“Join the club. It’s a logistical nightmare on Earth for all of us who came back: half of the planet with birthdates that don’t match their actual subjective age. High school kids whose best friends and girlfriends are now five years older than them and already graduated. The last I heard, they were thinking of amending drivers’ licenses and state IDs and passports to note if someone had been through the Blip, to explain that age discrepancy, but others were up in arms about the privacy issues and—”
And that’s an entire world away, and irrelevant here besides. Stephen has a tendency to go on forever if someone lets him, but he cuts himself off, pulling up a chair and setting down the bottle. “Anyway, point being, age is relative. Do you have any glasses?”
"I have a couple of tea cups, if that won't offend your sensibilities?" She gets up to fetch the aforementioned, one from a shelf and the other from a window ledge. Both are clean; she'd meant to take them back down to the kitchens and forgot, but now it's paid off.
"God, that had to be wild for ... there's only a handful of us rifters, it's hard to imagine half the world." Sobering, to try. She admires that he's come out the other side of that plus Thedas so functional. "On the upside," to keep things from getting too heavy when he'd come explicitly to suggest they take a break, "I can just skip any sort of unanticipated existential crisis about turning 40, so that's a whole thing to not worry about anymore." Definitely a joke.
“I’d resigned myself to drinking out of the bottle like undergrads if we had to, so tea cups are fine,” Stephen says, prying open the wine bottle while she rummages.
And the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as Cosima sets down the cups and he starts to pour. “So, hypothetically, you could just choose ‘thirty-something’ and stick with it indefinitely. A good enough approach. I wound up semi-arbitrarily deciding on a number just because I hate not knowing. Guess we’re lucky enough that the Thedosian calendar even lines up right with twelve months.”
There’s a small beat, thinking it over before he decides to offer this piece of himself, small enough as it is. The former Provost had it and he should probably learn to be less cagey overall, so: “Mine’s November-slash-Firstfall 18th, by the way. I expect a gift card.”
"Ah, a Scorpio," is delivered archly enough to definitely be a joke, even before she adds: "You know, I've never met a rifter sincerely into astrology, at least who's brought it up. I wonder if they'd argue that the signs map to the corresponding months in Thedas, or if they'd have to come up with an entirely new world view to account for anyone not born on an Earth. Thanks." She takes her cup of wine when he finishes pouring.
"Horoscopes aside, maybe I should collect all the Research birthdays. Introduce my native world concept of awkward forced socializing with the people you work with over cake." It's thoughtful enough it sounds like she might do it. (At least the collecting birthdays part, 50-50 on the cake.)
“I asked Tony once if there were other corresponding signs in Thedas, like if Scorpio is translated into being the Golden Nug or something, but he didn’t know. We’ll presumably have to ask around.”
Stephen clinks his cup against Cosima’s, taking a sip of the wine; it’s not eye-wateringly expensive but it’s good enough, his own finicky standards preventing him from settling for the cheap stuff. He considers the idea of collecting everyone’s birthdays; even he wants their approximate ages, at the least, for the infirmary’s medical records.
“I can’t tell if keeping track would make you a beloved division head and get you a Best Boss mug,” he adds, “or if it’d piss everyone off. Recordkeeping, familial literacy, adoptions… it might be a sore point if they don’t know their birthday.”
He remembers how cagey Gwenaëlle had been about it, and how he still doesn’t know hers. (And that sparks another faint thought in the back of his mind, but it needs a little time to percolate.)
"Good point. Maybe make it opt in. Cake on your birthday if you want it, and then we just pick some random day in the gaps to be the joint party for everyone who doesn't want or have a specific day." She smiles a bit, and adds, "Somebody... I think it was Bastien? Suggested rifters should celebrate their 'rift day.' Anniversary of when they came through to Thedas. But I'd still be a mess because I have two."
She takes another (appreciative) sip.
"Anyway. How have you been hanging in? We've all had a hell of a few weeks, but I feel like you got hit more than most in the weeks leading up."
“All of that sounds like a good compromise. Me, I rifted in at the beginning of Harvestmere. I keep track,” because of course he does. “I always found it funny that August here is still August. It’s fascinating how the multiverse lines up sometimes, those synchronicities existing.”
But before Stephen can let himself get distracted by that multiversal line of thought, Cosima says you got hit more than most and he sends her a wry look, an arched eyebrow. “Me? No, it’s fine. Nothing more than I signed on for as Head Healer. We have more hands in the infirmary now, too.”
It had in fact been a lot — months of quiet, until suddenly Julius’ poisoning, four patients recovering from abduction, the attack on the Gallows, everything hitting too close to home — but. That’s everyone. They’ve all been affected here, and others more than him. All those names, the list of the dead he barely knew. There’s that squirming guilt, at knowing he had come out so relatively unscathed.
“I could be saying the very same to you, Provost. Do you have a personal assistant yet? No one’s you, but…”
She sees him dodge, but it takes one to know one, and she has to weigh how much she wants to press him on it's fine under the circumstances. While she thinks about it, she answers his question.
