The hint of a grimace crosses the Bull's face as he looks at the hand Dorian's offering, but he's not so off about the leg thing yet that he's going to start being shitty to people for no reason, especially someone who's going through too much shit himself already. So he wraps his hand around Dorian's palm and wrist, tries to put most of his weight on himself and on the cane, and doesn't let himself think for more than an instant about the contact, acknowledging how he feels about it and then, once he's up, letting Dorian's hand go.
"Hey, Krem!" the Bull calls to him. "You guys going to miss me if I head out?"
"Like a hernia!" Krem calls back, and something in the barks of scattered laughter that gets from the other Chargers keeps the Bull from really smiling at the backtalk like he might have wanted to. Some of the laughing sounded louder, sharper than it should be, the kind of sound people make more because there's too much tension they've got to let out than because anything's really that funny, and that kind of sucks the fun out of it.
Yeah. They all need a break, too. The Bull's mouth moves into enough of a grin to acknowledge Krem's joke and then he nods a goodbye, starts heading toward the tavern. It isn't far but he's slow now, so slow, and every step's an exercise in frustration. Or patience. Same difference.
"So," he says, talking while he moves so he doesn't have to think about it. "How much of a distraction you think you're up for? Marie and a couple others are keeping me up to date on the on-the-ground gossip, Vivienne's filling me in about the noble stuff, the guests and everything.
"Or, hey," he adds, as it occurs to him that the Iron Bull would probably at least imply, here, "I got other stuff you can think about all you want." He flexes his bicep extra hard when he leans on the cane and gets the pec on that side flexing along with it, and doing it makes his little grin from a few seconds ago come back, looking more real this time.
That's good. Probably not enough to make Dorian really go tense, not like touching him, and it's fun besides. He hasn't had enough dumb crap in him lately, and it feels almost good to dredge a little bit of it up again. "All you have to do is say the word."
Dorian is hardly surprised by the Bull's speed – or lack thereof. Stubborn man that the Bull is, Dorian would wager that the other man hasn't looked after himself as well as he should; the fact that he was out here instead of resting in his chambers was more than evidence enough. He keeps pace with the Bull, nevertheless, putting on an air of ease and confidence that's practically second nature.
I'm not going this slow for you, his demeanor seems to say. You're going this slow for me.
He's happy to let the Bull ramble – a diversion to draw attention away from the Bull's pace, perhaps, or something to keep the Bull's mind from the pain? But when the other man seems to interrupt himself with a sudden stroke of inspiration, Dorian glances over and sees the way the Bull flexes.
... Admittedly, it's impressive.
But Dorian rolls his eyes, nevertheless, heaving out an aggravated groan.
"Maker, spare me from your displays," he says. "It's far too early in the day for this."
The Bull chuckles and keeps on walking. It's weird, kind of, that specific type of consideration he's seeing out of Dorian and Vivienne both where they use the whole holier than thou thing as a cover for whatever the Bull needs done and no one has to point out just why he needs it, or make a big deal out of it, or make him have to put on this extra-happy face just to get them back on an even keel. It's not the kind of thing anyone but nobility would be able to really pull off, and the whole Qunari mercenary thing means the nobility he usually ends up dealing with is only really going to treat him in a few pretty specific ways. So Dorian's whole manner right now is new, still, to the Bull. It might not technically be that much of an effort, just this attitude in the way Dorian walks, but it's nice. Very Dorian, that kind of attention to that kind of detail. In line, probably, with the kind of personality that would jump barefaced in front of a darkspawn without even defending himself just so the useless asshole behind him might have a hope of staying safe.
The thought comes to him with this compressed little package of familiar emotion, and he puts it away. There's always time to shine a light on that shit later, when he's by himself. For now he thinks about how hard Dorian would laugh if the Bull out and out went and called him nice, how many little cracks about it Dorian would have to make afterward just to prove that he wasn't. Maybe if the Bull doesn't use the word.
