[Oh, and he never realized— but in retrospect, that makes sense. Zevlor runs the Moulin Rogue with a deft hand, but it's Kanan that always seems to thrive backstage. It's a strange bit of context to suddenly have, but a pleasant strange. Like when he'd grown enough to realize what some of the more obvious bits of double entendre in the bawdier songs meant; it's an odd moment of growing up just a little.]

I— . . . all right.

[That's fair. That's beyond fair, for he's always had the inclination to take the bullet, no matter how Astarion protested. But it does neither of them any good. It never has, not beyond getting Astarion upset at him.]

Though the plots . . . it's less that I seek to cover for him, and more that he inevitably drags me into them, you know. [He's preaching to the choir, he knows, for it's always been Zevlor who's had to deal with them in the sticky aftermath. But ah . . . he's going to have to think, then, on how to better protect Astarion. How to keep him safe without smothering him or coddling him unnecessary. And hells, it's not as if he's short on time to figure it out: right now, both their tempers are still hot enough that Fenris hasn't any inclination towards protectiveness anyway.]

And he makes it hard not to want to, to do such things . . . he always has . . .

[He drifts off. The end of that sentence is somewhere that drifts back into questionable territory, overwhelming and uncertain, and they needn't dwell on the scattershot feelings that flutter in his stomach. He exhales slowly, sounding like nothing so much as a weary old dog— and then glances over at Zevlor, adding a touch wryly:]

You bought an entire cabaret just to please your husband?

[He can tease him a little, surely. He's not in so much trouble he can't do that, probably. Maybe.]