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Maximus is dressed like a man, today, thank goodness. Not that he didn't make a somewhat decent woman, just that it seems more a result of whim, than his natural state. Now…he's in his natural state, of suit, and white overcoat. He has shoes on by necessity, fancy shiny shoes. And his curls are back the way they should be, calm and relaxed. And he's apparently drinking some teeeaaaa.
*
Word gets around when it comes to tea within the social circle of the Sorcerer Supreme and O'Riley's just might be doing better business ever since the lanky practitioner began frequenting the place. The bells at the door jingle as Strange steps into the little shop, his generally-charming smile mildly subdued for the weariness that still haunts him, even after sleeping like the dead for close to six hours (A record!) and consuming a particular tisane meant to soothe Mystically-burnt nerves as well as encourage the natural return to equilibrium within his magical reserves.
Of all people. Of all people! Maximus is granted that same smile, professionally-reserved for the general suspicion that all true unknowns are granted, and once his order is put in, he saunters over with hands in the pockets of his black Belstaff coat — oh yes, it's a slow approach, observant in that keen manner due to his previous craft of surgeon.
"Maximus," he murmurs, finally standing at the table where the Inhuman sits, enjoying his own cup of tea. "I used to believe in happy circumstance, but not anymore. It seems we're due for another chat." The line of his goatee breaks for the wry quirk of one corner of his mouth. "Mind if I join you?"
*
"Destiny…not just a slutty woman's name?" Maximus grins crookedly, and overbroadly. His entire manner suggests unpredictability, to the keen observer. He is just as likely to grip the cup by the handle and sip it as he is to pitch it to the floor, like every one of his actions is a roll of the dice. Simply, he would make observant people nervous. Every /normal/ interaction with the man, from start to finish, is some sort of miracle. And at the same time, there does not seem to be any particular /malice/ in the insanity that would make him a constant threat. Only a sometimes-threat. He does indeed manage to bring the cup to his lips and sips it like a normal person. "Join away, Doctor."
*
Uncertainty makes for the singular 'hmph' of a muted laugh behind closed lips; that toothy grin on the Inhuman's part reminds Strange overly-much that this cat is a smidge on the loony side. Smidgeon. Still, since the invitation was granted, he settles into one of the chairs at the table and sighs heavily. The familiar environment entices him to slouch, but company dictates otherwise. Thus, the droop of shoulders is the good Doctor's only tell.
He eyes old Mrs. O'Riley, weighing the off-chance that their discussion might turn towards the supernatural and her age-related hearing loss. Eh. If she seems to be paying attention, there's nothing like a simple muting spell.
"That turned into a huge mess, didn't it." His quiet comment pertains to their recent adventures in the wilds of Argentina, where magic and human might and demonic forces all came to a head and clashed with the expected results: blood. Lots of it. At his neck, the crimson scarf, Cloak in mundane disguise, seems to shift closer about, as if granting a soothing hug to the man's neck.
*
Maximus watches the scarf with an appreciation for its reality and Dr. Strange's own weird grip on reality soothes him. The presence of a man whose daily reality is mind-bending and demon-fighting is a delight, just like Wanda's. "How does it /usually/ go?" He tilts his head, steel eyes taking in the man's actually open and friendly expression of sighing. "I found the whole thing…exhilarating. I wonder if I could build a one-way portal to that dimension he comes from that I could install at the bend of toilet plumbing."
*
A little shake of his head is followed by the muted laugh behind rolled lips and a shake of his shoulders. Strange glances over at the Inhuman with a twinkle in his eyes. "I suspect you'd have some plumbing issues once the demon realized what was going on." Shifting in the chair, he gets to resting the line his jaw on one palm while the other draws idle sigils on the table top. Old Mrs. O'Riley is just finishing up scones, hence the delay in the delivery of his tea. The good Doctor isn't impatient, just fidgeting. Swirling curves follow straight lines and always, just as the rune begins to glow with the beginnings of empowerment, he wipes it from reality as if cleaning a slate.
"I always expected it to end in blood. That we're alive is the best outcome." He includes Wanda unspoken in the statement. Still, for the appearance of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and the deepening frown, something eats at him. The next erasure of the burgeoning sign etched upon the table's surface is wiped with terse vehemence. "How on earth did you get mixed up in that business anyways?"
*
A little grunt comes from Maximus. "I have so many theories." He says it with an excited whisper, full of energy and life. "Firstly, it is possible that your dear Wanda thought it likely that I would succeed, due to my mastery over humanity. Also it was possibly punishment for some…offense." He lifts his shoulders and shakes his head in a boggled manner, like he has NO CLUE what offense he could have offered anyone, ever. "But most likely…she recognized that I would find it rather fun, and bringing me along, into the mess, into the chaos, was all part of a kindness, a cure for boredom." He smiles faintly, watching Dr. Strange draw the symbols almost to their completion before ending them. "what are you? What is that language?" Yeah, cuz the last thing the world needs is Maximus with magical powers.
