ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ (mysticism) wrote in valloic, @ 2022-06-06 15:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !: action/thread/log, marvel: wanda maximoff, ₴ inactive: stephen strange |
Their cottage overlooked a pond, something serene where the water was clear as a mirror freshly polished - and along the winding trail to get to the spot, the trees interlocked; they were a comforting tunnel of fresh pine and solid oak with a hint of sunshine that glinted along the beaten path. A simple cottage, all things considered, feeling like it was in its own void and that was the way Stephen liked it - it had been a gift for Wanda, something restored and just for the two of them. Something that had maybe once been broken but now chose not to be - not anymore. Just like them. Bushes bloomed with pink flowers this time of year, during the summer - right after a wedding, Stephen’s wedding, everything felt fresh and new too. He’d gone to sleep with Wanda beside him, wearing sweatpants and a gray t-shirt lettered with “I like coffee and maybe three people” (it wasn’t wrong, just replace coffee with tea), something he’d thrown on after a bout of marital debauchery; usually he didn’t sleep with much on but it depended - he mostly just wanted to be comfortable, and sometimes that meant wearing clothes, loose ones. But he’d fallen asleep and - The gates were opened. He’d known it was coming, of course. Eventually, it was inevitable. He just hadn’t been expecting it right now, right then - a Stephen Strange executed by his cohorts but framed as a hero to the public because of the shame of being taken over by the Darkhold and while he’d managed to kill Thanos, he’d caused an incursion otherwise. A Stephen Strange who succumbed to the Darkhold again, guardian of the Book of the Damned and whose world was already caught in the throes of an incursion caused by him. A Stephen Strange corpse who rose from behind brick, weaving the souls of the damned into a cloak to take him to the young girl he had come to care for so much it actually hurt. And this Stephen Strange, one who didn’t know how to be happy - what did they all have in common? They needed to be in control. And even with their personal sacrifices, they weren’t at peace. They probably never would be, if they kept on with what they were doing. It was all coming at him, hammering him with the force of a runaway train - so intense he swore he felt cracking ribs. Stephen flailed, gasping for air, gasping for breath - when he awakened he struggled to comprehend where he was; for more than a few moments, he couldn’t remember. His senses melted, giving way to the onslaught - he was caught in the undertow of a wave, he sobbed brokenly as his hands scrabbled for rubble, after the castle was brought down and crumpled like it was made of aluminum foil and that was the end of everything. Wanda, no . Disappearing with a complete stranger who hadn’t even bothered to buy him a drink before whisking him off through a portal was the last of it but he breezed back to what was more important to him now. The images and the scents and the sound of her voice hammering his psyche - another sob escaped him, and then there was the faint understanding that she wasn’t here. She must still be caught in the rubble so he pushed himself up, disoriented and - Wanda, no, please be okay his mind screamed, and he had to get the rubble off of her but he couldn’t, there was too much of it - “Please be okay,” he sobbed out loud, finally realizing that he was just scrabbling at their bedsheets and she was gone. So was he, out the door a second later - barefoot, not even bothering with shoes. Who needed shoes anyway. Nothing was okay. Nothing was okay. Awful energy crackled in the air; smelled like ozone or a wire burning (not skin burning, not eared flesh, not scorched bones in on the grounds of Kamar-Taj) - and it felt wrong. Footprints singed the ground, leaving behind dead grass. A short path of rotted trees came to a stop at a circle of decay (nothing would grow here), and in the center - Wanda. Wanda, whose clothes were split in a divide of blood red magic - a borrowed shirt from last night, a leather armor of an ensemble that felt cursed. Wanda, who had fallen into their shared bed as a new bride the night before and awoke a woman gone mad. Wanda, the Scarlet Witch prophesied to rule or destroy and who wanted exactly none of that; she wanted happiness, her family, her children. Wanda, who lost everything - including herself. She looked unwell. Pale skin and lips and lightened hair, head twitching to the side as if a bug was buzzing around her ear or voices were incessantly whispering (it was screams, she remembered everyone’s screams) - her whole self looked fractured, a visual struggle between who she existed as here and who she had become there. A monster. She wasn’t a monster. She wasn’t a monster. But she was a monster. The monster, in fact. A myth turned flesh, a being of spontaneous creation, chaos incarnate. She was a catastrophe. She was dangerous. Agatha had been right all along about her. It’s your destiny to destroy the world. “Away,” Wanda let out a ragged gasp, hands up in an attempt to summon a barrier spell (to protect Stephen from her, she needed to protect him) with