nibbling | open post pt. 2.

Oh, lovely. That nickname stuck. He briefly wonders if Bull has forgotten his name again.

"I thought I'd say we're twin brothers," he snarks, if only to buy time because he hasn't actually thought of the play at all. "Fraternal, of course."

Hmm. He looks back at Bull, discerning. No offense, but Bull isn't exactly giving 'high class escort', so that one's out. "Perhaps you lost all of your clothes in a horrible fire, and that's why you walk around with your chest out for everyone to see."

That gets him a sidelong look, a quirk of the eyebrow, a blink-and-you'd-miss it flirtation. "My chest's a gift I'm giving the world," he informs Astarion. "But sure, charity case. Have fun with that one."

True to his word, Bull shrinks a little as he enters the shop, some great pall of misery falling over him, broad shoulders hunched in, one hand clutching the strap of his shoulder pauldron like a man who is worried about the last clothes he has in the world. Heavy is the head that wears the horns, etc etc.

Despite this minimizing, Julio Pennygood looks alarmed to see Bull, and very relieved when he also sees there's someone accompanying him, coming over to talk to Astarion immediately. "Welcome, welcome."

Pennygood, being a dwarf, has to crane his neck to look up at Bull's towering form—so he just chooses not to, instead focusing on the much less imposing elf beside him. Astarion looks like he belongs here. In fact, he's window-shopped here countless times, peering in through the glass and coveting the fancy new clothes.

"And what can I do for two men of, er"—a quick glance Bull's way—"luxury?"

"As you can see," Astarion says, gesturing to Bull, "my friend here has just been in a terrible accident." Flatly: "All his shirts, to cinders." Pennygood's eyebrows raise. "Isn't that right?"

"Lost everything in the fire," Bull says dejectedly, affecting noble misery. He touches his bare chest lightly, as if to thank his shirts for their year of service. It's a little hammy, but he has to be, to overcome the way every merchant in the city looks at him and reads thug. He's even adjusted his accent, very slightly; speaking properly it almost sounds like he's come up from Zakhara.

"Nothing but my eyepatch and my sleeping trousers. A man of my stature, it is not easy to find new clothes. At first I thought, tomorrow I will be the laughing stock of this city, when I have nothing to wear to my important meeting. But my best friend, of many years," a gesture to Astarion like it isn't obvious that's who he means, "Told me he knew a man who could help. A man of skill, and taste, with his finger on the pulse of fashion here in Baldur's Gate." He points down at Pennygood. "You."

He'd been concerned about Bull's acting ability, but— the man commits. Astarion stares at him with a mixture of surprise and delight, impossibly amused at witnessing him turn into some genteel victim of circumstance in front of his very eyes. Well done, Bull; they might actually be able to pull off this little heist after all.

"Yes," Astarion agrees. "I believe those were my exact words."

"Oh!" Pennygood says, his misgivings about Bull's appearance dissipating now that he's been so thoroughly complimented. "Well, you came to the right place, gentleman. The selection for someone of your size—er, that is, of your generous stature—will be smaller, but I do believe I have some items in the back for you to try on."

Astarion had expected as much. He can't even guarantee that they'll find something that matches, but it'll still be better than Bull showing up shirtless. He's not going to seduce Dufay for the information. ...Or, at least, they'll call that Plan B.

"I'm sure whatever you have will do splendidly," Astarion says with a mild smile, before Pennygood scurries away to find suitable clothing for Bull to try. Once he's out of earshot, Astarion gives Bull an appraising look, obviously pleased with his performance. "Well, I didn't know you were gifted in the theatre."

Bull snorts, tosses him a glance that is more fond than it should be. "Only 'cause you don't listen when I tell you crap," he points out, no heat, all bullshit. "I can dance okay, too, but somehow I don't think we're gonna need that."

Astarion rolls his eyes, because he totally listens. Just not when things are boring, or complex, or not about him.

"Let's call ballet Plan C," he says, gracefully not mentioning what Plan B is. He pictures Bull dancing on his tippy toes, horns getting caught in some fancy chandelier. It's a very amusing image, and he chuckles.

When Pennygood returns, it's with a few articles of clothing draped over his arm. Considering that he's a dwarf and these are made for a much taller person, they drag a little on the floor despite his best efforts. "I've procured a few of our finest items," he lies; he procured a few of their biggest items and prayed that they'd fit. "Shall I show you to a dressing room?" And then, only offering out of politeness, "—Uh, I can assist if you need help getting the attire over your horns..."

"I can manage," Bull says with a wave of his hand to try and cover the flat note in his voice.

He gathers up all the fabric and follows Pennygood to whatever curtained off area they have to change in. It's not spacious. Bull throws everything to hang over the top of the curtain rod and starts to undress. Not that he has much to take off.

