Preposterous!

The respectable-looking three-story brownstone on Bleecker Street seems no different at 7AM than the other houses around it. Unless an onlooker understood the Victorian’s storied history, they would never guess that this house is the seventh to be built on the same spot since the state of New York was nothing more than a wild and dark forest. It is a unique structure, Wong considers as he climbs the front stairs carefully, balancing a paper grocery bag in each hand as he goes. He knows that the steps have been known to do whatever they desire a time or two in the past and he isn’t really interested in going through any of that right now.

With a nod of his head, the front door opens welcomingly. Any passers-by would think that someone saw the man through the window and graciously opened the door for him; instead, however, it was just the house itself welcoming him home. He passes into the sacred space, his soft-soled shoes making no sound against the plush carpeting, nor the wooden floor, or the tile in the kitchen. Wong places the bags on the shining chrome counter and unloads them, organizing fresh produce and a dozen farm fresh eggs. He has a feeling that there is going to be more than he and Stephen this morning, so he is well prepared.

After unpacking the produce, which includes vibrant yellow onions, bright red apples, and a net bag of delectable oranges, he crosses the kitchen and opens a set of highly polished chrome doors. Inside this warming closet, two fresh loaves of bread have raised and are ready to bake. Wong smiles to himself a little as he works, closing the oven door with a satisfied expression.

As the bread bakes, he chops and dices, then breaks and scrambles. Fresh milk from Wisconsin and freshly shredded cheese from Vermont is added to the eggs. He pours the mixture into a hot pan and deeply breathes in the aroma. Cooking, he thinks, is not so different from meditation when it is done properly. He smiles a little to himself. If cooking is meditation, then certainly eating is sex.

Wong decides that the coming guests will be comfortable in the kitchen and promptly cleans off the center island, laying out plates and flatware. Fresh Irish butter molded into the shape of a crescent moon its place as the centerpiece. He keeps it at room temperature, so it is easier to spread on his fresh bread. Satisfied that everything is balanced, he turns back to the stove top.

Wong dumps the scrambled eggs into a large blue and white dish; he then peels several oranges and arranges them on a light green plastic platter. He is just taking the bread out of the oven when Stephen speaks from the doorway. Wong can make out that he’s wearing a cream-colored button-necked shirt and a pair of worn out Levi’s because the man always manages to stand where the morning sun is going to introduce him in the most dramatic way. Strange leans against the doorjamb with one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. He always seems curiously entertained by Wong’s own domesticity though they have gone through this same routine hundreds of times.

“No music this morning, Wong?” There’s genuine humor in the doctor’s voice and Wong smiles again despite himself. Stephen snaps his fingers and some poppy dance music floods the kitchen with sound.

“Ooh, it's something magical,
It's in the air, it's in my blood, it's rushing on
I don't need no reason, don't need control
I fly so high, no ceiling, when I'm in my zone
'Cause I got that sunshine in my pocket
Got that good soul in my feet
I feel that hot blood in my body when it drops
I can't take my eyes up off it, moving so phenomenally
Room on lock, the way we rock it, so don't stop….”
Wong continues his cooking, now stirring a heap of cinnamon into a pan of sliced apples. He has never appreciated the weird little naked dolls with the huge eyes and tufty hair; he truly believes they are one of the weirdest things he’s ever seen in the universe.

“No good, then?” Strange strokes his goatee. “Ah ha, I know, how about this one?” The soft strains of Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” echo through the entire house. He lets it play for a few moments then switches the music to a classic rock station out of Michigan.

Wong finally decides to speak. Eyeing the place settings, he looks to where Stephen is now levitating, cross-legged, in the doorway. Glad that the sorcerer finally learned to stay out of Wong’s way in the kitchen, he offers the other man an indulgent smile.

“Your guests should be here soon,” Wong nods towards Stephen. “I am estimating three, but later one…no, two,” here he gives Strange an odd look, which is the very look he always gives when Stephen finds himself playing with his powers and he thinks the man needs to be reined in a bit. Generally because Wong himself is the object of the mystical games; borrowing books via mirror worlds in the library in Tibet was only the beginning.

Stephen frowns back. “What about the consultant from London?” he queries.

“Still no word on him, Stephen. He may have changed his mind.” Wong stands back from the island and brushes a bit of stray flour from his soft brown shirt.

“Aren’t you joining us this morning, Wong?” Stephen has moved away from the kitchen and is in the foyer stepping into a pair of black boots. “Also, I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll stay less formal for the coming gathering.” He gestures at his clothing. “I sent my formal things out for cleaning on Braxis, they should be returned by this afternoon.”

