[ —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}
→ 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. ]