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.
"Yeah, I guess we're going out of order, usually you get much drunker before you hit existentialism at a birthday party. But. Thanks. It was really cool of you to remember." And as much as they both have to do, she's missed having people in the organization she just enjoys hanging out with, to no particular end. That, in itself, is a considerable birthday gift (though she's not mad at the wine).
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.”
no subject
(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.
no subject
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