Summary:A quiet domestic moment around the Sanctum Sanctorum Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The Sanctum Sanctorum is the stronghold of the Sorceror Supreme, the nexus of his influence and his power. Strange resides there, yes, but its origins are far older than the simple brownstone in which it currently exists. It has been shifted through space and time, again and again. The cosmetics change, but the essence remains the same, a warded and immaculate pearl, through which the power of the Sorceror Supreme may flow at its most dynamic, its most efficient, its most powerful.
Stephen Strange currently sits at the apex of that power, his legs crossed lotus style. His mind, however, focuses not on the great cosmic mysteries but on the bowl in his lap.
"I am all for authenticity, but I do not believe I care to have fish heads in my ramen," he says, selecting one of the offending piscatorial noggins with his chopsticks and hefting them up to show to Rachel, his paramour and apprentice. "I cannot help but feel a certain amount of rebuke in the way it stares at me."
*
Rachel, seated nearby with her own bowl of hearty ramen, grins at the sight of the gaping mouthed fish head. "Oppa, no one will blame you for not eating them. Everyone has their preferences, even within their culture's cuisine. Like, I met this one woman, Li Ziqi, a beautiful Chinese woman who can cook anything from scratch, and lives her whole life doing things the old-fashioned way, because she believes it enhances her enjoyment of life, right?
"She can make tofu from scratch. She builds her own furniture. Grows and harvests her own vegetables and spices. Slaughters her own meat. But, she can't stand chicken feet. It's considered a very common snack in some cultures, especially Asian cultures. But, she won't touch them for herself. If her grandma didn't enjoy them, they might just be fed to her pigs," she smiles, pausing to inhale a huge load of her own noodles. All of her fish heads are suspiciously missing.
*
Doctor Strange takes a full mouthful of noodles, chewing carefully and avoiding slurping too very much. He's not self-conscious about it, he just doesn't like being messy. "Sounds as if she has a very satisfying way of life," he says. "I don't blame her about the chicken feet. I think sometimes about making an herb garden here, but I don't know that I have the free time to attend it properly," he sighs.
"I think we're going to practice hand-work today," he says. Certain spells require very precise gesturing, fingers placed just so, angled and flourished with just a proper flick or flex. Not to mention getting the pronunciation of the words just right. It's an intensive art, "Then perhaps some language work. I'm not sure about teaching you Enochian. Angelic language might not sit well on your tongue, given your heritage," he says.
*
"She seems to find it works for her. It's also lucrative. She's created an air of the mystical about her that people pay to watch her do her daily grind," Rachel nods, drinking deeply of her ramen's broth. "She's called a fairy. She's built up the mystery surrounding her life by always doing her own filming at first, and then only allowing a very small number of people to help her with the filming once she got more popular. She doesn't do interviews, and she doesn't allow people to watch her while she films. Very hush-hush," she waves her chopsticks in wooj-circles for emphasis.
"Well, there's one way to find out. I'm game for trying almost anything at least once. After all, according to some accounts, demons were once angels," she notes, TKing one of the neglected fish heads from Stephen's bowl to her own. "I've been really working on flexibility of my hands and fingers, just to note. I never realized they weren't flexible until you presented me with the exercises," she glances at her delicately boned hands and fingers with her black lacquered nails. "If I get carpal tunnel, you can cure that, right?" she grins lopsidedly.
*
Doctor Strange smiles, "I can, yes, although I don't think you'll have too many problems. You're young and flexible enough as it is, in my experience" he says, a bit playful in his phrasing. "I'd be intrigued to meet the woman you describe. She sounds very interesting. Reminds me of some of the mystics I met in Tibet. They were so peaceful, so wise. I absorbed as much as I could, but I could never quite shake my Western habits entirely," he admits.
He finishes his bowl and uses his own telekinetic skills to float it off into the kitchen to be cleaned later. His legs unfold and he strides over to her, taking one of her hands in his, "I know that some of the lessons are difficult. You never complain and do your work well," he smiles, "Tonight, perhaps, we'll take a break from study and have a bit of amusement. Maybe take in a play."
*
Rachel finishes up her food (and the bits Stephen left in his bowl) as he speaks, her lavender-hued eyes sparkling a bit as he jokes with her. "Believe me, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not grateful that my teachers forced me to make yoga a habit in my life," she laughs. "*Especially* now that I'm with you," she raises her elegantly arched brows meaningfully at him. She pauses a moment and considers her life with her teachers, the zen masters who, in her childhood, were rather harsh and cold… "I really wish I'd had a similar experience," she exhales. "I would've much preferred the peaceful method."
Her bowl joins his on its trip to the kitchen, and she rises from her seated position with his aid. She smiles warmly, "Of course, I don't complain and work my hardest for you. I realize that very few people ever get an opportunity like this, and I won't squander it. I'm happy to invest my blood, sweat, tears, and more, if it's required. I'm grateful, and I've learned so much from you, already." At the mention of a play, she grins, "That sounds awesome! What plays are even open, right now? Something tells me it'll be a unique experience to watch a play with you." She pauses and adds, "Though, you know me. I'm also happy to stay in and watch some good TV and eat some good food, and all the creature comforts that that privacy affords, too."