"Hey, you make a good escort," he says, not needing to look at the door to know it's just a few more arm-lengths away. If he didn't know by now exactly how many steps it takes to get there, he'd have to hand in his ben-hassrath card. "You know one of the Chargers actually smacked herself in the face with the door trying to open it for me? Another one tripped over these - you know how some of the ladies here to see Josephine bring their pets? There was this like, herd of little nugs, and they're not quiet, should have spotted them in his sleep. I had to spend the next hour sweet talking her to smooth it over, you know how those highborn types get." There's a little humour in the Bull's face as he finishes up with that, something pointed - you know, Dorian, like you - and something fond - except, not really like you at all - that hints at all that stuff Dorian would complain about, if the Bull said it out loud.
Dorian snorts at the mental image – first, of someone giving themselves a black eye with the edge of the door, and second, of a herd of nugs scurrying underfoot.
He reaches the door first, opening it without doing himself any bodily harm, and holds it for the Bull to pass through first.
It's a testament, probably, to the time they've spent together that Dorian gets the vague impression of those underlying comments. You know how those highborn types get, the Bull says, because Dorian's spent most of his life among those "highborn types." But evidently the Bull doesn't count Dorian among them, considering he quite pointedly did not say you highborn types.
It's probably meant as a compliment, Dorian thinks. Or, at the very least it's not meant to be an insult. The Bull may be a subtle man when the fancy strikes, but when he wants to poke fun at Dorian, he rarely resorts to anything so understated.
"I'll have you know, I wouldn't be caught dead with a pet nug," he says, putting on just the right amount of haughty. Easier to address the obvious than dive into the deeper meaning of the Bull's words, at least for now. His expression wrinkles as he affects a shudder. "Those creepy little feet. Absolutely horrific."
"Come on Dorian, you judge everybody by their feet?" the Bull asks, moving past him and into the tavern. Usually he'd go straight back to his spot, because when you're Qunari sized and find the one chair that doesn't feel like it's going to break apart if you so much as fart the wrong way, you stick to it like it's attached - but then he'd have to get back up again to get drinks, bring them back, and right now that's a whole thing, so he might as well just head toward Cabot, Cabot's long table, and its tiny, shitty little stools.
That's what happens when you get a dwarf to run the bar, he thinks, then decides that if one shitty comment in the privacy of his own head is as far as his frustration's going to go then he might just be able to give Dorian the kind of distraction he needs today without coming off like too much of an asshole, shitty little stools or not. He can just lean against the counter or drag a crate in front of his chair or something, it doesn't have to be a big deal.
"People have other qualities you know," he goes on, making his way toward the counter and leaning just enough of his weight on it to look like he's at ease. "You've got to work on that, learn to look past the feet. So, what are you thirsty for? They been giving you anything good to drink up there?"
Dorian snorts at that, more dismissive than anything, and while he starts moving toward the Chargers' usual haunt, expecting the Bull would prefer to sit somewhere comfortably, the other man surprises him by moving toward the bar.
He hesitates for a second, but follows the Bull's lead.
"Evelyn offered a bottle or two of wine, pilfered from the good stocks," he answers easily enough. "A secret that I share with you in strict confidence. The Inquisitor didn't bother asking Lady Montilyet for permission, you see."
He may have even had a glass or two, just for a bit of stress relief, but the wine remains largely untouched. Most of his days and nights were spent focused on recreating his work, wishing dearly that he had had time enough while fleeing his father's estate to pack his research with Alexius. He remembered a good deal of it, of course – Alexius had praised him highly for his excellent recall – but it would have been reassuring to have something. Just that little reminder that he was working in the right direction.
The Bull leans against the counter, and he looks convincingly unperturbed. Still, Dorian glances first at he closest stools, then at the nearest chairs, before frowning.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer your usual seat?"
