1964-02-05 - Bringing Dad Home
Summary: Doctor Strange comes to visit Tommy and Hope's new apartment.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
strange tommy hope 

The address gives him a rough idea of where the place is and with other little details from the pale-haired speedster, the Sorcerer Supreme is able to open a Gate leading directly to the sidewalk outside the three-story building in the Burrows. Both men step quickly from the reality-rending portal and as quickly as the chained lightning opened, it collapses. Anyone lucky enough to have eyed their arrival will probably blink a few times and consider whether or not they're hallucinating before dismissing the event as a whole. Ah, the quirks of the human psyche.

Strange eyes the multi-storied place before glancing to the young man beside him. "Seems like a nice enough place. Not a lot of room, but you can move up in the world and in square feet later in life." With hands in black Belstaff pockets and crimson scarf lying mute and still — at the moment — he takes a moment to measure the dimensions of the premises. Nothing too fancy, the wards it needs, and less space means the chance for more umph in either its ability to warn or even backlash, depending on what the structure can maintain naturally. No ley line nearby, much the shame, but oh well. It's easy enough to set an anchor as long as it's not disturbed. "Lead the way," he murmurs, expression quietly pensive.


Two speedsters in residence assures that food will always be plentiful in some way. Mind you, Hope absolutely loathes what passes for appliances, and can be heard muttering about lack of microwaves and its successors more than not. She stands in front of the stove, coaxing several chopped vegetables and ground beef to turn into something palatable while the electric coil glows bright red-orange, as hot as her hair. She pokes the mixture around with a wooden spatula, forcing an even cooking finish, more or less. One will say nothing about the exploded can flung out the window into the postage-stamp courtyard, something the birds will happily eat. Teeth worry her lower lip as she stares at a recipe printed on a Campbell's soup can, clearly not one that she puts a lot of faith in.

There's a bottle of beer on the counter, one she has barely touched, and another book hanging from twine from the cupboards. That, apparently, covers What The Hell Happened Then. Then being 1950-1960. It's some kind of Life Magazine production, dog-eared, but helpful.


"Sure thing, Doc." Tommy replies — Gating was still a new sensation to him, so it took him a moment to regain the other bearings (no surprise that the mouth came first, with this one involved)… but once he did? Poof. He was gone in a flash, and the door to the building was hanging open. A second later, he's back.

"Uh, sorry 'bout that. Been running around with her so long that I got used to it. C'mon, follow me." Tommy replies — just a tad sheepish as he leads teh way into the place, catching the door before it completely shuts and holding it open.

With that done, it's a short trip up a couple of flights of stairs — the speedster looking back at the top of each landing to make sure that his sorcerous parent is keeping up, before the door is arrived at. Hand digs through pocket for keys — Tommy's got an impressive keyring for a teenager, with multiple living spaces to worry about! Door is unlocked, and head peeks in, first. "Spicecake? We've got company. Friendly kind. If you're not decent, might wanna get decent." he calls in first, before opening the door fully and stepping inside. Staying near to hold it open with a foot for Strange to step in. Then he'll take care of closing and locking it behind them — security is important, even without any present dangers.


Standing there left to his own devices briefly, Strange sighs and the speedster is back before his breath has dissolved into the cold air. The mild embarrassment is noted with nothing but a small smile and he follows along behind Tommy until they reach the third floor, clearly home to the young man and his girlfriend. Noting the number of keys with silent interest, the Sorcerer glances around him again. Yep, definitely nothing too crazy or complicated to set. What's the square footage…? 800, is his unspoken guess, a bet with himself.

"That's a quaint nickname," he mutters to the young man with a grin as he steps into the flat past him. "Hair color, I assume?" The clicking of many locks speaks to the need for safety — or at least the illusion of it — for them and his amusement lessens in a shift towards the sober expression worn by the Sorcerer Supreme. More like 600, 700 square feet, he amends and begins searching the room for some knick-knack that could act as said anchor for said wards. Something subtle, something easily hidden or ignored by the average burgler or intruder… It leaves him standing in the middle of the room he entered into, living room perhaps, with its bare-brick walls and hodge-podge furniture, slowly turning in place and allowing his eyes to wander.