"I've had a volunteer, but I plead guilty to not using him much yet. I'd just gotten through the former provosts' systems and was starting to think what he could take on when..." A gesture at the office, workable but still not entirely reconstructed. "Plus, you know, being down two division heads. Wild how much brainpower it takes to delegate."
“’If you want something done right, do it yourself’. The eternal struggle of the control freak. I know the feeling.” Stephen scoots his chair, readjusting so he can prop a boot against a nearby box full of relocated books; the wine and the conversation is doing its job, slowly chipping away at him. They might ostensibly be talking about work, but there’s something more casual in his demeanour, more human and a bit less aloof for once.
“And wait, who volunteered?”
He’s trying to picture who might’ve offered. Viktor and Jayce were busy with their own projects, presumably not them; maybe it was Mobius, he was always trying to be helpful—
"Loki," she says. "You can hate it, if you hate it. Tony would have."
Then again, if Tony Stark wanted to veto Loki getting closer to Cosima, he shouldn't have dissolved back into the Fade, in her very professional opinion.
"I don't know exactly what went down, back where you're from. But Loki volunteered that Tony told him to stay away from Research the first time he was here, without my asking. Probably why I only knew him a little; he was in Diplomacy before. Said the animosity was one-sided but that he'd respect it if I didn't want him because of Tony. I asked Loki why Research this time and he said," ticking off her fingers, "he knows some theoretical physics, he likes keeping busy, and he knows Mobius. I've had worse resumes."
frankly coughs upon hearing that name, spluttering on his wine, “Loki? As your personal assistant?“ and he has a moment to ponder that extremely funny mental image and try not to choke to death on the wine while Cosima finishes contextualising and rationalising the choice. He’s calmed down a little by the time she finishes ticking through the reasons.
“I feel like I oughtn’t blab his business, but as Division Head you should probably know these things, and in the end I’m in favour of everyone being able to make informed choices— I always prefer knowing too much rather than too little— anyway.” He takes another (more careful) sip of the wine, fortifying for the batshit details he’s about to drop on Cosima.
“Once upon a time, Loki collaborated with alien warlords to try to conquer Earth. He launched a full-scale alien invasion of NYC. Tony and his fellow costumed superheroes helped repel them, shut down the attempt, and had him captured as a war criminal. So it was personal for Tony, and I understand the wariness. But for me, it was— a very bad thing happened to New York and ostensibly Loki was behind it, but I was still a surgeon at the time, distant from the direct conflict. I never fought him. The first time I ever met Loki face-to-face, I was helping him and his brother when they came to the Sanctum searching for their father. I’ve spoken to this Loki here, and he and I are fine.
“As far as I understand it, the version I knew eventually turned over a new leaf, even back home. Did the right thing. Turned against the warlord. And there are versions of me in other universes that have done dreadful, calamitous, world-ending things, so I figure… don’t throw stones in glass universes, etc. Who the hell am I to judge. So this is my very long roundabout way of saying that a demi-god reduced to taking minutes and filing your paperwork is really deeply funny, but if he’s interested in the task, then I don’t mind the choice. He’s fine, in my opinion, unless he starts displaying any megalomaniacal tendencies; in which case, keep an eye on that.”
Under the circumstances, finding it funny is one of the better options for how Stephen could have reacted. She'll take it, anyway, relaxing slightly as it's clear he's not going to respond with outrage.
"Thanks for telling me. It's good context to have, but it doesn't seem like ... I mean, I'm not immune to being conned or anything, but it's not like our security is so tight that volunteering to take on a lot of work would be the only way to get access to Research notes. And so far he's been showing up, ready to go, so." She shrugs. "Maybe new leaf, maybe priorities aligning. I'm not worried about him, in the absence of the aforementioned megalomaniacal tendencies."
Something makes her smile, a little wry. "...I probably didn't tell you this, but there was a time at home I took a job with the company that claimed to own my DNA. They offered, and I thought I could get the resources I needed for my sisters and me. So it's not like I'm against a little bit of practicality."
Stephen arches an eyebrow, and there’s a warm amusement in his voice: “You wouldn’t be the first to sell out for a paycheck, so I don’t blame you. And I feel like Riftwatch’s M.O. is we need to make use of anyone we can, anyway, in whatever capacity we can. Even if they are very pointy demi-gods.”
He’s been making himself more comfortable: drinking that wine, settling back in his chair, posture ebbing into less stiff lines. He’d come here with the very specific intent to make Cosima put down the paperwork for once, but as so often happens, he keeps drifting to conversations which aren’t work talk but are also not not work talk. And the wine’s loosened just enough that that pings a previous thought against another, now reminded of the modern corporate trappings that only these two are familiar with. Cosima is technically his boss. He did have a question, a little while back.
“Hey, uh,” Stephen says, thoughtful, ruminative. “So. I don’t really know how this works here. Hypothetically, I mean, considering how small Riftwatch is, and— is there a—”
What is he even trying to say. He takes another swig of the wine.
