Obliging Astarion only requires some minor twist of Ellis' body. First to take hold of the bottle, then to ascertain the cups available. He catches the cork between his teeth to work it free as his opposite hand plucks up a cup more or less at random.

A single cup, chosen and filled and offered, with the bottle set down before Ellis takes the cork from between his teeth.

"You needn't crouch that way."

Or extend this generosity to Ellis at all. He won't deny it is a help. The cold mutes the aching burn of the cut, and it will make all things easier in the morning when he needs to assess whether to venture into the infirmary or adjust bandages and go about his day.

Somewhere, Richard is frowning without a sense of why.

But he hadn't been putting on a show, or exaggerating when he'd said it wasn't the sort of wound worth worrying over. It's a small thing. It'll heal neatly. Maybe it won't even leave a mark behind. Babying this wound is—

Something else, really.

He sets the cork on the table, then flattens his palm against the pocked wood. No cup for him.