7749/Calculations

Calculations
Date of Scene:	08 September 2021
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	Magik has a message for Doctor Strange before he goes off to fight against terrors greater and more deadly than many. A turning point for them both, it may signal a deepening bond in the face of a great risk.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The Sanctum Sanctorum in the morning, right before the break of lunch, finds Illyana in a silk dressing robe. A tie winds around her waist and defines the balance between top and bottom. No point in sitting lotus-style here, she kneels on one of the octagonal landings, floating there, a cup of tea in hand. Coffee is usually her go-to, but after a certain hour, it is never wise.

Blonde hair falling around her face, she stares off into the assembled treasures of the sanctum. None of them hold any particular calling for her; their magic is strong, to be sure, but she isn't inclined to ask to borrow one.

Instead, she focuses inward, on that crafted magic she is both a master and a neophyte at. Souls are tricky business.

"Stephen Strange," she murmurs. She pulls on the chunk of his soul that supports her own.

<<Come have a chat, da?>> Psychic links are pointless in this house. Whispering in Russian, though?

Stephen Strange has posed:
A gentle tug, to be sure.

And...one that certainly alerts the sorcerer that possesses the origin of that little sliver of soul. It is an interesting sensation, to be sure.

Stephen was awake, of course. Studying, as per the norm. He was making up for lost time and was being respectful. That means he didn't wake his paramour when he couldn't sleep. A tug on the soul is certainly a surefire way to get his attention. Those grey eyes lift up, as a slight smile slowly catches him unawares.

The answer comes softly. "Certainly." The voice is heard first...before the sorcerer steps into view without the tell-tale signs of a portal. The Sanctum is more than willing to provide a direct path to Illyana. Stephen merely walked.

"Good morning to you..."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Studying is a matter of principle for the man responsible for holding the mystic community together, even if they are a deranged posse of cats difficult to wrangle and herd in any given direction.

She is too headstrong to be easily led. She sips the tea again and lets the black heat spread through her chest. Heavy-lidded eyes close for a moment, and she breaks into a smirk when he steps through a portal.

Knees flex underneath her, but she stays floating where she is. Stephen's approach brings her gaze up. "Good morning." The old rotation of greetings is exchanged. This close, part of her quivers like a plucked thread. "Tonight I must travel into space. We went to Jupiter to deal with the Shi'ar, and he somehow did not come back when I pulled us out off a damaged spaceship."

These are facts in their life. Normal facts. "I'm going to the Underworld" is on par with "Bring back bread on your way home from the seminar." Her fingers touch her throat. "It will be dangerous. He can overpower most of us physically. I may need to raise the Darkchilde as a last resort, but I do not intend to."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Going to space. Perfectly normal situation.

And, for Stephen's credit, he does not bat an eye. It is true. He has no reason to balk. After all, he is the one that just returned from the land of the dead...and is currently researching on what must be done to prevent this existence from literally being eaten. If Illyana needs to go to space, then she goes to space.

Such a wonderfully open relationship the two sorcerers have.

"Well, I would rather that we keep the Darkchilde safe and sound." For his sake just as much as hers, for obvious reasons. "While I have never actually been to space, at least physically, if you do find yourself needing to raise her, perhaps I may be a possible alternative." Not that he doesn't like the dark side of Illyana...but, well, she is much easier to address when not in the mood to devour souls. "I promise to be at least reachable. Should you need it."

A step up. He is so close now...just a touch away. "Just remember what you have to come home to." Did he just use her own line against her? All is fair in love and space, it would seem.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Everyday existence, space travel. Normal behaviour, stopping something from eating the whole world. Theirs is about as commonplace a relationship as any sorcerers have ever managed.

Illyana lifts her chin in understanding, the sharp angles of her cheekbones registered where shadows languish against the sculpted pallor of her fair skin. "Better that than dead," she states, irony absent entirely. Resurrection may have spared her once. Again? Even in Limbo things cannot always be certain and it's not as though the between spaces are free from greater dangers.

