line. He's had a couple fun accidents, but he's also deeply aware of the dangers in it: you could literally lose a limb if a portal closes on you in an untimely manner. It's like drunk driving. Gotta be careful.

But he knows his limits better now, and he can tell he's still well within range. This is the kind of drinking where he's a little more loose and gregarious and brave; not the 'black-out drunk, wrap your car around a tree' kind of drinking. ]

I think it's alright tonight, though. I'll be able to get us back safely, whenever you've had enough of witches and heads in jars and imps. Leaving the timing up to you, since this is your first time visiting... [ An expansive gesture, waving at the bar. ] All this.

[ The great Stephen Strange standing in a field of cows is honestly something she would pay good money to see. Mental images only do much to illustrate such a truly hilarious situation, and even that has her struggling to keep in more giggles. Her grin shifts into a sympathetic grimace at the mention of the Cloak getting dunked in the ocean — the poor thing puts up with so much in its adventures with the sorcerer, but she knows it could just as easily go back to a boring life in a glass case, so it clearly enjoys a bit of chaos in its day.

Julia pauses to consider, taking a glance at the crowd still going strong in the bar, and then steps up beside him to hook her hand around his arm like how they'd arrived so many hours ago. ]

Let's go home.

[ He’s never going to get tired of hearing her refer to the Sanctum Sanctorum as home, he thinks.

While Julia was the one to get them here, this time Doctor Strange safely carves out the portal to take them back. Their empty drinks are set aside, discarded, and with her hand around his arm, they take a quick step through that glowing circle and find themselves back in that familiar building, the gateway closing behind them before anyone else can follow. Newcomers can only enter through the front doors — it’s a safety feature — but since the Sanctum knows them, he’s able to materialise the portal indoors, at the top of the stairwell on the second floor, at the mouth of the hallway leading to their respective bedrooms. He misses his step a little as they step through, and catches his weight against her; chuckles at himself. ]

Alright, for the record— not exactly drunk, I just misjudged the height of the portal vs the floor. It’s all about mathematical precision, as you know well.

[ Julia is certain that the Sanctum will never be anything but home now. The emotional ties she has to the building are simply too strong; bonds like that can never fully be severed and she wouldn't have it any other way. Stepping through the portal back onto that familiar landing leading to their rooms just feels so incredibly right, it nearly takes her breath away.

But then Stephen practically stumbles into her and she's back to laughing, adjusting her grip on his arm and reaching over with her other hand to make sure he's steady. Who is she kidding, though, they're both equally not exactly drunk but still a bit wobbly. ]

Oh, yes, absolutely. Just a slight miscalculation. [ Oops, there's another laugh. ] Come on, I'll make sure you get to your in one piece. We don't want you falling into a portrait or void or something.

Ah, and see? You’re getting the hang of this place. My chaperone.

[ The Sanctum could swallow him whole, but it seems to be contented tonight, stable in its fabric of reality rather than roiling with dimensional fractures. Its ghosts are quiet. So they walk down the hallway together like they’re going for a garden stroll, like she’s walking him home through a familiar neighbourhood. As they reach the doorway to his sprawling quarters, though, then Stephen hesitates.

There’s an order to these things. A lingo, an expected call and response. It’s not guaranteed and it’s a risk, a leap, a particular insinuation. But he’s buoyed by the liquid courage of the rest of the evening, and so he stops by that doorway and turns and looks at Julia, gorgeous in her dress. There’s a beat. A question which could be innocent enough on the surface, but— ]

Do you want to come in for a nightcap?

[ She doesn't really think the Sanctum would devour him, it seems to enjoy having him as its protector or at least approves of the appointment, but you can never be too careful. He might still get lost for a few weeks, and she would miss him.

They reach his door too quickly. It's too soon, she isn't ready for the night to end. She isn't prepared to lose his warmth, to feel empty and alone without the sound of his voice in her ear. But then—

Julia watches him for a moment, knowing this dance intimately, and it takes no time at all for her to choose the path to follow. Letting go of his arm, she lifts both hands to rest them lightly against his chest, her expression completely serious and her eyes on the tie she'd tied so many hours ago. ]

Stephen, you've already bought this girl a drink tonight. More than one, in fact. [ She raises her eyes to meet his. ] So why don't you just kiss me already?

Oh, well, when you put it that way.

[ Stephen’s cautious, tentative expression flourishes into a smile instead: the relief and validation of him having raised the stakes and Julia firmly, instantaneously, unhesitatingly, calling said stakes. Laying his cards out on the table.

This whole evening has been a date-which-isn’t-a-date: getting to know each other more over drinks, cut loose from any obligation of magical training or curse-breaking, simply enjoying each others’ company and the gentle ebb-and-flow of flirtation. He’d been prepared to beat around the bush a little longer if necessary, but it’s nice getting to cut right through it. She’s always calling him on his bullshit. It’s refreshing.

