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[ingeniar]

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[ingeniar]

[ The pieces are starting to fall into place. Tony frowns, sensing that there's something going on here. He advances another slow step into the tent, approaching Stephen warily, screwdriver lowered. ]

Wait, you're serious. What's going on?

[rehandle]

[ Reality starts to settle in. He watches it steal over Tony's expression, keeps his own stoic as he shifts just enough to brace for the fresh imbalance of his weight when he lifts the hand that's still mostly his from the table, holds it up between them.

His hand is flesh until it isn't. From a distance it might look almost like he's dipped it in paint at an angle, cracked grey cutting across almost from the crook of his thumb up to the tip of his little finger, covering most of his fingers and a chunk of his palm. It isn't paint, of course. He's stone. ]

[ingeniar]

[ For a moment or two there's enough room to hope for something reasonable and easy to fix, but that disappears the moment Stephen raises his hand, those long pianist's fingers contorted and frozen. Tony crosses the last bit of space between them, absently setting his screwdriver down on the table while he goes for Stephen's hand -- not touching, he's not that stupid, just framing the air around it with his fingers like he's mapping out one of his hard-light projections. ]

Oh, what the hell -- what is this? Some kind of magical side effect? Did you have this before? Jesus, it looks like it's.. calcified. Does it hurt?

[rehandle]

[ In truth, it doesn't hurt as much as he'd imagined turning slowly to stone might. Once the nerves no longer fire, the flesh itself already dead, there's nothing left to feel. But it hurts where what's living has to support what's gone, where what's left seeks what's lost. Where the tissue starts to turn.

Perhaps that's why he hadn't noticed it to start out. The pain of overuse difficult to distinguish from the pain of overgrowth until he noticed the places he was feeling no pain at all. Ignoring Tony's other questions in order to emphasise the scale of the problem: ]

Not as much as the other one.

[ The other one still stiff at his side. He'd lift that one to show him too, but he no longer has any muscles there to move it with. ]

[ingeniar]

The other.. oh.

[ Catching up -- Tony takes a look at Stephen's other arm and can deduce, by process of finally catching on to the entirely stone hand and how he's holding it, that things have gone from Bad to Worse. He also, prudently, takes a step back, as it occurs to him that whatever's wrong might also be contagious. ]

Shit. [ Tony flexes his own fingers sympathetically, rubs a hand over his face, agitation warring with the desire to figure out what's wrong, to understand it, to fix it. ]

So what, we go out, we find the cure? There's got to be something here, if it started here, it's got to have some kind of antidote -- you want me to go get the other guy? [ Meaning Goodsir, not that Tony's caught his name -- and even if he had, by process of being, obviously, the second best, he would probably still be relegated to The Other Guy in comparison. ] Maybe he can do something? Stop the.. the process?

[rehandle]

Tony.

[ A call back to focus, to attention. Away from the wasted energy of trying to find a solution Stephen already has. Slow, clear, direct, about the most patient he's been with anybody these last few days: ]

We have the cure. I've already told you what to do.

[ingeniar]

[ Unfortunately, Tony Stark doesn't like to compromise, especially when it comes to preserving the lives of innocent people. Or, in this case, mostly innocent people who happen to be incredible powerful wizards and, he's unhappy to admit, also the closest thing he's got to a friend right now.

He meets that steely, determined gaze. Raises his own hand, forbidding it. ]

No. No, what the hell, Pygmalion, we don't have a cure, we have an idea from an insane man. I'm not going to hurt you. We have to find some way to stop this thing from getting worse. [ He steps in again, this time going right to putting his hand on Stephen's face, palm against his cheek as he searches his eyes for the man he knew five years ago, the man who went toe-to-toe with him on a spaceship for the good of the human race. ] You and me, come on, we can fix this.

[rehandle]

[ The barest involuntary flinch at the touch, blinking through his surprise before he locks into eye contact - steely, sure. It's a no to the stabbing then, which he'd more or less predicted. Time to move on to the so-called saner option, the well reasoned treatment route, physician approved. ]

We don't have a choice. [ There's no route that forgoes pain. ] You have to cut it away. Before it can progress.

[ingeniar]

[ It might sound sane to Stephen "Master of the Mystical Arts" Strange, but there's nothing about this that appeals to Tony. He scowls, pulls his hand back so he can step away entirely once more, as if getting space between himself and the concept that Stephen's thumped onto the butcher's block in front of him will prevent it from happening. ]

No! What? No! What the hell, of course I'm not going to cut it away! [ He paces a little bit, short abortive movements, hands on the back of his head, voice climbing up in volume. ] Jesus Christ, it's your hands! You need those, you're the biggest gun we have, and I'm supposed to -- what? Take you out of play? Chop you up? No, nope, this is goddamn insane. You're nuts. We've got -- we've got plenty of options.

