1963-12-19 - Flying Spaghetti Monsters
Summary: At the House of Strange, Yule plans are afoot.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
strange tommy wanda 


One of life's great joys, in 1963, is the abundance of Italian food in Little Italy and other portions of New York. For someone who dines almost exclusively upon vegan fare, the joyous abundance of tomatoes and carbohydrates, shot by fresh herbs, is a lifesaver on more levels than one. Wanda does not relish what her housemates are forced to dine upon, after all. A pot of evil tentacles braised to a glutinous finish is not appetizing, no matter what you spice it with. Yuck. It so happens the Witch sits at a checkered red and white table, trying to ignore the passes of an oily Italian server who really looks like he forgot James Dean is dead. The guy is a dead-ringer, and clearly knows it, happy to tell any lady diner he has a band and a rebellious cause. That rebellious cause might pale compared to a girl who assisted pulling off a revolution half a world away, and that is why she has no shame about asking for the family-sized pot of spaghetti in marinara sauce, heavy on the basil and oregano, no meatballs. No, not one. Not for the good of mankind. When push to shove, she gives a flat stare and replies crisply, "Rude to ask a lady why."

Which, of course, is the cause for the drama of the one woman in the venue, a broad about 67 with the glorious patrician nose and bearing, at 5'0", of a Roman senator's wife who /will/ beat down any opposition. She comes out with a spoon, a plain one, and thumps the server squarely on the arm. "«Sea scortese! Nessuno fa domande di una bella ragazza. Datele gli spaghetti. Non dare il suo formaggio; il formaggio e un male per il bambino!»"

Cue horrified server.

Cue wine-drinking sorceress freezing, rim to her lips. Well, hey, if that's what works…"


As family dinners go, this situation isn't exactly unusual for Tommy. Dining alone with one of his parents, at a restaurant rather than at the house; the Shepherds got divorced long enough ago that the speedster barely even remembers what they were like as a couple… and even then, maybe only because when Frank and Mary had to get together for anything (Read: Court hearing, in most cases.), it would lead to a loud and obnoxious fight (and occasionally another court hearing, but not of his doing for a change.).

Still, Tommy's /here./ He's playing the card he was dealt, and honestly /trying/ to behave. Just a bit. Because he can't be the sassmaster /all/ the time or it loses the effect, and… he /did/ have a long talk with a pretty girl about adoptive parents that got him thinking, maybe he should give them a chance rather than force them to give him a second one.

Granted, the hijinks will come. This was Tommy Shepherd we spoke of. Leather jacket-wearing, graffiti-spraying, kiss-stealing son of a… lot of things, usually. It might be hard to pick just one. Sitting across from Wanda, he waits for food. Patiently. Don't pay attention to the foot tapping under the table. It's a speed (or maybe a Speed?) thing. Something /has/ to be moving at his pace. When the commotion comes up? He's glancing over his shoulder for a moment.

"Yikes. Sounds like someone got an earful and a half." …he's glad not to be that server, yes he is.


Thank you, karma, for delivering a bit of wisdom to a grown child still in need of guidance in the world. Now, if that helpful voice of reason should happen to be whom fate thinks it is, then she's already blessed by lending good advice to keep the House of S peaceful and agreeable or as much as can be with so many volatile personalities. In the end, she'll get the equivalent of a sisterly high-five and a knowing nod.

Wanda sips at her wine, finally taking a proper taste after the interruption from the suave waiter and Mama Italiano. She can be grateful they do not insist upon identification to prove her age here, doubly because this is an Italian restaurant in the East Village area. They probably give toddlers chianti in a sippy cup; it's their cultural birthright. She fits the bill enough, at least with that dark hair and golden skin, to easily pass as a child of the Tyrrhenian. Her eyebrows rise slightly at the berating and then she slides over the laminated menu for someone else to take, settling back into her seat with a marginally more smug look than existed before.

The minor kerfuffle passes and the Donna of the whole place sits back at the counter, picking up her magazine on the affairs of the glamorous Cannes set. Nothing like some good celebrity news to forget about Asgard and monsters and evil plagues. "Never argue with an Italian mother. Or a Jewish one. They have many years of practice." Wisdom from a mother to time-displaced child, or just practical experience? She sips the wine again and puts it down, probably expecting a bottle to show up compliments of the kitchen. If she thinks hard enough, it will. "You seem troubled. No?"


