Strange had lurched slightly forward, a half-aborted attempt to reach out and forestall the other man, but then he sinks back in his chair once he realises what Mobius is actually doing. “Oh dear god, I thought you were going to do a knife trick, that would’ve been unhinged—” There’s a kind of strangled amusement in his voice, the kind of gallow’s laugh you can only share because you both understand how fucked the situation is.

But still. There had been the crisp smack of metal hitting flesh and bone, and no reaction from the other man. Strange makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.

“I honestly can’t tell which is worse,” he says bluntly, “which is probably a sign that the grass really is always greener on the other side, or whatever. Pain with some sensation, or no sensation at all? They’re both shit. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

The words are a rapid-fire patter, like it’s easier to say if it’s ripping off the band-aid quickly. He’s bad at consolation.

But he’s also aware he’s behaved very oddly indeed throughout this interaction, so. An attempt at explaining: “Before I broke my hands. I was a neurosurgeon. I worked on nerves. They’re the things inside you which control sensory input and muscle control and a great number of other things. It was delicate work, and we had the capability to— to repair damaged nerves, to reconnect them. Fixing paralysis or numbness or seizures. I can’t shake the feeling that, in my heyday, I might’ve been able to do something about that,” he points to Mobius’ hands, “but, y’know, that’s probably hubris.”

He’s trying to be better about identifying hubris, these days.