"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."
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."
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."