favoriteanalyst: (I blind my eyes to what won't stay)
Mobius ([personal profile] favoriteanalyst) wrote in [community profile] faderift2024-03-12 01:13 pm
Entry tags:

but I still hold out hope that maybe someday

WHO: Mobius, whomstsoever decides to bother him
WHAT: it's another catchall /fingerguns
WHEN: All month long
WHERE: around, about
NOTES: tbd




Sure, the library is like a home now ever since he sidled on into the Gallows and decided it all needed a little upkeep, spiraling out into taking it under his wing and being a resident bookworm with, sure, a penchant for being precious about the resource of the word. And he spends a good amount of time there on the daily as it is, though less through the new year with the new title. So long as nobody's destroying things or starting fights, it can all be tended to with assistants (thanks Abby!) and not need to be micromanaged under his care. He won't be breaking any arms.

Where he's been spending more time is in the archivist's office, spending time...well, archiving. Cosima appreciated the assistance with what's already been started, though it's clear there have been differences in organizational tactics between whoever all has been in here over the years. It's relatively quiet work to sort through reports and notes and track down dates and related project pages and suss out where to put it all in a manner that makes sense. And then there's rooting through new documents or half-finished projects that have come before. Having the good Lady Lamonia's collection of personal letters and libraries of journals and such donated to Riftwatch's care has been...fun. (It has not been fun.) He's been more than glad for assistance in perusing sultry love letters for tidbits of gossipy information about other lords and ladies from across the Marches, because frankly it isn't the most interesting thing to him, and he's not sure why it's all been donated to them. And whoever left this particular project barely started with some archaic archival system the likes of which might only be understood by the Maker Himself didn't do Mobius any damned favors. Please. Save him from this. Uuuuuuugh why is it another perfumed letter talking about beauty and oh did you hear what Marquis Audile got up to and blah blah blah...

When he spends time away from that, he makes a point to spend some time each day in the chapel, dutiful in his beliefs in his own ways. Quietly praying and keeping to himself, cleaning up if it's dusty or a bit of a mess. When in the dining hall, he keeps an eye out for friends and associates, and even occasionally makes the acquaintance of someone he is less than familiar with, though more often he keeps more to himself. The less than stellar function of his hands might always be something of an embarrassment to him, he knows. Which never stops him from training, keeping a firm grip on his sword at all times, shield at the ready strapped to the other arm, or simply going through the motions to keep himself in shape. Bookworm he might be, but he won't skimp on being battle ready.

He also lately is spending time out in Kirkwall proper, asking after printers and asking them where they procure their supplies, asking too after those who make paper and parchment. Does research on the side, since naturally he'd turn to books first, on how best to start setting up that kind of practice within the walls of the Gallows. Maybe there's space in the basement somewhere? Or an empty office space? Negotiating prices for deliveries might help in the short-term, but...

[or y'know hit him up elsewhere, or hit me up for a bespoke prompt]

icasm: (no)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-12 07:48 pm (UTC)(link)
It shouldn't be surprising, the fact that Mobius manages to call him out with both intense directness and a level of exhaustion that Loki can feel resonating in every atom of his being - and yet it is. So enjoy that slightly startled expression and then immediate abashed look. Not for nothing does it also active Loki's own sense of longing and resignation about the version of Mobius he'd left behind, in the TVA, on Earth, waiting for the version of himself that supported and maintained the sanctity of the many branches of timeline on the tree of all known reality.

Who is and yet distinctly is not the man sitting here. Himself, Mobius. Pick one.

Loki smooths the document he's been attempting to read (with very little success, too distracted by Mobius and then by pretending to not be distracted by Mobius) and finally he lets out a heavy breath.

