( catch-all ) can we just start over

[sorser]

WHO: Stephen Strange & Various
WHAT: Post-canon update shenanigans and other things.
WHEN: Throughout the month of August.
WHERE: Thorne & the Horizon

(( closed starters below! PM this journal or hit me up at aurajen if you want to plot something! ))

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[sorser]

[His gaze follows her to the edge of the mountain, framed by the whiteness of the snow-laden terrain beyond — perilous, rocky, untraversable. It is hard to take this place in without memory tainting the quietude of the moment. Knowing that Wong once lay just below that ledge where she stands, or America’s fearful look on that heavy stone slab that rests just beside him. That so much conflict culminated in this place, and Wanda herself had been swallowed whole in the wreckage that followed.

Still, he shears all that away from his mind. Focuses on what she has to tell him now — now is what matters, after all, even if the presence of the past is so close it still casts a long, uncomfortable shadow.

You were right, Stephen. My children are not real. Words that should be a relief, a truth he had tried so hard for Wanda to acknowledge past the haze of the Darkhold’s corruption. But he finds that even he is not so coldly practical to rejoice in this belated revelation.]

You always think that I’m here to dole out some kind of punishment, don’t you?

[The recollection feels so far away, now, like a distant dream, but he remembers. Wanda’s hesitation when they meet in Abraxas for the first time, thinking that Stephen had come to police her actions of the past. In a way, it echoes what is happening now, as though they are caught in a strange, irreversible cycle.]

I think we’re well past that point now. Me and you… [He trails off, then picks up again.] I won’t lie to you. I can believe what you’re telling me now; I can see as plain as day that you’re hurting. But what you did— [He catches himself. Does he really need to reiterate her crimes?] Trust is going to be hard to… to glue back together.

But you are wrong about one thing.

[carmesi]

[is that not why he's here? to threaten her with the impeding knowledge the others will receive of what she's done, in precise detailing? for all that they've been through—all the real danger she put him, wong, and america in, in the end stephen was the last person she could try and find redemption with.

well, a corpse of a dreamwalking stephen strange.

wanda is past wanting redemption though. it is why she closed the darkhold, brought the fortress down onto herself to seal it, once and for all. a small price for all she had done.]

No lunchboxes for me.

[she mutters with a sigh, straining to keep her neck upright, as if this whole conversation is giving her a stress migraine. trust is the last thing she deserves, in any case. her recollections are shattered all over her consciousness, but she does remember raining terror onto many here in abraxas while she fell splintered in many parts. it is not just stephen's trust she has lost—or gotten close to losing.

the thought alone caves in on her like a myriad of rocks, all over again.

but wanda does keep her eyes steady on him as he pauses, as if trying to give himself a flair for the dramatic—or perhaps give her an expectation for hope?]

What? I did the right thing in the end, and that was never in doubt? [she scoffs—she might be wrong.] Face it, Stephen. You see me as a threat, and you'll rightfully tell the others the same.

[her expression steels for a very short moment, letting through the façade a very real hurt expression, tears that she manages to hold back as she diverts her attention elsewhere for a moment.

an eyebrow twitches upwards, questioningly.]

Is that it?

[sorser]

[No lunchboxes for either of them, really. Stephen’s seen too many versions of himself guided down the wrong path out of bullheadedness alone to think he deserves child-friendly marketing just because he’s managed to avoid misstepping — and some might even chalk that up to debate, too. His use of the Darkhold bent the rules once more; the physical consequences of this are borne, yet currently hidden.

He frowns at her, and shakes his head.]

No.

[Yes, she did make the right decision in the end. Yes, Stephen is still wary of the Darkhold’s influence on her, if there is a powder keg in her mind just waiting to be lit a second time, though he hopes she does not conflate that with loathing.

But none of that is what he meant. None of that changes as they move forward.]

You said you have nothing left for you, but that isn’t true. You’re here now, aren’t you? Pretty sure no matter what I tell the others from home, they’re going to be worried about you. They’re going to want to support you moving forward.

This place, whether you want it to be or not, is a second chance. Don’t waste that, Wanda.

[carmesi]

[no, he posits, and wanda can see the machinations of his thoughts streamlining as he considers things—his thoughts not entirely hidden from her as she catches hints of his wariness.

worry or not, she will always be a source of external concern—not for how she is. not entirely, anyway. there will always be a concern of whether wanda maximoff is a threat to those around her, if the remnants of dark magic will spill forth from her at the smallest show of potential broken delusion.

how could stephen understand, anyway? to lose so much, to want so much, and every step towards success leading to nothing but sacrifice. she had been patient, she had been kind, she had kept her own grief to herself, but the universe, it seemed, held less than pleasant designs for her life.]

You have a life to return to, Stephen. Should I be grateful to be here, knowing what I will never have?

