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]

portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621550)

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[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.”
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781032)

[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?”
portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15613396)

[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.”
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781045)

[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?”
portalling: ɪɴfɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ. (pic#15613397)

[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.
portalling: ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴏf ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇss. (pic#15781030)

[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)
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15621537)

[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.”
portalling: ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ. (pic#15624638)

[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.”