Owner	Pose
Illyana Rasputina	It's not often that the address on Bleecker Street gets junk mail, is it? But a flier conspicuously lies on a table, pinned by a box and a pencil case that probably came from Illyana's endless rotation of classes at Columbia. Oh, she's got her doctorate, but there are a few things to finish up. A place advertising in question doesn't have a lot of sass. It's a single glossed card with the menu on the back, a picture of a big tureen of soup in the front and a chunk fo bread. As advertisements in New York for restaurants go, that's pretty lame. YURI'S BORSCHT HUT - 2 YEAR ANNIVERSARY - 20% DISCOUNT! If you can read Cyrillic, it has that to say. Illyana peers at her reflection in the mirror, jabbing a hairstick through a bun.
Stephen Strange	There is a reason that the Bleecker Street location is usually missed with the junk mail. And of course it isn't a magic reason at all....except when it is. Usually...a minor enchantment that clouds the mind of the typical mail carrier just enough to have the person think the mail was delivered. Just a minor glamour...hardly harmful and certainly not at all a proper use of magic, should anyone ask. However, there are occasions in which the mail carrier is more resistant to charms than most. And, it seems that is the case here. Though, the choice of the advert that made it through. Was it an attempt at a jest? Probably not, but it wouldn't be outside of the realm of possibility. Stephen himself steps in, catching Illy with her reflection. A glance is given towards to the table, catching sight of the Borscht Hut ad. Little is given in the way of response to that, though as those grey eyes return to Illyana, a small smile appears. "Good afternoon, Illyana. I trust all is well with you?" Nevermind the borscht hut proclaiming a rather nice discount.
Illyana Rasputina	Junk mail requires a post box. A mailbox without a connection to the mundane probably allows Strange to receive postcards from another time, belated and lost mail reaching him. Like Santa, he can receive the details he needs from the people who require him, right? There's a plot hook waiting to happen... Illyana chews her inner cheek, staring at the balance of both buns with their stabby weapons thrust through them. Next comes the lip gloss, saturated blackish-red, the colour of goths everywhere. A sweep of the wand has her pucker as dark as sin, matching her shorts. Who wears short shorts? It's an earworm, that, and she probably hums under her breath if she thinks about the song too long. "Da, though we are overdue for a date." Warning, Stephen Strange-son. "Maybe some of the teleporting, the monster-slaying, breaking black bread. You can get away, do you think?"
Stephen Strange	"Oh, we are, aren't we?" The tone is very sincere. It would seem that Stephen agrees. It has been a while since the two have been out and about. "The couple that slays together stays together, I have heard." That..was certainly spoken in an amused manner. Still, he does not seem adverse to the notion. "Yes, I do believe I can find time to get away." That in and of itself has more than one meaning. It is truthful...but also, it is an admission. Stephen certainly could use a distraction, most certainly. And...traipsing around the known realms with a fellow sorcerer who is known to carry a big sword? Sounds like fun...
Illyana Rasputina	"We are. It should be weekly, say self-help books. Every day with us is better than boring life, but it is important." Smirking to see her black-lipped reflection, Illyana throws her arms in the air to stretch. "Maybe a little more. This way we look very good, da? Go out, have fun. You get your head out of whatever destruction you are stopping." A nod at that as she sweeps up the ad and shakes it in a warbling noise in Strange's direction. "My treat, you pick. Our backup is borscht." It is always a backup for a Russian. Her fingers lace behind her head, for a moment at least. "What do you feel like?"
Stephen Strange	"Ah, yes. Self-help books. We should always follow the advise of an expert in their field who felt the need to transpose their opinion to written word." Is there a bit of sarcasm in that tone? Stephen is not saying. "However, yes, it would be good to be seen, I suppose. If for any other reason to knock the dust and cobwebs off of me every so often." For yes...Stephen knows he is the weakest link in this social chain. The ad is met with a chuckle as Illyana brandishes it like a fan. "Well, if I saw correctly, there's a 20 percent discount going on there. It would be a shame to pass up on that now." Looks like the Hut is on the menu, and Stephen is not talking about pizza. "I feel like walking there. Provided that we can dodge the traffic and any otherworldly demands on our attention, it would be a good time to talk while I dust myself off."
Illyana Rasputina	The smirk from the blonde gets wider. "You don't believe they are useful or worthwhile? Here I thought doctors ascribed every panacea to helping yourself," Magik by any other name replies in a sharp little contralto tone. Sarcasm? Never met her. She turns from the mirror and laughs. "Why have you never written a book? May be good, da? Expert doctor and neurosurgeon, a source of money in case magic goes haywire. Always good to have those nest eggs." Practical war-witch of Limbo she is not, but pretends to be anyway. "Yuri's is close to the school, and sometimes I go for old time sake. I hope maybe to see Dani or friends." Her shoulders lift, a shrug. "They are very busy. Rahne lives on an asteroid now. I am with you. Tabby is the same, a little. It is a big world. But small enough that we can step through a door and find a slice of happiness."
Stephen Strange	A laugh breaks free from Stephen as Illyana poses a perfectly valid, if not a little sarcastic, question. "My dear. If doctors promoted all avenues to have patients help themselves, we would be out of a job." A pause to gather himself, then an honest answer is given. "A good doctor does not write a self-help book. A good doctor writes research thesis that will inevitably be placed in medical textbooks." Then...a smile. An honest smile. "A book about neuro science may be a little above the average layman." Then, as an aside. "Besides, who is to say I do not already have a nest egg or two..." A nod of acknowledgement is given. "Ah...so, it is a small comfort. A familiar setting, with the hope of familiar faces waiting for you there." Stephen steps up...his reflection appearing behind Illy's own in the mirror. "We should go there. It would be fun. And, since the advert managed to make its way into the Sanctum, I will take it as a sign that the house agrees."
Illyana Rasputina	Illyana tips her head. Her blonde fringe arcs across her brow, a few loose pieces swaying back and forth like filaments. "You will not be out of a job as long as there are sentient things," she points out. "See? Job security to focus all on one and not the other. Books about neuroscience are important for your colleagues, too. You do not want to lose all that information." Or so she opines. Her smirk turns into one of those icy smiles, naturally unfriendly but not intentionally so. Resting glare face, anyone? Strange's manners are happier than her own, his humour far warmer and deeper. Moth to a flame, in their way. "We could go. But I do not want you bored, when you would rather be somewhere fancier."
Stephen Strange	Resting glare face or not, Stephen will take the smile. Because any smile from the Russian is rare. As far as being bored goes....Stephen has an response for that. "I do not believe that I will be bored at all. After all, I will be with you. And that is never dull." That and it will be an opportunity to visit Illyana's old haunts that do not require a teleport disc and an exorcism ensure safety. "I really am not necessarily in the mood for anything fancy. If you wanted to go elsewhere, we certainly could." A finger reaches out to tap the menu in Illy's fingers. "but we should really go here. It is a message from the gods." Well, maybe not. But, it sounded good.