*
The next rune is aborted before it even glows; smoothing it away leaves the scarred hand resting still and flat to the top of the table as Strange listens, his glance narrowed towards Maximus. Hoo boy, this cat really is dancing merrily along that line between sanity and sweet madness. Doing a jig along the fenceline with its rickety boards and all.
"A cure for boredom," he repeats flatly. Color the good Doctor not impressed with the logic — but then again, this is insanity. What makes any sense at all when in its grips?
The arrival of his tea, along with small plate of scones (hey, maybe Maximus was hungry — let's bring the man to the Dark Side of craving those pastries as Wanda always does!) saves Maximus from the initial retort. The darkest brew the old Irishwoman can provide is in Strange's cup and he sips at the scalding liquid, uncaring of how it burns his tongue. He can taste it through the pain. Smacking his lips, he addresses Maximus again. "That language is something only known to the Sorcerer Supreme, which is none other than myself." Me, myself, and I, he seems to crow with quiet pride slipping through his reserved expression. "I guard, I guide, I spend my days keeping humanity from knowing more than they should." A little shrug. "It comes with the title."
*
Maximus narrows his own eyes and leans in, conspiring. "Guardian of the world? Sorcerer /Supreme/? oh, I /like you/. No harm in telling me, don't worry. No one believes a word I say these days. Their loss, of course. I have brilliant thoughts. So, is Wanda your…heir? Or, something else."
*
For the lean in, Strange doesn't budge a bit. It allows the Inhuman into his space and the Sorcerer's expression closes off, not entirely comfortable with the light he sees in Maximus's eyes.
"Yes, Guardian," he repeats quietly, marking the word with inflected capital lettering. "Wanda is something else." That Midwestern laconic speaking pattern comes to the forefront now; or else he's picking up the habit from the Witch with whom he shares his busy life and the Sanctum. "Why do you ask?" A question for a question. Around him, the aura of the practitioner ripples and undulates like the surface of a pond beneath the pitter-patter of rain.
*
No ripples here. Nothing. It is as if he is powerless as all the rest in this room. "Curiosity. The spark, before knowledge. Your powers work well together. There is a concert there. It is an enviable bond, one i have never had." Maximus lays his hand on the table in s subconscious imitation of the Doctor's, though his runes are letters, Kree letters, the symbols he would know, alien of a different sort, and not capable of casting magic. Instead, they organize like a computer code. "I am tasked to reach out to the world, when we have been hidden for centuries. What I discover, unpleasantly, is that it is difficult to find a place to belong."
*
That the practitioner's aura doesn't receive a chime in tandem from the Inhuman settles some of Strange's suspicious state. He saw some indication of powers of some sort from the man when they dealt with the Nazis — however, they aren't of Mystical origin. Maximus gains another point in favor of the good Doctor for falling into the category of the curious, even if the man might stray and foray into realms of knowledge that Strange has no active interest in indulging. Namely the crazy part of things.
"It was hard-earned, that bond," the Sorcerer remarks, back to moving his fingertips but along the sides of the tea cup held in both hands. Little drags, like a cat kneading into its favored blanket. "Hard-earned and, I assume, indelible. You're not incorrect though…" Another sigh, more a huff, and his gaze flicks to the broad window of the shop front to the sidewalk outside, where people pass in pairs and groups in their daily wanderings. "When you're different, it can be a task." The look resting on Maximus now isn't unkind, shadowed with some degree of understanding and yet still reserved. "With the reveal of the Asgardians, their abilities, their Realm…and all that entailed," Strange actually rolls his eyes, not impressed; "The public doesn't want anything unusual in their lives. Not right now. Hence, my attempt to keep my presence minimal despite its impact."
The alien lettering is noted, embedded in the steel-safe memory of the Sorcerer, and it seems he now has an afternoon's jaunt into his library for finding out its origin. Delightful!
*
His libraries, ancient as they are, may divulge the symbols as part of sites hidden through the millennia, and deemed by the too-human sorcerers of the past to be too dangerous to traverse. Something about the very air being potentially catastrophically deadly. They remain an untranslated mystery but warning enough to keep back. Something to find out later!
Maximus seems to approve of Strange's approach of hiding. He nods, understanding. "I can be grateful that I do not have purple skin, at least. But it is nice to be accepted in a certain circle. It has been a long time since I had an actual…/friend/. Believe me, Attilan will not make Asgard's mistake."
*
That thin smile appears from behind Strange's tea cup as he swallows the mouthful and then it curves a bit more in a pique of amusement.