“Potential conflicts of interest. Conflict of interest disclosures to our division head. For, I don’t know. Relationships? So we don’t fuck up anything on a mission? Is that a thing here. Do people need to do that.”
Her eyebrows arch. "Hypothetically. Do you think you're going to fuck up anything on a mission these days?" If he thinks he's getting out of this without any follow-up questions, he's very much mistaken. On the other other, she doesn't seem scandalized.
“I mean,” hedging, help, Stephen is so bad at this, “it does sort of affect my ability to prioritise. Of course I try to be professional, but in the field and given the choice between rescuing Tiny Tim or someone I’m— fond of— then I’m afraid my decision-making will be somewhat compromised.”
Of course, having attachments at all, romantic or platonic or otherwise, is perfectly normal, but it still takes a moment of readjustment for him sometimes. Layering the interpersonal atop that otherwise cold crisp professional facade. Having to contend with the fact that he’s putting down roots more and more, officially digging his heels into Thedas and accepting that this is his life now.
(This, too, is why Stephen had considered broaching it with Cosima specifically. He knows she’s been here before: a fellow rifter daring to commit to someone from Thedas, bridging that existential divide.)
She avoids, just, repeating Tiny Tim because she likes him and that's unkind. (It is an amazing reference to pull, though.)
"Look, it's a small organization. If there was a form I was supposed to fill out when I was engaged to the head of Diplomacy, no one told me at the time. The Scoutmaster has quietly had a long, serious thing, and Byerly was involved for a lot of the time he was Ambassador. Maybe all of it, I'm not close enough to him or Bastien to clock exactly when that started. Marcus has two partners and they both have leadership roles, it didn't keep him from getting called up. There's plenty of precedent."
She takes a sip of wine and adds, "I'm not going to put you on blast, but I am curious. Not as your boss, as a friend." So. Avoiding the impulse to push, but leaving a door open all the same.
Cosima lays out all those various examples, including the ones he didn’t know about (Yseult is a walking mystery), and it’s all very reasonable and sensible and it dislodges a laugh from him. “Okay. Yeah. You make a good point.”
As a friend, Stephen thinks, and he looks at the familiar surroundings of the Provost’s office (slightly changed, rearranged, stamps of Cosima’s habits and affectations placed on it since she took up residence). This feels a little easier somehow than if it were Tony surveying him over that glass of wine, and he can’t even really put his finger on why. Maybe he was too-aware of Tony Stark as industry figure, face from the headlines, martyred hero, blood on Stephen’s hands.
He unconsciously mirrors her, taking another sip of wine. There’s some squirming flutter in his chest, and it takes him a moment to identify it, like diagnosing a terribly annoying symptom. Butterflies. Forty fucking years and his stomach still swoops at the prospect of saying it out loud, making it real outside of the private spaces he’d carved out for said person.
“Not that I’m trying to keep it secret or anything, in fact I’m trying to do the exact opposite, very clumsily, but— well, even if I were being cagey, it’s going to be the worst-kept secret soon regardless, considering I’m crashing at her place after my room blew up. It’s Gwenaëlle. Baudin.”
He doesn’t need the precision — as if there’s any other Gwenaëlle at the Gallows — but he’s precise regardless.
"Can't fault your taste," is a little bit teasing, but not ungenuine. "She and I have had more people in common than known each other very well, but I respect her a lot. And, if I'm allowed to say it without making it weird, she is very hot, so, you know. Nice. Also you get to live on a boat, if you're moving in with her, so that's nice."
Possibly a minority opinion in Riftwatch, but it's evidently sincere.
"How'd you — I mean, I'm curious how you got to know each other, but also if you really are uncomfortable, I don't mean to grill you. I know things can feel kind of delicate, sometimes, when they're new. But honestly, especially given the lives we're leading... I think it's great. When people find someone they really connect to."
There’s a softening in his expression, a warmth in his smile that few people get to see: “She is remarkable, isn’t she?”
Which isn’t only about how hot his girlfriend is. He drums his fingers against the edge of his wineglass, glass in turn propped against his knee, boot bouncing restlessly against the box it’s resting on. Casual, a friend, not a colleague.
“I’m not… good at opening up, but I did want to tell you. You’re the first person I’ve outright told. Not just because you’re Provost, but— as a friend, and I thought you might be able to relate, a rifter choosing to still try to make it work with someone from here. Despite the culture-shock, the risks, the complications. Sometimes I can’t shake the feeling that this is making her care for a ghost, and I don’t want to put her through my evaporating into the ether one day without warning, but she rather wisely reminded me that we can lose anyone unexpectedly at any time, not just rifters, so.”
So, carpe diem.
