[Love persevering. He supposes it is — love, like all human emotion, is a multi-faceted gem. Different at every angle, sometimes wonderful, sometimes heart-wrenching. And often cumbersome to process, which is why he doesn’t focus on them overlong, not in conversation or outward appearances.
Which means the subject of his sister is encroaching upon very rarely tread territory.]
Her name was Donna. We were both just children when she died.
[Which means his memory is based on the nature of that childish relationship between siblings at a young age, and nothing more — like her existence was frozen in amber, never fated to have grown or matured.]
She was full of energy, hardly ever shy about anything. Embarrassed about nothing. Always called me a “nerd” because my grades were consistently better.
[He grips his mug for that steadying warmth.]
We picked on each other, I guess, the way all brothers and sisters do. She always had to be active, hated staying still. And I was happy to be a wallflower at that age.
[the way doctor strange describes his sister as unable to stay still reminds her of pietro. though the way he tells her about donna makes wanda wonder how rehearsed this conversation may have been, or how unusual it is for him to have had it at all.
it is also telling, a little, the fact that she died when they were children. a memory that is sometimes so far off one can only rely on general statements for things that are much more nuanced in memory. nowadays, when she thinks of pietro, sometimes she can't bring herself to think of the details.]
How did she die?
[comes the quiet question. she can't imagine it would be prudent to ask under any other circumstance—except she's in the same position and can gauge more accurately what is proper and what isn't. her eyes are on him, curious, having finally found a connection, of someone who may come to understand the kind of pain that comes from a lost sibling.]
[This many years later, and it’s a story he should be able to recite with no issue. He should be able to keep his voice and gaze steady, as though he was speaking about someone else’s past — the passage of time almost makes it possible. Almost acts as a thick enough veil to obscure the sharper details of traumatic recollection, or the bite of loss.
And maybe that bite isn’t as bone-crushing as it once was, but the brain is a funny thing. Stephen, especially, would know. There are certain memories that are like etchings carved into metal; they remain clear and permanent, stalwart against the years that wash all else away.
This is one of them. He does manage to reply evenly, despite it.]
She drowned. Pushing herself to the limits in an unattended pool. Muscle cramps.
[Such a simple thing. A common thing. As mundane as a cold.]
…in severe instances, it renders those same muscles useless for a short period of time. Usually inconvenient, but leg cramps in a body of water? Obviously more dangerous.
[His grip is weak, but his fingers press into his mug a little harder.]
I couldn’t save her. I tried, but she was already too far gone and I didn’t— I didn’t know what to do.
[and he had been a child when she died. what more could he have done—known to have done? it's hard to not see oneself as the one to blame even with all the evidence that points otherwise.]
And you studied to become a doctor.
[which would make sense.
or perhaps he always wanted to be one. regardless, it was a traumatic enough situation that was a turning point in his life. wanda looks down at her tea, grateful for the fact that he's shared as much so willingly. is it maybe the way he manages himself so logically and composed?]
I'm sorry you lost her.
[the tea is growing cold in her hands. she takes another sip, to finish it. she pulls at the long sleeves of her shirt, glancing at his hands.]
May I see?
[stephen had mention something about his hands, and she sees now their frailty. (she's asking a lot from him, too, without giving much in return, but for wanda all this sowing of seeds won't fall on dry land; it's proof of trust that will bloom in time.)]
[She’s clever enough to read between the lines, or maybe it’s an obvious connection. Either way, it had been a turning point, one that lead him down the path of a doctor.]
You’re right. I did. It was a way to help, and a way to control.
[What better way to shortchange death than to throw oneself into a profession that saves lives?
At her request, the one hesitation is the time taken to set his mug down. He’s stopped placing a dire importance on his hands — maybe there’s a small bit of vulnerability, but most of it has been shirked off with a lack of self-consciousness.]
What, these? The moneymakers.
[Which they certainly are not, anymore. But Stephen extends them all the same.
They shake faintly, and they’re scarred with pale lines, some too purposeful to be strictly from his accident — evidence of how many procedures he had undergone to fix what was broken. The fractures and bones have long been set into place and healed, but it’s given his fingers a strangely angular look, like a framework dissembled and put back together again.]
perhaps an admirable trait is how stephen manages to make light of something that would otherwise be... painful to reminisce about. she thinks so, anyway. but people are built of different stuff, regardless of the amount of trauma they all carry.
up close, his hands look a lot more messed up (for lack of a better word) than she had imagined, rarely having focused on them. wanda leans close as she looks down at them, some emotion passing over her face.]
They sure are hands.
[a tight smile as she leans back, she lets silence permeate for a moment. until—]
Do you sometimes stop to think that everything that happened in your life led you to this exact moment, where you'd be a sorcerer? [another pause] It's unfair what I've been through, but it turns out that I wouldn't have my magic had all of it not happened.
[It would have been a sore spot in the past; a point of contention. But now he lets her look at his hands, bearing a turbulent part of his history, with the easy acceptance of someone who has come to terms with them — what he has lost, and what he has gained.]
That’s an interesting question.
[He retracts his hands, considering it.]
Every decision has a ripple effect, and just the right combination of them has led me to this exact moment in time. Just as your life has led you here, too, sitting with me.
I used to think the universe was random and careless chaos. Now, I believe that there’s meaning to the madness. That from all the bad, something good has come from it.
I wouldn't say coming here was a willing thing from either of our parts, though.
[she has to counter that much, at least, because she's still not entirely too happy about existing in this space. nevertheless, she understands enough to know that most things that have happened are not necessarily subject to their willingness.
wanda eases, her shoulders relaxing a little.]
