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[ He'd chosen steak as an indulgence, but this is beyond his wildest dreams. The napkin twists between his hands as the table becomes laden with side dishes, nose wrinkled very slightly — and then he catches sight of Stephen's expression and sighs as he realizes he's just as bemused by this.

So his question is arch rather than his initial condemnation of the wasteful excess: ]

I wasn't aware you were expecting so many people, Stephen.

[ A nod to accept the wine, and he decides despite the intricate formalities at play he isn't going to wait to serve himself. Starts with the pineapple, fascinated by it, and the mushrooms as he knows he likes them. Takes small samples of other things, to decide which he likes — but truly, what are they going to do with all this food. ]

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. ]

[ Silco's head tips, and he gives Strange a dry look, lifts his wine glass. Swirls the wine. ]

You're better off handing off the leftovers to someone who won't be upending their stomach, I think.

[ Maybe he'll leave some fries in Jinx's room as a peace offering, but — well, even if he wasn't going to be very sick very soon, he has neither mini-fridge or microwave.

At the very least, he doesn't seem to be offended by the topic raised, nor is he quite so prickly about it. As far as he's concerned, he's agreed to stop and that's that. He sips the red; it's good, a little peppery. A good contrast to the steak. Adds, chary: ]

I brought my notes, if you want them.

[ 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. ]

[ Strange might not mean it as a challenge but Silco still reads it as one, glancing up with a bladed gaze. A moment of watchfulness like a creature assessing a threat, and then he returns to cutting into his steak with sharp capable motions, apparently having decided Stephen isn't being deliberately provocative or rhetorical. ]

I was hoping to move on to studying the substance itself.

[ Keeping his tone light, not trying to return to the argument they were having over text. But it does make clear that his refusal was more about a kind of prideful resistance to Stephen's attempted authority; negotiation a failed attempt to save face. Strange would find them somewhere to collaborate and Silco would magnanimously let him think stopping was his idea in return.

Except that wasn't how it had worked out at all. A wry smile at his food, hidden by taking a bite, fondness hopefully well-disguised as enjoyment. ]

The effects don't particularly compel me. I just like to know how things work.

[ To see them with his own eyes; though typically he had Singed for biological chemistry, Jinx for chemical engineering, and he could simply watch and verify. Rare for him to be hands on again; rarer still to allow himself to be the subject. Needs must. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2025-01-22 14:43 (UTC)

[ And because he's a man who likes to know things, that little comment, clearly meant to highlight a similarity, piques Silco's curiosity. ]

I had the impression you learned magic on purpose — with purpose, I should say. But you make it sound like a finding out.

[ This absolutely isn't the relationship talk he came here to have, baiting Stephen into telling fantastical stories again, but he can't help it, he's hungrier for those than even the food. (Which is good, standard British fare rendered exotic to Silco by interdimentionality. He really likes steak.) ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-01-23 00:34 (UTC)

[ A point of interest: ]

You hadn't encountered magic before that point.

[ This changes his perception of Stephen's surgeon-to-sorcerer origin a little. Silco has at this point been too exposed to magic to be skeptical, even if he's still often surprised and delighted. But he understands the lightning strike of change in the world, from not knowing it held that power, to knowing.

He nods, once, takes a drink; he's been steadily working his way through each small portion of side dish he served himself, one at a time rather than combining them. ]

Obviously you can do magic now.

[ Skipping ahead in the story a little just because he's here at the end with the sorcerer himself. Carefully stepping around asking an outright question by making a deliberately erroneous statement: ]

But she was wrong, you haven't used it to heal yourself.

[ 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.

[ Silco knows the way those scars feel against his tongue, the neuropathic twitch of them against his own clasped fingers; they weren't the first thing to draw him to Strange, but they were where he tipped over into something less controlled than he'd like. The commonality of scarring, of holding your physical trauma so visibly on such a vital part of the body.

He's watching Stephen intently, waiting out his chewing, his amusement at knowing he has Silco hooked to reel in. That's fine. They both like to play with their food, metaphorically.

An answer finally comes, explanatory but unsatisfactory. ]

Meaning you couldn't go back to surgery. Why?

[ Dragged out of him. He serves himself some carrots, a little less gracefully than usual because he's still watching Stephen. ]

Don't try and tell me there's a cost. You use magic too flippantly for that.

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. ]

[ Could Stephen consider not simply throwing out information that clearly has a wealth of story attached to it (or at the very least, a two hour film)? Silco's attention sharpens, and then he forces himself not to chase, to stay on the philosophy rather than demand more action/adventure. ]

And you feel healing your hands fully would stop you from being able to serve that higher calling.

[ He's chewing over the words rather than the food, considering what he's been told about the situation, dismissing that there is some — magical shortage, where spending his resources on the selfishness of his physicality would leave him less to offer as saviour.

