[open & closed] and when that day comes

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow & friends
WHAT: ye olde lyrium detox in its various stages
WHEN: vaguely Wintermarch
WHERE: the infirmary
NOTES: I'll be adding a few starters at a time since I want later developments to feel organic and make sense. please feel free to request something if you don't see it here!

Comments

[portalling]

“It was your call. And I’m trusting the sober, clear-minded Obeisance Barrow of the days and weeks ago, not the afflicted and biased one speaking right now.”

Yes, he’s using the hated first name, deal with it.

But Strange does look up, mostly to watch the other man’s expression, try to assess his physical condition and state of mind (read: bad). The sweatiness, the fidgeting, the restlessness. His own expression remains stolid, impassive, even as he tries his hand at some motivational speaking: “You’re cut out for more than you know, you know.”

[thereneverwas]

The use of his first name is enough to crack Barrow's resolve, his restrained discomfort flashing into fury as his face hardens into a glare.

"Oh, fuck you," he snarls, and gives a quick jolt forward, only to rein himself back with a quick turn into another bout of pacing; there's enough of him in here still to know that attacking the healer would not end up well for anyone involved, but at the same time, he's quite certain he's never felt so angry or miserable in his life.

"What would you fucking know about it," he continues, clipped, as he bends himself down to grip the headboard of one of the infirmary's beds. His hands shake, rattling the whole frame with the effort to hold himself still. "With your-- little picture boxes and stupid--" he pauses to grit his teeth as an involuntary shudder ripples through him, "--stupid shoes." Somebody didn't like New York.

[portalling]

Strange shoots a curious look downward to where his feet sit beneath his desk, mouth half-shaping the baffled words what’s wrong with my shoes?, but he averts that flippancy at the last moment. It’s not important. There’s enough of the professional in him that he veers right to the more pressing matter at hand, swerving past the insults.

“I know a bit about willpower, Barrow, and that’s what you’re going to have to display right now. You are on day three. It’s going to be shit. We both knew, from the get-go, that it was going to be shit. This is not new information.”

[thereneverwas]

"Fuck," comes Barrow's growled response, punctuated by a rattling of the bedframe as he shudders again, "fuck!"

It's not very articulate, but it at least communicates how he feels about being told to display willpower: this is what displaying willpower looks like, when every inch of him wants nothing more than to sling Strange around like a rag doll. He keeps himself turned away, grounded by his grip on the infirmary bed.

🎀

[portalling]

Strange watches for a moment, worry briefly flickering in his expression before he manages to smooth it over back into stolid neutrality.

He’s not unsympathetic. He respects Barrow well enough, even as fundamentally different as they are, in ways where he suspects they might simply never understand each other. But the doctor is stubborn and cold when he needs to be, and an old hand at knuckling through unpleasantry when it’s for their own good. He stands firm, and doesn’t relent. It’s only day three.

“Walk it off,” he says. “The servants can draw up a hot bath later, if that might help. If you need to punch something, I could have them bring some firewood and you can work on chopping that in the yard.”

Practical prescriptions, ways to keep busy, ineffectual methods to stave off whatever he needs to stave off. There’s not much else they can do. Perhaps some milk of embrium to help the man sleep, later, and to soothe any muscle aches— but the worst of it, Barrow will just have to bear himself. Over and over and over.

It’s only day three.