Stephen tilts his glass of wine, examining it rather than meet Cosima’s eye just yet. How did they get to know each other? It had been a slow tectonic shift underfoot, a year and a half in the making; he hadn’t noted the change until he’d eventually looked up one day and realised he was standing on another continent. He’s quiet for a moment, sorting through his words before he tries to put them into order:
“We spoke, a lot. She’s blunt, which I like, but she’s also helpful. She showed me around Hightown when I was brand-new and trying to get my bearings in Kirkwall’s various neighbourhoods. She let me take a look at her magic bow, because I’m always interested in arcane artifacts. She let me read through eight years’ worth of notes on her anchor, because of course I want to know about anchors. She started coming by the infirmary. I’m incorrigibly curious about Thedas, and she answered every question I ever asked her without bullshitting me, and then I think that just— led to being curious about the woman, herself, and I eventually wanted to know everything about her, and, well, it turns out that sort of meant something.”
And then, because at the end of the day the doctor is still a little allergic to sincerity, he adds, “And the enchanted bathtub on the houseboat is a perk.“
That makes her smile. "I'm glad you felt comfortable telling me, even if there's no form you have to fill out," is warm.
The addition, though, it a little more thoughtful. "It's ... her point is kind of the one I landed on, back when I was engaged. I hate that I put her through me vanishing, but it's not like..." A hair softer, "Gwenaëlle is right. Granitefell happened too, and it's not like that would be any easier for anyone. The first time I was here, my disease could have killed me if I lost access to spirit healing, or at least I assume. No one's promised anything in Thedas or at home. I think it's still worth trying."
But, because that seems like a note he might find uncomfortable to linger over, she adds, "I ever tell you I grew up on a houseboat? I thought about looking into one myself here, before I got the div head gig."
Even this more recent attack, with its list of dead in the Inquisition even if the names had been lost on him. Casimir, Alistair, Cullen, Pentaghast. And, of course, Granitefell.
“Still worth trying. And if all else fails, get yourself a partner who can rewind time and fix it for you,” Stephen says, his voice lighter, not touching on the full weight of it. It had been a group effort, of course, but he still lets himself joke, like testing to see if the ice will hold underfoot.
How many months has it been since Granitefell? He hadn’t even been fully aware of his feelings at the time yet, except that raw wound and the awareness of a door being slammed shut on the possibility; and it had seemed a tremendous shame for the entire world to suddenly have a blank spot in the exact shape of Gwenaëlle Baudin’s wit and humour and stubborn bloodyminded persistence to do her best. Thedas deserved to keep that. He had been determined to let Thedas have that back.
So the houseboat is indeed a safer topic, like skipping a rock over still lake waters: “You what? You did not mention. If you wanted to relocate to Kirkwall waters, maybe Gwenaëlle knows a guy who knows a guy who’d sell you one. Considering…”
He gestures to the office, now doing half-duty as Cosima’s occasional sleeping space.
"I think it's probably better form to stay in the div head apartment, at least mostly." It'll be fixed up soon enough, or at least as fixed as is necessary to live in. "But you know, if I ever take a demotion, I'll keep it in mind."
Granitefell isn't totally easily shaken off, though, and she adds, "I think about Tony so much, you know, living in his old space. Sucks sometimes, but sometimes it's nice. I mean, not like we were best friends, but we were..."
A pause, thoughtful. "I was so fucking mad at him, after the Arlathan Forest. I don't how much you know about it," presumably some, unless he'd been very incurious about Gwenaëlle's false eye, "but the two of us were with Viktor and Ellis and there was a minute when we thought one of might have to sacrifice ourselves. Long story short, I thought we should draw straws and Ellis was ready to throw himself in the metaphorical volcano, because I assume that's in the Warden handbook somewhere, and Tony overruled me." She laces her fingers, idly, rings clicking against one another. "I yelled at him about it, after, even though Ellis didn't actually die. And he said ... he was closer to Ellis, and he trusted he knew what he was doing. And he felt like Viktor and I ... everyone in Research, really. He had a responsibility to keep us safe."
It feels like a long story, and she's not sure if she should have started it, but now that she has. "Anyway. It felt like ... I don't think I fully understood how much he meant that until he fucking broke linear time with the rest of you to get everyone back. And I know there were people at Granitefell, including Ellis, he was closer to. But I also think he was just..." A sad twist of a smile. "Sorry. I guess that got away from me. Anyway. Just big shoes to fill, sometimes, I think. How determined he was to keep everyone safe. Being accessible feels like the least I can do."
There’s an unexpected twinge in his chest, talking about Tony. Whenever he talks about Tony. Technically a vanishing isn’t a death, any rifter could come back at any time, Cosima herself came back, but—
But Tony’s dead back home. Stephen wore a nice suit and went to his funeral. It feels so hopelessly final.
