“Hm,” Stephen says, and he knows that he can’t push back against this one as strongly as he’d like.
Perhaps it’d be easier for him to argue against it if he weren’t a rifter himself, with the exact same worries dogging him. If that shard in his hand hadn’t crippled him from making meaningful connection for his entire first year here: one foot out the door, always waiting to see if he would simply vanish one day. It was no way to live a life.
And he already knows the rebuttals to point number two, because he can run that argument in his own head, and has done. It’s not his own most compelling point either. It might not even work — but they’ve no way of knowing until they try. They need information, and the doctor’s generally in favour of gathering information. Experimentation, even to one’s own personal detriment. Lyrium warping his skin.
So he skips right to the one after: “So. Point three. What if it does work, and others start following you en masse in lopping off their hands? Besides the operational impact of an organisation full of amputees, we literally need shard-bearers to close rifts. This world might well be ripped apart at the seams without it.”
He wonders, sometimes, if it would look very much like an incursion.
Despite the way Ness is watching him, eagle-eyed for any hint that he finds her logic wanting, there's no clue as to whether Stephen caught that particular bit of rhetorical legerdemain. Either way, they've moved on to a point she has a better rebuttal to; she'll take it for the win it is.
"I propose that we don't publicize the purpose of the amputation. Of course the Division Heads would have to be made aware, the Provost most especially. And I would not want you to lie to Captain Baudin if it would affect either of you negatively. But other than that..."
She shrugs, and switches her stance, holding her hands in front of her lap.
"An accident can be arranged. Amputation is needful when bones shatter, isn't it?"
She is, perhaps, a little too cool with the idea of grievous bodily injury as the solution to this problem—or it may appear that way, so long as Stephen doesn't glance to her hands: bleeding white at the knuckles from how hard she's clenching them.
Stephen arches an eyebrow, perhaps surprised at the commitment. And she knows him well enough, and her arguments are logical enough, that they’re finding their mark, squirrelling in beneath his skin.
“Hm. Run over your arm with a cart, shatter the bones, so it seems medically necessary to amputate?” he repeats, floating the thought. Then: “Apart from me, how many people have you already told about your desire to cut off your arm?”
"Captain Baudin is the one who gave me the idea. I don't think I've said in so many words that I intend to follow through with it, but even should you not tell her, she'd likely be able to see through the pretense. Other than her..."
She thinks carefully—she's pretty sure she knows the answer off the top of her head, but better to give it real thought and be sure than answer flippantly and forget someone.
"I don't believe I've even mentioned the possibility to anyone else. If I have, never more than in passing."
That raised eyebrow turns a little sardonic at the invocation of the Captain, with an ironic turn to his expression. Being charitable: Stephen thinks Ness is simply answering his question and doesn’t mean to play it like another trump card, but crediting the other woman is a card nonetheless.
Then again, he doesn’t rule out manipulation. He’s seen the way the girl argues.
Another hm, not quite agreeing, not quite dissenting. Moving on: “Point the fourth: We still don’t have penicillin and our dedicated healer is missing. Try as I might, I’m not able to cast Thedosian healing spells. Other mages with the facility don’t have the same grasp that Isaac did.”
Whether she's manipulating him or not, she doesn't press for any more of a response to point three, just lets him move them right along to—well, in her opinion, it's the one he's most likely to agree with.
"Even if Isaac were here, there would be some reason not to move forward. An upcoming battle, or one of us needed on a mission, or a concern about my health, or yours—Doctor, you know better than I that ideal conditions don't exist. To put off a time-sensitive procedure with an unknown expiration date waiting for them is folly.
"That does not, of course, excuse recklessness," she allows, anticipating that particular rejoinder, "there's a difference between waiting for survivable conditions and an elusive ideal. But even in that case, Stephen—"
Ness's eyes have been focused on Stephen's this whole time, tracking his every twitch and hum to gauge how her arguments are landing. She doesn't look away, now, but her eyes soften, dropping the logical mask to let her true feelings shine through.
