nibbling | open post pt. 2.

"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."

"Astarion." Bull gives him an unamused look. Apparently he hasn't forgotten his name after all. "You know what I mean."

"Don't say Astarion like that," he snaps back, mostly to give himself time to think. In a poor imitation of Bull's low and somewhat irritated voice, "Astarion."

Hands on his hips, he blows a strand of silver hair out of his face like this is all a big inconvenience to him. Cazador is probably who Bull should be most concerned about, considering his aptitude for magic and inclination for murdering, but there's the vampire spawn, too, and probably some other thralls—

If he says all that, Bull won't want to do this anymore. "I'm not... entirely sure what the security situation looks like. But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about—Dufay is an inveterate idiot. As long as you look the part, which you do thanks to me, it'll go off without a hitch."

He won't say Astarion like that if Astarion doesn't keep dancing around information like it's a game. He misses, briefly and sharply, the Chargers, who may have all been eccentric outcasts but they knew how to report to him. Because they knew some intel might be the difference between living and dying.

Bull heaves a sigh. No, Krem would tell him he's overthinking it. It's not wetwork. Rich aristocrat with a dumb servant. Astarion's the one who'll be risking his skin when he steals the key. This is a different thing, it's not practicality, he's — nervous.

"Yeah," he says, "Okay yeah." Making himself buy into it because what the shit other choice does he have. Keep living in this city and saving a hundred coin here and there? There's not a lot of people anywhere who're hard up enough to hear of some shithole on a different plane and say, I'll help you out if you take me too. "Without a hitch." He's the Iron fucking Bull, if it goes balls up he'll just kill everyone.

"I'll go tomorrow," he decides. "Might get someone from the Guild to pass a message. Probably better if you're not seen swinging by my rooms so much. And I've got some other uh, leads."

Astarion wonders if he should mention that he'll be there while this all goes down, just locked in some dilapidated dormitory or serving as the master of the house's entertainment. He doesn't. It's too humiliating.

"All right." And then, a moment later: "What leads?"

Tutting, he scolds, "Don't keep it to yourself. We're partners in this, dear. We share things." Obviously, he would never, ever keep anything important from Bull!!!

Unfortunately this works on Bull, even knowing real solidarity is probably poor odds with Astarion. "Guild stuff. I think I can get a fake key," Bull says. "That or I end up with a real key and we hit two vaults. But I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be a mark, which is fine. Free fake, you can swap it for the one you're taking."

And he's not done, carries on talking. "Plus I'm gonna see how much I can get Nine-Fingers to loan me. I've done some solid work for her, and she thinks she can tell when I'm lying." Owing money to the Guild is a quick way to lose kneecaps but he's planning on taking his all the way back to Thedas. If they're going to rob people, they might as well rob as many people as they can. "Oh, and I want the diabolist to message those Circle mages. If that's okay with you." Shockingly, not sarcasm, or at least, undetectable sarcasm.

Astarion stares for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion. If anyone's ever sincerely said if that's okay with you to him, it had to have been so long ago that he no longer remembers. He's hesitant to take it seriously lest Bull burst out laughing the next second—oh, you really thought I cared what you think? Then again, he doesn't want to overreact out of paranoia and look a fool, either.

"I—" He stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically nervous. How do people tolerate this? Someone acting nice—or at least, not completely awful—is a fucking minefield. "Yes." Clipped, a little awkward. "That would be... fine."

Then, moving swiftly along so that he can't be embarrassed: "And a fake key will do just fine. It'll give us quite a bit more time. Dufay isn't smart enough to tell the real one from a forgery."

Maybe. He's, like, 75% sure.

Bull knows a lot about reading people, ferreting out their secrets and tells to get an idea of the bigger picture of someone's psyche. Habit to do it, like figuring out how he'd kill everyone if a fight broke out. But Astarion looks startled, for a brief flash, and Bull has to reluctantly acknowledge he has no idea what goes on in this guy's head.

"Good," he says. Gonna judge the man's stupidity for himself before he makes the call, but he seems happy Astarion's on board with all his scheming. Reaches out for the bag of clothes, since they're almost back at the Mermaid and he assumes Astarion once again won't stick around. "Talk tomorrow. Go relax, say goodbye to your city."

Astarion visibly wrestles with himself over whether to hand over the clothing before he finally relents and does; it's not like Bull is going to do this whole heist without him. Probably. If Bull screws him and doesn't send word tomorrow, Astarion will just tell the whole household that he tried to steal from them and let him deal with the consequences of that.

As for 'relaxing' and 'saying goodbye to the city'—

"Yes," he says, waving a hand. "I'll have a full night of hedonism and debauchery, and leave a trail of broken hearts in my wake."

