1965-03-01 - Razzing Strange
Summary: Who trusts Pietro?
Related: None
Theme Song: None
pietro wanda strange 


It's been a quiet morning in the Sanctum — at least thus far. No one comment aloud on it, something sure to explode or get loose if conjured by such. Strange stands up in the Loft before a pedestal, an inked quill in-hand. He writes crabbed notes on aged pages still inclined to soak up the wisdom of his learnings. The Book of the Vishanti is technically a personal diary, if someone's going to be frank about it. The records contain findings, nuances, pitfalls, and as such pertaining to the Sorcerer Supreme and his predecessors.

He mutters to himself as the tip quietly scratches on the page, his brows scrunched in concentration. Tiniest sparks get thrown up from friction as he writes. A low glow of the Arts lingers about his pupils; doctor's handwriting is so very much worse with the tribulations of failed surgery, so there's nothing wrong with a little stabilizing magic.

"…not on the third moon of the second month…severe risk of immediate immolation…" comes the murmur, before he pauses and dips the quill in the small bottle of ink again.

CRU-u-u-u-NCH! That was the loudest bite out of an apple ever. When did Pietro even get into the room and why was he lounging with a slouch and one leg over the arm of the chair bouncing it idly like a bored despot? Pleasepleaseplease don't let him take Kingliness lessons from Maximus Boltagon. It's the very last thing anyone needs. Another crunch followed not as loud as the first one but in no way in this world subtle.

The Sorcerer's scratching pauses at the sharp sound and he risks a glance over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched.

"Ah, Pietro," he says as he turns back to the book. "Wanda should be around the mansion somewhere. If you think hard enough, she may even show. If you'll give me a few minutes, I shall be available." Read as: eons for the speedsters, but back he goes to writing his notes, the tufted end of the quill wiggling back and forth.

On the fourth month and the third day, some kind of technological challenge did impart its woe upon a witch. It's called a train, which she deeply loathes, but some other method better suited for instantaneous travel that doesn't scare the plebs has yet to be invented. Unfortunately that means riding the 6, nasty as it is, glaring at hotshot punks who think they are all badass with a side of ketchup. They are not.

And that whole business of never meddling with dragons if one is a wizard? Not applicable to Wanda, a witch, and a grimly dissatisfied creature facing down trouble at that. One of those unfortunate thugs is bouncing down the road, tripping over every crack, slipping on every patch of ice, driven forth by a wave of bad luck chasing him down. The hex behind it is carried by the dark-haired woman technically in the mansion by the time of this pose. Technically walking through a door from somewhere because, well, she's busy ensuring Tipsy McStaggers gets his comeuppance for trying to do unspeakable things to her, like call her [censored derogatory term].

Pietro should really be told about this guy. It'd keep him out of Strange's hair and free up Wanda's need to focus elsewhere, but why deny her the joys of satisfaction? CRUNCH! He chewed the apple. It's been 12.932 seconds. 12.958 - Goooood he writes painfully slooooooooow. There was a sigh that was long suffering from his chest and the core of the speedster's being. siiiiiiiiiiiiiii- ooh Wanda's home! Excellent. That voice, low and subtle but with those same distinct eastern European nuisances offered, "You should be letting me write that for you. You speak slow, but write much slower. Could be done by now. We all carry on. Is better plan. Glad you like it." He held his hand out for the book and made wiggly fingers of gimme. See? Helpful!

The wards chime to his ears alone at the Witch's arrival and he looks up again, like a dog hearing a far-off sound. He too can pick up the nuances of her less-than-satisfactory travels and his expression darkens. Woe betide the one cursed by bad luck if the baddest Sorcerer this side of reality finds out. He'll wish Pietro had worked him over instead.

He glances back over his shoulder again as the speedster's voice breaks the silence. "No, it's for your better good that I don't allow it — though thank you for your offer of assistance. Your sister would be annoyed at me if I allowed you to burn your fingers to the bone. The book is particular about its authors," he murmurs, going back to his doctoral chicken-scratch. More sparks fly up from the inked words. "I'm nearly done. Can I assist you in any other way?" His is a distracted question.