[ As if the more he talks, the less it will seem like it's not their only option. He can't help stealing little glances back at Stephen's fingers, trying not to see what's right in front of him. He groans, helplessly. ]

Shit, oh shit, did it move? Has it spread? Was it there before? It wasn't there before, right? Shit! [ For lack of anything else to do, he kicks out at a little trestle table, knocking books and bandages to the floor. Immediately, he stoops to start picking them up again. Then stops, kneeling on the carpet, head bowed. ]

I can't.. Stephen, I can't..

[rehandle]

[ It should hurt more to watch. Some little part of him knows that, understands what he's asking him to do, appreciates that he's stacking new trauma on top of old, catching him between a rock and a hard place. That man, that part of this man, might have tried to spare him somehow. Might have accepted what he cannot change without another's help and let it take him, or worked with Tony's plea to find an alternative solution.

That part of this man isn't sitting in the driving seat today. Some might consider that the whole problem, but it's not the problem he's here to solve: today, he simply doesn't want to die. ]

You can. Look at me. Tony.

[ Imploring, impatient. Unable to reach out and comfort with any hand that won't pour salt in the wound, he waits for the man on the ground to find the strength to meet his eye. ]

It's surgery. You're preventing the spread of infection. If you don't, I'm another statue for that maze within twelve hours. [ A pause. Summoning up a word he hasn't said in days, catching it between his teeth before a cold tendril of desperation pushes it out. ] Please.

[ingeniar]

[ It took three words to get him here, and only one to make him stay.

The weight of that please is considerable, pulling down all the way through 14 million universes, tied like an anchor to the integrity of a man that Tony's gone back and forth on trusting pretty much every other month for the last five years. He was willing to go with him then, when it was the entirety of existence on the line. This is smaller. Just a pair of hands. Just one man's life.

Tony looks up at him for a few beats, then he bows his head, runs a hand through his hair. Says, very quietly: ]

Shit.

[ He pushes himself up off the floor, tosses a book back onto the table. The look he gives Stephen is unhappy, but resolved. If he's going to do this, he's going to do a good job. And then he's going to not let him forget it for approximately the rest of time. ]

Fine. Fine, I only hate just about everything about this. I just want to register that. Okay, we're -- tell me what we need. What I need.

[rehandle]

[ At first, there's only room for relief. The sick twist of satisfaction at securing agreement brings with it a brief wave of nausea that he doesn't bother to interrogate. Whatever's wrong in him will be righted again soon, and he can chastise himself for it all then. The punishment's certainly about to be steep enough. ]

Thank you. [ He has the good grace to say. And then - ] You'll need a tourniquet, scalpels, Adson forceps. Small ones, table behind me. Sutures, scissors, dressing supplies, from the cabinet over there.

There are— [ the reality of what he's about to walk him through lands here for a second, breath stuttering. He fills his lungs again, stubborn, cycles through two quick breaths, and carries on as if nothing ever happened ] —bone saws here. The Gigli makes for a smooth cut - the wire saw. The weight of the stone might create enough resistance to allow for it, but otherwise the other one will work.

[ Behind him, on the table he's resting against, a pristine selection of all the grisly implements they've had need for over the last few days. He doesn't glance back at them. Keeps his eyes fixed on Tony, tries to think of nothing but the procedure he's laying out a roadmap for. ]

I'll try to talk you through disarticulating the wrist without needing to cut bone. But for the arm, it'll be easier to cut through.

[ Easier might not be the word. But there's nothing for it now but to push on. Finally, he tilts away from the table, careful with his balance, ready to help nod Tony toward the right tools. After that, their makeshift operating table awaits. ]

[ingeniar]

[ Tony's moving as soon as Stephen starts listing implements, heading to the cabinet to fetch out the items he lists. It helps to be doing something, working, fixing the problem. Each item makes him feel a little steadier. He collects them dutifully, carries them back to the table, arranging them carefully behind Stephen before coming back around in front.

He watches the wizard push himself up straight, crossing his own arms over his chest, uncrossing them again. Getting a little restless with the building desire to get going now that the decision has been made, to get into it. ]

I'm not, you know, unfamiliar. I did some reading. Wanted to understand what Yinsen did here. [ He taps his chest with his fingertips, a quick little drumbeat over the dead nerveless spot where the arc reactor used to be that's now scar tissue and a partial titanium ribcage. ] Did more reading for the nanotech. Pretty sure I qualify as pre-med.