shadowed fingertips. Not as severe as it’d been - perhaps her body was trying to cleanse itself from the corruption, like a drug she needed to detox from. “Stay away, you shouldn’t -” Her lips trembled, and the redness around her eyes had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It wasn't difficult to find her - once Stephen could actually focus, he’d followed the dainty scorched earth footprints, feeling dread begin to creep up in him like shadows. The same shadows that were stippled and fell upon the earth here in the forest, where a witch may even feel in her element - wild, natural, free. Green foliage, smooth leaves meeting pearly petals and the dustiness of deep emerald pine needles - he wanted them both to feel at home here, and maybe they still would. They just had to get through this. He reacted instinctively to the summoning of a barrier because he didn’t need to be kept away (he wasn’t afraid, not of his own wife), cobalt eyes widening (and the third one suddenly appeared in the middle of his forehead, that chakra opening) - his magic shimmered into existence the same time hers did, orange meeting red. They mixed, the colors of a sunset and a bruised sky, and all three eyes creepily blinked as if looking for a way around things before he shook his head and willed the forehead intrusion to go away. “Wanda,” Stephen’s voice, still thick from sleep and sadness, rumbled in the space between them. “I’m not going anywhere.” He wouldn’t touch her if she didn’t want him to but he was staying here. Did he still remember her last words to him before she brought down an evil temple on them both (well, a possessed corpse of him - mentally, he was with her until the very end because he didn’t want her to die alone)? Yes. Did he still feel the absolute gut-wrenching sensation of knowing Kamar-Taj had to be rebuilt, that many of those sorcerers had been incinerated like garbage from the landfill? Of course. But what was he supposed to do, kick her while she was down? That wasn’t what love was about - he knew that, even if his other selves seemed to be confused about how to properly express such a foreign emotion. In fact... “Because I love you,” he choked out, tears filling his eyes (two of them - only two. What the fuck). “I love you, Wanda.” That wasn’t her - who he just saw, who he fought, it wasn’t. It was some twisted, corrupted version of her, an easy target for manipulation by a piece of shit Darkhold because of her trauma - she had always wanted her happy ending, and the damned book drove her to the darkest places to get it. But that didn’t change how Stephen felt now - if anything, it just reinforced the fact that he was going to light that stupid book on fire if he ever saw it here. “No,” Wanda spat back, eyes flashing crimson but she didn’t even know what she meant by it - her own voice was thick with grief and heartbreak. No, because he needed to be away from her and why wasn’t he turning around? No, because he couldn’t love her - shouldn’t love her, not if he saw and remembered what she did. Stephen looked at her like he knew. He looked at her like he saw, and perhaps the worst part of it all was - He was looking at her like he understood. Emotions tied so heavily into her magic, the barrier was unstable at best. It dulled like a dying candle for a split second before sizzled, popped, expanded in a burst of energy (her hands were shaking, she was so tired, so spent) that eventually it flickered and dwindled into nothingness. On her knees was where she found herself again - but there was no crackling, star-shaped multiversal portal around her. There wasn’t a ruined house, there wasn't the sound of children (her children, weren’t they hers too?) crying or a version of herself that had the life she wanted so dearly cup her cheek. Know that they’ll be loved. “You can’t,” she cried out, blackened fingers digging into soil that might as well be poisoned. “You know what I did, Stephen - you saw, you were there, I killed so many people, I tried killing you, and America, she’s not much younger than…” Than Iryna, when she first introduced herself to them. The words died in her throat. Instead, she screamed. Stephen went to her, feeling a little unstable himself - they both had been to various Hell dimensions and back, but he wasn’t a coward and only a coward would run away from his wife, the person he swore to love and protect through it all - he’d just spoken his vows too. Prayers for love, prayers for friendship and peace and health; I will always be by your side he’d said, classical Sanskrit and so heavily tied to the Vishanti in a way that meant he almost felt their presence right there atop the mountain, with the breeze that smelled like sunshine and the undercurrent of flowers. Your happiness is my happiness, your sorrow my sorrow. Even more so now, when he knew exactly what Wanda was going through - because he’d lived it too; their stories were the same, mirror reflections, only they’d ended very differently. Face your fears, Christine had said. Well, here he was - one of his biggest fears was that he’d lose Wanda, somehow, some way. Turning and running away from her, being the one to put space there first in some ironic move of self-preservation so his fears didn’t end up coming true - that wasn’t going to help