"Who could have a better chance of seeing me through this than you? You have knowledge of technique and science that no one else on this entire continent could even dream of, decades of experience, and a track record that speaks for itself. Yes, it would be better to have Isaac—but you are a doctor, not a healer, and of the two I will take preference for the doctor, any day."
It's hard to believe that they haven't even known each other a whole year. Stephen has become so important to her in such a short period of time—half a year, a little more than, and she's ready to put her life in his hands.
Stephen exhales. Even now, he has a tendency to combat earnestness with humour, and so he says, “Flattery is a low blow, Ennaris, but it does get you everywhere.”
He instinctively straightens more of the paperwork, and out of the corner of his eye, sees point four on the list like a meeting agenda. Continues, “And I dunno, I’d still like the magic. I’d actually feel better if we were cutting open your skull vs chopping off your limb. I’m not a cardiovascular surgeon. Cardiovascular surgeons are assholes.”
Some of that professional mask had dropped, his tone turning lighter in reflexive defensive response to all that heart-open desperate faith and trust. They’ve reached the end of the list. He’s stalling.
Usually, Ness respects his recoil from earnest emotion. She doles her affection and admiration out in small doses, titrates up every so often as he develops more of a tolerance—there is no surer way to put someone off a thing than to force it on them, after all.
"Stephen."
She says his name, and stops there. She won't continue until he looks at her, and perhaps when he does he can see the exact moment that she decides to approach his desk, to lean forward and hold his hand, the way he had held hers in the library.
"I trust you. I trust your mind, and your medicine, and your hands. My skull or my arm, it makes no difference to me."
Edited (i didn't want you to think i was rejecting your subject) 2025-03-28 02:32 (UTC)
And it’s not the physical touch, or the emotional appeal, or the compliment, or the exacting list of back-and-forth rationale and justification. It’s all of the above, like the ceaseless tide wearing away at a rock until it finally crumbles into the sea. As Ness takes his hand, Stephen feels the moment that he gives in at last, and feels his reasoning falling away.
There’s a defeated sag to his shoulders, a twist of his mouth, his hand squeezing hers back once.
“Alright,” he says. Because he’d promised, too, that he would at least consider it if she gave it time. Didn’t rush it. Came back to him after a year. It’s sooner than planned, but all of his arguments against it have been punctured and meticulously deconstructed. “It’s your choice.”
And if anyone’s going to do it for her safely, of course it’s going to be him.
He says alright like he's just signed her death warrant, with such defeat it hardly even feels like a victory—but it is a victory, albeit one she won't be crowing over any time soon. Ness squeezes Stephen's hand back, then lets it go.
"Thank you," she says, sincere as ever, "for trusting me back."
There will be time for them to discuss the particulars of how they're going to accomplish this later. For now, Stephen's just agreed to something he'd prefer not to do, and Ness won't make him deal with her any more today. She gathers her notes, says her goodbyes, and leaves Stephen to contemplate what he's just signed up for.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Perhaps it’d be easier for him to argue against it if he weren’t a rifter himself, with the exact same worries dogging him. If that shard in his hand hadn’t crippled him from making meaningful connection for his entire first year here: one foot out the door, always waiting to see if he would simply vanish one day. It was no way to live a life.
And he already knows the rebuttals to point number two, because he can run that argument in his own head, and has done. It’s not his own most compelling point either. It might not even work — but they’ve no way of knowing until they try. They need information, and the doctor’s generally in favour of gathering information. Experimentation, even to one’s own personal detriment. Lyrium warping his skin.
So he skips right to the one after: “So. Point three. What if it does work, and others start following you en masse in lopping off their hands? Besides the operational impact of an organisation full of amputees, we literally need shard-bearers to close rifts. This world might well be ripped apart at the seams without it.”
He wonders, sometimes, if it would look very much like an incursion.
no subject
"I propose that we don't publicize the purpose of the amputation. Of course the Division Heads would have to be made aware, the Provost most especially. And I would not want you to lie to Captain Baudin if it would affect either of you negatively. But other than that..."
