#Practical Magick|Dr Strange au

[brooklynislandgirl]

Do you know me? [Stephen]

In All My Reverie || -

What’s their full name?:

"What are you doing, kid?" Doctor Strange. Doctor Stephen Strange. Doctor Stephen V. Strange. Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange. Beth looks up from the notebook, the glittery purple ink convicting her by a jury of her peer. "Not'ing," she says as an anaemic defense. Jay is quicker than Beth is, and has a good eye. "You know signing his name would subject you both to malpractice right? Identity theft?" "But I'd have you for my lawyer," Beth quips a little too brightly and snatches the notebook close to her chest. "Are you kidding? I'm going to be a prosecutor, and eventually DA." Mercifully Jay doesn't see the tiny scrawl in the margin of the page, or she'd never hear the end of it.

~*~

When’s their birthday?:

18 November. The notification rang five times yesterday at intervals, though Beth has never forgotten a date in her entire life. Deliberately skipped certain appointments, yes. But never forgotten. It didn't matter as much as one would think. She'd bought his gift months ago, purchased at auction after she'd been completely taken by surprise. There'd been art pieces that the Admiral had been eyeing in the same way as lioness stares down a slow antelope. She'd used the distraction to escape his company and wandered amongst the other guests, champagne flute in hand but untouched. Made small talk when pressed though she would rather have been home in her pyjamas working on the slide presentation. Eventually she'd come across a small gathering of semi-familiar faces; ones she'd seen flitting by in passing, haunting record stores from here to Florida and back. People with the same avarice for vinyl as her brother. They were marvelling over some rare treasure and when Beth ducked behind a few of them to remove herself from the path of the Admiral's rage, she'd caught a glimpse of the item itself. The album is widely regarded as one of Dylan's best. Released in 1975 Blood on the Tracks is host to such incredible songs as Tangled Up in Blue, You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go, Shelter from the Storm, and Simple Twist of Fate. Finding a well-preserved copy can sometimes be more trouble than it's worth but this one, in particular, is in near mint condition. The nine-thousand current bid seems a lot for a record, no matter how good it is, but when she realises it's from the personal collection of Dylan's manager…and that it's signed by Bob himself, Beth puts down a bid of easily three times the going rate. She leaves it along with all of his notes transcribed and put into files and alphabetised by patient name on his desk. Perfectly wrapped in simple robin's egg blue paper, a festive and artistically arranged azotic citrine hued ribbon, and a small tag that simply reads: Happy Birthday, Doctor.

~*~

Where were they born?

Forty-five minutes into another interminable Sunday dinner and the Admiral has finally run out of personal slights and sneers to lob at her from his superior seat at the head of the table. Instead, he's forced to search for new ammunition. In this case, it happens to be indirectly insulting on two fronts. She sets down her fork. Carefully dabs at her lips ~the red stain too red for his taste, makes her look a…well, she doesn't even repeat the word inside her own head~ and is silent for almost a half minute. She doesn't actually know where he was born. He has all the breeding, manners, and tastes of the Manhattan elite which should have made the Admiral giddy. Would have, if he had been a friend of Andy's rather than her mentor. But every once in a while, something trips over his tongue. A slight difference in pronunciation, a particular inflection, something she is ill-equipped to put a finger on. Is it something in the deep timbre that hints at Pennsylvania smoke and steel? Maybe the shivers she sometimes gets is reminiscent of drying corn husks in a Nebraska autumn breeze. She tactfully retreats. "I am not exactly certain, Sir. Doctor Strange is my mentor so it would be highly unethical for us to have a relationship personal enough to ask him where his people are from."

~*~

What’s their favourite colour?

Black looks good on Stephen, matching his hair even when the venerable tarnish at his temples begins to show. Wine and forest green do the same, whether they're scrubs or tee-shirts or some other forgettable article of clothing. But she notices he is constant with blue. Midnight almost dark enough to be mistaken for something else and brings out the vividness of his eyes. Almost powder blue which shouldn't seem comfortable but is, in its own right, made paler still by the number of times its been through the wash. Even his day-to-day robes which are a shade she can't put a finger on, literally or figuratively. Even so, the darker shades tend to bring his diamond-sharp features into stark relief. "Mm. I t'ink…" She analyses the two ties he holds up. One is a textured slate blue neither wide nor narrow. The other is cream coloured, watered silk. The suit they are accenting is a deep charcoal grey, a three piece affaire with a suble pin-stripped vest. She rises and pads over to his tie rack just as she's done for her brother across their life together, and instead chooses a different one, one that hadn't to her knowledge come into his consideration. She takes it from it's place and brings it to him before relieving him of the other two. "Dis one." He considers her offering for a moment, then begins to lace it around his neck. "Excellent taste, Miss Riley." He might as well have named her the queen of the universe for all that she glows at the four words.

~*~

What’s their favourite perfume/cologne?

One of the most ridiculous things that the other girls do is make a betting pool. Drakar Noir. Obsession. Stetson of all things. The closest they come is Savauge. But Beth now understands why they wear such heavy things, the likes of which they'll never get to wear on the floor because they're triggering. Cloying enough to make a patient sick. Day to day though? Hints of clean laundry ~ginger, citrus, mint~ that wears away to crisp fruit. And finally a hint of musk, one of cedar. That's the Yves Saint Laurent's Y. Such a light cologne, he might not be wearing anything at all unless you're so close you can feel the heat of his skin. For those moments where he's centre-stage, accepting an award or presenting to the board and the backers, he digs a little deeper. Versace's Dylan Blue; something Mediterranean, with notes of fig, pepper, bergamont. Profoundly sensual but still…clean. And when he's out, socialising? Knowing that he's going to be the nightcap he offers? Oh it's all power fantasy and hawthorn wood. Warm, seductive sandalwood. Dior's Farenheit. Beth ignores them and doesn't put down her own knowledge. This is her secret.

Instead she merely sighs, changes the subject.

"Structural isomers can have drastically different roles in da body. Fur'dermore, only one of multiple optical isomers may be made by da body or be useful as a t'erapeutic agent. How many structural isomers of C3H6Br2 are capable of exhibiting optical activity?"

~*~

Do they like baths or showers best?

She follows him from room to room, hands full of her phone, a note application open and she types away as he dictates notes, discusses the plans for the week and what things he's got scheduled. She stops at the threshold of the bath while he pulls the glass door open and turns on the taps. Adjusts it until the spray is perfect warm to his tastes. Anyone else in her position would make the assumption that they were invited to join him. She might even have been given a pass if she thought the same given the number of times she'd helped him scrub up before and after surgery. But that's not her way, is it? As much as she might work herself down to skin and bones to be whatever he needs most in a moment, for as often as she seems alive only when she falls under his attention, Beth seems to have absolutely no interest in him beyond his intellect. Even now she turns crisply on her heels so as to turn her back to him. The phone is turned off and deposited in a pocket. She might as well be a door. "A cross-sectional study published in 2018 found that participants who took immersion baths in warm water each day experienced less fatigue, stress, and depression. Although this was a small, limited study with only 38 participants, the results were compelling. Of course, studies also show that showers that start at a lukewarm temperature and are adjusted to get gradually colder have been suggested to stimulate your nervous system, promote endorphins, and help improve symptoms of depression." If she were a bolder, more intrepid creature, she might have caught a glimpse of the fond smile he bestows her.

~*~

How do they sleep?

The more things change, the more some remain the same. Before they parted ways what seems a lifetime ago, she would often find him asleep in his office chair, draped over his desk. If he was being truly indulgent with himself, he'd stretch out on the cot shoved behind bookcases and file cabinets. Not exactly a suite in the Plaza but such is the life of a surgeon. She fell into the habit of of draping his lab coat over his shoulders, and one year gifted him a knitted throw blanket. Cold stymies the growth of bacteria and slows disease progression; hospitals are intentionally chilly. Sometimes in winter, for comfort they would occasionally put things in the warmers used for patient blankets. She doesn't know how he slept in Kamar Taj, but even now more often than not she finds him draped over books in the library or dozed off in the wing-back chair in his seating room. His bed is a beautiful four-poster affair with perhaps the best queen-size mattress on the market, hung with heavy drapes and augmented with a number of pillows that rival her own, incredible thread-count sheets, and now? Now his cloak covers him on its own when he avoids laying down. For months she tries to ignore hearing him wake up abruptly, pushes down the feelings in the pit of her belly when she hears those sometimes muffled outcries. But if there's one thing she can understand, it's night terrors. She can almost smell the cold sweat, feel his shaky breath before she hears him pace the floor, turn on his laptop or turn to one of the heavy tomes. In her mind's eye, she can see him rising from his back. It always sends a little shiver of pain deep into her chest; they'd not allowed her to see him in the hospital, but Beth's imagination has always been fertile. She can envision what he must have looked like, healing cuts and the bruises. God, the bruises. His arms and hands struck through with pins, held in traction. IVs and machines and… And she winces as her feet hit the floor. Cold, cold, cold. She takes up her bathrobe and slips it over the thin oversized Air Force tee-shirt that suffices as a nightgown and belts it around her waist. The five feet between her door and his might have been the Grand Canyon for how long it takes for her to gather her nerve and step across. She doesn't really knock so much as she places her palm on the door. "Doctah?"

~*~

Do they snore?

