open.

[rehandle]

WHO: Stephen Strange & you
WHERE: All around New Amsterdam.
WHEN: Sept 15th - 30th
WHAT: Getting weird in the park, visiting local grocery stores via backstreets, hanging at Red Wings, etc.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: None yet! Will edit as necessary, or pop them in subject headings. update: descriptions of deaths/violence and other aerie traumas (in threads not prompts.)

a, at a park. [ With his days spent mostly back and forth between home and the bar, and for as much as the entire city is awash with green and heat and there are spaces carved out for him in their apartment to find the peace needed to empty one's mind, sometimes you need to clear your head somewhere you can't feel other people worrying about you. Sometimes you need to clear your head somewhere you're not worrying about anyone else.

The world already knows he's wrapped up with gods, and half if not more of the people who can put the face to the name seem to be waiting on him to commit new atrocities, giving him the wide berth (or close watch, there's yet to be a run of consecutive days where he's not noticed a likely task force operative lurking on his route to work) that suspicion earns. So, given that the eyes of the world are already on him for much worse and every aspect of his life that might have suffered for it already has, he's just about out of reasons to avoid being perceived in odd lights.

A few times a week, he makes his way through the city in loose-fitting workout gear to find green space in shade under trees. And there he fluctuates between meditating, close combat training with the empty air, and practising spell gestures - fingers moving through complex patterns to absolutely no effect.

Catch him sitting in peaceful silence, sparring with imaginary foes or making his way through precise if shaky trips of the fingers. But be mindful: all eyes are a camera, and Stephen is very rarely not under somebody's watch. If you don't end up on a government list, you might well end up on a cooltalk fan forum. ]



b, about town. [ The city is recovering, doing its best to live alongside the blistering sun. Some days they get along, some days they don't, but the attempt means that the streets are busier. Once the boats stop, even more so.

He's never really been one to concern himself with the negative opinions of others, and the same remains broadly true, but being out in public is becoming less a matter of personal comfort levels and more one of practicality. With the UN an ever-lurking presence, his instinct is always to listen. Centuries of listening to whoever and whatever he chose makes that an easy habit to slip into— and not one he wants to maintain. Especially not with so many eyes on him now and a glowing chest easy to make out through any clothes he's willing to wear in the heat.

So he's taken to alternate routes. Side streets instead of shopping thoroughfares, local groceries instead of larger supermarkets. It takes him down streets he might not otherwise walk, gives him a new perspective. It also means he comes into contact with fewer people and has a better chance of processing their reactions to him when he does.

Not always a good thing, but better than giving the UN any ammunition. And it means he's less wary to stop and talk to anyone he might bump into, given the chances of it being caught on candid camera are significantly lower. ]



c, at red wings. [ Red Wings and his apartment are still his most frequented locations. He arrives at work quietly and keeps himself out of the public spaces as much as possible to avoid spooking customers. When he does take a rare shift on bar, to relieve staff for their breaks or to cover an empty slot in the schedule, it's almost always at times of lowest custom, and he's as unobtrusive as he possibly can be.

During the days, if not out front cleaning glasses waiting to be hailed for an order, he's primarily working in the back office or the stock room. Keeping things moving behind the scenes. The door to the office stays ajar when he's alone in there, an invitation to anyone who needs it while keeping him politely concealed.

When it's really dead he allows himself out to drift about doing the things he used to do without thinking: wiping down tables, resetting chairs, gathering glasses, collecting the detritus of the day.

It's perfectly possible he shouldn't have come back when he did. But this place, more than anywhere else in the city has had the chance to become so far, is home. And he misses it even when he's here. ]



(ooc: A selection of three differently located Stephen Strange Living Life prompts! Feel free to do whatever you want with them, I've left a few vague hooks in there but I'm also happy to accept any riffing off of the above or total wildcards!

If you'd like to discuss any thread possibilities feel free to hit me up at miscreates or sculpts#6553 @ discord!)

Comments

B

[righteously]

( The drawback to teleporting: you can only flap where you've been before. This'll be the first time he's actually physically stepping foot in the brewery he's planning on sourcing from, which means he can't just bamf his happy ass into the bathroom or something. It's using his actual legs to actually walk, and that's absolutely disgusting. It's hot as hell, and he's already in a crabby mood.