He shrugs, deliberately patient. One of the Chargers might put up with the attitude he kind of wants to answer the question with - mostly because they don't have that much of a choice - but Dorian might not, and besides that, Dorian hasn't had a whole lot of time to get used to seeing the Bull like this yet. This is the first time they've seen each other since the Deep Roads, so a part of Dorian's mind is going to be coming straight from all that shit to here. The Bull can be a little patient for that, even if people trying to get all helpful and accommodating grates worse and worse the more time the Bull spends thinking about whether the damn thing's actually going to heal.
This is more about Dorian than him, though. Dorian needs a distraction from his own shit. That helps.
"Cabot's not going to have a lot of help until later when it gets busy. You want to find out how he feels about making personal deliveries all over the place, though, you go right ahead." And then, because patience or not, turning the conversation to Dorian instead of him puts the Bull a little more at ease: "You hit your head back in the Deep Roads, right? How's that holding up? The healers able to take care of it?"
For a moment, Dorian does, in fact, nearly offer to bring the Bull his drinks.
(Which would be at least a little funny, he thinks. He can practically hear his ancestors screeching at him from beyond the Veil at the impropriety of it all.)
But the Bull changes topics on him, and reflexively, Dorian touches his temple. The bruising is not quite as vivid, these days; in the days immediately after leaving the Deep Roads, it had been a little unsightly. There's absolutely little to be thankful for in his situation, but a small part of him is glad his vanity was spared, at least for a little while.
"A few draughts of elfroot potion saw to the worst of it." He flashes the other man a wan smile. "It'll take far more than a little bump to the head to finish me off, I think."
"Yeah," the Bull says with an amused noise, because there's nothing else to do with what's behind that little statement - Dorian, the one expert, not being convinced that he's clear of the taint just yet, the way the waiting isn't over - but to ignore it. Maybe they're going to find out just what it takes to finish Dorian off soon, and maybe they're not. Now's not the time to bring it up. "I was thinking it might be something serious when we were down there, but I should have known you're tougher than that."
"Hey," interrupts Cabot, finished with the soldier a few stools down and now leaning against the table in front of them. His eyes flicker over Dorian; he's definitely at least heard a couple rumours. You wouldn't know it from his voice, though, brusque and abrupt as ever, and the little look and the pause doesn't last longer than an instant before it's business as usual. "You guys just here to take up space, or you gonna order something?"
Edited (forgot to say, if this doesn't work let me know and I can edit) 2021-05-17 18:59 (UTC)
"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."
Yeah, well, she's been worried about you, the Bull doesn't say. Dorian already knows, and doesn't need to hear it. He needs to hear the edge that would sneak in to the Bull's voice if he did say it even less, that misplaced, twisted up feeling at being the reason Dorian's going through this without being able to even talk to him, while Dorian sits there with nothing but the worst, shittiest memories of his old friend Felix to keep him company while he pushes through it on his own. At least the boss got to be worried.
Not Dorian's fault, the Bull reminds himself, taking a second to stare down at the counter and take a breath. Dorian had to be isolated for a while, and of course the boss is the only one who got to see him while he was. That's just how things shook out. It is what it is. And it's over now anyway, Dorian's here and talking to him. Time to let it go.
"Yeah, people like the coddling thing," he says instead, from personal experience, and tries to use the movement of turning to face Dorian as an excuse to shift more of his weight onto his right leg. He's not supposed to do that a whole lot - be pretty shitty if he messed up the only good one he's got putting too much of his weight on it too often - but his mind's going in enough different directions right now without that constant, low-level bullshit his ankle's sending out making it even easier for him to get crabby, and leaning any harder on the cane than he already is would make that need to lean way too obvious. "Makes them feel better about shit.
"Think sending you out here means she's done feeling guilty, though? Or you think she's just gearing up for something else? You did say she kept you from holing up in the library, right, made you come out here for fresh air."
Dorian lets out an affected sigh, shaking his head. "Maker save me from the Herald's good intentions."
He turns a little, then, casting an absent look at the Bull as the other man shifts his weight – or, at the very least, a layman might characterize it as an absent look. A more observant person would take it for what it is: an attempt to drawn in as many details as possible without seeming too obvious.
