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[ This is the main difference, Silco thinks, between the two of them: Stephen is good. He really means that, Silco can see it, studying him carefully, that he wouldn't exploit Silco's avaricious hunger at being made to come apart. And it's true enough that Stephen hasn't presumed anything about him from Silco kneeling in the bathroom to suck him off, or crawling drunk and slutty over the bar to him. There's safe harbour in this, beyond anything he's had before.

He exhales a small slow breath. ]

I trust you.

[ Mostly. When he's rational enough for trust, when trauma doesn't slap that decision from his hands. It's not the first time he's felt it, but somehow it's easy to share here, mild-mannered, almost quiet, in between another bite of steak. He's almost finished his plate, and he's not sure what he's going to do with himself then, how to distract his hands and eyes. ]

That doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for you. I think it's better when we're both playing to win.

[ Sexually, anyway. This domestication, deeply held truths about himself shared over a candle-lit dinner, this is much less of a battle. If there was still a chance he could return home to Zaun he'd be reluctant, but that death freed him from certain responsibilities. Now there's only Jinx — and, newly, this.

He's flushing again. Maybe he can blame the wine. ]

[ Trust. It pulls at his cheek without the thought to commit to a smile, tugging his mouth up at one corner, marionette. ]

Good. [ Emphatic. Some leftover gladness for the trust oozing into his enjoyment of the game. ] We can agree on that.

[ And he takes a moment here to bask in it. In the colour creeping under Silco's skin, in something new discussed and made real. Not that the conversation's over, but he's lost interest in the meal, and all ten extra meals' worth of sides the staff managed to squeeze onto the table. Wine, then. Another sip, then reaching to top them both up as the few seconds' pause clears out the joy and reminds him that there's more than one conversation that needs having tonight. Just because they've made it through the first doesn't mean he's off the hook for the rest. ]

... I have your history. [ The bones of it, anyway, as it pertains to what they're doing. ] Mine's a little less, uh. [ Past. How to approach it? He's realising - slow, creeping understanding - that the way he's learned to be no longer sits in the comfortable realms of normalcy outside of its context. ] I didn't leave my last life behind on purpose.

[ The start of a point that ends and people have a habit of showing up here. He doesn't get that far, lapses into quiet and his own turn to look uncomfortable, tension clear in his jaw and the skin around his eyes for all he tries to will himself relaxed. It's been all too easy up until today to consider this almost as if it were simple, truly simple, a new shoot in empty soil. Unfortunate, then, to have to take a point to the bubble of that self-delusion. ]

[ Silco has a manipulators acute awareness of how power flows — politically, sexually, conversationally. Stephen stutters, tenses a little, and it shifts the direction of what they're doing. Silco's defenses (around research, autonomy, weakness, sex) were being, if not attacked then softened.

And now they're not.

He puts his fork down with a careful click, sits back in his chair rather than leaning in. Dabs his mouth with his napkin, letting Stephen stutter through what he's trying to say, considering the spaces of what he doesn't, words swerved. It's fine, he finds that as much a game as the rest of it.

He resists the urge to point out that nobody's here on purpose. Not the point. ]

The place with 'a lot of sex'.

[ Tenderness you took where you could get it. He can imagine where this is going, or at least the shape of it. Regrets doing it on the table rather than with the advantage of touch and teeth to stop Stephen stepping so carefully. Though Silco isn't any less deliberate. ]

Will you tell me about it?

I can. Not much of it is pleasant story-telling, but I don't mind if you don't.

[ The place isn't the problem. He can spill his hate for it happily, all his rage and resentment, the horrors and the things he can't help but miss. Some of the tension seems to slip at mention of that part at least, no resistance to be found.

But. This isn't a conversation about pasts in the general sense. Is it better to be honest now, whatever extra pressure or inference of expectation that might pile on something too new to have to bear it, than have it break under unexpected weight without warning down the line? ]

It's more that I had people there. Some of them have been and gone, here. Some of them are here and don't remember. Some of them aren't.

[ People, is the point. He's not unattached, for all that he's been torn from those attachments. It isn't— straightforward. ]

[ Silco doesn't particularly catch the plurality simply because it doesn't strike him as odd. Piltover has monogamy, of course, it's how they solidify their power, by creating houses and passing wealth and title down to their offspring. But it's not the same in the undercity.

No, what strikes him is the usual need: to be the best. The most valued, of many. But it's without particular jealousy. They've known each other a month or two, things are only newly unfolding between them. Silco knows that his history, with so few people allowed in it, is not the norm. ]

All right.

[ He props his chin in his hand, fingers covering his mouth. Considers his emotional response: it doesn't quite correspond to that logic. The drugs — the ReSculpt — does tend to twist the psyche towards insecurity. Irritating. He ignores it; if it bothers him once the withdrawals are past he'll revisit the topic. ]

My ex showed up, as it happens, so I do take your point.

