To her credit, Wanda's done her best to lower the water levels. Before, it'd been up to the very wet and still dripping ceiling.
She stands on the first floor and wrings her hands, appearing very, very sheepish. While she knows what she's done is the very opposite to the task Wong had set, she does feel a little proud of herself. How many witches can summon water with a mere flick of her wrist? How many of them could summon water from the Pacific and have it feel as real as the ocean beneath a blazing sun?
The water below has a very dull red glow. The water level doesn't decrease any further. Wanda's a little afraid that if she tries to make it all vanish, it'll flood the streets of New York.
Wong had made reallocating what he conjured up look easy.
"I warmed the water," she says proudly and grins widely. Wanda Maximoff still looks very, very sheepish. (It beats feeling despondent.) Strange looks like a drowned rat and his cape—his poor cape—doesn't seem to be fairing any better. "There's even sand on the floor... for the crabs."
Floating above this miniature ocean, Stephen stares down past his dripping boots, and— yes, the water's clear enough that he can see the new sandy bottom over the mismatched parquet floor, and even the occasional blurry shape of a scuttling crustacean.
For a fleeting moment, he considers just tossing up his hands and giving up and leaving it be. Maybe this is just how the Sanctum looks now. They can use the side alleyway entrance to get in and out. They can tell visitors to come around the back. Maybe they can set up parasols and beach chairs and serve tropical cocktails on the landing. Wong won't mind, would he?
The cloak tugs at his shoulders and starts curling itself up, twisting and wringing out the water, and Stephen sighs. He floats over to the staircase and lands nimbly next to Wanda, and then absentmindedly kicks his feet a little, shaking off the water like a dog.
"I did appreciate it not feeling like taking a plunge into the North Sea. So you brought it all here, but haven't been able to send it back?"
"Yes," she beams. Wanda does her best to hide her sheepishness. "Kind of."
While Wanda theoretically knows she can send all of this back to where it came from, a part of her is afraid. And it's a big, huge part of her—Hex-size, really—that is a little terrified at the idea of sending it all back and accidentally doing it wrong. What if she turns the ocean inside out? What if the Sanctum collapses because of her efforts to send the ocean and its sandy bed back?
She can hear Agatha's voice rattle inside of her head. Her Hex had been as broken as she was. She worries about breaking the vast ocean that's remained dormant and somewhat left in peace for years.
"I thought I would see if I could make pieces of it disappear... like a puzzle."
Stephen glances over at her. They're not deeply acquainted yet, but he's started to get a better and better sense of the woman, the more time they spend together — what with Wanda taking up residence (or sanctuary) in the Sanctum Sanctorum, burying herself in the library and trying to understand more about her magic. Adding a bit of amiable chaos, both figurative and literal, to the sorcerers' lives here. It's been nice, having the company around; she helps as a tie-breaker whenever he and Wong are squabbling over something deeply banal, like which Spotify playlist to put on in the library.
But right now, he has a fair idea that she sounds sheepish and a little hesitant. He's pretty sure he understands. Her powers are like catching lightning in a jar and then not knowing what to do with it, not wanting to bite off more than she can chew.
For all that his duties relate to maintaining balance and harmony, he isn't all that good about self-moderation. When Stephen Strange saw a challenge, he liked to chase it. When he saw power, he wanted to seize it. So perhaps it's a good thing he's not the one trying to fix this on his own; he'd probably have already flooded Greenwich Village.
He makes a decision. Shakes out his damp sleeves and rolls them up. "I'll shore up the edges of the spell, contain it in the lobby so the water doesn't spill over into the parlour or kitchen or through the front door. And then you can take a crack at it."
The man starts to concentrate, a distracted expression crossing his face as he stitches together the threads of a containment spell. He knows the Sanctum like the back of his hand. He can stabilise the foyer. He can set the stage for Wanda to carve out her puzzle pieces.
Wanda opens her mouth to protest—what would she say? "No, thank you"?—but she knows from living in the Avengers' Compound with so many men that the moment they roll up their sleeves, it's a done deal.
With Strange, she doubts he offers his magical help lightly.
She'd much prefer he simply clean up the mess. While she knows Strange can be quite messy (aren't all surgeons, past and present?), he has a sophisticated air about him that makes her want to stand a little taller and tug her shoulders back. The desire to prove herself isn't new. It's simply the equivalent of an old pair of worn shoes she hasn't dressed in for a long time.
"Okay."
That doesn't sound overly confident. If this was WandaVision, she'd rewind the tape and take another crack at it. And as tempting as it is—WandaVision: Wanda Takes Manhattan—she knows better. Has to be better. It's what she had promised herself when she chose to leave her own solitude.
Glancing at him, she doesn't roll up her sleeves to mimic him. Instead, she tries something else entirely: to somewhat be herself.
And that currently includes turning the somewhat blueish Sanctum water into a red glow.
"I want to send all the crabs away first." They, after all, are merely innocent citizens caught up in her spell.
