[ Steak it is. He puts in an order with a roaming member of staff before seeing to the rest of getting ready, and by the time the portal winds open, he's waiting in what one might politely call a deconstructed suit: suit trousers, smart shirt with its collar loose, sleeves precisely folded. Business casual wasn't really what he was going for, but a suit jacket (not the one he'd abandoned to its fate at the bar the other night, though that had made a mysterious reappearance later the following day via a polite knock at the door) does at least hang around the back of one of the chairs beside a table that hadn't been there when Silco last was. A nod to the further steps he might've taken if he weren't a. dining in his own room, b. busy organising that room to be a dinner venue suitable for a lesser last supper. And a conversation.

He takes a second once Silco's through to look him over, note the differences in his face forged by this place's latest ploy and file them into curiosity, concern, thoughts of a younger man he never met. Then he smiles his welcome, pulse kicking for a moment as he wrestles past his nerves to lean in, tilt his head and greet him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. On the side where his eye burns brightest. ]

Food should be up soon.

[ It's not quite hello, but he's already covered that, and he steps aside to sweep an arm with enough drama to try to offset any tension toward where their table waits.

The table itself is just right for two, not too elaborately laid, Stephen trying to strike a balance between Silco's rejection of the house's aesthetic and his own nervous urge to over-prepare. Antique, wood, inlaid with delicate constellations, he's spared the table a cloth and set out only coasters, napkins, cutlery. A bottle of red and a pair of almost artfully worn-in candles make for a muted centrepiece, and he'd banished the suit of armor to the empty adjacent room so the whole thing could nestle safe in the corner where shelves full of books, trinkets, more scattered candles line the walls floor to ceiling. ]

[ His gaze drops from taking note of what he's sure must be a subtle flush to cast his eye over the book Silco sets aside. Curious, but willing to let it sit for now, priorities elsewhere. This is nice he absorbs with the muffled pinch of a smile that's clearly more relieved by it than he's trying to broadcast - good. ]

Oh, you know. Fine.

[ It's the put-upon, conspiratorial kind of fine that suggests what he really means is bored, restless, frustrated, all the things that come along with this place for any person who'd rather not be here. The kind he assumes they both feel on any regular day. It is not the kind of fine that makes note of the missing, signatures both neural and magical disappeared over days, the house spilling people like an overfilled glass.

A knock at the door before he can sit and a wave of his hand swings it open to allow house staff in with the food. The steaks come cooked to their taste (he'd given the name of his guest and trusted them to know how he likes it), a selection of accoutrements unloaded, food still fresh-hot. Stephen watches on with growing disgruntlement as his nice little table is overladen with bowls and dishes and far more food than two people need. By the time he's seen them out and finally sat down, there's a little furrow between his brows that he takes a second and a blown-out breath to flush out along with his tension. Anyway. ]

Wine?

[ No small amount of humor in the query as he leans over their spread of triple-cooked chips, asparagus, sautéed mushrooms, baked cherry tomatoes, homemade onion rings, glazed carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, coleslaw, corn on the cob, peppercorn sauce, rich gravy, delicate french fries, ketchup, mayonnaise, salt, pepper, and a random plate of slow-cooked gammon with four unexplained rings of pineapple sat atop... to pour the red. ]

Neither was I.

[ His brow folds, smiling, butt of a joke and weirdly happy about it. Adamantly pouring Silco an admirable measure as if none of this is happening all the while. ]

Well. Saves you having to see anyone over the next few days.

[ Mini fridge and a microwave and away you go. It's not necessarily a serious suggestion, nor in second-later hindsight the kindest of jests. He spares a glance up from his own pour for how it lands, a sommelier deer caught in headlights. Aware that he'd been a lot earlier, hoping to make it clear it's an easier topic now, but instead perhaps just twisting the knife. ]

[ The reply comes with a barely-there sagging of shoulders, with slightly more wine than he'd meant to pour for himself. He sets down the bottle, starts serving himself small helpings from the surrounding plethora: mashed potato, carrots - a dash of gravy for the vegetables, some sauce for the steak.

At mention of the notes, a lightbulb blinks on in his head. ]

Thank you.

[ Whether he approves of the angle of approach or not, the research itself is well worth looking over, one more tool against the coming tide. The fact that he's being entrusted with it is a small point of pride shown in an earnest meeting of Silco's gaze, a nod of acknowledgement for the work done and handed over for the benefit of all those not so careful. Though it also conjures a question he can't quite help but ask, now he's safe in the knowledge the experiment is over. ]

How long do you think you'd have kept going?

