Stephen makes a thoughtful noise. “There was a rooftop garden back home — my predecessor had a green thumb, although I haven’t much of one. It’s a good idea, though.”
Things he’s never had to consider: the passing of the seasons, the warming temperatures, the right time of year to plant a herb. He’s had to learn all these names and how to identify them: Arbor Blessing, spindleweed, witherstalk, rashvine. How to distill a restorative draught, and not just scribble a requisition for one from the hospital pharmacy.
In short: so much more work.
But he doesn’t seem to mind it, still unpacking these boxes, putting their contents in the right place, asking Derrica if he’s not sure where they should go. And if Derrica had another reason to come down here and speak to him— he lets the conversation lapse into a companionable silence, and lets her come to it at her own pace.
"Richard is gone," is what she comes to, words heavy. There is no real way to soften them. The bottles of new-made tincture clink as she sets them one after the other into a wooden case.
When Holden had gone, Richard had been there. Held her, regardless of his own discomfort and perhaps grief.
Derrica has been thinking of that often, since Loxley told her what had happened.
"He was our Head Healer," among other things. Her hands pause over the glass, looking over to Strange to take in his reaction. See what thoughts might be visible on his face.
“I’m aware,” he says, as neutrally as he can, a little arch. Although he didn’t know Richard, the man’s mere existence here had been a mild relief when the sorcerer first arrived: a reason to not try to throw his weight around the position, as someone else had already carved out the territory. Another man about his own age, enough to leave well enough alone. Stephen had noted Loxley’s announcement, filed it away in the back of his mind.
(And there’s an alien memory from Arlathan lodged there too, like something caught in his teeth, which he’ll probably never get to ask the man about. A voice, echoing in his ears: Fucking blood magic, Dickerson, really?)
Between that and Sidony’s departure, the faces around the infirmary have become fewer and fewer.
And it’s that idle thought, connecting the dots like a pinball bouncing off Derrica’s words, which makes Stephen’s hands go still on a pile of bandages and his head cocks, swivels to look at her more closely. As he realises where this train of thought might be taking them. He could be coy, fish around and make her explain the gist, but he presses right on it instead like pressure on a wound:
The available healers are dwindling, yes, but that may not always be so. Rifts deliver them newcomers with a variety of experiences. People travel miles to arrive on Riftwatch's door. There is no way to predict how many or few they may be in a month's time.
But that's not her point.
"I was hoping you would be interested in taking over."
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.
Something quiet and brittle comes and goes. Little to do with the infirmary itself, but present, a spectre of a thought that weighs on her and is summarily dismissed as she follows his appraisal of the space.
"I can do them."
Reassurance, without hesitation.
"Whatever comes, we can meet it together. I wouldn't abandon you to something you couldn't manage."
They are, at this point, something of a partnership anyway. Who else is there?
"But if one of us doesn't put ourselves forward for it, or seek out someone else we'd rather have directing the happenings here, we could regret it."
Derrica has seen that happen before as well. She has not forgotten Brother Gideon.
There’s a flex of tension in his knuckles, something twisting in his chest at that immediate offer. Does he hate the fact that he needs the physical assistance, or feel a surge of appreciation for Derrica’s unhesitating solidarity? Either. Both.
“Fair enough,” Strange says and then adds, only half-joking and with the cadence of a quote: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
He’s been trying to learn how to relinquish his vise-like control of things like this, but when backed into a corner, maybe there’s no other option. Who else is there?
A slow exhale. “Some part of me truly had thought I’d put medicine behind me, because medicine was done with me,” he admits — it’s an uncustomary flicker of self-doubt, since normally he’s so brusque and sure of himself. “But. I do still have the qualifications. Might as well not let all those years of student loans go to waste.”
Derrica, who has blessedly never heard of student loans, allows the unknown reference to pass in favor of focusing on the whole.
"I saw you at Starkhaven," is weightier than simple observation. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were capable, and that you understand the importance of what we do."
They are both healers. His hands don't discount him from the work. He had moved so quickly to it, when he was needed.
"With Tevinter camped so close to us, I think it will matter more how this infirmary and these resources are managed."
Case in point: the seeds she is collecting in a little box, ready to plant what they might need to have it readily at hand.
The movement draws his eye, and so he watches Derrica transferring the seeds to a box. And the gears are already starting to turn in the back of his head, positing and answering the question: if you had sovereignty over this space, what would you do with it?
He makes a decision.