And then there's Dr. Strange and the Multiverse of Madness over here.

He's been doing his best to block the guy out of his brain. Easy enough to do when ignoring your problems and not processing your emotions is a default state, easier to do when you've been unceremoniously fired from your second job publicly after getting minorly sassy on Facebook by the other owner of the joint. But then here's Beenadick Cumberstilladick ambling your way at a T-Intersection, and all those repressed feelings start to swim up like a kind of white noise. Like angry static.

To be fair, it's not hugely different from Dean's typical resting state, just a slightly louder sounding buzzing than what the American Idol bullshit had him feeling. It doesn't show on his dead, expressionless face during his measured and controlled approach, his b-line is steady and purposeful. It probably seems like he means to wait until they're in a speaking range not likely to be overheard before he opens his mouth. That is not, in fact, the case.

Stephen is greeted with one efficient and perfectly aimed punch from a guy who has made a living out of punching things for the last thirty years. It's a pretty fucking solid right hook. )

[rehandle]

[ The saving grace is that he's on immediate alert in the presence of people he hasn't seen since the Aerie - especially the ones he'd hurt there. It's not violence that he's anticipating as a rule, but it does mean that when Dean's fist flashes out he's just ready enough to avoid making a wrong move and earning himself a broken nose.

The momentum of impact twists and staggers him a couple of steps backwards. His weight drops instinctively, ready for a following blow, but he hunches a little further as his ear rings and his hand moves to hover gingerly over his face. It hurts like hell. But then, he's taken a hit to the face from a rage-drugged Asgardian, so it could be worse.

It's been a surprisingly long time since he last had to wipe blood from his mouth.

Breath caught, surprise shaken off in favour of focus on a possible threat, he straightens enough to look Dean in the eye in search of a decision there. What's it going to be? Is he looking for a fight, or was one hit enough to take the edge off? ]

[righteously]

( It's true Dean's no rage-drugged Asgardian, just a rage-regular demon hunter. No super strength involved, but good call on the not weaving -- he's plenty strong enough to break a nose, even if that's not outright his intention.

Yet.

With Dean, it's rarely ever a full-blown immediate assault on another person. He unleashes the full maelstrom on property or monsters, and that's a torrent best saved for somewhere out of the public eye. He's got enough self-control to carry that around until conditions are perfect enough that he's got no excuse to swallow it anymore. When it comes to people he knows, he has a relationship with, people he can't immediately outright hate, typically one swift hit to take the edge off will tide him over long enough for a conversation.

It's clear enough, probably, from his cocked jaw and steely posture rooted firmly in place that Stephen can stand up without round two just yet. Beyond that, it's a real tenuous state of affairs. )

You got twenty seconds to tell me why I shouldn't drop you, and don't tell me it's because I can't.

( There's a hoarse, furious conviction in there -- the kind that knows Stephen might be able to shut him down now, but he's plenty ready to play the long game.

It's probably not true. His temper flares furiously like this, but he's reasonable outside of the heat of the moment. Where they go from here depends on Stephen's next move, and unless he goes full Aerie power display the worst that's likely to come of this is Dean writing him off as a personal loss for as long as he can conceivably carry a grudge. )

[rehandle]

[ He's had varying degrees of success with these conversations, and that's fine. It isn't his right to dictate how people react to him now— trauma is what it is, and he has too good a memory not to have full record of every little thing the man he'd been had done to earn whatever reactions he gets here now. It's why he's done his best to make space for them, give them the room to come to him when they're ready. Which has backfired more than once, most often because he hadn't really been ready.

But none of them have come to blows. And while he understands the response, there's a line he has to draw somewhere. A punch to the face and a threat of further violence lands somewhere on the wrong side of that line. ]

I don't expect you to forgive me, Dean. But either we can talk or I'm going to leave.

[ He's not making pitches on the clock for a chance at avoiding another hit he won't be taking even if Dean decides to throw it. The first he didn't see coming. He's not going to stand politely in the way of a second. ]

[righteously]

So talk.