[ He eyes Stephen. ]

I'm not cutting you out of that shirt. You're gonna have to -- wait, let me. [ He steps in without hesitating to start undoing buttons, trying to be quick and impersonal about it. Because it's what he does, he keeps talking as his hands travel down Stephen's front. ] So, we're gonna have to agree. You don't get to call me "nurse". I will accept Doctor Stark. Two PhDs, so technically, you know. Correct.

[rehandle]

[ The motor running inside Tony picks up and kicks in, words and motion and all of it equally, genuinely reassuring somehow. For a moment he forgets what they're preparing for, quick fingers plucking at shirt buttons and quick tongue rallying off relevant accolades. It makes him comfortable, too comfortable, comfortable enough to say - ]

You'll cut off my arm but the shirt's too far?

[ A joke. He doesn't feel sorry about it even if he should, a small glimmer back in his eye as he watches Tony bare his skin, too hot and too cold at once. ]

Okay, Doctorate Stark. [ Important distinction, there more to feel like himself, help keep himself together than because he actually cares in this moment to be difficult. Shirt loose now, he lifts what's left of his hand so he can hook his still-living thumb under the collar, pull it away from his shoulder, about all he can do to help with the removal process now. ] Which procedure concerns you the most?

[ingeniar]

[ Jokes are good, because jokes are normal, and normal is also good. Tony makes a disagreeable noise over the correction vis-à-vis his qualifications but doesn't pursue it, too busy helping to ease Stephen's shirt off without touching the stone on his arms. He's spent a decent amount of his adult life with people available to help him get dressed and undressed, so he knows how it works, skating his palms over the warm skin on Stephen's shoulders to ease the shirt off. ]

Placing the catheter? I'm not sure if we're ready to know each other like that.

[ Shirt off, he folds it carefully and glances around for somewhere to put it. A nearby chair does the job. That done, he resumes hunting around the room, rolling up his own shirtsleeves as he does it. ]

What can I do to numb the pain? Can we knock you out? Give you.. I don't know, a shitload of booze?

[rehandle]

[ That's one logistical hurdle he aggressively hadn't considered and won't be considering now either, but the turnabout's fair play. Eager for any grounding influence, he tracks Tony's movement about the room, taking a breath before moving to settle against the table they've been using for everything from examinations to amputations. A stack of crates nearby makes for a second table - somewhere to steady a limb before hacking it off, for instance. For tools: a small, wheeled bar cart. ]

We can try. I'll take a little now, but it's better I'm awake and clear-headed. In case you need guidance.

[ Easy to say, when he doesn't yet have to acknowledge what awake and clear-headed means in the context of sitting through the removal of parts of his own body. But he's stomached worse than this. Combining his lived moments of acute pain makes this barely a drop in the ocean - no matter how swiftly after came the abrupt release of death in most of those circumstances. It'll be fine. There's no other option. ]

I'll be fine. [ Pale reassurance. He'll come out the other side and he'll weather the middle. It's about as much as anyone could hope for. ] But if you have a preference on which arm you want me around for, I'd decide before you get started.

[ Impressive though his pain tolerance might be, he's still ultimately human. No promises he won't pass out halfway through. ]

[ingeniar]

[ He'll take a little now, like he's putting in a wine order -- Tony would roll his eyes, but he's too freaked out. Not that he's allowing that to surface, even to himself. Do the work first, panic later. A mantra that's gotten him through far worse than this. Though this is, admittedly, pretty bad.

Tony opens cabinets and pokes through boxes until he finds what he's looking for, no doubt stashed by a very tired doctor at the end of a long shift, or perhaps thoughtfully supplied by a butler or whatever. The whiskey bottle is three quarters empty; Tony eyes it as he straightens up. ]

Hey, a good year.

[ He turns back to Stephen. ]

First of all, sit down. If you pass out, I'm not catching you. Here, I -- oh, right.