"Can you leave behind at least one?" Stephen asks, his gaze riveted on the glowing water rather than her. "I love crab legs." Once she looks over at him, she'll be able to see a mischievous twinkle in his eye, a half-smile in the corner of his mouth. "Kidding," he adds.
His crooked, articulate fingers (once shattered, now still shaky, but capable of more than he ever expected) twitch in mid-air, sketching out the borders of the spell, continuing to pin it all safely in place for Wanda while she works. The pair of them operating in tandem, rather than one of them having to fix it alone.
He could, of course, clean it up himself. Probably. But it's no way to learn. Teach a man to fish, etc. Teach a woman how to send away all her fish. The best way of learning is by doing. Doctor Strange can be a frustrating teacher — pompous, easily-annoyed, a little too convinced of his own self-importance — but he can, at times, be a good one, too. He'd rather let her flex her muscles and get the practice.
She chuckles. Shaking her head incredulously, Wanda ensures to scoop up all the crabs and send them back to where they came from. Rather than focus on specific coordinates, she allows them to lead the way home through how they feel. She's always worked best on relying on those around her to open up to her to let her in. It's how she used to bring people's nightmares to fruition, letting them do all the work while she merely plied open the door.
"Your jokes are very unfunny," she says all while smiling. She shakes her head again as the water continues to glow and ripple. It's almost as though she's brought the Hex with her. But it does start to lower, even if it's slowly. The water doesn't rise as she had believed it to.
Glancing at him, she feels bold. "Is that why Wong doesn't have any laughing lines?"
"Wong doesn't have any laughing lines because he's a grumpy old man and absolutely zero fun." All false, of course: for all the current Sorcerer Supreme's glowering resting bitch face, Wong is actually also a riot.
Stephen watches the water roil beneath them as it sinks, attentive like an attending physician eyeing a delicate procedure. That tell-tale red glow is so very her: not just the Scarlet Witch's trademark colour, but the fact that it's also Wanda Maximoff's distinctive magical signature. Her fingerprints are all over it, and when he concentrates, he can always recognise the ripples of her presence left behind, like catching a whiff of her perfume after she's left the room.
It's been fascinating, getting to learn alongside a different magic-user with a novel and unfamiliar flair to her spells (less trained, more instinctive, more impulsive). It's not what he's used to. The Masters of the Mystic Arts — whether sorcerers, disciples, apprentices, or novices — all drew their powers from the same source, like tapping the same well, drinking the same water.
Whatever Wanda is, she's something else entirely. She's the ocean.
He shakes off those thoughts. "I think it's working," he says, a little unnecessarily, because they can both see more of the sand-strewn steps reappearing.
Pride bursts warmly in her chest. It's juvenile; she shouldn't feel proud of having accomplished what should really be a simple task. Cleaning up after oneself should be easy. It should be the first lesson anyone learns. But after the messes she created in Lagos and Westview, Wanda feels like she could lift off the floor and float happily.
She doesn't, of course. That would be entirely too distracting and absolutely not helpful at all. Although... if anyone can multitask...
She playfully scrunches up her nose. "I hope your floor isn't stained red."
Even though Wanda knows her magic doesn't leave a physical stain like paint, Strange's home is very different to the homes she's occupied in her life. It pulses in the way she thinks Westview had for Agatha. While Wanda still hasn't quite learned how to sense the specific tendrils of magic as Agatha once had, she's more attuned to it now.
"But if it is, at least something will match your cloak."
Stephen bites back a smirk, even while the cloak puffs itself up behind him, obviously pleased at having been mentioned. "They don't appreciate redecorating here. I should know. Tinsel and pine trees and mistletoe at Christmas was highly frowned upon."
The Sanctum was a beautiful building — hardwood floors, ornate windows, antique furniture, four-poster beds — but you could practically feel the weight of all that accumulated time and history as you entered the place. The front entrance was especially built to impress, and had done so for centuries. The upper floors were roiling with ancient artefacts and magical bits-and-bobs, gathered from sorcerers over the ages. (The basement, on the other hand, was a mess. Don't go into the basement.)
"And truly, if you're worried about making a mess in general, don't be. Odds are good I've already done worse."
He wasn't the Sorcerer Supreme any of his colleagues would have chosen, and he'd practically tripped and landed facefirst into the role, and had to improvise on the fly and make the best of it under desperate circumstances. And then he'd gone and accidentally ripped open the multiverse while trying to help a kid. He and Wanda both knew a bit about making a mess.
"You have done worse?" Wanda arches her brow, smiling.
She's not distracted talking to him. In fact, it's nice to be talking about something rather than existing in concentrative silence. Fixing this little mishap is a lot easier when her mind isn't on the task at hand and how the water isn't moving at the speed she wants it to.
It is moving. Wanda feels the pressure of it beneath them begin to thin and dissipate. The ocean's slowly returning to where it had come from, possibly happy to finally be taken home.
"Have you done worse than putting a big oak tree through someone's house?" She doesn't appear demure at the thought of Westview. Uncharacteristically, she feels good about it. "That's a deleted scene in WandaVision, around episode two. I had to fix it very quickly."
