For the first time in years, the chronic pain in his hands isn’t just a low hum in the background, but it’s gone, fully gone as if it never was, and his fingers move with the same grace and fluidity that brings Viktor striding over. (No longer hobbling, no longer looking like he’s on the verge of being knocked off by a stiff breeze; it’s a marvel.)

And so Stephen’s distracted. The comment, too, catches on on his pampered ego, a man who likes to be involved, to be essential, isn’t that how all these super-teams worked anyway —

“Of course,” he says, his new fingers curling into a fist, admiring the solidity of it, before he raises his gaze to the other man. “What do you need?”