He doesn't actually answer her and maybe….maybe she thinks in the moment that it is easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. She opens the door just enough to slip inside. She takes a breath, the sound a full-blown gasp muffled by her own hand. His eyes are closed but his breath is ragged. His brow and his chest ~not the first time she's seen it bare~ are faintly damp with sweat. She can almost choke over the feel of his tachycardia. He doesn't snore. There's no deep or rhythmic…anything. Later, she will swear she only intended to reach toward the middle of the bed and give him a light shake. Draw him back to wakefulness, hopefully banishing the plaguing dream. Instead she drapes her robe on the foot of the bed then lifts the covers. She slips in beside him. Beth is small. The mattress doesn't really transfer motion and as she settles in, on her side which is most comfortable for her, she places her hand on his chest. If she were any less concerned about him, she'd almost be horrified by her actions. Instead she simply curls up and offers him the steadiness of her presence. Let him take whatever solace he might. She only intends to stay until he's settled. She isn't sure what time it is when his voice intones her name. "Thought you'd like some coffee."

~*~

What’s their favourite flower?

They don't really talk about that night. In fact the only time it comes up again happens two weeks later. Once she's settled into the Sanctum as more than a simple guest and he decides to show her the garden. He tells her that it's sectioned, herbs for the kitchen and for remedies, and ornamental. She laughs softly and shakes her head. "I nevah imagine you as da flower type, Doct-" "Don't you think 'Stephen' is easier?" That sardonic brow rises and his eyes crinkle at the corners though his smile is more an idea than a reality. Still enough to send a swath of pink through her cheeks and she starts to look away. He stops her with a trembling hand, the scars of which brush ever so lightly against her jaw. Beth reaches up and takes hold of his wrapped wrist and pulls his arm down, looping hers through his. She knows prolonged contact can have an impact on his neuralgia. A few moments later and the surprise ~a moment of pure delight~ has Beth giving his bicep a squeeze. Her shoulders straighten, her chin rises and she lifts her face. Her eyes gleam and her lips part in earnestness, nose scrunching at the corners of her eyes. She is so taken with the sight that she doesn't seem to notice her teeth showing and she doesn't bother to hide that smile. One corner of the garden is a cascade of purple cone flowers, asters and the unmistakable clusters of orange flowers atop their reclining stems. "Asclepius tuberosa-" He nods. "Butterfly weed." Butterfly weed had once been used for mitigating pain and relieving the difficulty of breathing in illnesses such as pleurisy, asthma, and bronchitis. But more than that, the little flowers served as a nectar source and larval host for butterflies, moths, bees. A host for pollinators. "And you're right, I'm not. But I do remember how you used to talk up the multiple uses of certain plants."

~*~

Do they drive? If so how’s their drivers license picture?

Between the windows to the world that probably have some pedigree name based off some eldritch incident or ancient creating sorcerer ~a very Hermetic thing of course, to try to give name and reason to every wonder in the universe~ and the ability to make portals to literally anywhere he could imagine, Beth doesn't know why Stephen would even need his license. Maybe the longer she thinks about it the more horrible she feels, her belly clenching in knots. In her hands, the little card bears a thumbnail of his face. Handsome as ever ~he was always that, even someone like her could see it~ Hair a little longer. A little greyer at the temples. But now that sardonic smile has lost a little of it's sharpness. There's a warmth now that rises to his eyes which even in laminated plastic shine like beacons. Lighthouses for the soul, if she were to ever say it aloud. But she won't. Not with how her teeth grit, not with the way she rubs her thumb pad over it. Not with- The way Stephen's hand envelopes hers with room to spare. Wrist to wrist her elbow falls well shy of his. Shoulder to shoulder. Back to chest. Though Stephen is foot taller than she is, Beth feels the warmth of his breath near the back of her neck. She can feel the beat of his heart behind her. Without a word, Stephen can make her knees weak and… well. Other physiological responses. "Y-you don' need it." "I know." It's a reminder. Which is exactly why he does. Talismans are a powerful focus.

~*~

Do they like reading? If so guess how many books they have?

"There you are." Neither an indictment nor a question. If anything, there seems to be a touch of pride in his voice as he watches her prowl through his shelves. Of course she'd find herself in this particular section, the ones that are now his personal duty as it was the Ancient One's before him. Behind her glasses bright eyes flicker toward him but where as they often linger on him like a caress, like something that could with the slightest encouragement devour him whole, this one is fleeting. She turns back to the tomes and make a note in her little book. He can see the glitter of the purple ink. A throw-back to when she was a very different kind of student. "Any of them interest you, Beth?" Another pause and the pen gets tucked behind her ear before she fully addresses him. "On da contrary, I'm a little disappointed." He tilts his head, brow raised. "Dere is a curious…lack. I see..Book of Invisible Sun, but not da Kitab-Alacir, written purportedly by Aretus, fleein' da House of Ixion an' da Fall of Troy. Contains an extensive discussion of science and da cosmology of da universe. Maxim's primer, but not Mushaf al-Isra ~Great Book of Passage T'rough Night.~ Not a copy of da Fragile Pa'd. Easily a million books alla 'round us…an yet… Do da Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj not acknowledge oddah Traditions, Doctah?"

~*~

Public or state school? Did they attend university? If so which one and what is their degree?

He takes the stairs easily, sneakers sure and maybe a little bounce to his step, a give to his knees. In his hoodie, no doubt a pressed tee shirt beneath, and jeans, he could be anyone. A particularly striking anyone. For a moment she feels a deep sweeping sense of nostalgia and she laughs over the sharp quip and shakes her head. Once they reach the sidewalk, he shifts behind her to be on the street-side of the walk and then, hand still in his pocket, he offers her his arm, chivalrously. She doesn't have the length of arm to just graze his with her fingertips and not seem awkward or take up more room than strictly necessary. So she closes the distance. Weaves her arm through the opening and wraps her fingers close to his wrist. Almost instantly her warmth envelopes him, soothing waves as comfortable as the autumn sunlight on his back. Her touch is always like that. They meander down the block toward a little bistro they've both heard good reviews on. "Always wan aks you," she murmurs, her brow brushing the spot just above his elbow. "You find it harder bein' wha' ya are now, or when you were a' Columbia as a student? I mean I know I was chasin' ya record… pre-med to residency, don' t'ink I would have quite caught ya but I came close. Kinda like t' t'ink you knew more dan ya fellow interns, more dan ya instructors, an' were a heck of a lot brighter an' more talent dan jus' about everyone around you. Highest grades undergrad at Empire State, perfect 528 on da MCAT…you do remembah, I only score 520. I mean…you kept on operatin' durin' da Battle of New York. So yeah, question stand. Learnin' an' grow strong in ya mana harder dan med school, or….?" She isn't really jealous, but there is a reason why he was always one of her highest hung stars.

~*~

Who’s the chef and who’s the taster?

"Close your eyes." His voice is low. Dark. Sinuous. It creeps into places wherever it can find room and raises a rush of goosebumps, makes the small hairs at the nape of her neck. Beth obeys his instruction without hesitation. That has never changed between them. Although in fairness, there's a sliver of space between her lashes, she's never fully closed them, at least not in wakefulness. His fingertips graze the corner of her mouth. "Open." Her heart thunders and she hopes he can't hear it. The air ~or the man~ is too close for there to be anything else. She can smell his cologne, and under it, the smell of his skin. It differs, the scars from unmarred flesh, each layer of him calls to her in different ways. She leans slightly toward him though that's wholly a subconscious reaction. Thin. Salty. Warm. Crisp not hard, the leanest hint of sea salt. The first thing her tongue picks up is the pita chip and a moment later, a ribbon of earthy green then brine. Soft and lush. A touch of garlic. Creamy, rich. Blends of cheese. Spinach artichoke dip. Quite possibly, the best she's ever had. The cool pads of her fingertips rise to her lips as she takes her time chewing and savouring the morsel. When she eventually swallows, her lashes flutter and she fixes him with perhaps the most viscerally potent gaze that he's ever seen on her face. It's a wonder that the kitchen doesn't catch fire, that the very clothes he is wearing do not turn to ash. "Dat absolutely…broke da mout'. I wan…I wan more."

~*~

Do they like wine? If so róse, red, or white? Beer? Whiskey?

They move from the kitchen to one of the sitting areas and make themselves comfortable. Sharing the artichoke dip and olives, the dolmas ~she hasn't asked yet how and where he learned to cook Greek~ they talk. Not about the mystic threats of the world or even really their disparate practices, they don't talk about the good old days which weren't always, and they very much do not talk about the subtle but shifting currents between them. "Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling." Her lips twitch. "Omar Khayyam." "Just a fancy way of asking if you wanted some-" "Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one." She too remembers the Rubaiyat, it had been one of her favourite things and with a fragment of the next quatrain on her lips, she rises. Crosses the way toward one cabinet. Like arraying surgical tools, she's precise in her methods. A glass. Chilled without ice from a brush of her hand until it's frosty. Into a shaker she pours two and a half ounces Grey Goose. Half an ounce of dry vermouth. A dash of orange bitters before sealing it and shaking. It slides crystalline into the glass and she adds a twist of lemon. He'll take it dirty if it's on offer but Stephen didn't enjoy the cocktail onions or the olives in general. He surprises her when she's about to turn. She looks up into his face, not noting the advantage he has looming over her. No, all of her exists in the slightest upturn of one corner of his mouth. The slightest flicker of his fingers and a different glass is full now. Amon-Ra, she can smell it a room away. A moment where chemistry and alchemy are one and the same.

