"Actually, I thought I might provide your bar with a much needed centerpiece." Dorian's answer is thoughtless, instinctive, as is the dazzling smile he bestows upon Cabot. The way he leans forward against the bar top is practically calculated, his cheek cupped by his palm, with his elbow resting on the worn, stained wood. "Something to draw the bleary-eyed gazes of your patrons. I'm a far better focal point than some dreary middle distance, wouldn't you agree?"

Cabot, unsurprisingly, is altogether unmoved by the display – somehow, in fact, he seems even more indifferent.

Undeterred, Dorian chuckles softly and flicks the fingers of his free hand. "Fine. If the Bull will forgive my forwardness, I'll take the liberty of ordering us two bowls of stew, and two tankards of your least objectionable, least watery ale."

Cabot grunts out his response, accustomed to Dorian's verbal slights, and moves away from the bar into his small kitchen. When he does, Dorian straightens, the breezy manner falling away.

"What a refreshing change of pace," Dorian says, almost addressing the room at large, even if the words are meant only for the Bull; his tone is light, at odds with his expression – which is a little solemn, a little thoughtful. "Between Evelyn and the healer, I'd been feeling quite coddled since we returned to Skyhold."