nibbling | open post pt. 2.

Bull watches this cautious, reluctant descent into the tank without saying anything. Sort of charmed despite himself, really, especially when Astarion drops and immediately acts like he's drowning. Bull sighs and sculls over, grabs a hold of a rung of the ladder with one hand over his head to make sure they don't both sink, and Astarion with the other. (Under one arm, at least, rather than the back of his neck like a kitten.)

"Easy now, I gotcha," he rumbles, blinking splashed water out of his eyes and holding Astarion above the surface until he's stopped thrashing around, bobbing as he continues treading water. "Grab onto a horn if you need to, I can take it."

It feels like being grabbed by the scruff like a kitten. In spirit, at least, if not in actuality. It's possibly even more embarrassing than thrashing around in the first place. If he'd been relatively certain they would never see each other again after this before, he's positive now. He'll make sure of it, because this is humiliating.

"I don't want to hold onto your handlebars," Astarion grouses, but then he grabs one anyway for fear of sinking into the depths like a stone. He takes one unnecessary breath, and then another. Still above water, although he probably wouldn't be if left to his own devices.

Obviously, this all makes him wish someone would stake him in the heart. "I was only surprised because of how cold it is, that's all."

Bull snorts softly. "Freeze your tits off," he agrees. Gingerly lets go of Astarion, not really believing this story for a second, but he seems to have stopped struggling and Bull needs a hand free to keep de-gunking himself. Despite their closeness in the dark, he's fine with keeping quiet and playing furniture, minimal intimacy while they do what they gotta do. A soldier's practicality.

"Hey," he does say, just to distract Astarion from his own embarrassment. "You think if I rinsed off that armour I could get a few coin for it? Itches like a bastard." He doesn't want to wear it, and he doesn't really need to, just makes people feel better when he dresses in a way they understand. But he can't really afford to just throw it away. "Maybe I can stash it somewhere and come back later."

This feels absolutely ridiculous, but it at least doesn't feel bad with Bull's hands-off approach. Astarion doesn't particularly enjoy touching people as a rule, but the horns are so sturdy as to hardly feel like they're part of someone else at all, and Bull's complete lack of interest in keeping his own hand on Astarion is relieving.

And also kind of offensive? Astarion is handsome and wet. Anyone should be lucky to hold him up like a drowning kitten, actually.

Regardless, he works on getting his own gunk off, cleaning off his hair with a wet palm. "It's barbarian armor. I didn't know it came clean to begin with." Because barbarians are, well, barbarians. "Just say some nonsense about having bathed in the innards of some fearsome beast, and those brutes will pay you twice as much."

Satisfied that the worst of the goo is gone (although still sporting a little goo in his hair despite his efforts), Astarion stretches an arm up to grab the first rung of the ladder. He should probably go first, given that he might drown and die if Bull leaves him down here.

Bull nods at this idea. Might work, with the right trader. "Fearsome beast. Got it."

He's not actually immune to handsome and wet, just has a really good poker face when he feels like it. Doesn't even hesitate to offer, "Need a boost?" or to let Astarion clamber him however he needs to get back on the ladder. Reminds him, with a sad little bit of nostalgia, of Sera climbing up there to get higher ground to shoot from. She would have pranked this prissy elf to death, his or hers.

Bull gives his horns one last rinse and follows Astarion up the ladder. Air on wet skin isn't warming him up any, and they don't have anything to dry off with, but at least they're not dripping with weird viscera anymore. And he's out of ideas, so he just sits down and starts clipping his shoulder harness back on — he overdid it a little in the tank and his old scars are feeling it.

"Hey, when we report back to Nine-Fingers, maybe let's leave this part out," he suggests. "We'll dry off, get the job done, and nobody needs to know we got greased up and took a bath in the drinking water." Though even as he says it he knows he'll probably tell her. Unsupervised access to the water supply is a city-wide illness waiting to happen, and the whole reason he's with the Thieves Guild is it seems like the only organisation that actually gives a crap about its own city.

On the bright side, Astarion is no longer covered in whatever serves for monster guts. However, he's not one to look on the bright side, so once they're out of the tank, he flops his sleeves a little pathetically, irritated at the dripping. The perils of having bathed fully-clothed. The usually ambient temperature of his body has grown even colder and more corpselike, and his toes squish in his boots when he slips them back on. Ugh.

A shrug. "Oh, I really couldn't care less what you tell her. But if it's all the same, you can do the reporting back alone." He crosses his arms, still dripping onto the concrete floor. "This is already taking too long, and I—"

He pauses, unwilling to say that his quote-unquote boss is going to be angry that the shipment took so long to come in, and that if Astarion doesn't hurry back as soon as he's able to, his mood will be even worse. "Well, I have places to be."