"Tell me about your hand." Softly. He doesn't want to ask but he does want to know. "Please."
icasm: (on the shelf)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-12 09:07 pm (UTC)(link)
Loki frowns a little, pondering what he wants to know, and how to state it. He had been gone long enough that the people he knows and cares about here in Thedas have been irrevocably changed, primarily by things he's only read of or knows secondhand at best - he still hasn't discussed with Abby the truth of having been dead and remembering a different reality as that one was eliminated, for instance, and he is nowhere near foolish enough to invite Gwenaëlle's irritation or scorn attempting to muddle through any queries about her eye - and so while I want to know everything is a true response, it doesn't quite fit the bill.

He loves Mobius. In a way that is much less effusive and publicly visible, perhaps, than his passion surrounding Alexandrie, but it is love nonetheless. And while he and Alexandrie have fallen into a very familiar pattern (spurned forward somewhat by Loki's despising of group housing, truth be told) the same cannot quite be said of himself and Mobius.

Mobius saw him at his worst, and then Loki vanished overnight, asleep at Mobius' side. Everything that has happened since feels both unfathomable to understand in any meaningful detail and necessary to comprehend before they can move forward. There is no real returning to the past, not even when you repeat it over and over again.

Something they both know firsthand, hm?

"Your shard. It's more recent than..." What does he call it? The injury? The sacrifice? Loki sighs noisily because if he brings it up directly they will get off track from his intended starting place. "The rest. What happened, that you ended up with one of your own?"
icasm: (the things)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-12 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Well. Many people are frustrating, heavens knows, and Loki doesn't find it an immediate disqualification for his involvement and interaction.

But right now Loki is watching Mobius talk about the shard in his hand, as if they both don't know that keeping it - and the hand it is embedded in - will eventually have a mortal cost. Which, alongside Mobius' determination that the ordinariness of obtaining it was a sort of blessing, returns Loki's thoughts to the notion of sacrifice, and the truth that his friend has to wear odd support straps for his utensils at meals, lest they go flying when Mobius is more focused on other things than keeping visual track of his fine motor skills.

So he frowns, a little. It's not about 'the gift' but it's not not that. "You still feel it is a blessing from Andraste?" A shake of his head. "Of course you do. Faith is your strong suit, and I'm not suggesting you should feel otherwise."
icasm: (and a gentleman)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-12 10:29 pm (UTC)(link)
Things Loki considers but does not say includes a level of incredulity at the amount of direct involvement Andraste might have in... any personal life of anyone alive in the current age, much less the bleeding through of the Fade that has occurred as a result of every choice Corypheus has made in living memory. It's there, in his mind, from both the position of a man who is unlikely to believe in any gods beyond the ones he's met personally - which is many of the various Midgardian pantheon, truth be told - but not on his face.

Because there are other things to consider. Mobius is his friend, and Loki can't dismiss Mobius' feelings automatically anyway, even if he is not built to understand them.

"What would be 'squandering the gift'? What does that even mean?"
icasm: (that are not there)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-12 11:55 pm (UTC)(link)
"...I don't think that not using a skill to its full potential effectiveness is the same as something being squandered. I also don't think you would be nearly as harsh on anyone else who happened to have a Fade shard, so please, do me a favor, and be kinder to my friend? Namely, yourself." Very. Pointed. Look.

Which crumbles almost immediately after, because now Loki has to consider the staring and his various reasons why. "I want for us to be close again, but I have no idea how to begin. Or. If you would want to. It feels like so much has changed, things you don't want to discuss."
icasm: (where there's no such thing)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-16 07:22 pm (UTC)(link)
"The problem of retelling what's happened to me isn't pain, though it does exist. The problem is story, and the problem is time, and the problem is the friends I don't believe I'll ever see again, and the idea that there is always a last time, and it is always sooner than I'd think, like, or expect.

I suspect that is the problem of us as well, or part of it. I've never come back, before. I have always left the past behind, until I had no choice but to confront it, again and again, and relearn the same tired lessons endlessly until I accepted the truth of them. And then I had to move forward. It's not the same as coming back at all."