Pietro could do wonders with a fist and a bat. He was crude and effective like that. He didn't even really need a bat but sometimes they had style. Applied pressure to one spot over time causes weakness and decay. Repeated applied pressure a hundred times in a moment caused rupture, disintegration, and a lot of screaming. Pietro had no pity for these people. Regret wasn't a big part of the Maximoff growing up experience where reliably everything and anything was their enemy. That he trusted Strange at all was truly a miracle.

Those pale eyes looked up to Strange as if trying to express Sir, you are painfully, and most inefficiently asking the questions to me when you should be done writing now. I thought you had a Ph.D.? which manifested in a squint and finally, "No." from the square-jawed speedster. Shame really all in all. Pietro was a fine looking lad if only his mouth wouldn't reliably mess up that perception in an instant with ever acerbic word, though he stilled the venom from addressing Strange. He ate his apple and let Strange work (sloooooowly) in peace (subjective interpretation applies). He must really think highly of him!

"Then a moment, please," replies the Sorcerer yet again, his voice soft and yet firm. The implication is a request for no more distractions. This is, after all, Very Serious Sorcerous Business. Who knows? The notations, protected for the aeons by magic itself, might be helpful to a future Master of the Mystic Arts. Scritch-scritch-scritch, about fifteen more seconds of twinkling quill against parchment, and then he blows gently on the ink. It may be part and parcel to owning the book; his own breath seems to seal the information steadfastly in place. A nod, the near-silent clatter of quill in inkpot, and then he closes the Book of the Vishanti. A halo of scintillating embers surrounds it before fading out. Now it simply appears to be an old tome once again.

Stepping back, Strange performs a swift series of gestures to set the geas on once again and a glass dome appears from nowhere to settle overtop it. Brushing palms together as if he were removing dust from his scarred hands, he turns fully to face Pietro now, his air so very dignified and aloof. After all, he's in his mantle-blues.

"Why are you here, then, Pietro, if I cannot help you further? Is this a social visit alone? I'm honored," and as he walks on past the young man, on his way to the tea stand, there's an amused smile lingering on his face.

Pietro let the foot swing like a lazy pendulum. He'd finished the apple. Gone was the core and idle was the man that consumed it. Finally! Picking his head up that always looked seemingly blown back by the wind he tightened his jaw and finally relaxed it. "I forget." Seriously?! His hand rolled and he sighed, "You took so long the thought has forever left me. We will assume it, then, to be social." Ooh honoured? Yes commence with that, Strange. You are permissed and endorsed. Whatever the words used they seemed to placate Pietro. "You have spoken with our father yet?" Without me? Would you dare? Let's be honest about the real question there.

Eeeep, that question. The pause in motion is a subtle one, for Strange immediately continues preparing himself a cup of dark tea. Last night's sleep was a restless one, after all. Eat your heart out, Folgers, this is a particularly sharp blend, one with notes of peach and shadows of specially-grown tea leaves. He stirs in a spoonful of honey and replies nonchalantly,

"I have not spoken to your father yet, no. I remember that you wished to attend…though I fear you'll be disappointed if you want to see me discomfited," he adds before licking off the spoon and setting it aside with the growing collection of used utensils. "I have faced down far more terrifying things than father-in-laws," and he gives the speedster a lazy, confident grin as he leans against the nearest accompanying chair, tea in-hand.

Pietro snorted, "Paprikash." No, no you really have not. Not yet. The bravado in that statement seemed to amuse him enough to pull a wry grin from him that was, rare enough in and of itself. "I assure you they are not even close to being the same. I know this because you are being in love with my sister and any distress on her by there being a lack of balance in her life? MmMMmmm," He feigned mulling it over and savored pointing these factoids out, "It would be, I think, ten times unpleasant for you if there was upset between these things. Sooooo , you are being overconfident to try to assure me? Appreciated, buuuut I already know better." He winked at Strange. Why? Because you're welcome for making that situation uncomfortable with the gravitas aaaaaaaall over again. The odds of her getting married twice were low because what was hers was hers so he was going to enjoy the hell out of this while he could.

Damn — never try and bluff a bluffer. Strange's dark brows nearly disappear into his hairline and he takes a long sip of his tea before popping his lips.

