contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[bouchonne]

Tomatoes. Carrots.

[ He reaches up a lazy hand to tug at one of her locks in demonstration. ]

A perfect melange.

[ He knows he should, in some way, broach the painful topics they really should be discussing. The fraught dynamic among the three of them. The horrors of those dreams they shared. This will do nothing to solve any of their problems - lying together, laughing, teasing.

But it makes him feel better. For a short time, perhaps. But it soothes his coward's heart.

The other hand comes down to comb through Bastien's hair. The weight of his head is just so steadying. So wonderful. ]

You also, in addition to the cabbage, add a hint of basil, I think, dear Bastien. A bit of peppery brightness.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie hums soft surprise from where she's settled: eyes closed, head pillowed on one arm, the other curved so she in turn can lightly stir the top layer of Byerly's hair. ]

Are you peppery, Bastien? I should have thought you more a sage.

[ A little earthy, a little sweet, understated but adds depth. ]

But I do not know so much as the chef.

[ It is a little pinch of her worries; she doesn't know how they are when they are together. Are they easier with one another than she and Byerly are? Happier? For some reason her fretful heart can't simply accept 'different', won't agree that making such comparisons is an unwinnable and foolish game.

She is smoothing those thoughts away into the bramble, though. For now she is being quietly affectionate. She is being warm, and soft, and breathing long steady breaths, and through this making her heart beat slow and even such that her body will tell the man with his ear to it that everything is all right. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien nudges his head against Byerly’s hand, pleased—and then a bit less pleased, for a moment, feeling caught between who he is with Byerly and who he is with Alexandrie and Byerly.

With Byerly he’s forward, increasingly confident, happy to tease and be crude and bicker. He’ll take up space instead of trying to fit into what’s left empty for him. If they’d been alone, Bastien would have thrown himself onto the bed when he first walked in. He wouldn’t have stayed silent and pink about his discomfort. He’d have licked or bitten or blown a raspberry against the bare ribs pressed against his face by now.

Peppery. Sure.

But with Alexandrie— ]

I couldn’t tell you the difference between basil and sage. [ It’s kind of true. He’s no cook. He’s bought most of his hot meals from street vendors or taverns his whole life. ] But if I am mostly cabbage, I think I would like to be a little peppery too.

[ There. Diplomacy.

He lifts his chin to look at the underside of Byerly’s. ]

And you cannot only be celery. I know that. Long and crunchy works, but it doesn’t have half enough flavor.

[bouchonne]

What are you talking about? That's so flavorful.

[ Fereldan food jokes! They never get old. But, with an actual desire to be helpful: ]

Sage is the flavor you'll get in good pork breakfast sausage. [ And then he gives a playful little pinch to the cute little bit of soft skin under Bastien's chin. Pork sausage, see? ]

But...hmmm. I'd like to pretend that I'm a hot chili pepper. But I think it's more likely that I'm just paprika.

[ He tilts his head up to look at Lexie: ]

What about you?

[coquettish_trees]

I?

[ She raises her eyebrows without opening her eyes. ]

I think I am coriander leaves. Some people think me fresh and spicy and wonderful, others think me truly awful, and everyone is correct in their opinion.

[cozen]

[ The joke makes him snort, the pinch makes him grin, and Alexandrie's explanation makes him make a dismayed sort of sound. Not too dismayed. Conversationally dismayed. ]

No they aren't.

[bouchonne]

[ He makes a warm little noise. ]

Agreed. Anyone who doesn't like coriander is an accursed fool whose tongue should be cut out, because he clearly isn't using it to its full potential.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She hums, pleased, and raises her hand from Byerly's hair to blindly pat around until she can find Bastien's head and pat it in friendly appreciation. The hand returns to its original posting by way of tweaking Byerly's earlobe affectionately. ]

The coriander or his tongue?

[cozen]

[ Bastien sees the head pat coming in time to not be startled, exactly, but he is surprised, in a comfortable and unmoving sort of way. ]

That's a good point. Maybe cooking lessons before dismemberment, By? For mercy's sake. One chance.

[bouchonne]

Ugh. Mercy is for weaklings.

[ But: ]

Lexie, your verdict? Cooking lessons or right to dismemberment?

[coquettish_trees]

Cooking lessons, but! [ She taps Byerly’s nose for emphasis. ] Not for the sake of mercy.

It is because I am amenable to giving chances to discover I am in fact fresh and spicy and wonderful before I resort to violence.

[cozen]

[ From the weakling corner: snickering and a leg-stretch. ]

[bouchonne]

But then if they fail, summary execution, yes?

[ He sounds positively hopeful. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Thoughtful humming. Then, definitively: ]

Exile. The Queen of Coriandria shall not suffer even the ashes of detractors in her realm.

They may come back if they pen her an extensive apology for their previously demonstrated poor taste which includes an exhaustive and earnest paean— sheet music included— to her unparalleled beauty and virtue.

[ A pause. ]

Vices may be included, but only if they are cast in the most flattering light.

[cozen]

No executions for you, Monsieur le Piment Sanguinaire.

[ Bastien pats Byerly’s blanket-covered belly consolingly, because it’s easier to reach than his head. ]

Unless you wait at her borders with a garrote.