~*~

Any favourite items of clothes?

"Hmmm…nah-ah."

A few moments later, she scrunches her face as if she's caught whiff of the trash taken out the night before now that it's had time to percolate under the sun. She sticks out her tongue. He hardly moves a finger before she's cutting him off. "Yeah, no. Jus' no." His shoulders rise and fall with the breath he takes, the slow count to ten that happens internally. When he turns on a heel to face her, his arms are held mid-chest and his hands are locked into fists. It makes her wince knowing the sort of pressure he's exerting on his hands in what is clearly frustration. "Do you not have anything better you could be doing?" The five points of her fingers splay across her chest and connect with it at varying degrees. "Makin' sure you're lookin' your best? High-high priority on my list. Now..dat dark dark navy is nice but pockets too high, you'll keep ya hands in ya trousers an' might shorten your line. Which…good. You're all long limb already. Now da lighter blue? Still dark but wi' white shirt an' pattern tie. Or…oooh. I…I no can let you out of house in dat all black: sharp cut jacket, black shirt wi' almos' Mandarin collar…only real hint of colour would be silvah wash…" "Wash?" "Yeah…wash. You know…tick tick tick, tell you time…" It takes a few seconds for her to get that he's now just teasing her. "Oh, ha-ha, you so funny. Jus' f' dat, pick out your own clothes." "Well, what are you going to wear?" "Absolutely not'ing." The imperious tilt of her chin is caught between his thumb and his index. He descends from on high, a low growl at her ear. "While I'm sure you'd be stunning, this is supposed to be a charitable endeavour." "…'Charity star' at home'… dat's what dey often say. So you could stay home, wear absolutely no kine eiddah, an' we jus' send one really big check."

~*~

Anything you like of theirs that makes you smile when they wear it?

His hands twist, contort. She can feel the eldritch energies manifest around her. Sees them in vibrant sunsets and virulent bio hazard greens, in soft sweeping purples. She will be unmoved by man…and magick both. "Nu-uh. Stole it fair an' square." Triumphant. Arrogant. She turns her back on him. His hands twist and contort again. Around a narrow span of torso. Gliding down to shapely hips. When they slide up, and they do…slide… she can feel the graze of his scars along her ribs. Her arms. She can feel the very soul of her pouring out of her body in the form of chicken skin, even her pores rising up to maintain contact. "False logic, criminal activity does not legitimise anything." Her name is just a breath of his at her ear as he claims victory. She turns to see him pull the ancient Columbia hoodie down his chest. She swears he also sniffs it, because the lingering scent of her ~warm and sweet~ remains in the fabric. Even if she does have to tuck her hands under the pits of her arms and scan the room for something that she can cover up with, she smiles. She loves their hoodie.

~*~

What do they wear on holiday?

"Dis. Dis is how I die, Jay." "What are you talking about now, kid?" "Took him home. Biggest mistake I evah make." "Including the time that you-" "EY! You said you would nevah bring dat back up again!" "Okay, okay. So tell me, what was it Doctor Sexy did this time?" Beth sends her the picture she took. A few minutes later, after Jay was done laughing at her, and catches her breath, Beth can almost hear her best friend nod. "Yep, stick a fork in her, girl's done for. Nice watch, though."

~*~

What do they wear if they’re just around the house?

A tee shirt and jeans. The very picture of Americana. What draws her eye isn't the crisp lines or even how utterly…normal… Stephen looks. Weirdly, she can't help but to take note of his long, bony feet as he stretches his toes toward the fire. He lounges almost leonine in his arm chair. Devouring the book in his hands, not even stopping when he lifts up his coffee mug to take a sip. Beth knows these are moments that must be savoured. There's no telling when the world is going to fall apart from some abhorrent threat from beyond. When one of his colleagues might come crashing literally through the roof with a reality shattering tragedy. When Wong will inform them that the dish-washer is on the fritz. Again. If her Achilles' Heel is elevators, his is kitchen appliances. But no. Now is serene. It's normal. It's comfortable. And so she allows it to soak into her, leaving an indelible impression of the scene in her soul, something she can't lose. And maybe, just maybe, he's aware of it, too…and has done the same thing.

~*~

Who’s the holiday planner and who isn’t allowed to hold the passports?

Stephen feels better with an itinerary and she knows why. He prefers to know down to the minute what might happen if they step away from the Sanctum and their practice. He also knows that kind of thing drives her absolutely insane, so they compromise. Seven days…well, six in which they trade off… He with guide books, maps, things of culture he'd like to immerse himself in, Her with adventures off the map, almost literally blending in with the neighbours, be they people, plants, or animals. That spare day is a time for connection and unwinding. Portals are not a thing Beth finds pleasant, though she does confess it is a vast improvement over flying. She's tried to explain before that she can't see the way threads of reality come together with what she calls correspondence. She says it's also the reason no one would ever see her pull a rabbit out of a hat. Something cute but inane. He lets her have it and doesn't explain that it's safer than any mod of travel they might otherwise {not} enjoy. She insists on passport pictures and creatively convincing stamps, except when they go to Wakanda. For whatever reason that she won't give, she insists they employ traditional means. He doesn't have a problem with it, it's a negligible inconvenience. "Can we go back t' Diagon Alley one more time, try an' mahalo?!" One more butterbeer and cauldron cake lunch and it's going to get ugly all over their shoes. It's bared teeth rather than a smile. "Sure."

~*~ Which type of phone do they have?

If she's being honest with herself, Beth is almost a little jealous.

Huawei Industries' Honor x9b is a gorgeous phone. Thin as a whisper with an incredible camera, storage, three day battery life and a host of other perks? It's honestly better than her Galaxy. She could go on about the vegan 'leather' they use for the outer case, too, but Beth honestly believes that the primary reason for it is the internal stabilisation of the camera and video as well as the drop proof screen. The various touch points. The….it all accommodates the tremble in his hands. The blue-light and optic protection also doesn't hurt. None of it at ALL has to do with the OS being named 'magic' either. Not even a little bit. He reaches over her shoulder and plucks it out of her hand. "Still not doing a tik-tok, Beth." "But you said-"

~*~

What music do they like? Be specific if you know.

"And dis is…." A painfully abrupt pause and course-correction. "…Was my braddah's collection." It's everything Stephen could truly admire, in precise order: each genre broken down by dates and then alphabetised by the musician or band name. One of Andy's prized recordings is Cross Road Blues, by Rober Johnson, recorded in a Texas hotel in November of 1936 and then released the following May by Vocalian. Each shelf stands six feet tall and wraps around the room. The surrounding audio equipment gets updated whenever a new sound-quality breakthrough occurs, but the two things Beth doesn't change is the actual record player itself, nor has she ever rearranged the sitting spot. His leather back reclining chair and ottoman remain where he'd placed them ~for the perfect sound! Just listen!~ a small end table beside it with drawers. One drawer contains a bottle of unopened single malt and a tumbler. There's another shallower one where her one concession lies; a clean glass ashtray, an unopened pack of Marlboro shorts that are by now probably excruciatingly stale if not turned to dust. Refilling liquid for the Zippo he always carried. And of course, another pair for his headset and the associated remotes. Her slow backing up steps are nearly soundless regardless of whether she's on thick, lush Turkish carpets or the polish oak floor they rest atop. "I'll let ya peruse t' ya heart's content. Mebbe pick out somet'ing to lissen to wit' supper while I go set table an' put it out. Aftah, we should talk about Connecticut. Got a two-proposal request dat seems to be right up our alley. Mansfield Trainin' School an' Hospital in Storrs an' Seaside Asylum in Waterford. Firs' one had lawsuit filed aftah it bein' found out dat patients were subject t' 'inhumane an' unconstitutional conditions' and da oddah was heavily used for children durin' a tuberculosis outbreak sometime in da early part of da Nineteen hundreds. Gov'nor offer us one-point-two million if we can clear it all up an' stay hush-hush." Another pause. "Pretty sure David "Fathead" Newman ‎-- Keep Da Dream Alive…won' set da right mood or tone. I hate f' break ya disco heart."

~*~

Any favourite movie/TV shows?

"What…what are they doing?" Maia asks one of the other students while furtively watching Masters Strange and Beth curled up on the sofa together. Watching some old show and pausing the stream every few minutes to either laugh uproariously ~a frightening concept to begin with~ or maybe worse, they start making gestures and murmur together in anger or disbelief. "Oh, it's just some old show about a brilliant but douchy doctor, his long suffering bff and a hospital. I don't get it either. But you know the Olds." Stephen insists that House is based on Sherlock Holmes. Beth is equally certain that they stole some of his case files. They tear through several episodes at a time. Next time it'll be Scrubs before they do ER. Sometimes Stephen has to pull hurricane popcorn out of his hair. Sometimes Beth falls asleep with the taste of vermouth in her mouth.

~*~

Do you see yourself being with them for a long time?