Only a complete idiot would fail to realize that the Bull absolutely shouldn't be standing on his still-healing leg, but by Dorian's estimation, it's less a matter of forcing the Bull into following good sense and more a matter of calculating how long to allow the charade to continue.
A few minutes more, is what he decides. Perhaps once their orders of hearty, rustic stew and tepid ale have arrived, Dorian can convince the Bull to adjourn to one of the tables.
"More realistically," Dorian says, once his decision is made, "Evelyn is all too happy to put this nasty business behind us. She's a remarkable person, but she doesn't have much of a stomach for the thought of any member of her inner circle passing. Better to assume I've come away unscathed than..."
He pauses before airily waving a hand.
"Than the alternative, of course. Such an idealist, that woman. For someone who murders as many people as she does, she really has no tolerance for talks of death."
"Easier when you don't know 'em," the Bull points out, eyeing Dorian. The way Dorian's looking at him promises something irritating in his future, Dorian seeing too much and maybe deciding to do something about it. That's what he gets for having smart friends, he guesses. At least he can tell it might be coming so he can brace himself.
And hey, maybe if Dorian does decide to start fussing or something, it'll give him something else to think about. Doesn't seem like he's had a lot of that. Might be good for Dorian, at least, even if the Bull by this point just wants everyone to pretend his shitting leg doesn't exist until the whole problem goes away, one way or the other.
He leans a little bit more on the long counter table, focuses on breathing for a second, wants a drink. Something in the here and now to focus on, hold it in his hands and think about the way it tastes instead of running through the other times he got that same injury in the same spot, running through the stupid shit he did back then and what he could have done for Dorian if the joint and the ligaments and all the tiny little bones in there had been just a little bit stronger and how it'd felt when it was healing and how it feels now and always building all these comparisons in the back of his head like the same old crap's going to up and start telling him something new out of nowhere.
He wants to kick something's ass, he wants to fuck, he needs something that'll take him out of his head so he has more focus to spare for Dorian, who really needs the companionship right now. He'll go off and do some deep breathing or something later. For now he'll just do what he can, try for some topic that might give Dorian something to complain about. Shouldn't be that hard, and Dorian always seems a little bit happier when he's complaining.
"And when it's someone you faced down some of the really tough crap with-" He goes on, shrugging. "Not everyone's used to that. Still, if she's acting like everything's fine she's got to let you back up into the library soon, right?" Where the Bull won't be able to follow him. But that's tomorrow's problem. "You'll be able to go back to research, see if all those books up there have anything good inside 'em."
The answer is practically instinctive, as is the mild disdain: "Those books never have anything good inside them."
Between one breath and the next, Cabot appears with their order, placing two bowls and two mugs before Dorian and the Bull without spilling a drop. Reflexively, Dorian reaches for his coin pouch before Cabot waves it away, grumbling something about placing the order on the Chargers' sizable tab – something, Dorian has been told, that Cabot allows to reach relatively astronomical heights, knowing and trusting the Chargers will repay him without any reminders. Before Dorian wonders if he ought to protest and insist that he can pay his own way, Cabot has already disappeared.
It's the ale that Dorian reaches for first. He's had plenty of stew in his week in isolation – it's the shitty, acrid ale that he's truly missed. The first swig is every bit as disappointing and, somehow, as satisfying as he hoped. Dorian simultaneously frowns and sighs with it, thumbing at the corner of his mouth to catch a stray drop.
"More likely, she'll probably insist on my getting some fresh air," he says. He picks up the spoon, idly dragging it through the bowl of stew. (He imagines his mother tutting and frowning at him. "It's unbecoming to play with your food, Dorian.") "Never mind that nearly every inhale leaves frost in my lungs. I suppose if Evelyn's intention is to preserve me, freezing me alive seems a fair option."