[ Dropped light into conversation - not a challenge, just a question. He can guess he was close enough to done with it, since he'd decided to reach out about the lab - threat of continuing likely more a railing against Stephen's presumption to give him instruction than a considered intention. But he can't know that. And while it makes no real difference, he's curious whether Silco knows the answer himself. ]

[ There's a certain gladness in having suspected correctly. They haven't known each other long, so they can't yet know each other well, but there's enough similarity there at least that his guess hadn't landed far from the mark. A nod of acknowledgement, acceptance - and then to be rewarded with a little glimpse into the man cracks him into a fresh half-smile as he's loading up his fork. ]

You should be careful. That's how a man becomes a wizard.

[ Wizard, his least favourite word for what he is, but he can't always take himself so seriously. It is, unfortunately, extremely ridiculous that he is who is he is, no matter how important or wonderful or necessary the change.

A smirking mouthful of honeyed carrot marks his approval: better or worse, he's more or less the same. ]

[ Talking about himself in the context of calling is a siren song he's unable to ignore. He takes up the bait all too easily, blind to the way it steers them off course - or perhaps just not worried whether their journey toward their destination is a meander or a sprint. ]

I went looking for my last chance at solving what I considered to be my problem. So in that sense, I had purpose. [ A little wiggle of scarred fingers in indication of the then-problem in question. ] Wound up at a compound half a world away where the woman in charge claimed I could heal myself with magic. I thought that was bullshit. So I scoffed, then I yelled at her, then she threw my soul out of my body and sent me plummeting through a constant stream of other dimensions.

[ As one does. A sip of wine to pause and punctuate. Looking briefly down to his food as if he's not hooked on how hooked Silco is on his tale. But he is. It's not long before he's seeking him out again. ]

When she kicked me out, I sat outside on the doorstep for as long as it took for her to let me back in. Hours, I think. Maybe a day. Sometimes, you just need to know.

[ A little twitch of lips, sensing the lead and this time strolling knowingly after it. ]

No. [ A disagreement and agreement both. She wasn't, he hasn't. Not to the miraculous, total extent he'd dreamt of when he was first welcomed into Kamar-Taj. The extent he could have. His hands still shake, fingers still trembling when they trail over skin.

Just when it seems he might elaborate, he pops a sliver of steak into his mouth. Makes eye contact while he chews, a glimmer of mischief tucked into the crinkle of crow's feet. When he's done: ] I use it to take the edge off. I decided against the rest.

There's always a cost. Maybe not for the spells, but the choices?

[ Extortionate, usually. Silco must know that as well as he does, the question posed not just as pedantry. It doesn't need answering, but the raise of his brows still asks it after he moves on. ]

I became a doctor to save lives. As a surgeon I could save one at a time, maybe three in a day, five at a push. My first day on the job as a sorcerer, I convinced a primordial entity not to swallow the Earth.

[ A shrug, gaze dropping to his food, carving off another piece of steak. ]

The choice was pretty clear.

[ As was the cost of not making it. ]

[ It's an observation that peeks out through his own relative reticence to self-reflect and glimmers, recognised and true. Once upon a time he'd have disputed it. Now he looks up from where he'd been teasing food transparently around his plate, smiles. A little wistful, a little glad for company that isn't afraid to ask.

To state, even, anticipating that he isn't wrong. ]

At first it was practicality. My hands are fucked, really, there's as much metal keeping them held together as there is bone. To 'heal' them, I'd need to build in concentrated spellwork to tell my body they're fine twenty four hours a day. Easily enough done, but more effort than simple pain management, and sorcery doesn't need fine motor control. So what would be the point?

[ But. ] But I could've had them fixed in New Amsterdam. Four centuries of medical advancement, they'd have been good as new.

[ A pause here, mulling over Silco's theories. Finding his truth in both and in neither, catching the essence of it somewhere in the middle. ]

I think more than anything, I didn't want to give myself an excuse to be who I was before.

[ A matter of trust and the lack of it. Of things being so much better, but remembering the man who'd thought them so much worse. He'd decided to remain resolutely as he was not as a symbol of those better things, but so as not to bow to the desperation of the self who'd wrestled so frantically with the sheets of the bed he'd made that he set them aflame with himself still inside, all because he couldn't bear to feel less than.

If he'd ever been less than, it hadn't been his hands that made him so. ]

An asshole.

[ Short, to the point. A brief upward glance as he considers that answer, then his focus drops back on Silco again. ]

A different kind of asshole. I wasn't doing my job to help people anymore. I was doing it to impress them.

[ There's something going on over there, in the quiet and the looks and the lack thereof. Stephen's brow knits, smile creeping back. ]

What?

[ He knows what, but still. ]

[ There it is. A heavenward sweep of his eyes, trying as he might to mute a little the stretch of amusement at his own expense, but it's funny. What can he do? ]

You're laughing now, but I haven't taken you to a single neurological society dinner to watch me speak about my own prowess to a room full of people who paid me to be there, so. You're welcome.