"Just someone's house? You could do so much worse than a house." Try the entire universe. Or even Westview itself—
But he hasn't pried, hasn't forced Wanda to tell him everything about what happened back there. She'll talk in her own time. At the question of what he's done, Stephen tips his shoulder into a noncommittal shrug. "Mm. Buy me a drink at the Bar With No Doors and maybe I'll tell you about it."
It's not flirting, exactly — but a perpetual tongue-in-cheek flippancy which, at first blush, doesn't seem like it ought to fit with a Master of the Mystic Arts. Chalk it down to his unconventional entryway to the paranormal. He's always been a little mouthy, a little playful, even when he was gloved and bloodied and hands-deep in someone's spine in the middle of an operating room.
She'd known he hadn't been joking around about the bar. Even though she's come to know that Strange likes his dry quips every now and then, she does think that there had been an endgame in sight. Go to a bar, enjoy themselves, possibly sing very bad karaoke and either remember the tone-deafness or be granted the luxury of not remembering the other had embarrassed themselves at all.
But she can't help the trepidation she feels. New York bustles with people. It's louder than Westview, significantly noisier than her Sokovian cabin. She's still getting used to swimming in a vast sea packed with so many fish.
If he didn't trust her, she doesn't think he'd be gently pushing it.
"A glass of water will do?" She smiles, then feigns concern, "I wouldn't want to embarrass you by drinking you under the table."
"Oh, is that how it is?" Stephen's attention finally slips to the side; he cranes his head and looks at her fully, bemused. "Here I am, helping you out of the goodness of my heart, and all I get is mockery in return. The injustice."
His distraction takes its toll a moment later: down the hall, he can feel the door to the kitchen creak and whine. Some water is starting to seep through the hinges, trickling onto the tile floor. Wong is the most talented chef of the resident sorcerers; he's going to murder them all if his kitchen is ruined. So after a second, Stephen shores up the edges of the spell again, fortifying the boundaries, holds it steady once more.
It's a matter of willpower, more than anything, and he's always been bullishly good on willpower.
"Anyway, I've already been humiliated in a drinking competition, so I'm not eager for a repeat. I don't recommend going up against an Asgardian, in case you were wondering."
Despite being an Avenger, there's a handful of her teammates she doesn't know. Wanda suspects that's not how teams as tight and integral as the Avengers should function, but, then again, Stark had been at the helm. She wouldn't be surprised if he had ensured she remained benched. She's grateful since joining Strange and Wong that neither of them seems to have a bench for her to sit on.
She keeps her gaze on Strange and purses her lips thoughtfully. The water continues to lower. Even distracted, it still obeys her one simple command: go.
"Hm. I always thought that his muscles would absorb all the alcohol." Then she taps her own small bicep, her fingers glowing red while the water continues to leave the Sanctum. "You..." She eyes him and shakes her head. "Tiny, tiny sticks for arms. I can see why you would lose to him."
The sorcerer laughs, startled but amused. It's true: compared to some of the physical specimens on that team, he's practically spindly. Tall but lean, and clearly built more for the library than the gym. He taps his greying temple with an index finger. "I use my brain, Maximoff, which is a far more powerful muscle."
A pause. No, he can't let that sit. With a fleeting, mock-pained look, he continues: "Actually, that's false. The most powerful muscle in the human body is the heart, if we go by the definition of performing the most physical work in a lifetime — or the masseter, our jaw muscle, if we go by exerting maximum force on an external object. Anyway. Point stands, yes, it was Thor, yes mead was involved, and no, I'm not getting into it."
Stephen's chatty, apparently, once you get him going. He practically couldn't shut up when he'd first arrived at Kamar-Taj; kept interrupting group meditation sessions with quips, jokes, commentary. No wonder it had gotten on the other sorcerers' nerves so well.
"What did you do? Did you bet him that you had better hair?"
Considering Thor once had very long hair that Wanda thought was scraggly, she would give Strange the win in that department. Since then, Thor's cleaned up with a more modern haircut.
Hm. No. She doesn't think Strange would bet something so trivial. Narrowing her eyes, she studies him for a long moment. The problem with him is that looks tended to be very deceiving. She'd have imagined him to be strict and humourless, but she's found him to be as funny as Pietro on his good days. Unlike Vision, he doesn't miss much.
If he was to challenge Thor to a drinking match, it'd be over something unpredictable. Maybe silly. Definitely unexpected.
"Was it who wore red best? I like his cape, but I think I like yours a lot more." It is, after all, a sentient being. She likes how it seems to appear when he needs it like a good and weathered friend.
He blinks and the spell twitches again. "That did come up, actually. We swapped cloaks. The Cloak of Levitation tried to strangle him, so I think I came out fine overall, but he did outdrink me so some drunk portalling may have resulted. This is, of course, highly sensitive information."