“He’s big on the sacrifice play,” he says after a moment. It came with the territory: Iron Man, Avenger, Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts. Stephen doesn’t like to linger on his own particular heroisms there, so what comes out instead is something quieter, guiltier, more bruised:
“The sorts of things he had to do back home… I don’t know how much you know. I don’t think I’ve told anyone here this, besides Gwenaëlle.” Which in itself is another small admission, a revelation of how entrenched they’ve gotten behind-the-scenes. “Our big war back home, the one where Tony and I and others fought Thanos. The battle was almost impossible. Using time magic, I looked at over fourteen million— actually, let’s be exact, it was fourteen million, six hundred and five possible futures, and we lost in all of them, except for the one where I gave the big bad the last weapon he needed. So I surrendered, so that he’d win and trillions of people would die, and five years later an extremely minute series of events could occur to bring us all back. Except that many people would still die, and Tony Stark would specifically sacrifice himself, but it was the necessary play. The narrowest win condition. I took it, I chose it, I led him there. He died. We won. So, I don’t know.”
Thank god for the wine. Deep breath.
“I think my point is. I’ve been there, he’s been there, we’ve both called the shots and taken the hits. I felt like shit about it. He probably felt like shit about the Ellis thing, too; they were far closer than he and I were. You never really know what you’re going to be capable of until you’re in that hot seat. It’s an awful seat to be in, but I have confidence you’ll be able to fill the shoes, whether you’re a self-sacrificing idiot or not.”
She manages a little smile. "Thanks. And sorry, that's ... I mean, that's so much feels like a huge understatement, considering." Fourteen million and change of anything is more than most human brains can hold, she's well aware. "I'm just a PhD student from Berkeley, you know, would have had a very boring life if I hadn't been the result of hugely illegal experiments, could happen to anybody."
(It's a joke. Sort of.)
"Anyway. Sorry to get all dark on you, we were supposed to be toasting to your hot girlfriend and your new deluxe accommodations. But. I'm sorry all that happened to you, too." Because under the circumstances, she's not sure if anyone from his home would have been in a position to say that, either because they didn't know what he'd been through or because they'd been coping with their own trauma.
because no one had said it, because too much of the planet had been through the same experience and few knew exactly what he’d seen during that battle, and it’s not like Stephen gave them a chance to know either. Which left him with just— guilt-trips from the likes of Doctor West, second-guessing what he’d done and how it had played out, as if Stephen himself hadn’t lain awake wondering the exact same thing.
“Thank you,” he says, a little stiffly. Then, predictably pivoting quickly, “And actually, we were supposed to be toasting your birthday, and drinking in general, and not talking about actual Work work, so I think we’re actually still well within that remit.”
It’s a curious feeling, treading past these boundaries. He builds stubborn walls around his professional relationships, but it’s getting easier and easier to talk to Cosima simply person-to-person. Realising to his own surprise that he doesn’t mind it, actually: being friends, not just harried scientists commiserating about being trapped in Medieval Times, not boss and employee holding each other at an aloof distance.
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And that’s an entire world away, and irrelevant here besides. Stephen has a tendency to go on forever if someone lets him, but he cuts himself off, pulling up a chair and setting down the bottle. “Anyway, point being, age is relative. Do you have any glasses?”
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"God, that had to be wild for ... there's only a handful of us rifters, it's hard to imagine half the world." Sobering, to try. She admires that he's come out the other side of that plus Thedas so functional. "On the upside," to keep things from getting too heavy when he'd come explicitly to suggest they take a break, "I can just skip any sort of unanticipated existential crisis about turning 40, so that's a whole thing to not worry about anymore." Definitely a joke.
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And the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile as Cosima sets down the cups and he starts to pour. “So, hypothetically, you could just choose ‘thirty-something’ and stick with it indefinitely. A good enough approach. I wound up semi-arbitrarily deciding on a number just because I hate not knowing. Guess we’re lucky enough that the Thedosian calendar even lines up right with twelve months.”
There’s a small beat, thinking it over before he decides to offer this piece of himself, small enough as it is. The former Provost had it and he should probably learn to be less cagey overall, so: “Mine’s November-slash-Firstfall 18th, by the way. I expect a gift card.”
Just kidding.
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"Horoscopes aside, maybe I should collect all the Research birthdays. Introduce my native world concept of awkward forced socializing with the people you work with over cake." It's thoughtful enough it sounds like she might do it. (At least the collecting birthdays part, 50-50 on the cake.)
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Stephen clinks his cup against Cosima’s, taking a sip of the wine; it’s not eye-wateringly expensive but it’s good enough, his own finicky standards preventing him from settling for the cheap stuff. He considers the idea of collecting everyone’s birthdays; even he wants their approximate ages, at the least, for the infirmary’s medical records.
“I can’t tell if keeping track would make you a beloved division head and get you a Best Boss mug,” he adds, “or if it’d piss everyone off. Recordkeeping, familial literacy, adoptions… it might be a sore point if they don’t know their birthday.”
He remembers how cagey Gwenaëlle had been about it, and how he still doesn’t know hers. (And that sparks another faint thought in the back of his mind, but it needs a little time to percolate.)
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She takes another (appreciative) sip.
"Anyway. How have you been hanging in? We've all had a hell of a few weeks, but I feel like you got hit more than most in the weeks leading up."
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But before Stephen can let himself get distracted by that multiversal line of thought, Cosima says you got hit more than most and he sends her a wry look, an arched eyebrow. “Me? No, it’s fine. Nothing more than I signed on for as Head Healer. We have more hands in the infirmary now, too.”