[ Sometimes the world simply shifts on its axis and takes the best laid plans with it. ]

[ Any intention he might've had to interrogate that reaction dies here. Stephen's eyes gone wide under sharply furrowed brow. ]

The bartender?

[ The bartender, like that's really the thing of the few things Silco told him that Stephen actually defines him by. ]

Vander.

[ There's a yes in his tone, the tip of his head. Silco at least seems unperturbed. Death doesn't stick here, so he can't just quietly make the problem go away, but he's got it handled. ]

He's agreed to a — truce. For Jinx's sake. Missed her whole teens and still considers himself her father. It's touching, really.

[ Silco does not seem touched.

He spears the pineapple he set aside with a fork and bites into it, considering the flavour more seriously now that it's not such a surprise. ]

[ A cant of his head, this information new. Concern is etched deep in his frown, the betrayal Silco shared with him somehow made worse by the implication. ]

She was both of yours?

Her parents were our best friends, once. They died when she was four, in our attempted revolution. And our relationship with them.

[ Those last words dry, bitter. Pain too old to really hurt anymore.

He finishes the pineapple, letting the silence hang for a moment. Just when it seems he mightn't be going to say more, and they can end this digression. ]

He blamed my explosives. Gave up on our dream. Co-operated with Piltover enforcers to bring the survivors to heel. Everyone returned to their miserable lives. I was furious, at the time, but I understand it better now. He would rather Jinx and her older sister live to experience a hard world than lose them fighting for a better one.

[ He'd made the same choice in the end. Is there anything so undoing as a daughter? ]

But no, we never co-parented. So I imagine this will be a learning experience for us all. But we weren't talking about my past.

We weren't, until it made its way into your present.

[ A filler, while he digests what he's just been told. Context makes better sense of sparse details threaded haphazardly together, and he's grateful for it for all it worries. Strange how so much strife can be condensed into so few sentences. He's sure there must be things he wants to ask, surer still that this deserves its moment of silence, consideration... but Silco would rather not. And he'll have plenty of time to think on it later, bring the conversation back around once they've both had a little distance from it.

A long, conspicuous inward breath, a readying. He huffs it out, purging one story to make room for the next. Conceding to the change of direction. ]

Anything in particular you want to know?

[ Lightly impatient: ]

Everything, obviously.

[ He'd much rather hear it from Stephen than from someone else, too, especially since Jemima had been so unforthcoming. ]

Let's start with what you're talking around telling me.

[ That stumps him, briefly. He blinks, thinking he'd been clear enough. ]

We've already done that part.

[ He'd thought the shift in focus had marked it as case closed, but evidently not. Now that it's reopened, he finds his records in total disarray, no idea how to report what's inside. Hesitant to say too much and find he's overshared, out of his depth entirely. ]

Edited 2025-01-28 13:43 (UTC)

[ Silco rolls his eyes so hard his neck actually moves. ]

Barely.

[ And, with insidious honesty: ]

If you won't give me specifics I'll go asking for them.

[ Network post: raise your hand if you or someone you know has fucked Stephen Strange. Silco's eyes flicker wide, innocent. ]

Was it men and women? Were any serious? Platonic? For a long time? Are you married?

[ Chin still in hand, rapid-fire questions accompanied with a stab of his other finger in the air like he's listing them off. It's important to know his competition. ]

[ Well, that's any fear of an overshare dead, but it does also very rapidly pose a new problem: where to start. It's an obvious shift from caution to bemusement, brow tweaking uncomfortably, mouth pulling down, interrogation a not entirely unwelcome surprise. Still a little on edge, maybe, but less because of his own uncertainty than the fact of how many of those questions hit nails on heads.

And yet he started this, no matter how much he'd like the ground to swallow him. ]

Yes, yes, uhh... eh [ undecided on the platonic point, apparently, if only because he hadn't been thinking about it at all ], yes, and— no. Technically. But also yes, twice.

[ That's one way to get started, anyway. ]

[ Strange rattles off answers that really only lead to more questions and Silco gives him a flat look. The tip of his shoe taps Stephen's ankle beneath the table. ]

You're being infuriating again.

[ Though that doesn't usually result in a whole lot of talking, so perhaps it's a strategy. ]

Mm, well, I do that.

[ As they're both well aware. ]

You did ask a question.

[ Several, in fact. But he relents, the brief safety of play not meant to last. A drifting off of his gaze as he tries to decide where to start. ]

I haven't been - great, historically, at casual. Most of the people I slept with were people I'd either already invested in or ended up invested in after the fact. There are a fair few to work through if you want them all.

[ Silco sips his wine. ]

I do.

[ Voracious and unashamed about it. But then he relents incrementally. ]

Only if you're comfortable.

[ With the telling, yes, but with the choice of time and place to tell, too. He can be patient. Neither of them are going to finish this food. ]

[ A pinch of a smile melts some of the hesitance. ]

Let's do it in instalments. It's going to take a decent amount of exposition. A couple of intermissions and a scene change won't do us any harm.