Stephen had never lived at the Avengers compound like Wanda had — the Sorcerer Supreme had always been an ally, rather than an official member of the team — but his paths had crossed with them often enough. Turns out when you help a Norse god track down his missing father, you remain in his general good books and get invited to his next party. And Thor was the most fun Avenger: interactions with the god had been more friendly than Strange's few bristling interactions with Tony Stark, at least.
The water is retreating and retreating, and it's almost gone: the legs of the credenza and the chairs have settled onto the floor of the foyer again, touching solid ground once more.
And since the topic's come up, he indulges in some curiosity.
"Is the team still..." He doesn't really know how to broach this delicately. But Strange doesn't make a habit of sugarcoating things, either, so in the end he doesn't. "Is the team still much of a thing, after Stark's death?"
Now, that's a question that keeps Wanda's gaze focused straight ahead. She wishes for some of the water to rise again, and although it does bubble as if interested in meeting her command, she ensures that none of it reappears in the Sanctum. His furniture is already ruined enough by her attempts at controlled and less chaotic magic.
Any mention of Stark will always make something prickle uncomfortably in her chest. After everything she's done, after every chance she thought Stark would take to be the hero his friends and teammates claimed him to be, she's still standing where she started her Avengers journey in the rubble of Sokovia. Attending his funeral didn't bring about the closure she had been secretly hoping for.
"I wouldn't know," she says, ensuring to keep a small smile on her face. The Avengers seem to still exist in spirit, but given the lack of phone calls and invitations to team lunches, Wanda thinks it's over. It has to be. While she may never have truly belonged with them and was always either commandeered to her room or the corner, the idea of them meeting and plotting without her stings a little.
"I think Sam and Barnes are working together if the news is telling the truth. But I don't think the Avengers have reunited since the funeral." The funeral that wasn't for Vision, and technically didn't seem to belong to Natasha, too.
Glancing at Strange, she shrugs, "I think they all lost hope after Steve and Iron Man."
Wanda's good at mustering her shield back into place, but that smile still feels like fragile-spun glass, on the verge of splintering. And he almost immediately regrets his words.
(He wasn't always capable of that kind of regret. He used to leave people stinging and humiliated in his wake, and never bothered with something as quotidian as other people's feelings. Nowadays, though—)
"Well," the sorcerer says, and clears his throat. "He always was the more inspirational Steve, by all accounts."
It's a bit of useless pithy humour, to try to paper over that stilted little moment. But they're reaching the end of their cleanup: the shattered-mosaic look of the flooring is starting to return to view, visible once more through those last inches of water as it drains away. The distraction is petering away with it, and he's just left with this: his words, his hands, and he's never quite sure what to do with those meager tools. Should he offer a companionable clap to the shoulder? An apology if he stepped all over a sore subject? Just ignore it and press on?
He's never been very good at this.
In the end, Strange settles for what little olive branch he can offer. "Anyway, it's a moot point from where I'm standing. You'll always have a place here, if you want it."
She can't help her very pleased smile. Wanda turns to look straight ahead and feels the water is gone more than she sees it. Now that she's no longer so focused on ensuring her part of the clean-up is perfect, it's come to her easier. The Sanctum is wet—feels wet and even smells it with the lingering scent of the sea—but it has been successfully cleaned of its water and crabs and most of the sand.
She's grateful for that. The Sanctum has become a refuge, a little home away from home. His words make her feel warm all over… veery similar to how she had felt when she and Vision had seemed to finally find a rhythm that worked in Scotland.
Tilting her head up, she regards Strange with a playful smile. "Even when I pick Wong's Spotify playlist over yours?"
It does seem to be a point of contention between the two sorcerers. (Sometimes Wanda picks the playlist she doesn't want to hear solely for the dramatics of both Strange and Wong.)
He glances over at her and smiles back, a fleeting glimpse of warmth. "Even then, yes. This place accepted me when I was at my worst, which means anyone else is fair game, terrible music taste or not."
Kamar-Taj had taken him in when he was broken, grieving, lashing out at others like an injured dog snapping its teeth. The order had a habit of taking in people who were shattered both literally and figuratively (or perhaps budding sorcerers had a tendency to blow up their own lives; either way, the Sanctum lived up to its name). Considering the type of people who had come and gone through here, Wanda Maximoff piecing herself together fits right in.
Strange walks the rest of the way down the steps then, back onto the floor to survey their work. He nudges some of the sand with the toe of his boot. It's still wet and there'll be water damage, but now that she's done the lion's share of the work, a fellow master should be able to wring the last water particles out of the wood for them. Strange can also assign some novices to sweep up the sand with brooms. (No Fantasia antics, he'd have to remind them. Do it by hand!!)
"Well done," he concludes. "See? No harm, no foul. We didn't open a permanent gateway to the Pacific and flood the city."
Wanda follows him, albeit several steps behind. She's grateful to be at his back so she can hide her wince. His home looks waterlogged in the worst of ways... all thanks to her.
But she's beginning to learn that such thinking isn't accepted here. Mistakes happen, and as Wong has told her numerous times (to the point where his voice has begun to crack from exhaustion), learning to walk comes from stumbling about a thousand times. Wanda thinks she's reached the nine hundred and eightieth stumble.
