[Of course he is. Of course he is, and yet some small part of him internally flinches at it was you she was drooling over. He can still feel the warmth of her hands on his chest, the purr of her voice in his ear, and it's—
It's nothing. It really isn't. She's so much weaker compared to him, and it's not as if he isn't allowed to fight back. Gods, Astarion would support him even if he snapped her neck, never mind broke her wrist, so what's the issue? It meant nothing (but his hands have balled into fists). It was nothing (but the music is too loud, the scent her perfume too cloying, the taste of that whiskey suddenly turned sour and sickly on his tongue). He took care of it. He's gone through worse. He—]
I'm fine.
[He says it because he doesn't know what else to say, nor even how to begin to say it. His eyes flick down to the table for a few seconds, and he adds:]
But I would not say no to another drink.
[Gods, alcohol seems so alluring right now, professionality be damned. But before Astarion can go and procure some (and the mood he's in, Fenris thinks he would, eager to soothe in any way he could), he reaches over the table, grabbing first his wrist, then his hand. Fingers loosely interlacing in a silent bid: stay.
no subject
[Of course he is. Of course he is, and yet some small part of him internally flinches at it was you she was drooling over. He can still feel the warmth of her hands on his chest, the purr of her voice in his ear, and it's—
It's nothing. It really isn't. She's so much weaker compared to him, and it's not as if he isn't allowed to fight back. Gods, Astarion would support him even if he snapped her neck, never mind broke her wrist, so what's the issue? It meant nothing (but his hands have balled into fists). It was nothing (but the music is too loud, the scent her perfume too cloying, the taste of that whiskey suddenly turned sour and sickly on his tongue). He took care of it. He's gone through worse. He—]
I'm fine.
[He says it because he doesn't know what else to say, nor even how to begin to say it. His eyes flick down to the table for a few seconds, and he adds:]
But I would not say no to another drink.
[Gods, alcohol seems so alluring right now, professionality be damned. But before Astarion can go and procure some (and the mood he's in, Fenris thinks he would, eager to soothe in any way he could), he reaches over the table, grabbing first his wrist, then his hand. Fingers loosely interlacing in a silent bid: stay.
And then, his voice a little lower:]
Is she always so vulgar?