closed | take my lungs, take them and run.

[portalling]

WHO: Stephen Strange & Viktor
WHAT: A visit to a potential benefactor goes a little awry.
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: Hightown, Kirkwall
NOTES: Chronic illness things.

After the exposition last year, and after Halamshiral, Riftwatch have gathered some cultural cachet. Enough that they have a few fans in the higher echelons of Kirkwall society, who’ll listen to them and chip into the latest rifter lunacy. So they’ve brought along some of their more portable inventions, offering a practical demonstration while visiting Marcher nobility, a certain eccentric Lord Abel in Hightown.

At least it’s a shorter trip, for Viktor: not out of town, just up those elevators to this other world (the Piltover to Lowtown’s Zaun—), a place of luncheons and champagne and white tablecloths. A ‘salon’, they call it, gathering interesting people in one room. Strange was more excited until he realised the variety, and that it is not, in fact, just Research: someone here is a particularly good violinist; another has a trained nug in a tutu who does tricks, or something. Humiliating to be presented alongside Princess the Nug, but if it’s a spectacle which means trade agreements which might mean rare materials, then hell. He’s game.

He’s been trying to coax Viktor out of his shell by letting him cover the practicalities and the inventions, while Strange schmoozes the nobles themselves. Sometimes this is their division: prying themselves out of the workroom, plastering on a smile, greasing palms, cranking up the charm. People listen to you and fund you if they like you. Stephen’s no Tony, neither of them are, but they’ll try.

But it’s been a long day. After lunch, their group has been offered a tour of this Hightown manor, and the day is wearing thin. Some of the other visitors are Antivans, boisterous and a little wine-happy, chattering about some large portrait adorning the hall while the rifters huddle by a sideboard. Strange is nibbling on one of the canapés and their hosts have temporarily stepped aside when there’s—

a wavering next to him, Viktor looking even paler than usual.

“Hey, you good?” Strange asks, shooting him a sidelong look. Maybe it was the shellfish.

Comments

[portalling]

Lung blight, Viktor says, and there’s the aborted flutter of Stephen’s hand and a reach for what would have been a notepad and pen, if they were back in his office. But there’s nothing to hand, just his memory, and so he mentally files that one away.

Cystic fibrosis, tuberculosis, lung cancer, poliomyelitis, multiple sclerosis. All the possible diseases he can think of flicker through his mind, even if there’s absolutely no guarantee that they have the same viruses and bacteria across their worlds, and it’s not his wheelhouse besides. It’s probably some Runeterra-specific affliction, but Stephen can’t help that itch, the urge to understand and to solve.

Straightforward: “Your limp. Is it related, or caused by something else?” He’d assumed it was part of— the whole thing, but perhaps Viktor had been hit by a carriage when he was younger.

covers timestamp with my hand

[grindset]

"I've always had it."

The mines, the runoff. Pearlescent rainbow sheen on the water's surface.

It could be a relief, discussing this openly; but no, his poorly-kept secret hasn't shed an ounce, and their present situation makes its mass all the more intrusive. Humiliating surprise amid an already unwelcome circumstance doesn't greatly inspire one to describe the particulars of one's physical state in detail—then again, what would? What little his own partner knows, he had to learn from a doctor while Viktor was unconscious.

"Forgive me," he preempts, or interrupts if he must, "but surely there's a more suitable venue for this."

Consider: nowhere, and never.

(What does motivate him is the relief a healing mage might provide—it's what he should be clambering for, and neither is he inspired to examine why he hasn't been.)

also climbs out of my fugue

[portalling]

Stephen shoots an instinctive glance towards the shut door; furtive, like they’re two truant children sneaking away from the field trip.

“Your collapse rather forced the choice of venue,” he points out, and maybe there’s still that mild barb of concern lodged in his voice: he’s sarcastic because he cares. But there are gears turning in the doctor’s head, and he’s trying to calculate next steps.

“A servant’s less likely to ask follow-up questions. I can go find one, let them pass on a message to the host, say that pressing Riftwatch business called us back over our fancy magic crystals. Send our apologies, maybe courier a gift basket later.”