"I highly doubt your father is anything close to a Netherreaches Lurker or even the Prince of the Seventh Hell," he replies blandly. "Though, if he has tentacles and a thirst for the blood of newborn children, we are definitely going to have some friction." A snort and the confident Sorcerer actually rolls his eyes. The nerve.

Pietro was NOW HIGHLY entertained. He was a very easy fellow to talk to if one didn't mind being in the company of someone that needed to be always right (and was, just ask him, he will assure you of this in a totally unbiased fashion). His hand rolled with awry, skeptical grin, "Yes, but what care is it of ours what their minds and opinions are? None. Absolutely none. And in that? All the difference is made."

Strange actually scoffs aloud, successfully pricked. Well done, speedster.

"I don't care about his opinion," he says, nose wrinkled in a spectacular grimace. "I'm simply informing him so that it's not some surprise later. For all know, Wanda may already have spoken to him and beaten me to the punch entirely," and he stretches out a finger from about the tea cup to point at Pietro. "It's about doing the right thing, not impressing anyone. And you should care deeply about the opinions of Netherreach Lurkers. They're a disaster if pushed to action."

Pietro didn't miss a beat, but that beat took forever so it was easy to get the drop on, hmmmmm, everything. "I wanna ride one." Oooooof course he does. The R's rolled happily as he mused, "I'll break it. As for Papa? You do. You will and there is reason why. Good reason." His leg swung so both boots kissed the floor, Elbows leaned on knees and his whole posture shifted to something other than being a self-righteous prick (amazingly). This was… insider information? Good lord if this was helping — never let him be your enemy, Strange. "You will care, because we care. You are to be part of this family? You" you Stephen Strange, M.D., "You will learn to care, because this is family, this is not you. This is not you and her. This is us and that? That is why is imperative that you will learn to give many shits about that man's opinion. He is smart and protects his family, his people, and I think… there is much for you to learn from that. It is not all blowing things up but?" He shrugged and remained flexible in this, "Now that you bring this up to? Where we are finding this Netherreaches Lurker? C'mon. We find." Like… NOW now.

The stillness gathered about the Sorcerer now is something barely shy of supernatural — snipers generally practice this ability to blend seamlessly into their surroundings, but this is something else. This is a temper in check, given the glitter of his light eyes. The last time Stephen Strange, M.D. and PhD, Sorcerer Supreme, was lectured, it was by a goddess herself, not the brother of his significant other. Ah, hubris, his old friend. A half-strangled swallow forces down the wrench of his stomach and he sips at the tea instead, gaze never leaving the speedster's face.

How magnificently brooding his expression is. No small wonder the Witch blends seamlessly with him. Finally, he speaks again.

"His people…?" The echo comes with a mediated volume of disgruntled interest. This is new information; he was well-aware of the protectiveness enacted per Wanda's few tales, but not of this. "This implies that your father has a title beyond that of the usual — or beyond simple human being itself. Answer me this and I'll consider the folly of chasing down a Netherreaches Lurker." The strained lines of his face are beginning to fade; chasing after information is a much more pleasant point of conversation in his opinion.

|ROLL| Pietro +rolls 1d20 for: 11

Pietro watches Strange's strange stillness strangely. Pietro shifted, not unlike some albino sidewinder, sinewy and tuned in. Elbows lightly rest on knees and those clear, too-pale blue eyes looked at his to-be-brother-in-law-of the future(tm) with a look of startling patience that matched like for like. The rub was that Pietro could sit perfectly still…and if he didn't no one would ever really know would they?

It was after a long silence that took forever (read: 20 sec. to the readers at home) and Pietro's posture oddly relaxed. Pale fingertips steeples lightly together and tapped to his upper lip. How to explain this. The shift in demeanor brought about a physical shift in his appearance. A slow deep breath followed as the man, idle genius in his own right, thought of how he wanted to present this information or… troll the ever living shit out of Strange right now. In the end, he just got real.

