You stopped talking with me when you chose to insinuate that I am qualified neither to do my job nor to have a real concern about you after you described a prolonged grapple with alarming symptoms.
Nothing that's prolonged, alarming, or that I'm having to grapple with, for a start. The rest we can address when you can either tell me anything about stacks other than the fact I have one, or when you realise that public scolding isn't talking with anyone.
Four or five days of delusional parasitosis is prolonged and alarming enough for me, so you'll have to forgive me my lack of immediate emotional moderation.
You're more aware than most of my capabilities, Stephen. If understanding that is going to be a problem, maybe you should take some time to reevaluate your choices.
I don't know what you thought this was going to be. But it won't be me coming to you for help with the things I'm certain I'm perfectly equipped to handle if you don't have any intention of offering me the same basic courtesy.
I've been trained to absorb and process more information than the human mind can be consciously aware of, and I've been through enough traumatising shit to render the average man catatonic. I experience what you'd consider hallucinations and flashbacks every. Single. Day.
If I'd called you out for not asking my help opening one of your portals, then we could start making fucking comparisons.
[ It's truly amazing what indignation can breeze you past given enough compounded concern. He very almost protests again—
But then it catches up with him, what Takeshi's just said. And he wrangles himself, as swiftly and as starkly as he can muster in the time between a handful of breaths. The switch from frustrated desperation to forced calm in his voice is abrupt enough to make his own head spin. But he doesn't want to fight with him without good reason. At least not right now, in the wake of a revelation he's left feeling like he should somehow have uncovered a long time ago (perhaps he should, maybe it's obvious and he just hasn't taken the time—), while something's still wrong. ]
—We know better now. I know better now. But I'm not a mind reader, Takeshi. And I don't have your skills. Portals would be a fair comparison if you'd only just learned they existed.
[ The last of the steel slips from his thoughts. What comes next is bare, without defense or bluster. ]
I'm worried about you. Will you please let someone examine you?
I knew better, and you could have tried giving me a little respect, if not the basic benefit of the fucking doubt.
[He hears the shift in Stephen's tone, the turn from argument to simple admission, request. But Takeshi's anger isn't abating as easily, isn't releasing over what, from anyone else, he wouldn't have given a single shit about. People not knowing what he was capable of, what - who he was - making assumptions, speaking or acting on them, that was an everyday. Water off his back.
He couldn't have expected different from Stephen. He's aware of how little the other man still knows about him, how little they know about each other. The sting, he realises, the thing that's gotten under his skin, is that he'd wanted different.
But that was wanting for you. It always led to disappointment.]
I'm keeping quarantine. If someone can examine me without breaking it, they're welcome to.
[ It's cautious frustration, the vocal equivalent of kneading thumb and finger over closed eyes as he tries to keep himself from tipping the argument back into another cycle. There's no new material to work with here, there's only you're not well and you didn't know it and now you do and you still won't let me in—
And then some careful probing in a different direction claims his attention as Stephen is forced beyond concern and into action elsewhere. The radio silence is loud on any attempt to respond to him, the sense of his thoughts' door nudged almost-closed any time it's pushed on— until coming up on an hour later, when he throws it open himself. ]
Has anyone seen you yet?
[ Sharp, urgent, but genuine question rather than accusation. Earlier's frustrated worry replaced now with stress. ]
[ It's a little late for quarantine now on his end, but if negotiation is going to get him what he needs without overloading the strain they've yet to resolve - ]
I'll fortify the threshold between spaces and keep to my side if you'll cooperate with me.
[ He doesn't wait. Leaves his patient where he's finally settled him, casts a similar film of magic to the ones that keep the outside out in the continued absence of any glass in his windows, and opens his door to Takeshi's place so he can slot the spell safe between them and lay eyes on him.
He hasn't taken time to clean the blood from where it's smeared in messy handprints over the front of his shirt, or where it cakes one pant leg tight against his ankle and sheens red over the toe of his shoe. There's a spattered line of it crossed in a diagonal over his arm and hip like thrown paint, palms and forearms stained, smears across his forehead and his cheek where he hasn't been mindful. No injuries, no sign of harm. He's fine, even if he looks like he's just left a crime scene.
What he's much more interested in is making sure the same can be said of Takeshi. Gaze sharp and roving, nostrils flared and breath heavy, he stands there in ominous silence and inspects through the near-invisible shimmer of spellwork that keeps them apart. ]
[If the urgency of Stephen's tone hadn't registered, Takeshi might have given into pettiness, sat somewhere out of view and taken his sweet time moving when the door opened. Instead, he's immediately visible, leant against the wall opposite the door, idly watching the street below the window as he waits.
