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Not much of a garden at the Sanctum Sanctorum, such as the greater powers with the country estates of the South Shore of Long Island. Hell, Greenwich Village is barely known for having greenery outside of Washington Square Park at all. Here and there small scraps remain, a tree planted in the age of Alexander Hamilton and a tiny green surviving from the expansions since the Revolution. Even the best mansions, the Sanctum and its counterpart currently serving as a community garden, are land-poor. Well, minus said community garden, but that's more the point. Land and scraps of plants are meant to be found.
An easy little adventure armed with a basket and a selection of hardier seedlings, not bulbs. They should thrive even as the first jaunty daffodil sticks its head into the rainy day and decides petals will be joyously open, so very yellow, obnoxious and friendly. Their destination for the hour, no doubt.
Even worse, where the hell did Wanda find clogs? She has clogs and it's evident she can barely walk in the wooden shoes, given their absence of heels and all that. But that and a trowel are her armour for the finery.
Someone's definitely going to ask about the taller man following not far behind her, wearing a…rather worn-soft long-sleeved button-down, in blue plaid of all patterns. Paired with an equally well-loved pair of jeans, stained brown at the knees from kneeling in the past, he makes a provincial figure rather than the formidibly formal Master of the New York Sanctum.
"So. What are we planting?" Strange asks even as he measures the spartan amount of space they have to work with, around what other greenery is already present. "Some color will be nice," he allows, glancing down at the Witch with a fond smile.
Where the heck does he find plaid but Scotland? Is he a lumberjack in disguise? Stephen Strange, singing the fish-slapping song, a mystery of mysteries!
Not quite but a girl can dream, if the girl is a cynic satirist. All said and done, she wears exactly the same thing she always does save the slappy clogs, trying to pick her way forward by pushing her foot like a boat instead of marching along her usual blithe and capable stride. "Herbs," she murmurs in response to the question. Slippy slappy, the rustling cadence goes on grass and concrete, careful not to fall. Mostly careful. "The plants I know are not here. They would not like this wet so much." Mountaintops, the Baltic hinterlands, are her home.
That little snort of amusement was for the clogs, not for the response to the question. Utterly ridiculous and…frankly adorable, not that he'd go about telling her that all she needs is a pair of pigtails and a short, frilly skirt to be the Witchiest milkmaid this side of the Atlantic. …down boy, with that imagination.
"Herbs then. Do these herbs have names?" he asks quietly, strolling along beside her with his hands tucked behind his back, preserving his formality by posture rather than fashion.
Wooden clip-clop pace gives an excellent way to find Wanda, if for some reason Strange loses sight of his fiancee, never bothers to cast a spell, or shout "Marco!" to a Polo that will never, ever come. Try that with Pietro. He outruns sound, so why not? Alas, his chance of a milkmaid witch is near to failingly impossible, for this much is an irritation such she might curse the clogs if only to have her freedom back.
"«Thyme. Lemon balm. Basil. The one with red flowers.»" Right, red flowers. These are common enough things. "«They are not hard to grow and the smells are good.»" The important preserve of all gardeners: nice names, and of course, functional prettiness.
"«All good choices,»" Strange replies as they approach the section of the yard where the new herbs are to be planted. He kneels on the grass and reaches out, brushing his hand across the surface of the ground, and closes his eyes briefly. A slow inhale and exhale and he then nods, almost to himself.
"«They'll grow here well enough, I think. I suspect you'll have your own touch to add, maybe even literally.»" There's a devil-may-care grin, pleased with his own little pun.
«It is not a pansy or a violet or a rose bush, or a clematis or half these other things that I don't know the names of.» The red swish of her coat follows as she half-stumbles from her clog, leaving it in the grass, stocking feet carrying her the rest of the way. Grass brushes over her toes and leaves damp specks on her ankles, not something that causes the least amount of concern. Where soil yields beneath the hard-packed thatch left by a winter's cares, Wanda cavorts with that lesser of the two elements that call her to task, more water balanced than earthen, more aqueous than terrestrial.
Her basket goes down, trowel tossed into the cupped hands of wicker and seedlings, managing to dodge crushing some leafy plant waiting for a transplant. "This is a good place. It is not a flat."
Bringing both knees to bend, he rests before the patch of soil in question in a sit on his heels.
"Nope, it's not. I can always charm the area against the cold if need be. It's not an exorbitant drain on the ley lines. A heavy drain," the Sorcerer amends, glancing at the Witch. "Taking too much energy." Reaching about, he pulls his own trowel out of the back pocket of his pants and begins working at the cold-toughened top layer. "We'll break…through this and…get to the better stuff beneath," he mutters, frowning with concentration…and trying to ignore zinging nerves. Someone's not wearing gloves for this, stubborn mule that he is.
Wanda kneels to figure out the arrangement of the plants, mostly if the beds covered in dark soil and the remnants of a few leaves, fallen branches, and detritus. Plots exist in all forms, no doubt, but her take on matters shall be a significant amount less exciting than clearing every bit of landscaping with telekinetic touches, right?
She can suitably pat the ground, digging at the ground with her trowel in lazy pokes to see whether the dirt is ready to accept the flowers. Or maybe they're telling her where they want to be; not impossible given the connection of witches to the world, like sorcerers to the… well. It sounded better in her head.
Maybe. She hums lightly at the pile of rot and grass shavings, picking up… a plastic fork. No Ariel, here.
The trowel does it handy-dandy work, breaking up the upper crust for Strange easily enough. He wrinkles his nose slightly as he moves aside the thicker chunks of hardened mulch, revealing the softer soil beneath. A glance aside at Wanda brings another small and affectionate smile to his lips. How rarely do they get this simple peace? It's been far too long since he's been able to get his hands legitimately dirty, though this is different than the composition of Nebraskan turf.
"Oh." It's a little sound of surprise and he scoops something up in his hand. "Look, an earthworm." It pokes up the main end of its body, pointy nose almost sniffing up at the Sorcerer from where it semi-curls in his palm. "It means the soil's good."