It’s nice seeing her smile again, bright and excitable. It makes his own expression soften, in both fondness and relief.
Stephen scoots back a little so he’s not quite so close, no longer all up in her business for the examination. “It was, yes,” he says. “If only Volante had finished his experiments, the penicilin would have helped a great deal. But without any actual antibiotics yet… we’ve nothing to combat an infection effectively.”
He hesitates over the next point. He doesn’t want her to feel to blame any more than she already does.
“I suspect your bones being crushed by the bookcase also complicated matters. It wasn’t as clean of an amputation as it could’ve been otherwise, in a fully-controlled environment. Your body was worn out, undertaking the recovery and regrowing tissue and fighting the infection alike. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
Any further blame she feels compelled to ascribe to herself is locked away behind pursed lips, furrowed brow—she'd thought it an elegant solution to concerns about inspiring others to follow in her footsteps, but maybe it was unnecessary, after all. If Stephen had pushed back even slightly—
But he didn't, and they can't change anything about how it went now. Whatever regrets either of them might have, they'll have to live with them.
"Was he—I hope he didn't feel... responsible, in any way. He's no more at fault than either of us," if Stephen is insistent that she shouldn't blame herself, and she insists that Stephen shouldn't blame himself, certainly Volante is even less a part of that conversation than they are. More quietly, an aside to herself, "I'll have to check in with him."
She tries to think to what she does remember of that long, hazy period: snippets and snatches of conversation, fogged apparitions and a heavy blanket of confusion over all. What did she say? Nothing coherent, likely, and she has no secrets that she's afraid of having divulged, but—
"I, we, conversed sometimes, didn't we? I remember that I spoke to you, I can't imagine it was anything that could be described as lucid, but—"
“We did. At the start you were fine, mostly wanting work to keep yourself busy, but towards the end I can’t say it was very coherent. You weren’t always aware where you were; I think you were mixed up with Candlekeep a few times. Your magic went a little haywire, but nothing serious; not beyond what any other rifter might do when trying to grasp their powers.”
All of it is delivered like a brisk after-action report, because he, too, would have wanted to know what he did when he was out of it. But then Stephen hesitates. “You called me… Osu, I believe. Is that someone you knew back home?”
The unfamiliar word had sounded significant: a proper noun, perhaps someone’s name.
Ennaris has no secrets—but that does not mean there's nothing she could be embarrassed by.
"I called you—what?"
She stares at Stephen, wide-eyed, embarrassment rising red-hot in her cheeks. She's barely called Vazeiros osu, he never liked it when she did, it's not a normal part of her vocabulary. This is unbelievable, ridiculous—a hideous betrayal of her subconscious, even if she was hallucinating—
Not important. He asked for an explanation—but gods, how could she? She's supposed to look Stephen in the eyes and tell him— This is so mortifying.
"It... is someone i knew in Faerûn, yes," she hedges at first, not meeting his eyes, but sighs after a moment and looks at Stephen full-on, rueful. "It means father, but affectionate. Like papa, or dad."
Which certainly says some things about how her subconscious sees Stephen, doesn't it. It's not such a surprise, of course, she knows herself enough to understand what she gets out of their relationship and why his approval means so much to her. But that it's so concrete, such a formed feeling...
"I must have been hallucinating Vazeiros. That happens with fevers, doesn't it?"
(with a constitution score of 16, she's never been sick enough before to find out firsthand.)
The awkwardness is reciprocated, and she can see it in the suddenly sheepish way that Stephen averts his gaze for a moment, glancing off to the side as if there’s something terrifically interesting on the wall of the infirmary (oh, look at that poster, is it a little askew? does he need to straighten it?). He’s an arrogant man, confident and self-assured, but there’s something about this topic in particular which strikes him off-balance, fueled further by her own embarrassment.
He’d very specifically said to Gwenaëlle that he didn’t want kids. It had been a whole conversation. Funny, how he winds up here anyway—
“It does happen,” Stephen says slowly, cagily. It’s a handy excuse, but he’s also seen Vazeiros — or at least a dreamed-up version of him — and knows that they don’t look much alike, between the purple skin and white hair and height.
So eventually, he adds: “Freudian slips— that is, slips of the tongue happen. It’s fine. I mean, frankly I’m surprised I haven’t accidentally called you America yet.”
This isn't fair, her inner teenager whines, to lose him to awkwardness in the same conversation in which she'd just won him back. How can she possibly explain that whatever she, in her deepest and most self-indulgent of thoughts, may want, she knows what the boundaries of their relationship are? She'd never ask for more, she's lucky enough to have what she does, he doesn't need to give her any more—
"America?" She pounces eagerly on the change in focus, happy not to linger on her unknowing mistake. "That's where you lived before this, isn't it?"
He's mentioned his former country in passing, sometimes, explained the basics of it, its name and the major cities he's made reference to. Her curiosity has induced him, even, to explain if there is a New York, is there an Old York? But that doesn't explain how a slip of the tongue could have had him calling her—oh!
"Wait, America Chavez was one of the witches from that dream! You..."
are using her to get a re-do on mistakes made with America and Wanda. Right.
Ness slumps in her seat a little, disheartened at the reminder, but she doesn't allow herself to mope.