His tongue touches the inside of his cheek, where he can feel the lower tip of his scarring, eased by the ReSculpt but still keloid. ]

No, you want the reminder. That what feels like the worst thing to ever happen can really just be the turning point to something better.

[ Barely even pretending to eat his food now, avid. ]

[ 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. ]

And who were you?

[ Since if ever there was a time for reminiscing on the state of selves past, selves young and left in the dust, it's been this week. ]

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.

Ah.

[ Mm. A jump of the brows, a twitch of the lips, glancing away; he's picked up that Stephen likes to show off. It hardly bothers him, he finds it charming, but he can see how perhaps, younger and arrogant at the top of his field, it could have been... detrimental. Immature.

Still. The idea that he doesn't try to impress... Silco returns pointedly to cutting up his steak, lashes briefly low. ]

[ 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. ]

I can imagine. That's all.

[ Fighting his own smile, murdering his steak. Thinking about alternate applications for that drive to impress. ]

I'm very impressed you henceforth decided to live a life of humble modesty.

[ 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.

Edited 2025-01-27 14:20 (UTC)

[ Silco's own smile breaks slowly over his face. He tips a shoulder up, not particularly thankful. ]

I like that you know your worth.

[ At a conference or otherwise. They're circling back around to what they actually should be talking about, now, but it feels easier than he expected. Playful. He doesn't even try to redirect into discussion of the food, though there is a moment here where he tries the gammon and pineapple and wrinkles his nose in light bemusement, having not expected fruit. ]

[ That gets him, Stephen blinking surprise, the humor in his face going briefly slack as that point fades into watching Silco try something new. He gathers himself after a short stretch of seconds, pulling on play like a coat to push through the fog of fondness. ]

In that case, I'll make sure to get you a copy of my books.

[ One last little sample of a past they can share more about another time. He can sense the full circle turn of the conversation too - even though he called for it, he's not quite sure how to start, but his expression settles into something calm and comfortable as he lapses into quiet to consider it. Watching Silco, not too concerned by the possibility of embarrassing himself entirely when he finds his next words, plucked from their earlier conversation. ]

Your opinion's important to me, too.

[ Even if it's just the fact that he likes the size of his ego, even though Stephen's wielding it disguised as play - it matters. In that and the rest. It makes a good segue: it's why they're having this conversation at all. ]

[ Silco is coming to terms with the pineapple; he doesn't dislike it, but the presence of sweetness in the meal has been startling enough to temporarily confuse his preferences. The carrots are sweet too, but in a different way, artificial and sticky and expected. He puts the pineapple to the side, to be reattempted later; refreshes his palate with a sip of wine; all of this allowing him to seem stoic in the face of conversation turned confessional. But fllirting has its own unexpected sweetness, too.

He puts the glass down, thumbing the stem a moment. ]

I've thought about you quite a lot these last few days. Mostly in the context of my own history with these kinds of things. Which, I suppose is inevitable, given the mirror becomes a window to the past.

[ But he's digressing. Glancing eye contact, trying to keep himself on track. To actually say something meaningful and honest so Stephen can understand a little better what he's getting himself into, even if Silco is growing concerned that the moment he's seen in any real clarity, this enjoyable flirtation will end. ]

Understand that aside from my daughter my relationships for the past fifteen years have been — transactional, in one way or another. And before that was something ill-defined.

[ There. They're in. Stephen listens, steady focus fixed on Silco as he speaks, dealing with the fizzing, anxious delight of I've thought about you quite a lot these last few days with an almost entirely straight face. He nods at mention of his daughter, at the gulf of time between now and when last Silco experienced any even-fielded ease in another's company.

His thoughts skim over the complex mire of his own more recent relationship history with a flip of the stomach. If not for Rubilykskoye, this might have been a less complicated conversation. But if not for Rubilykskoye, they probably wouldn't have found themselves here at all. He'd have vanished that mistletoe before they had the chance. ]

Is it alright? That this hasn't been [ hm. ] what you're used to.

[ One thing at a time. He'll start adding his colorful history to the pile once they've unpacked Silco's, the question more a prompt for a laying out worries than the sum of its parts. If the answer's no, they're shit out of luck - there's nothing else Stephen can offer him but their shared blind stumble through early days. ]

Edited 2025-01-27 18:17 (UTC)

Yes.

[ One simple word made burningly earnest, silken voice gone rough on it.

He hadn't known, of course, that he was starving himself, had been very deliberate about seeing to the distraction of his needs with ruthless efficiency. But "intimacy with a man his own age" hadn't been on the list.

There's more in him but he doesn't really know how to talk about it without the scaffolding of a negotiation. ]

It does mean I can be, I suppose, defensive. Of my autonomy, of the vulnerability that passion requires of me.

[ Weakness, he'd called it, and he makes Stephen fight for every inch of it, but that's ultimately what it is to him, the soft underbelly, the ruinously exploitable desires, the loss of total control. Silco eyes his potatoes, a little tense. ]

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