them. So he went to her, kneeling in the dirt as he slipped his arms around her - she could blast him off if she needed to, but he was going to at least try - and buried his face in her hair. “I know what you did,” he agreed, sounding as if there were rocks in his throat. “I know what I did. What we both did. But I’m still here. I promised to take care of you.” Didn’t mean they weren’t allowed to scream, however. Stephen wanted to also - so he did, though it was lower in pitch, obviously, and more of a mournful cry mixed in with another sob as he cried into her hair because she was gone. Maybe their lives had been intertwined differently there, but here - he’d rather die a thousand times again than watch Wanda die. Seeing the person you love go out like that - there wasn’t a word to describe that pain. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone and I opened the Darkhold. I have to close it would haunt his nightmares for awhile, unless he knocked himself unconscious with a tire iron to the face and slept that way instead. For once there was no blasting, no explosion of raw energy that was known to fan around her - like it had when Pietro died, like when she shouted her grief into existence and created her own bubble. Maybe Vallo wouldn’t let her power wreak havoc in its reality, and it shouldn’t - she’s hurt too many in her world already, she didn’t need to add more bodies to the pile. It also just felt good to scream too, cry it all out in a way that wasn’t devastating to everyone and everything around her. Wanda’s hands scrabbled up his back, grabbing his shirt to and skin to anchor herself with while Stephen ensconced her in his arms and for several moments (or hours, perhaps, because it was beginning to feel like time slowed to a crawl) they existed in this mess of tears and limbs. What was left of the magic she expressed wavered still, a battle between keeping her clothed as herself - normal, forever-working-on-her-shit Wanda Maximoff-Strange - or the mad witch prophecy forged, a lone legend that could exist in one universe only. But the Scarlet Witch was beginning to lose, and there was more of a second hand t-shirt and bare legs than that deep, blood red leather covering her. Stephen was here. Here. He was there back home, too - with her when the castle came crashing down around them because she willed it to, because it was the right thing to do. How much harm did she have to cause to realize that - again? It was literal hell to be caught in that cycle, over and over. Of losing people, of grieving, of desperately wanting happiness and being so close to it only to know that it wasn’t hers. Wanda couldn’t have it. She could have all the power in the cosmos; she could create and destroy but she couldn’t have those she loved with her, and perhaps that was the destiny of the Scarlet Witch. Infinite power with infinite grief. And yet - she had this. Stephen was all around her, face hidden in her hair, they were married and went to sleep blissfully spent and she had to wonder how long it would last before this was taken from her one day, too. “I love you,” Wanda rasped out, her voice rough - cracked, like glass shredding her throat (from the screaming, the crying). Her face found a home in his shoulder. That spot was significantly wet now. “I thought I could - I thought I was stronger, I thought I could handle the book. I thought I could understand more, I thought…” She thought so many things. They were all so very wrong. “I love you,” Stephen echoed, a deep rumble in a voice that was also raw, an iceberg that had just been split in half. He held Wanda throughout the maelstrom, until she came back to herself and it was just the two of them - pajamas haphazardly thrown on after their wedding night, nothing involving that corset style with the sleeves, the high neckline, the waist cape in the signature scarlet shade Stephen was now very familiar with. He lacked the blue robes he wore too, Cloak left draped over a chair in their cottage - he didn’t even have his sling ring, hadn’t thought to grab it as he rushed out the door to find Wanda when he noticed she wasn’t in bed with him. All he knew was screaming and crying and they had to let it all out - purge that toxicity from the both of them, and to hell with worrying about how they looked. If you couldn’t have a breakdown in the arms of the person you were married to then, honestly, that seemed like a massive disservice. “You just wanted to understand more,” he concurred, a murmur in her ear as she rested on his shoulder. Desperation led Wanda to a power, a darkness she didn’t understand - that’s not who she was and the driving force was Chthon, not his beloved. Plus there was a whole chapter about Wanda in that book - secrets about herself she wasn’t privy to, secrets that whispered to her; who could resist something like that, when they were already at their lowest and feeling lost and alone? Stephen hadn’t been able to resist the Darkhold either - deep down, he wasn’t even surprised by that. “My other self, variant, whatever - he took the Darkhold for selfish reasons. Actually, two of me did. It’s - I know what it does to someone. What it did to you.” He kissed her temple, the last of the tears squeezed from his eyes - Stephen didn’t think he had any left, but