[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

[extortionate]

"Then fuck it,"

Lazar's been quiet until now. Easy to mistake it: Slouched with his eyes shut, arms crossed; looking for all the world like a great indolent dog. But he sleeps light. But he can listen plenty well (you didn't finish, yeah, hear that happens to geezers —)

Barrow rasps, and it's that crack that finally slings him upright.

"You're not dead."

Empathy's never been his strength. Lazar pushes out of the chair, and then the room. Barrow's awake, Barrow's alive; whatever they gotta say, they can say it alone now.

[portalling]

It’s practically a relief, having the other man puncture the awkward strained silence like this. Not that Strange has much else to say, not like he knows how to clear the air after something like this, but —

He gestures after the doorway Lazar disappeared through.

“Eloquent as he is, he’s right. You’re not dead. You’re still alive. That’s the most important part.”

[thereneverwas]

Before panic can set in over the fatigue and the gloom, there's Lazar, and with his presence follows a sort of trepidation instead. Something happened, perhaps-- the little hairs on the back of Barrow's neck stand on end, caution cutting through as he looks at his friend. He can remember the smell of Lazar up close, and doesn't want to interrogate why.

"I'd," he mumbles, dragging his mind back to the topic at hand and his gaze back to Strange, "like to be alone. Please." This seems a poor combination of people to have emotions around, if he must have them.

🎀

[portalling]

The worst combination, really.

But: “Of course,” says the Head Healer, and he rises to his feet. Pushes the visitor’s chair back into the corner and feels his shoulders crack as he straightens up again.

It’s almost — no, definitely — a relief to have the conversation dismissed like this, to be given a reason to withdraw and not have to see Barrow’s facial expression anymore, to grant the other man his space and his privacy to react in whatever way he needs to.

Failure doesn’t sit well on Stephen Strange, and he retreats quietly, closing the door behind him.