faderift | open + closed | mistakes have been made

Nowadays there’s a faint terror which grips him whenever he sees Obeisance Barrow — because in what new, unusual way is Stephen going to shove his foot in his own mouth this time — but at least today the doctor’s got the shield of his professional responsibilities. He glances up from his desk, where he’s currently annotating one of Thedas’ fledgling medical textbooks.

“No patients at the moment,” he says mildly, for the beds are empty and he has no excuse to shoo Barrow away or let the man scurry away himself, “so I’m pretty free, actually. What do you need?”

Barrow was afraid of this: in the absence of any distractions, he'll have to actually have the conversation and set things in motion.
He sighs, peeling himself from the doorway as he shuffles into the infirmary.

"Been, er, talking to Orlov," he mutters, "about... the Knight-Vigilant, and all that rot. I'm... I think, I,"

why is this so hard? Because it's Strange, or, perhaps because it's an open declaration of his failure, his cowardice, his treachery against Andraste's own army?

"...I've got to go off the lyrium." He clears his throat, scratches the stubble on his jaw, "he said I'd be best off doing it here."

Oh, good —

Strange can’t hold back the way he seems to visibly brighten, straightening in his seat, the full hyperfocus of his attention landing on Barrow. He’d always hoped that Orlov’s success might nudge the others into eventually following suit, although he’d been so very polite in not nagging any of them about it apart from Mobius. Two down, three more to go.

“Fantastic news, Barrow,” he says, and it’s only that professional mask which helps settle him into neutrality and prevents him from looking genuinely delighted. “Not that the Knight-Vigilant’s being a shit, but that you’re making this choice. Having the flexibility again will be a good thing. You can,” he waves a hand, “I don’t know, go on holiday in Rivain without having to worry about supply chain issues or running out of lyrium partway through. You’ll have your life back, for yourself.”

Free of those ties. The chains, sundered.

The little sigh through Barrow's nose communicates several things: one, that he was clearly wrong to be anxious, and two, that he clearly wasn't anxious enough, because he did not anticipate such delight over this proclamation. Fantastic news.

"...right," he says, caught flatfooted, glancing over his shoulder like he's not entirely certain he should still be here, "glad you..." Thought about this on a completely different level than I did within the first two seconds of hearing it, "...agree."

The doctor’s a little too gung ho. It’s fine— probably—

He slides his chair over and unlocks a locked cabinet, where he starts rummaging for Barrow’s medical file.

“Orlov did it safely,” he says, head bent and flicking through the pages, “so we’ve got precedent. What was your last straw?”

The last question comes quick; curious, harbouring some vague sense of responsibility he should probe Barrow’s state of mind a little more, understand what brought the choice without just ploughing on full speed ahead. But also, it’s probably a little bit like being pelted with a baseball out of left field.

Edited 2024-12-18 21:18 (UTC)

Barrow sidles uncertainly over to take a seat nearby, feeling awkward and loud and too large for the space despite not making much noise at all. He folds his hands in his lap, peering over at Strange with his file, and he yearns for a cigarette but doesn't want to have That Conversation.

"All the... the recent business, you know," is the polite way of putting it, "don't want to get into a bind if my supplier should run out. Or any of that." He pauses, scratches his cheek, adds, "can go on holiday in Rivain without worrying if I've brought enough."

A faint, furtive smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He's trying.

“Well, I fed you that one,” Strange says, with just as faint a smile. They’re trying. Maybe (knock on wood) this doesn’t have to be quite so awkward and excruciating this time.

He retrieves the file and sets it on the desk in front of him. There’s not that much of relevance there yet, but it’ll fill up with more details: scheduling this detox, deciding when they’re going to start. Measuring vitals throughout: heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, even scattered memories.

“Does that mean,” he starts, tentative, the other side of the coin of a conversation he’s already had with Mobius, “you’re fully cutting ties, then? The Knight-Vigilant’s ultimatum.”

It’s still pretty excruciating, but it continues out of necessity, Barrow focusing on his hands as he loses the nerve to look Strange in the face.

“Might say I already did,” he says evasively, “I just.” Clearing his throat, “didn’t tell anyone.”

An arch of an eyebrow, faintly surprised. These details aren’t strictly relevant, except for Strange’s general meddling into the circumstances of all the templars’ departures; trying to find the faultlines that might nudge them into walking their own path.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he does mean to pry, “but you, Barrow, a defector? I somehow hadn’t expected that.”

Obeisance: deference, fealty, allegiance.

A twitch of Barrow's mouth, and a pinch of his eyebrows; it's a little bit funny, he realizes at once, that one wouldn't think that of him. It could work in his favor in the general sense, if the Right People didn't already know the truth.

"I'm full of surprises," he says, a bit dully-- he's been having this conversation, and variations of it, quite a lot lately-- "it wasn't a formal thing. I just."

He pauses to hunt for the words, gesturing vaguely, and eventually settles for just that: a vague gesture that turns into a shrug. hit da bricks

Extremely unfortunately for Barrow, the doctor enjoys specifics.

“You just…?” Strange prods.

Curse you Stephen,

"...left."

Into the awkward silence that follows, he adds, "...the mages had already gone anyway."

A faint squint; intrigued. He’s made the Templar order his own personal irritant, and yet he realises he’s not really familiar with these logistics. It’s not like Stephen ever served in a military —

“And they’re… fine with that?”