The teacup she releases from her care. It floats between her and Strange, though nudged over to perch on the floor or a table, whichever happens to be closer. "Not much better. But better." Her thumb rotates the ring on her finger, one of the few bits of jewelry that she bothers to wear. Just a touch away and she reaches out to press her palm to Stephen's chest. "I will call for help if it comes to that." Like he might show up in the rain and come fix a flat on the roadside with her, both of them soaked and huddled away from roaring traffic.

"You do the same. I saved you from death once. Barring the door is no problem, da? I did not even love you then." Fair? What's this about fair? The spread of her fingers catches his heartbeat, reminders strung in the shadows he claimed from her. And what does that corruption do?

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Yes, I will. And, if I recalled, I thanked you then." His own hand, adorned with a similar ring, reaches up to cup a cheek, the fingertips tracing along her jawline. "As I will thank you now. I am grateful you are here."

A pause. "Besides, I do need to repay the favor, do I not?" Of course not. The significance of the ring upon her finger is enough to show that he offered more than enough proper recompense. However, he sports a similar ring. So, perhaps he still feels a debt to the Russian?

The hand leaves the cheek, taking the fingers pressed against his chest and clutching them loosely, the matching rings almost touching. "Well, considering the new acquaintances I have made, I am sure that I could negotiate a favorable deal for your return, should it be needed." A wink. Was that a joke? Maybe. Still....not a very good one. "I will remember. I promised I will before. I intend to keep that promise."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Repayment is a commodity known to the Hell Lord lurking behind a blonde mask. Look too close and the barefooted young woman is certain not to seem like the sort with horns and hellfire at hand, but they are very much part and parcel. A trembling through her fingers and a thrill laced by dark rapture at the mere /thought/ must be consciously pushed aside. Only a second of blooming, considering, since a deal is a deal. Strange surely can read it in her eyes, the widening black pupils. They take a moment to contract, too.

Longer than anyone would like. The darkness is there, quiescent until awakened, and that smile could be dangerous. Reconstituting the balance of self and soul takes longer in his hands than elsewhere, but he eases it along. She leans a little into his touch, daring that much.

What is it to be human if not this? What is it to be alive, and rooted to that side promised in American shows and Piotr's endless stories, if not for these moments?

"I will fight beside you," she says slowly. Each word is traced and chased further in silvered contemplation, spaced by a plodding due. "This deed I do for friends who taught me to care. They paved the way for you, and for us." Another beat stretches forth as she curls her fingers to his, the undamaged mirrors heavily callused from use of the sword that will be called. They do not shake as his might.

As her voice does.

Lips licked are dead serious. "When I come back, it is time to recover a Bloodstone. This deed I do for memories that taught me to endure. Then, when I am the greater part of whole, it will be appropriate maybe to offer you a longer commitment. This deed I do to be worth your love."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Yes. There is darkness there, just below the surface. Stephen sees it better than most. He certainly feels it, beneath his fingertips, through arcane senses. Most definitely within his own soul, with the fragment providing easy access to Stephen...and to Illyana as well. The widening black pupils notwithstanding. Yet, Stephen remains, his own grey eyes intent upon her own.

Unblinking. Unwavering.

His fingers tremble. His resolve does not. Nor does he step aside. He remains stalwart as she intones her intent. He remains steadfast as she declares her resolve to become more whole. And he does not shirk.

"Certainly. I will assist you, as I promised before. Though, you are already worth being loved. We will do this because you are loved, not to be worthy of it."

The hand lowers, while the sorcerer nods slowly. A simple affirmation. Like it or not, he's in it for the long haul.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
That fragment that would make her something other than what she wishes to be always aligns to the wrong. But then, its corruption imbues each breath Illyana takes. It stains her waking thoughts and her deepest dreams.

"I want to be worthy of you my whole life," she says simply, torturously rounding the obvious and stepping through shadows instead of directly head-on attacking it. Too good at twisting words, not enough at being blunt.

Strange nails the coffin of her resolve shut on the doubt, by silence. By standing there, not shunting her aside. Not doing anything of the sort that circumstance would call very reasonable, as much as he has the right and the permission to do. His hand lowers as she follows it, curling her fingers under his, bringing the rings together once and held in place.