“I do not mind at all, besides, without cleaning, Lich excrement would surely stink up the whole house; and no, I am not staying. I am going to go up to the hall and read the new books that came in yesterday.” In all honesty, sometimes Wong dislikes the intrusions into their space, except for a select few, like Dr. Palmer.

“I don’t know why you buy books, my friend, you could just go and get them and return them when you’re done.” Stephen smirks around an orange slice he is popping into his mouth.

“Unlike some, there are those of us who do not wish to drive librarians crazy, regardless of the universe they may be found in.” Wong washes his hands. “I’ll be back later.” He turns away so that Stephen doesn’t begin focusing on the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off the sorcerer’s mouth.

Of course, Stephen knows what he’s really doing is going up to the third floor to watch out for unwelcome intruders. He hates that it is necessary, but right now there are too many loose ends for them both to let their guards down for too long.

It isn’t long before Tony Stark and two of his companions, a Wakandan Prince named T’Challa and a man with a strange mix of identities called Everett are seated around the island, tucking into the wonderful breakfast laid out by Wong.

As they eat and make small talk, Stephen remembers his earliest concerns about Wong staying in New York, but it didn’t take long for them to become a team. Many people assumed wrongly that Stephen was Wong’s employer. He’d been asked about having a ‘servant’ before, but they both knew that Wong was far from a servant: not only were they close friends, but he is and had been Stephen’s hands more times than they could count.

The truth is, that being a Master Sorcerer, Wong does what he wants when he wants. Stephen had never asked him to cook, he simply took over the chore and he was more than happy to let the man do it. Having an extra pair of eyes around helped, too, especially when Stephen was unable to be on this plane or dimension. The other things they got up to, now that could either be chalked up to meeting needs, or perhaps intellectual curiosity; regardless, no one ever seemed to mind and it worked out positively for all of those involved.

“Hey, doc, you sorta wandered away from us. Are you thinking about that gorgeous little doctor chick of yours?” Tony quips, pushing away from the island. “You know if you ever get bored with her…” He narrows his eyes at Stephen and waits for the zinger.

“Your mouth, Anthony, I swear…” Stephen glares at him.

Tony winces in surprise as he suddenly finds himself hanging over the work top, upside down. “Well, now,” he says, “that was unexpected.”

“What would Pepper say?” The sorcerer retorts, making a motion with his fingers that sets Tony to swaying gently back and forth like a blade of grass in a soft wind.

Laughter rumbles from T’Challa like a cougar’s purr and even Everett is forced to hide a smile behind a napkin. There are days he lives to see Tony Stark get his. The two men watch the entire drama unfold with curiosity.

“Mister Strange, you certainly know how to lay out a welcome!” T’Challa laughs, meaning more than just the breakfast.

Tony is now giggling and looks quite stupid. His hair is flopping everywhere and his face is turning red.

“Just Stephen is fine, your highness, “Stephen states, keeping his eyes on Tony. “If you say you’re sorry, I’ll let you down,” he tries to sound as if admonishing Stark would accomplish something.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll stay right here. I can’t promise that my breakfast won’t though….” Tony makes a face as if he’s going to lose everything he’d just eaten.

Stephen considers it for a second then lets the man down, gently enough that he only thuds against the tile a little. Tony lays down on the floor and laughs his head off. Everett and T’Challa cock their eyebrows at him and turn their attention back to Stephen.

The mood in the kitchen shifts suddenly to serious. Tony picks himself up off the floor, dusts off his backside and returns to the chair he’d been in earlier, every bit the unrepentant schoolboy.

“Tell me, then, gentlemen, who has escaped and why you are looking for them?” Stephen queries while causing the now-empty dishes and dirty flatware to float towards the sink. A series of soft thumps accompany this like drums in an orchestra.

Tony grabs a spoon as it floats past him for no other reason than because he can. He turns it sideways and upside down and studies it as if he’s looking for strings.

Everett watches the proceedings with interest while T’Challa eyes Tony’s spoon for a moment then turns directly back to Stephen.

“Tell us, Stephen, then, what your plans are for our missing fugitive?”

“All I can tell you is that by the end of the day, today, I will have a better idea of which direction we should head in. Tell me, gentleman, are there any unusual artefacts missing?”

“Oh lord, Stephen and his unhealthy obsession with silly trinkets.” Stark mutters as he spins the spoon on the palm of his hand.