"Our father… is a force of nature in purely non-allegorical sense. He is… hero of many of our peoples. Mutant, Jewish, Rom, those seized and enslaved.. Like Wanda…" His jaw tightened but quietly admitted his rage and shame to his ego including, "and myself. He had to give up, many times, everything he love to save it. To get it back again? Yes. But always he is putting himself last and his people before. He has brought down scientists, ideologies, the German Army and rebuilt many, many community that were scoured to pieces, and this family." If there was any one thing that might move Pietro to war at the speed of a thought it was anything picking apart his family. He had a feeling. A whole one. It was there under the ennui.

Collecting himself and the thought, five fingers hovered in front of him in passive emphasis, "He is the greatest hero of our people that has ever walked and has done more than any could hope for and is only reason many of our people have any family at all. So yes, Stephen, he has many, many titles, and all earned with the blood of his own suffering and if you think you respect my sister? It is that you must learn to respect too."

Pietro having respect for anyone was weird, let's be honest, but it was genuine.

The tea cup in Strange's hand tips back and forth…back and forth…sloshing the tea about, in a deliberate motion. He listens and watches Pietro as the young man answers him in what appears to be…an entirely honest manner. It's…so very different than the usual flippant indifference of interaction that the Sorcerer might even be considered 'baffled' for a short while.

His eyes fall to his own skewed reflection in the tea's dark surface and he frowns pensively. "I'm not surprised to hear any of this, in retrospect. Given what I know of the abilities classified as 'mutant', you could have inherited them — and there is the proof of it. At least, I assume this, given your word choice. 'Force of nature'," he repeats quietly, " - in the non-allegorical sense. Scrabble point." A wry little smile shows and then settles into seriousness once again. "I look forwards to meeting him all the more now, if he has done these things that you described. He sounds like an honorable man."

Pietro actually hinted at a grin. Damn right Scrabble point. The speedster's pale hands rubbed together lightly with a dip of a nod. This was… what an honest conversation without a hustle looked like apparently. "Perhaps this did not allow him to be winning father of the year, but he moves this world that we might live in it. So yes, he is most… honourable man I know, and he loves us very much. Which… you will likely see when we finally get to talk about this registration business."

Oooooh that. Pietro sat back at ease in the chair and let his eyes float not to Strange but from him to a vague corner of the room. How he and Wanda always knew where one another were was a mystery and either seemed entirely disinclined to explain it. He said simply, "We are not going back to being science project." Whether that was to her, or Strange, or no one at all also remained unresolved. Fingers lightly tapped his brow in a deep thought which broke off with the abruptness of a pencil snapping in half during a test. "Netherreaches Lurker, where we go to find?"

Even as the implications of Pietro's statement in regards to his father's propensities settle nicely into the Sorcerer's paradigms, the small hairs on the back of his neck rise in premonition. He shifts in his lean against the chair, needing to move simply to do so. A father that would move the earth and mutant registration…

Somewhere, deep within his heart, a small voice cautions Strange to be wary — to keep his council until he has met the man well and good.

"Nowhere," he replies and sips at his tea before walking back to the tea stand, galvanized to add a warmer to it. "No one's hunting Netherreach Lurkers — and no one's going to be a science project." This he adds with a softness that subtracts nothing from the subdued outrage in it, cold as a velvet glove left out in the snow. The spoon used before clinks against the cup's sides as he stirs in more honey, his entire posture reflecting a silent indignity.

Baffled, Stephen Strange? Praise the almighty lords of magic and mayhem. Startled, Pietro? The world's ending or he forgot to check whether the cotton candy wasn't LSD-laced.

Don't ask why Wanda of all people has cotton candy and why she guards it viciously behind a faint, barely there shield that wobbles around her. No one is going to separate the grim witch from the sugar-trove necessary to apparently replenish depleted mental or physical reserves. Nor why, of course, she eats blue. No pink, no sirree, no how. Munch, munch, munch. Clouds diminish on the tongue, melted away into naught. Mmm, sugar hits the bloodstream like smacks of nip afflict a cat, and the tete-a-tete sans belle dame warrants an unscrupulously calculating look over her captured cloud princess being cannibalized bit by bit. "Hmm."