In reality, he's going to spend the entire night feeling like an anxious prey animal and worrying about this plan. Whether it'll even work, whether they're going to get caught, whether this other plane Bull claims to come from even exists or if it's just some horrible practical joke that the universe is playing on him.

"Until tomorrow, then."

Edited 2025-10-08 02:19 (UTC)

"Nice," Bull says seriously, about a night of hedonism and debauchery. A sharp grin. "See ya."

Most of the time he doesn't sleep much — tonight he really tries to pack it in, like it's something he can take a big dose of now and won't need more for a few days. Helps him stifle his own agitation.

For the first time in a long time there's qunlat on his lips when he gets ready in the morning, pulling on his new clothes. An old prayer, but without religious intent, just the comfort of the familiar words that he's spoken to himself before so many other battles. Buffs his horns and his boots. Wonders idly what Astarion's doing — does he sleep during the day? Do elves here sleep, without the Fade? He realizes he doesn't know.

The chamberlain is about as stupid as Astarion said, and eager to please, to smooth over any possible problems without it reaching his master. Another tally on the list of people who seem to be scared of the Szarr aristocrat. When he retrieves the key to show Bull he tries to be subtle, but it's sloppy sleight of hand work and Bull's eyepatch doesn't hinder his observation any.

He does end up leaving a message for Astarion, pays some Guild-aligned urchin to hang around selling the Gazette until he can deliver it: Red chestnut, by the tower painting, has a secret third drawer. Meet me at Beehive General. Seals it with a blob of wax — an excessive amount, because it needs to hide what seems to be another High Security vault key, Seven instead of Three, but it's gilted instead of the gold alloy of the real keys. Not a great forgery. But hey, maybe it'll buy them the extra time they need.

Astarion spends the better part of the day desperately trying to turn that seven into a three, chiseling into it with his dagger to "engrave" the number. It looks... okay. Like a very stylized three, perhaps. Hopefully, Dufay won't even think to look at it, and if he does, hopefully he'll be too afraid to admit to Cazador that he got swindled.

He replaces the real key with the fake one while Dufay is distracted with scolding one of the servants for not cleaning vigorously enough. Into his pocket the heavy gold key goes, and he spends the rest of the day in a giddy, horrified daze. Even when he goes to meet with Bull at the Beehive General, he's antsy and restless, fidgeting with his hair and his clothes. Practically bursting out of his skin with both pride at pulling something over on Cazador and abject horror that he's going to get caught.

"There you are," he snaps when Bull arrives. "It's been sundown for—"

Well. Like, five minutes. But it was an agonizing five minutes to wait.

Bull's still in his new red outfit instead of battle gear — might as well look the part for the guys who work in the Counting House, right? Didn't realize how on edge he was about the ways this could go bad until he spots Astarion, alive. Good.

"Easy," he murmurs, with a low inflection like Astarion is a temperamental nuggalope who needs soothing. "Had to meet our mage. How'd you go?"

Edited (remembered something stupid about qunari.) 2025-10-09 02:02 (UTC)

He's all anxiety, palms damp from worry and excitement, but at least Bull seems even-keeled. It doesn't calm him, exactly—very little could, when he's just done something that could get him put in the kennels for the next decade if he's found out—but it does help keep his stress from rising to intolerable levels. Breath is unnecessary, but he take a deep one anyway, in and out. A psychological need rather than a physiological one.

"I got it," he says, unearthing the hefty key from his pocket, hands shaking a little from the adrenaline rush. Just as quickly as it had been revealed, the key goes back into his pocket. No point in swinging it around where anyone could see. Then, a sudden burst of surprise, like he can barely believe it: "—Ha! I actually got it."

Today is a maelstrom of emotions. Abject fear, manic joy.

"Now all that's left to do is procure our coin and bring it to that wizard of yours."

"Fuck yes," Bull says, crisp and earnest, eye lit up and smile warm. He doesn't really touch other people unnecessarially, ever, but he gives Astarion a light clap on the back. "Great job. We're almost outta here." He can't help his own panicky little thrill at that; but he's trying really, really hard not to feel anything big. Keep focused on the job. Leaving is an inevitability, however it happens for him, no point fucking it up by getting excited and sloppy.

The wizard, though. "Should warn you," he says, still looking pleased, this time at his part of the plan coming together, "The guy we've got — he's annoying. And about half the price of the diabolist, so." The second thing cancels out the first thing, probably. They already have a lot of coin, Cazador would have to be pathetically poor for robbing him to not bring them over the line.

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still me.

i love it ✨

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