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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no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."