who knew, maybe the waterworks would continue. The kiss was what did it. Gone were the last bits of those scarlet clothes, leaving Wanda bare-legged and looking almost normal. Her face remained pale, almost sickly - and her fingers were still darkened by corruption, though that was showing signs of receding gradually. She felt what was left of the poison under her skin; could still hear the fading whispers of something trying to sink its claws where it could, fire crackling, the screams of the dying quieting. She took a deep breath, and it sounded like a rattling sob regardless but she seemed a little more self-composed in the sense that she wasn’t openly weeping. Exhaustion was creeping in. It was making her numb, kind of. For now. “You feel,” Wanda started, mouth quivering and words cracked as she leaned back. Not by much, no - she wanted to see him, drink in the details and commit every detail of his face to memory all over again. “You feel different.” He was dream walking. Which meant that he found the Darkhold in another universe, looked through its pages and cast the spell himself. There shouldn’t be a risk of temptation anymore; she had erased its existence across the multiverse to make sure no one would ever open it again. But something had also changed. Wanda lifted her hands to cradle his head. A darkened thumb grazed the very center of his forehead. “What happened to you, after…” After I died. “The other me was the Darkhold’s guardian in that universe,” Stephen said, taking Wanda’s hand and kissing the tips of her fingers - they looked like she’d just dunked them in a pot of ink, and that was familiar too. His own fingers had turned black - and he was disheveled and bleeding and on his knees, on Titan, telling the Illuminati to kill him while he hung his head like the bad dog he was; they apparently didn’t think he was worth trying to save because of being too dar deep into the Darkhold’s thrall, so they just had Blackagar Boltagon (bless you) incinerate him with a whisper and then fucking lied about it later. To frame him as a hero, how sweet of them. As if a statue of him in front of the Sanctum was going to make up for the fact that they were a bunch of judgmental pricks. But anyway. Stephen’s other hand trembled minutely as it always did, and he smoothed Wanda’s cheek, up into her hair, gazing at her with eyes still glassy from the tears. “And I used the book to dreamwalk, obviously, but - I saw it disintegrate. Wong and I took America back to Kamar-Taj. She stayed there but I returned to New York. I was out walking one day and just...” He paused, blinking once, twice - and then the third eye appeared in the middle of his forehead, pushed to the surface. “I think I had started to accept that it was there when I needed it to be,” he added. At least, he felt pretty casual about it when a blonde in a purple suit showed up and ripped open a door to the Dark Dimension with her sword. Honestly, that tracked - Stephen had evolved, in a sense. He was finally becoming Doctor Strange, maybe who the Ancient One always knew he’d be - he could use dark magic without it twisting him into something else entirely; it seemed to come from a place of purity, unlike with the rest of his variants. But the eye kind of creeped him out, so he blinked and willed it away again - two were fine, thanks. Right, there it was. Wanda didn’t startle at the sight of it - Stephen had used tentacles at her before, this was far from the weirdest thing his body was capable of doing. She just needed to confirm that the glimpse she caught wasn’t some hallucination induced by the fact that her body was, um - in the recovery stages of the effects from the Darkhold. One hell of a drug, that fucking book. But to hear that America was okay, and that she was safe caused her to let out this shuddering exhale of relief. Stephen would take care of her. Like he’d done with Roz, like what he was doing with Peter even now - reluctantly filling that role of a father, and being good at it. (Meanwhile, she failed as a mother - completely and utterly.) “I don’t hate the look,” she quipped, voice like sandpaper in her throat still despite the effort to crack some sad attempt at a flirtatious quote. They should be making those - they should have slept in, should have made love and gotten breakfast and they should have been enjoying this time together. Instead it was this; them on their knees, barely holding it together, the two of them changed. They knew something was coming. They knew they were on the course for collision, head on, and it might put them at odds. The expectations were vague, kept them in this false sense of denial that maybe whatever happened couldn’t be that terrible. It was, though. It was awful. Wanda was just - awful. Her hands dropped to his shoulders. “Thank you. For… staying with me,” was the start of a broken whisper. There shouldn’t be any tears in her left but a few fresh ones fell, and she hated it. “You’re the only one that did.” Not that she made herself readily accessible to others. Clint had his family, and Sam tried reaching out but she was too into it - too angry, and hurt. Most of them had something to go back to. Homes and families or maybe even a purpose that would carry them through it. Wanda had an empty lot in Jersey that was