"Purple skin would mark you as particularly odd, yes. Better to stick to being yourself." Was that a playful dig on the good Doctor's part? Nah, couldn't have been. He's too stick-in-the-mud for that.
He does slip towards the mode of diplomat in light of the comment of mistakes. "I think…you'd find that I would be appreciative of a more…subtle insertion into our own society here…if you must." There's the Guardian, he of eternal suspicion. "No need for me to…arbitrate more than necessary."
With dregs in the bottom of his demi-tasse, the Sorcerer pours himself another half-cup and watches the stream rise for a few moments of indulged pensive thought. "It is hard too, forming friendships when you're different." Holding up and out the tea cup, in what might be a surprising gesture, he offers out its rounded walls for a clinked toast. "To being different…within reason," Strange adds, smirking knowingly at the Inhuman royal.
*
The former king hoists his tea cup, joining with the gesture, eyes bright and alive. "oh yes…" his voice grinds against itself in an overly snooty-tone though it seems to be meant to mock its own self. "well, I am not the one flying about town with a giant magnet man." His own dig at his cousin. "Probably ought to have a talk with /her/. The whole lot of those…mutants…actually. You know…its not actually the next stage in human evolution. There is no selection at all. Its dangerous, giving out powers randomly and genetically." Maximus challenges with a loft of a brow. "We choose who is ready. And even still…we've had to send some to hell." which sounds kinda brutal.
*
Strange pays careful attention to Maximus's thoughts on the matter of the current standing of mutants within the world as a whole and is left to roll thoughts about, unspoken behind the half-lidded steel-blue eyes.
Finally, with some reluctance, he opines, "I choose to stay immediately out of their affairs. I have enough on my plate. Not only that, but, if this evolution of humanity is fated to happen…" He straightens a little in his chair, a precursor to his next statement, "I can't allow anyone to interfere with it. Society will accept it or…they will not. Outside interference, however, is not allowed." He swallows, clearly unhappy to be playing diplomat again. "If I may, perhaps we can focus first on integrating what of Attilan we can into my Realm."
*
"No." Maximus leans back and smiles seductively, like a panther laying on a branch and wetting its lips. He rolls his shoulders, getting comfortable in the chair after clipping off a firm and fast denial. "Attilan will integrate with nothing. It is an oasis, a safe haven, a homeland. The inhabitants of Attilan are not refugees, they are utterly secure, and painstakingly hidden. Not to mention that this world's pollutants cause us terrible harm, over time. However," Maximus peeks back open the door, this time with a light caress of the wood with his fingertips, "we /exiles/," spoken with the sharpness of a blade, "/must/ integrate, in order to accomplish the will of the council. So. You can have me. But you cannot have Attilan." He flicks a smile and then his whole manner adjusts again with his mercurial moods, shifting from regal firmness to a sing-song flippancy, "I must say, you chose the right sibling. My brother would bore you to teeeeaaaaarrrsssssssssss."
*
Wait as second. He's seen that expression before…whoa. Strange mirrors the retreat back into his own chair, but not for affront — more like he's never been subjected to such a look. At least not from someone other than Wanda. Or any male in general, actually. Thrown for a loop, it takes him a few moments to realize that that stance is precisely what his druthers would ruther and even manages a laugh, this one accompanied by a toothy grin.
"That works for me. By all means, keep Attilan where it is." One less thing for me to worry about. "I'm content with you alone. You mention a brother, though, so…" The Sorcerer drags out the vowel before popping it off with his lips. "As boring as he is, I should speak with him as well. I suppose."
*
"I'll introduce you sometime. Or Wanda can. She knows him rather…personally." Maximus flashes a smile again, then sips his tea, letting the whole…personally thing settle in and nag.
*
That particular knife drives home, shown in the sudden stilling of the Sorcerer Supreme. For all that he's Supreme and Sorcerous and powerful, he's human at heart. Playing in interdimensional politics, without telling him? Yikes.
"I…appreciate the suggestion. I'll speak to Wanda on the matter of meeting your brother." Smooth, his delivery, but in the manner that encourages one to wonder precisely what's formulating behind the closed expression, the eyes gone bright around the pupils with a flash of Mystical power pricked by emotion.
With his half-cup of brew finished, it gives him a good reason to depart from the shop. "This has been…illuminating, Maximus, thank you for tea." Strange rises to his feet with nary a single hesitation in joint or outward indicator that he's still feeling the strain of having 'whipped his weight in wildcats', to quote his grandfather. "I have the distinct suspicion that we'll see one another again. Until then." Giving the Inhuman a polite half-nod and cool smile, the lean practitioner makes his way to the door — of course he says goodbye to old Mrs. O'Riley, no need to lose her good faith! — and out into February's chill.
*