"Oh yeah?" Bull pauses in pulling on a boot and looks up at him, horns slanted with the tip of his head. "Like where?" Keeps his tone genial, just lightly curious instead of challenging, even though that's very much what he's doing. As far as he's concerned, the plan is boat - delivery - guild. For both of them.

"Aren't you delightfully nosy?" None of your beeswax, essentially. Astarion rolls up his wet sleeves and arranges a few curls with his fingers, attempting to make the best of what is undoubtedly an undignified appearance. "Maybe I have a wife and two little brats waiting breathlessly for daddy to come home."

"Nah," says Bull, dismissing this out of hand, calmly rude. "People with families are happy. You've got something else going on. I don't care what that is, so long as it doesn't fuck me out of getting paid." He tries to bring the point home without escalating into dick-swinging threats, keeping his hands clear and visible. "And right now I'm getting paid to follow you around until I'm told to stand down."

Astarion blatantly rolls his eyes at the suggestion that people with families are happy. Personally, having two screaming children to return to sounds almost as bad as having a temperamental vampire lord to return to. Whenever his life is shit—which is frequently—he can at least find solace in the fact that he isn't a father, thank the gods.

Even despite the lack of dick-swinging, he gets the message loud and clear. Obviously, this isn't a safe space to express the fact that he'd prefer to fuck off the moment he gets the option. So, he straightens up, smiling pleasantly as he clasps his hands behind his back in the picture of innocence.

"Of course. I'll be a perfect angel, then."

He'll just slip off after the job's done, permitted or not. What is Bull going to do, tackle him to the ground?

Amused: "You're full of shit." But fine, he'll accept this bullshit promise of good behaviour (or he assumes that's what that means, Thedas doesn't exactly have 'angels' or anything like them) and cross the bridge of reality when they come to it.

He sniffs noisily, rubs the bridge of his nose because he's pretty sure he got water up there. Goes back to lacing his boots — tight, like he can tie his temper up in there too. He's just cold, that's all.

He is full of shit! But Bull seems satisfied enough with his bullshitting to let it drop, so Astarion doesn't bother defending himself against the (true) accusation. Instead, he watches Bull finish his very tight lacing up, then leans against the concrete wall of the sewer—before immediately pushing off, because it's probably disgusting.

"Well, if you're so determined to nip at my heels like an unruly puppy," he says, obviously put out, "I suppose there's nothing to do but wait until nightfall."

A beat. He crosses his arms. Taps his fingers on his elbow. Crosses his legs at the ankle, then uncrosses them.

"...Gods, this is boring."

Bull is perfectly entertained just watching him fidget. "Shoulda brought a book," he points out.

But then he relents, leans back on one hand, sprawling out a little. "Let's play a game. I'll make three statements. Two are true, and one's a lie. Then you gotta pick the lie."

He's been trying to get this started in the Guild — it's a good way to learn information about the world that people think is obvious, pick up gossip and who knows who, since people usually choose to tell some salacious lie about someone they know and think you don't.

For example, "Uktar doesn't have a nose under that mask," he says, scratching his horn. "Blushing Mermaid sells bottles of something called scrangle, aaaand, uh, it's a full moon tomorrow night."

Plus it's a good way to trick people into thinking you have an obvious tell, so you can thrash them at Wicked Grace later. Or whatever people here call Wicked Grace.

This is idiotic. Astarion's expression says as much, but in case it's unclear: "This is idiotic."

Why would he want to play some childish game to pass the time? They've already talked more than he would like as is. They can just wait it out in boring silence—

Astarion's eyebrow twitches. A trick it might be, but he's fairly certain he's cued into one of Bull's giveaways, and he tilts his chin up a little, pleased at the prospect of winning. Even at something as admittedly idiotic as this.

"...Uktar, obviously." Said with the offhandedness of someone who's pretending he doesn't care about this dumb game, but who will absolutely be annoyed if it turns out he's wrong. "If he were lacking a nose, they'd call him some ridiculous nickname like No-Nose or Flat-Face."

"Yeah, pretty sure it's just a normal face under there," Bull acquiesces blithely, "You got it. Still dunno what a scrangle is."

He's pretty pleased himself, that Astarion is playing along with his 'idiotic games' instead of acting like a bored kid. "One point to you. Your turn. C'mon, hit me with some hot gossip."

Despite himself, Astarion looks proud of that 'one point'. What are these points even for? He doesn't know! But it feels nice to have one, and he suppresses a smile.