( It's barked out without apology, but there's an answer written in there with it. It ain't coming to blows unless Stephen sticks his fingers in his brain again, in which case all bets are off. It's not specifically personal so much as getting rooted in place or flung up immovably against walls is a favorite party trick for angels and demons alike. It's happened to him more times than he can count, so there's an instinctive association between immobilization and monster.

Dean hunts monsters. Arguably, Stephen rode that line in Reality B. )

Maybe you wanna start with who in the hell you are right now? Maybe how much is sticking around from over there? Because I gotta tell you, personally? A whole hell of a lot followed me back. So tell me, Doc, how much exactly followed you?

C

[selfimage]

[ guess who not only lets themselves straight into Strange's office at Red Wings, but slings his hips over the desk and sits his butt on it like he owns it. it's always difficult to tell if it's Loki's entitlement or blatant disregard. ]

Stephen Strange, enchanting news! Break out the free spirits! [ that's a pun, probably. ] We're in need of celebration!

[ if he could be waving around paper he could, but he can't, so he just waves his hand loosely in various Loki-like gestures. at least he looks in a decent mood for someone who's generally finicky. ]

[rehandle]

[ Well, isn't this a nice (?) surprise. Stephen sees him enter through pages of order summaries, and by the time he's blinked them away Loki's already gesticulating while perched on his desk like he owns the place.

A few more blinks for good measure, time spent processing the whirlwind of a merry Loki of Asgard suddenly in his space, and then he's back in the game. ]

What are we celebrating?

[ He asks, as he plucks a third-full bottle of whisky from out of his desk drawer. He sees your good mood and raises you free spirits. ]

[selfimage]

[ Loki reaches for the bottle, looking smugly satisfied that his request was fulfilled. ]

My memoir will be published soon. I've called it Confessions of a Cardinal. A bit basic, but not a bad alliteration if I do say so, myself.

[ he scoots his butt. ]

Social media is already abuzz, calling me tasteless.

[ and he looks rather pleased about it. ]

[rehandle]

Your memoir?

[ Surprise and incredulity. Only it's not quite incredulous if you can completely believe what you're hearing. If anybody was going to have the audacity, it's Loki. ]

Wow.

[ The bottle, as it happens, is not Red Wings stock but instead a cheap whiskey he's been working his way through one glass at a time since Jason gifted it to him in his first couple of days back. It's a wonder it's lasted this long.

Excuse as Stephen sits back in his chair to take that one in, staring at Loki with bemused confoundment. He doesn't do anything by halves, does he? Confessions of a Cardinal... ]

[selfimage]

[ there's an easy wave of his hand. ]

Does it make me sound too snotty?

[ though the question is posed more ironically than not—obviously the content is going to be out there already, regardless of how snotty Loki comes off. ]

whatever just more C

[variate]

[ it's late, and most of the people who usually hang around are gone. Ren is quiet, cleaning the bar, taking what's left of the stray glasses, and finishing up the late-night checklist of to-dos to prep for the morning. there's an apron tied around his waist, and his sleeves are rolled up just below the elbow.

when he sees Strange, he pauses. ]

Hey. How are you holding up?

[ you know, with everything. ]

[rehandle]

[ A few weeks ago, that question would've been brushed easily under the carpet, made a mockery of, or discounted with an easy fine. He'd have believed it, too. As it is, he's been disabused of that notion by the wearing on of time and a few choice encounters, and now after a brief start - he's learning that people mean it when they ask it, these days, so he has to catch himself on the brink of a dismissal - he huffs out a breath that's half a laugh and quirks his mouth up into a weary smile.

About as well as needing to be asked would imply, really. ]

I'm holding up.

[ Acknowledgement if not much of an answer, but there's too much to unload it all. And he's out of practice with doing anything other than changing the subject. ]

Are they treating you okay out here?

[ The problem people have is with Stephen, but that doesn't mean the consequences can't be felt by anyone else. He keeps a very close eye on the security footage these days so he's confident he'll have caught any major incidents, but it still pays to check in. ]

[variate]

[ it's rare that Ren didn't mean it (he had his moments of super sass), and with the Aerie, he generally means it more. he knows what it's like being caught in someone else's definition of who and what you are.

there's a moment where he considers him, and then stands a little straighter and tucks his hands in the front of his apron. ]

It wasn't me in the spotlight.