Maybe the most telling sign that something was up? Was that Tommy is drinking water. Not taking advantage of the situation and people for booze, not amping himself up with something caffeinated, but plain, boring water. Billy would definitely know that sign from him, but Wanda? It's really hard to say. Nonetheless, he /is/ drinking it, and a healthy amount. He always consumes in excess. Excess is his fuel, in more ways than one.

"Yeah, no kidding about that. Rebecca — Mrs. Kaplan, that is," While he'll never call /his/ parents by anything but their first names and derogatory remarks, the Kaplans are a different story. "She could argue with an eskimo that a pile of sand was an igloo. And win. I kinda tried to stay out of her hair." Because the Kaplans were Good People. Good people just weren't as fun to mess with. Sure, the occasional prod was interesting, but…

…maybe that's why he eventually did the superhero thing? Well, other than certain curves speaking to him and him listening to every word they said. Something to consider as he tries to stitch that part of his brain back together. Right now? The motivation, it's not there.

"Huh?" he adds to the last, blinking his eyes as he snaps back to reality from the moment of introspection, then a shake of his head. "No, no, it's nothing." Beat. "Okay, so. I don't really know what you're expecting, to be honest. I don't know how this," he waves his hand around to reference them; a very emotive speaker. "/works./ I know how to talk to a girl your age." Beat. "You saw that part already. I know how I talk to Mary. I don't think that's what you're looking for. I've seen old sitcoms, like that one with Urkel, but I'm guessin' a random catastrophe and," Behold, Jersey-boy imitates Steve Urkel! "'Did I do thaaat?' punches the ticket either."


She has a speedster twin. Losing control while inebriated is reason for avoidance, and another good cause might be those parents he speaks of only in harsh tones, rippling with a child's pain and a man's anger. Two plus two equals alcoholic parent, raised on anger and the strap of a belt. She can calculate and guess the odds in ways no one wants to know. Moving right along, then…

She tips her head. "What is an igloo?" She is lost on Eskimo, but that may just be a translation error. After all, Italian is closer to what she does speak than English and, beyond that, the various tongues of the Inuit.

Spaghetti will be coming right along, hastened eventually by the fact every restaurant worth its salt surely has a pot of it ready to go. Somehow that may be easier than this stilted attempt at conversation involving metaphors that mean nothing to her. She frowns slightly at his Urkel impression; clearly that wouldn't be popular with her even when she was part of its key demographic. Then again, in that time, she was hunting down the saboteurs of hope and peace for Europe, so there's that issue to contend with. "I was asking how you are. Things look bad outside. Aliens, these giants that freeze things. Many troubles. Have you found a safe place to stay?" She did offer Pietro's and her apartment; they can just randomly show up and torment the cool speedster uncle! Yay! "Or maybe something else made you have your face all like this." His own expression of pensive regard is comically thrown back at him; it's more than a little accurate. Easy when there are shared features, even if they're more in her brother's vein. She's seen that face every day for twenty years, after all. "Usually my brother has that face when he does not have enough Twinkies."


"An igloo is…" there his hands go again. Trying to make the shape. Which almost looks a little obscene. He frowns at this, holds up a finger…

He's gone and back before he's noticed. Timing the run to the kitchen just /after/ one of the servers had gone through the swinging door and gotten far enough that he could squeeze through. He's learned some subtlety. He just can't always /use/ it.

Or sometimes doesn't, as Wanda might note the half-eaten breadstick suddenly hanging from his mouth as hands work at constructing an igloo, on a napkin, out of ice cubes that weren't on the table before and didn't come from their drinks.

Fortunately, gravity works at normal speed, not at his level, so building an igloo out of ice cubes? …surprisingly possible. Even if it's a little misshapen, as no artist is he.

"This. /This/ is an igloo. People live inside of it. It's apparently not cold 'cause Eskimo babies are a thing, unless they do it with the crazy giant parkas /on,/ which… kinda seems like giant teddy bear in the worst possible way." Shrug. With that explained — and breadstick bobbling about while he was doing the explaining, he focuses on making /that/ disappear. Omnomnom.

