A medley of emotions flicker across his face, then: genuine surprise, flattery, pressed-thin hesitation. Thoughts running askew, some horrified mixture of I’m a rifter and might just vanish like he did, and I’ve put that hat aside, I’m a full-time sorcerer now,
(I’m too impaired, you had to hold the goddamned pencil for me for god’s sake)
but, also, doesn’t he still insist on being called doctor? Hasn’t he lectured enough Thedosians on proper disinfecting procedure?
“Oh, whereas I thought you might be interested,” Stephen says, automatically. Despite her age, Derrica has a quiet competence to her leadership, and clearly a history here. Then again, she’s already head of Haven. There were limits to how much one person could do.
So. Doctor Strange (emphasis on the M.D this time) looks around him, at the walls of this infirmary and its tidily-stocked shelves, the cataloging system he’s memorised. His mouth purses, thinking. Already jumping past I'm honoured you thought of me (he had once ruled the neurosurgery wing, after all, so him as Head Healer was not unthinkable), and he goes straight to logistics. Practical considerations.
“It’s not the career I envisioned for myself any longer,” he admits, “but I could do it. There are— limitations, however, as you know. There’s a lot of procedures I can’t do myself. I’m not— I mean, frankly, I’m not the surgeon I once was. A lot of it’s just in my head now.”
He settles his hands flat against the table, presses them down to try to quell their faint tremble. It’s not a sign of fear; it’s just almost always there.
no subject
(I’m too impaired, you had to hold the goddamned pencil for me for god’s sake)
but, also, doesn’t he still insist on being called doctor? Hasn’t he lectured enough Thedosians on proper disinfecting procedure?
“Oh, whereas I thought you might be interested,” Stephen says, automatically. Despite her age, Derrica has a quiet competence to her leadership, and clearly a history here. Then again, she’s already head of Haven. There were limits to how much one person could do.
So. Doctor Strange (emphasis on the M.D this time) looks around him, at the walls of this infirmary and its tidily-stocked shelves, the cataloging system he’s memorised. His mouth purses, thinking. Already jumping past I'm honoured you thought of me (he had once ruled the neurosurgery wing, after all, so him as Head Healer was not unthinkable), and he goes straight to logistics. Practical considerations.
“It’s not the career I envisioned for myself any longer,” he admits, “but I could do it. There are— limitations, however, as you know. There’s a lot of procedures I can’t do myself. I’m not— I mean, frankly, I’m not the surgeon I once was. A lot of it’s just in my head now.”
He settles his hands flat against the table, presses them down to try to quell their faint tremble. It’s not a sign of fear; it’s just almost always there.