[ — oh? The perk of the brief little frisson that question creates is the mention of House and his opium-peddling goes immediately relegated to something of secondary importance. ]
The crunch and crack of an abrupt arrival in the undergrowth just outside of property lines is followed by footsteps and the emerging into view of one Stephen Strange, come empty-handed to behold what variety of tumbledown disaster Jim Hopper is trying to make hospitable out here in the woods.
And to eat fish and drink beer. Let's not forget the fish and beer. ]
[Jim's Cabin is partially derelict. It's got the foundations, sure, but it's a real fixer upper. Jim's been working on it, though. The roof's half-way done, give or take some fixing. The outside walls have been started.
He's got a grill outside, where he's got some potatoes boiling and some fish grilling, as promised. The old bathtub has been converted into an ice-bucket, where Jim's stored some bottles of wine, and shoved a cask of beer up close.
He's dressed about as casually as he gets here. Pair of loose slacks, open shirt. If Stephen's sudden appearance startles him, he doesn't show it. ] You really need to get a bell or something.
[ Stephen strolls into the glow of the fire, scarf layered over jacket layered over linen shirt, hands tucked into his pockets and attention lifted to the shell of a cabin acting as a backdrop to their evening. ]
Nice place. [ Effortless sarcasm. But also, actually, it is nice. The grill, the smell of the food. The bath full of booze.
Focus drops to his host. His face caught by firelight conjures a fleeting selection of too sharp half-memories, camping trips it's a miracle he was ever persuaded to go on. The nature, quiet, the ease of Jim out here. Stephen had always said yes to the next trip eventually. ]
[He nods to the tub, then to a couple of cups he's got sitting close to the fire. ] Help yourself. Should be mostly chilled.
[Mostly chilled. Like the air isn't helping. He turns the fish over again then gets to his feet. There's a go-bag at his feet on the other side, half-open and filled with plates, mugs, cutlery - all definitely pilfered from the boarding house.
The pot with the potatoes he maybe got somewhere else. Or he found it here. It's better Stephen doesn't ask.]
[ A small scoff, but he doesn't mind if he does. With the go ahead duly given, Stephen pulls a hand from his pocket and a wine bottle lifts itself from the tub to drip ice water everywhere as the cups float up to meet him too. ]
You having - ?
[ His cue to spot the bag of boarding house kitchenware at Jim's feet, expression slanting wry with amusement masquerading as disapproval. ]
Excuse me, officer. I think I might have discovered a cache.
[He has paid for (some) petty thievery, thank you! ] But yeah, I'll take some wine. I think's red. Looks red?
[Could be the bottle. It should be white, obviously, but Jim knows what he likes and what he likes is chianti. He also likes steak, but the fish is free. He sets himself to work poking to test the potatoes, readying the plates. There's a crate-made stool for Stephen to sit his ass down on. ]
[ Confirmed as it pours into both cups, Stephen sending the rest of the bottle to nestle back into the ice. He finally plucks the cups out of the air, moving to take a crate-made perch and hold one of the wines up for Jim, sipping at the other while he waits. ]
One of my many re-discovered talents. [The wine smells a little tart, if he's being honest. It's probably old, well-stored. When he takes a sip, it's got the sour-sweet taste he's not exactly used to. He makes a little face, nose scrunched, and takes another sip, expression-free.
He nods to the fish, murmurs: ] Used to cook every Tuesday when Diana and I were still married. Let it go by the wayside after I moved back to Hawkins.
[The cup goes down on the ground, just while he busies himself plating up. One to Stephen, the other to himself. ] If it tastes dry, pretend it doesn't.
[ When Diana and I were still married. He hears it mid-sip, pauses to watch Jim plate up over the rim of his cup and swallows the wine away only when he turns with the meal, wiping the brief fixation on new information away with a jolt. ]
Once a week, huh? It won't be dry. You're practically a chef.
[ A playful little dig, but he knows that Jim can cook. Or at least that he could, once upon a nowhere. Putting his own cup down to settle in with the plate, Stephen sets to building himself a mouthful, an easy way to act casual when he asks - ] When were you married?
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Let me check my schedule... no I do not.