"When you move like I do, there's nowhere that isn't safe," he points out, offering a prideful grin to that thought. "Nobody moves faster. Except Hope." The grin fades a bit at that. The one who got away. Literally. That annoys. "…and possibly your brother." Beat. "But… uh… I thought I was stayin' with you guys?" He /did/ literally get his luggage last time. "I get it, I've been out a lot, but did you guys not notice the bags in the corner? 'cause… those are my things." That's a little worrisome. Did they go through his things by accident? … the urge to run and check NOW is very high. But he can wait. It just means holding onto the table like an anchor to keep him in the chair.

"…but, I mean, I've been okay. The world sucks, but that's nothing new. There's people I wanna punch, others I want to…" he catches himself, coughs, "uh, not-punch. How about you? Anything interesting going on?"


"Snow is good at keeping the heat inside itself. You can make a small hole and stay inside when the weather is bad. Lined with tree greens, it is not so bad. Leaves are not my choice, better pine or spruce. Cedar smells the best," Wanda supplies a survival technique without even trying, giving a very simple description to a boy who probably has no idea of what lengths she went to as short as six months ago to stay alive in horrible environmental conditions. "Yes, it would be small. Good, the space to warm is less, and the gateway here gives no place for the heat to escape easily. Not good to put a door there, though. Put too much in there, how would you breathe?"

Practical experience while Tommy tells her how adults have children normally. Apparently this information will be forgotten in a few weeks, months, years, because practicalities do not apply when one is a witch with a purpose. That evidently means unleashing Tommy upon the world, and here he is to thank her for it by demonstrating breadstick cigars. She coughs lightly. "Be careful of the candle."

The breadstick bobbling around might also be on fire, but she is calm about it smoldering. Speedsters, after all.

"I have not been to the apartment in a week. I am not sure how much you have." She inclines her head. "Pietro made it sound… of course." She tips her fingers. "He was talking about the potato chips and the Twinkies. To hear him talk the apartment was empty. He meant the food. Of course he would. He eats like a deranged horse. Do you eat anything like him? Do I need two pots of spaghetti for you?" Mischief in the words is dry as dust, but it's there, even as she closes in on that possible joke. No doubt Pietro would fail to notice the entire building full of stuffed animals and neglect the other humans in the apartment if there was a box emptied of dessert. They're all cursed with that obscenely high metabolism, she as much as the uncomfortable teen trying to run away and see if she notices. (Hint: she will. One takes precautions.)

"Others you want to sleep with. Just say it. I am not born last week." She smiles, and that might be terribly alarming. She knows the lingo because she's almost his age, horrors. "I met a very nice girl and her father. Who is also my family, and now ours. They are not sure how yet but I thought we may have a holiday meal. A family supper. Not Christmas, maybe, I do not want to offend Billy. Would he be happy with a dinner? There will be pizza." A mild blink follows, giving the speedster time to answer, but not much. Her pauses shrink to infinitesimal. "We would at least like you and Billy over. What else? I imprisoned a hydra and I need to recover something from a faerie island. Do you feel like beating arrogant evil elf women at their own traps? You need to be quick. I need it done by Christmas for a present. Oh, and I was in a couple. Nothing new there."


The Sorcerer doesn't know of the new family she's discovered. He doesn't know of the hydra. What he does know is she's off someplace other than the Sanctum and he's bored. Yes, bored. Lounging in a high-backed chair with a book, he frowns down at the pages before rubbing at one temple. Reading the same sentence four times now is a clear indicator that his attention wandered off some time ago.

"Hmph." The tome is set aside for future contemplation and those steely-blues close off as he accesses the connection inherent to shared auras and pentacle alike. It draws his attention off towards the East Village. The phantom scent of oregano, marinara, garlic and butter…food? He's reminded of pasta, Italian cuisine. "Interesting…"

Wanda will probably sense the nearby Gate opening and shuttering off, being of Mystical ilk. The tall man, in black coat, walks past the windows and pauses to look inside. The lines of his goatee quirk at one side as he sights the Witch as well as her dining partner — ah, the Pullet; he is subjected to a more narrowed regard, the darkening of the smile by a hair — and then he enters the restaurant. The server is politely dissuaded from further conversation by his nod towards the table in particular and then there he is, standing just behind and aside of Wanda. A scarred hand falls with gentle familiarity at her shoulder, gives it a little squeeze, and he looks from ice cube igloo to pale-haired teen.