Beth sits at her vanity ~mirrorless~ and brushes her hair. Her earrings are resting in her jewellery box. Behind her the bed is turned down, Stephen already in it and reading. These are private moments. No rush, no pressure. A contentedness that neither has felt in so very long a time. Beth has always believed they were meant to be though a decade or more ago she wouldn't have been able to really put her finger on how it would be. She could have been happy to be his surgical partner. She never dreamed he'd Awaken to the knowledge that reality is malleable if one has the will and knowledge on how to bend it to their whim. So while their methods differ, they stand shoulder to shoulder against threats that the sleepers might never know. Sometimes when she treats a patient, he's willing to consult or at least talk her through diagnosis and treatment plan, often agreeing with her initial assessment. She's still nervous about sharing the room, the bed. If some of those delicious purrs and waking to find his arms around her is any indication, Stephen has no complaint about choosing her. She hasn't any either, and loves to wake up with her face pressed into his spine, leg tangled up with his. It's the optics she's concerned about. Their students are a priority. Wong understands just how deep their connection goes, and sometimes she swears she sees the master smile at them when he thinks they won't notice but Stephen's reputation has always been a priority to her. She'll sacrifice anything for him, even if that thing is her. She puts down the silver brush and makes her way to the bed. There's a genteel sort of modesty as she unties the robe of her belt, slides the satin off her shoulders, the rest of her. She's all gorgeous glowing skin and shy smiles as she slips into the space he made for her. He closes the book and invites her head to his chest. She takes up the offer but places a sideways kiss near his heart. "Read t' me." "Since you asked so nicely…" he returns the kiss to the crown of her head. Beth has never been happier, and can't imagine the rest of her life any differently.

~*~

Do you share a home? If not why not?

Sweat pours down her back as the New York sun glares down on the Sanctum gardens. Students are transplanting seedlings with the same care she might have transplanted an organ. From his window he can see her close her eyes and by very slow degrees raise her arms. She is an earth goddess in that moment ~her lesson is what she calls mālama 'aina: caring for and honouring the land~ and it had been part of the lesson plans she'd submitted to him earlier in the year. Her mana and that of her students are encouraging roots to take hold in the rich loam they've composted from fall through the winter, letting it ripen until spring. She tells them that there can be no growth or respect in the people if it first is not given to the earth that supports them, houses them, feeds them. Most of the harvest will fill the sanctum kitchens, the rest will go to the local food-banks throughout the five Burroughs. She even made a point of saying the top of the list is for Peter Parker and the FEAST centre. Stephen ignores the twitch and dull ache of his hands as he watches from the window, stroking his chin. He knows he owes Wong for finding her. Bringing her back to him. She isn't a hurricane, though she could be, but rather a gentle rain that moves everything around it by chipping away a bit at a time. Nourishing. Nurturing. Sometimes that sharp little bite. Whatever it is, he's glad she's come….home.

~*~

What quirk do they have that you love?

Stephen smiles. It pulls the corner of his mouth to the left and up, creases the corners of his eyes and when wide enough displays the long line of the dimples he doesn't claim to have. It never fails to set her stomach aflutter with a rush of butterfly wings that has nothing to do with the dip down in their dance. Her lips part with a sigh and if he looks closely enough he can count her heartbeats in her throat. She might not find it easy to say the words that glow in the heart of her eyes, but they are palpable as he brings her back upright. "There's stars in your eyes, Miss Riley," he murmurs at her ears. No, she doesn't say. Only you. "You gonna steal dem?" "On the contrary, I intend to put even more in them." Beth can't help the dreamy little sigh that escapes her. This award ceremony is going to be the second longest three hours of her life.

~*~

Lastly what do you like watching them do?

Beth hates that there is so very little she can do against vampires, not having the proper mana to combat the parts of them that are dead, and thus are creatures of matter. She can, however, offer Stephen the best of her protection by channelling the quintessential lifeblood of the universe into the intricate circle around them, inscribed with a host of mystical sigils. If the creature tries to cross the boundaries, regardless of what it is, it will catch fire that might closest resemble the heart of nuclear fission. Panting from exertion, she has a moment to glance up. She couldn't quite catch all the words of his incantations but it doesn't matter. Stephen stands like a righteous beacon. A general on a battlefield he controls. His hands twist as he forms his mudras, elegant and beautiful. Seductive in a way she shouldn't find him in such a dire moment but she can't help herself. Beth is all but biologically programmed to be fascinated by his hands. The scars he bears hold no hideousness. The only pain for her is that she'd not been able to reach him in time, been able to heal him to wholeness. Unfortunately that fascination draws a moan that gets bitten before it makes it into the open air and causes one of the rarest things in the world; her eyes fully close as she flinches back. The warehouse goes from guttering safety lights to midday as all around them the Seven Suns of Cinnibus dispels the darkness the blood-thirsty creature had summoned. It reacts even more poorly from the beams of light filling the space from a multitude of directions, burns at the kiss of Helios where Beth only feels its warmth. When she finally cracks open her lids and blinks to erase the after-burn images that light is gone, leaving them only in dimness. Beyond him is a pile of suspicious ash.

She smiles even if it's shaky, her voice trembling too. "I s'pose I should be t'anking you." "We're a team, Beth." "Oh, you t'ink I meant regardin' Twilight ovahdere? No. I meant for…" She doesn't have to finish the sentence. "You're a very weird little witch." "I know." "Let's get you home." His hands encircle her arms, helps her get to her feet. Neither of them care about the grime, the blood, the sweat. "I already am."

[auarchivist]

This picture can kind of fit into any one of various AU's. It showcases some of the characters I like to write and draw as well as a few original characters of mine.

((WARNING: long post incoming))

