Could have done a cleaner cut, when it's already so neat and tidy. So Strange was a healer. Is? He's going to have to dig deeper into that, and maybe that'll get them away from that bitter tinge underneath it all.

Mobius has not yet had much time in comparison to get used to the fact that sensation simply stops at the end of his wrists. Some mornings he wakes up forgetful of the fact, growing alarmed at the lack of sensation. (Those are not the mornings he is startled by nightmares, or the mornings when Jude is laying atop him.) He forgets himself and drops things or bends things or breaks things simply because he has forgotten, forgets that when he reaches for something sight unseen he cannot actually feel when he's made contact and must look every time, and he doesn't know if it's because he's not used to it or because the lyrium is finally getting to him. Or both.

That Strange repeats the question, so odd to him, gives Mobius the indication that either it's so out of the ordinary that it simply cannot be believed (and really, who could blame him), or--it's jealousy. That he feels no pain at all.

He lays his right hand flat, lefty that he is, on the table and picks up a spoon firm in hamfisted grip. With all the casualness of breathing, he brings said spoon down sharply on a knuckle. The librarian doesn't so much as flinch. Be glad he didn't grab a fork instead.

"It's a great party trick," he says dryly.