[ plus Ren is pretty good at holding his own. he may seem fairly easy to push around, but he bites if push comes to shove. ]

[rehandle]

[ Well, there goes any hope of changing the subject. He's earned Ren's full and proper attention now, and he knows better than to think he'll have any success worming his way out of the conversation. ]

No. [ Wry resignation. He sets the package of bottles he'd been carrying on the bartop, job postponed for now. ] But this place puts the spotlight on you anyway.

a wildcard appears — the strange-stark apt ;

[nerded]

[ It's been kind of a weird time so far in this future, but Peter's always been surprisingly okay at adapting to weird situations. Heck, his life is a series of them. Sure he misses his friends and family, and yeah he kind of has a lot more time to kill now that he isn't occupied with school or 'internships' as it were — but none of it's been bad. There's a comfort in living here too (here, especially, in the Strange-Stark household), in having familiar faces and knowing that he isn't the only one trying to find his place in a world 400 years into the future.

Without his spider-suit and still a little raw from being outed so publicly despite the significant time jump between then and now, he hasn't attempted to do any heroing, but he's been feeling an itch for it lately. He'd taken on a couple of volunteer positions, mostly following Tony around the lab and helping out at the safehouse — just small things to make him feel a little more useful, to fill in that little superhero-less hole.

And he's been doing a fair amount of social media browsing, too — like today. In the main living space, Peter's scrolling through his newly-minted social media account after spending most of the morning walking around the city in search of work. When he sees Stephen walk into the room from over the edge of a particularly cool looking starry sky photo, he minimizes the app and sits up a little straighter. ]

Hey. [ He lifts a hand to wave. ] Uhh — oh! I heard you had a CoolTalk. Mr St— Tony told me.

[rehandle]

[ There's been an interesting whiplash to arriving back from the Aerie, moving into a new place, and not long after finding it populated by not just himself and Tony but also— of all people — Peter Parker. And not any Peter Parker, either. The kid Stephen last saw at a funeral.

He'd had no objections when Tony had moved him in: having Peter around has helped keep Tony distracted, and knowing Tony has somebody else around has made leaving the apartment a little easier in the mornings. That's to say nothing of the unpayable debt owed.

So they've been a three person household for a while, all of them busy enough with their own lives that it's become a comfortable arrangement without his really having to put in any effort. Which is a relief, given how little practice he had sharing space with people outside of the safehouse previous to moving in a genius engineer who made enough of a mess of his rental apartment that Stephen bought a place just to seclude his lab to its own floor. Maybe it's less that Peter's an easy roommate and more that, after living with Tony for months in an enclosed space, the only way is up.

Whatever it is, it's allowed him to bypass any instinct to put on the whole Doctor Strange show with Peter. He doesn't even notice him as he slopes into their floating kitchen to set some of the day's water ration to boil, starting slightly at the sound of his greeting. Oh. He offers a smile in return. One that slants sideways as Peter informs him he's been made into a CoolTalk decoy. ]

Did he. [ Of course he did. No reason to be a spoilsport - he sends Peter a link to his cooltalk. ] It's not getting a lot of use right now, but there you go.

[ It's also got millions of followers. Casual. ]

Do you want tea?

[nerded]

[ Tea is such a normal, downright mundane thing, something he and his aunt May used to share pretty regularly, that it takes him a second before he can respond. The memories of home are momentarily so vivid, it could wind him like a gut-punch.

This is probably what homesickness feels like, huh? (So much for fully adapting to this weird new life.) ]

Oh — yeah, thanks. [ He offers a small smile, too, clears his throat. ] I'd definitely like some.

[ Peter turns back to CoolTalk by way of distraction, and also because he really is curious. He didn't think it would be so easy to get a link from Stephen, certainly not when he's using Tony Stark as a comparison, but it takes him less than a few seconds to hit the 'Follow' button anyway, and do a quick scan of Stephen's feed. ]

Whoa. Is this forreal? [ 5.7 million followers?! ] You're like — an Influencer.

