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“Mister Strange?” At the sound of his teacher’s voice, he looked up and dislodged the blankets that he had pulled over his head. “Don’t you have places to be?” She was standing in the doorway, her arms folded behind her back in a serenity that only she could manage.
“Of course,” he stuttered, struggling to push himself onto his elbows without having to use his hands. “I’ll be right there.”
She gave a noncommittal noise, then crossed his room in two short strides, moving to kneel beside his bed, her palms turned upward expectantly. Although what it was she wanted, he still hadn’t decided. “Are your hands bothering you, Stephen?”
He wondered when they had moved to a first name basis (and when and if she will return the favor, calling her The Ancient One was becoming frustrating) and when it was decided that barging into a sleeping person’s room wasn’t weird at all. When he didn’t answer fast enough, she hummed and snapped her fingers. Finally getting the hint he sat up and placed his hands in hers, letting her inspect them. Her hands were warm, and something about it was soothing to the damaged nerves.
“I don’t know if you’ve had nerve damage before,” he growled as she pinched at one of his scars, “but it tends to be painful.”
“Is it the nerve damage?” she asked, tracing the lines from his last operation. “Or the seven procedures?” She always knew how to cut him to the core, and Stephen looked away before he responded with anything cruel or thankless.
She stood up, still holding his hands and forcing him to stand as well. “Were you not given any kind of physical therapy?”
“Of course but, that was months ago.”
She blinked at him, and he had the feeling that she had labeled him as stupid and couldn’t believe she was spending her time on him. “You know, they teach you the movements in your therapy,” she bounced the last word off her tongue, in a way that was either praising it highly or condemning it, he never could tell with her. “But you are meant to continue doing them in your own time.”
Sometimes he found himself wondering where she came up with all of her knowledge of the modern world, despite being so obviously secluded from it. Then he decided it was best not to question her. “I- I don’t have time,” Stephen mumbled. It was true, in the mornings he delved into books, the afternoons he spent with physical training. He barely had enough time to wash before the communal supper, and by the time that was finished he barely made it back to his room before falling into bed.
The Ancient One stared. “Well,” she said, “that is news to me.” He could see her thinking - one of the things he enjoyed about her company was how expressive and amusing her face could be - and then she decided, “I want you done with all of your training by four o’clock everyday. Then you will have two hours to yourself before dinner.” She squeezed his hands between hers, and gave him a smile. “I will explain the situation to Master Mordo.”
He stared for a moment, stunned by her generosity. “T-thank you, Ancient One.”
She looked down at his hands again, a frown creasing her brow, then muttered, “I’m not done,” before releasing him and heading to the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” she shouted over her shoulder. He sat on his bed, slightly confused (although, if ever wasn't confused around her he started to worry).
Her return did nothing to ease his confusion, instead the steaming bowl in her hands, which she sat on his desk, only served to increase it. “Ancient One? What are you-”
“Soak your hands,” she said, pushing the chair at him. He sat obediently, but took one look at the discolored water and looked at her, waiting to be told more before he put his hands in it (or, for that matter, anywhere near it).
She sighed, sitting on top of his desk, beside the bowl, and taking ahold of his hands, “Capsaicin, Mister Strange. It comes from chilies and is a known to prevent nerves from sending pain signals to the brain.” Without waiting for him to make up his mind, she submerged both of their hands in the bowl.
The first thing he thought was that he had never had someone force his hands into a bowl of hot water, the second thing he realized was how hot the water was. If it wasn’t for the Ancient One’s tight grip, or the fact that he didn’t want to risk spilling the scalding water over both their laps - as kind as the Ancient One was capable of being, he doubted she would take well to that - he would have pulled away immediately. “Hey!” he gasped. She ignored him.
He closed his eyes took several deep breaths, focusing on getting air in and out of his lungs, rather than the uncomfortable that his hands were being melted off. Only once he calmed himself did he realize that the Ancient One was not longer simply holding his hands in the basin. She was staring at the bowl, completely entranced by what she was doing, and rubbing gentle circles into his skin, pulling at the joints in his fingers with surprising tenderness. The hot water and herb mixture had either soothed away most of his pain, or completely burned off the nerve endings. He should have been horrified at the second thought, but as much pain as he had been in earlier it was almost a welcome idea.
“Thank you,” he said, finally remembering his manners.
Once again she barely gave him a responce, just a quiet hum as she pulled at his index finger. They lapsed into silence for a few moments, broken only by periodic frustrated huffs from the Ancient One and grunts from her student when she pulled too hard.
Only when she was completely satisfied with her work did she release his hands and lift her own from the bowl, drying them on a towel he hadn’t realized she had. Stephen didn’t move to take his hands from the bowl, enjoying the hot water far too much, instead he waited for her to speak. After a moment of fumbling in her robes, she produced a vial of power which she placed on his desk. “This is highly concentrated Capsaicin, use no more than a teaspoon in that bowl. I would suggest soaking your hands for a few minutes before attempting any of your exercises. Start tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said taking his hands from the bowl and allowing himself to be handed the towel. “Thank you.” He is aware of how he is starting to sound like a broken record, simply repeating his thanks over and over again, but the teacher simply nods and accepts it. “I dislike seeing people in pain,” she said after a moment. Then she stood, adjusted her robes, and walked out the door without another word.