After one more mouthful of ale, and Dorian pushes off from the counter. "Your usual spot seems to be open," he says decisively – not that the Bull's spot is ever occupied by anyone other than the Bull. By now, all of the Inquisition and even its guests, whether highborn or low, know better than to attempt to claim the Bull's seat as their own. "Come. You'll tell me what I've missed."
The Bull's lips are twisting up in this wry, appreciative little smile before he really realises it. He's too on edge, expecting everyone to make a point of acting like his damned ankle might as well be made of glass right now - starting at the ankle and spreading outward, maybe, because once the wrong spot goes out everything else seems like it might as well follow - but Dorian did this outside too, walked here slow and proud without even talking about it, like he wasn't slowing down for the Bull, like that was just how things were. If he's been reading the guy right - and he thinks he's known Dorian long enough that he is - then there's a lot to appreciate about the way Dorian's handling the whole 'the Iron Bull needs a cane now' thing, something considerate about it in that way not a lot of people really get or try for. There's something in the way Dorian says it, too, that rings just the right way inside the Bull, something else about it.
He takes a second, looking at the bowl and the mug and the cane and deciding which of his two hands is going to hold what, to tell himself to put into words what that something is. Because a part of him knows. It's that thing where someone strong and tough lays out how things are going to be and doesn't so much expect the Bull to follow as just goes on knowing that he's going to, the certainty in that, the order laid out by the strength of someone else's will. It's the same feeling Vivenne's been laying out a little at a time for him, coming down and talking to him like she has been to help keep him sane. It's the same feeling, strikes a hard note in him like that for the same reason. Better to admit to himself just how much he needs that feeling right now so he can keep an eye on that reaction to it.
Still, the Bull's inner crap aside, that decisive little order's more considerate than the Bull expected, and the fond smile's lingering a little as he settles for tucking the cane in an elbow and carrying the rest. The idea of toughing it out for a few seconds on the way to the one solid chair in the place feels better than trying to use the cane and balance the rest and make it even more obvious how useless he is right now by spilling his own meal all over himself.
"Ah, lot of gossip mostly," he says, leaning away from the counter and taking a second to brace himself to make sure he can keep the limp out of his walk. "You can pick your favourite and ask me about whatever. We've got who the nobles have been sleeping with, who everyone else's been sleeping with, the bet about how many reputations Josephine's going to ruin in a couple weeks when that guy who keeps trying to flirt with her gets here with all his friends- oh hey, I think I might be making some headway with her on no-pants Fridays for me and my guys 'cause she feels bad for me right now, you think you could give her some big eyes about it too? Tell her how good it'd be for your morale."
Edited (why do i nitpick like this) 2021-09-01 02:10 (UTC)
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"Hey, Krem!" the Bull calls to him. "You guys going to miss me if I head out?"
"Like a hernia!" Krem calls back, and something in the barks of scattered laughter that gets from the other Chargers keeps the Bull from really smiling at the backtalk like he might have wanted to. Some of the laughing sounded louder, sharper than it should be, the kind of sound people make more because there's too much tension they've got to let out than because anything's really that funny, and that kind of sucks the fun out of it.
Yeah. They all need a break, too. The Bull's mouth moves into enough of a grin to acknowledge Krem's joke and then he nods a goodbye, starts heading toward the tavern. It isn't far but he's slow now, so slow, and every step's an exercise in frustration. Or patience. Same difference.
"So," he says, talking while he moves so he doesn't have to think about it. "How much of a distraction you think you're up for? Marie and a couple others are keeping me up to date on the on-the-ground gossip, Vivienne's filling me in about the noble stuff, the guests and everything.
"Or, hey," he adds, as it occurs to him that the Iron Bull would probably at least imply, here, "I got other stuff you can think about all you want." He flexes his bicep extra hard when he leans on the cane and gets the pec on that side flexing along with it, and doing it makes his little grin from a few seconds ago come back, looking more real this time.
That's good. Probably not enough to make Dorian really go tense, not like touching him, and it's fun besides. He hasn't had enough dumb crap in him lately, and it feels almost good to dredge a little bit of it up again. "All you have to do is say the word."