*
Doctor Strange considers, "Would you prefer a musical or something more straightforward? I hear 'Waitress' is a good show. The music is by Sara Bareilles, who's rather talented in my opinion," he smiles. He sits next to Rachel, slipping an arm around her and letting her head rest against his chest.
"I don't know that I watch plays any differently from most. Of course, I've been to at least one that turned out to have a possessed person in it. And another where I was attacked in the audience by a Netherbeast that came out of the orchestra pit. But I never let it dampen my enjoyment of the theater," he says with a mild grin. "Unfortunately, part of my life is simply that my mere presence often coaxes hidden and secret powers to the surface."
*
Snuggling comfortably into his arm, up against his side, her head on his shoulder, Rachel considers. "I love all kinds of theater, oppa. I love musicals, and non-musicals. I love operas, even if I can't understand what they're singing, most of the time. I love the ballet, the orchestra, the symphony… I just love art," she laughs softly. "Things you already know," she muses shortly thereafter. "So, let your mood be the guide. Whatever journey you want to take, or to take me on, I'm happily by your side for the ride," she smiles, being a poet without intent.
Then, she pauses and laughs, shaking her head. "Hopefully nothing quite so eventful as that, no. I was thinking more along the lines of you knowing neat little spells that can enhance our viewing, like having the ability to see things from choice directorial angles, and have it sound perfectly audible no matter where we're seated… Maybe even have floating subtitles, or a universal translation spell, so I can understand what's being said. For example," she grins as she shamelessly lays out her frivolous ideas of magic-usage! "Maybe never-ending soda, and perfectly-drenched-in-butter popcorn with no kernels or shells!" she daydreams wistfully.
*
Doctor Strange laughs, "In theory, I shouldn't be using my vast cosmic powers for such frivolities. I do admit, however, that you're rather persuasive in that regard. The delight you would take in such things would likely overcome my own tender conscience as regards the abuse of magical forces," he says.
"I do think it would be worthwhile to get our own private box. I do try my best to be social, but I admit, I don't particularly savor being pressed in close quarters with masses of strange humanity," he says. "We'll have to take a look at the listings and see what might have boxes available. And yes, I could cheat, but I'd rather not deprive someone of something if I can help myself.
He stands for a moment and peruses the newspaper section, old-fashioned as he is, looking through the theater section, "I'm never sure if I can trust these reviews. All so very subjective," he says, standing there in simple trousers and a smoking jacket, absentmindedly packing a pipe as he looks along the line of text.
*
Rachel grins as he confirms her suppositions about the frivolity of her daydreams, stretching out on the divan, making herself shamefully comfortable as Stephen pulls out a newspaper from who-knows-where. "I wouldn't want to be a bad influence on you, Doctor," she says with a smile, though there is a good deal of genuine truth behind that lighthearted statement. "Being cooped up with you in our own little bubble of reality, so to speak, it's easy for me to forget to remember that you're the Sorcerer Supreme, and that you have a great deal of responsibility to uphold in that role," she exhales a soft sigh. "Is it bad that I love thinking of you as Stephen, and not so much as Doctor Strange?" she wonders in a hesitant voice, as though she feels guilty for voicing it aloud.
*
Doctor Strange continues to read, even as he answers her question, "Far from it. I haven't really had anyone think of me as just Stephen in…quite a long time," he sighs. "Even those who knew me before, they can't regard me the same way. Not that I'd want them to. I was…not the easiest person, before I discovered magick. Or before it discovered me."
"Regardless, my role often supersedes who I am as a person. Especially since it often dictates how I interact with others. I have to be somewhat 'official', if that makes any sense. Maybe I don't, I just…am," he says and shrugs. "You seeing me as a person is part of what makes you special."
*
Rachel smiles at that, feeling warmed and comforted by the sentiment. "I feel like I sort of cheated, somehow. Like, I didn't know the weight of your position in the grand scheme of things when we first met and I was so attracted to you that, well, all I could think about was you, as a person. How I wanted to have you hold my hand and walk beside me as we enjoyed the night air, or the cool breeze of an autumn day. And, I would imagine the look in your eyes as you smiled at me, not as a person, but as a woman you cared for…"
And, here, Doctor Strange's girlfriend sighs wistfully in a dramatic fashion, clasping her hands together and tucking them under her chin. "Little did I know how much better it would be to experience it in reality!" she lolls her head to one side and smiles dreamily at him, where he stands in his elegant housecoat, bespoke trousers, leather house slippers, and a gently smoking pipe. "Whatta dreamboat~" she coos, grinning broadly.
*
Doctor Strange lays the paper aside and moves to sit down next to Rachel again, "Nonsense, but pleasant nonsense," he teases at the compliment.
"I'm very lucky that you saw me, beyond the trappings, behind the magick. You have a very keen insight and good instincts. Perhaps that's why I fell for you so quickly," he smiles. His strong hand cups her chin and leans down to kiss her gently on the lips.
"If I am a dreamboat, then you, my dear, are the dream itself."
*