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A quiet afternoon spent precisely how the Sorcerer Supreme wishes might include a meditational visit to the Astral Plane; it might also include a foray to the tea shop down the street for a new blend to surprise the resident Witch; it likely includes precisely what he's doing now — ensconsing himself in his highbacked chair downstairs, in the living room before the warmth of the fireplace, and staring lazy-lidded into its flickering depths. Ankle over his knee, he near-slouches, fingers interlaced in a bridge before his lips.
Still, the sense of unease lingers like cigarette smoke in a bar, swirling about and leaving a dry, acrid aftertaste in every breath of his psyche. Strange has been trying for days to put a finger down on its source, trap the thing for a closer look, but to no avail. His sigh can be heard between pops of heated wood, tired and burred with a growing sense of frustration.
*
Speaking of unease; it's the kind of thing that wraps Tommy up at night at times; it's one of the downsides of a brain that's always thinking at speeds beyond the comprehension of most humans. There's a lot of time to think about just about any subject imaginable. Over the last few nights, he's wondered about things: If he somehow caused the Wrong Nathan to show up by presence alone, if he and Hope can /really/ make it on their own in the face of whatever's coming for her, if the world is really worth saving or if he should just roast marshmellows over the flames, along with a myriad of worst case scenarios. Bravado is something the boy carries in spades, but it's a mask worn well and set aside for only a trusted few.
A trusted two, really, with the possible expansion to three. Fingers rap lightly on the entryway to the living room, even though the person announcing himself has already entered. "Knock, knock." comes Tommy's voice — not quite carrying the usual energy that it normally has. "This a good time, Doc, or should I stop by later instead?"
*
A few blinks and a sharper inhalation mark the good Doctor's return to the present and he glances over at the door towards Tommy. Indeed, he marks the usual lack of spunk and the small frown he wears doesn't smooth away. Rather, it shifts from general gravity to concern, though he tries his hardest to seem less worried than he is by giving the young man a welcoming smile.
"No time like the present. Have a seat," and he sweeps a hand towards the empty highbacked chair to his right — the Petitioner's Chair, as so lovingly called by his Consort, Tommy's mother. "If I'm correct — and I usually am — there's a question. Or a discussion to be had, at the very least. I've seen that look before in my own mirror." He wore it quite a bit himself as a younger man. "Tea?" If so, he rises to walk to the hearth and the tea tray is set to work at his own hands.
*
There's a brief nod, and Tommy moves briskly to settle into the chair — even serious, he likes to do things fast, even if not at super-speed. Once in, he slumps, relaxing, enjoying the comfort. One leg crosses over the other, and a face is made. "Chalk up another time of being right, then." Tommy admits, reaching up to brush some of the shaggy platinum mop out of his face and into a slightly more managable place. "Yeah — I'll take some tea." Pause. "Please."
It seems appropriate. To try a little harder. Especially at a time like this, when he doesn't know what /else/ to do. Which direction to go in. Nonetheless, he's silent for several moments while awaiting the return of the Doctor… occasionally contemplating the idea of taking off running. He could. He won't. A tiny part of him wants to, but the burden of /responsibilities/ keeps him in place. So it's when Strange returns that he opens his mouth again.
"It's about Hope, Doc." The rebel starts, reaching out for the tea and letting it settle in his hands. Warmth is good, especially on a still-chilly afternoon. He could achieve the same through movement, but… sometimes simple was good. "She's not pregnant." He's guessing on that one. "We're not getting married." Such thoughts are still far off. "That all was just Lorna bustin' my chops, you know?" A pause, and eyes turn down towards the cup. Staring into it, gathering his thoughts.
"How much do /you/ know about Hope, so far?" Better to ask rather than re-tread details he might have already gleaned through other sources. Billy likes to talk, afterall. Lorna, too.
*
Tea delivered — a very mild dark blend, heavy on the honey and a bit of cream in case Tommy prefers something less densely-herbal — the good Doctor returns to his chair and tests his own cuppa. Perfect. Setting it aside to let it cool more, he listens. Just that: listens. There's an art to it and he's attempting to refine with with the boys in particular. This is the one prone to bolting anyways. Quiet but present he remains, as he would have done with any of the unbroken horses from the farm of his childhood.
Not pregnant: check. Not getting married: check. Two of the bigger unasked questions ticked off. His smile returns, a bit more amused this time around, at Tommy's comment regarding young Lorna and he nods, encouraging him to continue.
"What do I know about Hope…?" The question is returned in a low baritone and Strange settles back into his chair, assuming the position that he was found in, contemplation in dress-wear and silver temples. "It's been some time since the diner, but… A background in medicine, likely trauma or battle-field. There was some language that I wasn't familiar with, though the prefixes and suffixes were similar enough that I could follow with some effort. A similar misplaced sense of humor," and those steel-blue eyes narrow with crow's feet of unspoken laughter towards him. "I could continue, but they're all traits that anyone could pick up given a single meeting. Nothing that requires a cup of tea with me. Go on."