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I'm not going this slow for you, his demeanor seems to say. You're going this slow for me.
He's happy to let the Bull ramble – a diversion to draw attention away from the Bull's pace, perhaps, or something to keep the Bull's mind from the pain? But when the other man seems to interrupt himself with a sudden stroke of inspiration, Dorian glances over and sees the way the Bull flexes.
... Admittedly, it's impressive.
But Dorian rolls his eyes, nevertheless, heaving out an aggravated groan.
"Maker, spare me from your displays," he says. "It's far too early in the day for this."
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The thought comes to him with this compressed little package of familiar emotion, and he puts it away. There's always time to shine a light on that shit later, when he's by himself. For now he thinks about how hard Dorian would laugh if the Bull out and out went and called him nice, how many little cracks about it Dorian would have to make afterward just to prove that he wasn't. Maybe if the Bull doesn't use the word.
"Hey, you make a good escort," he says, not needing to look at the door to know it's just a few more arm-lengths away. If he didn't know by now exactly how many steps it takes to get there, he'd have to hand in his ben-hassrath card. "You know one of the Chargers actually smacked herself in the face with the door trying to open it for me? Another one tripped over these - you know how some of the ladies here to see Josephine bring their pets? There was this like, herd of little nugs, and they're not quiet, should have spotted them in his sleep. I had to spend the next hour sweet talking her to smooth it over, you know how those highborn types get." There's a little humour in the Bull's face as he finishes up with that, something pointed - you know, Dorian, like you - and something fond - except, not really like you at all - that hints at all that stuff Dorian would complain about, if the Bull said it out loud.
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He reaches the door first, opening it without doing himself any bodily harm, and holds it for the Bull to pass through first.
It's a testament, probably, to the time they've spent together that Dorian gets the vague impression of those underlying comments. You know how those highborn types get, the Bull says, because Dorian's spent most of his life among those "highborn types." But evidently the Bull doesn't count Dorian among them, considering he quite pointedly did not say you highborn types.
It's probably meant as a compliment, Dorian thinks. Or, at the very least it's not meant to be an insult. The Bull may be a subtle man when the fancy strikes, but when he wants to poke fun at Dorian, he rarely resorts to anything so understated.
"I'll have you know, I wouldn't be caught dead with a pet nug," he says, putting on just the right amount of haughty. Easier to address the obvious than dive into the deeper meaning of the Bull's words, at least for now. His expression wrinkles as he affects a shudder. "Those creepy little feet. Absolutely horrific."
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That's what happens when you get a dwarf to run the bar, he thinks, then decides that if one shitty comment in the privacy of his own head is as far as his frustration's going to go then he might just be able to give Dorian the kind of distraction he needs today without coming off like too much of an asshole, shitty little stools or not. He can just lean against the counter or drag a crate in front of his chair or something, it doesn't have to be a big deal.
"People have other qualities you know," he goes on, making his way toward the counter and leaning just enough of his weight on it to look like he's at ease. "You've got to work on that, learn to look past the feet. So, what are you thirsty for? They been giving you anything good to drink up there?"
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He hesitates for a second, but follows the Bull's lead.
"Evelyn offered a bottle or two of wine, pilfered from the good stocks," he answers easily enough. "A secret that I share with you in strict confidence. The Inquisitor didn't bother asking Lady Montilyet for permission, you see."
He may have even had a glass or two, just for a bit of stress relief, but the wine remains largely untouched. Most of his days and nights were spent focused on recreating his work, wishing dearly that he had had time enough while fleeing his father's estate to pack his research with Alexius. He remembered a good deal of it, of course – Alexius had praised him highly for his excellent recall – but it would have been reassuring to have something. Just that little reminder that he was working in the right direction.
The Bull leans against the counter, and he looks convincingly unperturbed. Still, Dorian glances first at he closest stools, then at the nearest chairs, before frowning.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer your usual seat?"