"Shame it didn't find Atlantis." She laughs.
Glancing around, she wrings her hands together before she pulls them apart. With a flick of her wrists, the windows and doors gently click open and she summons a breeze similar to the one that had dried her wet home in Westview. The wind this time isn't quite as brutal in its intensity. It's a summer breeze that sweeps in and gently taps the legs of drenched chairs and fluffs saturated pillows.
She doesn't particularly want his home to be sagging due to being previously underwater. It wouldn't do for his cape to sit on a dripping rack hook, after all.
Fall, fail, climb, get up, try again. Fuck up again. Try again. Again. It's the way of things here, and no one knows it better than Strange.
When the windows open, he tilts his head backwards and takes a deep breath. The wind is refreshing and nice, sweeping away some of the stuffiness inherent in an aged old building with history steeped into each plank of wood, each tapestry, each mural.
"There's always tomorrow for finding Atlantis," Strange says with a wink. He straightens his soggy collar, then snaps his fingers and all of his clothes dry out in moments. The cloak flicks a coattail, satisfied with the change, no longer looking quite so downtrodden. He swipes distractedly at his forehead where the mindflayer had lashed him, and the cut seals itself up too.
Damage reversed. Summer's on its way, and tomorrow's another day and another, and— dare he think it?— things seem okay.
He exhales. "So. How about that celebratory drink?"
There's always tomorrow here. Wanda keeps expecting her calendar to run out of days, but each time she turns to it, there's always tomorrow and sometimes next week. There are no expiry dates in the Sanctum, even if she thinks there should be.
And there are always invitations, too. Even if she was to try to sideline herself, she knows Strange, Wong and even Strange's mystical cape wouldn't allow it. It's unusual for her to be welcomed and belong, but Wanda doesn't wish to knock it back one too many times.
So, she smiles and nods happily. "I think we deserve it, especially since your walls won't need to be replaced yet."
There's always tomorrow to ruin those.
"Should we call Wong? I think he will come if I ask him." She leans closer to him and playfully whispers, "He likes me more." She does, after all, pick his Spotify playlists.
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She stands on the first floor and wrings her hands, appearing very, very sheepish. While she knows what she's done is the very opposite to the task Wong had set, she does feel a little proud of herself. How many witches can summon water with a mere flick of her wrist? How many of them could summon water from the Pacific and have it feel as real as the ocean beneath a blazing sun?
The water below has a very dull red glow. The water level doesn't decrease any further. Wanda's a little afraid that if she tries to make it all vanish, it'll flood the streets of New York.
Wong had made reallocating what he conjured up look easy.
"I warmed the water," she says proudly and grins widely. Wanda Maximoff still looks very, very sheepish. (It beats feeling despondent.) Strange looks like a drowned rat and his cape—his poor cape—doesn't seem to be fairing any better. "There's even sand on the floor... for the crabs."
Watch your feet, Strange.
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For a fleeting moment, he considers just tossing up his hands and giving up and leaving it be. Maybe this is just how the Sanctum looks now. They can use the side alleyway entrance to get in and out. They can tell visitors to come around the back. Maybe they can set up parasols and beach chairs and serve tropical cocktails on the landing. Wong won't mind, would he?
The cloak tugs at his shoulders and starts curling itself up, twisting and wringing out the water, and Stephen sighs. He floats over to the staircase and lands nimbly next to Wanda, and then absentmindedly kicks his feet a little, shaking off the water like a dog.
"I did appreciate it not feeling like taking a plunge into the North Sea. So you brought it all here, but haven't been able to send it back?"
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While Wanda theoretically knows she can send all of this back to where it came from, a part of her is afraid. And it's a big, huge part of her—Hex-size, really—that is a little terrified at the idea of sending it all back and accidentally doing it wrong. What if she turns the ocean inside out? What if the Sanctum collapses because of her efforts to send the ocean and its sandy bed back?
She can hear Agatha's voice rattle inside of her head. Her Hex had been as broken as she was. She worries about breaking the vast ocean that's remained dormant and somewhat left in peace for years.
"I thought I would see if I could make pieces of it disappear... like a puzzle."
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Stephen glances over at her. They're not deeply acquainted yet, but he's started to get a better and better sense of the woman, the more time they spend together — what with Wanda taking up residence (or sanctuary) in the Sanctum Sanctorum, burying herself in the library and trying to understand more about her magic. Adding a bit of amiable chaos, both figurative and literal, to the sorcerers' lives here. It's been nice, having the company around; she helps as a tie-breaker whenever he and Wong are squabbling over something deeply banal, like which Spotify playlist to put on in the library.
But right now, he has a fair idea that she sounds sheepish and a little hesitant. He's pretty sure he understands. Her powers are like catching lightning in a jar and then not knowing what to do with it, not wanting to bite off more than she can chew.
