He can't know more than what I tell him. He knows we won [ won ], I had to give him that. But the war isn't over for him yet.
[ Silence. He's asking for his silence. It's not a small request, but it's one he needs to know whether Takeshi's willing to fulfill before he can go on. He can stop here, half the pain still buried under skin - but he can stop. He won't force secrets on him without his agreement. ]
[Secrets are dangerous things. The lengths people will go to, to protect them, to uncover them. The devastation they can inflict, when exposed. Like a cancer, the smallest thing can grow larger and larger, the longer it's left unchecked - and this, whatever it is Stephen has been carrying, is no small thing.
That they always come out, is, perhaps, the most dangerous part. Here, especially, with all the unpredictable forces at play. But Stephen doesn't need Takeshi to tell him that. He needs a favour. A promise. An oath Takeshi might as well have already made, forged in each moment of exchanged trust, the steady, deep beat of devotion that Takeshi can never avoid falling back into step with.
And the simple practical, of course, that it isn't his truth to tell.]
[ A nod— meek in a way he isn't, grateful in a way he doesn't know how else to express. But now he has to actually - do it. Tell it. He doesn't know where to start.
Well, no. He does. He knows where to start. ]
He's dead. You probably figured, but he's— yeah. Dead. In my time.
[ And that's part of it, but not all. Dead hangs like a half finished sentence, as though it isn't the very most final thing there is. But he needs a second to gear up to why it bothers him so much that a self-made soldier died in a war. So, stalling - ]
I don't think he has that long. It was about five years between the last two times I saw him. I'm pretty sure if you'd wiped all the battlefield muck away he'd have looked about the same that last time as he does now.
[Stephen stalls, but Takeshi sees it already. Pieces clicked together immediately. Didn't lose more than we saved. The singular timeline in fourteen million, the one Stephen had chosen to take. The guilt that would come from that choice.]
That's not on you.
[Simple, steady. Cutting past the talk of appearance, of how close that ending might be.]
[ A huff of ragged, horrid laughter. He needs to hear it. He knows it. He shouldn't have forced this man to say it. But he can't stop now. ]
He has a widow and a four year old daughter. It doesn't matter.
[ Whose fault, whose responsibility. Who played the trolley problem with the universe. It doesn't matter. There is a man here now who doesn't yet know that his child will grow up without him, and who will find out. One way or another, here or there.
He can't quite bring himself to look Takeshi in the eye. Can't quite forgive himself for seeking sympathy here, for something he both didn't do and will never be able to undo. Stephen's guilt weighs billions more lives than he has the capacity to understand, let alone acknowledge, so instead there's this one. This man, his family. The consequences of playing god. ]
[Demonstrably, from how much of a piece of it he'd given Stephen. Takeshi wonders if he'd allow this, the weight sitting on Stephen's shoulders, if he knew.]
I might not be a time wizard, but I know probability. You don't get one result from one action on a scale that big.
[Fourteen million futures. Stephen couldn't have chosen one with certainty. May have aimed for it, but had thrown a die all the same.]
[ Is that any better? To have changed things not knowing, hoping? Hoping your read on a man would lead him, everything else being good, to sacrifice himself for your chosen reality? ]
One of the possible outcomes determined in the last few minutes of that pathway, if he didn't make the choice he did, was the total, bloody annihilation of the overwhelming majority of Earth's population by Thanos' army before he used the stones to reinstate his work on the rest of the universe. I won't regale you with how many times I lived and didn't live to see that one.
[ The anger in it is sudden and vicious, and extremely unfair. He clocks it too late, twists away to shove thumb and fingers up against his eyes, teeth grit against his frustration with himself, against the outpouring of things usually kept neatly stored and shelved way back somewhere he doesn't have to hear them. ]
Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm— I know. I know.
[ He did what he had to do. Made a decision, fought in a war, hopeful soldier, good at this job. Saved more than they lost. He knows. ]
[Takeshi weathers it without a flinch. Watches Stephen's face, eyes tracing the familiar scarring on his hand as he rubs at his eyes. Stephen had been a doctor, once. Life and death laid out on a table, measured by the tiniest of decisions, of mistakes. But here he'd handled one of the cleanest ratios on triage that Takeshi had ever heard of, and he was carrying the weight like a millstone. Plunged through fourteen million different horrors to try and find any other option.
[ What a question. Stephen stiffens, frozen for a beat, two— then slumps. Hand held in the air before his face, something to stare at as thoughts snarl and twist. ]
I don't know. I don't even know if I can. [ Not if he's capable. If he was capable of everything he's already described then he's capable of this. Stephen's head turns, finally meeting Takeshi's gaze again. ] If there's even a chance that he'll remember...
[ Then everything's undone. And for all that he hates what he did, he wouldn't do it any differently. He would risk it all again to protect the hollow victory they clawed from chaos. ]
[It's an answer Takeshi maybe should have expected. The way Stephen has told him, the framing, the weight he's holding on himself with it. But they aren't in that world, that timeline, that one in fourteen million chance. They're here, and Takeshi's priority is Stephen, the pain he'd crumpled under when Takeshi had entered this room.]
You don't, he'll be a walking torture device.
[A blunt warning, how Stephen will be revisiting that same pain every time he sees Tony, delivered with a certainty of experience. Takeshi knows ghosts, how heavy they are. Stephen's would just be alive.
Still, he tips his head slightly.]
You trusted him the first time.
[To make the choice he'd made. Would his remembering really change that?]