"Well," he says, needing very little encouragement to descend into gossip, "I'm fairly certain our illustrious guildmaster has, ah, enjoyed the private company of some of her bodyguards. Oh, and that Zenovia isn't just a member of the Rivington Rats, she is a wererat! Mmmm, and Bad Twin Bubbins smells."

He might have forgotten that the point of the game isn't just to slander people.

"You're shitting me about the rat thing," Bull says. It's not really based on anything except: "There's no way 'wererats' are a thing." He refuses to believe that one's true.

And Astarion's good enough at this that he couldn't pick the lie just based on his face. Which is fun, really, that he doesn't have to let him win just so the game keeps going. Also a little unnerving, and the part of his brain that looks at every situation like he's a spy in enemy territory makes some adjustments.

"You haven't seen a wererat?" Astarion asks, tilting his head like a confused dog. "Gods, the city is practically replete with them."

...Honestly, kind of weird!! He's never met a person who didn't know about wererats before. They're like a common urban pest, really. Astarion squints for a moment, his own brain making a few adjustments— and then he shrugs.

"Mmm, but I don't think Zenovia is one," he admits. "She doesn't have that twitchy sort of look."

Huh. Wererats. Add that to the list of weird races and species who live in this world. Bull's still adjusting to gnomes.

He sucks his teeth a moment in a tsk, annoyed with himself. "Well, point to me." Points are more fun when there's drinks, of course, or some kind of wager, but he isn't wasting gold on either of those at the moment.

Fucking wererats.

"Okay. The guy who lives in that big tower above the mage shop, Lorroakan, he's a faker. Lady Flux is allergic to most flowers. Aaaand," he itches his horn again idly. "Nine-Fingers' real name is Bethany."

"Obviously not," Astarion shoots back, and this time he seems like he's genuinely having some fun. He likes this 'making up rude lies about other people' thing. It appeals to his most base desires: to be a horrible gossip and to bring other people down so that he feels better about himself.

"It's, ah—" He waffles, uncertain. So, he can't quite remember what her real name is, but it's definitely not Bethany. "Alice, or something of that like." Close enough.

He's contemplative for a moment, debating whether he should say anything. Then: "Has anyone ever told you that you have a tell?" Bull really got him hook, line, and sinker with this one.

"No shit," Bull says, scowling convincingly at this revelation. "That so? That'd explain why I keep losing at cards."

Incorrigible. Absolutely remorseless, too. Kinda likes that Astarion is telling him, though. He'd consider honesty in return if he didn't think it would swing bad on him. "What is it?"

If Bull liked Astarion pointing out his tell, he won't like this next part. Astarion smiles, duper's delight, as he points to his own nose. After two centuries of making deception his shield, he feels little to no guilt about lying; there's no tell of his own when he says, smoothly, "Oh, nothing much. Those nostrils of yours flare."

Wait, what? "You're so full of shit," Bull laughs, booming. His respect for Astarion's ability to lie so cleanly outweighs any outrage he might have at being the target. Getting his own shit turned around on him. The misdirection of it all. Great stuff.

"Here's a truth for you," he says, still bright-eyed. "Whoever has got you playing errand boy is wasting your real skills. You should be spying for — what's it here, the Patriars? Yeah. Fuck. Raking in coin doing political espionage."

Oh, he likes that response. Bull is so right—he is being wasted. Astarion's usual body language makes him appear vaguely repulsed by everything and everyone around him, but having his potential pointed out fills him with visible pride. His shoulders straighten out, his nose hikes a little higher, and his mouth quivers a little as he obviously tries to fight a pleased grin.

"I do have the makings of success, don't I?"

It's clear that he believes that, too, believes that he's overqualified for this menial nonsense. It's also clear that no one else has ever seemed to share the sentiment, given the look of surprise-slash-delight in his eyes.

The look dulls a moment later, though, and he kicks at nothing on the floor. Bitterly: "Well. Unfortunately, not everyone has such a keen eye for potential."

It's a reaction at odds with so much of Astarion's demeanour so far, like a glimpse at a real person underneath all the bored resentment and shitty remarks.

Bull makes a contemplative huffing noise that sounds a little like his namesake. "Hm. Might be time for a career change, then," he says. Well-meaning, yes, and maybe also willing to piss Astarion off if it gets him to elaborate on that complicated boss shit from earlier. "It's a big world, you know."

If they were home, he might try and steal this guy for the Chargers. Probably he wouldn't hack the adventure of it all, or Skinner would knife him, and he really would be better off under Leliana or Josie. But the Chargers have more than once been someone's temporary way out, a way to earn a living when everything else seems dire. He misses having that to offer people as much as he misses the guys themselves.

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