For all that his duties relate to maintaining balance and harmony, he isn't all that good about self-moderation. When Stephen Strange saw a challenge, he liked to chase it. When he saw power, he wanted to seize it. So perhaps it's a good thing he's not the one trying to fix this on his own; he'd probably have already flooded Greenwich Village.
He makes a decision. Shakes out his damp sleeves and rolls them up. "I'll shore up the edges of the spell, contain it in the lobby so the water doesn't spill over into the parlour or kitchen or through the front door. And then you can take a crack at it."
The man starts to concentrate, a distracted expression crossing his face as he stitches together the threads of a containment spell. He knows the Sanctum like the back of his hand. He can stabilise the foyer. He can set the stage for Wanda to carve out her puzzle pieces.
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With Strange, she doubts he offers his magical help lightly.
She'd much prefer he simply clean up the mess. While she knows Strange can be quite messy (aren't all surgeons, past and present?), he has a sophisticated air about him that makes her want to stand a little taller and tug her shoulders back. The desire to prove herself isn't new. It's simply the equivalent of an old pair of worn shoes she hasn't dressed in for a long time.
"Okay."
That doesn't sound overly confident. If this was WandaVision, she'd rewind the tape and take another crack at it. And as tempting as it is—WandaVision: Wanda Takes Manhattan—she knows better. Has to be better. It's what she had promised herself when she chose to leave her own solitude.
Glancing at him, she doesn't roll up her sleeves to mimic him. Instead, she tries something else entirely: to somewhat be herself.
And that currently includes turning the somewhat blueish Sanctum water into a red glow.
"I want to send all the crabs away first." They, after all, are merely innocent citizens caught up in her spell.
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His crooked, articulate fingers (once shattered, now still shaky, but capable of more than he ever expected) twitch in mid-air, sketching out the borders of the spell, continuing to pin it all safely in place for Wanda while she works. The pair of them operating in tandem, rather than one of them having to fix it alone.
He could, of course, clean it up himself. Probably. But it's no way to learn. Teach a man to fish, etc. Teach a woman how to send away all her fish. The best way of learning is by doing. Doctor Strange can be a frustrating teacher — pompous, easily-annoyed, a little too convinced of his own self-importance — but he can, at times, be a good one, too. He'd rather let her flex her muscles and get the practice.
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"Your jokes are very unfunny," she says all while smiling. She shakes her head again as the water continues to glow and ripple. It's almost as though she's brought the Hex with her. But it does start to lower, even if it's slowly. The water doesn't rise as she had believed it to.
Glancing at him, she feels bold. "Is that why Wong doesn't have any laughing lines?"
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Stephen watches the water roil beneath them as it sinks, attentive like an attending physician eyeing a delicate procedure. That tell-tale red glow is so very her: not just the Scarlet Witch's trademark colour, but the fact that it's also Wanda Maximoff's distinctive magical signature. Her fingerprints are all over it, and when he concentrates, he can always recognise the ripples of her presence left behind, like catching a whiff of her perfume after she's left the room.
It's been fascinating, getting to learn alongside a different magic-user with a novel and unfamiliar flair to her spells (less trained, more instinctive, more impulsive). It's not what he's used to. The Masters of the Mystic Arts — whether sorcerers, disciples, apprentices, or novices — all drew their powers from the same source, like tapping the same well, drinking the same water.
Whatever Wanda is, she's something else entirely. She's the ocean.
He shakes off those thoughts. "I think it's working," he says, a little unnecessarily, because they can both see more of the sand-strewn steps reappearing.
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She doesn't, of course. That would be entirely too distracting and absolutely not helpful at all. Although... if anyone can multitask...
She playfully scrunches up her nose. "I hope your floor isn't stained red."
Even though Wanda knows her magic doesn't leave a physical stain like paint, Strange's home is very different to the homes she's occupied in her life. It pulses in the way she thinks Westview had for Agatha. While Wanda still hasn't quite learned how to sense the specific tendrils of magic as Agatha once had, she's more attuned to it now.
"But if it is, at least something will match your cloak."
WandaVision's set designer, ladies and gentlemen.
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The Sanctum was a beautiful building — hardwood floors, ornate windows, antique furniture, four-poster beds — but you could practically feel the weight of all that accumulated time and history as you entered the place. The front entrance was especially built to impress, and had done so for centuries. The upper floors were roiling with ancient artefacts and magical bits-and-bobs, gathered from sorcerers over the ages. (The basement, on the other hand, was a mess. Don't go into the basement.)
"And truly, if you're worried about making a mess in general, don't be. Odds are good I've already done worse."
He wasn't the Sorcerer Supreme any of his colleagues would have chosen, and he'd practically tripped and landed facefirst into the role, and had to improvise on the fly and make the best of it under desperate circumstances. And then he'd gone and accidentally ripped open the multiverse while trying to help a kid. He and Wanda both knew a bit about making a mess.
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She's not distracted talking to him. In fact, it's nice to be talking about something rather than existing in concentrative silence. Fixing this little mishap is a lot easier when her mind isn't on the task at hand and how the water isn't moving at the speed she wants it to.