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It isn't everyday that James can get everyone together in one place, so when it did finally happen he planned on making the most of it with a little photo. It took a bit of moving around, but they managed to get everyone in the shot. FRONT----    From the far north is Paula, ever the joker type she finds good humor in almost anything. When she's not out in the wilderness or at home with her faithful blue ox, Babe, she can usually be found having tea and good conversation with her closest friend, Kitty. Out of all of the youngins Kitty has taken in, Hazel is by far the fondest of the bear woman, even going as far as to call her "Auntie Paula". A title Paula seems quite happy with. When it came to the new faces of their little group, Paula was always one of the first to warm up to them, but don't let her sweet nature fool you. Personality wise, she may be a teddy bear, but she's still a bear and she's got the strength to back it up.    Up next is the ever chaotic coyote Huehuecoyotl better known as Huey. Despite what people say about him, Huey is more than just an oblivious fool. In fact, he has often surprised those that doubt him with his random moments of genius. That being said while there is a method to his madness, its still madness. He can often be found at the village of Hatfield ,where all see him as the spirit of the village, hanging out with Calamity or helping James with his research on Moguels and magic. If not, then he is more than likely stealing a scarecrow somewhere.    Zim found himself at a low point, not too long ago, after finding out his mission to conquer earth was in fact just a lie by the tallest to get rid of him. Without goal or purpose and dealing with the realization that he might actually be a bad person, he fell into a state of depression. But all that changed when his ship crashed and he met Erma and the Williams family. Now he has turned over a new leaf, and is determined to achieve greatness by aiding those he can. Despite this though, Zim is very much still the ego filled, deranged megalomaniac he has always been, but now with more noble goals in mind. Despite his shortcomings in socializing Zim has managed to make close friends with Spinel and Catra and even forming a relationship with Erma's old babysitter Felicia (how he managed that is a mystery even to him).    Felicia has been familiar with the paranormal for a few good years now. From being the Williams go to babysitter to dating a former Irken Invader. She has taken all the weirdness in her life in stride, almost unfazed by any of it. Cool and level headed under pressure, a quick thinker and a good dose of bravery has made her infamous to those she has faced on ill terms, especially among the Irkens.    The young girl Erma is certainly a unique one, being a hybrid of human and Yokai descent, people in very high places have had their eye on the little girl for a long time, and for good reason as she is a well and true powerhouse of a child with abilities straight out of a horror movie. Despite this she is very much still a child and when she's not at school or at home watching a slasher flick, or the latest episode of Warrior Unicorn Princess with Gir, she can usually be found with her friends, Hazel Hali and Kaio (last two not listed).    Frosta has certainly had an adjustment period to go through and to be perfectly honest, who can blame her?  After all, its not everyday you lose your home planet. Luckily she has not had to face this alone and has adjusted rather well. All things considered. Nowadays, she lives with glimmer out in the country mastering her ice powers and trying to make friends. Turns out being former royalty can be a blessing and a curse when it comes to socializing.    When Kitty found Hazel one cold, snowy night she had every intention of finding her a proper home elsewhere come morning. But that very night, with the fire roaring, and the child asleep by her side as she quilted, any such notions went flying out the window when morning arrived. Sense then Hazel has been living with Kitty and James slowly and surely coming out of her shell (pun intended) and has become very fond of her new found family. Its clear to those that know her well that she still has some inner demons to work through.    Spinel is the one person that could possibly hope to match Huey in terms of randomness. After Zim stopped her injector plans, with the help of the crystal gems (if you asked Zim he did it all on his own) Spinel stayed on Earth to help fix the damage to beach city and afterwards the two were practically inseparable. The Irken was surprised to learn that the Toony Gem was in fact quite the genius in her own right.  Spinel helps him with a number of his experiments when she's not helping defend the local villages or hanging out with the others. She's even become quite popular with the local children, due to her zany sense of humor and neat tricks and abilities. Which has led to her taking up a side gig as an entertainer. Couch----    Despite appearances Dr. James Algernon was, in fact, human at one point in time. When he was a young boy and the "black ick" had spread across the continent James had the good fortune of running into a young Kajortoq and since then the two had grown to be quite close (much to Paula's teasing). Of course one day old James let his curiosity get the better of him, and he came to an abrupt and brutally painful end.  On the bright side, he did prove Chupacabras were real..and that they could get rabies. For most folks that would be where their story ended, but it seems no one informed James of that fact. As he somehow managed to have his soul inhabit the body of one of angels bizarre puppet dolls, made from wood and the bones of some kind of canine. An expert in the fields of psychology, anthropology, biology, and things retaining to the occult and mystical Dr. Algernon is driven by two things, his love for those he considers family and his borderline obsession with understanding the workings of Magic, both of which have blinded his hindsight and common sense a few times in the past.      The anxious feathered snake Quetzalcoatl, better known simply as Corn, is a quiet soul. Ever sense he was a little hatchling raised by kitty, Corn has always been more at ease alone or with the people he knows well. He earned his nickname when it was discovered the serpent boy had quite the green thumb, especially when it came to growing corn. He has certainly appreciated the additional help he has gotten recently in the form of his adopted sibling figure Hazel and his kindred spirit Wrodak.  Both of which he has become rather attached too.    When Kajortoq was little she was best known for two things, having a lovely singing voice that could heal the sick and for acting way older than she actually was. Now a young adult, she is still known for those things but as of recently she has become known for being the new wielder of the Red Tezcatlipoca. This is an ancient and powerful artifact that takes the form of a burning red wood-stove poker, and can harness the power of the Earth's molten core. It is also said to embody "the virtue of Judgement". Despite her cold exterior, many who know her can vouch that beneath that is a kind, nurturing women. Which has lead her to being what some would call the "mom friend" of the group. It is not too far away from the truth either, as she is already looking after three youngins, Corn, Hazel, and Charles, and has taken Catra under her wing.    Many do not know what to make of Ozama Angeline, or Angel as she is known by her friends. The powerful spirit seems to be a genuinely sweet girl despite her appearance, But the fact that she comes from the "Mictlan Woods", a Realm notorious for being a place for the lost and unwanted souls of the dead; and filled with strange doll and puppet beings made of bone, cloth and other materials (some seemily made by Angel herself), made people a tad hesitant to trust her. But over time people have grown to accept the patchwork girl being around (for the most part).  Nowadays when she is not in Mictlan she can be found tagging along with her adopted human sibling figure, Charles and his friends.    Charles is the very definition of "Problem child" which is no surprise given that his parents were from rival villages, leading to them abandoning him to perish in the cold of winter.  He was found by Angel and Amaroq (not shown). This alone would have lead to the boy having issues, but then it just so happened that he was chosen to wield the Black Tezcatlipoca, a black mass that when left on its own, nearly covered the world in an endless sleep, before being sealed away by Xipe Totec and the three siblings (Xochiquetzal, Ixtlilton and Xochipilli). When he first started using the "black ick" he planned to simply use it to end the villager's feud, but given the fact that he's a kid dealing with the people who abandoned him just for being related to someone from another village, and he now had control over a powerful magical artifact, he got a little mad with power. If it weren't for Kitty and the others' intervention, things could have gotten much worse than it already had. Nowadays he lives both in Mictlan and with Kitty, and while it took awhile, everyone has come to accept him as a member of the group. He has even managed to make a few friends. back----    An expert in illusion magick, Wrip is a master of disguise, all with the help of the magick bottles she makes herself.  If that doesn't work, this resourceful rabbit often uses her skills in flattery and persuasiveness to get her way. A  trick that works on most, save for her significant other Vinkle.    A long time ago Vinkle was charged by the local villages to reign in the illusive rabbit, Wrip.  Whos untethered nature upset them somehow. The finer details of what transpired afterword's is unknown to all, except for them. As what they have told others has, in their words, "creative licenses" but in the end, whatever happened left the two falling for each other and forming a relationship. At first glances it would appear that Vinkle is not all that bright, given his quiet and seemly distractible nature, but in reality he is simply a man of few words and is surprisingly quite perceptive of things.    Catras life has been, to put it lightly, rough. Her childhood was spent as a soldier in training in "The Horde"  with Adora, both of witch were raised by the dark sorceress Shadow Weaver (because that's a name of someone I'd trust around kids).  It was clear to all that while Shadow Weaver loved Adora like a daughter, she merely tolerated Catra, delivering torturous punishments  on the Magicat for any discrepancies caused by either of the two. This harsh treatment would leave psychological, mental, and emotional scars on Catra.  This would lead to her falling into a downward spiral, into villainy, leading to her hurting and driving away the few people in her life that still cared about her. Now after defeating Horde Prime and the exodus to earth, Catra continues her journey of redemption and luckily for her it is not a journey she's taking alone. From Kajortoq who has taken her under her wing, to her two close friends and co-former villains, Zim and Spinel, and finally Glimmer one of the few people in Catras life that has stuck around (and to who she "secretly" feels very deeply for).    Glimmer, the former princess of Brightmoon, was once hailed as a hero of the rebellion and their battle against the Evil Horde. (Why they called themselves "The Rebellion" despite not being concurred by the horde yet is anyone's guess.) But close to the end of the war she lost her mother Queen Angella.  This set her down a dark path, where her anger and grief led her to being manipulated by Shadow weaver. The conniving sorceress convinced Glimmer to activate a powerful device that paved the way for Horde Prime to find Etheria. After his defeat and moving to earth, Glimmer now tries to fix her reputation among the other Etherians as well as redeem herself. Since coming to Earth the former Princess has had a very rocky relationship with her old friends, not only for activating the device, but also for staying with Catra who she has grown very close to (and who she secretly holds feelings for) She has also begun looking out for Frosta, who still greatly admires the sparkly princess.    Icobod, the resident Book worm/stick in the mud of the group, is extremely knowledgeable in a few magical and academic fields. He is also a rather superstitious bird and is obsessed with omens, taking even the most simple ones with the utmost seriousness. Growing up in Hollow, Ichy hid his moguel nature, spending much time in his human form, fearing scrutiny by others if they knew the truth. This lead to him growing distant, even amongst his friends. Nowadays he had grown more comfortable around others, with the resident Irken taking a liking to the "large birdman of science" as he calls him. Another thing worth mentioning is that he has a considerable crush on Wrip that he has not entirely gotten over.    The adoptive little sister of Icobod, Chalchiutlicue, or Calamity as she prefers to go by, is in many ways his polar opposite. With a laid back, free spirit nature, she enjoys spending time out in the wilderness with her friend Huey. Make no mistake though, Calamity may be laid back, but when the time is needed she is more than willing to do what she feels needs to be done. She is also one to usually follow her gut, trusting her instincts despite others input. This has actually contributed to her becoming the wielder of "Tlalocs Tuning fork" a large intricately designed tuning fork that grants the wilder the power to control water provided one sing a certain haunting lyric. When Catra first joined their group, Calamity was very wary of her, but nowadays she has found in some ways a kindred spirit in the Feline Humanoid.    The Newest member of the group, Irina is quite the brawler, seemly always having some kind of bruise or some other injury on her. Despite this the foul mouth canine has quite the cheery disposition, witch goes well with her morbid sense of humor. Her favorite hobby. it seems, is poking fun at Calamity, the only person around who seems capable of matching her wit and despite the Lizard girls statements to the contrary, she always seems happier with the Canine girl around. Nor can anyone deny the glances the two shoot each other when they think the other isn't looking.      Last but certainly not least is "Wrong Hordak", or Wrodak as usually he goes by. When the former drone was cut out of Horde Primes hivemind he was a sobbing wreck as he saw himself as impure and lacking a purpose. Later on though, he saw through Horde Primes lies and aided in his downfall. Nowadays he is happy to be of assistance wherever possible. Usually helping Corn tend to his plants, or with Zim and Jame's research into the occult.               ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kitty, Corn, Calamity, Icobod, Huey, Wrip, Vincle, angel and chareles are from "No Evil" by Betsy Lee it can be found on YouTube and I highly recommend it especially if you love fantasy and Folklore as much as I do (witch is a LOT) Catra, Glimmer, Frosta and Wrodak are from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power on Netflix by Noelle Steven Felitia and Erma are from the Comic series Erma by Brandon Santiago Zim and Gir are from Invader Zim by Jhonen Vasquez Spinel is from the Steven Universe movie and Steven Universe Future by Rebecca Sugar Hazel is from infinity train by Owen Denis

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Save Him

A Stitched Story

JSE Fanfic

Oh, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I’ve had this planned out for a while. Notice how pretty much every one of the boys except Jack has been permanently injured? Wonder how Jack feels about that...probably not too good for someone who loves his friends so much. Also, read until the end, I promise it’ll be worth it :D

Tagging @septic-dr-schneep for inspiring this AU with this post.