[—an ordinary life, where her biggest problem is worrying about the pile of laundry that's been sitting in the dryer. but no — wanda doesn't want an answer from him. it would be futile, to try and encompass this emptiness inside her that's reached further limits she didn't know existed; like claws scratching on chalkboard, it's just the calcified outer layer of skeleton gnashing in a never ending thrum, no shields, no defenses, nothing to cushion the pain.

she breathes shallowly for a moment, the world around them stilling entirely with every breath she takes.]

I want to ask a favor of you.

[stepping forward, she walks up to the sorcerer, the separation with them so minimal that wanda could whisper her words and he would be able to hear them nonetheless.]

You may think I don't deserve it—and perhaps I don't. But don't talk down to me anymore, Stephen. [her powers, as they are, she knows they could overwhelm him. but this isn't— it isn't about that— so it's not a threat.] I am at least owed that decency.

Even if you've lost all respect for me.

[sorser]

[Yes, she should be grateful, he thinks, that there are those here still concerned for her; does she not realize the tizzy she put so many into when they noticed she had gone missing? To ignore that, to say that it has no weight in the face of her grief and more poignant losses feel like willful blindness on her part. Maybe that's still the issue: grief, insofar untended, still raw, and still affecting her in ways that Stephen cannot unravel with his rationale.

That’s the most frustrating at all. A rift he cannot cross, no matter how hard he tries — at least, it certainly feels that way.]

This is our life now. This world. Don’t discount its effect on us.

[But he will leave it at that because the rest of her request seems to baffle him.]

Lost all respect? [He echoes the sentiment as though he might not have heard right.] Since when?

[Wanda’s the Scarlet Witch herself. For all his power, Stephen Strange has learned a dash of humility in the years since he’s taken on magic and knows where his limits lie; he is not even Sorcerer Supreme any longer. What would he have lost respect for? Her power? Certainly not. Her motivational shift that tore through many universes, leaving bodies in her wake? That is to be blamed on the power of corruption, one that she tried to undo at the last moment; worthy more of a sad sort of empathy than disgust.]

[carmesi]

[it is grief, still raw and untended, that warps wanda's mind into believing the worst of herself—of her presence here in this world. it is so much of it, and it doesn't feel like love is persevering. that much feels like a bandaid over the inconsolable pain that ruptures her apart.

even if, in finding something warm and affectionate in this world, it could shift the way she sees herself, her actions, and whether she is deserving of anything good, the truth is that part of her still thinks— of how others may return home, to something more, whereas her options are either to return to nothing but a void, or remain here with the growing worry that she will lose those willing to love her at any moment.

stephen could not possibly understand, is what wanda tells herself. the way he thinks, sees the world, so blindingly in contrast with her own perception.

her expression shifts momentarily, uncertain if he is being truthful or not. there is shame here, and she can't help but feel wholly deserving of the scathing words and judgement from others. it is hard to see the kindness when it feels like she's the rotten apple in the pile.]

You — [she pulls back from speaking momentarily, gaze shifting, the obvious gearings of someone who is trying very hard to not break into a crying mess. she manages, but barely, her voice navigating a deeply hurt, emotional quality.] You make me feel like I'm not good enough. [—to have this kind of feeling tied to stephen strange... wanda could laugh at herself. but it's not about him; it's about every man in her life who has only ever seen her as a tool or a weapon or something so dangerous, she must not know how to handle herself.] I hear your words— and it's just... disappointment, or chastising.

[a deep breath, blinking away at the pool of tears in her eyes.]

You spoke to me respectfully when you thought I could help you and America. Like an equal, though we had barely spoken before. [a stark difference, from tony, from hayward.] As soon as I revealed my intentions and the hex, your words— You said I was calling myself a witch, like it was stupid. And you and Wong used it as an insult. [when it is what she is—just as much as he calls himself a sorcerer. why must his title hold respect, and hers a reason for derision? she emphasizes:] It is what I am, Stephen.

Tony always spoke to me like I was a child, when I was well over my twenties. You men keep treating me like I don't know what is best for me, and perhaps I don't — clearly, what we've lived through may prove that.

[but—]

But I'm also my own person.

[you make me feel like a child who isn't allowed to forget their mistakes, is what she doesn't say. she is not trying to forget them—those mistakes, those lives she took—but it hurts when that is all he sees in the eyes of others: fear; it hurts when that is all she hears in their words: relentless reminders.]

It's the way your words cut, Stephen. Like there is no sympathy there for me.

[they've talked about this before, hadn't they? back when she saw his memories and he hers—when she tried to explain to him why his choice to give thanos the time stone destroyed everything she had left in the world.]

Did you not flinch just now when I approached you at first?

[because oh, she noticed.]

[sorser]

[To his credit, he lets her speak. Lets her say her piece until the very end. But by the end of it, Stephen’s face has shadowed itself with a frown, wrinkles marring his brow, making him genuinely look the age he feels. He can’t wholly force the incredulity out of his words.

This is a lot to unpack; he feels like he’s walking on eggshells.]