It had in fact been a lot — months of quiet, until suddenly Julius’ poisoning, four patients recovering from abduction, the attack on the Gallows, everything hitting too close to home — but. That’s everyone. They’ve all been affected here, and others more than him. All those names, the list of the dead he barely knew. There’s that squirming guilt, at knowing he had come out so relatively unscathed.
“I could be saying the very same to you, Provost. Do you have a personal assistant yet? No one’s you, but…”
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"I've had a volunteer, but I plead guilty to not using him much yet. I'd just gotten through the former provosts' systems and was starting to think what he could take on when..." A gesture at the office, workable but still not entirely reconstructed. "Plus, you know, being down two division heads. Wild how much brainpower it takes to delegate."
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“And wait, who volunteered?”
He’s trying to picture who might’ve offered. Viktor and Jayce were busy with their own projects, presumably not them; maybe it was Mobius, he was always trying to be helpful—
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Then again, if Tony Stark wanted to veto Loki getting closer to Cosima, he shouldn't have dissolved back into the Fade, in her very professional opinion.
"I don't know exactly what went down, back where you're from. But Loki volunteered that Tony told him to stay away from Research the first time he was here, without my asking. Probably why I only knew him a little; he was in Diplomacy before. Said the animosity was one-sided but that he'd respect it if I didn't want him because of Tony. I asked Loki why Research this time and he said," ticking off her fingers, "he knows some theoretical physics, he likes keeping busy, and he knows Mobius. I've had worse resumes."
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frankly coughs upon hearing that name, spluttering on his wine, “Loki? As your personal assistant?“ and he has a moment to ponder that extremely funny mental image and try not to choke to death on the wine while Cosima finishes contextualising and rationalising the choice. He’s calmed down a little by the time she finishes ticking through the reasons.
“I feel like I oughtn’t blab his business, but as Division Head you should probably know these things, and in the end I’m in favour of everyone being able to make informed choices— I always prefer knowing too much rather than too little— anyway.” He takes another (more careful) sip of the wine, fortifying for the batshit details he’s about to drop on Cosima.
“Once upon a time, Loki collaborated with alien warlords to try to conquer Earth. He launched a full-scale alien invasion of NYC. Tony and his fellow costumed superheroes helped repel them, shut down the attempt, and had him captured as a war criminal. So it was personal for Tony, and I understand the wariness. But for me, it was— a very bad thing happened to New York and ostensibly Loki was behind it, but I was still a surgeon at the time, distant from the direct conflict. I never fought him. The first time I ever met Loki face-to-face, I was helping him and his brother when they came to the Sanctum searching for their father. I’ve spoken to this Loki here, and he and I are fine.
“As far as I understand it, the version I knew eventually turned over a new leaf, even back home. Did the right thing. Turned against the warlord. And there are versions of me in other universes that have done dreadful, calamitous, world-ending things, so I figure… don’t throw stones in glass universes, etc. Who the hell am I to judge. So this is my very long roundabout way of saying that a demi-god reduced to taking minutes and filing your paperwork is really deeply funny, but if he’s interested in the task, then I don’t mind the choice. He’s fine, in my opinion, unless he starts displaying any megalomaniacal tendencies; in which case, keep an eye on that.”
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"Thanks for telling me. It's good context to have, but it doesn't seem like ... I mean, I'm not immune to being conned or anything, but it's not like our security is so tight that volunteering to take on a lot of work would be the only way to get access to Research notes. And so far he's been showing up, ready to go, so." She shrugs. "Maybe new leaf, maybe priorities aligning. I'm not worried about him, in the absence of the aforementioned megalomaniacal tendencies."
Something makes her smile, a little wry. "...I probably didn't tell you this, but there was a time at home I took a job with the company that claimed to own my DNA. They offered, and I thought I could get the resources I needed for my sisters and me. So it's not like I'm against a little bit of practicality."
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He’s been making himself more comfortable: drinking that wine, settling back in his chair, posture ebbing into less stiff lines. He’d come here with the very specific intent to make Cosima put down the paperwork for once, but as so often happens, he keeps drifting to conversations which aren’t work talk but are also not not work talk. And the wine’s loosened just enough that that pings a previous thought against another, now reminded of the modern corporate trappings that only these two are familiar with. Cosima is technically his boss. He did have a question, a little while back.
“Hey, uh,” Stephen says, thoughtful, ruminative. “So. I don’t really know how this works here. Hypothetically, I mean, considering how small Riftwatch is, and— is there a—”
What is he even trying to say. He takes another swig of the wine.
“Potential conflicts of interest. Conflict of interest disclosures to our division head. For, I don’t know. Relationships? So we don’t fuck up anything on a mission? Is that a thing here. Do people need to do that.”
Is this anything.
