All best case scenarios, really, though the necessary comment flags as strange. For now, all it gets is a slightly furrowed brow and a mental note to pester Wysteria about it when he pesters her about everything else.
"And you've—," he starts, stops, searches for something both more personalized and less presumptive than been fine, or any variation thereof. Fitz can't pin it down, but Ellis doesn't seem particularly fine.
He abruptly remembers the hulking dog playing lazy sentinel over their conversion, finishes (a bit lamely): "— got a dog."
"Mabari," comes wreathed in smoke. A small distinction, one that likely matters only to a Fereldan.
"Ruadh," Ellis tells Fitz, tone softening fondly over the name. Roo-ah, well worn and affection. The hulking creature in question pricks ears, eyes flicking over to Fitz. "He came south with me winter before last."
Between them, Ellis extends a hand, offering the cigarette. If Fitz is so inclined.
"I've never had a dog." His father had hated the idea of pets (in both lives), and his mum had been too busy. But the observation's made warmly enough, charmed by Ellis' obvious fondness for Ruadh.
"I always wanted a monkey," he states, as if that's roughly the same thing. Fitz accepts the offered cigarette and takes an absent drag, still considering Ruadh; narrows his eyes slightly, draws it back to squint at it on the exhale.
Some real amusement kindles in Ellis' expression; he is half-way through mouthing back the words a monkey as if that will square the concept of Fitz with such a creature more firmly in his mind as the question is put to him.
Fitz's accent sounds like he should hail from Ferelden. Ellis had forgotten how he could lapse into that familiarity, or what it felt like to be jarred by the knowledge that Fitz hailed from somewhere else entirely.
"Elfroot," comes after a moment's pause, amusement tapering off and away. "I had it and the rolling papers off Richard Dickerson, after he'd gone."
Maybe it should have been Loxley's, by due rights. But it's late for that now.
Elfroot. From his perspective, he's been gone for a few months, tops. It shouldn't be that difficult to slide back into this reality, to take the existence of fantasy weed in stride. But he'd never really gotten over all of it, honestly, even after he'd given up and started calling the place home.
What's meant to be an amused huff turns into a small cough, quickly muffled as he passes the cigarette back over.
"Has he been gone long?"
He doesn't sound surprised, or upset. They hadn't been close. Even if they had been, he'd compartmentalize: Richard's gone home, just as Fitz had. There's nothing to mourn.
A flick of his fingers scatters ash across the stones.
"There've been other new rifters," feels like steadier ground than Wysteria's arm, Ellis' state of being, what Tony has gotten up to as Division Head. "They've kept the research workshop occupied."
There's no shortage of nerds, is the implication. For better or for worse, there are more than enough people seemingly willing to join Wysteria and Tony in prodding and poking at any semi-dangerous thing Thedas has to offer.
He draws in another deep mouthful of smoke, head tilting back slightly. The air is still warm. The weather won't turn for a few weeks more. It's a clear night, no trouble on the immediate horizon. As far as moments to arrive, Fitz has picked a good one.
"Huh," thoughtfully. He doesn't bother sharing what any of those thoughts are, but there's a silent beat as he digs into his memory — mulls over the projects he left behind, the theories they'd been tossing around regarding rifts and lyrium and shards. It's a comfortable silence, a moment of peace in which Ellis can enjoy the mild air, the taste of the smoke, the successful dodging of personal questions. Until Fitz ruins it.
"What've I missed, really?" His eyes flick over to Ellis, try to catch and hold his gaze. There's a little punch to the really. Still squarely friendly, if blunt; he'd just rather a 'fuck off' than more subtle deflection.
"If you give it until morning, you'll have every notable event recounted once Wysteria arrives in the Gallows."
The words are wreathed in smoke. He'd meant it, when he had implied Tony and Wysteria would be happy to speak of what they'd just managed to accomplish.
And maybe it was preferable for them to explain what had occurred. How so many of them had been dead. How they are alive now. Ellis isn't certain he can speak of it without his own feelings bleeding into the word.
"Corypheus took Starkhaven," is a safer topic. "It's made the Marches more dangerous, now that they are so close."
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"And you've—," he starts, stops, searches for something both more personalized and less presumptive than been fine, or any variation thereof. Fitz can't pin it down, but Ellis doesn't seem particularly fine.
He abruptly remembers the hulking dog playing lazy sentinel over their conversion, finishes (a bit lamely): "— got a dog."
no subject
"Ruadh," Ellis tells Fitz, tone softening fondly over the name. Roo-ah, well worn and affection. The hulking creature in question pricks ears, eyes flicking over to Fitz. "He came south with me winter before last."
Between them, Ellis extends a hand, offering the cigarette. If Fitz is so inclined.
no subject
"I always wanted a monkey," he states, as if that's roughly the same thing. Fitz accepts the offered cigarette and takes an absent drag, still considering Ruadh; narrows his eyes slightly, draws it back to squint at it on the exhale.
"What's in this?"
no subject
Fitz's accent sounds like he should hail from Ferelden. Ellis had forgotten how he could lapse into that familiarity, or what it felt like to be jarred by the knowledge that Fitz hailed from somewhere else entirely.
"Elfroot," comes after a moment's pause, amusement tapering off and away. "I had it and the rolling papers off Richard Dickerson, after he'd gone."
Maybe it should have been Loxley's, by due rights. But it's late for that now.
no subject
What's meant to be an amused huff turns into a small cough, quickly muffled as he passes the cigarette back over.
"Has he been gone long?"
He doesn't sound surprised, or upset. They hadn't been close. Even if they had been, he'd compartmentalize: Richard's gone home, just as Fitz had. There's nothing to mourn.
no subject
A flick of his fingers scatters ash across the stones.
"There've been other new rifters," feels like steadier ground than Wysteria's arm, Ellis' state of being, what Tony has gotten up to as Division Head. "They've kept the research workshop occupied."
There's no shortage of nerds, is the implication. For better or for worse, there are more than enough people seemingly willing to join Wysteria and Tony in prodding and poking at any semi-dangerous thing Thedas has to offer.
He draws in another deep mouthful of smoke, head tilting back slightly. The air is still warm. The weather won't turn for a few weeks more. It's a clear night, no trouble on the immediate horizon. As far as moments to arrive, Fitz has picked a good one.
no subject
"What've I missed, really?" His eyes flick over to Ellis, try to catch and hold his gaze. There's a little punch to the really. Still squarely friendly, if blunt; he'd just rather a 'fuck off' than more subtle deflection.
"Or should I go back to digging through records."
no subject
The words are wreathed in smoke. He'd meant it, when he had implied Tony and Wysteria would be happy to speak of what they'd just managed to accomplish.
And maybe it was preferable for them to explain what had occurred. How so many of them had been dead. How they are alive now. Ellis isn't certain he can speak of it without his own feelings bleeding into the word.
"Corypheus took Starkhaven," is a safer topic. "It's made the Marches more dangerous, now that they are so close."