Well, it's nice to have met you here, despite all the madness.
We may not have had a choice, but someone or something made that choice for us. Most likely? I don’t think it’s purely random, and who we are might have had some bearing in the decision-making.
[How flattering.]
But you’re right — glad that a familiar face made the cut.
[very flattering indeed; wanda smiles—actually smiles—and puts a feet down on the floor as she pushes to stand up. with the cup in her hand, she glances down at the cup stephen holds, notes that it still has tea, and so doesn't offer to clean up for him.]
Thank you for the conversation, Doctor Strange. It was... good.
[to learn about him—to know that his intentions towards her are not to try and control nor coddle her.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Which means the subject of his sister is encroaching upon very rarely tread territory.]
Her name was Donna. We were both just children when she died.
[Which means his memory is based on the nature of that childish relationship between siblings at a young age, and nothing more — like her existence was frozen in amber, never fated to have grown or matured.]
She was full of energy, hardly ever shy about anything. Embarrassed about nothing. Always called me a “nerd” because my grades were consistently better.
[He grips his mug for that steadying warmth.]
We picked on each other, I guess, the way all brothers and sisters do. She always had to be active, hated staying still. And I was happy to be a wallflower at that age.
no subject
it is also telling, a little, the fact that she died when they were children. a memory that is sometimes so far off one can only rely on general statements for things that are much more nuanced in memory. nowadays, when she thinks of pietro, sometimes she can't bring herself to think of the details.]
How did she die?
[comes the quiet question. she can't imagine it would be prudent to ask under any other circumstance—except she's in the same position and can gauge more accurately what is proper and what isn't. her eyes are on him, curious, having finally found a connection, of someone who may come to understand the kind of pain that comes from a lost sibling.]
cw: drowning
And maybe that bite isn’t as bone-crushing as it once was, but the brain is a funny thing. Stephen, especially, would know. There are certain memories that are like etchings carved into metal; they remain clear and permanent, stalwart against the years that wash all else away.
This is one of them. He does manage to reply evenly, despite it.]
She drowned. Pushing herself to the limits in an unattended pool. Muscle cramps.
[Such a simple thing. A common thing. As mundane as a cold.]
…in severe instances, it renders those same muscles useless for a short period of time. Usually inconvenient, but leg cramps in a body of water? Obviously more dangerous.
[His grip is weak, but his fingers press into his mug a little harder.]
I couldn’t save her. I tried, but she was already too far gone and I didn’t— I didn’t know what to do.
no subject
And you studied to become a doctor.
[which would make sense.
or perhaps he always wanted to be one. regardless, it was a traumatic enough situation that was a turning point in his life. wanda looks down at her tea, grateful for the fact that he's shared as much so willingly. is it maybe the way he manages himself so logically and composed?]
I'm sorry you lost her.
[the tea is growing cold in her hands. she takes another sip, to finish it. she pulls at the long sleeves of her shirt, glancing at his hands.]
May I see?
[stephen had mention something about his hands, and she sees now their frailty. (she's asking a lot from him, too, without giving much in return, but for wanda all this sowing of seeds won't fall on dry land; it's proof of trust that will bloom in time.)]
no subject
You’re right. I did. It was a way to help, and a way to control.
[What better way to shortchange death than to throw oneself into a profession that saves lives?
At her request, the one hesitation is the time taken to set his mug down. He’s stopped placing a dire importance on his hands — maybe there’s a small bit of vulnerability, but most of it has been shirked off with a lack of self-consciousness.]
What, these? The moneymakers.
[Which they certainly are not, anymore. But Stephen extends them all the same.
They shake faintly, and they’re scarred with pale lines, some too purposeful to be strictly from his accident — evidence of how many procedures he had undergone to fix what was broken. The fractures and bones have long been set into place and healed, but it’s given his fingers a strangely angular look, like a framework dissembled and put back together again.]
no subject
perhaps an admirable trait is how stephen manages to make light of something that would otherwise be... painful to reminisce about. she thinks so, anyway. but people are built of different stuff, regardless of the amount of trauma they all carry.
up close, his hands look a lot more messed up (for lack of a better word) than she had imagined, rarely having focused on them. wanda leans close as she looks down at them, some emotion passing over her face.]
They sure are hands.
[a tight smile as she leans back, she lets silence permeate for a moment. until—]
Do you sometimes stop to think that everything that happened in your life led you to this exact moment, where you'd be a sorcerer? [another pause] It's unfair what I've been through, but it turns out that I wouldn't have my magic had all of it not happened.
no subject
That’s an interesting question.
[He retracts his hands, considering it.]
Every decision has a ripple effect, and just the right combination of them has led me to this exact moment in time. Just as your life has led you here, too, sitting with me.
I used to think the universe was random and careless chaos. Now, I believe that there’s meaning to the madness. That from all the bad, something good has come from it.
look at you using buzzwords.. i hate it
[she has to counter that much, at least, because she's still not entirely too happy about existing in this space. nevertheless, she understands enough to know that most things that have happened are not necessarily subject to their willingness.
wanda eases, her shoulders relaxing a little.]
Well, it's nice to have met you here, despite all the madness.
[she will allow that much.]
Don’t act like you’re not ten times worse
[How flattering.]
But you’re right — glad that a familiar face made the cut.
hmph 🔪
Thank you for the conversation, Doctor Strange. It was... good.
[to learn about him—to know that his intentions towards her are not to try and control nor coddle her.]
Perhaps we can do this again some other time.