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- I've got a fire outside. Works just as well.
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Did you fish those fish, Jim?
[ Stuck in monsterland and Jim Hopper's gone fishin'. Good for him, but that doesn't mean it isn't Stephen's divine right to make a Thing out of it. ]
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Steady there, Mr. Bachelor Pad. The rod? Color me impressed.
[ Good mood? Gremlin hours. ]
I think I might be able to brave the woods. Frightening as they are.
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Come over for dinner. Someone's gotta eat these fish and drink this beer.
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When? And where, actually.
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8? It's the cabin that looks like a hurricane blew through it. About five minutes trek from the lake.
[however, helpfully, he does provide some mental visual cues. ]
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Thanks, you're really selling it. See you at 8.
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Better be some damn good fish.
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Later Hop.
[ God, that's one from the archive. ]
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See you at 8, Stephen.
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The crunch and crack of an abrupt arrival in the undergrowth just outside of property lines is followed by footsteps and the emerging into view of one Stephen Strange, come empty-handed to behold what variety of tumbledown disaster Jim Hopper is trying to make hospitable out here in the woods.
And to eat fish and drink beer. Let's not forget the fish and beer. ]
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He's got a grill outside, where he's got some potatoes boiling and some fish grilling, as promised. The old bathtub has been converted into an ice-bucket, where Jim's stored some bottles of wine, and shoved a cask of beer up close.
He's dressed about as casually as he gets here. Pair of loose slacks, open shirt. If Stephen's sudden appearance startles him, he doesn't show it. ] You really need to get a bell or something.
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[ Stephen strolls into the glow of the fire, scarf layered over jacket layered over linen shirt, hands tucked into his pockets and attention lifted to the shell of a cabin acting as a backdrop to their evening. ]
Nice place. [ Effortless sarcasm. But also, actually, it is nice. The grill, the smell of the food. The bath full of booze.
Focus drops to his host. His face caught by firelight conjures a fleeting selection of too sharp half-memories, camping trips it's a miracle he was ever persuaded to go on. The nature, quiet, the ease of Jim out here. Stephen had always said yes to the next trip eventually. ]
You didn't mention you had a fully stocked bar.
[ Might be time to start drinking. ]
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[He nods to the tub, then to a couple of cups he's got sitting close to the fire. ] Help yourself. Should be mostly chilled.
[Mostly chilled. Like the air isn't helping. He turns the fish over again then gets to his feet. There's a go-bag at his feet on the other side, half-open and filled with plates, mugs, cutlery - all definitely pilfered from the boarding house.
The pot with the potatoes he maybe got somewhere else. Or he found it here. It's better Stephen doesn't ask.]
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You having - ?
[ His cue to spot the bag of boarding house kitchenware at Jim's feet, expression slanting wry with amusement masquerading as disapproval. ]
Excuse me, officer. I think I might have discovered a cache.
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[He has paid for (some) petty thievery, thank you! ] But yeah, I'll take some wine. I think's red. Looks red?
[Could be the bottle. It should be white, obviously, but Jim knows what he likes and what he likes is chianti. He also likes steak, but the fish is free. He sets himself to work poking to test the potatoes, readying the plates. There's a crate-made stool for Stephen to sit his ass down on. ]
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[ Confirmed as it pours into both cups, Stephen sending the rest of the bottle to nestle back into the ice. He finally plucks the cups out of the air, moving to take a crate-made perch and hold one of the wines up for Jim, sipping at the other while he waits. ]
It smells good.
[ The food, not the wine. ]
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He nods to the fish, murmurs: ] Used to cook every Tuesday when Diana and I were still married. Let it go by the wayside after I moved back to Hawkins.
[The cup goes down on the ground, just while he busies himself plating up. One to Stephen, the other to himself. ] If it tastes dry, pretend it doesn't.
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Once a week, huh? It won't be dry. You're practically a chef.
[ A playful little dig, but he knows that Jim can cook. Or at least that he could, once upon a nowhere. Putting his own cup down to settle in with the plate, Stephen sets to building himself a mouthful, an easy way to act casual when he asks - ] When were you married?
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cw: child/sibling loss refs
cw: child/sibling loss refs
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