suckstobestrange | Open Post

[There's a new door in the Sanctum.

It's been weeks since the accidental teleport that brought his older counterpart to the New York Sanctum, and the connection they created between their universes has seen little traffic. It's not something Stephen would normally be concerned about - he knows himself well enough to not be concerned by a few days of radio silence - but it's been long enough that his curiosity (and concern) has been piqued.

There's a shivery sort of wrongness that trails down his spine as he steps through, the gut-clenching absence that sits heavily in the air.]

Stephen?

[The Sanctum sat silent. So suspiciously silent.

He'd brought his younger counterpart through before- if there was an emergency he wanted him to know where to go to find him, where to go to get to a saferoom if for whatever reason he wasn't there. Better than in the heat of the moment, and the poor bastard finding his way into the kitchen or gods forbid, down to the cellar. The Sanctum had been teeming with activity at that point, mystical energy thrumming through the building, the magical flora and fauna that was kept within the walls positively flourishing.

But of all of it, any of it, there was no sign. Silent hallways, empty rooms. Windows shattered and boarded over, countless places where ruined artifacts and destroyed furniture had simply been shoved out of the way, scorchmarks everywhere. The forest in the living room gone, a burned out hollow of a place. If Stephen peered between the slats to the outside, the front seemed little better, and if he were to look with his astral sight, he'd see...

Nothing. Just scars in the earth from battle, more scorching,

Wong was again away in the aftermath, rallying what help he could, while Stephen himself was picking through the wreckage of yet another room that had once stored artifacts of immense age and power, praying against hope that he would find... something. Anything. The Empirikul had finally been defeated, but it had been such a desperate thing...

There had to be something.

The older man almost missed the call. Shoving himself from where he'd been kneeling to follow the sound. He'd not wanted to risk it, drawing the Inquisition's attention to the other dimension, so he'd stayed away from the door that had been created. Better safe than sorry, better that some world somewhere had magic still, even if it wasn't this one.

He was certainly a mess. Hair mussed, beard not nearly so nicely groomed. Cloak of Levitation gone, replaced by something else that even the younger of the pair, inexperienced as he was, could tell was a definite downgrade. He hadn't been expecting the other at this point, just stopping in the hall when he spotted him, unable to help the tension that had his jaw tensing slightly.]

You rang?

Edited 2016-12-26 13:37 (UTC)

[It felt like a completely different Sanctum than the one he'd last visited - a hollow one, burnt from the inside out so thoroughly that not even ghosts could remain. Stephen can feel the Cloak tightening across his shoulders as he picks his way through the destruction, a corner of the cloth anxiously twining closer to its Master, and he reaches to brush a hand against it. If it helps, he can't tell - it certainly does nothing to settle his uneasiness.

All these relics, all the power this Sanctum had - he'd felt it, when he'd visited the first time, vast in a way that his own was not - but now... there was nothing. What could have done something like this?

And where was he?

By the time his older self makes it to him, Stephen's crouched down next to the double of a relic he has in his own home. It's dead, nothing more than a broken, magicless husk, and he gently sets it down and stands when he finally hears the other's footsteps.]

I was worried. [And apparently he had reason to be. Taking in the other sorcerer's appearance only solidifies the hard knot of unease in his chest - something has gone badly wrong.] You look like hell. What happened?

[The words are blunt - he doubts he'll ever be able to really change that - but the the concern, the worry... that's real. It's easier with... well, himself.]

I always look like hell, just a bit more polished. Deflection, nothing new and nothing odd not from him. Avoiding the main question, avoiding the worry he could hear in the other's voice.

Passing him to come to a stop where he could scowl out what was left of a window at the mess of the front yard, expression darkening as his gaze picked over what was left. Nothing good, not anymore. God damn but he'd give anything for a single sign of life, even something as miserable as a mind leech.

Anything to show this world wasn't beyond all hope of saving.]

Honestly you want 'look like hell', give me a few bottles and I'll show you a thing or two.

[He recognizes the tone, the deflection. How could he not? It's himself, for all that their universes may differ. That may work on whatever passes for the Avengers in this universe, or perhaps other Masters, but he's been perfecting that kind of dismissiveness since he was nineteen years old.]