Pietro sat very, very thoughtful now looking non-plussed by this news. "Not hunt, ride. You cannot ride a dead thing. That is for lazy people. Idle does not become us, Stevie." Serious brother to neo-bro talk concluded, and no fiend to ride around on? Well… back to harassing Strange's sensibilities in the most imperceptible and effective of ways. He didn't have to sense the sugar to glance up and find Wanda there. "Wanda, we were just talking about taking family trip. You of course are invited." Make with the fangy fiend, Strange, or this choice will haunt you!

"I am not about to lead you to a Netherreaches Lurker, you daft — "

Turning about, his muttering is cut short by the arrival of the Witch. Poor Stevie's ego. He behaves…barely…and keeps the rest of his thoughts caged behind his teeth. "I have no idea what family trip Pietro is referencing," he white-lies. There weren't any logistical markers in the speeder's statement, nor intentions beyond leaving the Sanctum. That's easy enough. A simple Gate beneath the speeder's feet and…

Strange sips at his tea instead, musing over the hysterical nature of what a future video will call the Portal Effect. Ah, perpetual free-fall.

"You go where?" The accentation, Transian, cannot be overlooked or overheard, if the verb may be flipped. Cool and detailed, that flow lilts with ease off the tongue. "You are not dressed." Judgment through a saccharine sacrifice to the maiden goddess of chaos, her nips and bites tearing away at the flossy body with the savagery of a lioness enjoying her antelope. Approach and except the same blue-stained lips and bared teeth. Trust is a rare commodity and these two hold more collectively than the world, but less given their innocent approach. See no evil, speak no evil, why is that shield still up?

"Hunt. Pietro hunts demons. Only demons." Reminder.

Was that a statement, a reassurance, or a reminder? One could never tell and Pietro simply nodded in agreement. One pale white eyebrow arched sloooowly at Strange's outburst. Oh shit. Aaaaaah there was that impish grin. Pietro: 1, Strange: 0…for now. Pietro had no doubt that Strange would lighten up and learn to enjoy these things for what they were. A tolling act of attrition. Oh he was so fucking pleased with himself as the goat was got. Looking to his sister there was more agreement, "I know. Such a shame that too. We were discussing finding fantastic creatures and testing our ingenuity with them, or, ride them around like angry pony. Either way a good afternoon is had by all." His eyes went to the cotton candy and squint faintly wondering if this was because of extra-curricular pursuit or someone saying something when they shouldn't have.

"We were absolutely not discussing riding around creatures of the darkest pits of the blackest moons in airless space like ponies," Strange amends, giving Pietro a narrow look. Oh yes, goat got. Perhaps the Sorcerer won't come after it like some Jurassic terror in turn. Rar. "I'd rather you stick with demons." He puts aside the spoon and lifts his tea cup in Wanda's direction.

"Did you want any tea, «Beloved»? I can make your some if you wish. We were, in fact, discussing my speaking with your father. Your brother was enlightening me as to the…nuances of his personality." With back turned again to the tea tray, there's no expression to gauge, but his tone is fairly even now.

"Tea, please. Erik is not easy to know." Trust the pseudo-telepathic-kinetic-chaos witch. The younger twin eyes Pietro with a look that could tan a heifer where it stands, and create a nice upholstered sofa on the other side of a minute. Amber gaze flecked by those odd amethyst inclusions, Wanda manages what counts as a mild expression for her. Smiling any day of the week is rare — might as well call it a high holy day in the Cult of Maximoff. Laughter? The Second Coming. "He lived on a farm. Maybe he rides cows." Simple fact laid bare, leaving a threat of Quicksilver-speeds on bovine-back, racing through a tangled scrubland, after some noxious demon. Cotton candy in her system is not a very good idea, now is it?

Least of all when the additional electrification by the sugar-dump is clear and present danger, giving her a temporary burst of energy to use on something. Cirrus clouds and cirrus thoughts, whatever could she be considering. Her gaze slants to Strange, assessing risk and calculating a dozen possibilities, the Lady Lovelace of the Arcane. Tick, tick, tick. He's been awfully quiet lately… She says solemnly, "Let's shoot pigeons, «Trishul». The rock ones." Oh for the dreadful translation talents.

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