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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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."