Read the past stories: Stitched Together | The Start of the Nightmare| The Silent Night | Speak No Evil | The Static Speaks Their Names | Shot in the Dark

“But thank you guys so much for watching, if you liked this video, punch that like button in the face, like a boss! And! High fives all around. Wh-pssh! Wh-pssh! But thank you and I’ll see all you dudes...in the next video!” The moment he was done with the outro, Jack dropped his smile, slumping deeper in the chair. Not for the first time, he considered taking a break from YouTube. The stress of making videos every day, on top of everything else—and he was recording videos for Chase’s channel, too, just to make sure nobody started getting suspicious about where he’d gone. If someone called the police on his missing nature, he doubted they’d be able to do anything, and it would be better if no one else got mixed up in this.

Jack turned off the camera, and then the computer. He swiveled his chair around and stood up, stretching. His work for the day still wasn’t done. He left his recording room and came out into the hall. This was a fairly big apartment, but it was still an apartment. There was a tiny room he’d chosen to record in, a bathroom, a living room, a small dining/kitchen combo, and two bedrooms. Everything was packed close together. It only took about five steps to get from the recording room door to the guest bedroom door. As Jack opened the door, he thought that it wasn’t quite a “guest” room anymore if the person staying inside couldn’t really leave.

There had been no change in Schneep’s condition in the two months since...well, they didn’t know exactly what happened. It wasn’t like Schneep could tell them. They’d tried everything to get some sort of reaction, anything, from him, but their efforts were in vain. It was like he was in a coma. One where your eyes were open and dripped static tears all the time.

Jack ran through the motions of checking on him. There’d been no change from yesterday. He was still lying on the bed in the exact same position. Jack had told the hospital that Schneep was on vacation, de-stressing indefinitely. He’d also used Schneep’s ID to get in and, well quite frankly, steal some medical supplies. There was an IV and a heart monitor, steadily beeping just like it had been doing for weeks now. Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more he could be doing, but...god, he didn’t know. He didn’t know any sort of medical shit. He didn’t know anything about magic or the occult or whatever the fuck this was. Why couldn’t he actually do something?

“Schneep,” he sighed. “I wish...I wish a lot of things. But I wish you hadn’t gone after him alone. I wish we were all together here now. All of us.” He patted his shoulder. Maybe he could hear and feel him, somewhere in there. “Wake up soon. Please.” Then he turned and walked away, looking back one more time before turning off the lights and closing the door.

He left the room and started to turn down the hall, immediately running into JJ. He startled, backing up a couple steps. “Jesus, dude, you startled me. Didn’t hear your footsteps or anything. Did you want something?”

JJ was clutching a piece of paper tight to his chest. He was bouncing on his feet nervously, adjusting his mask with one hand. Quickly, as if he was trying not to talk himself out of it, he shoved the piece of paper toward Jack, then retreated a few steps down the hall.

Jack blinked, confused for a second before looking at the sheet of paper. There was cursive writing on it, which Jack recognized as JJ’s handwriting. He read the words: Jack, I have been doing some thinking during these last few weeks, and I have decided that there is more I can do. I’ve been avoiding going home, simply because I have been scared of what happened there. But I can’t let that stop me from helping you any longer. I can’t stand by and watch my friends get picked off. So, if you will agree to accompany me, I would like to go back to my home. There are some heavier magick spells and magic books in the apartment above my shop that could be of use. I hadn’t thought the situation serious enough to consult them before, but now it’s clear that we are running out of options. Despite the risk, retrieving them could possibly shed some light on this horrid situation.

He looked back up at JJ. “You’re sure?” He asked. “I know how much it freaks you out to even think about going back there.”

JJ nodded once. He folded his arms. It was clear to Jack that he was still scared: his hands were shaking and he was avoiding looking directly at anything. But he was trying. He must’ve really thought this was worth it. “Alright, if you’re positive. I’ll get my jacket, it’s s’posed to be chilly today. Then we’ll walk down to the shop.”

It was indeed a cloudy and chill afternoon. It took Jack and JJ about forty-five minutes to get from Jack’s apartment building to the shop, walking swiftly, driven by nerves. Jack didn’t actually think they’d find anything there, but the lingering feeling of what-if made him wish he knew how to shoot a gun, like Chase.

When they finally reached the shop, the sight of the dark, dusty windows sent chills down their spines. It had been nearly seven months since either of them had set foot in there, and it looked abandoned. JJ fished about in his vest pocket before finding the keys. It took him a minute to unlock the door, as he kept shaking. The door creaked when it finally swung open, accompanied by the ringing of the bell that was supposed to announce customers. The inside of the shop was just as dark and dusty as the windows. Stacks of cobwebbed knickknacks cast eerie shadows on the walls.

“Oh god. This is fucking freaky,” Jack muttered. “Let’s hurry.” JJ nodded in agreement, and the two of them practically sprinted across the main body of the shop to the locked door that would lead upstairs. JJ once again took out his keys and unlocked the door, revealing a narrow staircase leading up. He gave Jack a worried look. “It-it’s okay,” Jack assured him. “We’re doing good so far. I’ll go up first.” The two of them vanished up the stairs. Once they were gone, the door closed behind them.

There was another door at the top, but this one didn’t have a lock. It swung open, and JJ’s hand immediately darted to the side, flicking the light switch on. The apartment matched the shop downstairs in decor, which was to say it looked like it belonged in a different time period. The 1920′s perhaps. The two of them had entered into a living-room sort of area, with a sofa and two chairs covered in dust. The curtains were drawn, so without the yellow light of the lamp dangling overhead, the room would have been completely dark.

“I don’t...see anything.” Jack’s eyes darted about, but it just seemed like a normal apartment, albeit a bit old-fashioned. “So, where are the things you need? On the bookshelves in here?”

JJ shook his head. He made a few signs—he was getting better at them, enough so that Jack could figure out he was saying something along the lines of There’s a room down the hall.

“Well, then we should go look there, shouldn’t we?” Jack gave the living room one more look-over, then followed JJ down a hall to the left. There were three doors, two to the right and one to the left. That was the one JJ opened, darting inside the room. Jack was right behind him.

It was a storage room. Every wall had shelves full of items nailed to it, there were piles of books and boxes and chests stacked on the floor. Everything was labeled, organized meticulously. “Wow,” Jack breathed. “When you said you had a collection of magick items, this is more than I was expecting. What are we looking for?”

JJ promptly walked to the far end of the room, stopping next to a book pile, waving at them in a way that indicated that was what they were looking for. Jack nodded, joining him. He tilted his head to the side, reading the titles on the spines. Half of them he couldn’t pronounce, and of the half remaining he could only guess at what the titles meant. There was a label on top of the pile, a piece of paper folded over with the words Strange Entities, Spells, and Phenomena: Research/Info (Magic) written on it. “Okay,” he said slowly. “There’s no way we can carry all these back to my apartment, so you’re gonna have to help me choose which ones to prioritize. Each of us can hold...uh, three or four, maybe five if we choose thinner ones? Let’s get started.”

A few minutes passed, wherein JJ and Jack sorted through the pile. Usually this involved Jack holding up a book for JJ to look at, and then he’d either shake his head, or take the book and thumb through the pages, then either put it aside or nod to say they should take it. After a while of this, they narrowed it down to eight books that were important enough to take back. “Do you think we should take any of this stuff?” Jack indicated the objects on the shelves. JJ considered for a moment, then shook his head. He signed something that about meant Not enough room, not worth it.

“Alright, then.” Jack grabbed four of the books. “Let’s go.” The two of them left the room, emerging into the hallway again.

The lights died.

Jack stopped dead in his tracks. He looked behind him to see JJ had done the same, his eyes wide. Jack wanted to say it was nothing, but they both knew better than that. “Just...be ready,” Jack whispered. JJ nodded shakily. Jack turned back around and crept down the hall. It felt like his eyes were going to burst out of their sockets, he was looking so hard, waiting for something to happen.

They reentered the living room. But it was different. There were things hanging from the ceiling, dangling from lengths of green thread. Jack looked closer and saw they were thin, silvery, bloodstained needles.

There was a muffled yelp, then a series of thumps behind him. Jack spun around and saw Jameson had fallen to the floor, dropping the books he’d been carrying, bracing himself against the nearest wall. His eyes were fixed on the needles overhead. “James? No no no, it’s okay, it’s fine!” Jack dropped his books in turn, rushing to Jameson’s side. “They can’t—they’re just—they’re not going to hurt you!”

A laugh echoed around the room, causing the needles to sway. “You don’t k̷n̸͠ow ̕͝t̸ḩ͟a͝t̵̶, Jackaboy.”

Jack’s shoulders raised at the mere sound of the voice. He resisted the urged to rub his throat, instead turning and looking back to the room. “Where are you?”

“Neither h̴e͢r͞ę̢͞ nor t̀͠h͏e͢͟͞r̸ę͝.” The voice was coming from everywhere at once, but it was also coming from nowhere at all. “But there’s s̷o͢m̢é̡òn̷͡e̡͠ who’s been...h́͏̧o̸pi̸͠n͞g͢͠ to see you two.”

Everything turned red for a moment. And when it cleared, there was Chase, sitting on one of the chairs, staring at them through the static film over his eyes. Jack inhaled sharply. He hadn’t seen him in person in months. And Jameson hadn’t seen him at all. Jack looked over to see him touching the spot where his mouth was under the mask, his eyes fixed on the stitching around Chase’s neck.

“Chase...” Jack said softly. “Are you...there?”