[rehandle]

[ A gentle snort as Stephen fetches the tea leaves from another cupboard, along with a couple of mugs and the pot. An Influencer... ]

Something like that.

[ He's not sure that's what the majority of his followers are sticking around for anymore, but he can't deny he's uh... got a platform. And may have used it to peddle products for startups in months gone by, long before he slipped into the millions.

— actually, he realises too late and with an abrupt glance over his shoulder: ]

I'd stay out of my tags.

[ And, perhaps more importantly, the comments of his older posts, but he realises after he's let that first part slip that saying don't do something is just going to prompt the opposite response and bites down on going any further. There were some Things from his mentalist party magician days that nobody needs to revisit. And recent discussions of him are likely to be unpleasant reading for - different reasons. ]

[strove]

[When Stephen returns to Red Wings, Clarke is coming out of the hatch from the safehouse down below. With the timing almost being right for newcomers coming in, she knows that they need to have the place ready. The fact that it turned into a veritable storage-and-cannabis cell means that they need to do some rearranging, all without drawing some unnecessary attention.

By now, Clarke's used to him coming in from the alley, slipping in through the back door so that any of the people visiting don't have to see him if they were hoping he was gone. She wipes some sweat from her brow, and goes to take some water off the jug they filled for the day. Anything more could cause issues. Rations are rations for a reason, and Clarke finds it easier to stick to them than most. (Growing up in space, and then proceeding to nearly die in a nuclear desert both had their hands in that.) She doesn't, of course, tell him that she's spotted the change in routine. It's a new normal. It's one she can explain away, can understand all too easily.

(Then again, noticing it in the first place is a side effect of her life before. Being at war. Being aware of her surroundings. Hiding in territory for months on end, trying to keep her people from finding her.

It was that same lifestyle that had forced her to flee during her early days here, hoping to find some answers so she could bring them back to Bellamy and Murphy. Stephen kept her from sinking further into that delusion.)

For all her observations, she hasn't seen Stephen's face looking like that. Not when he's come in. She knows that his tactics have likely been to prevent this exact thing from happening. That it failed means one of two things: he let it happen or whoever got the drop on him knew exactly how to find a blind spot. Either one isn't a good outcome. That Investigation Force is out there.]

Hey. [She sets down her water, and already begins to move to the place where they keep their freshly laundered rags.] Let me have a look at that. [It isn't offered as a request. She's already turning to wet the rag with what's in the jug before he even has the chance to respond.]

[rehandle]

[ There's no argument. Clarke notices him before he has a chance to beeline to the office, and she moves right into action, and Stephen— sags. Shoulders, the muscles around his mouth, his lungs as they let out a sigh - relief? Resignation? It's all only slight, but for a man who's held his spine straight and his cards close to his chest for weeks, it's noticeable.

So he relents without a fight. Drifts into her slipstream, moves to perch on a stack of crates, the thrum of spent adrenaline dying out and leaving behind all the energy he doesn't have for putting on a braver face. ]

Thanks.

[strove]

[While she may be a master of repressing her own pain, Clarke has never been good about letting someone else do the same. Giving them that space doesn't seem to be in her vocabulary. To her credit, she's been letting him off on this one. His return had come with a certain level of discomfort. He had tried pushing her away. She didn't let it happen, but she knew not to broach it again.

Until now.

His face looks like someone knew how to hurt him. They didn't hold back.]

What happened? [The crate positioning helps given the height difference. She leans in, patting his face gingerly with the wet rag. She'd clean the cuts that formed, but she's planning on healing him. Wiping away the evidence comes first.]

[rehandle]

[ Only the smallest little twitches from him as she carefully dabs at his face. This is very far from his first rodeo. So he can't even blame them for the short pause that hangs at the end of her question. ]

I ran into Dean.

[ For all that the words have room for his usual dry wit, he doesn't sound angry or bitter or sheepish or wry about it. Just tired. Matter of fact. ]

c

[laserbeams]

[ There's been an elephant in the room since the fall of the Aerie and John's well aware of it, he's just better at quiet denial than he is at actively confronting the sources of his emotional distress.