[ Thing that should have been obvious: stone fingers don't exactly make ideal drinking tools. Tony pauses for a second, then helpfully unscrews the cap from the bottle and sets it down within reach of Stephen, not quite ready to give the wizard's dignity the hit of actually bottle-feeding him just yet. That done, he moves over to the camping sink set up in a corner of the tent, busying himself with washing his hands in the available soap and water while he does Stephen the favor of a little privacy while he faces the task ahead. ]

The core of robotic engineering is built on biology. It's all the same basic science, just different applications. [ He doesn't stop talking, of course, while he scrubs at his palms and fingernails. ] The human body is the ideal machine. Flexible skeletal structure, adaptive strength, agility. Robotics takes that and uses it. Torque, tension, the flex of tendons, muscle made out of carbon and steel. Then, cybernetics, integrates it back into the body. I've got a buddy over at Johns Hopkins. While I was working on the nanotech, he let me sit in on some autopsies.

[ He shakes his hands dry as he turns back to look at Stephen. ]

I mean, surgery? It's not that hard. Really. It's just a different type of machine. And I'm good with machines.

[rehandle]

[ He left it too late. Not news to either of them, but something made clearer when every little thing he might need to do for himself proves impossible. Stephen sits as he's told, eyes the open bottle as Tony bustles about preparing for what's next, half listening and half jarred into stillness by the sudden gut-drop realisation that the pending surgery isn't going to do a thing to resolve his inability to reach out and take a drink. This won't be the first time he's emerged from an operating room with hands tangibly worse than the last time he saw them - it will be the first time he'll see no hands at all.

Panic is a dry rot eating away at supporting beams. He's still staring at that whiskey bottle when he speaks up in retort, voice clear with practised calm and the mediating chill of the stone he's becoming. ]

Don't let it go to your head. [ The inevitability of him doing a good job implied if you squint, and the only trace of gratitude Tony gets for all the custom-packaged reassurance he'd just delivered. ] Anyone can take off a limb.

[ As opposed to rooting around in the human brain or reassembling a spine, he means, intended as a playful parry but spoken too flatly to manifest in that spirit. Perhaps if he weren't in the process of slow dissociation. Finally, he looks up at Tony, blinks as if that might clear the encroaching fog of fear and return some of the lost colour to his face. ]

Okay. Let's sterilise the area, draw out your incision points, prep the tourniquet and get started.

[ There's a pen helpfully waiting on the lower level of the bar cart, still there from its last use. It traps him almost as easily as the whisky bottle had, and it takes all of his focus to force his attention back up to Tony's face again. ]

[ingeniar]

[ Tempting as it is to argue that he's not just anyone, thank you very much, Tony takes one look at Stephen's face and the retort gets balled up and tossed into the proverbial wastebasket. There's something vaguely familiar about the set of the wizard's jaw and the pale cast to his cheek -- it takes Tony a minute to place it before he gets there.

The spaceship on the way to Titan. Fresh from some particularly nasty torture, facing down the end of the universe. Tony had spent some time wondering when Stephen had decided to give up the Time Stone. Not then, he'd decided. At that point, he'd probably still been scared.

Tony meets Stephen's gaze, frowning but he doesn't offer any sympathetic words, which in itself might be its own kind of compassion. The understanding, one broken and put-together-again man to another, that there are some things for which sympathy is useless. It's like being back in the cave. Back in New York, in Sokovia, on Titan. The times when the only thing you can do is get through it.

Instead, he reaches out to put a hand on Stephen's shoulder as he passes him by on the way to the bar cart, a brief firm squeeze that says I'm not going anywhere. ]

All right.

[ He uncaps the marker with his thumb. ]

Let's go.

[rehandle]

[ It's time, then.

He's a detached and pragmatic consultant through the opening plays: the cleaning of the incision sites, the track of pen over skin. He interrupts only when necessary, instructions clear and precise, and when almost all preparation is done and Tony lifts not the tourniquet but the bottle, Stephen raises his chin and opens his mouth to obligingly drink down what he's given.

There's a moment of pause before the tourniquet's pulled taut. Eyes met, breath held. Once this is done, it starts. And once it starts, there's no going back.

He'd once called pain an old friend - one of the longest, most consistent relationships he's had. But as the scalpel cuts in, as skin gives way to muscle gives way to tendons, pain reminds him that it's often the oldest friends you've made the most allowances for.

He keeps it together as long as he can, mouth stubbornly empty of anything to bite down on so he can contribute if he needs to, trying to swallow strained sounds before he can make them, but before long it's only the weight of his own stone limbs and the sudden weakness of his muscles that keep him where he's needed. Feet kick, stamp impotently against the table he lays on, but he begs not for an end to it but for something to shut him up, something to stop his tongue before it can make this harder for them both. And when Tony makes quick work of the last sinews keeping his hand connected to the bones of his wrist and he feels the joint slip open, a whole now two parts connected only by lingering muscle and a sliver of skin, something in him shorts out, and he's gone. ]