[ Pause. This time it's his turn to stab the air, fingers raised per point and dropped once he's used them all up to start over again. Making a list. ]

Almost casual, unofficial spouses, bound by cult following, live-in student, it's complicated, friends with detriments, ships in the night, the ghost of Christmas past, or unlabelled cohabitant?

[ This isn't all of them, and some of those categories contain more than one person, but the point's clear enough: it's going to take them a while. ]

Edited (is this american, i think so) 2025-01-28 16:12 (UTC)

[ Silco commits this strange and all together too long list to memory, head tipping as he makes a mental schedule of instalments. It's a pleasing idea. He may be talking about other people, after all, but he's going to be talking about them with Silco. ]

The Christmas ghost.

[ Missing the Scrooge reference entirely, of course; his first exposure to Christmas has been this month past, enjoying the excuse to spoil Jinx. ]

But not here.

[ He pushes his chair back, gets up. Moves around the table to bend and take the kiss he's been thinking about for a while now. Long fingers curling into Stephen's tie, tugging. If they're going to talk about past lovers they're going to do it somewhere more comfortably entwined. ]

[ A hum of satisfaction, gratitude, leaning up into the kiss until that tug lures him up out of his seat. One hand reaching to tease fingertips into the hair at Silco's temple as his other almost topples his wine glass.

Table abandoned, flooded with warmth, it's easy to forget to be daunted by the prospect of explaining Tony Stark, the man just a wall, a world and a death away depending on your perspective. Really he shouldn't have included him in the list at all, but that's a problem for him in a few minutes time. For now he goes where Silco draws him until he recovers enough of his senses to realise what he's after, then it's: ]

Shall I magic up a couch?

[ Mostly an inside joke, throwback to some armchairs, but aside from the bed their only real option is an antique chaise lounge of untested two-person comfort. He can get that couch if they need it. ]

[ A little huff of amusement as Silco also remembers the armchairs, his sharp nose still right in close. ]

I think we can make do.

[ He picks the chaise solely because the bed feels like a step too far. It's still a pleasant little dinner date, low light, conversation — but, heady with wine and wanting, Silco nudges Stephen bodily into a chair more suitable for sprawling and climbs into his lap, drapes shamelessly over his chest and shoulders. ]

Better.

[ Low enough it's all rasp. He toys with the tie wound around his fingers, fidgeting, tucked too close for eye contact. Calm certainty betrayed by the rapid thrum of his pulse. ]

Go on.

[ A little flourish of thrill, delighted by the easy way Silco fills his space, claims his chest, nestles in. It distracts him for a moment, winewarm, tucking his head to burrow his nose into his hair, fond and unafraid of it in their shared new context.

Hand at his waist, stroking the backs of his fingers idly up over the shape of Silco's ribcage and back again, Stephen fortifies himself with closeness and draws in a deep breath.

Right. Going on. ]

Ghost of Christmas past. Tony Stark.

[ A name seems like a good place to start. But how to go on? When so much of it he's barely figured out himself. ]

He's a colleague, from home. Billionaire asshole turned billionaire hero type, habit of saving the world.

[ A beat, and he tucks his chin again, voice low as he enquires: ] —This one's kind of a downer. War stories. You want something cosier?

[ There may not actually be anything cosier, but he can offer. ]

Edited 2025-01-28 20:43 (UTC)

He's not a ghost?

[ Disappointing. Obdurate as he is — as interested in all of this unequivocally as he is — Silco takes that hesitance as a cue. ]

Start with whoever's already here, then.

[ His words a buzz against skin, breath whispering along the collar. ]

[ Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Stephen takes the out. It's not that he won't tell him, it's just - to tell it now would either require a lot of glazing over, or the total destruction of the mood. He doesn't particularly want to lie to him, or obscure any truths, and Stark's an edge case regardless. Less likely to throw this off course than him, specifically.

So he hums. Humor in it as he lets that one go, turns his thoughts to the ones here who don't remember. Who may never have been there. Marginally less alarming to explain, at least, if not really any less revealing. A deep breath moves Silco with it, released in a slow plume. ]

Eddie Munson, Takeshi Kovacs, Nami, Alicent Hightower and, uh. Aegon Targaryen. That one's platonic.

[ Mostly. Names first, because Silco could know any one of them. And because if he does, it's a fairly clear example of a possibly bewildering breadth of tastes. (Nevermind the people here who do remember. He's spoken to one of them already, and the other is... well. He'll get to Daniel Johnson another time. Or Maybe never.) ]

Edited 2025-01-29 10:08 (UTC)

The queen.

[ Oh, so he does know one - two, perhaps, Aegon only by his network appearance following his mother's death. Neither well. Aemond Targaryen is the closest he's gotten to that family, because Aemond is the one who's taken an interest in Jinx and is therefore surveilled.

Even that is enough to leave him a little bemused, though perhaps he shouldn't be. Of course Stephen would rub elbows with powerful Houses, he's exactly that sort. ]

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