Especially when said emotional distress involves the spontaneous father-son bond he was given with a guy who, as it turns out, is around the same age as him. How exactly should one broach that subject? They don't exactly sell greeting cards for it. So, he avoids it altogether. There's plenty of distractions about.

At least, there are until he strolls into Red Wings at a time when he's sure he won't be bothered only to find himself making the briefest eye contact with his not-father while he's wiping down a table. It's not much, but it's enough that if he turned tail and ran right now it'd be obvious that he was avoiding something, and he thinks it'd look awfully pathetic. His reputation was already shot to the extent that he couldn't afford to add pathetic to his long list of undesirable qualities. So he approaches him and smiles, as casually as possible. The good news is that when you're dying on the inside 24/7 you get pretty good at hiding it. ]

Stephen. What a pleasant surprise. [ He clasps his hands behind his back to avoid offering a handshake. He's not wearing gloves right now and the last thing he needs is that goddamned empathy bond. ] I hope you've been well.

[ When in doubt, default to empty smalltalk. ]

this notif sacrificed itself to the pit of my inbox I'm so sorry

[rehandle]

[ There are a good many unresolved Aerie legacies floating in the ether of his life. Some have come to find him, others he's run unexpectedly into, a rare few he's dealt with himself - more out of necessity than any real desire to engage with his problems. More often than not, all three of those methods have involved, to some extent, Red Wings.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise to him when he glances up from his work at the tail end of a quiet lunch shift as the bar drifts into the almost-empty middling hours to the sound of somebody making an entrance and finds himself making eye contact with— John.

And yet.

The brief stab of panic isn't anything new. Same for the held breath second spent wondering what's going to happen next. Then John's crossing to him, and he's standing up from wiping the table, and then it's happening.

He's had quite a long time since the Aerie to mull this one over. But has he mulled it over enough to come to anything remotely resembling a conclusion about how to behave when this meeting inevitably happened? Absolutely not. ]

John.

[ A wiping of his hands on the cleaning rag he's holding to keep them from doing anything stupid. Handshakes have been out of his repertoire for longer than he's been here, but that doesn't mean he trusts himself not to throw one into the mix while his mind's busy trying to run through next steps. ]

About as well as is to be expected.

[ They didn't know each other before the Aerie, and he'd been a wildly warped version of himself there, so he's unwilling to make any assumptions about the man who stands before him now. (A man he'd raised from childhood in another world - the marriage of two lives is never going to get less difficult to navigate, is it?) But one thing he does know is that, as former Cardinals, they both understand that things aren't as easy anymore. The world remembers. A tight, wry smile. ]

Have you been alright?

[ In the world. In the context of who they were. It's an abrupt realisation: he really does want to know the answer. He should've checked in with him sooner. Stephen's been fortunate enough to have a life well enough established that their newfound infamy hasn't put him too far off kilter, but he has no idea whether John's even been safe. ]

[laserbeams]

[ When Stephen addresses him, John stands up straight and at attention, military style. Whether it's a habit from his home life or out of a lingering respect for his former father figure, he can't even tell. He's so well-trained in that regard (and in both worlds) that it's almost instinctual. ]

I'm as alright as I can be.

[ Which is to say: no, but this is just one more straw on the camel's back, not the whole problem in itself. ] I didn't have much of a reputation to tarnish, so it could be worse.

[ He was here for, what, a month before that all went down? No one even knew who he was save for the fight club devotees who saw him win a couple rounds, and even then he'd bet most people in that crowd wouldn't recognize his face. The thought crosses his mind that he needs to get serious about his place in this world and stop wasting his time on silly distractions, no matter how cathartic they might be, but he files it away for later.

Stephen had a bigger weight to carry in the wake of the Aerie. John, too, feels guilty for failing to check in until now, and for wanting to retreat from Stephen. ]

I've been meaning to check in with you. I know we've never met before...all of that, but you were good to me there, so I owe you that much. There's just been a lot to deal with. [ The fact that he thinks Stephen was good to him in the Aerie is more telling about his past than he intends to it be; all of his ideas of what a family is supposed to be come from observation rather than experience. If he was raised to be a form of crowd control at best and a weapon at worst, that wasn't out of the ordinary for him. He was happy, most of the time, and that was good enough. ]