"Demonstrating architectural propensities from other cultures?" he asks, amusement clear in his baritone.


The detailed survival training causes slowly raised eyebrows (Like, legit-slow, not Tommy-slow.), but also a certain interest. Possibly as much as in the technique — which will be filed away in the recesses of Tommy's mind for when he needs it. And he might sometime. The thought of being able to run and hide in snow somewhere during a zombie apocalypse, or a second ice age caused by freaky giants, definitely appeals — as the fact that she seems to know it from more than just a documentary. Wait. Does this era /have/ documentaries? He's not sure. He's not really the type to /watch/ them, so trying to stitch that part of his brain together is tricky.
…and that's when he realizes that, yes, the tip of the breadstick is lit like a Groucho Marx prop. One hand moves in front of it, there's a blurring of fingers, and a somewhat-charred breadstick is the result. "Um. I like it better this way anyways." …and he doesn't hesitate to finish the breadstick, charred bits and all. Matter of pride? Maybe just a matter of hunger. He likes to eat.

"I've been told I drink like a camel. I once ate a pile of pancakes that was shaped /vaguely/ like a show pony — don't ask — so… maybe?" Grin. "Besides. Chips and Twinkies are what we teenagers /live/ on. Especially me. Things you don't have to wait for the cooking to happen to? Instant win." Wider grin. "…and I could probably finish both of them." Just by himself. "…but I can happily converse while eating like a normal person too, to not raise eyebrows." That's why he kept his mouth shut while ordering. In the era of anti-mutant hate? Showing off means attracting the wrong kind of attention. Normally, Tommy would charge head-first into that. Not while he's trying to behave, though… and preferably not dragging innocents along for the ride.

…and when she interprets his meaning of 'not-punch'? Yes, that's a spit take moment as he was drinking the water at that very second. Timing. "Well, yes. I'm not like Billy." In more ways than twenty. Billy's the (more) innocent one. Tommy's the wild child. The talk about having more family, though? That turns him a shade paler. There's /more/ out there? "Oh God. Don't say that. Redhead, brunette, blonde or other?" He's got to start narrowing the list.

…as for a holiday meal? That brightens him back up. Food win. "Food's always a good way to get my foot in the door. You might have trouble getting it /out/ of the door." Pause. "I don't think Billy's the type to get uptight about that sorta thing — as long as his was included too. But…" there's a frown, "…I can't remember to be sure. I know /we/ had trees before the split." The family had to put on the act for the holiday. "…and that sounds like fun. Count me in."

…then they're no longer alone. Okay, now it's unfamiliar territory. Outnumbered by parents for a change. For his part, Tommy offers a half-wave to the incoming Doctor, and smirks a bit at the comment. It's a fairly good-natured smirk, though. He's trying. "…if that means showing her what an igloo is, yeah, that's what I was doing." …the comments and theories on eskimos shagging? That'll be left unsaid.


Mama Italiano looks up from her magazine covering French and Italian celebrity news, with a young Sophia Loren doing her thing in a fancy dress on the cover. She says something in Italian, which causes the server who got an earful and a swat of a spoon ten minutes ago to return to her side with a cringing acquiescence. Oh, it's a macho culture, but Mama rules the roost, have no doubt.

"«Vedere! Questa una buona ragazza con il marito e il fratello. Pensi che lei vuole un uomo pigro come te? Con i capelli stupido come James Dean. Mah, no. Sembra un attore. So che un cappotto Belstaff quando ne vedo uno. Dillo a Giuseppe: niente formaggio!»"

Evidently a burning bread stick is reason for her to have opinions, whereas Wanda puts down her glass of red wine and directs a look askance towards a patch of uninteresting shadow, the brief glimmer of incarnadine light rolling over her irises. It takes very quick perception to notice, a there and gone attunement on a higher scale that resonates to the chord of her own aura: which happens to be a full, swelling purr of notes vibrating to the stars, as much as a greeting as her aura kicks up a full magnitude of brightness and activity. It's in that moment Strange walks through the door that she averts her attention back to the other. "I think a cousin. Possible; we do not know anything about our father's people. Only our mother's. Not many of them survived the War." The way she pronounces a single word rattles the very atmosphere, silent and heavy, leaden with hope. "Brunette, like me. Her father looks like Pietro and I. When he gets older, if he goes grey, he will resemble my brother more. Same line of the face." She draws a fingertip under her cheekbone, the high, Gothic architecture singing to a strength and mingled bloodlines of central and eastern Europe that produce just memorably interesting features. "She is younger than me. A student at the Frost Institute. Very near."