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This is more about Dorian than him, though. Dorian needs a distraction from his own shit. That helps.
"Cabot's not going to have a lot of help until later when it gets busy. You want to find out how he feels about making personal deliveries all over the place, though, you go right ahead." And then, because patience or not, turning the conversation to Dorian instead of him puts the Bull a little more at ease: "You hit your head back in the Deep Roads, right? How's that holding up? The healers able to take care of it?"
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(Which would be at least a little funny, he thinks. He can practically hear his ancestors screeching at him from beyond the Veil at the impropriety of it all.)
But the Bull changes topics on him, and reflexively, Dorian touches his temple. The bruising is not quite as vivid, these days; in the days immediately after leaving the Deep Roads, it had been a little unsightly. There's absolutely little to be thankful for in his situation, but a small part of him is glad his vanity was spared, at least for a little while.
"A few draughts of elfroot potion saw to the worst of it." He flashes the other man a wan smile. "It'll take far more than a little bump to the head to finish me off, I think."
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"Hey," interrupts Cabot, finished with the soldier a few stools down and now leaning against the table in front of them. His eyes flicker over Dorian; he's definitely at least heard a couple rumours. You wouldn't know it from his voice, though, brusque and abrupt as ever, and the little look and the pause doesn't last longer than an instant before it's business as usual. "You guys just here to take up space, or you gonna order something?"
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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."
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Not Dorian's fault, the Bull reminds himself, taking a second to stare down at the counter and take a breath. Dorian had to be isolated for a while, and of course the boss is the only one who got to see him while he was. That's just how things shook out. It is what it is. And it's over now anyway, Dorian's here and talking to him. Time to let it go.
"Yeah, people like the coddling thing," he says instead, from personal experience, and tries to use the movement of turning to face Dorian as an excuse to shift more of his weight onto his right leg. He's not supposed to do that a whole lot - be pretty shitty if he messed up the only good one he's got putting too much of his weight on it too often - but his mind's going in enough different directions right now without that constant, low-level bullshit his ankle's sending out making it even easier for him to get crabby, and leaning any harder on the cane than he already is would make that need to lean way too obvious. "Makes them feel better about shit.
"Think sending you out here means she's done feeling guilty, though? Or you think she's just gearing up for something else? You did say she kept you from holing up in the library, right, made you come out here for fresh air."
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He turns a little, then, casting an absent look at the Bull as the other man shifts his weight – or, at the very least, a layman might characterize it as an absent look. A more observant person would take it for what it is: an attempt to drawn in as many details as possible without seeming too obvious.
Only a complete idiot would fail to realize that the Bull absolutely shouldn't be standing on his still-healing leg, but by Dorian's estimation, it's less a matter of forcing the Bull into following good sense and more a matter of calculating how long to allow the charade to continue.
A few minutes more, is what he decides. Perhaps once their orders of hearty, rustic stew and tepid ale have arrived, Dorian can convince the Bull to adjourn to one of the tables.
"More realistically," Dorian says, once his decision is made, "Evelyn is all too happy to put this nasty business behind us. She's a remarkable person, but she doesn't have much of a stomach for the thought of any member of her inner circle passing. Better to assume I've come away unscathed than..."
He pauses before airily waving a hand.
"Than the alternative, of course. Such an idealist, that woman. For someone who murders as many people as she does, she really has no tolerance for talks of death."
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And hey, maybe if Dorian does decide to start fussing or something, it'll give him something else to think about. Doesn't seem like he's had a lot of that. Might be good for Dorian, at least, even if the Bull by this point just wants everyone to pretend his shitting leg doesn't exist until the whole problem goes away, one way or the other.
He leans a little bit more on the long counter table, focuses on breathing for a second, wants a drink. Something in the here and now to focus on, hold it in his hands and think about the way it tastes instead of running through the other times he got that same injury in the same spot, running through the stupid shit he did back then and what he could have done for Dorian if the joint and the ligaments and all the tiny little bones in there had been just a little bit stronger and how it'd felt when it was healing and how it feels now and always building all these comparisons in the back of his head like the same old crap's going to up and start telling him something new out of nowhere.