*
After a little time of letting the tea cool in his hands, Tommy also takes a sip — not soda, or a milkshake… bbut not bad, he'd admit. Certainly drinkable, and the warmth was comforting in it's own particular way. "Well. Let's start with the big one; she's from the future." He knows how to pick 'em, apparantly. A moment is offered to let that sink in, and then he expands. "Further along than me and Billy are. Like, when the world really…" He has to stop himself form being /too/ liberal with language. "…blows." That's about as tame as it gets. "She wasn't brought back by magic, like us. She's… kinda got nothin' here." Not entirely true. She's got him. /A/ Nathan. The Brotherhood to an unknown extent.
There's a pause as he considers how much to say. Whether he dares. But decides it's important, even though he's grimacing a little as he adds, "There's… also kinda people after her. People who aren't /now/ yet. It's part of why I wanted the two of us to get our own place. I ain't gonna leave her alone — but I ain't dragging anyone else into that, and definitely not without a heads up, 'cause if we need to run, that's what we'll do." But, visiting runs that risk. And he doesn't doubt that the family will visit. Especially as close in proximity as they're staying.
"That's not the thing on my mind, though." Pause. "Hope wants to stay, uh, now. But… like I said. She's got nothin'. No family," That remembers her, "No paperwork, no anything… and with all the crazy E.T. shit goin' on…" Well, he tried not to curse. "…I can't help but think that if something happens, people in the government might think she's one of /them/ since there's no record of her existence. Billy and I had it easy that way," The magic rewrote history for them. "…but I've got no idea where to start in order to get her on the books so that she 'exists'," airquotes, and another grimace as heh realizes something. "…and to figure out a way to do it in a way that these people chasing her don't know she's now. The future has libraries." Well. /His/ does. Which is where she was supposed to be going. The Bishop could have easily ended up there.
*
From the future. Not a novel concept, the boys are clearly from another time. From farther in the future? …still not incredibly novel. The red-headed firecracker wouldn't be the first one to profess being present in a past so very separated from their future. But…another complication and knot in an otherwise stable time-space conflux. Strange schools his expression to professional interest rather than let the bubble of frustration pop in a sharp frown. Another wordless nod followed by a sip of tea.
Sharing a home seems an ideal step. It can be kept as secret as possible and he already has something to offer to alleviate any worries for this. The paperwork? Hmm.
"If the ones threatening her from this distant future have access to archives, I'm not certain that getting her 'on the books' is going to keep her any safer, especially if her being present encourages continual inteference across the time-space continuum." What a nightmare. Strange rubs at one silver temple as the beginnings of a headache start. "Unfortunately, I wouldn't know where to start with drawing up papers to give her an identity here. Forging official paperwork has never been my specialty." His half-grin is wry and somewhat apologetic. "Your mother gained an identity through the government group SHIELD, but with what your mother has reported to me — your brother as well — I don't recommend interaction with them." At all. Like, not at all. Ever. "If you feel that Hope is safe enough that I have time to think and check with connections, I can do that. What I can do now is sorcery." He wets his mouth, licks his lips and sets aside the tea cup. "Whatever place you choose to share with her, I can set wards around it, much like the Sanctum." The silvery spells suddenly flutter past Tommy's hair, close enough that it might ruffle and encircle the Sorcerer once in a visible sparkling before disappearing back into the walls. "Not as obvious, but enough to deter intruders of all sorts."
*
"Yeah. I realized that the second it came out of my mouth. If a birth certificate shows up that says, hey Hope Summers was born here in 1946, and they realize that they're looking for an eighteen year old," Which Tommy's decided is probably around her age, even if they haven't quite figured that out. "Then that's gonna be a bunch of trouble that we don't need." Pause. "Although I don't know that they know her name." Pause. "But if she got, like, a fake name, it'd be a lot harder for them to trace. I think." He's not quite thought everything through yet, in truth.
"About the only thing /I/ could think of was trying to say she came from one of those countries that doesn't really have a real government and making a run to Vegas with the green card route." There's a bit of an uncomfortable look that crosses his features. That level of commitment, even for this reason…. is sketchy for him. "So I was hoping you had a better way, maybe, or at least a good direction to point me in." Then the slightest of grins. "I'd say she's pretty safe now, and I don't take my eyes off of her for long. About the only thing we have to worry about is dying from bad sleep since we haven't gotten our hands on a bed just yet." …or a lot of other furniture, but… "…so I think you've got time."
As for the offer? That brightens Tommy up. "Yes. Yes. That'd be great, please do that. I can give you the address right now, if you want." offers the speedster, straightening up as well. "I mean, I know you've got a lot on your hands…" He's made that clear before, "But…" It's appreciated. It's just not easy for the boy to say it outright.
