Taking advantage of Astarion's diverted attention, Ellis has found a surface to lean his weight against and observe the rummaging search from safe distance. One hand had migrated to set loosely against the cut, where blood has soaked splotchy into the fabric of his tunic. It's not the sort of cut that needs to be carefully handled, but without any impending threat, Ellis might nurse the dull ache a little more than he might have otherwise.
No impending threat beyond Astarion, of course, though Ellis' concerns are more removed from this moment.
"It's not that deep," Ellis repeats, a light protest bypassing the offer of a drink. Not exactly a rejection of the idea, though Ellis feels it catch in the back of his throat. Held there, as his hand falls away from the wound.
But there is still a moment of careful observation, Ellis studying Astarion's face, before he again peels the fabric of his tunic up to bare the injury.
"You might be more worried that there was poison on the blade," is a terrible joke.
“If it was, I’ll only be wasting good supplies.” Astarion puffs in turn as he moves nearer, finding some sort of unique amusement in the reversal of their prior roles: how it’d been Astarion, once before, who’d teased and sighed and promised his injuries were nothing to be mentioned— let alone fussed over.
Well. Good.
Another owed favor squared away, as it were.
He dips the gauze into the salve first, saturating it, before tucking it against the gash with deft care. The cold might make it awful regardless, between the ointment and Astarion’s own fingertips.
“But I’m sure if it comes down to you dropping dead somewhere else, I can just fleece your corpse to recoup my losses.”
A low hiss of pain is the only immediate reaction. Ellis draws in a breath and holds it for a moment, letting the first prickle of discomfort ease. He exhales, slow and measured, remaining still as Astarion's cool hand applies steady pressure.
The cold is not comfortable. But it's of some use. Ellis had no idea if he could manage ice from the Gallows kitchens, but this serves some of the same purpose. The cold helps.
"You'd be disappointed," Ellis cautions, mock-solemn. "I don't have much of interest on my person."
Other than his coin pouch, something Astarion already has a passing familiarity with.
“Yes yes I know, Grey Wardens. Poorest souls to ever exist.”
He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
Or maybe a true observation. Ellis has been hit often about the head and face. Tonight isn't a rare occurrence by any means, but he's kept all his teeth over the years. With all the things Wardens tend to lose along the way, Ellis has had some dubious kind of luck. All in one piece, even now.
For the most part.
"Keep your hand—"
The request breaks, Ellis' brow furrowing. It's a strange thing to ask. But this is a strange place to be, isn't it? He might have refused the offer and they'd both have had an easier night for it.
"The cold will keep the swelling down, while your ointment works."
An explanation, rather than a question. Astarion's chilly hands are not Ellis' business.
“Telling me how to do my job? Bossy.” Astarion scolds, all mock offense and muted tone.
Even so, he waits until he’s finished binding and pinning the last of that wrapping before his hand finds its way back into place against Ellis’ side. He can feel a heartbeat through it. Sharper senses. Simple function.
Or maybe he’s just imagining that fact, like some sort of half-forgotten, predatory instinct.
Either way, knee to the floor and hand to a man’s unclothed torso, it’s more than a little restrictive as far as exchanges go. Much as Astarion likes to tease, insatiability etched into the marrow of his wicked bones, sitting like this isn’t the most thrilling way to burn waning daylight.
“Do me a favor at least. There’s a bottle of wine beside you: uncork it and fill any of the cups just there.” All of them have been used, of course— but there’s no need to tell Ellis that.
And really, who has time to wash anything anyway?
“No point in just sitting here doing nothing to pass the time while we wait.”
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.
“Maybe I like the view from down here— ever think of that?”
His chin fits itself to the slope of Ellis’ thigh without pause for either courtesy or consideration. A cat, sprawling itself in odd shapes to lounge wherever it pleases, no matter how uncomfortable it finds itself for it.
The cup he takes with his spare hand, sipping from it precisely where he rests.
“Hand on a handsome not-stranger, a good vintage to drain while I wait for him to tire, all in all it’s not the worst evening I’ve had.” His lips purse, he’s clearly thinking back on something. “Not by a long shot.”
But that aside:
“Nothing for you, though? Cross my heart, I’m not about to tattle on you for having a sip or two on the job any more than I would for our little stroll through Darktown.”
It's not quite flirtation. Ellis can recognize the shape of something behind that assertion, even with the distraction of Astarion's chin set just so against the muscle of his thigh.
He's quiet for a long moment. Letting the first flush of reaction settle, draw in a deep breath as he considers the question.
"I've lost the taste for it."
Honest, if lacking the fuller context.
"What was the worst evening you've had?"
Unfair. A deflection, preemptive, against what might come after his paltry explanation.
Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
“For the same reason I don’t do well with being bossed around for anyone else’s benefit.” He sighs absently, taking a longer sip this time.
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
Astarion's answer is like a story recited third-hand. Parts of it ring true, but there are crucial differences that keep it from being the same as a sentiment plucked forward from the boy Ellis had been once.
There is a shade of difference here. He considers it, looking down into Astarion's face, breath carefully steady under the repositioning of Astarion's hand. Does his palm ever warm? Perhaps not. Ellis considers and discards the question.
"I understand."
Even if Ellis can no longer summon such a desire. However, rather than pick at tender subjects—
"I should leave you, to whatever else occupies your evenings."
"Leave if you want, but I think it's rather obvious there's no one else and nothing else here to occupy my time."
The last of his wine goes down smoothly with a tip of his head backwards, briefly drawing his chin away from the comfortable warmth of Ellis' leg. And when he sets the empty goblet to one side it's on the floor somewhere just beyond the space where they're sitting, another piece of the clutter rearranged for yet another day.
This invitation, it's not unfamiliar. They have tread here together more than once, and it is not far from the table in a restaurant where Astarion had gestured to a chair beside him. It is not even so far removed from the forests of Hasmal, Astarion's hand on his side, close in the dark. Ellis studies his face in the dim light. The sensation of Astarion's chin dug in at his thigh has lingered, even though Astarion has sat up and ceded the territory.
"You've offered before."
Not a yes or a no. Only observation, as Ellis gathers his own thoughts.
"But we'd be better served if I make my way to the ferry," Ellis tells him, setting his palm over Astarion's hand. There is light pressure, and then a turning, Ellis catching hold of Astarion's palm within his hand.
“How tiresome it must be, always fighting to keep everyone else at arm’s length.”
His chin lifts, his posture shifting— he slips his weight sidelong to one heel before the rest of him follows, rising. A little stiff from sitting idle, but his muscles remember grace well enough to make that truth far from transparent in the moment
When he pulls his hand from Ellis’ own, it’s not unkindly.
There are a half dozen places he might catch hold of to anchor Astarion in place. His hand opens and closes in the space between them, briefly indecisive.
But instead, he follows the example. Straightening, breathing deeply, observing the twinge from beneath the bandages, before he says, "Maybe."
His hand passes briefly over the bandages, then reaches to hook his shirt where it had been laid. There is a splotch of blood that will need some attention, lest it become a stain.
"Thank you," is more straightforward. Ellis' gaze is steady when he lifts his eyes to Astarion. "For your kindness."
“Don’t mention it,” Astarion says, the words light as silk— though the look he fixes Ellis with out of the corner of his eye is too focused, too unblinking. It’s punctuation for what might otherwise be interpreted as a joke.
Astarion, after all, doesn’t care to be known for traits like mercy or compassion. It tarnishes. Troubles.
And he has enough trouble as it is.
“Ever.”
They’re even now, the both of them. They can leave it at that.
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer to follow— not that there’s much room to be had in a space as narrow as this one, watching those footsteps in near-contemplative silence.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
No impending threat beyond Astarion, of course, though Ellis' concerns are more removed from this moment.
"It's not that deep," Ellis repeats, a light protest bypassing the offer of a drink. Not exactly a rejection of the idea, though Ellis feels it catch in the back of his throat. Held there, as his hand falls away from the wound.
But there is still a moment of careful observation, Ellis studying Astarion's face, before he again peels the fabric of his tunic up to bare the injury.
"You might be more worried that there was poison on the blade," is a terrible joke.
But like, ha ha, right?
no subject
“If it was, I’ll only be wasting good supplies.” Astarion puffs in turn as he moves nearer, finding some sort of unique amusement in the reversal of their prior roles: how it’d been Astarion, once before, who’d teased and sighed and promised his injuries were nothing to be mentioned— let alone fussed over.
Well. Good.
Another owed favor squared away, as it were.
He dips the gauze into the salve first, saturating it, before tucking it against the gash with deft care. The cold might make it awful regardless, between the ointment and Astarion’s own fingertips.
“But I’m sure if it comes down to you dropping dead somewhere else, I can just fleece your corpse to recoup my losses.”
no subject
The cold is not comfortable. But it's of some use. Ellis had no idea if he could manage ice from the Gallows kitchens, but this serves some of the same purpose. The cold helps.
"You'd be disappointed," Ellis cautions, mock-solemn. "I don't have much of interest on my person."
Other than his coin pouch, something Astarion already has a passing familiarity with.
no subject
He waits a few beats longer before his hold shifts, more to the knuckles than the pads of his fingertips, sliding down into flattened pressure as he draws up a longer section of clean linen—and begins the tedious work of wrapping it, now that he’s certain the bleeding is stanched.