When the occupants are both time-displaced teenagers without any legitimate means of income, the apartment will never be large. Not everyone can inherit property from their viciously murdered predecessor, and in forty years, this very flat will be about $3,800 a month, give or take. Empty rooms give a sense of spaciousness that furnishings cluttering up the floor plan would deplete, though they have a few pieces, here and there, selectively placed. The bedroom door is shut, at least, hiding the gleanings of theft from Friends of Humanity, a lovely new bed with a plain Hollywood frame. But they have a bed. Not even two like plenty others are.

Seeing the man walk into their house, their place, is enough to cause Hope to stop cooking and eye the skillet in terms of a weapon. Hot oil, hot food, hot skillet: they're all measured before Tommy disarms who he is. Knives are left where they are, and she arches an eyebrow. "Who?" It's going to resolve itself, and her usual shiny expression dissolves into something guarded and hardened around the edges, lips thinned slightly. She can feel the distortion in the back of her head, pulling wordlessly on the speedster's power to consider blitzing by. It's worth noting there are a good dozen or two security measures in play up here, subtle to barely noticeable unless one's a thief and living by the skin of their teeth in the dangerous world. Time to get the beer bottle and take a swig; it's also convenient to have something at hand to throw with hypervelocity and explosive force as need be. Not to hurt, but it gives her grounds to flee as need be.


"Not exactly," Tommy replies, keeping his tone low. "More for her 'tude. She can be spicy sometimes, and really kinda sweet at other times. Kinda like cake, y'know? So…" Everything you need to know in two syllables. Such shortenings have been Tommy's way for some time now. Then, to Hope? "It's the Doc. He's come to see how far along you are." teases the platinum-haired one as he makes his way over, leaning in to give her a quick hug and kiss — affectionate, these two.

"But seriously, we had a talk." Tommy continues, sniffing lightly at the air. That's food. He smells food. This reminds him that he hasn't eaten recently. This is something that he should change. "He's gonna set up some sorta protection around the place to try and keep the bad guys out." That's the simple way of putting it, in Tommy's mind. "What's cookin'?" is asked, before eyes are turning to the stove to try and guess at the answer.


"Isn't it a bit early to be guessing at that? I mean, they don't even know in this era until the kid gets to its second birthday or something." The arch of her fiery eyebrows widens leaf green eyes tending to narrow, and she presses her hand to her tailbone. "Don't tell me. Am I going to have to have this kid in front of every last member of your family to prove it's actually born and not smuggled in from a pantry by a servant or, I don't know, you? Because that's not going to happen. I refuse to do that." Her eyes narrow finally and she huffs.

"Um, it's a casserole scramble. Hamburger, all the veg I could find. I don't now if you like tomatoes but the sweet peppers are the best." Her clarification about the food requires her to jump forward and turn down the heat, giving the skillet a good stir… with the beer bottle. Given how fast she moves, they're little more than blurs. Another swig, and a look flashes around the corner. "Go put out a plate for him?"


Lingering in what passes as the living room, with its continual layout in architecture, the good Doctor listens as he wanders over to the dual windows. Twitching aside the curtains, he glances outside and nods to himself. A scarred fingertip points a line along the baseboards of the windows from lintel to lintel, his brows knitted in a slight frown. Potential here… The posters are regarded and mayhaps the two youngsters can hear the sudden cease in movement followed by a sharp, "The HELL?!" and some mumbling under his breath. Should they be able to hear his muttering, it probably sounds incredulous for the foreign language it's in. A few tentative steps are taken closer and another sound, a muffled laugh behind a hand, can be heard to follow.

The conversation all but goes over his head until the comment comes as to proving the existance of said child. This again. It draws his attention from the uncanny poster in shades of blue with said carmine accent. Those keen eyes roll as he turns around and ambles over to the kitchen's relative entrance in time for him to hear the request regarding a plate and he holds up a hand.