*
"I always have time enough to help you, Tommy. You asked, I will aid how I can." The rest of his tea is ignored as he too straightens in his chair, though this is for an upper body stretch to relieve back muscles taxed by hours of ruminations over ephemeral discord in his Realm. With a huff of a sigh, he brings down his arms from the overhead elongation and then rises to his feet. "Best we set those wards as soon as possible. No need to risk delaying if she doesn't know if or when those who search for her might show." The air about him now is grave, stern and purposeful; no doubt Tommy's seen an echo of this in his brother at one point. This is the base protective nature that his mother might have drawn from to intertwine with her own indelible promise, that pool of unyielding defense for those he counts as family — as blood. "The green card route might be your best fall-back right now. I'll speak with your mother as well and see if she knows of other options."
With hands stuffed into the pockets of his dress pants, he observes the pale-haired speedster with a level of focus generally reserved for archaic texts and squirming apprentices before a sly smile curls his face. "If you do get a bed, I recommend mounting the headboard to the wall. Talcum powder between the joints is useful as well. She would probably like it if the wood matched the night stands as well," he adds nonchalantly. "Could be a day trip for you both, furniture shopping?"
*
Can you chug tea? Giving the cup another eyeing, Tommy decides to try this.
…eyes go a bit wide, but… not entirely bad when ingested that suddenly. "Good to know. Not something I'll abuse, though." That much seems pretty obvious — he's not the type who likes asking for help in the first place. "Plus, it's good for you guys to know where to find us in case you need us — I mean, it's not the Ritz or anything, but for the price and the location? I'm not sure we could've asked for better."
They checked a number of places to make sure; they could've paid less in a place like Hell's Kitchen, sure… but safety was important. Now he's moving to stand, setting down the cup and stretching out his limbs a bit to get ready to get moving. "I think she's home right now, and she knows I was coming over here — I wouldn't be surprised if she'll be expecting us." Which is good. Unexpected… well… anything, really, isn't exactly the best of things to spring on someone who's hunted.
Again the nose wrinkles, but there's a slow nod, "Well, if it comes to that. I mean, I like her. I like her a /lot./" Those common bonds they share go a long way. "But, well, you know." Truth be told, said 'you know' could be one of a dozen things; maybe even more when it comes to Tommy. To the recommendations? There's arched eyebrows, "…what's your Doctorness in, Interior Design?" There's a bit of the normal him shining through, along with that familiar grin. "But yeah, we've been talking about that. We're trying to get our hands on a loaner truck to transport stuff, too."
*
With a short laugh and follow-me tilt of his head, Strange leads the way to the foyer. "Medicine. Remember that the next time I notice her walking funny." Let that sink between his ears.
"I can ask around about a truck as well. If you can't find one, let me know. The shop brings in enough money that if you can suffer an old Ford, it can be some…house-warming present or something." Snagging his Belstaff, he pauses in buttoning it up to glance upwards, towards the Loft. Like a stooping bird of prey, the crimson Cloak serpentines down to him and in one fluid realignment of state, falls with precise grace across his shoulders to drape with the artful poise that it embodies. Tommy might recognize the little riffling of the scarf's fringes as its general friendly wave; Lorna regularly gets the same treatment. It even goes about arranging itself about his neck like a friendly snake incarnadine until it finds some contented point of wear. Strange snorts and looks up to Tommy once again. "If you'll give me the address, I can open a Gate to the place. Though, how would Hope react to such a thing? Should I expect to deflect bullets? Need to vaporize a handgun?" If she's anything like Wanda, she won't take well to the sudden intrusion of crackling chained lightning appearing near to the house. Pardon his dry sense of humor laced through the question; he's needed to disintegrate a gun held to him before.
*
Tommy Shepherd is not normally a follower. Today's an exception to the rule for a couple reasons, most obviously that he came to ask for help. And then that bomb drops. And eyes go wide for a moment. He was /not/ expecting that. But it only takes a couple moments to recover, and it has him grinning. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"
Then the other offer is made, and that's a surprise as well. This is a teenaged who's not used to such kindness, to be certain. "We're not exactly picky, Doc, pretty sure we wouldn't turn it down." Pause. "I, uh, don't really know how to drive though." He's not so sure about Hope on that front.
The way the Cloak comes down to join him is another surprise — it wasn't something that he'd really kept an eye out for in the past, but this time after a talk with Hope? he gets the full effect of the surprise. And there's a hand that sloooowly raises up to wave fingers back. Before digging into a pocket to pull out a small square of paper and a pen — the address of the little apartment is written down and offered over. "Probably best to do so to outside. I don't think she'd like those kinds of surprises — I could take care of the bullets, but you're on your own if you touch her guns." There's a /slight/ grin to that, but not enough of one to suggest that he's actually kidding. Especially until she's used to it.
*