[bouchonne]

Ooh. That's a brilliant idea.

[ He grins up at Lexie. ]

You'll still get to seem merciful, while I am able to slake my bloodthirst.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She laughs, heartily enough that it will bounce Byerly's head a bit. ]

Mais oui, how could I be responsible in the slightest for what transpires outside my borders?

But I fear that would lead to far fewer exhaustive and earnest paeans being sent me, and so for every misguided fool you garotte, you must write me one.

[cozen]

[ Bastien laughs again (more quietly), and he lifts his head to check the window—the brightness of the light, the length of the shadow—and then collapses it back onto Byerly's torso in a silent ugh before sliding off the bed with as minimal a disturbance as he can manage. ]

To be fair, you should allow for the ones who would never try to return from exile—the greatest fools. And the ones who would be eaten by bears before they could try. Maybe one paean for every two garroted fools.

[bouchonne]

[ A vigorous nod, and a point to Bastien - this guy gets it. But then he lifts his head - ]

Where are you going? I need you here to teach me how to write a paean. You know what my poetry is like.

[coquettish_trees]

[ What time is it. They should all be going, shouldn't they? Or, at least, Byerly.

In here he is a man, outside the door the Lord Ambassador. Alexandrie is surprised the chimes haven't already come, assuming the Fade had reached for them all alike. The Commander, the Scoutmaster, the Provost; they will want him soon, armed with wit and armoured in bright colour and droll looks. Careful careless sprawl. Whiskey glass.

Get up, get out of bed. We are waiting for you to tell us how to save the world.

His hair is a tousled mess, his shoulders thin for what they carry, and she is ashamed. Looks at Bastien until he is looking at her, and then flicks her gaze at Byerly and back with eyes full of concern. Signs not yet when her hand lifts from his hair to stroke it again. Signs please.

And then she is smiling again, so it can be heard when she says ]

Do you? What is it like?

[cozen]

It’s perfect. Authentic. Anything I taught would change it for the worse.

[ Bastien sees the signs, but he doesn’t get back onto the bed, because he doesn’t have the faintest clue what she’s concerned about—it can hardly be that she doesn’t want to be alone with the man—and he doesn’t imagine either of them will be compelled to get up just because he is.

He’s gotten his I love you in, and something close to hugging, and Byerly seems better. They both do. That’s what he’d been sticking around for, the discomfort of feeling like an appendage balanced by being an appendage with a purpose.

He pulls the blankets up further where he’s left Byerly’s side exposed, to try to keep some warmth trapped there, and he goes for his boots. ]

I need to take some letters ashore before the Archer sails. [ A point at the tray. ] Do not waste that cake.

[bouchonne]

[ Ah. This is - Well, this is fine. It's fine. It had been an impossibly tenuous moment anyway, the three of them laying together; the fact that it had occurred at all is something to celebrate. Right. To want that moment to last indefinitely is just greedy to the edge of obscene.

Things don't last forever, he thinks, nothing lasts forever, and the thought it so morose that he nearly feels like a parody of himself. Blame those nasty dreams. Made him sensitive. ]

So responsible.

[ Byerly smiles. And he's no Bard, but it's a decent imitation of merriment. ]

I suppose we do all have duties, don't we?

[ He tilts up his head to look at Alexandrie. She does, too. And how much is left behind in the diplomacy office? How much work to do? The thought of that pile of correspondence and reports pulls at him, feels like a rock lodged firmly in the earth. ]

[coquettish_trees]

Yes.

[ Letters, letters, always letters. Notes. A journal she is three quarters of the way through. There's been nothing relevant to Riftwatch's work in it, although she's come to rather feel for the woman it had been lifted from. But— ]

I am not going to tend to them today. If I make the attempt not only shall I get nothing done, by the end of the day I shall have made more work for myself.

[ She rolls her head back and looks at the slow stretch of the light across the ceiling. ]

It is the most important lesson I ever learned from needlework.

[cozen]

[ A thoughtful head tilt and nod, for that lesson. It's not one Bastien was ever taught. ]

If any of your duties are leaving with the tide, By, I can carry them over for you.

[ He drapes his scarf around his neck but doesn't wind it around, since he'll be stopping by the office below before going outside again. Of course there are other tides—two moons to cause them—and other ships headed for Orlais. But this ship is carrying someone he trusts (relatively speaking). And he'd like to leave. He'd like to go somewhere where he can spread his own feelings out to look at without having to navigate someone else's or control his face. ]

But I think you have some time before anyone who knows you expects you to be awake, ouais?

[bouchonne]

[ Yes. That's true. He could get away with it for a little while. But -

But what would he be left with if he did wiggle out of work? That gnawing fear. Lexie's grief and unhappiness. Unhappiness that he's caused, fear that he's brought about...Maker, they do need to talk of it; he knows that. But oh, he doesn't want to. ]

And maybe I should lay abed a few days. See what it takes to get fired. Better that than the future that lays ahead of us, eh?

[ Much better. Much, much better.

He swallows lightly. ]

If I do go to work - [ To Lexie - ] Will you at least stay with me?