“It is merely a spoon, Stark, only your perception of it has changed.” T’Challa says quietly.

Stephen debates doing something else to Tony, but time is growing short. As much as he likes guests, his patience is beginning to wear a bit thin. “It is not an unhealthy obsession, Tony, rather the knowledge that the wrong ‘trinkets’ in the hands of someone intent on murdering every human being on the face of this planet is probably a pretty bad idea. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tony nods, “I agree, doc.”

“The last relic that was taken from Wakanda was rumored to be a sharp blade made of flint. It is supposed to be thousands of years old. I have not seen it with my own eyes, yet it was a pretty big deal when it went missing. There were articles in the newspaper and the museum put out a reward for its return.” T’Challa informs them.

“Yes, something like that would easily hide its power from most,” Stephen nods back.

“I don’t understand how something like that would have anything to do with what we are facing, considering something of that age would just crumble if anyone attempted to actually use it?” Everett asks, absently chewing on his thumbnail. His mind isn’t fully on the conversation. He’s trying not to think too hard about having the whole afternoon and evening to himself. Sitting alone in his office at headquarters gets lonely sometimes, but sitting alone in a hotel room is sometimes worse. At least in the office there’s paperwork. He turns back to the meeting when he notes movement out of the corner of his eye.

Stephen stands up and leans over the island, hands flat on the cool surface. “Follow me.” He leads them up two beautiful flights of wooden stairs, bannisters polished to perfection.

Everett notices that the wood feels comfortingly warm under his palm, almost as if the old house is welcoming him as a friend. He looks back at the others, noticing that neither Tony nor T’Challa touch the hand rail. As he climbs he thinks about how that warmth reminds of smooth skin and a delicious neck. He has to cut his thoughts off fast, though, because Stephen leads them into a huge room filled with glass display cases and shelves, books and artefacts; it is all presided over by a window set off by an unusual wooden symbol.

“That is the Seal of the Vishanti,” Stephen gestures at the circular window, “this room is filled with artefacts of many sizes and shapes, some more powerful than the others, some of them even sentient.” He raises his hand, palm up, and a large red piece of material soars across the room to rest across his broad shoulders. “This is the Cloak of Levitation.”

T’Challa chuckles when the high collars on the cloak give a small wave on either side of Stephen’s face.

Tony eyes it warily. “As smashing as that looks, doc, I have a certain, let’s call it worry, about sentient inanimate objects.” He holds one hand up as to stop it from coming too close to him.

Stephen grins at him, always glad for the chance to spar. “I understand, I wouldn’t want to impede on your vision, Tony.”

Tony seems like he wants to retort, thinks better of it, and stays quiet. This room is filled with entirely too many unknowns. It’s almost like his workshop, however, the difference is that most of his designs can be powered off. Everything here seems to be giving off low level humming. He clasps his hands behind his back and makes like he’s just looking at the artefacts.

T’Challa follows suit, moving around the room carefully, studying each object. His face is lit up with his own instincts and an intense curiosity about Strange’s collection.

Feeling out of place, Everett choses to take a seat in a wicker chair in front of a shelf heavily laden with books. Random weird things have never held his interest long; they don’t bother him, either. In fact, he’s always been a man of practical means. Collecting junk, even if its old junk, has never been for him. He’s always moved around too much.

Despite all of his thoughts, Everett is hoping that he’s out of the way enough from the other mystical objects that he’ll be able to get his most immediate worry out of his mind. This is a puzzle he needs to work on alone. Besides, surely none of them worry if someone doesn’t answer a single phone call in the space of a day.

The voices of the other men seem to fade away into a background murmur as he works to overcome his worries. Everett leans back into the chair, which has changed into a more comfortable arm chair like the one he prefers at home. He rests the back of his head against the bookshelf and lets the voices flow over him.

Everett’s interview for his position at the Joint Counter Terrorism Center comes to the forefront of his mind. He remembers being surrounded by strangers as he stood out on the street in front of the building then, too, some just curious onlookers, others passing by as if he did not exist. He remembers wearing clothes that fit his chosen personality, but that he never felt really fit him, regardless of the custom tailoring. There is nothing wrong with the clothes, he thinks clearly, only with what they represent. He reflects that he has told himself this same thing over and over; it has become almost a mantra.