supposed to be home, to grow old in. Stephen didn’t have to stay considering all the bloodshed on her hands - but he did it anyway, and it was a kindness she didn’t deserve. “Wanda,” Stephen said her name in a deep murmur, with reverence, and his forehead touched hers. How terrible would you have to feel, how lonely and depressed, to tell someone (a colleague, since Stephen knew her but they weren’t involved like they were in Vallo) that you planned to leave the reality you were in and never come back? His heart had twisted a little for her then - after she pulled back to the curtain that separated her from the world, revealing her false illusion and showing him what was really there. Scorched earth and desolation, skies on fire and a darkness that was ravenous - he knew how far gone she had been. He could feel it. And he had never wanted to hurt her - slow her down, yes. Get her to stop. Reason with her. But she didn’t deserve, well, any of this and besides - what could he even say? It had been the same thing with his other-other self too, the one who was a cautionary tale about an obsessive Strange who went too far and had too much power; this is what you become, they all seemed to scream at him. The universe didn’t stand a chance when he was grieving either. “I said everything in the vows yesterday but none of it’s changed,” he assured. “I just saw how afraid of love every version of me was - how afraid they were to share burdens, and how it ruined each and every one. It’s not like that here - we’re together. You’re everything I want. I need you, and I’m not afraid to tell you that.” His lips drifted down and he found hers, kissing her deeply - they both tasted like salt and tears. Oh no, those tears definitely weren’t done. They made a mess of her face again, even through the kiss - which she returned, desperately. It was intense, and a bit messy, and Wanda’s arms wound up tightly around him. She couldn’t have (wouldn’t have) blamed him if he chose to step away from it all, from her. But Stephen Strange didn’t sugarcoat, and if he was saying that he loved her and still wanted her? Wanda would believe it. She’d hold onto it like a lifeline, otherwise she’d drown. It’s just like this wave washing over me again and again. It knocks me down and when I try to stand up, it just comes for me again. Pulling back for air, the breath felt more like a gasp - choked, quivering, her face wet and eyes puffy. Her face didn’t go far. Their foreheads were pushed together, and she was leaning into him as if she wanted to fuse and make them one being. “What,” she sniffled, “what now? Can we… tell me we can stay out here, for a while.” How was she supposed to face anyone? Billy and Tommy - their little faces had been terrified of her, how could she still even think of herself as her mother? She had come to blows with a version of Captain Marvel, Carol’s Maria, and won. It was a brutal victory. For once she was also relieved that Steve wasn’t around; how could she even talk to him without thinking about what she did to a version of the woman he loved? Hiding away was cowardly, perhaps. But right now it felt necessary. Stephen wasn’t in any hurry to return to civilization either. He’d gotten this cottage for Wanda as a wedding gift and for them to use on their honeymoon, yes, but - it was also meant to be a getaway for them. Either or both at the same time - whenever the world got to be too overwhelming, or they needed some time to think. For Stephen, sometimes he needed a moment or several to reflect on how he missed the simplicity of his life, everything he had to let go of (including Christine, finally, because they were always going to be figuratively living in different worlds) - represented in the form of a grand piano, for example, something well-polished and cared for. Something he could no longer play but could prior - before he’d come face to face with the various dangers lurking in between dimensions, before he held the weight of the universe in hands that shook and always would. Before, before, before. “Of course we can,” he replied, his voice gruff and a bit raw from the previous exertion on his vocal cords. He kissed Wanda’s cheek and the corner of her mouth, not intending to leave her out here - he hadn’t when he first followed her and he wouldn’t now. But still. Maybe a change of scenery and someplace more cozy than the ground might help. “Come on, let’s go back to the cottage,” he suggested, shifting to take her hands in his and help her to her feet. “We’ll put the fireplace on. I’ll make some food. And we’ll plan an actual honeymoon where we can just get drunk and fuck all the time.” You know. Like what this one was supposed to be - they’d just have to take a rain check, however. Oh, to be drunk and fuck - Wanda let out a sudden laugh, watery and strained but it was the first genuine sign of mirth. She was happy to rise from the patch of grass. Or what had once been grass, anyway. The soil was dead, and she didn’t have it in her to fix it. Some surrounding trees had suffered too but the decay hadn’t spread to create a wasteland of death. Not this time, at least. “Take a bath with me?” she asked, one hand in his as the other wiped at the disaster that was her face. The trembling stopped as did the tears - and she wished, hoped that