I think I'll pass. You probably should too.

[He follows his counterpart, brow furrowing. The Cloak is all but clinging, at this point, but it lifts an edge to tentatively brush against the older sorcerer.]

And that doesn't answer my question.

Might be a bottle of that brimstone whiskey in the kitchen. [He didn't want to answer the question. He wanted to pretend even for a brief, unsatisfying second that he hadn't failed. That he hadn't failed so very completely, that the world's magic wasn't reduced to a tiny handful of cantrips and weak artifacts.

The fear that it might never improve.

The light nudge of fabric was familiar in a way that was somewhat painful, mouth twisting to a deeper frown. The Cloak had been a constant for so long, a familiar weight and a familiar presence, and they'd come to a understanding long ago. Worked well together. Now though all he had left was a cloak of protection that was barely functional, not nearly as powerful as he knew he'd need in coming days.]

It doesn't. Good to see those observation skills hard at work. [Stepping away from the window again, as if he might just start walking off.]

[Nope. Stephen's not going to let this one slide, not even from his elder self. He steps forward to block the other's escape, planting a (shaking, always shaking) hand on his shoulder.]

Where's the magic, Stephen?

[His voice is quiet. The answer isn't going to be a good one: he can read it in his counterpart's defensiveness, the sharp edge of his sarcasm. But they'd been the same kind of asshole in the past - the not-so-distant past, in his case - and being faced with it now isn't enough to stop him.]

[He doubted that his behavior would put the other off. It wasn't like he didn't know exactly what that defensive sarcasm was, no matter the harsh edge to his tone.

He could keep it together. He could remain calm and simply explain things even if it might be in sharp barbs and more defensiveness. At least until he was blocked, the hand on his shoulder where he could feel the way it shook. Mouth twisting to a deeper frown as he simply shrugged off the touch when that soft question was asked, though it probably felt more like a jerk as if from a blow.]

It's gone. [His own tone flat as he sidestepped his younger counterpart, heading towards... where? He had no idea. He just didn't want it. Didn't want the conversation that he knew would follow, didn't want the emotion that came with it when he was so wrung out that he didn't know he had anything in him other than hurt and anger. At himself mostly, but the other man didn't know that.]

[Gone. Like just up and left, but judging from the older sorcerer's expression, it had been far worse than that. The wreckage of the Sanctum, the lack of anything living in the astral ecosystem, the absence he could feel on the edge of his own magic...

Well. He could put the pieces together.]

How?

[He could find out on his own, probably. Could leave his self to drink away whatever failure he's facing - and it is failure, he can read his own bone-deep fears in the other's face - but... he couldn't. Not when he'd worn that expression before himself.]

They killed it!

[Whatever control he had over his frustration, over the anger and the despair, fraying as it had been through everything that had happened finally snapped as his voice raised to a shout as he rounded on his younger counterpart. Some dim part of him buried under it all trying to rationalize. That it wasn't his fault, that the other hadn't even been here, that he'd nothing to do with any of it. But it was hard to keep rationality up in the face of such overwhelming, horrifying failure.]

They destroyed everything! I could feel it, I could feel the magic bleeding from this world like they'd severed an artery! They burned everything they could find, they killed so many, and I couldn't stop them!

[Stalking past the other, unable to face him at this point, but unable to stop now that he'd started, his shouts echoing strangely in the ruined space.]

All of this knowledge, all the power, and I didn't even know what was happening until it was too late!

[If he'd been even a fraction less angry he might rethink. But as upset as he was, his impulsiveness was definitely not something in check, and it was without hesitation that he struck the doorframe he'd been about to storm through with a fist.

He knew it was a bad idea the second his hand had moved, and the pain that lit through his fingers and bloomed up his arm was bad enough that he stumbled, physically gagged as he slumped against the self-same frame for support.]

[There are few people as hardheaded as Stephen Strange. After all, it had been his own sheer stubbornness that sent him halfway across the world with nothing but a name and the clothes on his back - by contrast, facing a reflection of his own fury and failure isn't a challenge. Painful, yes, but he's grown very, very used to pain.