The scent of iron in the air is alluring to his senses, close at is is. He thinks absently of Wysteria scolding him for being too skittish about asking for Thedosian blood.
He puts that thought, irritating as sand, away.
“But I’d still argue I’d be able to trade what you’ve got on you for a little wrapping and a pot of ointment— even if it means selling off some of your hair.”
A pause, his lips pursing.
“Or teeth.”
no subject
A joke?
Or maybe a true observation. Ellis has been hit often about the head and face. Tonight isn't a rare occurrence by any means, but he's kept all his teeth over the years. With all the things Wardens tend to lose along the way, Ellis has had some dubious kind of luck. All in one piece, even now.
For the most part.
"Keep your hand—"
The request breaks, Ellis' brow furrowing. It's a strange thing to ask. But this is a strange place to be, isn't it? He might have refused the offer and they'd both have had an easier night for it.
"The cold will keep the swelling down, while your ointment works."
An explanation, rather than a question. Astarion's chilly hands are not Ellis' business.
no subject
Even so, he waits until he’s finished binding and pinning the last of that wrapping before his hand finds its way back into place against Ellis’ side. He can feel a heartbeat through it. Sharper senses. Simple function.
Or maybe he’s just imagining that fact, like some sort of half-forgotten, predatory instinct.
Either way, knee to the floor and hand to a man’s unclothed torso, it’s more than a little restrictive as far as exchanges go. Much as Astarion likes to tease, insatiability etched into the marrow of his wicked bones, sitting like this isn’t the most thrilling way to burn waning daylight.
“Do me a favor at least. There’s a bottle of wine beside you: uncork it and fill any of the cups just there.” All of them have been used, of course— but there’s no need to tell Ellis that.
And really, who has time to wash anything anyway?
“No point in just sitting here doing nothing to pass the time while we wait.”
no subject
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.
no subject
His chin fits itself to the slope of Ellis’ thigh without pause for either courtesy or consideration. A cat, sprawling itself in odd shapes to lounge wherever it pleases, no matter how uncomfortable it finds itself for it.
The cup he takes with his spare hand, sipping from it precisely where he rests.
“Hand on a handsome not-stranger, a good vintage to drain while I wait for him to tire, all in all it’s not the worst evening I’ve had.” His lips purse, he’s clearly thinking back on something. “Not by a long shot.”
But that aside:
“Nothing for you, though? Cross my heart, I’m not about to tattle on you for having a sip or two on the job any more than I would for our little stroll through Darktown.”
no subject
He's quiet for a long moment. Letting the first flush of reaction settle, draw in a deep breath as he considers the question.
"I've lost the taste for it."
Honest, if lacking the fuller context.
"What was the worst evening you've had?"
Unfair. A deflection, preemptive, against what might come after his paltry explanation.
no subject
Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
no subject
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
no subject
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
no subject
There is a shade of difference here. He considers it, looking down into Astarion's face, breath carefully steady under the repositioning of Astarion's hand. Does his palm ever warm? Perhaps not. Ellis considers and discards the question.
"I understand."
Even if Ellis can no longer summon such a desire. However, rather than pick at tender subjects—
"I should leave you, to whatever else occupies your evenings."
no subject
The last of his wine goes down smoothly with a tip of his head backwards, briefly drawing his chin away from the comfortable warmth of Ellis' leg. And when he sets the empty goblet to one side it's on the floor somewhere just beyond the space where they're sitting, another piece of the clutter rearranged for yet another day.
His hand, however, remains fixed in place.
"I won't complain if you decide to stay."
no subject
"You've offered before."
Not a yes or a no. Only observation, as Ellis gathers his own thoughts.
"But we'd be better served if I make my way to the ferry," Ellis tells him, setting his palm over Astarion's hand. There is light pressure, and then a turning, Ellis catching hold of Astarion's palm within his hand.
no subject
His chin lifts, his posture shifting— he slips his weight sidelong to one heel before the rest of him follows, rising. A little stiff from sitting idle, but his muscles remember grace well enough to make that truth far from transparent in the moment
When he pulls his hand from Ellis’ own, it’s not unkindly.
no subject
But instead, he follows the example. Straightening, breathing deeply, observing the twinge from beneath the bandages, before he says, "Maybe."
His hand passes briefly over the bandages, then reaches to hook his shirt where it had been laid. There is a splotch of blood that will need some attention, lest it become a stain.
"Thank you," is more straightforward. Ellis' gaze is steady when he lifts his eyes to Astarion. "For your kindness."
no subject
Astarion, after all, doesn’t care to be known for traits like mercy or compassion. It tarnishes. Troubles.
And he has enough trouble as it is.
“Ever.”
They’re even now, the both of them. They can leave it at that.
hovers bow over this thread menacingly
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
ties it for you
“Look after yourself, darling.”