The plates heaped by so much spaghetti they've bankrupted a supermarket gets carried out and put on the table with efficiency as though Strange were intended all along. Or half an orphanage in a play. The servers move quickly; they've seen their cousin be whapped by Mama. "No cheese," is repeated among the three of them.

"I do want a tree. We need to go find a tree and bring it. I do not know where trees would be here in the city. The big skating rink has one. We need a little one." Little means, apparently, not ninety feet tall. It's good to have a sense of scale. Her breath pulls and she tips her head towards Strange, his hand pinned by her cheek and shoulder in a wordless greeting. Or she's ticklish. Or both. "Designing dinners for a family meal. You are invited. May we bring Grandfather, too?" Chthon for Christmas! He must be weeping in joy and tears of hot blood while snacking on angelic souls — but no, it dashes that. "The one from Ruta."

Yep. Merlin. Merlin she's adopted by proxy. Or there is that story about him being a cambion, offspring of a demon and a nun… "We can have a tree. And make an ice hut. Put antlers on Pietro and try to shoot him, you know." Shoot him. Right. Happy Christmas.


"Learning is a life-long process, nothing wrong with new things." Within reason, he adds in unspoken amendment. Mama Italiano's call and consequent rebuffing of the server gains her a lingering glance of mild interest, lifted brows and all, before Strange snorts quietly. He returns the affectionate squish of his hand between velvety-warm cheek and coat with one last gentle squeeze. A nearby chair is snagged from a table (nobody was sitting there and are they really going to fight him over it?) and he settles in precisely between the Witch and the Speedster. Okay, slightly towards Wanda, but not intentionally in an insulting manner.

It's quite the spread before them on the table and he gives the sheer volume of food a nod before laughing. "I hope this is all for you two and not for me…? I ate before I arrived." Lies. Mostly. "There should be enough leftovers here for this Christmas dinner party being planned without me." He gentles the recrimination with a wink towards Wanda. "Merlin will gainsay me regardless of my thoughts on his attendance, so yes, he's invited. Shoot Pietro, however? Hopefully you mean with something other than lethal rounds. Perhaps hexes instead?" He leans back in the chair and folds his arms. His mouth scrunches; clearly, he's trying not to laugh. "Hex those antlers onto his head permanently…?"

What is this? The good Doctor shares the Witch's same dark sense of humor? Teenagers beware, especially with magic at his fingertips.


Tommy's got the speed to be perceptive, he doesn't always have the wisdom to go with it to catch the little details. He tends to be oblivious at times; this was one of them. "Brunette." he echoes; before scanning his brain and… "Ann, Becky, Cathy, Diane, Edie, Francis, Gina, Hannah, Isabelle, Jacqueline, Katie, Lisa, Lo—"

That's about the time he adds the rest of those clues together. And the boy frowns. "Lemme guess. Lorna. Stands this high," Motioning again, "Kinda a shy little thing, shaped like," Yes, he remembers these details. "calls her ol' man 'Tata'?"

…That's right. He did it again. At the first sign of acknowledgement? He cringes again. "We gotta stop being related to people I meet and start being related to people Billy meets. Because you know that'd be funny. That's, like, April Fool's funny. When it's not happening to me."

The commotion once again draws his attention; the speediness of the servers isn't lost on Tommy. He /appreciates/ this. It means the food gets here sooner, for one, For two? They don't look /quite/ as in slow motion as they normally do.

Don't mind him; he's already got a fork to start digging in. Taking that moment to let Wanda and the Doc kiss or screw or whatever it is happy couples do when they greet. Twirl chew swallow repeats a couple times before he returns to the conversation. "…there's a place in Canada I know that has nice trees." …and Grandfathers, too? This… is apparently a big family.

"We officially have something we agree on." Tommy replies, to the comment of lifelong learning. Though just /what/ new things he refers to may be a different thing entirely. As for food? "…phew. I thought we /were/ gonna have to order that second pot." Cough. "I'm not so sure about there being any leftovers, though, and…" Then they're talking about things that he doesn't know.