Still, experiencing one of his own fits of temper from the outside is... something.]

Hey, easy--!

[He sees the set of his counterpart's shoulders, the ill-contained fury, and just knows, jolting forward to try to intercept the stupid, stupid blow the other throws. He's too slow, and he can feel the clench of sympathetic pain in his belly as the older man sags against the door frame.]

Shit. Come here.

[Bracing a hand against his chest, Stephen slips into his counterpart's personal space to attempt to guide him over to the (mostly) intact couch. It's a firm march over - he's not taking no for an answer, here.]

[He could feel the sharp pain already sinking in, the throb starting in the joints of the hand he was cradling against himself at this point, the tension that just had his fingers screwing in against his palm, trembling intensifying. When he felt the other's approach, there was almost a recoil, like a startled stray when someone came too close.]

Don't... don't touch me. [Anger still there in his voice but fading, the words not holding nearly as much bite. He'd been going for a long time now with the crisis. Punching almost nonstop and then the endless work that was trying to salvage what he could. Not allowing himself to stop, not allowing himself the time to really think about what had happened. But here and now he could feel himself starting to crumble finally, and god damn but did he feel every single day of his age in that moment, every last minute.] I'm fine.

[Not nearly as fine as he was claiming, even as he moved to try and pull from the younger man's grasp. No way, he didn't need to sit. Far too much to do, he couldn't afford to stop not now.]

[The snort that the younger sorcerer gives makes it very clear just what he thinks of that statement. 'Fine'. Yes, of course, in the same way that they were both always 'fine'. If you're going to try and lie to him, at least make it a believable one.]

Too bad. [He's sympathetic, not stupid. You're going nowhere, friend, and he presses harder against his sternum, propelling him backwards.] You need to sit down before I make you sit down.

[It's an empty threat-- he thinks. The difference in their respective amounts of power (as much is it's possible to quantify such things) is so vast that it's almost laughable. Stephen doesn't have the experience or the raw magical ability to compete against an older, wiser version of himself-- but with the magic gone from this Earth... well, who knows?]

[Not like he had it in him to really resist at this point, pushed to sit without too much force necessary. It was almost funny in a way. He was well aware that as things stood? His younger counterpart could probably wipe the floor with him. He had a few small enchanted items, but aside from that and the cloak he'd found? His own magic was almost nonexistent.

He'd laugh if it weren't so damn sad.]

I don't have time for this. [An attempt to rally, to gather some of that angry energy before it fled entirely, already trying to push himself back to his feet as he spoke.]

[Unstoppable hardheadedness, meet your immovable counterpart.]

Will you sit down?

[There's finally an edge of exasperation in his voice. Dropping down onto the cushion next to him, Stephen tugs the Cloak off with one hand and a (definitely not practiced, no sir) flourish, throwing it over the other man's shoulders. The relic doesn't seem at all bothered by this development - in fact, it settles with a peculiar weight, lifting a hem to stroke at this older Stephen with something like concern.]

I'm not usually one to ask this, but when was the last time you actually got some sleep?

When I'm not busy trying to salvage what little there might be in this place then yes. Unt- [The Cloak settling over his shoulders like that was enough to distract him from his vitrol, at least for the moment. Gaze dropping to study it, one hand lifting to let trembling fingers lightly curl in the fabric.

Very pointedly ignoring the question posed to him either way.]

[If anything, the Cloak seems delighted that this older Stephen is paying it some attention. It twines around the sorcerer's hand and strokes up his forearm, gentle and unusually warm. Perched on the edge of the edge of the couch, Stephen watches the two for a moment, expectant, but the pointed silence is pretty clear.

To the Cloak, sternly:] Don't let him up.

[He eyes the other man.]

So days, then. You need to sleep.

[He had to say he missed his Cloak. This one was different in small ways, small things that others might not see but were glaringly obvious to the older man. But at the same time it was so similar in behavior that he couldn't help but just run his hand over the fabric and brocade, let it move as it pleased.

The younger's order simply getting a deeper scowl from him.]

