[ Knowing he hasn't been able to crack the spells in the grimoire just makes her even more interested. She flips back to the first bookmarked page, scanning the calligraphy and wishing Turks had adopted a Roman alphabet much sooner. Which is very White Colonial of her, she acknowledges, but Arabic script had never been a perfect match for the more vowel-heavy Turkish. When she can't discern the context of the first spell, she flips forward to another, this one much easier to understand. ]
This has to do with sleep. [ Her fingertips ghost over the curling calligraphy before she turns her head to look at him with more curiosity than concern. For now. ] Not sleeping well?
Nope, [ Stephen says, popping the p much like Julia does; a little verbal tic he’s picked up from her after all their months together. ] See enough unspeakable horrors, the subconscious gets quite a bit of fodder to work with.
[ He says it lightly, though, with that trademark flippancy as if it’s no big deal. It’s gone on for so long now that he’s grown used to it: waking in sweat-tangled sheets, clutching his face, dreaming of his own death across the multiverse. It’s even worse, too, after meeting that haunted, haggard version of himself and knowing the other Strange was literally hunting himself across his dreams. Cheerful stuff. ]
Chamomile tea, I am regretful to announce, doesn’t do shit.
[ She loves that he's picked that up from her; every time she hears it, something in her warms and feels a little more right. Along with all the little things they do for each other, and all the things they share, it makes her feel like she's home. He is home as much as the Sanctum is.
Which is why it hurts to hear that they share this form of suffering too. Her tone is more serious than his, actually acknowledging the problem instead of pretending it's not much of one at all. ]
No, it really doesn't.
[ Unspeakable horrors are something she's unfortunately gained a great deal of experience with over the past few years. Witnessing her own death isn't among them, thankfully, but she's seen enough friends die in various ways and timelines to provide plenty of ammunition for her nightmares. Add in a few vengeful asshole gods and you've got the Julia Wicker Nightmare Cocktail.
Closing the book, she offers it to him to do with as he pleases — she's certainly not getting up again. ]
Not that I’ve found yet. [ A plain answer, brief yet honest, as Stephen accepts the book and then magically floats it over to another precarious pile on an overstuffed armchair on his side of the room. But then there’s a smile coiling at the corner of his mouth as he continues, ]
I hadn’t yet tried riotous amounts of sex, though, so there might be a cure for insomnia hidden in there somewhere. Which we should investigate, going forward. You know. For science.
[ Honestly, she should have expected that would be his answer. It catches her off-guard, though, and she can't stop the amused grin that tugs at her lips. Something warm blooms in her chest as she shakes her head and nestles further down in the blankets, turning on her side to face him. ]
For science, huh? I do enjoy research. [ Especially the positively exhausting kind. ]
[ Of course Stephen Strange would find ways to turn scientific vocabulary into dirty talk. But his grin is matching hers, warm and teasing and playful. They have fun with each other, is the thing, and is the thing that matters.
And the night — and morning — passes like that. Some other evening, they might sit awake poring over more of those books and untangling some particularly gnarly piece of Turkish grammar and its arcane implications together, but for now, they’re too distracted by the fresh new appeal of intimacy: hands on each other, mouths meeting, eventually falling asleep content and exhausted. When they eventually wake up in the morning with sunlight drifting through the curtains, they inevitably wind up drawn to each other to explore that territory all over again in the cold light of day, dead-sober and yet still eager.
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ourladytrees) wrote2022-06-18 12:21 am
no subject
This has to do with sleep. [ Her fingertips ghost over the curling calligraphy before she turns her head to look at him with more curiosity than concern. For now. ] Not sleeping well?
no subject
[ He says it lightly, though, with that trademark flippancy as if it’s no big deal. It’s gone on for so long now that he’s grown used to it: waking in sweat-tangled sheets, clutching his face, dreaming of his own death across the multiverse. It’s even worse, too, after meeting that haunted, haggard version of himself and knowing the other Strange was literally hunting himself across his dreams. Cheerful stuff. ]
Chamomile tea, I am regretful to announce, doesn’t do shit.
no subject
Which is why it hurts to hear that they share this form of suffering too. Her tone is more serious than his, actually acknowledging the problem instead of pretending it's not much of one at all. ]
No, it really doesn't.
[ Unspeakable horrors are something she's unfortunately gained a great deal of experience with over the past few years. Witnessing her own death isn't among them, thankfully, but she's seen enough friends die in various ways and timelines to provide plenty of ammunition for her nightmares. Add in a few vengeful asshole gods and you've got the Julia Wicker Nightmare Cocktail.
Closing the book, she offers it to him to do with as he pleases — she's certainly not getting up again. ]
Is there anything that does help?
no subject
I hadn’t yet tried riotous amounts of sex, though, so there might be a cure for insomnia hidden in there somewhere. Which we should investigate, going forward. You know. For science.
no subject
For science, huh? I do enjoy research. [ Especially the positively exhausting kind. ]
wrap ♥
[ Of course Stephen Strange would find ways to turn scientific vocabulary into dirty talk. But his grin is matching hers, warm and teasing and playful. They have fun with each other, is the thing, and is the thing that matters.
And the night — and morning — passes like that. Some other evening, they might sit awake poring over more of those books and untangling some particularly gnarly piece of Turkish grammar and its arcane implications together, but for now, they’re too distracted by the fresh new appeal of intimacy: hands on each other, mouths meeting, eventually falling asleep content and exhausted. When they eventually wake up in the morning with sunlight drifting through the curtains, they inevitably wind up drawn to each other to explore that territory all over again in the cold light of day, dead-sober and yet still eager.
And that night, there weren’t any nightmares. ]