Loki has leaned back in his seat a little, frowning at his own hands folded in front of him on the table. He turns his head to Mobius. "I want to ask, certainly. But I don't think that demanding a retelling would actually solve the problem of time minus distance." A little shake of his head. "It isn't that I want what was. It's that I want it to be a part of what is to be, and I have no idea how to do that."
icasm: (the things)

[personal profile] icasm 2024-03-16 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Loki can see it, on Mobius' face, the fact that he's managed to talk circles around being in a time loop for an uncountable number of centuries. He doesn't want to be direct about it, because being direct means coming face to face with the feeling that he was outsmarted and outplayed, that there were no options other than letting the wrong person win or personal forfeiture.

Which, for the record, was the option he chose at the time. The him that didn't know/remember/experience Thedas.

The Loki that remains here is glad it's not likely to come up again as something he has to do (hopefully).

He watches Mobius breathe through it. Hears but only halfway pays attention to the things Mobius says along with that bit of breathing exercise - not because it's unimportant, but because what Mobius says with his body might be moreso.

Mobius' body says this won't be easy. Loki agrees.

"Okay." A beat. "Sorry for the odd staring."
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781109)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-03-24 12:32 am (UTC)(link)
Hi, and: “Nope. You’re not the first nor the last person to try to weasel your way out of getting a checkup.”

This way of levering the professional responsibilities as an excuse to talk to him, a smokescreen to check in on what he’s really asking— well, it’s a tried-and-true technique, and that’s why it works. Stephen waves Mobius into the infirmary (clean, empty, they don’t have any long-term residents at the moment) and gestures for him to take a seat by the desk at the back.

It’s still a step down, becoming something more like a general practicioner and casting this broader net: now the Head Healer is attending to the everyday concerns of taking temperatures, measuring pulses, pressing his fingers to lymph nodes. He tries to tell himself that the banal, everyday nature of these checkups are a good thing, that it’s not a crisis or broken bones or contagious blood plagues,

but, still, perhaps some part of him does crave the crisis. It would scratch the itch for a puzzle to solve, adrenaline to keep him running. So Stephen’s often a little bored, going through the motions with this sort of thing— except, that as Mobius is finally shooed into the room, the doctor’s already craning his head to look at his hands as he retrieves a piece of paper.

“So. Any changes in the last five months?” he asks, dryly; they both know the change.
Edited 2024-03-24 00:34 (UTC)
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781031)

his harrowing absolutely would’ve been a pride demon

[personal profile] portalling 2024-03-26 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)
“When I do a job, I do it right,” Stephen says, archly. There’s just the fact that he can’t actually take proper notes, so the paper’s more for show than anything else, and winds up shuffled to the side. He’ll have to loop back later and painstakingly add some notes in what’s becoming his jagged shorthand.

But he leans closer, to take a look at that shard. Familiar and just like his own, except that his is in the left palm. (He still wonders what makes them gravitate to the hand, when other implant locations are possible but infrequent.)

“So I’ve been curious,” and his voice does turn more conversational now, dropping some of the aloof, official trappings. “Have you felt the shard pain? What takes precedence, your numb hands or the shard?”
portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15613396)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-01 02:01 am (UTC)(link)
“Yes,” Stephen says, perhaps surprisingly immediate and nonchalant. Some concepts have been an absolute goddamn nightmare to try to explain to Thedosians, but this time it feels like a more straightforward answer. And it’s always a relief speaking to Mobius in particular; he’s generally more open-minded.