would be the end of it. Doubtful, though. Wanda knew this routine. It always had a habit of finding her again. “What we remembered does not do much for my appetite.” What was she supposed to do, enjoy pancakes after being responsible for literal massacres (between the Illuminati, and Kamar-Taj)? Gods, no. “Later, then,” Stephen said - because he wasn’t about to let basic needs fall by the wayside, even if their honeymoon hadn’t exactly turned out as planned. That was just their luck, wasn’t it? But for now he’d go with the flow - if Wanda wanted to take a bath, then he’d fill up the tub. Maybe add something to make the water smell nice, or bubbles (he’d stocked this cottage well prior to their wedding, thanks very much). Inside, the hearth crackled to life with a flick of his wrist - it wasn’t necessarily fireplace weather but there was something comforting about the sound of popping flames, and the way they steadily burned. Plus, inside it could get chilly when the sun set - he wanted them to be comfortable. The sound of running water soon followed - the tub was gigantic, at least, big enough for the two of them (well, with Wanda it wasn’t a problem but Stephen was very long-limbed) and distinctly not a claw foot; those were difficult to get in and out of and not exactly meant for two. No, this one was made of smooth, polished wood and basically a giant soup bowl - no complaints. There were bubbles (because he ensured it, because they deserved those) and the water was perfumed by herbs and flowers, a blend that was all orchids and chrysanthemums - he was going to smell like an English garden after this, but Stephen didn’t care. As he pulled off his dirt-stained t-shirt, the Cloak drifted by and moved over Wanda for a moment, giving her a hug by settling over her shoulders and forming to her body - it carried Stephen’s scent and was clearly his relic, but generous with affection to Mrs. Maximoff-Strange too. He actually had to check for a second, wondering if there would be a large blue patch on the back where Christine had used material from 838 Stephen’s cloak (ouch) to fix his when he took a magical blast for America. But there wasn’t. “Stop, you can’t get in the tub too,” he told the Cloak who fluttered indignantly at him. “...what, you want me to put you in the wash? You hate that.” This tub alone was incentive enough for Wanda to hide away here forever. Her love for this cottage had been instant - it was quaint but not too small, enough space to move around without it feeling too claustrophobic or cluttered. A quiet respite away from everything. Here, she felt as if she couldn’t severly fuck something up or hurt someone with all that magic coursing through her - chaotic and wild and dangerous. Agatha hadn’t been wrong about that either. “Hi,” she said to Cloak, smiling blearily and giving those collared tips an affectionate peck of her lips. Funny how a fashion staple could be sentient and so sweet; their comfort was welcomed. Anything that smelled like Stephen would do the trick. The clothes were shed (they were small sleep shorts underneath that large shirt) and kicked to the side. The water was steaming and smelled heavenly, and Wanda did everything she could to swat away those intrusive thoughts of you don’t deserve this that nagged the edges of her mind, whispered with malice and disgust. (She didn’t disagree, she just needed a moment or several.) The first dip of her toe was cautious before she slid a whole leg in - and then another, wishing she could melt into the water too. “Cloak deserves something a little more personal, don’t you think?” she chuckled roughly, sitting at the edge of the tub in all her nude glory. Not that she felt attractive, with her disheveled hair and corrupted hands and eyes still having that redness (a little bit anguish, a dash of madness). “You’re lucky they are not requesting you hand wash them tenderly.” “I’d hand wash them tenderly if they wanted. The Cloak’s saved my life a few times, I probably owe it a good scrub,” Stephen grinned a bit, a small smile but genuine all the same. He climbed into the tub when it was full and the steam rose up like a cloud over a cauldron, making room for Wanda. “But for now I’ll wash you tenderly so come here, missus.” She probably had a headache. Stephen had felt the beginnings of one pulsing at his temples but now that they were inside and soaking in a fragrant tub, it started to chase itself away - being close would help too. The Cloak even took up a sentry point outside the bathroom door, floating out to stand guard. No one would come out here (no one even knew where they were) but it was a nice thought. Cloak also tended to stand guard by their bed too, at the Sanctum - when they were asleep, of course. Not like the relic was watching them fuck. He reached for a bar of herbal soap, and it would be good to get all the dirt and tear stains off from that long sob fest outside. “Come let me get your back.” As if she’d resist that kind of offer or deny any opportunity to close the space separating; Wanda went, of course, sinking into the bath. Back turned to him, she settled in between his legs and took a deep, deep breath that she held in and then just - let go. She was surrounded by warmth, by Stephen, and they were alive. This was fine. Everything