There's no pretence to his appearance, no attempt to disguise injury, instability, because there's none to disguise. He's whole, unharmed, looking much as he would any other day, except perhaps slightly more dressed than he usually opts for when he's working. As the door opens, as he turns to look at Stephen, it's evident there's nothing unusual in his expression, either. His eyes are clear, focussed, reaction as swift but steady as always in how he takes in the vision Stephen makes, moves to approach the door.
The blood isn't Stephen's, he knows - he wouldn't still be standing, if he'd lost that much - which means it's the source of the urgency he'd recommenced the conversation with. Someone else experiencing what Takeshi is, without the control he has, important enough to Stephen to receive physical manhandling in immediate, emotional reaction, rather than a more pragmatic use of his magic.]
Stark.
[The question in his expression isn't for whether he's right or not: it's for if Tony had survived whatever he'd done to himself. What specific weight Stephen might be carrying, now.]
[ An answer to the unspoken question, automatic and clinical as Stephen's assessment of Takeshi's state takes precedence. But he's in one piece, no clear signs of injury or heightened distress. He can trust this, the evidence of his own eyes.
Some of the tension unwinds from his shoulders, from the clench of his jaw. Far from enough to call him relaxed, but it's clear that Takeshi's ready appearance has capped off the climb of anxiety. ]
I need an open line of communication. Until this is over.
[ No matter their frustrations, no matter who's still pissed. This is no longer about Takeshi's aptitude for assessing and acknowledging his own state. Now that he's seen for himself what this thing can do, Stephen will not spend one single day shut out, forced to turn up unwanted or else imagine him on the cusp of an accidental death. ]
[No argument, no pointing out that he hadn't closed down communication. Takeshi just nods, simple agreement for a pragmatic necessity. His own, in reply:]
I need updates and check-ins. One daily, minimum.
[There's no ignoring the concern Takeshi feels for the set of Stephen's expression, the desire he has to alleviate the strain. Step through the door and help him clean up, take post monitoring Stark, make sure Stephen eats. Until this is over, he's going to be limited to this room. He won't be isolated and rendered ignorant by it.]
[ An answering nod in response, no hesitation. Their needs align. There's relief in it. The mutuality of the arrangement eases a little more of his tension and with nothing left to fight, he eases himself away from the influence of leftover adrenaline, from the instinct to expect the next worst thing.
In its absence the contents of his last hour creep up on him, tug at the corners of his mouth. He carries on regardless, hand up on the door frame, thumb curling until it's tucked against the invisible barrier between rooms. ]
... I'll leave this open. Sometimes. [ As much as he can get away with. ] More direct.
[Takeshi's silent for a moment, watching him. When he tips his head, it's both a nod and a turn. These basic, pragmatic measures agreed upon, but Takeshi is still angry, and Stephen is veering to exhaustion, has a patient to care for.]
You should clean up. Eat something.
[As he moves away from the door again, back to the window, the sill where he'd left his drink.]
[ It's not the best conclusion to a conversation he's had, but it's better than it might have been. Stephen nods unseen, patting the door frame lightly as he dregs up the resolve to step away and not through. ]
Yeah. I'll be back later this evening. Let me know if you need anything.
[ For now, he'll give him his privacy. Steps back, closing the door between them and leaving Takeshi to his drink. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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What's going on?
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If I'd called you out for not asking my help opening one of your portals, then we could start making fucking comparisons.
no subject
But then it catches up with him, what Takeshi's just said. And he wrangles himself, as swiftly and as starkly as he can muster in the time between a handful of breaths. The switch from frustrated desperation to forced calm in his voice is abrupt enough to make his own head spin. But he doesn't want to fight with him without good reason. At least not right now, in the wake of a revelation he's left feeling like he should somehow have uncovered a long time ago (perhaps he should, maybe it's obvious and he just hasn't taken the time—), while something's still wrong. ]
—We know better now. I know better now. But I'm not a mind reader, Takeshi. And I don't have your skills. Portals would be a fair comparison if you'd only just learned they existed.
[ The last of the steel slips from his thoughts. What comes next is bare, without defense or bluster. ]
I'm worried about you. Will you please let someone examine you?
no subject
[He hears the shift in Stephen's tone, the turn from argument to simple admission, request. But Takeshi's anger isn't abating as easily, isn't releasing over what, from anyone else, he wouldn't have given a single shit about. People not knowing what he was capable of, what - who he was - making assumptions, speaking or acting on them, that was an everyday. Water off his back.
