If Benedict is offended, he certainly doesn't say so, or give any indication otherwise. He's fixated on the broth, only barely slowing down to blow on each spoonful before eating it, a precaution he learned to take by scalding his mouth in desperation on his first night back.
"I heard about the Seneschal," he says in a rasp, after he's polished off the bowl, "was he badly hurt?"
It’s a little odd to be sitting here looking at Benedict, when their initial thoughts had run along the lines of he must be a traitor, or possessed, or; and now the sorcerer’s having to reconcile that with the weak, diminished real man in front of him.
Strange might have felt some guilt for those uncharitable thoughts, for having believed him to be the perpetrator at the time, even baffling as it was; but he’s simply too tired himself to work himself into knots about it. It is what it is.
“No, he’s fine,” Strange says. “He didn’t imbibe too much of the poison, and I was able to get to him quickly. I’m assuming you don’t know why the demon would have targeted him?”
"Good," Benedict sighs, a bit of tension leaving his shoulders; he obviously hasn't spoken to Julius yet, but it's nice to know that he, or someone that looked like him, hasn't completely destroyed the organization in his absence.
He gives a little scoff at Strange's response, as if to say, isn't it obvious?
"It identified him as my direct superior," he explains, "it would've kept going up the chain, given the chance."
“Is that what they were after? Just going up the ladder and targeting as much of Riftwatch leadership as they could?”
Perhaps he shouldn’t already be grilling his patient, but this is also his first opportunity to do some gentle digging for information, for context, for understanding. Vanya and Gela hadn’t been in much of a state to discuss it properly, that first night.
Strange leans over, fusses with more of the supplies on the endtable. Pours some cold water into a mug, making sure it’s within reach to keep the kid hydrated after the saltiness of the broth.
Shifting from metaphorical sorcerer’s cap to doctor’s cap: “And how do you feel?”
"I think so," Benedict says, in a low, uneasy voice, "that's more or less what it..." He trails off, his gaze going somewhere else, "...said." You know, inside his mind, while it rooted through his innermost thoughts and memories.
He takes the water gratefully, looking a bit less far away now that he's had a sip and been asked another question. "Um," he pauses, unsure of quite how to answer that, "alive?"
Strange makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a kind of dissatisfied cluck. But he bears with it.
“Do you have any injuries,” he says, patiently, “or did any other harm come to you besides the starvation? I spoke to Orlov and Baynrac, but since they escaped sooner, they couldn’t speak to what had happened to the rest of you in the interim.”
Benedict stares at him a moment, his eyes going distant as he tries to decide how to answer that: more than anything, it's hard to tell, what with his body devouring itself and all that. But eventually, he shakes his head.
"Octavius was there," he explains in a rasp, "when they found us. He did something... stabilizing. I think." His memory's foggy, to say the least. "Gela and Orlov," he continues, "they made it?"
“Ah, good.” It’s so very nice having their stable of healers replenished, having more to rely on now than mere antiseptic and bandages.
And leaning back in his chair, Strange nods. Tries to make his voice as gentle and reassuring as possible, terrible as he might be at it. “They’re fine,” he says, which is maybe stretching the definition of fine a little, but… “In much the same state as you but otherwise broadly uninjured. They’ll be very relieved to hear that you and Edgard were safely retrieved.”
"Good." A sigh that seems to come over his full body, his eyelids fluttering closed briefly. Odd how difficult it is to spend two months in close imprisonment with someone and not develop a bond with them, even if it's just a concern for their well-being.
"It's... good to be back," he adds, looking up at the ceiling, then back to Strange. Understatement of the year. "It. Didn't seem like." They would be.
Strange tilts his head, following that dangling unfinished sentence, pairing it with the first and taking a guess on what Benedict intended. It didn’t seem like I’d be back.
“After two whole months, I don’t blame you. What did…”
The man is warring between multiple kneejerk impulses: wanting more information. Wanting to check on his patient’s physical state. And then, some distant atrophied third impulse, remembering that he might need to say comforting, consoling things.
In the end, he succumbs to the curiosity. “Was it only the demons keeping you in captivity, or were there others there too? Venatori?”
Despite his fussy demeanor, Benedict is not bothered by very frank questions being asked about unsettling things. There's a freedom to it, being given the opportunity to speak candidly, especially to someone who holds any kind of power over him, even if it's just (in this case) medical.
"Just the demons," he confirms, "I think. I don't remember seeing anyone else, but they'd come back periodically." He tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, fidgeting, "they ensured we wouldn't go anywhere."
“I’m very sorry,” Stephen says, and only then he realises he’s not quite sure if he ever actually said that to any of the others yet —
“We’ll be sorting out what sort of information they were privy to and where their influence might have spread. In the meantime, no one here was hurt,” much, “so you can simply focus on resting and getting better.”