He wants to kick something's ass, he wants to fuck, he needs something that'll take him out of his head so he has more focus to spare for Dorian, who really needs the companionship right now. He'll go off and do some deep breathing or something later. For now he'll just do what he can, try for some topic that might give Dorian something to complain about. Shouldn't be that hard, and Dorian always seems a little bit happier when he's complaining.
"And when it's someone you faced down some of the really tough crap with-" He goes on, shrugging. "Not everyone's used to that. Still, if she's acting like everything's fine she's got to let you back up into the library soon, right?" Where the Bull won't be able to follow him. But that's tomorrow's problem. "You'll be able to go back to research, see if all those books up there have anything good inside 'em."
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Between one breath and the next, Cabot appears with their order, placing two bowls and two mugs before Dorian and the Bull without spilling a drop. Reflexively, Dorian reaches for his coin pouch before Cabot waves it away, grumbling something about placing the order on the Chargers' sizable tab – something, Dorian has been told, that Cabot allows to reach relatively astronomical heights, knowing and trusting the Chargers will repay him without any reminders. Before Dorian wonders if he ought to protest and insist that he can pay his own way, Cabot has already disappeared.
It's the ale that Dorian reaches for first. He's had plenty of stew in his week in isolation – it's the shitty, acrid ale that he's truly missed. The first swig is every bit as disappointing and, somehow, as satisfying as he hoped. Dorian simultaneously frowns and sighs with it, thumbing at the corner of his mouth to catch a stray drop.
"More likely, she'll probably insist on my getting some fresh air," he says. He picks up the spoon, idly dragging it through the bowl of stew. (He imagines his mother tutting and frowning at him. "It's unbecoming to play with your food, Dorian.") "Never mind that nearly every inhale leaves frost in my lungs. I suppose if Evelyn's intention is to preserve me, freezing me alive seems a fair option."
After one more mouthful of ale, and Dorian pushes off from the counter. "Your usual spot seems to be open," he says decisively – not that the Bull's spot is ever occupied by anyone other than the Bull. By now, all of the Inquisition and even its guests, whether highborn or low, know better than to attempt to claim the Bull's seat as their own. "Come. You'll tell me what I've missed."
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He takes a second, looking at the bowl and the mug and the cane and deciding which of his two hands is going to hold what, to tell himself to put into words what that something is. Because a part of him knows. It's that thing where someone strong and tough lays out how things are going to be and doesn't so much expect the Bull to follow as just goes on knowing that he's going to, the certainty in that, the order laid out by the strength of someone else's will. It's the same feeling Vivenne's been laying out a little at a time for him, coming down and talking to him like she has been to help keep him sane. It's the same feeling, strikes a hard note in him like that for the same reason. Better to admit to himself just how much he needs that feeling right now so he can keep an eye on that reaction to it.
Still, the Bull's inner crap aside, that decisive little order's more considerate than the Bull expected, and the fond smile's lingering a little as he settles for tucking the cane in an elbow and carrying the rest. The idea of toughing it out for a few seconds on the way to the one solid chair in the place feels better than trying to use the cane and balance the rest and make it even more obvious how useless he is right now by spilling his own meal all over himself.
"Ah, lot of gossip mostly," he says, leaning away from the counter and taking a second to brace himself to make sure he can keep the limp out of his walk. "You can pick your favourite and ask me about whatever. We've got who the nobles have been sleeping with, who everyone else's been sleeping with, the bet about how many reputations Josephine's going to ruin in a couple weeks when that guy who keeps trying to flirt with her gets here with all his friends- oh hey, I think I might be making some headway with her on no-pants Fridays for me and my guys 'cause she feels bad for me right now, you think you could give her some big eyes about it too? Tell her how good it'd be for your morale."