Everett’s mind takes him back to other places, other days. Chasing dreams that would never be and searching in someone else’s eyes for things that were only figments of his imagination. If he can just stay away a little longer he can go back, and things will be as they are meant to be. Maybe he will even find answers as he helps the greater cause. After all, he isn’t planning on making this position permanent. He’s been promised the same in a different place. Maybe then he can be thinking about settling down. He knows he will never be able to move on; but, maybe he can learn to accept things the way they are and that will be good enough.

Somewhere beyond his tumbling, disjointed thoughts, Everett is suddenly aware of the ticking of a clock. In his mind, he opens his eyes to find himself face to face with an enormous clock. Inside himself, he knows that he should know the name of it, perhaps even seen it on some television show…it’s face is glowing blue and the Roman numerals on the face of it are twisting into new shapes…when the twelve becomes a skull, Everett hears himself scream…

He comes to, flat on his back in the floor of a three-story Victorian brownstone in New York City. He knows the where, but he cannot figure out the why, so he closes his eyes again. For some reason the old television show The Addams’ Family pops into his mind. Everett opens his eyes and it all rushes back to him. He can still hear the voices of the others talking around him, and he can clearly make out Stephen’s, though, oddly, Stephen is kneeling at his side.

Only this version of Stephen looks a bit glowy, like he’s only a partially-formed hologram. All of his colors are muted. Everett frowns at the specter. “Yeah, not sure what is happening here.” His own voice sounds a bit drunk. He must have hit his head, because there is no way the man can be in two places at once.

Stephen holds out his hand and when Everett reaches for it, his own slips right through. He pushes himself up to a sitting position anyway.

“This is my astral body, Everett. You’ve missed a good deal of our discussion on powers and how they are obtained, so I felt I needed to check on you.” Stephen stands and floats across the floor to the bookshelf. He grasps the spine of a dark green leather-bound book. “Well, Mr. Ross, you chose an interesting place to catch a quick cat nap.”

Stephen snaps back into himself. Everett follows him, rubbing his palm on his thigh and straightening the sleeves of his jacket. As if he were stepping up to a pulpit, Strange opens the book and holds it out for everyone to see. As he does this, he crosses his legs and levitates in the lotus position, the cloak billowing around as if happy to be included in the proceedings.

“As we have been discussing, gentleman, the power in ‘charged’ objects. I present to you my handwritten notes from my reading of the Book of Cagliostro. I have been through that volume several times, but that isn’t the point here. What I am showing you is that even by me copying down specific words and phrases, even in my own cryptic shorthand, was enough to send Mr. Ross here on a quick trip to memory land.”

“May I take a look?” T’Challa asks, holding out his hand.

“No, I think maybe not. Until this moment, I didn’t even realize the volume itself carried any innate power at all. Let me put some locking spells upon it, and then I’ll happily lend it to you.”

T’Challa nods, fully understanding.

Everett notes that Tony is listening to everything, but he’s still standing back like a little kid afraid to touch anything. They all seem to be waiting on something to happen. When nothing changes, Everett finally asks the question that formed in his mind after he’d gotten off the floor.

“Did that book of yours read my mind, Strange?” he’s feeling oddly perturbed about this idea. He’s always thought of himself as a solid wall, only allowing others to see what he wishes them to see.

“No, Mr. Ross, it didn’t read your mind, it merely expanded your mind into itself.” Stephen’s green eyes peer into Everett’s blue ones, his expression open.

“That’s not much of answer.” Everett states, his hands making fists at his sides. Though he has to accept the other man’s honesty, he isn’t loving it. He is feeling weirdly savage, almost like he needs to protect something deep within himself.

“Mr. Ross, I daresay if you even attempt to swing at me, you would seriously regret it.” Stephen closes the book and it is now floating beside him. Without taking his eyes off Everett, he makes a motion with his fingers and sends it to the very top of the bookshelf it originally came from. “I can tell you exactly what you saw, if you like, though I very much believe you’d rather keep it to yourself.”

Everett takes a deep breath and lets it out, along with his seemingly irrational anger. “No. No, let’s forget it. I’ve never been comfortable with the ‘other sciences,’ Stephen.”

“I understand, and now I have to bid the three of you good afternoon. I’ve got some work ahead of me today. You may show yourselves out, please do not linger on the second-floor landing.” With that, Stephen drops his feet to the floor and turns back to the bookshelf. Calmly he sends out a telepathic message to the watchers in his house to assure his guests get back out to the street safely.

After accepting their thanks and offering his gratitude for the information, Stephen allows himself a moment for some inner reflection. After a bit, he pulls a different book from the shelf, sits down in the chair, and begins to read.