[ There is no way for Bastien to clock the abrupt hand-over-hand eagerness of collecting up his crystal when it gleams at him, but let the record show that there isn't much of a delay in response.
He's never liked this method of communication, but perhaps there's word. News. He will let slide 'Monsieur Enchanter' for that. ]
[ Genuine. His earlier sulk—perceptible in him only as an absence of cheer and friendliness bringing him closer to the average person’s everyday mood—has mostly dissipated. The resentment that caused it is not gone, maybe, but at least held at a distance, acknowledged as an irrational feeling he’s not required to act on. ]
Well enough that I might come bother you? I thought we should go over everything again. Make sure Fitcher could have done it all—
[ could be a last attempt to absolve her, and almost is, before he resists the pull ]
[ The pause functions to absorb the little twinge of disappointment that Bastien doesn't bring him an update of some kind, but resolve rolls over it easily enough. ]
Aye, [ almost to himself, as much as to agree to the possibility of more involved parties than only Fitcher. ] Alright. I have it all kept in my office.
[ —because the only thing stopping him from confirming now is the lazy start to his morning, his need to scrape himself together and ensure that any trace of the road has left him in spirit even if it already has, physically speaking. It will be nice, to get back to work, even if that work is the continued obsessive accounting over this one thing.
He should already be there, once Bastien makes his way. The side that technically belongs to Darras has some clutter and negligence, and his side is—well, normally tidier. Now his desk is papered over with notes, a few old records books he'd taken at some point, along with a pitcher of coffee that mingles bitter with the scent of smoke from a recently lit cigarette, smoldering in a crystal tray just next to it. Marcus is standing, still, as he sorts through it.
More business casual than his usual business formal, no fussery with waistcoats or neckties today. It is too hot, besides, sleeves rolled back, and no heavy iron-edged staff in sight. ]
[ Orlesian to his bones, if not quite his marrow, Bastien arrives more heavily dressed and raps his knuckles on the doorway in hello, it's me warning on his way through it. The slight repositioning of his eyebrows at the sight of Marcus' forearms would be easy to quash, but, like, it would be weirder if he didn't occasionally notice the man was good-looking. Right? ]
I did not ask—how is your Fereldan?
[ His accent might make that phrasing problematic, save the affection and obvious context that he has one of his own. ]
You seemed to have the worst of it, but you also seem to perhaps be more accustomed to that sort of danger, no?
[ It takes a beat, this first question. Maybe if Ferelden had a language distinct from Trade, the confusion would persist.
As it is, it's just a second, a glance up to absorb it and the rest. Marcus is not quite fun enough to show outwardly whether he liked that, locked down by habit, but it seems to hit a correct kind of note that tension or misgiving does not stir up for the next part. He fidgets with the edges of the last page he picked up. ]
I suppose that's true, [ agreeable, if muted. ] But he's alright. Resilient. Fereldans tend to be.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He's never liked this method of communication, but perhaps there's word. News. He will let slide 'Monsieur Enchanter' for that. ]
Well.
no subject
[ Genuine. His earlier sulk—perceptible in him only as an absence of cheer and friendliness bringing him closer to the average person’s everyday mood—has mostly dissipated. The resentment that caused it is not gone, maybe, but at least held at a distance, acknowledged as an irrational feeling he’s not required to act on. ]
Well enough that I might come bother you? I thought we should go over everything again. Make sure Fitcher could have done it all—
[ could be a last attempt to absolve her, and almost is, before he resists the pull ]
—and we aren’t dealing with two.
no subject
Aye, [ almost to himself, as much as to agree to the possibility of more involved parties than only Fitcher. ] Alright. I have it all kept in my office.
no subject
→ action.
[ —because the only thing stopping him from confirming now is the lazy start to his morning, his need to scrape himself together and ensure that any trace of the road has left him in spirit even if it already has, physically speaking. It will be nice, to get back to work, even if that work is the continued obsessive accounting over this one thing.
He should already be there, once Bastien makes his way. The side that technically belongs to Darras has some clutter and negligence, and his side is—well, normally tidier. Now his desk is papered over with notes, a few old records books he'd taken at some point, along with a pitcher of coffee that mingles bitter with the scent of smoke from a recently lit cigarette, smoldering in a crystal tray just next to it. Marcus is standing, still, as he sorts through it.
More business casual than his usual business formal, no fussery with waistcoats or neckties today. It is too hot, besides, sleeves rolled back, and no heavy iron-edged staff in sight. ]
mea culpa
I did not ask—how is your Fereldan?
[ His accent might make that phrasing problematic, save the affection and obvious context that he has one of his own. ]
You seemed to have the worst of it, but you also seem to perhaps be more accustomed to that sort of danger, no?
forgiven due to noticing forearms
As it is, it's just a second, a glance up to absorb it and the rest. Marcus is not quite fun enough to show outwardly whether he liked that, locked down by habit, but it seems to hit a correct kind of note that tension or misgiving does not stir up for the next part. He fidgets with the edges of the last page he picked up. ]
I suppose that's true, [ agreeable, if muted. ] But he's alright. Resilient. Fereldans tend to be.
[ They'd have to be. ]