"That's good." A ginger little smile as Benedict settles back.
"They knew what we know. That's the best I can tell you on that subject. But at least, if they're dead, I suppose they can't report back."
He winces unexpectedly, reminded of the implications of such a thing; it's hard to shake the reputation for going turncoat, even if it was against his will this time.
And turned to goo, which is probably a pretty distressing mental image and thus not worth mentioning. There’s another similar beat where Strange waffles on whether his condolences should be followed up with, Sorry I briefly thought you were capable of poisoning the Seneschal? But, well, Benedict doesn’t need to know there had been such a nebulous image of him —
So. Instead, Strange draws his chair a little closer, slipping back into doctorly autopilot. “Just to cover all my bases—” no, Thedas doesn’t have baseball, “cross all my T’s and—” no, Thedosian runes don’t look like the English alphabet,
He sighs. “Just to have done everything I need to do as Head Healer. I’d like to check your pulse, your breathing.”
Both of them have the benefit of Strange being relatively new-- it means some conversations can simply be skipped, unacknowledged and left in the past.
The healing motions are awkward, slightly invasive, but necessary, and Benedict isn't in any position to fight them. He gives a little scoffing chuckle-- he's clearly alive, isn't he?-- but doesn't argue, tentatively offering out his wrist. Pulse, right?
"I'm feeling better," he adds, hoping it's helpful, "hungry as fuck, but otherwise,"
“That’s good to hear. ” And it is, genuinely; getting a read on how Benedict thinks he’s feeling is as much a data point as any.
There’s the slightly awkward physical intimacy of this, a coworker having to touch you, not just a physician you only have to see once per year, but Doctor Strange’s demeanour remains cool and dispassionate during the checkup: fingers pressed against the other man’s wrist, an abstracted expression on his face as he counts the beats. Then, gesturing, “If you can just loosen the neck of your robes,” he retrieves an antique-looking stethoscope, one of the byproducts of Research and dwarvish innovation, and presses it to his patient’s chest.
“Take a long deep breath, hold it in, breathe out slowly,” he instructs, “and repeat.”
This is the dull busywork part of the job, and not the sort of thing he originally signed up for as a surgeon, but. When needs must.
It's a bit embarrassing, the intimacy of it, especially after spending two months clinging to Edgard for warmth. He'll never speak ill of Edgard again, not after what they've been through, but it's actively strange having someone touch him after all this, and a bit of color comes to Benedict's cheeks in spite of himself as he loosens his collar.
There's a scar there, for the record, quite unmistakably from a throat-slashing that was healed rapidly and incorrectly. It's ugly; he wears high-necked clothes for a reason.
“Pulse is good, lungs are clear. Seems you haven’t picked up pneumonia or anything while you were shivering in a dungeon,” Strange says after a moment, giving his half-distracted verdict, retreating the stethoscope so his hand’s no longer half-plunged down Benedict’s robes. He had indeed noticed that scar.
And perhaps someone more polite and more tactful would know not to ask about that sort of thing, something so obviously gruesomely violent, but —
“What happened there?” he asks, matter-of-fact, with a gesture of his chin towards the other man’s neck. He’s curious. How Benedict survived it is, perhaps, the more pertinent question for the Head Healer.
As soon as the fabric came down, Benedict had mentally prepared himself for the question, and he offers a tight, humorless little smirk in response.
"My induction into Riftwatch was not without contention," he says drily, "...my mentor at the time had thrown in with the Venatori, and betrayed them when we were brought here. They didn't like that."
Pensively, he runs his fingertips over the scar.
"An unpracticed healer," he continues with a weak little laugh, "healed the tourniquet right into the wound. It had to be undone and redone."
“Ouch,” Strange says on autopilot, wincing in sympathy; in a way, the botched healing sounds even worse than the initial injury. (His perfectionist nature rankles at it. Like a surgeon leaving a goddamn tool still inside a patient, needing to open them up again.)
There’s always so much history here that he’s always trying to suss out the shape of, the Inqusition and Riftwatch with all their long scabbed-over wounds, literal and figurative alike. He tries to picture it, the context.
“So the Venatori tried to execute you for treason?” he asks.
Strange's reaction is a little bit funny, for whatever reason, and Benedict's mouth turns up at the corners-- not disrespectfully, but there's something about seeing such an honest response that's charming, in its way.
"More that they didn't want us talking," he explains, with a shrug of one shoulder, "not that they had much to worry about. I was barely in the loop anyway. But still a loose end."
There’s a casual tilt to Benedict’s shoulder, a kind of affected nonchalance which belies the dreadfulness of what he’s saying. How fucking awful, to have your throat cut when you didn’t even have the knowledge to make the effort worth it. Just— what, another cog in the machine?
It feels like Strange should say more here, but he also can’t bring himself to keep parroting condolences nonstop. How many times can he say I’m sorry that happened, when the words already taste like ash on his tongue; when the young mage himself seems to be trying not to make a big deal out of it, either.