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Of course, having attachments at all, romantic or platonic or otherwise, is perfectly normal, but it still takes a moment of readjustment for him sometimes. Layering the interpersonal atop that otherwise cold crisp professional facade. Having to contend with the fact that he’s putting down roots more and more, officially digging his heels into Thedas and accepting that this is his life now.
(This, too, is why Stephen had considered broaching it with Cosima specifically. He knows she’s been here before: a fellow rifter daring to commit to someone from Thedas, bridging that existential divide.)
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"Look, it's a small organization. If there was a form I was supposed to fill out when I was engaged to the head of Diplomacy, no one told me at the time. The Scoutmaster has quietly had a long, serious thing, and Byerly was involved for a lot of the time he was Ambassador. Maybe all of it, I'm not close enough to him or Bastien to clock exactly when that started. Marcus has two partners and they both have leadership roles, it didn't keep him from getting called up. There's plenty of precedent."
She takes a sip of wine and adds, "I'm not going to put you on blast, but I am curious. Not as your boss, as a friend." So. Avoiding the impulse to push, but leaving a door open all the same.
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As a friend, Stephen thinks, and he looks at the familiar surroundings of the Provost’s office (slightly changed, rearranged, stamps of Cosima’s habits and affectations placed on it since she took up residence). This feels a little easier somehow than if it were Tony surveying him over that glass of wine, and he can’t even really put his finger on why. Maybe he was too-aware of Tony Stark as industry figure, face from the headlines, martyred hero, blood on Stephen’s hands.
He unconsciously mirrors her, taking another sip of wine. There’s some squirming flutter in his chest, and it takes him a moment to identify it, like diagnosing a terribly annoying symptom. Butterflies. Forty fucking years and his stomach still swoops at the prospect of saying it out loud, making it real outside of the private spaces he’d carved out for said person.
“Not that I’m trying to keep it secret or anything, in fact I’m trying to do the exact opposite, very clumsily, but— well, even if I were being cagey, it’s going to be the worst-kept secret soon regardless, considering I’m crashing at her place after my room blew up. It’s Gwenaëlle. Baudin.”
He doesn’t need the precision — as if there’s any other Gwenaëlle at the Gallows — but he’s precise regardless.
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Possibly a minority opinion in Riftwatch, but it's evidently sincere.
"How'd you — I mean, I'm curious how you got to know each other, but also if you really are uncomfortable, I don't mean to grill you. I know things can feel kind of delicate, sometimes, when they're new. But honestly, especially given the lives we're leading... I think it's great. When people find someone they really connect to."
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Which isn’t only about how hot his girlfriend is. He drums his fingers against the edge of his wineglass, glass in turn propped against his knee, boot bouncing restlessly against the box it’s resting on. Casual, a friend, not a colleague.
“I’m not… good at opening up, but I did want to tell you. You’re the first person I’ve outright told. Not just because you’re Provost, but— as a friend, and I thought you might be able to relate, a rifter choosing to still try to make it work with someone from here. Despite the culture-shock, the risks, the complications. Sometimes I can’t shake the feeling that this is making her care for a ghost, and I don’t want to put her through my evaporating into the ether one day without warning, but she rather wisely reminded me that we can lose anyone unexpectedly at any time, not just rifters, so.”
So, carpe diem.
Stephen tilts his glass of wine, examining it rather than meet Cosima’s eye just yet. How did they get to know each other? It had been a slow tectonic shift underfoot, a year and a half in the making; he hadn’t noted the change until he’d eventually looked up one day and realised he was standing on another continent. He’s quiet for a moment, sorting through his words before he tries to put them into order:
“We spoke, a lot. She’s blunt, which I like, but she’s also helpful. She showed me around Hightown when I was brand-new and trying to get my bearings in Kirkwall’s various neighbourhoods. She let me take a look at her magic bow, because I’m always interested in arcane artifacts. She let me read through eight years’ worth of notes on her anchor, because of course I want to know about anchors. She started coming by the infirmary. I’m incorrigibly curious about Thedas, and she answered every question I ever asked her without bullshitting me, and then I think that just— led to being curious about the woman, herself, and I eventually wanted to know everything about her, and, well, it turns out that sort of meant something.”
And then, because at the end of the day the doctor is still a little allergic to sincerity, he adds, “And the enchanted bathtub on the houseboat is a perk.“
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The addition, though, it a little more thoughtful. "It's ... her point is kind of the one I landed on, back when I was engaged. I hate that I put her through me vanishing, but it's not like..." A hair softer, "Gwenaëlle is right. Granitefell happened too, and it's not like that would be any easier for anyone. The first time I was here, my disease could have killed me if I lost access to spirit healing, or at least I assume. No one's promised anything in Thedas or at home. I think it's still worth trying."
But, because that seems like a note he might find uncomfortable to linger over, she adds, "I ever tell you I grew up on a houseboat? I thought about looking into one myself here, before I got the div head gig."
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“Still worth trying. And if all else fails, get yourself a partner who can rewind time and fix it for you,” Stephen says, his voice lighter, not touching on the full weight of it. It had been a group effort, of course, but he still lets himself joke, like testing to see if the ice will hold underfoot.