Like I said I don't have time. The longer this world is like this, the longer I have little more than parlor tricks to defend with, the more likely some bigger threat will come along to crack this world like an egg, magic and non-magic together.

[Already trying to push himself back to his feet, far too stubborn to listen to anything like good fucking sense.]

[True to it's actual Master's order, the Cloak tightens around the older man's shoulders, tugging him backwards with gentle but implacable force. The edge of the collar pats at his cheek, a gesture somewhere between concern and reassurance that would normally have Stephen smirking if he wasn't so damn exasperated.

Had he really been this terrible of a patient? He owed Christine another apology, if so. And maybe a fruit basket.]

And the longer you're without sleep, the more you may miss. [He waves a hand in the vague direction of their shared doorway.] My world can handle itself for a few hours without me. Days, even. Let me help.

[The tug backwards had him down again, a low hiss of displeasure from between gritted teeth, hands clenched against his thighs, no matter how the tension might make the trembling worse.

His anger had been about all that was sustaining him at this point. Stubborn and rash enough to simply batter his way through arguments, only still going because nothing was enough to make him stop.. But here his unstoppable force was meeting the immovable object that was his own counterpart's equal stubbornness and he knew, even as he was feeling the creep of exhaustion and pain that he wouldn't be winning this argument.

Not that it would stop him from having it, even if the younger of the pair could see the tremors of that self-same exhaustion now that he'd been forced from his headlong rampage.]

Assuming I don't simply sleep for weeks, months, when the backlash catches up again. The longer you're here the more likely you become a very tempting target for anyone out for blood.

[Good Cloak.

This close, Stephen can see the fatigue starting to catch up with the other man; the tightness in his shoulders, the trembling in his fists. It's a battle as good as won - for the moment - but his counterpart still needs that extra push. The reassurance.]

Better me than you. [It's not said unkindly. Truth be told, he's a better target for a number of reasons, greatest of which is that he's not the Sorcerer Supreme. Not in his own world, and certainly not here. On the scale of their importance to their respective universes, his older counterpart is far and away more crucial. He knows that.

Besides, it isn't as if he hasn't already painted a target on his own back.]

Let me worry about that.

I don't care how good you are, I'm not letting someone else put themselves in harms way bec- [A shake of his head, expression positively thunderous at this point. He knew there was no way he was winning this argument but at this point it was questionable if he even could stop himself fighting it, after his survival had so desperately hinged on him not stopping for so long.] -so I can take a damned nap.

[Not what he'd been saying, but did he really have to?

Because I wasn't good enough.

The words still hung in his thoughts, fat and heavy like a stormcloud, and he was simply too furious with himself, too damn tired to dispel them.]

[Whatever patience he'd cultivated in Kamar-Taj is quickly thinning. Undeterred in the face of the other's fury - a fury he recognizes like an old friend, born of self-loathing and the fear of failure - Stephen can't help but snort, his own temper rising.]

You're not letting me to do anything. I am doing this. You can either accept that, or I can find a spell to put you under anyway, because this world needs you at your best. Not half-dead in the Sanctum.

[He understands. Believe him, he does. But driving himself into the ground in penance isn't going to help.]

[Listen here you little shit-

Okay maybe not. He knows that the other is right. That he's being ridiculous. But he was much too far along in his temper and wounded pride to simply admit it, even if the scowl he wore as he pointedly avoided the younger sorcerer's gaze was telling. In it for the long haul, thank you very much self-destructive sense of stubbornness.]

I'd like to see you try. [No matter the annoyed, angry tone and displeased expression, he knew it was about the only thing that would get him any rest. Irrationally knowing he needed it even as he stubbornly resisted the idea.

Gods above but he was a fucking disaster, wasn't he?]

[Nice try. Stephen's been called much worse in more threatening tones, and could not possibly give less of a fuck right now. He's much less further down on the 'recovering asshole' path than his counterpart is, after all. He snorts.]

You really wouldn't.

[He'll do it. Or enlist Wong's help to do it. But he judging by the other's waning protests, he thinks (finally) that it might not be necessary, and cocks his head.]

Your rooms?

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