[ A beat of pause, Stephen's expression going slack for a second as he looks back at Jim, processes what he's just said, tries to decide how it feels. The smile wins the day and an answer in kind as he briefly ducks his head, takes another sip of wine. ]
Oh. You mean this? [ A florish, and a few little butterflies of blue light flutter into the space between them, a couple dancing around Jim's head before flitting up and away. ] That's a pretty broad topic. Anything in particular you want to know?
[ A different kind of courtesy to ask before starting, given how easy it would be for him to talk about magic for a week straight. ]
[He's being deliberately mean - teasing. He's grinning again, sly, almost away from the shadows on his face. Almost away from the lingering memory and the hurt. ]
[ He's not afraid to weaponize that trauma in the name of Winning, Hop - put that magician back where it came from or so help meeee. It's equally playful though, and he moves on with the pinch of a mischievous smirk and a lack of correction to sorcerer. ]
A woman threw my soul across the multiverse. Then I learned Sanskrit and ran a lot of drills.
[ If you're going to be a gremlin he's going to respond in kind, xoxo. ]
[Damnit Stephen, your talking about driving off a cliff and you’re making Jim laugh? Illegal. ]
Oh wow. Which was worse? The Sanskrit or the drills?
[It’s a funny little jab as he chews, takes a big gulp of wine, leans back and exhales some of his tension out. This is easier, isn’t it? ] My money is on the drills.
[ A cough of laughter. As much as it pains him to meet that jab with a victory, as much as he delays the inevitable with a munch of his own meal, he inevitably eventually has to cant his head in acquiescence. ]
It was the drills. [ The d r i l l s. ] I can't tell you how long it took me to pick up portals. It was driving me crazy.
[Different drills in the army, but he can relate. There's a deep-seated disdain now for repetitive action; orders, so on and so forth.
He doesn't mention this. What he does say, instead, is: ] Tell me about your portals. [Because there is, perhaps, a point of familiarity there. Holes in reality, a back and forth that no one except Eddie has ever really understood. Billy - Billy's never been to the other side. ]
[ It's a request that catches Stephen's attention, looking to Jim to trace it back across what he knows of him already, seeking its origin. But far be it from Stephen to stifle curiosity once it's named. Especially when that curiosity quests after magic - especially when it comes from current company. ]
Magic is essentially a hack of the fabric of the universe. Physics don't hold up to much - dimensions lose their integrity if you come at them right. Space is no different. It usually takes a focusing agent imbued with the bulk of the spellwork for travel so the sorcerer's only real job is operation: navigation, putting the key in the engine, fuelling up. Sling rings, we call them. I don't have one here yet, but—
[ But he doesn't need a sling ring for a demonstration, does he? Turning so he can angle himself at the space just beyond the fire, a flourish of his hand conjures a spark that cuts into open air. From there, like the curl of a pinwheel, a circle of bright amber etches itself out of nothing, and once it spins to the height of a man the space beyond it is no longer the woods. An indistinct street in New York City. Maybe once it had been eerily barren as they'd looked out on an emptied world—
A blink and the street has changed. It's Bleecker Street now, safer territory. The portal is only illusion, but even the illusion of home stings. He leaves the cars to drive on in the distance and glances back at Jim, pretends he's not busy regretting having ideas. ]
[New York is a distant memory; it's a recent memory; it's something, closer to Stephen now, probably, than it is to Jim. He watches it come to life with rapt attention, leaning forward, food, beer, grill all forgotten. It's a life, it's home, it's pure nostalgia, he supposes.
He misses home every day, but he misses it terribly now. He misses his own cabin, he misses a door three inches open, he misses putting on his uniform every day, misses sliding up to Joyce while she worked. He misses his daughter, Eggos in the morning, coffee and orange juice, the arguments, the laughter.
He's smiling. ] It seems tidy. [Non-violent. He blinks away from it, gives Stephen the smile instead. ] Back home - the portals are tears. I guess that's the best to describe them. Wounds. Invasive.
[ Stephen lets the illusion drop into a mist of sparks that mingle with the fire and disperse, attention caught on Jim's description now. He nods, brows drawn slightly together with concern for a world he'll most likely never visit. ]
Brute force puncture or inexperienced incision both run the risk of infection. [ If they're working within the bounds of the metaphor, it makes sense: doesn't matter if it's things within breaking out, or things without making clumsy attempts to get in, the result would be the same. It's not a surprise, but it is troubling to think on. ] Were there many?
[More and more every year, it feels like. And now Russia; if it's an infection, it's spreading and Jim's useless against it. They close one and another two come to bite him in the ass. ]
My kid, she's the only one I've seen that's ever been able to close them. But it takes so much out of her. She's just a kid. Maybe magic would be easier - whatever they are it's. Science, I guess. Physics. Beyond me, that's for sure.
[ A tightening of his expression. Frustrating, to hear this and not be able to help. But that feeling must be amplified by unimaginable degrees when you're a father watching your kid, unable to help her.
Abruptly, he notes a parallel. ]
There's a kid back home. She turned up in my world one day needing help, chased by something from another dimension. She opens portals, clean across the multiverse, and it's got her in some pretty serious shit.