else wasn’t fine, not really. That reckoning was here, all of it a fresh imprint in her memories and in herself - but this was also her honeymoon and she wanted to salvage whatever she could of it. Like Stephen said, there’d be a do over that didn’t include an atrocious interference. Romantic debauchery only. Some day. Wanda splashed water on her face, hands scrubbing down her cheeks as she blew raspberry between her lips. “We would have made a good team,” she said. “If we had the chance.” If they had worked together towards some kind of common goal and not against one another. But you couldn’t reason with madness. “I think you were trying to flirt with me anyway. In my not-real orchard.” Oh, what? Stephen laughed, the first real genuine one since probably yesterday - they’d had their reception at the Sanctum, a party in their sentient gothic home and the happiness and joy radiated through the walls, the floorboards. He’d loved it, honestly - it wasn’t like any of the wedding receptions he used to go to, stuffy and formal, but something for him and Wanda and their friends, people who cared about them and wanted to be there. “My flirt game’s not great,” he admitted, gently gathering Wanda’s hair and twisting it to the side so it fell over her shoulder and he had space to kiss the back of her neck. He nuzzled there, fingers traveling up and down her arms until they came around to glide up her back - with soap as promised, and while he couldn’t exert too much pressure on muscle knots with weak fingertips (everything about his grip, his hands was on the weaker side) he would do his best. It was an intimate sort of touch anyway, careful and appreciative. “But...I think I was.” Come on, could you blame him? She was beautiful and intriguing and he was lonely. So very lonely. Stuck in the past and wanting desperately to move on, yet was unable to actually do it because the head and the heart didn’t exactly align. Wanda is gone - she has the Darkhold and the Darkhold has her was what he told the sorcerers at Kamar-Taj - and it pained him even then. He’d known he wasn’t going to be able to break through that hold - yet he’d tried. Didn’t just write her off, didn’t disregard her and file her under ‘villain.’ Stephen knew he had to try and he didn’t regret that he did. “I do think we would have made a good team though. I guess we’ll just have to team up here. Live out that dream,” he murmured, palms pressing on either side of her spine. “That whole thing was like some awful Christmas Story nightmare - seeing all my variants and what happens when my own worst habits are taken to the extreme. No thanks.” Wanda smiled. My flirt game’s not great. Pfft. Beg to differ. She found him charming, here and back home - and knew his loneliness there too, felt it in her bones. Those couple minutes of chatting felt normal. Or so she’d like to think, considering everything around them was reality warped and she was putting on an elaborate ruse to get him to entrust America to her (that backfired, because she had a stupid moment). It was a brief interlude where she felt a little more like Wanda and a little less like Witch. But, as you know. Corruption. Denial. Self-deception. All of it a bitch. “You are not your variants,” she told him softly, raking her fingers through her hair and keeping it all collected one side. Wanda would wet the rest of her hair in a bit. “But I know it must feel as if you are mourning yourself, and all the things that could have been if you’ve taken a different path. You are your own Dr. Strange. The best one, in my entirely unbiased opinion.” She adjusted her position some, pressing the length of her back against his chest with an arm winding back to wrap around his neck - and it was a kiss she pulled him into, soft but deep. A teasing sweep of tongue, too. “Maybe you can learn to focus less on what’s best for reality as a whole and figure out what’s best for you, finally.” It was actually kind of darkly funny - that phrase I’m not like other girls was always kind of cringeworthy, but the whole point of Stephen’s adventures with his variants was to show, well, he wasn’t like other girls. Or guys. Or other Stephen’s - he was just himself. Every version of him had ‘gone bad’ simply due to the fact that he always had to be in control - it was a flawed character trait that seemingly spanned infinite universes, the reason why the Illuminati were so terrified of him (thus disregarding his very real warnings about who was coming for them). The only way echoed in his mind, like it was tattooed in glowing letters there. The only way to stop Thanos was to give him the time stone and lose to win, and a universe beyond - the only way was to dreamwalk a solution, and lose himself in the process. The only way to control the Darkhold was to become its guardian. And so on and so on and so on - but then, when Wong was insisting that killing America was the only way, Stephen found a new way. He didn’t have to be the one with that power - he didn’t have to be in control. Instead he could motivate her to take control on her own, to do it herself, and be the hero alongside him. “That’s very inspirational,” he told Wanda with a light smirk, but it quickly was wiped off his face because he returned that kiss and rumbled a little, pleasantly, at her