“That makes perfect sense to me, actually. I expect you might’ve already experienced, even though you don’t have any sensation in your hand, sometimes it does feel like your hand’s still there, or like it has an itch, or your nails are digging into your palm? We call it phantom limb syndrome. You see it all the time in amputees: they’ll forget they’re missing an arm, it’ll feel like it’s still there, sometimes the missing limb itself will still hurt. It’s actually very interesting, we think it’s a neurological issue because of the memories remaining in your brain’s neural connections—”

Tangents. Tangents, doctor. He remembers to cut himself off, leaning back in his chair again. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if some healers here have noticed it and written about it as well. And my point being, even if elven magic and rift magic is absolutely fuck-all abnormal, it makes sense to me that you might still feel those fleeting sensations or that discomfort even when you’re not supposed to.”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-07 12:16 am (UTC)(link)
“Yes, well. We’ve a few years yet on that front.” It’s mildly worrisome having the equivalent of a ticking time bomb embedded in both their hands, but Stephen’s been assuaged by how long some of the shard-bearers have been kicking around without complications; Wysteria seemed in rare company.

There’s a pause. Thinking about all the other things waiting to kill Mobius. So have you reconsidered the whole dementia-inducing magic drug thing yet—

Maybe not. Instead, he admits, “I spoke to the other templars. About their lyrium usage. Much to my surprise, I got all of them to sign off on my knowing their personal doses and to be able to administer to them in an emergency. So— thank you, for that. I wouldn’t’ve been able to use the I know what the hell I’m doing argument if it weren’t for your information.”
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621514)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-07 12:48 am (UTC)(link)
A rueful look. “Yes,” Stephen says, not confirming or denying or mentioning how many. (As said: it’s a personal, quiet thing.)

But thank you, Mobius, that’s a convenient opening to: “So. Have you reconsidered it at all? You could practice with that shard, you know, and pick up anchor magic. Your templar abilities wouldn’t have to be your only suprahuman capability. This could be an alternative.”

Is he manipulative enough to lean on Mobius’ spirituality for this—

“You could maybe,” said delicately, “even,” step-by-step, “see that as the silver lining in picking up the shard. Maybe it was meant to happen. A lifeline.”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-09 01:51 am (UTC)(link)
Ugh, that backfired.

Stephen props his chin up in his hand against the desk. There’s a particular question he’s circling and wants to ask, but he decides to sidle into it sideways. So what he asks instead: “How old are you, Mobius? How long have you been on lyrium?”
portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15643393)

[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-12 10:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Which is really just reinforcing his point. Stephen has that ruminative look on his face, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this.

“Joining the Order and making that decision and agreeing to that addiction when you’re a young man with your entire life ahead of you, and the dementia is decades away as only the most distant of worries— I can see it, y’know. We all make gambles against our own futures. That’s a problem for your future self; maybe you won’t even live that long. It’s an acceptable tradeoff at the time.

“But, speaking frankly, you’re older than I am. You’ve been taking it longer than some of these kids have been alive. Eventually, the bill comes due.”

Christ, did he really just quote Mordo

“I’m still not, y’know, trying to force you to quit tomorrow. I think what I’m saying is— keep an eye out for those symptoms. Monitor it. Be honest. If it seems like that dementia’s starting to catch up to you, changing the equation and diminishing your faculties, then would you at least consider it anew? Better to be another trained warrior without his templar abilities but who can blow people apart with an anchor-shard, rather than a trained warrior whose brain is mush and doesn’t know where he is and can’t do a lick of good.”
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621550)

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/FubD-2nWAAAUHTO.png

[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-14 04:54 pm (UTC)(link)
“Wait, so they don’t even—”

That horror and anger steeps, curdles. Christ, he thought at the very least the templars knew what they were signing up for: an intellectual awareness of the risks even if they weren’t old enough to take them seriously at the time, in the same way of every high school senior adopting crippling student debt, or signing on for the army without thinking about the inevitable injuries, the trauma, the potential disability.

Stephen leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t fault anyone for picking up a weapon on the shelf,” god knows he’s wielded terrible magicks that he wasn’t technically supposed to, “but ’not perfect’ is certainly an understatement. Mobius, I’m not—” He suspects this might lead to a fight, he’s got his own sore wounds on the topic of organised religion so might be ruder than he should be, but he has to say it anyway.