It is moving. Wanda feels the pressure of it beneath them begin to thin and dissipate. The ocean's slowly returning to where it had come from, possibly happy to finally be taken home.
"Have you done worse than putting a big oak tree through someone's house?" She doesn't appear demure at the thought of Westview. Uncharacteristically, she feels good about it. "That's a deleted scene in WandaVision, around episode two. I had to fix it very quickly."
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But he hasn't pried, hasn't forced Wanda to tell him everything about what happened back there. She'll talk in her own time. At the question of what he's done, Stephen tips his shoulder into a noncommittal shrug. "Mm. Buy me a drink at the Bar With No Doors and maybe I'll tell you about it."
It's not flirting, exactly — but a perpetual tongue-in-cheek flippancy which, at first blush, doesn't seem like it ought to fit with a Master of the Mystic Arts. Chalk it down to his unconventional entryway to the paranormal. He's always been a little mouthy, a little playful, even when he was gloved and bloodied and hands-deep in someone's spine in the middle of an operating room.
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But she can't help the trepidation she feels. New York bustles with people. It's louder than Westview, significantly noisier than her Sokovian cabin. She's still getting used to swimming in a vast sea packed with so many fish.
If he didn't trust her, she doesn't think he'd be gently pushing it.
"A glass of water will do?" She smiles, then feigns concern, "I wouldn't want to embarrass you by drinking you under the table."
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His distraction takes its toll a moment later: down the hall, he can feel the door to the kitchen creak and whine. Some water is starting to seep through the hinges, trickling onto the tile floor. Wong is the most talented chef of the resident sorcerers; he's going to murder them all if his kitchen is ruined. So after a second, Stephen shores up the edges of the spell again, fortifying the boundaries, holds it steady once more.
It's a matter of willpower, more than anything, and he's always been bullishly good on willpower.
"Anyway, I've already been humiliated in a drinking competition, so I'm not eager for a repeat. I don't recommend going up against an Asgardian, in case you were wondering."
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Despite being an Avenger, there's a handful of her teammates she doesn't know. Wanda suspects that's not how teams as tight and integral as the Avengers should function, but, then again, Stark had been at the helm. She wouldn't be surprised if he had ensured she remained benched. She's grateful since joining Strange and Wong that neither of them seems to have a bench for her to sit on.
She keeps her gaze on Strange and purses her lips thoughtfully. The water continues to lower. Even distracted, it still obeys her one simple command: go.
"Hm. I always thought that his muscles would absorb all the alcohol." Then she taps her own small bicep, her fingers glowing red while the water continues to leave the Sanctum. "You..." She eyes him and shakes her head. "Tiny, tiny sticks for arms. I can see why you would lose to him."
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A pause. No, he can't let that sit. With a fleeting, mock-pained look, he continues: "Actually, that's false. The most powerful muscle in the human body is the heart, if we go by the definition of performing the most physical work in a lifetime — or the masseter, our jaw muscle, if we go by exerting maximum force on an external object. Anyway. Point stands, yes, it was Thor, yes mead was involved, and no, I'm not getting into it."
Stephen's chatty, apparently, once you get him going. He practically couldn't shut up when he'd first arrived at Kamar-Taj; kept interrupting group meditation sessions with quips, jokes, commentary. No wonder it had gotten on the other sorcerers' nerves so well.
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Considering Thor once had very long hair that Wanda thought was scraggly, she would give Strange the win in that department. Since then, Thor's cleaned up with a more modern haircut.
Hm. No. She doesn't think Strange would bet something so trivial. Narrowing her eyes, she studies him for a long moment. The problem with him is that looks tended to be very deceiving. She'd have imagined him to be strict and humourless, but she's found him to be as funny as Pietro on his good days. Unlike Vision, he doesn't miss much.
If he was to challenge Thor to a drinking match, it'd be over something unpredictable. Maybe silly. Definitely unexpected.
"Was it who wore red best? I like his cape, but I think I like yours a lot more." It is, after all, a sentient being. She likes how it seems to appear when he needs it like a good and weathered friend.
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Stephen had never lived at the Avengers compound like Wanda had — the Sorcerer Supreme had always been an ally, rather than an official member of the team — but his paths had crossed with them often enough. Turns out when you help a Norse god track down his missing father, you remain in his general good books and get invited to his next party. And Thor was the most fun Avenger: interactions with the god had been more friendly than Strange's few bristling interactions with Tony Stark, at least.
The water is retreating and retreating, and it's almost gone: the legs of the credenza and the chairs have settled onto the floor of the foyer again, touching solid ground once more.
And since the topic's come up, he indulges in some curiosity.
"Is the team still..." He doesn't really know how to broach this delicately. But Strange doesn't make a habit of sugarcoating things, either, so in the end he doesn't. "Is the team still much of a thing, after Stark's death?"
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Any mention of Stark will always make something prickle uncomfortably in her chest. After everything she's done, after every chance she thought Stark would take to be the hero his friends and teammates claimed him to be, she's still standing where she started her Avengers journey in the rubble of Sokovia. Attending his funeral didn't bring about the closure she had been secretly hoping for.
