[He frowns a little, aware that Zevlor is teasing him but not quite certain as to how. It's one of the many new and often baffling experiences of the Moulin Rouge: the adults are nicer as a rule, but too often they think it gives them leave to tease and patronize as they see fit, and that Fenris has little patience for.
The other issue, now that they're here, is that there's a reason it's always Astarion who does the talking. He's so much better at it than Fenris— far less inclined to simply duck his head and take whatever punishment their guardian sees fit to dole out. But if he's a bodyguard, Fenris thinks, that means protection . . . and protection isn't always about fists and beatings. Sometimes it's about covering, too. Probably. Maybe. He's very new at this.]
You can address me.
[One eyebrow ticks up further, but though there's amusement dancing in his eyes, he's too well-trained to smile. 'Can I,' he says evenly. 'Very well, then. How do you explain this?'
One clawed hand sweeps over the scene of the crime: the bottle, the cork unevenly jammed back in, and scattered around it little bits of gold foil. The bar is sticky with leftover sherry, there's a stained rag left haphazardly on one (of two) drawn out stools, and there are two used glasses still lingering on the bar. Ah . . .]
It was not us.
['Yes, it was,' Zevlor replies swiftly, his voice even. It isn't an argument, simply a statement of fact, and Fenris shifts his weight uncomfortably.]
Well . . . maybe, but . . .
[Um. He glances behind him for a moment, then continues:]
Even if it was, you can't prove it. So. [And then, feeling himself on slightly firmer ground, continues:] If there's no evidence, you can't say it was us. And it wouldn't be fair to punish us for it.
[Fairness is a new concept for Fenris, honestly, especially when it comes to crime and punishment. But it holds weight here, apparently, and he might as well and try it.
'You two are the only ones with hands small enough to match all the prints left on the bar,' Zevlor counters serenely. 'There's foil on your hands, Fenris, and I expect even more would be found on beneath Astarion's fingernails, if he would come out of hiding and show them. And there's no one else here who thinks they have the right to get into whatever stores they please.'
It's a damning argument, to be sure. A perfect retort. Fenris hesitates, turns around again to whisper something to Astarion, and then tries:]
It wasn't even that good. Nobody would've ordered it anyway, probably. So it wasn't even a waste.
['And you would know that . . . how, exactly?'
Fenris' nose wrinkles as he frowns.]
Because it was my idea. And I made him do it. So if you're gonna punish somebody, you should punish me, not Astarion.
[He's a bodyguard, not a lawyer— and while being clever with words is hard, at least he can keep his friend safe.]
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The other issue, now that they're here, is that there's a reason it's always Astarion who does the talking. He's so much better at it than Fenris— far less inclined to simply duck his head and take whatever punishment their guardian sees fit to dole out. But if he's a bodyguard, Fenris thinks, that means protection . . . and protection isn't always about fists and beatings. Sometimes it's about covering, too. Probably. Maybe. He's very new at this.]
You can address me.
[One eyebrow ticks up further, but though there's amusement dancing in his eyes, he's too well-trained to smile. 'Can I,' he says evenly. 'Very well, then. How do you explain this?'
One clawed hand sweeps over the scene of the crime: the bottle, the cork unevenly jammed back in, and scattered around it little bits of gold foil. The bar is sticky with leftover sherry, there's a stained rag left haphazardly on one (of two) drawn out stools, and there are two used glasses still lingering on the bar. Ah . . .]
It was not us.
['Yes, it was,' Zevlor replies swiftly, his voice even. It isn't an argument, simply a statement of fact, and Fenris shifts his weight uncomfortably.]
Well . . . maybe, but . . .
[Um. He glances behind him for a moment, then continues:]
Even if it was, you can't prove it. So. [And then, feeling himself on slightly firmer ground, continues:] If there's no evidence, you can't say it was us. And it wouldn't be fair to punish us for it.
[Fairness is a new concept for Fenris, honestly, especially when it comes to crime and punishment. But it holds weight here, apparently, and he might as well and try it.
'You two are the only ones with hands small enough to match all the prints left on the bar,' Zevlor counters serenely. 'There's foil on your hands, Fenris, and I expect even more would be found on beneath Astarion's fingernails, if he would come out of hiding and show them. And there's no one else here who thinks they have the right to get into whatever stores they please.'
It's a damning argument, to be sure. A perfect retort. Fenris hesitates, turns around again to whisper something to Astarion, and then tries:]
It wasn't even that good. Nobody would've ordered it anyway, probably. So it wasn't even a waste.
['And you would know that . . . how, exactly?'
Fenris' nose wrinkles as he frowns.]
Because it was my idea. And I made him do it. So if you're gonna punish somebody, you should punish me, not Astarion.
[He's a bodyguard, not a lawyer— and while being clever with words is hard, at least he can keep his friend safe.]