“I’m just saying. There’s a difference between the Maker’s will and how humans choose to implement it. Children shouldn’t have to be tricked into how they serve Andraste. Your lyrium abilities aren’t necessarily the way it has to be.”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-15 10:13 pm (UTC)(link)
Stephen just looks at him. (No wonder people would get so annoyed with Stephen, too: the annoying self-delusion, the endless justifications.)

But at the end of the day, he just can’t stop thinking about those quick-sparking neurons withering away to lyrium. The neurosurgeon once thought losing his hands was the worst thing to happen to him, but the prospect of losing his mind is even worse. And here it is, an inevitability for Mobius, only a matter of time.

“The nullification is a unique ability, but by no means the only one which works. Blowing off a Venatori’s head can be just as effective.” He’s still leaning back in his chair, feeling that annoyance simmering away. His first month in Riftwatch, he’d almost caused a diplomatic incident arguing with Chantry sisters and trying to explain to them that the behaviour in their town was due to bacteria in the wheat, not demonic possession. How many times does he have argue down to someone?

And yet the extra-irritating thing is, he does understand. Other Stephen Stranges had traded against their own lives in order to do more, accomplish more: those burnt-black fingertips, paging open the Darkhold. Hypocrite.

“I understand your position, but the fact remains that it’s a ticking timebomb. It’s going to happen and you’re going to start becoming useless when it does. It’s not even just the dementia, Mobius, it’s— well, it’s a strategic risk. Say you’re caught by enemy forces and locked in a dungeon. Say you hit your head on a rock and you’re laid out in some civilian’s farmhouse for weeks. You start going into forced withdrawal, unplanned, away from the Gallows, without assistance. Wouldn’t it be safer to tackle it in a controlled environment, at your own pace, at a time of your choosing and with support on hand?”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-04-21 04:29 am (UTC)(link)
It’s not a guarantee and it’s not a promise, but it’s good enough for now.

“Alright,” Stephen says, and it has the sound of a temporary relenting, an easing up and giving ground. This conversation (debate, argument, fundamental disagreement) is more a war of attrition, rather than a single chat. He’ll keep working on it.

“Thank you. I appreciate you being open to consideration, at least. And I’ll put some reading into the matter even before it happens. To no one’s surprise,” his expression turns rueful, self-aware, “I’m still pretty interested in how people’s brains tick.”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-05-04 05:44 pm (UTC)(link)
For a moment it seems like they might have sailed out of these complicated waters, but then Mobius lobs that topic in there, and Stephen stares at him. He can see exactly where this is headed and it has the feeling of a trap laid out for him, a cardboard box and string baited with a discussion on medical ethics,

but he is too interested in medical ethics, so. He sees the trap, acknowledges it, and then chooses to walk right into it.

“It’s complicated,” is his first answer. “Doctors swear an oath to do no harm, but we also don’t want to unnecessarily prolong someone’s suffering, either. That, too, could be considered harm.”

And Stephen had had to adjust those morals after becoming a sorcerer, as much as it pained him: killing enemies for the first time, focusing on the big picture at the Ancient One’s brutally pragmatic side, trading one set of ethics for a more malleable one, and even so it’s still a work-in-progress. His mouth thins.

“What you’re talking about. There’s this thing called a a DNR, a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order, to not restart someone’s heart if it stops. To allow what they call natural death. Typically used if the patient’s going to be left in a vegetative state or coma, or with an otherwise low quality of life if you resuscitate them.”