The first outfit is the easiest to put on; the blue shirt has no sleeves, horizontal clasps all the way up the front that he just has to force closed over the expanse of his chest. Tries on a long plum coat along with it, and a tighter pair of pants - maybe a little too tight, he can't imagine living his life in these without tearing them. The colours and embroidered patterns don't match, but constructing a nice outfit isn't his job, he's just gotta show them what the clothes look like, so he comes out and spins for Pennygood and Astarion, feeling like a dick. The next set is equally mismatched but fits a little better, a longer shirt in red and gold.

The third outfit, though, that has a white shirt that goes over the head, and there's a clear, "Aw, crap," growled from behind the curtain as Bull tries to stretch the neckline to wiggle it over his left horn and just gets it stuck on there, stretched and uncomfortable. Qunari even have a saying about this, the equivalent of "getting caught with your pants down".

Astarion, waiting not-so-patiently against the wall, stops his restless (read: bored! Bull is taking so long in there) fidgeting only at the sound of 'aw, crap'. Pennygood hears it, too, and looks vaguely alarmed. "Sir, is everything all right in there?" he asks, obviously more concerned about the state of his product than whether Bull is okay.

"Nothing to worry about, I'm sure—" Astarion says, rudely peeking behind the curtain without even warning Bull or asking if he's decent. Look, Bull's clearly not shy; he walks around with his tits fully out. At the sight of him, shirt caught on those fearsome horns of his, Astarion barks a laugh.

"Gentlemen?" Pennygood asks, clearly growing more worried about his precious clothing. You break it with your giant horns, you buy it is not an official rule here, but he thinks surely it would hold up, right...? "Is there a problem?"

"Nope!" Bull calls back, and then to Astarion, hissed lower, resisting the urge to physically haul him, "Get in here and help me." Asshole.

He's gonna pay for this later but he drops down onto one knee, the other one creaking ominously, since his brace is on the floor with the rest of his shit. Without his pants on the massive spiderweb of white scarring over his left knee speaks of yet another bad old injury. But Astarion is right that he doesn't seem bothered to be caught in nothing but his subligaculum.

The whole thing could be kinda fun under other circumstances, but is mostly annoying right now. He tips his head forward so Astarion can free the shirt without tearing it. Muttering to himself. "Stupid fuckin' shirt necks with no give. Woulda looked great in that one." Big white billowy shirts are basically the formalwear he'd choose for himself, though probably a little too pirate captain for their purposes.

Fucking hells. Astarion does not want to waste their precious coin on some expensive shirt that Bull has torn apart with his horns. He's already running through excuses—Pennygood should have known better, and it's his fault for giving them a shirt that wouldn't stretch over the head!—as he approaches, hardly precious about Bull's state of undress. He's seen a lot of people naked over the years; he can't remember the last time it actually excited or embarrassed him. Most of the time, he doesn't feel anything about it besides blissful numbness.

He is actually quite entertained by this particular situation, though, and although Bull can't see it with the billowy shirt hanging over his face, the corner of his mouth curls up in (somewhat malicious) amusement.

"How long have you had horns, and you're still getting things caught on them?" he chides, reaching out to pluck carefully at the shirt, taking special pains to touch only the fabric and nothing else. While he's not precious about seeing people naked, he's still not the biggest fan of touching them. This is, of course, a ridiculous way to try to get the shirt off, and he ends up getting it more tangled in Bull's horns than it was before.

An exasperated sigh. "Stay still," he demands. ...Then, tapping a horn with one fingernail: "Have you any feeling in these?" Just so he knows before he starts, you know, getting all up in there.

Hey, he doesn't exactly wear a lot of shirts to get in the practice with getting them on. But there's a real scolding Tamassran note to Astarion's voice so he doesn't, for once, chat back. Keeps still when he's told to keep still.

"No more'n a fingernail," Bull promises. That is: the place where they join into his skin (and into his skull) has nerves, so if there's a lot of pressure they get that pulled-wrong feeling, but he doesn't really even feel the tap except as a tiny reverberation.

Untangling the fabric from Bull's horns is a little like coaxing a lock open, all subtle movements and careful arranging. He actually feels a strange sense of satisfaction when the shirt finally comes loose, like he's accomplished something, the same feeling he gets when he hears that telltale click of a bolt opening.

Holding the shirt up: "Pity. I rather liked this one."

Edited (hello.... punctuation) 2025-10-04 14:27 (UTC)

"Me too," Bull says mournfully, looking up at the shirt in Astarion's. "Buuut, probably not the right look for the job."

He braces a hand on his knee and hauls himself back up to standing with a grunt and a huaaghh. "Thanks, though." He picks through the clothes to try and find something he hasn't already tried on. Straight-faced: "Woulda been a tough sell, pretending to be a banker with clothes on his horns."

"Hm." The white shirt discarded carelessly, Astarion tosses a pair of trousers very unceremoniously at Bull. They look a little too short, but he can't pretend to be a fancy banker type pantsless, either. A moment later, he nudges Bull's brace with his foot. "So, what's wrong with your knee?"

"Really, the knee?" Bull asks, surprised, because Astarion has never asked about all the other ways his body is visibly fucked. If there's an angle, he can't see it.