She shrugs, and switches her stance, holding her hands in front of her lap.
"An accident can be arranged. Amputation is needful when bones shatter, isn't it?"
She is, perhaps, a little too cool with the idea of grievous bodily injury as the solution to this problem—or it may appear that way, so long as Stephen doesn't glance to her hands: bleeding white at the knuckles from how hard she's clenching them.
no subject
“Hm. Run over your arm with a cart, shatter the bones, so it seems medically necessary to amputate?” he repeats, floating the thought. Then: “Apart from me, how many people have you already told about your desire to cut off your arm?”
no subject
She thinks carefully—she's pretty sure she knows the answer off the top of her head, but better to give it real thought and be sure than answer flippantly and forget someone.
"I don't believe I've even mentioned the possibility to anyone else. If I have, never more than in passing."
no subject
Then again, he doesn’t rule out manipulation. He’s seen the way the girl argues.
Another hm, not quite agreeing, not quite dissenting. Moving on: “Point the fourth: We still don’t have penicillin and our dedicated healer is missing. Try as I might, I’m not able to cast Thedosian healing spells. Other mages with the facility don’t have the same grasp that Isaac did.”
no subject
"Even if Isaac were here, there would be some reason not to move forward. An upcoming battle, or one of us needed on a mission, or a concern about my health, or yours—Doctor, you know better than I that ideal conditions don't exist. To put off a time-sensitive procedure with an unknown expiration date waiting for them is folly.
"That does not, of course, excuse recklessness," she allows, anticipating that particular rejoinder, "there's a difference between waiting for survivable conditions and an elusive ideal. But even in that case, Stephen—"
Ness's eyes have been focused on Stephen's this whole time, tracking his every twitch and hum to gauge how her arguments are landing. She doesn't look away, now, but her eyes soften, dropping the logical mask to let her true feelings shine through.
"Who could have a better chance of seeing me through this than you? You have knowledge of technique and science that no one else on this entire continent could even dream of, decades of experience, and a track record that speaks for itself. Yes, it would be better to have Isaac—but you are a doctor, not a healer, and of the two I will take preference for the doctor, any day."
It's hard to believe that they haven't even known each other a whole year. Stephen has become so important to her in such a short period of time—half a year, a little more than, and she's ready to put her life in his hands.
how dare u
He instinctively straightens more of the paperwork, and out of the corner of his eye, sees point four on the list like a meeting agenda. Continues, “And I dunno, I’d still like the magic. I’d actually feel better if we were cutting open your skull vs chopping off your limb. I’m not a cardiovascular surgeon. Cardiovascular surgeons are assholes.”
Some of that professional mask had dropped, his tone turning lighter in reflexive defensive response to all that heart-open desperate faith and trust. They’ve reached the end of the list. He’s stalling.
🔪🔪🔪
"Stephen."
She says his name, and stops there. She won't continue until he looks at her, and perhaps when he does he can see the exact moment that she decides to approach his desk, to lean forward and hold his hand, the way he had held hers in the library.
"I trust you. I trust your mind, and your medicine, and your hands. My skull or my arm, it makes no difference to me."
🎀?
There’s a defeated sag to his shoulders, a twist of his mouth, his hand squeezing hers back once.
“Alright,” he says. Because he’d promised, too, that he would at least consider it if she gave it time. Didn’t rush it. Came back to him after a year. It’s sooner than planned, but all of his arguments against it have been punctured and meticulously deconstructed. “It’s your choice.”
And if anyone’s going to do it for her safely, of course it’s going to be him.
He always has to be the one holding the knife.
🎀!
"Thank you," she says, sincere as ever, "for trusting me back."
There will be time for them to discuss the particulars of how they're going to accomplish this later. For now, Stephen's just agreed to something he'd prefer not to do, and Ness won't make him deal with her any more today. She gathers her notes, says her goodbyes, and leaves Stephen to contemplate what he's just signed up for.