Tentative, then: “So— I’m assuming there’s no love lost between you and Tevinter, still.”
With the kind of deep breath that might precipitate a laugh, Benedict pauses, then lets it die on his lips; his expression is frozen in thought. He's obviously thought about the answer to this question before, but never had to say it aloud.
"I miss it," he admits, "perhaps that's an unpopular sentiment. But what's being done to it, what's-- been done for years," he narrows his eyes thoughtfully, "it's a bit like, I don't know, learning your favorite pastry has always been made from insects. It's corrupted."
“I don’t have anything to compare it to, but— I could see that. Your own home turning against you, and knowing there’s a worm in the apple for years.”
Having to see your own people become your enemy, fighting and killing them and having them kill your colleagues in return. Typically Strange tries to find some common thread, but he simply can’t relate to this part. But there are still things to pique his curiosity: Tevinter, Minrathous, a gleaming city full of mages and magical wonders. What it was supposed to be, before Corypheus sunk his hooks into it.
So this next question has nothing to do with medical treatment, is simply genuinely curious, a sympathetic stab in the dark: “Maybe it’s unpopular, but you’re allowed to be homesick. What do you miss most?”
Benedict is at risk of losing himself in thought entirely when Strange interrupts him, yielding a little smile that verges on grateful. It's rare to be asked of the positives, even when there are so few left.
"The seaside," he answers almost immediately, "my family home overlooks the Nocen Sea. Miles of golden sand and water like a cool bath, parties and open-air markets with the best food and wine you can imagine."
So nothing like Kirkwall, with its sharp rocks and sewage and freezing water and mouldering alehouses.
"The closest I've seen to it was in the Rialto Bay," he adds, with a little smirk and shake of his head, "but it's not the same." Nothing can compare to an openly magical civilization.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
"I heard about the Seneschal," he says in a rasp, after he's polished off the bowl, "was he badly hurt?"
no subject
Strange might have felt some guilt for those uncharitable thoughts, for having believed him to be the perpetrator at the time, even baffling as it was; but he’s simply too tired himself to work himself into knots about it. It is what it is.
“No, he’s fine,” Strange says. “He didn’t imbibe too much of the poison, and I was able to get to him quickly. I’m assuming you don’t know why the demon would have targeted him?”
no subject
He gives a little scoff at Strange's response, as if to say, isn't it obvious?
"It identified him as my direct superior," he explains, "it would've kept going up the chain, given the chance."
no subject
Perhaps he shouldn’t already be grilling his patient, but this is also his first opportunity to do some gentle digging for information, for context, for understanding. Vanya and Gela hadn’t been in much of a state to discuss it properly, that first night.
Strange leans over, fusses with more of the supplies on the endtable. Pours some cold water into a mug, making sure it’s within reach to keep the kid hydrated after the saltiness of the broth.
Shifting from metaphorical sorcerer’s cap to doctor’s cap: “And how do you feel?”
no subject
He trails off, his gaze going somewhere else, "...said." You know, inside his mind, while it rooted through his innermost thoughts and memories.
He takes the water gratefully, looking a bit less far away now that he's had a sip and been asked another question.
"Um," he pauses, unsure of quite how to answer that, "alive?"
no subject
“Do you have any injuries,” he says, patiently, “or did any other harm come to you besides the starvation? I spoke to Orlov and Baynrac, but since they escaped sooner, they couldn’t speak to what had happened to the rest of you in the interim.”
no subject
"Octavius was there," he explains in a rasp, "when they found us. He did something... stabilizing. I think." His memory's foggy, to say the least.
"Gela and Orlov," he continues, "they made it?"
no subject
And leaning back in his chair, Strange nods. Tries to make his voice as gentle and reassuring as possible, terrible as he might be at it. “They’re fine,” he says, which is maybe stretching the definition of fine a little, but… “In much the same state as you but otherwise broadly uninjured. They’ll be very relieved to hear that you and Edgard were safely retrieved.”
no subject
"It's... good to be back," he adds, looking up at the ceiling, then back to Strange. Understatement of the year. "It. Didn't seem like." They would be.
no subject
“After two whole months, I don’t blame you. What did…”
The man is warring between multiple kneejerk impulses: wanting more information. Wanting to check on his patient’s physical state. And then, some distant atrophied third impulse, remembering that he might need to say comforting, consoling things.
In the end, he succumbs to the curiosity. “Was it only the demons keeping you in captivity, or were there others there too? Venatori?”
no subject
"Just the demons," he confirms, "I think. I don't remember seeing anyone else, but they'd come back periodically." He tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, fidgeting, "they ensured we wouldn't go anywhere."
no subject
“We’ll be sorting out what sort of information they were privy to and where their influence might have spread. In the meantime, no one here was hurt,” much, “so you can simply focus on resting and getting better.”
no subject
"They knew what we know. That's the best I can tell you on that subject. But at least, if they're dead, I suppose they can't report back."