So he doesn’t waste any more time. Julia’s already resting her hands against the material of his suit jacket, and there’s hardly any distance between them any longer, and so it’s the easiest thing for him to lean down and catch her cheek with his hand, and capture her mouth with his. The kiss is soft at first; the opening of that metaphorical door, stepping over the line, testing the weight to see if the floor will hold. ]

Edited 2022-08-06 04:02 (UTC)

[ She'd been wrong — this is what coming home feels like. That soft brush of his lips against hers, warm fingers against her cheek, the sensations are like a whirlwind sweeping away any other thoughts in her mind. There is only him and she needs more.

One of Julia's hands stays on his chest to steady her as she lifts up the last little bit onto her toes, while her other hand goes to the back of his neck. She wants to make herself perfectly clear as she presses their lips more firmly together and opens her mouth to properly taste him: she is no fragile flower and she knows what she wants. ]

[ Even with those towering heels of hers, there’s still a height difference, but she rises up on tiptoe and closes that remaining distance. He shouldn’t have expected any less: Julia is the type of woman who simply reaches out and seizes what she wants, and Stephen’s always been the impatient kind himself, and so he instantly responds.

He had started to wonder, for the long last while, what kissing Julia Wicker might be like; and it turns out now that the door’s been unlocked, they’re both slamming it open. She opens her mouth against his and it’s like they’re crashing into each other, his tongue slipping against hers, diving hungrily into the kiss.

He feels ten years younger — he hasn’t done this in a while — but then again, after all this time living together, it’s about damned time. So all that pent-up passion and every lingering question is poured into it: mouth and teeth and her hands at the back of his neck, his own fingers curling into the waves of her hair, only coming up for air with a little gasping breath before renewing the kiss.

And in that jostling push-and-pull to get closer still, one of them bumps into one of those hallway endtables, sending it teetering, and with a jolt of surprise, Stephen catches it with magic before some stupid priceless decorative vase can shatter on the floor. He glances down in brief consternation, then back at her, amused. ]

I think we should get out of the corridor.

[ That rush of passion is something she hasn't felt in a long time, fire filling her veins as his touch fans the flames. James feels like a century ago, and Richard a decade, but it had been different with both of them. James was comfortable, they'd always just fit, and Richard had saved her when she needed it most. With Stephen... He gave her the tools to save herself. They challenged, supported, and inspired each other. She wanted to know everything about him, from his favorite dessert to his dream vacation to what he sounded like when he came undone. That she might get to actually learn the latter takes her breath away as much as his kiss.

That pesky table barrels into her hip, not the other way around, and she grimaces with a smile as he catches it and gives the offensive thing a look. He makes a very valid point, though, and she turns her flirting up to 11 as she wraps her hand around his tie and slides it down the length of fabric. ]

Well, you did tell me once that your bedroom is the least dangerous place in the Sanctum. Maybe we should continue this there.

[ And then there's the briefest moment where she's afraid she's gone too far, too fast. He'd given her signs but there's still a flicker of doubt, some part of her worried about... too many things. ]

Least likely to contain a portal to hell. And it’s very spacious. Very comfortable.

[ He’s grinning, the amusement sparking even brighter in his eyes, now that they’re both so clearly on the same page. They’re no longer nosing around the corners of the possibility, no longer waiting and wondering.

So Stephen shoots a quick, surreptitious glance up and down the hallway; checking to make sure they’re not being noticed by Wong or another master or a novice awake in the middle of the night to brush their teeth. They’re stealing away like they’re two truant students avoiding the hall monitor, trying not to be spotted sneaking around in the night. ]

Lead the way.

[ So then Julia’s walking backwards into his living quarters, teasingly tugging him along by his tie: whenever she takes a step back, then he takes a step forward following her in, and the door whisks itself shut behind them. They’re crossing the room together, going past the chaise longue where she’d once patched him up, past the study area, past the dressing area. Just before they reach the second door, then he reaches to his chest for the scarlet pocket square and tosses it aside; in the blink of an eye, it transforms back into the Cloak of Levitation, which disappears back to its hook in the corner for some privacy.

And just as they cross the bedroom threshold, then Stephen closes the distance once more and kisses her again, even as the Mission-style bedside lamp sparks to life (dating a sorcerer, it’s very handy). Now that they’re in here, she finally gets a view of his bedroom, this innermost private chamber: more hardwood floors and another fireplace, floor-to-ceiling paned windows with drawn curtains, a hefty bed with carved wooden bedposts. All of the aesthetic radiates an old-world grandeur which he hadn’t actually picked, but which fits the man nonetheless. And to no one’s surprise, the walls are lined with even more bookshelves, the bed piled with more. The room itself would be tidy (he’s always meticulously tidy) if it weren’t for the books on the bedspread and some papers on the endtable. He breaks the kiss just long enough to say, breathlessly, ]

I hadn’t planned for company, but I have to admit that I have been wanting to do this for— god, a while.

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