Promises of worth and purpose reel between them, but her eyes burn too blue, the imbalance striving against itself in a war of mental words. A crease forms on her brow. "Easy to frighten demons but not to tell you the simplest things?" she mutters, almost to herself, the laughing black shadow behind the masks. "We have been together long enough that I know I do not want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. If there is a similar feeling with you, then I would make that lasting."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"I assure you. The feeling is mutual."

The response is simple. It seems that Stephen does not have the same difficulties in speaking his mind. He does have the false advantage of being older, as if that has anything to do with anything. With the pair here, age really is irrelevant.

"When you return, I will be here. And, if I am not, I promise I will return. In one way or another, I will return to you." That...may have sounded a little ominous. Just slightly. But, it is truth. There will be a return.

But, for now, Stephen is content to stay. Still, in the middle of the room. Holding both angel and devil within his grasp.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Three words to guide them.

Four more in hope to bind them.

Illyana almost lacks the wherewithal to know what to do with such things. Cold, hard rationality is the veneer locked around the Arctic tundra of her existence, a necessary shell built up to protect the world from the hellfire and shadow radiating through cracks in the soul. The false advantage of age isn't so much a matter of imbalance between them as experience is. Who can the Demon Queen confide in? Would Piotr understand at all, or Kitty or Tabby and Jimmy?

She raises her chin to meet Stephen's eyes. Grey and blue, where mountains meet frozen seas, are a bound vision, a united front.

She raises her hand to his cheek. "You will return. You die anywhere and you will revive in my arms. I swear it by my soul."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Fingertips brush his cheek. In response, the head tilts, just ever so slightly, to greet that touch, while those grey orbs never waver. They remain locked in step, pulled into a sea of blue so deep that he might lose himself within. And yet, he finds himself not caring if he does become lost.

Then....three words that have a power all their own fall from Stephen's lips.

"I believe you."

Yes. Stephen believes in Illyana. And, therefore he believes *in* her, as well. If there was ever one that would be willing to brave the underworld, daring to challenge Death herself to bring back another, it would be the blonde standing before him.

And that....brings a smile to the sorcerer's face. Soft and gentle. And when he speaks again, it is with a radiance that could only be derived of a singular source.

Love.

"Well, I will simply ensure that I will not die. It will be much more convenient for the both of us that way."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Three by three. It's always been a pattern of three with him. Vishanti behind their chosen. The doctor, the sorcerer, the defender. Two forked paths come together and when they do, the blonde sorceress is hard put not to narrow her eyes a fraction. To look for flaws that might strike her back is a terrible thing.

Her gesture is light. Callused fingers hardened by the sword at her beck and call aren't perfect, any more than his are, though damaged in different ways. "We are clear." Not the most romantic of words, but their direction comes from the right place. "I expect important conversations after over tea. Else you leave me with all these grimoires and forbidden things, and no one to stop me from reorganizing them."

Yes. Fear the reorganization to a Cyrillic system.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The pattern of three is so engrained within the doctor that he may possibly not even realize his tell. Even now, he reaches over with three fingers to brush a lock of hair aside, tucking it behind Illyana's ear. Another response, again in the pattern of three as he nods in affirmation. "Clear as crystal."

The threat of reorganization is taken lightly, though with mock seriousness. "You know how long it took me to learn Wong's organizational system? I just feel I have the hang of it now. Surely you would not be so cruel as to change it after so long." A wink is given, almost too quick to be seen, but noticeable. Yes, he is joking.

Well, maybe only half-joking.

"I look forward to our future tea times. I am sure we will have much to tell each other."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Wong stands firm. It will not dissuade me. Maybe you need more unexpected situations to assure you will come back." Or he waits with an enchanted broonm fit to slap down unexpected reorganizers of the sacred sanctum libraries, which may well end up with her banished from the world. Illyana should know better than to taunt such outcomes.

Her breath pulled in, she lowers her hand to Stephen's shoulder. There her wrist rests lightly, brushing her thumb along the collar. The Cloak's a possessive creature, after all, it would not do to make it heroically come to its companion's aid for thought she might be messing with him. "You will go where you must. I do not like not fighting at your side. But that time will be here soon, da? We have demons to end, and a balance to restore."

The hunt doesn't warm her blood in the same way it could. "I will be waiting with my samovar. Make them regret choosing this place to cause trouble."