Perhaps it’s not strictly necessary to go to such lengths to hide Viktor’s state, but considering how secretive Viktor’s been about it, Stephen assumes it’s best if the pair of them escaped discreetly. He’ll hire them a coach; having that Head Healer salary does come in handy, sometimes.

[grindset]

Discretion is indeed preferable, and relatively easy to achieve here—thank goodness they aren't in Orlais—

What begins as a considering pause erupts into further coughing, sputtering to start and soon wheezing thin, then a breath sucked in to fuel bone-rattling bursts of jagged air that leave him feeling scorched inside. Muzzled by the handkerchief, Viktor waves a gesture too vague to interpret before he recovers enough to communicate:

"Not later—now."

He's wiping his mouth, occupying his hand to keep it steady, oblivious to the ruptured vessel in his eye (it hasn't spread). "We can leave," a pause for this croak to pass, "leave the quill cutter. The lord of the house seemed to like it."

Viktor is fond of it, himself—it's one of the more elegant things he's created here, sleek and simple—but he can make another.

[portalling]

There’s only the slightest pause. Stephen swallows the question of are you sure, because Viktor doesn’t say things he’s not sure of. So he simply nods, waits patiently for the other man’s trembles to get back under control, and then reaches out a hand to help tug him back to his feet, offering his arm and shoulder for additional support if needed.

“Lord Abel gets to keep the quill cutter, check. Hopefully the nug princess is still distracting them in the other room,” he muses.

Then, with a crooked expression which isn’t quite a smile — that rattle in Viktor’s throat is a little too concerning to smile at — but it’s still humour of a sort, dry and dusty: “I used to have a flying sentient cloak that could carry people. Swept me away from trouble whenever I was unconscious. This’d be a lot easier with it, mind.”

[grindset]

The hand is accepted, albeit not in kind—under his arm, please, there'll be no hand-holding today—and with this help he lurches upright. Mildly, he waves off further assistance and instead props himself up on the crutch in a half-enfolded huddle, like he's willing his body to fuse with it. That humorous dust lands well enough; Viktor doesn't come anywhere close to smiling, himself, but he does let out a thin huff.

Whatever else his response may have included is cut by an eruption of mayhem in the room they left behind, starting with a noisy crash of plates and glassware and the pings and rattles of scattering cutlery. A running rhythm of grunts, and not unhappy ones, then comes flying down the corridor.

She's got the tablecloth—
Well, grab it!

Someone stumbles just outside the door, grumbling as he picks himself up—Blasted nug.—and rejoins the pursuit.

As it fades, Viktor deadpans,

"That answers that question."

potential 🎀

[portalling]

The nug thing is going to be tremendously funny when Stephen thinks back on it later, but for now he’s so fixed on their discreet escape route. He stands by the door, head cocked and listening for the commotion, waiting for the pounding feet to finish rushing past their room. He waits, one beat, two, before opening the door and sticking his head into the corridor.

“The coast is clear,” he says.

And then it’s a coordinated effort: Viktor laboriously heading straight for the exit, leaning weight on his crutch, while Stephen does a quick detour to find the nearest servant. (Elven, and that’s something he’s still getting accustomed to about high society here.)

The primly-dressed elf makes noises about fetching their lord, I’m certain he’ll want to say goodbye personally, but Doctor Strange is quick to wave off the concern, wielding all the peremptory dismissiveness he can. They’re leaving behind the quill cutter. No, it’s rather pressing, they have to leave immediately, pass on all best regards to his lordship, thank you very much for your time, they’d be happy to return in future.

And then it’s quick striding down the hallways again, brisk steps descending a staircase, out to the front drive and to reunite with Viktor and summon the carriage to return to the Gallows.

Later on, the follow-up will temporarily slide off the docket, as other more immediate emergencies arise: demonic impersonators, the demons’ abductees, an attack on the Gallows and Kirkwall itself, Viktor’s concern for Lowtown and insistence on prioritising Lowtown, priorities, endlessly reshuffling priorities.

But the doctor will eventually wend his way back to this topic; he always does, in the end.