teasing. However, she was right. He wanted to focus on himself, finally, damnit. Move on. Keep growing. Become the best Dr. Strange he could be, maybe not be such a hermit crab and open his heart up to something else entirely. “I probably do need to take it down a notch in terms of looking at the big picture,” he admitted, hands switching their trajectory too - now with Wanda’s back against him, he was free to pay attention to her front, letting those scarred hands smooth down her abdomen and back up to cup her breasts because they were here and he was very fond of them, thank you. “But honestly, if you’d given me like ten more minutes in your orchard - I think we could have gone and had some fun.” Wanda could have rolled her eyes. Inspirational wasn’t her goal, she wasn’t Steve Rogers who could rouse a crowd with some speech of heroism and doing the right thing - she knew this Stephen, and she believed in him; he was the exception to every rule, to every other version of himself that existed in every other universe. She was rooting for him. If her time back home really was done - a mountain versus Wanda versus her will to live which was zilch, who would win? - then she would hope for the best, that things would end up better for him than it did for her. But as of right now, this is where she had him. Here, and he was hers (with his hands on her too, she let out a hitched breath that was oh so dangerous), and this life they’d made beyond the scope of all those universes was theirs. “As in,” she chuckled, nails scraping gently behind his neck - right below the hairline, “it would have taken you ten minutes to properly seduce me or it would have lasted just ten minutes? I know you, Stephen Strange. You must have been pent up. I know how long you like to go when you’re pent up.” The idea of it lasting just ten minutes had Stephen snorting a laugh. All of that mindfulness and meditation taught at Kamar-Taj had to count for something - meaning that he wasn’t apt to just excitedly blow his load and make the whole thing a lackluster experience. Sure, not everything could be a sex-a-thon and quickies were fun too, but that wouldn’t have been. “I was pent up,” he admitted because, honestly, counting the Blip? How long had it been since he’d been, uh, intimate with anyone? Let’s see. That was five years spent as dust so he couldn’t exactly be getting his fuck on - then the two years before that after he’d decided to give up any semblance of a normal life for the good of reality, so, seven years maybe? He hadn’t had sex in seven years? Pent up was definitely a decent way to describe it. “I just needed ten more minutes to properly seduce you,” he added, leaving kisses along the slope of Wanda’s neck. “And we would have, you know, teamed up. Something explosive - but that’s okay. There was nothing out there, right?” he rumbled by her ear, wandering hands still wandering; they had a whole expanse of wet skin to cover, to appreciate. “I think you being my first lover after an annoying amount of years would have been a preferable way to solve many issues.” She could probably tell what a good idea he thought that was, given her position between his legs right now - oh well. Not going to hide the fact that the idea of fucking Wanda in her fake orchard got him going. Ten minutes there, absolutely none here for this game of seduction; the kisses had her humming, lashes fluttering, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Wanda was comfortable. Almost boneless, focusing on the rumble of his voice and the feel of his hands - body giving an arch into his touch, spine bending like a bow. But then she also pushed back (it was a grind, shameless and encouraging), well aware of the growing enthusiasm between his thighs. It lit a fire low in her belly. “A miracle you still find me attractive,” Wanda whispered, wishing she could find some kind of humor in it - for a small laugh, perhaps. She turned her face to kiss the shell of his ear, dragging her lips towards his cheek, breathing him in. Stephen was beginning to smell like a garden. It was mixed with his natural scent, and she loved it. “Thank you - for loving me still, after everything.” He shifted a little, holding Wanda close as his breathing hitched - she just had that effect on him, what could he say. Stephen was always going to be caught in her web and he wasn’t complaining about it at all, even if that meant also smelling like flowers - different from his usual scent, expensive grooming products (because he had to keep this goatee in tip top shape), smoky-sweet incense, old books. Now flowers, a whole blooming garden. “I love you deeper than bones,” he said, and it was true - that expression I love the bones of you applied too, but it was more than that. Her marrow, the depths of her, all of the layers - maybe he told Christine he loved her in every universe but Stephen hadn’t seen every universe and there was at least one, this universe, where he’d packed away what was old and moved onto something new - something better, for him. Because he deserved that and he wasn’t wrong to think so. His hand crawled up to curl in Wanda’s hair and he held on, held her in place so he could kiss her deeply, all steam and heat and the rapidly fizzing bubbles of their tub. “And I can always show you.” |