I flinched because—as much as I wish it weren’t the case—the memory of Kamar-Taj in ruins is still fresh in my mind. We’ve been working on rebuilding it now, did you know that? And every time I look around, watching students practice, or work towards putting the place back together brick-by-brick, I can’t help but notice how many less of us there are now. So yes, I’m a little hesitant, Wanda. And I don’t think it’s fair that you expect otherwise from me so soon.

[What kind of person does she think he is? An automaton? A man who moves through life like it were a checklist, frowning at the things and people that do not fall into line accordingly? Or worse, someone better than that?]

I’m not— [He tears this part out of his throat as though his pride will not allow it. But his pride needs to be softer, more malleable, and he must concede a little.] —a saint. I’m still just human.

[But that flaring moment of indignity is gone in a flash, leaving only more exhaustion in his wake and an empty feeling at his core. Wanda looks like she’s on the verge of tears, and Stephen feels like portaling himself into another realm altogether if he could. He sighs long, reins himself back in. Raises a scarred hand to scrub at his face, his next words having lost their edges.]

I don’t mean… to sound the way I sound half of the time. More than half. [God, did she compare him to Tony Stark?] Christine used to tell me the exact same thing… [He lets that thought trail off, die on the vine.] But I’ll make it clear now: I’ve never once lost respect for you, Wanda. Would I have made any better decisions in your shoes?

[He scoffs.]

I think the multiverse has already answered that for us.

[carmesi]

[—there, that pang of guilt, fully aware of her actions in kamar-taj and the lives that she took without a second thought. it is easy to zero in on her own pain, ignoring what's been left in the wake of it all. stephen gets to see the results of her actions, and he is right to not let her forget it.

she also notes his indignity and decides to just let it pass, especially when he tries to sum it all up by trying to explain to her that he's just human.

perhaps a way of noting that her impression of him, as this superior of hers in some way, is one he recognizes and sees that she's mistaken about. it seems to deflate him some, as he starts to explain.

unlike stephen, however, she was unable to see into the many different stephens in the multiverse. she raises an eyebrow, seeming to understand what he means. whatever he glimpsed while traversing the different worlds, it must not have been elating for him, to see himself projected as someone who can very well be corrupted by dark magic.]

I'm — sorry. For the things I've done.

[has she already apologized? it feels like she's constantly doing that. but she means it, even if there is nothing she can do here to properly prove it.]

I'm sorry for hurting you and those around you. [your friends, colleagues, pupils—whatever they may have been] I just... [lost my way? felt so incredibly alone, and it was used against me?] I don't know what I can do to make anything better.

[to stop feeling that tug, of chthon, of the dark magic he created—]

Don't spare any details to the others. They deserve the truth.

[sorser]

[Perhaps someday he'll enlighten her. Tell her about the Stephen who caused an incursion through overuse of the Darkhold. Or another, whose world was a cold and barren wasteland, who sought to kill him mere minutes after his visit. The belief of others that Stephen Strange was only ever a man who would cause destruction wherever he tread, in the wake of the decisions he made for others — the Illuminati certainly thought as much, clapping him in anti-magic irons as soon as they caught whiff of him.

But that discussion is for another time. Her apology feels like a shard of ice splintering right through him — and he knows exactly what it is: the useless feeling of being unable to do more than just stand here and make Wanda feel worse.

Maybe he still isn’t too far departed from the usual gamut of Stephen Stranges across the multiverse, after all.]

I know you regret it. [He never doubted that from the moment he stepped into her domain. That was never up for debate. Learning how to move forward is the crux of the issue here.] You don’t have to apologize to me.

[(Apologies feel like putting a bandaid over a bullet hole.)]

I’ll tell them what I think they need to know. Nothing more, nothing less.

[carmesi]

[if not him, then to whom?

there's that feeling—of being unable to win either way: her cries unheard, her apologies unwanted. it's a blurry line to be on, and wanda struggles with how she can't find strong footing either way. who is she, really? the person who did something awful, or the one horrified by the awful thing she did?

wanda doesn't know where to go from here, and so she is quiet, turning away from the sorcerer.]

If that is all, I would like you to leave now.

[she pauses, her expression distant.]

Good bye, Stephen.

[sorser]

[And like that, it's over and done with. Except it isn't, not really, a million dangling threads between still hanging and untended. If Stephen walks away now, he walks away from a problem still not solved—something that goes against the grain of his very personality—and for a moment, he hesitates.

But the request cements itself, known in the tiredness of his brow, the way that he steps back and away, hands raising not to convince her otherwise, but to cast the easy motions of a basic spell.]

Until next time, Wanda.

[He can at least leave her with that promise: no doubt that he’ll see her again. Maybe then they can smooth down these rough edges, or make them more jagged than before. It’s about a fifty-fifty chance at this rate, struggling to find common ground that won’t give under the weight of their opposing viewpoints.

His magic spreads, revealing that hidden door, outlined sharply against the falling snow. It swings open as he approaches, exiting, and closes behind him without the sorcerer bothering to look back.]