[ He's right, on both counts. He's right. Stephen's hand sinks into his lap, settles there as he lets both truths find their place in his thoughts. ]
Yeah. [ His gaze lifts again, glancing off the other man's to land somewhere middle-distant, alighting on his cheek. A pregnant quiet, breath in-drawn. Finally: ] —Thank you.
[ This time the eye contact lasts longer than the poorly skimmed stone of his first attempt. Less skittish, more determined. Intent. The thanks is for his insight, yes. But it's also for competently bearing the weight of him. For being someone he could find it in himself to confide in at all. ]
[It's the intent that makes it unnerving. Passing gratitude was easy enough to deal with, but this puts Takeshi in a position he doesn't truly know how to navigate, pinned there by the blue of Stephen's gaze.]
You're welcome.
[Don't mention it. Anytime. They'd be too dismissive. But the latter would be true. The care was simple, instinctual, and it rose to the surface simply and instinctually for Stephen, another example of how important he's become in Takeshi's life.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Silence. He's asking for his silence. It's not a small request, but it's one he needs to know whether Takeshi's willing to fulfill before he can go on. He can stop here, half the pain still buried under skin - but he can stop. He won't force secrets on him without his agreement. ]
no subject
That they always come out, is, perhaps, the most dangerous part. Here, especially, with all the unpredictable forces at play. But Stephen doesn't need Takeshi to tell him that. He needs a favour. A promise. An oath Takeshi might as well have already made, forged in each moment of exchanged trust, the steady, deep beat of devotion that Takeshi can never avoid falling back into step with.
And the simple practical, of course, that it isn't his truth to tell.]
He won't hear it from me.
no subject
Well, no. He does. He knows where to start. ]
He's dead. You probably figured, but he's— yeah. Dead. In my time.
[ And that's part of it, but not all. Dead hangs like a half finished sentence, as though it isn't the very most final thing there is. But he needs a second to gear up to why it bothers him so much that a self-made soldier died in a war. So, stalling - ]
I don't think he has that long. It was about five years between the last two times I saw him. I'm pretty sure if you'd wiped all the battlefield muck away he'd have looked about the same that last time as he does now.
no subject
That's not on you.
[Simple, steady. Cutting past the talk of appearance, of how close that ending might be.]
no subject
He has a widow and a four year old daughter. It doesn't matter.
[ Whose fault, whose responsibility. Who played the trolley problem with the universe. It doesn't matter. There is a man here now who doesn't yet know that his child will grow up without him, and who will find out. One way or another, here or there.
He can't quite bring himself to look Takeshi in the eye. Can't quite forgive himself for seeking sympathy here, for something he both didn't do and will never be able to undo. Stephen's guilt weighs billions more lives than he has the capacity to understand, let alone acknowledge, so instead there's this one. This man, his family. The consequences of playing god. ]
no subject
[Demonstrably, from how much of a piece of it he'd given Stephen. Takeshi wonders if he'd allow this, the weight sitting on Stephen's shoulders, if he knew.]
I might not be a time wizard, but I know probability. You don't get one result from one action on a scale that big.
[Fourteen million futures. Stephen couldn't have chosen one with certainty. May have aimed for it, but had thrown a die all the same.]
no subject
[ Is that any better? To have changed things not knowing, hoping? Hoping your read on a man would lead him, everything else being good, to sacrifice himself for your chosen reality? ]
One of the possible outcomes determined in the last few minutes of that pathway, if he didn't make the choice he did, was the total, bloody annihilation of the overwhelming majority of Earth's population by Thanos' army before he used the stones to reinstate his work on the rest of the universe. I won't regale you with how many times I lived and didn't live to see that one.
[ The anger in it is sudden and vicious, and extremely unfair. He clocks it too late, twists away to shove thumb and fingers up against his eyes, teeth grit against his frustration with himself, against the outpouring of things usually kept neatly stored and shelved way back somewhere he doesn't have to hear them. ]
Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm— I know. I know.
[ He did what he had to do. Made a decision, fought in a war, hopeful soldier, good at this job. Saved more than they lost. He knows. ]
no subject
Tony Stark wasn't just a co-worker.]
When are you going to tell him?
no subject
I don't know. I don't even know if I can. [ Not if he's capable. If he was capable of everything he's already described then he's capable of this. Stephen's head turns, finally meeting Takeshi's gaze again. ] If there's even a chance that he'll remember...
[ Then everything's undone. And for all that he hates what he did, he wouldn't do it any differently. He would risk it all again to protect the hollow victory they clawed from chaos. ]
no subject
You don't, he'll be a walking torture device.
[A blunt warning, how Stephen will be revisiting that same pain every time he sees Tony, delivered with a certainty of experience. Takeshi knows ghosts, how heavy they are. Stephen's would just be alive.
Still, he tips his head slightly.]
You trusted him the first time.
[To make the choice he'd made. Would his remembering really change that?]
no subject
Yeah. [ His gaze lifts again, glancing off the other man's to land somewhere middle-distant, alighting on his cheek. A pregnant quiet, breath in-drawn. Finally: ] —Thank you.
[ This time the eye contact lasts longer than the poorly skimmed stone of his first attempt. Less skittish, more determined. Intent. The thanks is for his insight, yes. But it's also for competently bearing the weight of him. For being someone he could find it in himself to confide in at all. ]
no subject
You're welcome.
[Don't mention it. Anytime. They'd be too dismissive. But the latter would be true. The care was simple, instinctual, and it rose to the surface simply and instinctually for Stephen, another example of how important he's become in Takeshi's life.]