He winces unexpectedly, reminded of the implications of such a thing; it's hard to shake the reputation for going turncoat, even if it was against his will this time.
no subject
And turned to goo, which is probably a pretty distressing mental image and thus not worth mentioning. There’s another similar beat where Strange waffles on whether his condolences should be followed up with, Sorry I briefly thought you were capable of poisoning the Seneschal? But, well, Benedict doesn’t need to know there had been such a nebulous image of him —
So. Instead, Strange draws his chair a little closer, slipping back into doctorly autopilot. “Just to cover all my bases—” no, Thedas doesn’t have baseball, “cross all my T’s and—” no, Thedosian runes don’t look like the English alphabet,
He sighs. “Just to have done everything I need to do as Head Healer. I’d like to check your pulse, your breathing.”
no subject
The healing motions are awkward, slightly invasive, but necessary, and Benedict isn't in any position to fight them. He gives a little scoffing chuckle-- he's clearly alive, isn't he?-- but doesn't argue, tentatively offering out his wrist. Pulse, right?
"I'm feeling better," he adds, hoping it's helpful, "hungry as fuck, but otherwise,"
no subject
There’s the slightly awkward physical intimacy of this, a coworker having to touch you, not just a physician you only have to see once per year, but Doctor Strange’s demeanour remains cool and dispassionate during the checkup: fingers pressed against the other man’s wrist, an abstracted expression on his face as he counts the beats. Then, gesturing, “If you can just loosen the neck of your robes,” he retrieves an antique-looking stethoscope, one of the byproducts of Research and dwarvish innovation, and presses it to his patient’s chest.
“Take a long deep breath, hold it in, breathe out slowly,” he instructs, “and repeat.”
This is the dull busywork part of the job, and not the sort of thing he originally signed up for as a surgeon, but. When needs must.
no subject
There's a scar there, for the record, quite unmistakably from a throat-slashing that was healed rapidly and incorrectly. It's ugly; he wears high-necked clothes for a reason.
no subject
And perhaps someone more polite and more tactful would know not to ask about that sort of thing, something so obviously gruesomely violent, but —
“What happened there?” he asks, matter-of-fact, with a gesture of his chin towards the other man’s neck. He’s curious. How Benedict survived it is, perhaps, the more pertinent question for the Head Healer.
no subject
"My induction into Riftwatch was not without contention," he says drily, "...my mentor at the time had thrown in with the Venatori, and betrayed them when we were brought here. They didn't like that."
Pensively, he runs his fingertips over the scar.
"An unpracticed healer," he continues with a weak little laugh, "healed the tourniquet right into the wound. It had to be undone and redone."
no subject
There’s always so much history here that he’s always trying to suss out the shape of, the Inqusition and Riftwatch with all their long scabbed-over wounds, literal and figurative alike. He tries to picture it, the context.
“So the Venatori tried to execute you for treason?” he asks.
no subject
"More that they didn't want us talking," he explains, with a shrug of one shoulder, "not that they had much to worry about. I was barely in the loop anyway. But still a loose end."
no subject
It feels like Strange should say more here, but he also can’t bring himself to keep parroting condolences nonstop. How many times can he say I’m sorry that happened, when the words already taste like ash on his tongue; when the young mage himself seems to be trying not to make a big deal out of it, either.
Tentative, then: “So— I’m assuming there’s no love lost between you and Tevinter, still.”
no subject
"I miss it," he admits, "perhaps that's an unpopular sentiment. But what's being done to it, what's-- been done for years," he narrows his eyes thoughtfully, "it's a bit like, I don't know, learning your favorite pastry has always been made from insects. It's corrupted."
no subject
Having to see your own people become your enemy, fighting and killing them and having them kill your colleagues in return. Typically Strange tries to find some common thread, but he simply can’t relate to this part. But there are still things to pique his curiosity: Tevinter, Minrathous, a gleaming city full of mages and magical wonders. What it was supposed to be, before Corypheus sunk his hooks into it.
So this next question has nothing to do with medical treatment, is simply genuinely curious, a sympathetic stab in the dark: “Maybe it’s unpopular, but you’re allowed to be homesick. What do you miss most?”
no subject
"The seaside," he answers almost immediately, "my family home overlooks the Nocen Sea. Miles of golden sand and water like a cool bath, parties and open-air markets with the best food and wine you can imagine."
So nothing like Kirkwall, with its sharp rocks and sewage and freezing water and mouldering alehouses.
"The closest I've seen to it was in the Rialto Bay," he adds, with a little smirk and shake of his head, "but it's not the same." Nothing can compare to an openly magical civilization.
(no subject)