he's earlier than a full hour, maybe 45 minutes, but he makes it there, not quite giving a rap to the door. it's more like a series of sharp taps with the tip of his boot as he tips his head up and calls: ] Hey, I've got a special delivery here for a Mr. Sorcerer?
[ god it hurts to say that word. in any case, when he opens the door, strange is greeted by this shirt being worn by a mop of unruly blonde-brown hair, coupled with a pair of leather pants and some sunglasses tipped down the bridge of his nose. in both his hands: two iced coffees, sweating away.
and in magic marker, the appropriate labeling of course: "mr. sorcerer" ]
[ when stephen opens the door he himself is in vaguely more relaxed clothes: button-down, black jeans. he gives tris an undisguised once-over, his eyes frosty and sharp, and then the corner of his mouth quirks up in approval. ]
Mr. Witch.
[ he reaches for the labeled coffee and steps back to let tris in.
stephen doesn’t have a roommate right now, but his suite is similar to any other in the derelict building that many submissives share: tidy, the air inside crisper, magically enhanced to better filter out the dusty air of the down. there are herbs in hanging planters and dry ones standing up in plain cylindrical vases. the only thing that makes it a space of evident magic is the black ink runes on every window and doorframe, the color faded but the power still strong, the sight of which pushes the whole enterprise from unadorned modern dormitory to maybe the home of a crazy person.
any heightened awareness of power makes it obvious, though: this suite is one of the safest places in the city. ]
A formal introduction may be in order. Not that I don’t go in for pet names.
[ tris steps in, at once taking a look around the place. it definitely has a magical resonance to it, one that laps at tristan's own, that he twists a little into to see what ways it compares and what ways it contrasts. it's a heartbeat of an examination, but one that tristan indulges in as he takes a pull from his coffee and hums a little. ]
Clark, [ he says it breezily, holding out a tattooed hand, the pigments of which are rich and bright, humming with a magical energy along their lines if he chooses to grab them. ] Tristan. What do I call you?
[ he looks down at the offered hand with a touch of detached scrutiny, and then takes it, shakes it normally. his own hands are rough to the touch, scarred and bent-knuckled, the bones having never healed right, the nerves always on fire; there's a slight tremor in his grip too. but that's every day, and this is a normal handshake. ]
Doctor Stephen Strange.
[ and then he just turns tris' palm in his to examine those markings more closely, an eyebrow raised. he smirks, wan, perhaps one of his default expressions. ]
Last we spoke I said I wanted to see. [ he glances back up at tris' face, the low sunglasses. ] I'll probably have follow-up questions. Is that acceptable to you?
[ another doctor. cool cool cool. but this one's clearly well-versed in magic. talk about a meeting of the minds. tris lets him turn his palm as he will, flexes his fingers a little bit, but doesn't seem in a hurry to pull away, merely taking a sip of his drink. ]
Yeah, that's cool, Doc, ask away. I've got a whole bunch of tattoos so do you just wanna see the one on my hand or like... everything?
[ an innocent question, one he seems pretty blase about. ]
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no subject
he's earlier than a full hour, maybe 45 minutes, but he makes it there, not quite giving a rap to the door. it's more like a series of sharp taps with the tip of his boot as he tips his head up and calls: ] Hey, I've got a special delivery here for a Mr. Sorcerer?
[ god it hurts to say that word. in any case, when he opens the door, strange is greeted by this shirt being worn by a mop of unruly blonde-brown hair, coupled with a pair of leather pants and some sunglasses tipped down the bridge of his nose. in both his hands: two iced coffees, sweating away.
and in magic marker, the appropriate labeling of course: "mr. sorcerer" ]
no subject
Mr. Witch.
[ he reaches for the labeled coffee and steps back to let tris in.
stephen doesn’t have a roommate right now, but his suite is similar to any other in the derelict building that many submissives share: tidy, the air inside crisper, magically enhanced to better filter out the dusty air of the down. there are herbs in hanging planters and dry ones standing up in plain cylindrical vases. the only thing that makes it a space of evident magic is the black ink runes on every window and doorframe, the color faded but the power still strong, the sight of which pushes the whole enterprise from unadorned modern dormitory to maybe the home of a crazy person.
any heightened awareness of power makes it obvious, though: this suite is one of the safest places in the city. ]
A formal introduction may be in order. Not that I don’t go in for pet names.
no subject
Clark, [ he says it breezily, holding out a tattooed hand, the pigments of which are rich and bright, humming with a magical energy along their lines if he chooses to grab them. ] Tristan. What do I call you?
no subject
Doctor Stephen Strange.
[ and then he just turns tris' palm in his to examine those markings more closely, an eyebrow raised. he smirks, wan, perhaps one of his default expressions. ]
Last we spoke I said I wanted to see. [ he glances back up at tris' face, the low sunglasses. ] I'll probably have follow-up questions. Is that acceptable to you?
no subject
Yeah, that's cool, Doc, ask away. I've got a whole bunch of tattoos so do you just wanna see the one on my hand or like... everything?
[ an innocent question, one he seems pretty blase about. ]