"Thank you, Hope, but I ate before I arrived. Tea, though, that would be welcome." No alcohol for him. "You shouldn't be drinking if you're pregnant anyways. Birth defects are a possibility." A sly smirk curls his lips. "Though if you're attempting it in honesty, I'll get your mother involved, Tommy. Probability tends to fall in her favor. A little twitch of her fingers, little bit of luck…" Strange shrugs, the Cheshire Cat grin completely unrepentant. "If you want twins, she could align the stars just right with that touch she has."

He can't help the glance over his shoulder towards the art on the wall and then back; the amusement doesn't fade in the least. "You have an eclectic interest in decoration." He'll leave it at that.


"Kid? Singular? My poor, deluded Hope. I'm a twin. I was born /of/ a twin. Your real estate is probably a little more crowded than you think." Tommy teases right back — kids are a scary thought, to be honest. Especially when just being on their own is scary enough. But humor is the speedster's defense mechanism… and fear or no fear, he'll likely never admit to having it and charge head on into the situation anyways. It was just the way that he was wired.

When she answers the question about the food? "Smells good to me — and you know me. As long as it's reasonably edible, I'll eat it and want seconds." If anything, Tommy was /not/ a picky eater. That much was for certain. He's about to grab a plate when Strange declines; the request for tea gets a look shot over to Hope; he doesn't remember if they'd gotten any. If not? He's gone. There's two seconds without Tommy around… and then he's back. With a cup of tea, directly from the Sanctum. He /knew/ there was some there, afterall. This is offered to the good Doctor. …who appears to be tag-teaming with him on the twins thing.

"Y'hear that, Spicecake? If we want two little uses runnin' around — probably literally — we can make it happen." A bit of snickering to that, before he fetches a bottle of beer for himself, as well. Top is popped, swig is taken. "What can I say, Doc? We're creative like that."


"You warned… No, you didn't. Oh well. At least he didn't step on the modified Claymore or the potassium dump in the bathroom, right?" Loose hair swings free over her face, and she brushes the locks back over her ear. An elastic band would be helpful at this moment, but lacking one in range, Hope wraps her locks into a messy bun and stabs a pencil through the fattest part, scraping against her nape. "Cool."

Maybe the sound of Strange's eyes acting as marbles in a bowl could be enough to get her attention, but for the most part, she's prepared to dump out scoops of food on plates in some kind of meal. The request for tea will give a momentary deer-in-the-headlights look, and a hiss: "Go get some." Because she's pretty sure that she doesn't have any in the cupboards and who knows if he … and there he is, answering that issue altogether. Some days, it pays to be as fast a thinker as the other one.

"Great. Twins. I'll be out to here in a few months and won't that make parkour more difficult than it has to be. Cool. Just consider where we're gonna stick a baby bed. I mean, my dad just carried me around almost every waking hour and went for weeks without sleep, but that's a bit extreme. Maybe I can rig you up some kind of double carrier, front and back? Or you get this other twin of yours to carry one all the time. That's fine," she cheerfully chatters on, grinning at Tommy. "All I gotta be is the hotel. You have to raise them, too."


Don't walk anywhere around this place without an escort. Duly note.

Tommy's quickly earning himself a tentative spot as "Errand Runner" in the Sorcerer's head. Nearly as fast as summong an object to himself and no loss of willpower-enabled magical energy. Still more potential… The tea is gratefully taken, sampled — ooh, well done, the same blend they both sampled earlier over discussions in the living room — and Strange simply shakes his head this time around, his grin going a bit flat for the tenacity of the two youngsters and this joke.

"I'm telling you now that your mother and I are not babysitting. The Sanctum isn't safe for babies or children. Actually, young people in general." Looking over his shoulder again, the frown is thoughtful and he tilts his head minutely to one side. "Still, if you're actually considering children at some point, the wards would become more important. I need an anchoring object." His attention flicks back to the fire-haired young woman specifically, with quiet gravity, he adds, "This will be magic, Hope," and he twiddles said digits of free hand dramatically. It might even bring a reaction of amusement to the redhead, who's probably been subjected at least a few times to a similar affectation from Tommy. "Are you comfortable with this?"

On cue, with its usual sass, the crimson scarf about his neck riffles its fringe, clearly no trick of the light or some passing breeze.