It's the one topic that can make Barrow sulk and shuffle like an adolescent: he knows, obviously, that how he handled the situation would be extremely frowned upon by any military organization, not to mention morally wrong by some definitions, and that he's dead to rights. All he's ever been able to do is avoid the topic entirely, joke and equivocate and misdirect until everyone who matters forgets it came up.

But the Order has played its hand, and it's time to play his own.

To Strange's question, he shakes his head mutely. They are certainly not fine with it, and it is, frankly, a mercy to be given any warning at all.

Strange makes a considering noise. “Do you think they’ll come after you for the desertion? Now that you’re forfeiting their so-called ‘protection’.”

Not to scare you out of the decision or anything, but,

Barrow sighs, shrugs again, rubs his temple.

"Dunno. I suppose if they do, they do." Dropping his hand, he looks morosely at Strange, his mind still made up.

"It's the tether I don't want. Like I owe them something, and I'll have to crawl back on my hands and knees if my supplier runs out. Rather take my chances. Stay out of their way for good."

In a sense, it had been nudging, testing the edges, applying pressure, feeling out the other man’s motivation and headspace for this momentous choice. And whatever Strange hears, it’s evidently to his liking; he nods approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Precisely. This step you’re taking— it’ll simply leave you with more options, off their leash. You can be your own man properly, now.”

The doctor’s got a lot of beef with various parts of society, but the ones instilling chemical dependency and inevitable early onset dementia in their recruits is— well. Way, way up there.

Edited 2025-01-01 21:42 (UTC)

Then what is there left to explain? Barrow sighs out, smiles faintly, pleased they’re on the same page (for once).

“What happens next?”

He’s nervous, not the sort who likes to leave his comfort zone— even if he routinely does anyway, for these people.

After all that slight fumbling through the conversation, through the more personal topics, the medical professional mask clicks back into place and it’s a relief. This is more familiar territory:

“I’ve already got your current dosage on record. I can see two routes of doing it: either you quit cold turkey, all at once, or through a process called tapering. Lowering the dosage slowly, week-over-week, to wean you off it more slowly. Each approach can work a little better or worse depending on the drug, but obviously there’s not any medical literature on which one’s best for lyrium specifically. I believe the previous lyrium detoxes we know about,”

Orlov and Rutherford,

“were both cold turkey. It’ll feel like shit for a shorter amount of time, but it means you should get through it faster. Getting it done sooner, rather than drawing it out for potential months. From what I gather of lyrium’s effects, it seems similar to methamphetamines; with those, the risk of relapse can theoretically be higher while tapering, since you’re still consuming and you’ll want more of what you’re getting. So, my medical advice is we go with what worked before. Whenever you’re ready, you can cease your dose and we’ll have you stay in the infirmary for observation.”

He suspects it would be best if they did it slowly and he had some sort of replacement substance to cut the dosage with — what would a lyrium agonist look like? — but in its absence… well. They can only do so much.

A smirk, half-wry and half-sad, creases Barrow's face: it's going to be an ordeal no matter what, but there is certainly something to be said for ripping off a bandage over peeling it slowly.

He nods, taking no issue with Strange's advice-- it's reassuring, all things considered-- and is silent a moment, his brow heavy and his hands still fidgeting slightly.

"I don't," he says, already embarrassed by what he's about to say; but he's heard the stories, knows the rumors about the things that can happen, how people act.
"... I don't want people to," he continues, lowering his voice, "see me."

Strange nods, taking that in.

Not judgmental, just questioning: “No one at all? It can help, sometimes, having a comforting presence or loved ones to visit. A hand to hold.” Adding, dryly, “My own bedside manner isn’t the greatest, so you’re warned.”

I mean, Barrow probably already could’ve guessed.

Barrow thinks on that a moment, folding and unfolding his hands. It's not that he has an issue with Strange's bedside manner, but a creeping unease in the back of his mind is unrelenting: what if he hurts someone, damages something, says something he doesn't mean.

He sighs finally, closing his eyes. "Mobius," he relents, "...Lazar." Someone who can talk him down, and someone who could help restrain him, if need be.

Bedside manner case in point, Strange can’t rein in his mouth or his poker face before he blurts out: “Lazar? Really?”

He didn’t really seem the nurturing type. But okay, to each their own, he jots down an incomprehensible squiggle which might be MOB & LAZ. “But alright. Good, noted. Then I think I’ve got everything I need: I’ll monitor you throughout once we start, of course, and you’ll have a bed to yourself. It’s that small room off to the side, it has a little more privacy compared to the cots in the open.”

It’s played host to various Riftwatchers in need of longer-term hospitalisation before. Herian had stayed there for a while.

Perhaps contrary to expectation, Barrow laughs-- it's a quick burst of genuine amusement, and he shrugs helplessly, offering, "in case anyone has to wrestle me down."
You know, hypothetically.

The tension lessened, he glances toward the door and nods, with a little sigh of relief; he'll have some privacy, at least.

"When should I, er...?"

“Anytime you’re ready,” Strange says.

Although he also knows how easy it is to drag your heels when there isn’t a fire lit under you, and so he’s quick to add, wryly: “But I’ll also be on your ass to make sure it actually happens and you don’t just back out and dither on timing forever. Just, FYI.”

open + closed | mistakes have been made

I AM CATCHING EM ALL

like no one ever was

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw drugs/addiction, bullshitting medical details

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

🎀