[Maybe they should, Fenris thinks in those first desperate few seconds. Maybe they should just hide up here forever, scurrying away from familiar footsteps until at last Zevlor's ire has faded, his attention caught by some other disobedient staff member. They can't be the only ones, after all. Surely not. Surely someone else will steal something, or break something, or forget a line, and then they'll be in the clear . . .
But then again: maybe not. And the longer you wait, the worse it gets; Fenris knew that even before coming here.]
Come on.
[Said with the grim air of one facing the firing squad— though before Astarion can rise, Fenris' hand darts out. Grabbing his wrist, he gives him a little look.]
Don't scream this time.
[Sticky palm meets slick tongue as Fenris laps at what remains of the sherry. It's not, like, great in terms of hiding the evidence, but at least it's not so obvious either. He shudders just once from the taste, gives Astarion another little look (you're welcome is the subtext there, look at how clever a bodyguard he is already), and scrambles to the ladder.
He can see Zevlor now: the tiefling stands rigidly by the bar they abandoned, his arms crossed and every line in his body radiating anger. The bottle is next to him, damnably incriminating (and yet, Fenris thinks stubbornly, not so out of place that you can really tell anything's wrong— well, beyond the ripped foil, but still). Fenris' ears are low, his shoulders rising up despite himself— for no matter how many times the tiefling yells, still, he never grows used to it.
(And yet: what he isn't yet used to is how mild it is. The first time they'd tracked mud all over the main stage, Zevlor had yelled, oh, yes. But when he'd seen how Fenris stoically braced himself, he'd softened. Dismissed Astarion and knelt down, one warm hand settling on his shoulder. 'I'll never sell you, Fenris,' he'd said firmly. 'I'll never beat you, or hurt you, or give you away. What punishments you earn will fit the crime— but they will never involve you being treated the way you once were.'
It was stunning. Baffling, almost, and he'd stared at the tiefling with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty, wary of this strange, kind man. Zevlor had only smiled, then. 'You'll see soon enough,' he'd promised, and run a fond hand through his hair before dismissing him.)]
Don't try and talk us out of it. That only makes it worse.
[He advises it as they reach the bottom of the ladder. Is Astarion still mad about the licking thing? Hopefully not. But probably he is. Either way: Fenris shifts himself a little, positioning himself in front of Astarion. It's a little protective, though from what he'd be hard-pressed to say.]
no subject
But then again: maybe not. And the longer you wait, the worse it gets; Fenris knew that even before coming here.]
Come on.
[Said with the grim air of one facing the firing squad— though before Astarion can rise, Fenris' hand darts out. Grabbing his wrist, he gives him a little look.]
Don't scream this time.
[Sticky palm meets slick tongue as Fenris laps at what remains of the sherry. It's not, like, great in terms of hiding the evidence, but at least it's not so obvious either. He shudders just once from the taste, gives Astarion another little look (you're welcome is the subtext there, look at how clever a bodyguard he is already), and scrambles to the ladder.
He can see Zevlor now: the tiefling stands rigidly by the bar they abandoned, his arms crossed and every line in his body radiating anger. The bottle is next to him, damnably incriminating (and yet, Fenris thinks stubbornly, not so out of place that you can really tell anything's wrong— well, beyond the ripped foil, but still). Fenris' ears are low, his shoulders rising up despite himself— for no matter how many times the tiefling yells, still, he never grows used to it.
(And yet: what he isn't yet used to is how mild it is. The first time they'd tracked mud all over the main stage, Zevlor had yelled, oh, yes. But when he'd seen how Fenris stoically braced himself, he'd softened. Dismissed Astarion and knelt down, one warm hand settling on his shoulder. 'I'll never sell you, Fenris,' he'd said firmly. 'I'll never beat you, or hurt you, or give you away. What punishments you earn will fit the crime— but they will never involve you being treated the way you once were.'
It was stunning. Baffling, almost, and he'd stared at the tiefling with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty, wary of this strange, kind man. Zevlor had only smiled, then. 'You'll see soon enough,' he'd promised, and run a fond hand through his hair before dismissing him.)]
Don't try and talk us out of it. That only makes it worse.
[He advises it as they reach the bottom of the ladder. Is Astarion still mad about the licking thing? Hopefully not. But probably he is. Either way: Fenris shifts himself a little, positioning himself in front of Astarion. It's a little protective, though from what he'd be hard-pressed to say.]