1964-06-15 - The Cleaning Hour
Summary: Wherein Strange is on the freaking ceiling.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
strange wanda 


"OoohhhAAAH — yeeeEEEE — whew."

The varied sounds of relief followed quick on the heels by sudden trepidation are probably hysterical to hear emitted from the master bedroom. The door, left open, was left open in case of need for a carrying cry likely pertaining to falling on the floor rather than the bed — and that's if the Cloak is too slow. Hardly likely, but it's the caution that counts.

"Oh…seven hells, GAH!" Waving arms around doesn't seem to help balance when gravity is attempting to pull one away from the carpet. Er, ceiling. What counts as the current floor. The master of the mansion is currently testing a charm that allows for sticky feet, not too unlike a gecko, and mincing along one of the many broad ceiling beams like a gymnast. Daily dress-wear keeps from hanging too heavily, since the tunic would have been a loss to downwards pull, but it doesn't keep his hair from becoming uncoiffed and some redness to begin to hover in his cheeks.

Those strange noises are enough to fault even Aralune's composure. The cat cowers in the corner, munching on a rolled ball of a hex landing on her nose. Paws are licked, the meal consumed with the intense focus of an entropic thaumivore. Her tail is big as a bottle brush, and her eyes squirrelly wide. Wanda is the one forced to take the stairs on foot and survey the destruction made of the peace around the loft.

Being the de facto Mistress of the Sanctum has its perks. It also means wielding a feather duster and scowling. Her expression is frozen, mouth bowed downwards, eyes aglow in a dangerous note of wine-dark sentiment. What is he doing?

The Cloak is probably gloating in the corner. At this rate, she's sewing fifteen of the things and praying Oshtur enchants them at midsummer in a few days. "What is that man…"

A telekinetic shove pushes the door open wider.

"GeeeeAAAH — oh! «Beloved»!" The movement of the door in his peripheral vision causes Strange to pause on mid-beam. For his build and general air of formality, the poise of balancing on one full foot and a foot-pad is like enough to seem humorous. "So far the charm is working. If I can get it to ignore the effects of gravity, it'll be incredibly handy in certain situations. Or pranks," he adds with a sudden viciously-charming grin. Settling into a more routine stance, relaxed with arms lightly crossed, he continues to smile down at her. "Cleaning? Again? Thank you, I appreciate this and so does the Sanctum."

Indeed, the odd vibration, much like a major tri-note chord, rings to the Mystical senses. If a Sanctum could be happy, it is in this moment.

What on earth those noises are, she is not going to question fully. She will question other things. "You sound as a dog struck by the lightning and a fork." They are two separate things, possibly indicating worse conductivity as the result of those unfortunate mishaps. "You will make the children fall up and Karl's tunic go into his face?"

See, their minds are already synchronized. He simply doesn't know it yet, which makes the outcome of these strategies of security all the better. Her eyebrows rise ever so slightly, deflecting his grin with something sharper in turn. "I am not cleaning. I am fixing."

And feeding Aralune.

"Fixing? What needs to be fixed?" His turn to be concerned now, even upside down and risking a nice headache for gravity's effects on his cardiovascular system. He rolls up his sleeves even as he waits upon an answer. The hard part…

…that might be getting down. He's not built for the Superhero Landing (TM), so it might be the Cloak itself that catches him once the spell is banished. Or perhaps the Witch, who knows? It's important not to let the man go splat regardless.

"The things that are ready for fixing?" It is a bit of circular logic on the witch's part, though not without its certainties. She inclines her head, gesturing in a vague circle with her slim golden hand. An abundance of possibilities may arise from such a statement and indicator, let the good Doctor simply guess what they might be. "You are sure to surprise someone with this. Very fine words, yes?" An affectionate level of amusement radiates outwards for all that sharp-boned face turns upwards to him, the aspect of the sun considering the moon in its wayward silvery track through an ebon sky.

The Cloak, though, is an unexpected chariot. Its flapping madness sends the cat fleeing for safer corners around the book of the Vishanti where no one bothers her, or seems set to.

"I sure hope that I surprise them. Otherwise, what's the point? You might as well be on the ground fighting at their level." Strange smiles with equal fondness down at the Witch, inverted as she is to his current vision. "Hold on, let me come down. I should be helping you if things need to be fixed. This was a diversionary pursuit at best," he admits.

A whisper and it's entirely up to the Cloak to whisk past her to prevent a splat. As if they'd planned it, those two peacocks of a feather, Strange twists upright and the relic mantling at his shoulders prevents the painful, shin-jarring impact to the floor. Hovering a foot from the carpet, he grins ear to ear and spreads his arms in a silent 'tah-dah'. The Cloak wiggles its collars at the Beloved. All the charm. All of it.

"I believe you surprise them anyways. Maybe you have a sword up your sleeve. Maybe you have a snake, or a broom to hit their nose." Sorcerer Supreme does not mean fighting by rules using any sort of normal method, and Wanda knows it. She dismisses the possibility of further cleaning by a loosening of her fingers from a clenched fist, and the entangled threads of power settle back into their normal upwelling rhythms, fed by leylines and dreams. "You do not need to help. I do what I should. I live here. Would I not treat it with care?"

Intimately reasonable, this girl, one of the things he must love about her. Less cleaning!

One of many things he loves about her. On an impulse, he's quick to flit over and snag her up into a twirling hug sure to mean a flare of Cloak and her legs alike for all of a second.

"You treat it with such care, «Beloved», and it is appreciated. I wonder though…can I still surprise you? Or do you know me so well as to predict my next actions or words?" Gathering up against him, they hover off the ground still, slowly rotating in place, binary stars caught within each other's fields eternally.

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