…and other things that make just enough sense in Tommy's head to worry him a little bit. In the best ways possible.


Fork set to the spaghetti, Wanda begins to twirl. "What about Mary, Nancy, Olivia, Patty, Queenie, Romy, Sara, Tina, Ursula, Violet, Wendy, Xenia, Yvette or Zara?" She supplies these options around a few pauses as Tommy rapidly tries to backpedal from a collision of the fates, a symphonic resonance in a cacophony around him. She neatly finishes bundling the noodles onto the implement, and raises it to her mouth, about to make short work of the one meal she eats every few days. What? She's a predatory cat, except one fueled by delicious pasta products. The nibbles are a guise for how fast and thoroughly she will put a dent in that mound. The staff won't mind; the patrons probably will, but they can suck it. Food is important.

Notably she nods slightly to the names Isabelle — she recognizes that — and Lorna. "Shaped like a noodle." She holds up her fork, and counters his idea of a silhouette with a few minor corrections. "Very nervous. Throws metal things. Your brother nearly threw her. She is a nice girl. Though her father is the closer relation, which is confusing. How the copoi insisted on him over Billy?" It makes her shake her head slightly, and she runs her fingers over the edge of the table. Only Strange is going to see the effect, a flicker of a will-o-wisp that appears over the table and bobs over to Tommy to float around him. It clearly is working.

"Canada has nice trees? We can do Canada. I may need to see a map. You are more accurate," she points to Strange as he settles in, trusting he knows the right direction to the trees smothering forty percent of the country in the boreal forest. "We will have a second pot of spaghetti after this. What is a leftover?" Asking starvelings about leftovers is not a familiar cultural touchstone. Letting the matter drop, it's back to planning. "Yes. You, Billy, Tommy, me, Grandfather, and possibly anyone else at the house? I do not know if they would wish to join." They have a name. A name not being mentioned to little lothario over there. She tips her head slightly. "If you slept with Lorna, you did an act of incest, it seems. There are opinions here about that sort of thing."

How she knows these things is not clear.


The Sorcerer is content to lean back in his chair, the top buttons of his Belstaff open to reveal the crimson silk of his scarf. The food might smell wonderful, but it stirs barely an urge within his stomach to contain. Too many years, too much hard work in the Arts, and it's taken a fierce toll. Even a small plate of the spaghetti would be enough to bring him down for hours.

His eyes flick from subtle gesture on the tablecloth and up to the fair-haired teenager. It's a tracking spell of sorts, the wisp, likely geared towards family bloodlines from her end of things, and his irises flare amaranthine about the centers as he acknowledges it. True relation there, check. Now this Lorna…LORNA?! Maybe they catch the sudden flicker of surprise across his face, even as he quickly smoothes it away and it's back to neutrally-interested listening of the conversation at hand. More talking. He and the Witch need to talk. If there are more Maximoffs running around, he'd like to note them if not meet them and tally them away within his memory.

"We can find a tree easily enough around here, no worries — unless the requirement is of Canadian origin?" He'll mentally plan the Christmas party as he sits there.


"Believe it or not? I've never met a Sara." Tommy points out; yes, all the names he rattled were actual girls he knows. …along with most of those that Wanda did. "I'll work on changing that. She cute?" Because, yeah, that matters.

And it's probably quite a sight to watch the pair eat. Wanda devours delicious pasta as Tommy does; though in fairness, he's purposefully slowing down. Because seriously. Don't want to cause a scene. Not in that way. "That… really is confusing. Is a 'cuppa' some kind of," Lowered voice. Jazzfingers. "magical mumbo jumbo thing?" Back to normal.

There's a definite nod to the Canada thing, "I'm better at running there than I am finding it on a map… but the getting it back part is tricky. Last year, I just brought the lights /to/ the tree." He used so many extension cords. "A leftover is something that families including me don't have." Tommy points out, grinning cheekily. Then they're talking about people he doesn't know… and then he's shaking his head.

"No, I hadn't slept with Lorna yet. That's not gonna happen now." Tommy points out, accepting of that fact…


…he realizes…

"…wait. There are opinions /here/ about that sort of thing?"

…and all the color drains from his face quite suddenly. There's a glance to the door. Then back to the spaghetti. Then door. Then spaghetti.