He couldn't have expected different from Stephen. He's aware of how little the other man still knows about him, how little they know about each other. The sting, he realises, the thing that's gotten under his skin, is that he'd wanted different.
But that was wanting for you. It always led to disappointment.]
I'm keeping quarantine. If someone can examine me without breaking it, they're welcome to.
no subject
[ It's cautious frustration, the vocal equivalent of kneading thumb and finger over closed eyes as he tries to keep himself from tipping the argument back into another cycle. There's no new material to work with here, there's only you're not well and you didn't know it and now you do and you still won't let me in—
And then some careful probing in a different direction claims his attention as Stephen is forced beyond concern and into action elsewhere. The radio silence is loud on any attempt to respond to him, the sense of his thoughts' door nudged almost-closed any time it's pushed on— until coming up on an hour later, when he throws it open himself. ]
Has anyone seen you yet?
[ Sharp, urgent, but genuine question rather than accusation. Earlier's frustrated worry replaced now with stress. ]
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No.
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I'll fortify the threshold between spaces and keep to my side if you'll cooperate with me.
[ It is what sounds like: impatient concession. ]
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cw: blood
He hasn't taken time to clean the blood from where it's smeared in messy handprints over the front of his shirt, or where it cakes one pant leg tight against his ankle and sheens red over the toe of his shoe. There's a spattered line of it crossed in a diagonal over his arm and hip like thrown paint, palms and forearms stained, smears across his forehead and his cheek where he hasn't been mindful. No injuries, no sign of harm. He's fine, even if he looks like he's just left a crime scene.
What he's much more interested in is making sure the same can be said of Takeshi. Gaze sharp and roving, nostrils flared and breath heavy, he stands there in ominous silence and inspects through the near-invisible shimmer of spellwork that keeps them apart. ]
no subject
There's no pretence to his appearance, no attempt to disguise injury, instability, because there's none to disguise. He's whole, unharmed, looking much as he would any other day, except perhaps slightly more dressed than he usually opts for when he's working. As the door opens, as he turns to look at Stephen, it's evident there's nothing unusual in his expression, either. His eyes are clear, focussed, reaction as swift but steady as always in how he takes in the vision Stephen makes, moves to approach the door.
The blood isn't Stephen's, he knows - he wouldn't still be standing, if he'd lost that much - which means it's the source of the urgency he'd recommenced the conversation with. Someone else experiencing what Takeshi is, without the control he has, important enough to Stephen to receive physical manhandling in immediate, emotional reaction, rather than a more pragmatic use of his magic.]
Stark.
[The question in his expression isn't for whether he's right or not: it's for if Tony had survived whatever he'd done to himself. What specific weight Stephen might be carrying, now.]
no subject
[ An answer to the unspoken question, automatic and clinical as Stephen's assessment of Takeshi's state takes precedence. But he's in one piece, no clear signs of injury or heightened distress. He can trust this, the evidence of his own eyes.
Some of the tension unwinds from his shoulders, from the clench of his jaw. Far from enough to call him relaxed, but it's clear that Takeshi's ready appearance has capped off the climb of anxiety. ]
I need an open line of communication. Until this is over.
[ No matter their frustrations, no matter who's still pissed. This is no longer about Takeshi's aptitude for assessing and acknowledging his own state. Now that he's seen for himself what this thing can do, Stephen will not spend one single day shut out, forced to turn up unwanted or else imagine him on the cusp of an accidental death. ]
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I need updates and check-ins. One daily, minimum.
[There's no ignoring the concern Takeshi feels for the set of Stephen's expression, the desire he has to alleviate the strain. Step through the door and help him clean up, take post monitoring Stark, make sure Stephen eats. Until this is over, he's going to be limited to this room. He won't be isolated and rendered ignorant by it.]
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In its absence the contents of his last hour creep up on him, tug at the corners of his mouth. He carries on regardless, hand up on the door frame, thumb curling until it's tucked against the invisible barrier between rooms. ]
... I'll leave this open. Sometimes. [ As much as he can get away with. ] More direct.
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You should clean up. Eat something.
[As he moves away from the door again, back to the window, the sill where he'd left his drink.]
&wrap!
Yeah. I'll be back later this evening. Let me know if you need anything.
[ For now, he'll give him his privacy. Steps back, closing the door between them and leaving Takeshi to his drink. ]