As a surgeon, even he had callously refused cases that were lost causes — but then, hypocritically, would probably move mountains if it were someone he loved. Where do you draw the line? He’s working through it aloud even as they speak, trying to figure out where he lands on this:

“And then more directly, there’s assisted suicide, usually if someone’s been diagnosed with a terminal illness and wants to go out on their own terms. A physician providing them with poison to drink, essentially. It’s still hotly-debated where I’m from; only legal in a few jurisdictions, and not where I practiced, so I’ve never come across it. I can see the value if they’re truly terminal, if they only have six months left to live and their life’s going to be miserable in the meantime. But even so, there’s still the question: how much of it is undiagnosed clinical depression, how much of it is societal pressure and not wanting to be a burden on their loved ones, and sometimes patients with terminal diagnoses last much longer than they expect— and then with surgeries with risks of complications, you don’t always know if they’ll pull through fine, and you should have tried after all. It’s complicated and there’s no clear obligation. It’s a balance.”

You’ve really opened a can of worms, Mobius. Stephen sighs, crosses his arms; he’s managed to talk a lot about it but not actually commit to saying where he stands. And there’s the philosophical angle, but then there’s also the directly practical one: “Mobius. Are you asking because you’d like to die if you were grievously wounded?”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-05-26 09:26 pm (UTC)(link)
It’s a small exhale of relief, of finding out that this particular line of interrogation isn’t about putting a metaphorical bullet in his friend’s head while Mobius’ brain deteriorates from perfectly-preventable lyrium dementia. Because oh, it’s about the anchor, and this is actually far more preferable as a topic —

“Not all of us are prepared to pull a Wysteria,” Stephen admits. “But fair enough. I’ll take note of it. And you’re right, I’m actually far less worried about this one; Gwenaëlle’s had hers for eight years, with no especial ill effect. And if-when it does start becoming a problem for you, or any of us, I imagine it’ll be far more visible and noticeable than… y’know.” A rotating gesture of a hand, an indiscreet indication to Mobius’ head.
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-06-16 12:54 am (UTC)(link)
Stephen briefly fantasises about just leaping out of the nearest window and barrel-rolling across the courtyard and escaping this conversation. He’s incorrigibly nigh-pathologically tight-lipped about his personal life, and doesn’t know what to do with that nudge when it’s all so brand-new and fragile, only a few days’ old and not ready to talk about it. A private development he’s still getting used to, not for the whole world to see.

So instead, as utterly bland and neutral as he could make it, “I’m friendly with our new Provost. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, too.”

And there’s a beat, before he can’t help but add: “But, also, I could do far worse than listening to Gwenaëlle Baudin.”

Perhaps some people might take issue with her opinions (she has a lot of them, and they’re loud), but she’s been his sense-check, his lodestone and compass needle, for far longer than they’ve been fucking. There’s an inevitable quiet fondness buried in his voice when he says her name.

Christ. He needs to jump out the window.
Edited 2024-06-16 00:55 (UTC)
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-06-19 08:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Stephen almost walks into the trap. It’s a startlingly easy thing to let his tongue slip and want to talk too much about Gwenaëlle now that he’s being directly prompted: pithily say something about how she can be stupidly reckless too, so they might not be the best at reining each other in in that particular regard,

(and oh that reveals how much he knows of how she ticks these days)

but he cuts himself off like someone swerving away from oncoming traffic. Then squints at Mobius across the desk, tit-for-tat and bemused. “For the record, Mobius, I see what you’re doing when there’s a topic you’re trying to avoid… but I’m doing the same thing, so y’know what, fair’s fair.”
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[personal profile] portalling 2024-06-19 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Stephen laughs at the impersonation, a real laugh and not bitten-back, and that’s a rare enough thing to drag out of the doctor. “What am I even doing here, you all don’t even need me when you do such a passable impression—”

He shuffles the papers mostly for the appearance of wrapping up, and then rises to his feet. They’ve meandered horrifically off-topic, but they were just about done anyway. All that remains is the tedious recordkeeping part of it:

“We’ll measure your height, check your pulse, check your lungs, and then you’ll be clear to go. And then I’ll take off my coworker-and-Head-Healer cap, and return to simply being your friend with minimal nagging. Or, well. Somewhat less nagging.”