Log edit: 'note' —> 'noted'


"I have no idea what he thinks," says the redhead, giving a shrug. She carries over her plate to the counter, where she leaves it. Hope isn't so rude as to gobble food standing, but she can certainly do well by leaning against the counter effortlessly and sipping that watery beer passing for a libation. No doubt the physician will shout at her for possibly poisoning her body and threatening to douse the only one with good sense in the younger couple, but that's unfairly measured. Still, she puts the bottle to her lips and takes a deep drink again, measuring the surroundings.

Simply as that, she gestures. "Light fixture is pretty stable, yeah? I don't mess with the wiring much except to set up anti-bugging materials. Vents probably get cleaned once a century. Nail head inside the closet or something? Like, in the bathroom? I have no idea."

Strange might expect a fair bit out of her, but mentioning magic gets very little expression out of her. No comments about cards and rabbits in hats. "I think he's told you a little about me. Probably enough. I'll do what it takes to survive, since I'm functionally stuck here. I mean, it's better than that one time I had to deal with Verhulst or Minuit, and those guys were so hard to understand…" She trails off, recollecting herself after a moment or two. "'Comfortable' is all relative. None of this is remotely like anything I grew up with. I mean, I spent a few years in Sixty-Seven, I think, but nothing like this. And magic's dead in my future. There isn't any."


Well now. That's concerning to hear. The Sorcerer becomes very still, in the same manner a large predator might in sensing a threat. This is one hell of a threat.

"In your future. Considering the workings of time-space paradox as I understand them, your future might collapse with you present here, making this statement void. Still, good to know. Clearly I have some preparation to do." A mouthful of tea makes for a period of silence, his gaze unfocused to some distance beyond the nearest wall of the kitchen. "Hmph. We'll avoid a self-fulling propecy entirely. My concern is the now, however," he shifts the topic of conversation abruptly. "It's not a matter of stability, it's a matter of the object being unobstrusive, ordinary and everyday, to avoid drawing attention. It should not be disturbed for any reason except by the one chosen to be Ward-Minder. A nail head would work. Which closet?"


"Yeah. My future. The one you don't want to happen. Kind of the whole reason I'm not in the future," Hope says rather calmly as one can, putting down the bottle to the side. She won't meet Strange's syes, staring out the window. "I figure there's, what, four billion people globally? No, wait, that's too high. Split the difference, three and a third." With her back to the counter, she goes unblinking at the glass. "When I was born, there were almost eight. When I was growing up, something like thirteen billion, give or take." Her hand wobbles, giving the number some flexibility on the margin of error.

TThe last of the beer of swallowed, swished around, swallowed. "At least there had been."

Another pause doesn't take away the sour taste, as much as she wishes it does. Some things do not want to piece themselves together no matter how much she fits the jigsaw together. "Didn't know, then, what I know now. See, every one of those thirteen billion people was a shadow living on borrowed time, so thought some awfully demented gents. None of them was 'real.' Because, you know, the future would collapse if I was gone. No me, no future. You could justify anything using that logic, you know? They did. Used it to kill twelve billion in two years, barely that. Watched famine, climate disruption, invasions, despair whittle away the rest. It was fine, apparently. Why?"

A faint, dead look out the window. "Because that didn't count. They were resetting the future."


Tommy has partially disconnected.


"Right now, I can't do anything but meditate on it." The Sorcerer Supreme, with access to the power of the gods, can still do a good number of things to prevent such a future from existing. He would offer to return Hope to her time, but not in front of Tommy. That would be tantamount to treason. Forget all of the hard work he's done earning the young man's trust, as leery as he is.

A nugget of magic, potent seedling for anyone with the inherent capacity to utilize it, this could be sent forwards as well. Hmm…

Not only that, but the possibility of a future in which so many die may not even exist unless proven to exist. Predestination? Perhaps, but something to mull over after a morning's cup of tea.

For the moment, his cup of tea is set aside on the countertop and he gives both young people a grim smile. "You might feel some tingling when I set the wards. Nothing to worry about unless you get the sudden urge to do something against your usual behavior patterns. If so, let me know. I'll fix it." He takes a few steps away before pausing and turning back to face them. "Which closet again?"


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