“I̧'m͡ ̛h̡eŕe͝.”

“That—that’s not what I meant.” Jack stood up, slowly. Chase mimicked his movements almost perfectly. “Do you remember? Please tell me you remember me, and Doc, and JJ.”

“I͏ ́remember̨ y͝ou͢. But́ w̕h̷y̶ ̷do̧ ̴you ma̢tter?̵” Chase held his hand out to the side, like he was waiting for someone to give him something. And suddenly there was a knife in his hand, formed out of thin air.

Jack felt his heart freeze in his chest. “Chase.” He raised his hands. “Please, don’t do anything stupid. Look, we’re not dangerous. You don’t have to do this.”

“H͟e͝ ̸toļd̨ m͠e ̀t̶o.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you have to do it!” Jack said, not bothering to mask the desperate note in his voice. “Chase, just...try and think for yourself. Do you really think it’s a good idea to—to do whatever it is he told you to do? You’re going to end up hurting someone. You’re gonna hurt someone who hasn’t done anything! I know you think that’s an evil thing to do. You shouldn’t do whatever he says, because he’ll tell you to do awful things. Please, Chase, do you really want to do this?”

For a moment, the static in his eyes seemed to clear a little. The hand holding the knife lowered a bit. Jack let himself hope. And then—

“Y̡ès̀.”

The knife sailed through the air. Jack instinctively ducked away from it, but he hadn’t been the target. There was a wet thump, then what sounded like someone screaming with their mouth closed. Jack whirled around. Jameson was still sitting against the wall on the floor, but now his hands were wrapped around the blade that had lodged in his stomach. He looked at Jack, and there were tears in his eyes.

Something broke inside Jack’s heart. He spun back around, facing Chase again. “Is this really it?!” he shouted to the room at large. “You’re gonna send someone else to do your dirty work for you?”

“Well, w̶h͏ỳ̷ s͏̕ḩ̕͞ơuĺd̴ń'ţ͟ Į?̨” The voice returned, bouncing from corner to corner, breaking and distorting. “If I have a p̛͠͠up̡̛p̷̢e͏t̡̢, might as well u͟sé̵́ ̀͞h̸̨i̵m̵͏.”

“Why is it him, though?” Jack demanded. “Why is it him, Anti?”

There was a slight pause. Then, Anti hissed, “He was the eą̀ś̷̸ie̛s̷̢t̡̀͏ ͟͠onè̷̕ to turn.”

Jack stared at Chase. He hadn’t moved since throwing the knife, his expression perfectly blank. Jack hated it. He would give anything for him to stop looking that way...he would give everything for his friends to be back to normal. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Anti, do you know what’s even better than a puppet you had to turn?” He hesitated for a split second, then made his decision. “One that’s willingly joined you.”

Absolute silence. Jack didn’t look away from Chase. That is, until he heard some scrambling sounds behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see that Jameson had moved a couple feet toward him. One hand was still on the knife, still stuck in his torso, the other was reaching toward Jack. Jameson looked him in the eyes and shook his head. There were a few muffled sounds coming from underneath the mask, and Jack could guess that Jameson was doing his best to plead with him through the stitching. “It’ll be okay, JJ,” Jack said soothingly. “I—I know what I’m doing. Just make sure you don’t bleed to death or anything.”

“It will be b͢e̶̕t͡t̢̕e͠r̸̨ than okay.” Jack’s head whipped back around. He was here now. Or maybe he wasn’t quite here. His edges seemed...fuzzy, and patches of red, blue, and green were falling off his body in droves. He was grinning madly. “What are you ơ̢f̵f͏e͞ri͡ǹ̛g̷̀ m̡͟e, Jackaboy?” Anti asked, stepping closer.

Jack fought the urge to take a few steps back. “I...I’ll take his place,” he said quietly. “I’ll take all their places. I’ll join you, I’ll let you do whatever the hell you want to me, but only if you let them all go.”

“How do I know you’re not l̵̸̡y̵͟i̶͢n͠͏̴g̷͟? How do I know you won’t tr̢͏y͞ ̴̨́t͞͠o̴͢ ̶ru̡n̵̡ at the f̸̕iŕ͟şt̶͟͠ opp̡o̷r̡͢t̡͏͏uǹ͢͞i͏t͡͡y͠͡?̷̧͠”

“I won’t! I...I swear it!” Jack swallowed. “On my life. On their lives.”

Anti stared at him blankly, his eyes flickering between blue and green, the open throat gushing blood through the string straining to keep it closed. Then his grin widened. “Alrig̶hţ̀,” he said, voice crackling. He disappeared, then was suddenly right in front of Jack. “A ͡͠d̷́éà͢͡l̕'s͏͟ ͡͏̴a ͝ḑè̷̵a͟ļ̵.” Before Jack could argue or demand more, Anti grabbed him by the shoulders. A wave of neon, glitching distortion spread from his hands, enveloping Jack’s body in seconds. When the glitches faded away, Jack was gone.

Jameson cried out, the sound turned into a mumble. No, no, no Jack didn’t—he couldn’t have—that was so stupidly heroic, didn’t he know it wouldn’t work? That he’d just give himself up for nothing?

Anti turned his attention to him. He smiled triumphantly. “Ḩ͞á͠v̡̕͟e͏ ̢f̧ưn̷̛.” He pointed to the ceiling, then wiggled his fingers in a cheery wave before he and Chase disappeared.

Jameson looked up. The needles were still hanging from the ceiling, but they were jittering, moving. The threads holding them were flickering in and out of existence—

He barely had time to curl into a ball, flinging his arms over the back of his head and neck before the threads vanished altogether, sending the needles crashing to the floor in a wave of silvery death. He cried out again as he felt the sharp jabs, the thin piercing pains, all over his arms and back. The gently metallic sound of needles hitting the hardwood floor was all he could hear. And then, as quickly as it started, it was done.

He stayed in that position for a while longer. Not just because moving caused the needles to jingle and the knife still inside him to stab deeper, but because he was scared. Was he alone? Or was Anti still there? Eventually, he found his courage, slowly lowering his arms and raising his head. The apartment looked empty. And it felt empty...too empty.

Jameson really was alone.

Hours later, he’d managed to make it back to Jack’s apartment. Thank god Jack had given him a key, otherwise he’d be forced to find other accommodations, since there was no way in hell he was staying back at the shop. He’d managed to get most of the needles out back there, but he’d kept the knife in until he had access to the medical supplies Jack kept in the bathroom. He didn’t want to bleed out. Once back at the apartment he’d double-checked for needles, pulling out the last of them. Most of his backside and his arms were covered in tiny holes that thankfully hadn’t bled much, but still required bandaging. He’d also finally treated the massive stab wound, though pulling out the knife hurt almost as much as it being buried in there in the first place.

After he’d managed to do that, he checked on Schneep. Just as he suspected, he was in the same condition as before. Anti had lied. He hadn’t let the others go, he’d just taken Jack. No doubt he was laughing at him for believing he’d ever relinquish an inch of control.

And Jameson was angry. No, he was furious. At Anti. He was still terrified of him, of course, but now it was mixed with a rage he’d never felt before. Anti thought he cheat and manipulate and hurt without consequences. He thought he could take his friends from him and get away with it. Well, he was wrong.

Jameson had the presence of mind to grab four of the books he and Jack had originally set out looking for before leaving the shop. Now, he sat at Jack’s kitchen table with one of them open before him, carefully reading the pages and trying to push through the pain in his abdomen that would shoot agony up his chest whenever he moved. There had to be something, anything, in here. A tiny hint as to what, exactly, Anti was, the mere mention of a way to defeat a thing like him. The windows grew dark, and still he read, still he studied.

There was nothing in the first book. Nothing he could use. Sure, maybe he saw some spells that could help, but he was magickal, not magical. Magick just needed certain charged items, specific rituals to follow to make something happen. Anyone could use magick. But spells, enchantments, curses, jinxes...for those you needed a certain amount of pure talent, a bit of magic in your soul that you had to be born with. And if you weren’t born with it? Sucks to be you.

Jameson slammed the book shut, then slammed his forehead onto the kitchen table. He still had three books to go, but he had a feeling they were all like this. Plenty of useful and interesting information, but nothing to shed light on his current predicament. Many powerful spells and hexes, but nothing he could actually use.

Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea? Why had he ever believed he would actually be able to do anything? Why did he think ever he was useful?

He raised his head. Those...weren’t his thoughts. Actually, they were, but...they were the same sort of things Anti had said to him so many months ago. The things that this demon, or whatever he was, wanted him to think. And thoughts like this had been plaguing him ever since then. He was thinking of himself the way Anti thought of him.

Jameson sat up straight, placing his hands palm-down on the table. These thoughts...they just wouldn’t do. If he let himself think this way, how was he better than Anti? He certainly wasn’t helping anyone. He was just letting Anti win. And that was not something he could do. Anti could not get to him. And if Anti thought he was weak and useless and all those other things, then he’ll have to prove him wrong.

He closed his eyes. He wasn’t worthless. His friends needed him, now more than ever. And he wouldn’t let Anti get between him and saving them. It could not happen. He would save them. He would save them. He would save them he would save them he would save them—

Something snapped.

That was the best way to describe it. It wasn’t a bad sort of snap, like a heartstring breaking. It was like the snap of chains breaking free. His eyes flew open, and his world was glowing blue.