"I wouldn't know," she says, ensuring to keep a small smile on her face. The Avengers seem to still exist in spirit, but given the lack of phone calls and invitations to team lunches, Wanda thinks it's over. It has to be. While she may never have truly belonged with them and was always either commandeered to her room or the corner, the idea of them meeting and plotting without her stings a little.
"I think Sam and Barnes are working together if the news is telling the truth. But I don't think the Avengers have reunited since the funeral." The funeral that wasn't for Vision, and technically didn't seem to belong to Natasha, too.
Glancing at Strange, she shrugs, "I think they all lost hope after Steve and Iron Man."
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(He wasn't always capable of that kind of regret. He used to leave people stinging and humiliated in his wake, and never bothered with something as quotidian as other people's feelings. Nowadays, though—)
"Well," the sorcerer says, and clears his throat. "He always was the more inspirational Steve, by all accounts."
It's a bit of useless pithy humour, to try to paper over that stilted little moment. But they're reaching the end of their cleanup: the shattered-mosaic look of the flooring is starting to return to view, visible once more through those last inches of water as it drains away. The distraction is petering away with it, and he's just left with this: his words, his hands, and he's never quite sure what to do with those meager tools. Should he offer a companionable clap to the shoulder? An apology if he stepped all over a sore subject? Just ignore it and press on?
He's never been very good at this.
In the end, Strange settles for what little olive branch he can offer. "Anyway, it's a moot point from where I'm standing. You'll always have a place here, if you want it."
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She's grateful for that. The Sanctum has become a refuge, a little home away from home. His words make her feel warm all over… veery similar to how she had felt when she and Vision had seemed to finally find a rhythm that worked in Scotland.
Tilting her head up, she regards Strange with a playful smile. "Even when I pick Wong's Spotify playlist over yours?"
It does seem to be a point of contention between the two sorcerers. (Sometimes Wanda picks the playlist she doesn't want to hear solely for the dramatics of both Strange and Wong.)
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Kamar-Taj had taken him in when he was broken, grieving, lashing out at others like an injured dog snapping its teeth. The order had a habit of taking in people who were shattered both literally and figuratively (or perhaps budding sorcerers had a tendency to blow up their own lives; either way, the Sanctum lived up to its name). Considering the type of people who had come and gone through here, Wanda Maximoff piecing herself together fits right in.
Strange walks the rest of the way down the steps then, back onto the floor to survey their work. He nudges some of the sand with the toe of his boot. It's still wet and there'll be water damage, but now that she's done the lion's share of the work, a fellow master should be able to wring the last water particles out of the wood for them. Strange can also assign some novices to sweep up the sand with brooms. (No Fantasia antics, he'd have to remind them. Do it by hand!!)
"Well done," he concludes. "See? No harm, no foul. We didn't open a permanent gateway to the Pacific and flood the city."
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But she's beginning to learn that such thinking isn't accepted here. Mistakes happen, and as Wong has told her numerous times (to the point where his voice has begun to crack from exhaustion), learning to walk comes from stumbling about a thousand times. Wanda thinks she's reached the nine hundred and eightieth stumble.
"Shame it didn't find Atlantis." She laughs.
Glancing around, she wrings her hands together before she pulls them apart. With a flick of her wrists, the windows and doors gently click open and she summons a breeze similar to the one that had dried her wet home in Westview. The wind this time isn't quite as brutal in its intensity. It's a summer breeze that sweeps in and gently taps the legs of drenched chairs and fluffs saturated pillows.
She doesn't particularly want his home to be sagging due to being previously underwater. It wouldn't do for his cape to sit on a dripping rack hook, after all.
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When the windows open, he tilts his head backwards and takes a deep breath. The wind is refreshing and nice, sweeping away some of the stuffiness inherent in an aged old building with history steeped into each plank of wood, each tapestry, each mural.
"There's always tomorrow for finding Atlantis," Strange says with a wink. He straightens his soggy collar, then snaps his fingers and all of his clothes dry out in moments. The cloak flicks a coattail, satisfied with the change, no longer looking quite so downtrodden. He swipes distractedly at his forehead where the mindflayer had lashed him, and the cut seals itself up too.
Damage reversed. Summer's on its way, and tomorrow's another day and another, and— dare he think it?— things seem okay.
He exhales. "So. How about that celebratory drink?"
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And there are always invitations, too. Even if she was to try to sideline herself, she knows Strange, Wong and even Strange's mystical cape wouldn't allow it. It's unusual for her to be welcomed and belong, but Wanda doesn't wish to knock it back one too many times.
So, she smiles and nods happily. "I think we deserve it, especially since your walls won't need to be replaced yet."
There's always tomorrow to ruin those.
"Should we call Wong? I think he will come if I ask him." She leans closer to him and playfully whispers, "He likes me more." She does, after all, pick his Spotify playlists.
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yrs to wrap? ♥
end!! ♥