"Are we very alike? America and I, I mean."
Edited (it's not perfect but IT'S DONE) 2025-08-19 18:40 (UTC)
“No,” is the automatic answer, without even having to stop to think about it, almost smiling in the response. Stephen hasn’t mentioned the girl much to anyone in detail, besides marvelling at America’s abilities and their implications, what it might mean to be able to open your own personal rifts in Thedas or be able to go home, but— there’s still a fondness in his voice when he speaks of her.
“Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, the two of you don’t look at all alike. And in personality, she’s… well, ruder. Impatient. Punchy, literally and figuratively. But in other ways…”
He trails off, trying to figure out what drew the line between them besides the fact that they’re his mentees. There had to be something else which didn’t have anything to do with him.
In the end, he settles on: “She was initially afraid of her powers, too. And she’s curious and determined and independent. So, in some ways, I suppose you’re alike.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Stephen scoots back a little so he’s not quite so close, no longer all up in her business for the examination. “It was, yes,” he says. “If only Volante had finished his experiments, the penicilin would have helped a great deal. But without any actual antibiotics yet… we’ve nothing to combat an infection effectively.”
He hesitates over the next point. He doesn’t want her to feel to blame any more than she already does.
“I suspect your bones being crushed by the bookcase also complicated matters. It wasn’t as clean of an amputation as it could’ve been otherwise, in a fully-controlled environment. Your body was worn out, undertaking the recovery and regrowing tissue and fighting the infection alike. Sometimes it’s just too much.”
no subject
But he didn't, and they can't change anything about how it went now. Whatever regrets either of them might have, they'll have to live with them.
"Was he—I hope he didn't feel... responsible, in any way. He's no more at fault than either of us," if Stephen is insistent that she shouldn't blame herself, and she insists that Stephen shouldn't blame himself, certainly Volante is even less a part of that conversation than they are. More quietly, an aside to herself, "I'll have to check in with him."
She tries to think to what she does remember of that long, hazy period: snippets and snatches of conversation, fogged apparitions and a heavy blanket of confusion over all. What did she say? Nothing coherent, likely, and she has no secrets that she's afraid of having divulged, but—
"I, we, conversed sometimes, didn't we? I remember that I spoke to you, I can't imagine it was anything that could be described as lucid, but—"
no subject
All of it is delivered like a brisk after-action report, because he, too, would have wanted to know what he did when he was out of it. But then Stephen hesitates. “You called me… Osu, I believe. Is that someone you knew back home?”
The unfamiliar word had sounded significant: a proper noun, perhaps someone’s name.
no subject
"I called you—what?"
She stares at Stephen, wide-eyed, embarrassment rising red-hot in her cheeks. She's barely called Vazeiros osu, he never liked it when she did, it's not a normal part of her vocabulary. This is unbelievable, ridiculous—a hideous betrayal of her subconscious, even if she was hallucinating—
Not important. He asked for an explanation—but gods, how could she? She's supposed to look Stephen in the eyes and tell him— This is so mortifying.
"It... is someone i knew in Faerûn, yes," she hedges at first, not meeting his eyes, but sighs after a moment and looks at Stephen full-on, rueful. "It means father, but affectionate. Like papa, or dad."
Which certainly says some things about how her subconscious sees Stephen, doesn't it. It's not such a surprise, of course, she knows herself enough to understand what she gets out of their relationship and why his approval means so much to her. But that it's so concrete, such a formed feeling...
"I must have been hallucinating Vazeiros. That happens with fevers, doesn't it?"
(with a constitution score of 16, she's never been sick enough before to find out firsthand.)
no subject
He’d very specifically said to Gwenaëlle that he didn’t want kids. It had been a whole conversation. Funny, how he winds up here anyway—
“It does happen,” Stephen says slowly, cagily. It’s a handy excuse, but he’s also seen Vazeiros — or at least a dreamed-up version of him — and knows that they don’t look much alike, between the purple skin and white hair and height.
So eventually, he adds: “Freudian slips— that is, slips of the tongue happen. It’s fine. I mean, frankly I’m surprised I haven’t accidentally called you America yet.”
no subject
"America?" She pounces eagerly on the change in focus, happy not to linger on her unknowing mistake. "That's where you lived before this, isn't it?"
He's mentioned his former country in passing, sometimes, explained the basics of it, its name and the major cities he's made reference to. Her curiosity has induced him, even, to explain if there is a New York, is there an Old York? But that doesn't explain how a slip of the tongue could have had him calling her—oh!
"Wait, America Chavez was one of the witches from that dream! You..."
are using her to get a re-do on mistakes made with America and Wanda. Right.
Ness slumps in her seat a little, disheartened at the reminder, but she doesn't allow herself to mope.
"Are we very alike? America and I, I mean."
no subject
“Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, the two of you don’t look at all alike. And in personality, she’s… well, ruder. Impatient. Punchy, literally and figuratively. But in other ways…”
He trails off, trying to figure out what drew the line between them besides the fact that they’re his mentees. There had to be something else which didn’t have anything to do with him.
In the end, he settles on: “She was initially afraid of her powers, too. And she’s curious and determined and independent. So, in some ways, I suppose you’re alike.”