“That garden, and maybe getting a lead on a beekeeper to have access to honey, it’s good against infection,” is the first thing which Strange blurts out. “Maybe polling Riftwatch to see what sort of first aid skills people have, since we’ve had some new arrivals lately. I’ll talk to the Seneschal — is it Orlov at the moment? I’ll talk to Orlov — and put my name forward.”
It’s like something clicking and settling into place. He had been lord of his domain once — sometimes aggravatingly so, at the hospital, throwing his weight around with impunity — and perhaps there’s still something good to be scavenged from those traits. And whatever distastefulness there might be in swooping in after his predecessor, the necessity of the thing offsets it. Politeness won’t fill an empty office.
“Did you know him well?” he asks after a moment, though. “Dickerson.”
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
Things he’s never had to consider: the passing of the seasons, the warming temperatures, the right time of year to plant a herb. He’s had to learn all these names and how to identify them: Arbor Blessing, spindleweed, witherstalk, rashvine. How to distill a restorative draught, and not just scribble a requisition for one from the hospital pharmacy.
In short: so much more work.
But he doesn’t seem to mind it, still unpacking these boxes, putting their contents in the right place, asking Derrica if he’s not sure where they should go. And if Derrica had another reason to come down here and speak to him— he lets the conversation lapse into a companionable silence, and lets her come to it at her own pace.
no subject
When Holden had gone, Richard had been there. Held her, regardless of his own discomfort and perhaps grief.
Derrica has been thinking of that often, since Loxley told her what had happened.
"He was our Head Healer," among other things. Her hands pause over the glass, looking over to Strange to take in his reaction. See what thoughts might be visible on his face.
no subject
(And there’s an alien memory from Arlathan lodged there too, like something caught in his teeth, which he’ll probably never get to ask the man about. A voice, echoing in his ears: Fucking blood magic, Dickerson, really?)
Between that and Sidony’s departure, the faces around the infirmary have become fewer and fewer.
And it’s that idle thought, connecting the dots like a pinball bouncing off Derrica’s words, which makes Stephen’s hands go still on a pile of bandages and his head cocks, swivels to look at her more closely. As he realises where this train of thought might be taking them. He could be coy, fish around and make her explain the gist, but he presses right on it instead like pressure on a wound:
“Are you thinking about job vacancies?”
no subject
The available healers are dwindling, yes, but that may not always be so. Rifts deliver them newcomers with a variety of experiences. People travel miles to arrive on Riftwatch's door. There is no way to predict how many or few they may be in a month's time.
But that's not her point.
"I was hoping you would be interested in taking over."
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.
no subject
"I can do them."
Reassurance, without hesitation.
"Whatever comes, we can meet it together. I wouldn't abandon you to something you couldn't manage."
They are, at this point, something of a partnership anyway. Who else is there?
"But if one of us doesn't put ourselves forward for it, or seek out someone else we'd rather have directing the happenings here, we could regret it."
Derrica has seen that happen before as well. She has not forgotten Brother Gideon.
no subject
“Fair enough,” Strange says and then adds, only half-joking and with the cadence of a quote: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
He’s been trying to learn how to relinquish his vise-like control of things like this, but when backed into a corner, maybe there’s no other option. Who else is there?
A slow exhale. “Some part of me truly had thought I’d put medicine behind me, because medicine was done with me,” he admits — it’s an uncustomary flicker of self-doubt, since normally he’s so brusque and sure of himself. “But. I do still have the qualifications. Might as well not let all those years of student loans go to waste.”
Ha, ha, rifter humour.
no subject
"I saw you at Starkhaven," is weightier than simple observation. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were capable, and that you understand the importance of what we do."
They are both healers. His hands don't discount him from the work. He had moved so quickly to it, when he was needed.
"With Tevinter camped so close to us, I think it will matter more how this infirmary and these resources are managed."
Case in point: the seeds she is collecting in a little box, ready to plant what they might need to have it readily at hand.
no subject
He makes a decision.
“That garden, and maybe getting a lead on a beekeeper to have access to honey, it’s good against infection,” is the first thing which Strange blurts out. “Maybe polling Riftwatch to see what sort of first aid skills people have, since we’ve had some new arrivals lately. I’ll talk to the Seneschal — is it Orlov at the moment? I’ll talk to Orlov — and put my name forward.”
It’s like something clicking and settling into place. He had been lord of his domain once — sometimes aggravatingly so, at the hospital, throwing his weight around with impunity — and perhaps there’s still something good to be scavenged from those traits. And whatever distastefulness there might be in swooping in after his predecessor, the necessity of the thing offsets it. Politeness won’t fill an empty office.
“Did you know him well?” he asks after a moment, though. “Dickerson.”