He opts to stay, but. "That's it. I'm not saying one more word until this is eaten." …and then that word will be 'kay', followed by 'thanks' and 'bye' before he's getting the heck out of Dodge. …for one thing, he's got to find this Lorna and /warn her./


Pity the only ones present to deal with the family matters are absent, probably hiding due to some instinct to run away and hide. They would not be unfounded. Wanda's appetite is finally showing some degree of health, though she gives an almost apologetic look towards Strange; he might not partake, and they are badly mistaken in the restaurant why she can vanish a plate in a frighteningly short amount of time. She and Tommy, at least; they're a pair of starved wolfhounds gobbling down their meals without expectation of the next being in another four hours, in which time they will surely die of starvation, reduced to bones and skin. Suffering and sorrow!

Her wisp bobbles and when Tommy is rising to run, it goes flaring after him with a trail of stardust vanishing into nothing. The beacon may give Wanda an unexpectedly good idea of what direction that twin went flying. Fear! Her distant gaze marks the direction, at least, for all it tugs on her conscious mind. "Mm?"

Was someone talking? Dammit. "He does not know they have problems with cousins having… relations? When is he from?" Her eyes round in vague wonder.


Pity the only ones present to deal with the family matters are absent, probably hiding due to some instinct to run away and hide. They would not be unfounded. Wanda's appetite is finally showing some degree of health, though she gives an almost apologetic look towards Strange; he might not partake, and they are badly mistaken in the restaurant why she can vanish a plate in a frighteningly short amount of time. She and Tommy, at least; they're a pair of starved wolfhounds gobbling down their meals without expectation of the next being in another four hours, in which time they will surely die of starvation, reduced to bones and skin. Suffering and sorrow!

It keeps her occupied for a while, quiet as she is, but clearly willing to consume her food while it's available to her. Such is common to people on the run, soldiers, worse. "I know nothing of holidays or this. The tree is supposed to be green and decorated. I give gifts. Is it wrong to have a tree of another kind? Does that matter?" She looks for an answer on that, pushing the plate away for a moment, possibly because the tomato sauce needs to be looked over, and a deft consideration made of a breadstick; a non-charred one ends up in her mouth. Nom!


"Then there's our problem solved." Strange nods towards the spaghetti-inhaling fiend to his left, Tommy. "He locates the tree, I locate him, a simple relocation spell and tah-dah: we have a tree at the Sanctum." The Sorcerer did not just do jazz-hands. He did. Now those hands are hidden away beneath his arms once more and a mild smirk appears on his lips. "Decorating is easy. Allow me that, at least." He seems to be pushing to regain control of this particular scenario. Simple force of habit or ulterior motives? They'll have to wonder if they entertain this point.

Wanda's glance is met with an easy shrug and unspoken reminder that he's never offended. She burns calories in a manner that he's never encountered before. He'd rather have her conscious than collapsed in a hypoglycemic coma. "We'll help you figure out this whole incest business," he comments dryly to Tommy in regards to his concerns about Lorna. "A good idea to close your mouth while you're eating though. Don't want to choke on your food." What a Dad-like thing to say, geez.

"An evergreen is the traditional tree, though I've heard some people decorate palm trees farther south. Seems…like sacrilege to me," and he chuckles. "Whatever works, I suppose. You can get more decorations on a tree with more boughs anyways and I've always liked the scent of pine."


Wanda has long since learned the wisdom of attempting to misdirect Strange from a course where he needs to exert his will. No complaint here, though she nibbles on a breadstick replacing the first, and that satisfaction of buttery bread about stretches as far as her body is willing to burn for fuel. She is the rare hummingbird crossed with a predatory cat, thank you Nazi scientists. Watch her pupils dilate at the mention of honey and nectar. She will be out running over giant flowers in no time.

"You are the expert," she gamely offers. This after dabbing her fingers with the napkin, and then the napkin presses to the corners of her lips with fastidious grace. Might as well sip wine while Tommy is told not to catch flies. "The third time this month I explain the ways of old Egypt. Why?"

Does no one get a proper education? The wine is empty, and like magic, someone reappears at her elbow to refill it with another lovely bit of lambrusco. It's fizzy. So delicious fizzy, in its effervescent fashion. She takes it a touch slower, but only a touch. "We will do the tree right. None of these… coconut trees."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License