He looked down at his hands on the table. The light blue glow was coming from them. Or, more accurately, the rings that had appeared around them. They were flat, concentric circles that reminded him a bit of that hero movie Chase had made him watch one day. Between the rings of each circle were...runes. The language of magic and magick. Or at least, one of the languages, there were multiple runic alphabets one could use. These runes were dancing, running around the circles. He recognized a few of them: save, protect, guard, friendship, loyal, soul, rescue.

He raised his hands. The rings stayed with them. He thought about them growing bigger. They did, changing from the size of dinner plates to the size of trash bin lids, the glow flaring in turn. He wished for them to disappear, and they winked out of existence. He wished for them to return, and they faded back in.

This wasn’t possible. He’d tried magic spells before, they hadn’t worked. He thought he wasn’t magic. But apparently he’d been wrong. Maybe he just needed some proper motivation. Maybe he just needed something—or someone—to fight for.

JJ was smiling. Under the mask, he was honest-to-god smiling. The motion was pulling at the stitching, and he welcomed it. It had been so long.

No more listening to Anti. No more waiting on the sidelines, not even trying, because he thought he couldn’t do it. He could do it. He was going to save his friends.

[brooklynislandgirl]

tangleweave asked:

Studying tends towards the same general rules of conduct and etiquette whether one occupies Kamar-Taj or one of the Earthly Sanctums. Few appreciate the engagement of banter when reading or taking notes. Most do their best note-taking in silence. But Wong has noticed Beth's tendency to discuss the finer points of her studies with Stephen, and the recorder she employs as he walks her through the litanies of spells unfamiliar or adjacent to the craft she knows.

As a gesture of good faith, he brings to her a small dish containing small cube-like chunks of tomato and shredded salmon with bits of onion, and places it on the table beside her before circling about to sit opposite her.

"You are a light eater," he notes, "but I suspect a taste of home might do your stomach and your heart some good this evening. I was hoping to get your perspective on Stephen... and wondering if perhaps you would share how you came to value him as a teacher, considering your already advanced magical acumen."

{{ 🖤 }}

~*~

A Little Me, A Little You || Accepting @tangleweave​

Ko’u Puʻuwai || Stephen Strange Practical Magick || Dr Strange AU

The chambers that have been granted her ~a lovely euphemism as she’d gone full Kamehameha the Great and took the ones across from Stephen’s by right of conquest~ are quite lovely, spacious, and allowed to be made in self-reflective image. The stone is never too prohibitive with its chill. If anything there’s humidity here that cannot be found in the rest of the sprawling grounds. Not unlike the Tardis in many ways there’s more space then there ought to be. Thick rugs adorn the floors and there are cushions to sit upon, though she currently sits cross legged at a low slung table. Everywhere there is a riot of colour from various plants, flowers, and herbs, though green is ascendant. The air carries the scent of a salt tang that hits the back of the throat, and she is clever. The kiss of ocean comes from candles that burn judiciously. Aside from the bed and bookshelves, the most eye-catching thing is a small tree growing in a wooden planter, its leaves and trunks stained curiously red.

She had heard the door open and it is very much Stephen’s voice that gets cut off mid-sentence, a lecture passed on from the Greater Key of Solomon that Beth has taken absolute affront. She can see why Sorcerers might choose to practice their magick thus, but to bind and command a spirit is so anathema to her that it she can already feel the bile burning the back of her throat. Kahuna do not force, they ask. Respectfully. Usually with chiminage, or gifts, for the other side, just as real and alive as they are. She sets aside her pen and her note book.

“Master Wong,” she greets him warmly, though isn’t so blasé that she can keep surprise from her features when the scent of the poke ~specifically the shoyu~ hits her full in the face. She rises until he’s seated then offers him a respectful bow so deep her forehead nearly touches the table. Then she’s back on the floor almost exactly as she was when he entered. She had just picked up the chopsticks when Master Wong addresses his question to her and for a moment, she hesitates. Something she cannot express prickles its way down her spine. She swallows heavily. But before she answers him she rises to her feet. From one of her nooks she retrieves a now familiar item, an athame carved with sigils that looks like antique ivory stained with some reddish brown tarnish. Three times she walks a circle around the table, Wong, and her empty place, stopping at each quarter of the compass where she lifts her arms and whispers an invocation; to spirit and to element as she weaves together a boundary. While the words are not common to him, the intention is plain; anyone intruding on the space would be redirected elsewhere, and whatever was spoken within the confines of the circle would remain there, not to be heard. For Beth, it’s a simple spell that draws on both the spirits and the elements but it provides a secure comfort that she might speak with the master in open honesty.

“I was little more than a child,” she begins, enunciating to the best of her ability, “when I was granted entry into University. But even then I had great mana ~magick~ in my blood. My ancestry is rooted deeply in that of the gods and of our ancient line of kings. A child of many cultures, I learned fairly early to hide my arts. That was easy. As was finishing pre-med in two years rather than four. By that time, Stephen was....” Every aspect of her softens, the adoration in her features could rival the sun as she gazes toward some space over Master Wong’s shoulders. Nothing to suggest she even realises it but it’s a look that often appears in conjunction to the Sorcerer Supreme. “...One of the youngest, most talented doctors in our particular field. I suppose they pressed him to teach the younger generations though I am sure he’d rather preform his own splenectomy with only a rusty spork. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but he can sometimes be a little... remote.” She regales him with the story of their first meeting and the way she interrupted his lecture, adding in her personal feelings of sheer terror, of the desire for Grandmother to open a sinkhole beneath her and swallow her whole. She speaks of no surgeon alive or dead who was as perfect, as if he could suspend stars in the heavens with a thought and walked on water on weekends. She speaks of his sense of humour. She confesses that perhaps her sole reason in choosing Columbia was in hopes of at least once being able to watch him work. Or bear witness to him speaking at an alumni event. She speaks of his devotion in educating her, helping her through some of the hardest material, how he would listen to her and hold debates that would span weeks. She spoke of attending events together, or simply sharing coffee and a chance to breathe. His insistence that she eat or sleep when it was clear she’d done neither, and how she would do the same for him. She tells him of becoming Stephen’s first choice to assist, how they worked seamlessly together as if they were the same hands linked to the same mind within the operating theatre. She speaks of a connection she’d not felt before, not even with her brother. “Stephen made me feel seen. Made me feel valued, appreciated, never left out or out of place. He taught me ethics and the value of hard work. He taught me to trust my instincts and judgements. How to gracefully overcome mistakes, and...I owe him for everything I am today.” She takes a moment to breathe. Picks at the poke though she doesn’t eat much of that, not before she places her hands on the little tea pot on the table ~jasmine with a hint of honey for sweetness~ and pours a cup for Wong. “I suppose it’s no real secret that...that I’ve been in love with him for sixteen years, almost half my life. And only now can we...we share all of this. I wanted to tell him before but...how could he believe me? I’m sure... I’m sure you understand how great a burden it is not to have been able to tell him everything. And..maybe I have no right to ask but...please...don’t tell him, okay? I lost him once, I don’t think I could survive a second time.” ~*~

attractiveness:

repulsive / hideous / ugly / not attractive / unappealing / not unattractive / meh / no preference / ok / mildly attractive / nice looking / cute / adorable / attractive / pleasant on the eyes / good looking / hot / sexy / beautiful / gorgeous / hot damn / would tap that / perfect / godlike / holy fuck there are no words.

personality:

grating / irritating / frustrating / boring / confusing at best / awkward / unreasonable / psychotic / disturbing / interesting / engaging / affectionate / aggressive / ambitious / anxious / artistic / bad tempered / bossy / charismatic / appealing / unappealing / creative / courageous / dependable / unreliable / unpredictable / predictable / devious / dim / extroverted / introverted / egotistical / gregarious / fabulous / impulsive / intelligent {almost offensively so} / sympathetic / talkative / up beat / peaceful / calming / badass / flexible.

how likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending / fuck no! / never / no way / not likely / not sure / indifferent / I’m asexual/sapiosexual {she has a thing for doctors, clearly} /  maybe / probably / it depends / fairly likely / likely / yeah sure / yes / would tap that / hell yes / fuck yes! / wishing that could happen right now / as many times as possible / we are already having sex.

level of friendship:

never in a million years / worst of enemies / enemies / rivals / indifferent / neutral / acquaintance / friendly toward each other / casual friends / friends / good friends / best friends / fuck buddies / bosom buddies / practically the same person / would die for them / true friends / my only friend.

first impression of them:

i hate them so much / i don’t like them / i don’t trust them / they annoy me / they’re weird / I’m indifferent / meh / they seem alright / they’re growing on me / truce / I think I like them / I like them / I’m not sure if I trust them / I trust them / they’re too cool for me / they’re genuine / I think we’re going to get along / I really like them / I think I’m in love / oh fuck they’re hot / I love them.

current impression of them:

i hate them so much / i don’t like them / i don’t trust them / they annoy me / they’re weird / I’m indifferent / meh / they seem alright / they’re growing on me / truce / I think I like them / I like them / I’m not sure if I trust them / I trust them / they’re cool / they’re genuine / I think we’re going to get along / I really like them / I think I’m in love / oh fuck they’re hot / I love them.