He pulls on the pants. "Old scars, that's all. Fractured by some frost magic, waited too long to see a healer. Brace hides the limp, stops people from clocking it as a weak spot. Hey, these are all right." They fit, and he doesn't hate the mid-calf look.

He's a little concerned about Bull's ability to run should the need present itself, actually, but he doesn't bring it up so as not to spook him off of this little misadventure. It'll be fine, probably. And if not, well, Bull has shown himself perfectly capable of smashing a few skulls.

Astarion shoots him a discerning look, eyes flicking up and down to take in the trousers. Definitely too short, but he can at least get those tree-trunk thighs in them. "You look very..." A pause. "Jaunty." It's not said without some amusement, though; the look is far from what Astarion would choose for him given the opportunity, a little goofy, but it's not bad. It could work.

Another pause, thoughtful, before Astarion rudely tosses him another shirt. "Red is your color, I think."

"If you say so," says Bull.

No trouble getting this one on, and Bull does it up with a low Hrm, rolling a shoulder to feel how the material pulls — but it fits, not swashbucklingly loose but not constricting, either. There's a crispness to the cut of the thick fabric that mean his shoulders probably look great. It's a good choice.

It feels like a costume, but he can live with that.

"You like all this stuff, huh," he remarks idly. "Fancy clothes."

Yes, red is definitely Bull's color, sharp and striking against the paleness of his skin. Not the pink he'd requested—seriously or not; Astarion has a little bit of trouble telling with his eternally nonchalant delivery—but close enough. He gives Bull an approving once-over, pleased with the outfit selection. It's the first one so far that hasn't clashed horribly, and although the short pants are a little silly, one could easily mistake it for a fashion choice.

"Fancy clothes, expensive wine, shiny things," Astarion rattles off. All things that he covets and doesn't get to have. This is the closest he's gotten to shopping for luxury items in a long time; his own clothes are impeccably taken care of, but well-worn all the same. "What can I say? I'm cut out for the finer things in life."

The Iron Bull will remember that. It's not like they have coin to spare right now, can't risk coming up short. But he might keep it in mind, for, you know, once they're in Thedas. If they pull this off, he's gonna need to find a way to say thanks.

"Sure," he says, "You've got the looks to pull off rampant hedonism. But I meant — the eye for fashion. That's a skill." He knows because he doesn't have it. "If you told me you worked in a place like this it wouldn't surprise me, that's all."

Anyway, he's going to start changing back into his normal clothes. "Let's get these."

"Mm," Astarion approves, "you know, it's rather fun to throw money around."

He's having fun buying fancy things, even for someone else! Of course, he wishes it were for himself, but this has to be the next best thing. And it's sort of enjoyable to dress Bull up like an oversized doll. One could almost believe he actually is a mannerly banker and not a mercenary.

Through the curtain, Pennygood asks, still nervous about what Bull's horns might have done to his stock, "...Any update, gentlemen?"

"As much as I'd love to watch you undress," Astarion says, "there will always be time for that later. I'll go flash some coin, hmm?"

Bull is plenty aware that his skin hadn't phased the elf for a second, no blush, no lingering little peeks that the serving girls back home would do or the transfixed disgust of nobility. So the feeling that sparks in him when Astarion flirts back a little is mostly curiosity, always fascinated when he thinks he's spotted the edges of some kind of mask. One day he'll stop wanting to unpick this guy's whole deal.

"Yeah," he agrees, "Stop checking me out and go pay the guy." If nothing else he'd like the elbow room back.

Bull follows him out not long after, back in his circus tent pants, the outfit they've chosen in hand. Back in the act from before, though he's dialed back the misery now that the guy has a shirt to wear. Makes sure to thank the tailor and Astarion effusively before they go.

As they walk out, Bull's new outfit in a pretty little bag, Astarion feels surprisingly... well, not optimistic. That's a shade too far. But he doesn't feel entirely dreadful about this plan, which is a novelty all in itself.

"So," he says, hands clasped behind his back, "I suppose I should tell you about our mark." The last thing he ever wants to do in his life is think about Dufay, but sacrifices must be made. "You'll be talking to an awful, stuffy, snot-nosed chamberlain named Dufay."

It's obvious there's no love lost between them. Astarion wrinkles his nose just saying the name; Dufay, like it's a swear. How many times has that pompous snob called him a brat? He isn't entirely wrong, admittedly, but at least Astarion isn't the one willingly kissing Cazador's boots.

"It's an estate in the Upper City. Dark, foreboding. You can't miss it."

"Great," Bull says, to dark, forboding, pulling a face that's the opposite of great. "Okay, let's talk about the stuff that can kill me. Say this Dufay guy mistakes me for the assassin that killed his grandmother, what's he do about it. Hit me with a fireball? Call some kinda guards?"

A pause. Obviously, Astarion has not thought this far ahead.

"Well, you're quite difficult to mistake for anyone." Not a lot of eight-foot-tall men with horns and an eyepatch around here. "And, honestly, I can't imagine he cared very much for his nana."

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