[ America taught him plenty in a very short stretch of time. Stephen's briefly faraway gaze ticks back to settle on Jim's. Steady. ]
Can't protect them from who they are, or be that person for them. But I'll bet your kid has one hell of a home to come back to.
I hope so. I didn't think I'd get a second chance, I guess - I wasn't ready. I wasn't easy to live with.
[Overbearing, overprotective, too much of everything for a kid who had only ever lived in a lab. He laughs, though. Adds: ] Then she turned fourteen - I definitely wasn't ready for that.
[ And then he's laughing too, letting go of sharper subjects to ease into goading Jim into expanding on the horrors of parenting a teen girl while they finish their wine and their food. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Oh. You mean this? [ A florish, and a few little butterflies of blue light flutter into the space between them, a couple dancing around Jim's head before flitting up and away. ] That's a pretty broad topic. Anything in particular you want to know?
[ A different kind of courtesy to ask before starting, given how easy it would be for him to talk about magic for a week straight. ]
no subject
[He's being deliberately mean - teasing. He's grinning again, sly, almost away from the shadows on his face. Almost away from the lingering memory and the hurt. ]
no subject
[ He's not afraid to weaponize that trauma in the name of Winning, Hop - put that magician back where it came from or so help meeee. It's equally playful though, and he moves on with the pinch of a mischievous smirk and a lack of correction to sorcerer. ]
A woman threw my soul across the multiverse. Then I learned Sanskrit and ran a lot of drills.
[ If you're going to be a gremlin he's going to respond in kind, xoxo. ]
no subject
Oh wow. Which was worse? The Sanskrit or the drills?
[It’s a funny little jab as he chews, takes a big gulp of wine, leans back and exhales some of his tension out. This is easier, isn’t it? ] My money is on the drills.
no subject
It was the drills. [ The d r i l l s. ] I can't tell you how long it took me to pick up portals. It was driving me crazy.
no subject
[Different drills in the army, but he can relate. There's a deep-seated disdain now for repetitive action; orders, so on and so forth.
He doesn't mention this. What he does say, instead, is: ] Tell me about your portals. [Because there is, perhaps, a point of familiarity there. Holes in reality, a back and forth that no one except Eddie has ever really understood. Billy - Billy's never been to the other side. ]
no subject
Magic is essentially a hack of the fabric of the universe. Physics don't hold up to much - dimensions lose their integrity if you come at them right. Space is no different. It usually takes a focusing agent imbued with the bulk of the spellwork for travel so the sorcerer's only real job is operation: navigation, putting the key in the engine, fuelling up. Sling rings, we call them. I don't have one here yet, but—
[ But he doesn't need a sling ring for a demonstration, does he? Turning so he can angle himself at the space just beyond the fire, a flourish of his hand conjures a spark that cuts into open air. From there, like the curl of a pinwheel, a circle of bright amber etches itself out of nothing, and once it spins to the height of a man the space beyond it is no longer the woods. An indistinct street in New York City. Maybe once it had been eerily barren as they'd looked out on an emptied world—
A blink and the street has changed. It's Bleecker Street now, safer territory. The portal is only illusion, but even the illusion of home stings. He leaves the cars to drive on in the distance and glances back at Jim, pretends he's not busy regretting having ideas. ]
no subject
He misses home every day, but he misses it terribly now. He misses his own cabin, he misses a door three inches open, he misses putting on his uniform every day, misses sliding up to Joyce while she worked. He misses his daughter, Eggos in the morning, coffee and orange juice, the arguments, the laughter.
He's smiling. ] It seems tidy. [Non-violent. He blinks away from it, gives Stephen the smile instead. ] Back home - the portals are tears. I guess that's the best to describe them. Wounds. Invasive.
no subject
Brute force puncture or inexperienced incision both run the risk of infection. [ If they're working within the bounds of the metaphor, it makes sense: doesn't matter if it's things within breaking out, or things without making clumsy attempts to get in, the result would be the same. It's not a surprise, but it is troubling to think on. ] Were there many?
no subject
[More and more every year, it feels like. And now Russia; if it's an infection, it's spreading and Jim's useless against it. They close one and another two come to bite him in the ass. ]
My kid, she's the only one I've seen that's ever been able to close them. But it takes so much out of her. She's just a kid. Maybe magic would be easier - whatever they are it's. Science, I guess. Physics. Beyond me, that's for sure.
no subject
Abruptly, he notes a parallel. ]
There's a kid back home. She turned up in my world one day needing help, chased by something from another dimension. She opens portals, clean across the multiverse, and it's got her in some pretty serious shit.
[ America taught him plenty in a very short stretch of time. Stephen's briefly faraway gaze ticks back to settle on Jim's. Steady. ]
Can't protect them from who they are, or be that person for them. But I'll bet your kid has one hell of a home to come back to.
no subject
[Overbearing, overprotective, too much of everything for a kid who had only ever lived in a lab. He laughs, though. Adds: ] Then she turned fourteen - I definitely wasn't ready for that.
no subject