How many months has it been since Granitefell? He hadn’t even been fully aware of his feelings at the time yet, except that raw wound and the awareness of a door being slammed shut on the possibility; and it had seemed a tremendous shame for the entire world to suddenly have a blank spot in the exact shape of Gwenaëlle Baudin’s wit and humour and stubborn bloodyminded persistence to do her best. Thedas deserved to keep that. He had been determined to let Thedas have that back.
So the houseboat is indeed a safer topic, like skipping a rock over still lake waters: “You what? You did not mention. If you wanted to relocate to Kirkwall waters, maybe Gwenaëlle knows a guy who knows a guy who’d sell you one. Considering…”
He gestures to the office, now doing half-duty as Cosima’s occasional sleeping space.
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Granitefell isn't totally easily shaken off, though, and she adds, "I think about Tony so much, you know, living in his old space. Sucks sometimes, but sometimes it's nice. I mean, not like we were best friends, but we were..."
A pause, thoughtful. "I was so fucking mad at him, after the Arlathan Forest. I don't how much you know about it," presumably some, unless he'd been very incurious about Gwenaëlle's false eye, "but the two of us were with Viktor and Ellis and there was a minute when we thought one of might have to sacrifice ourselves. Long story short, I thought we should draw straws and Ellis was ready to throw himself in the metaphorical volcano, because I assume that's in the Warden handbook somewhere, and Tony overruled me." She laces her fingers, idly, rings clicking against one another. "I yelled at him about it, after, even though Ellis didn't actually die. And he said ... he was closer to Ellis, and he trusted he knew what he was doing. And he felt like Viktor and I ... everyone in Research, really. He had a responsibility to keep us safe."
It feels like a long story, and she's not sure if she should have started it, but now that she has. "Anyway. It felt like ... I don't think I fully understood how much he meant that until he fucking broke linear time with the rest of you to get everyone back. And I know there were people at Granitefell, including Ellis, he was closer to. But I also think he was just..." A sad twist of a smile. "Sorry. I guess that got away from me. Anyway. Just big shoes to fill, sometimes, I think. How determined he was to keep everyone safe. Being accessible feels like the least I can do."
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But Tony’s dead back home. Stephen wore a nice suit and went to his funeral. It feels so hopelessly final.
“He’s big on the sacrifice play,” he says after a moment. It came with the territory: Iron Man, Avenger, Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts. Stephen doesn’t like to linger on his own particular heroisms there, so what comes out instead is something quieter, guiltier, more bruised:
“The sorts of things he had to do back home… I don’t know how much you know. I don’t think I’ve told anyone here this, besides Gwenaëlle.” Which in itself is another small admission, a revelation of how entrenched they’ve gotten behind-the-scenes. “Our big war back home, the one where Tony and I and others fought Thanos. The battle was almost impossible. Using time magic, I looked at over fourteen million— actually, let’s be exact, it was fourteen million, six hundred and five possible futures, and we lost in all of them, except for the one where I gave the big bad the last weapon he needed. So I surrendered, so that he’d win and trillions of people would die, and five years later an extremely minute series of events could occur to bring us all back. Except that many people would still die, and Tony Stark would specifically sacrifice himself, but it was the necessary play. The narrowest win condition. I took it, I chose it, I led him there. He died. We won. So, I don’t know.”
Thank god for the wine. Deep breath.
“I think my point is. I’ve been there, he’s been there, we’ve both called the shots and taken the hits. I felt like shit about it. He probably felt like shit about the Ellis thing, too; they were far closer than he and I were. You never really know what you’re going to be capable of until you’re in that hot seat. It’s an awful seat to be in, but I have confidence you’ll be able to fill the shoes, whether you’re a self-sacrificing idiot or not.”
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(It's a joke. Sort of.)
"Anyway. Sorry to get all dark on you, we were supposed to be toasting to your hot girlfriend and your new deluxe accommodations. But. I'm sorry all that happened to you, too." Because under the circumstances, she's not sure if anyone from his home would have been in a position to say that, either because they didn't know what he'd been through or because they'd been coping with their own trauma.
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because no one had said it, because too much of the planet had been through the same experience and few knew exactly what he’d seen during that battle, and it’s not like Stephen gave them a chance to know either. Which left him with just— guilt-trips from the likes of Doctor West, second-guessing what he’d done and how it had played out, as if Stephen himself hadn’t lain awake wondering the exact same thing.
“Thank you,” he says, a little stiffly. Then, predictably pivoting quickly, “And actually, we were supposed to be toasting your birthday, and drinking in general, and not talking about actual Work work, so I think we’re actually still well within that remit.”
It’s a curious feeling, treading past these boundaries. He builds stubborn walls around his professional relationships, but it’s getting easier and easier to talk to Cosima simply person-to-person. Realising to his own surprise that he doesn’t mind it, actually: being friends, not just harried scientists commiserating about being trapped in Medieval Times, not boss and employee holding each other at an aloof distance.
places bow