faderift | [closed] the boy is back in town

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[closed] the boy is back in town

WHO: Benedict and Leander
WHAT: Leander gets to Hunt a Man
WHEN: early-mid August
WHERE: Lowtown
NOTES: god who even knows

When Benedict first arrived back in Kirkwall after weeks spent in Minrathous (and the subsequent escort out of Minrathous and dumping near Sundermount), he had every intention of returning to the Gallows, explaining that he was held against his will, offering to continue in his normal duties, and getting on with his life.
Instead, he spent about half an hour just standing at the ferry, watching the boats come and go until he felt compelled by an unseen force to just... not.

He's been Not for a little over a week now. It doesn't suit him: he's filthy, for one thing, and ravenously hungry, the bruises yellowing from his escort "helping" him look the part of an escaped captive, his clothing tattered and stained from both that and the subsequent time spent on the street.

He can't go back, of course. To either Tevinter or Riftwatch, both of whom will likely have his head for some completely valid reason or another. So he just Doesn't, buying time until he gets a better idea.

Maybe Antiva's nice. If he could afford to get on a boat there. Maybe he can sell his hair.

At present, he's huddled in a dark corner of the Hanged Man, forcing himself to stay awake so he can keep watch for food left over from other patrons. He hasn't been kicked out yet, but likely will be before too long.

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"You--" comes the near-question, surprised, followed by a grateful, almost pleasant smile as Benedict angles his head to look at Leander from where he reclines. Whatever the situation, he's fed, clean, and sleepy, and his body is quickly reassuring him that any more pressing cares can wait until tomorrow.
"...thank you," he says instead, with a little sigh. Turning his head to look at the ceiling, he breathes out through his nose, just appreciating the comfort of his present arrangement. "I misjudged you, I think. ...I'm sorry."

"No need," comes with an air of dismissal, too: the satisfied kind. "I should think this makes us even."

(He says, while pushing down on the cosmic scale with one deliberate finger.)

"Will you tell me, now, why you've been running around like an urchin? Where did you get those bruises?" If Benedict remembers he's a Creation mage, he might oblige a request to heal them, but in the course of the bath he's decided not to offer. For making him wait.

The comment about them being even now receives a funny look, but Benedict is too exhausted to find any further suspicion in it. He can't think of anything he's ever done for Leander that would merit this kindness, but... perhaps he just doesn't remember?

"They're from--..." He lolls his head back to look at one on his wrist, wrinkling his nose at it. They're supposed to be from his long journey home from Minrathous, the one after which he was supposed to report directly back to Riftwatch and hope they'd believe he'd fled.
It's been too long to settle on that story. He's good at pontificating, at stalling, but not at outright lying.

"...from when I was dropped off. Outside the city." He presses at one with a wince, then cuts his exhausted gaze back to Leander. "...please, I don't want to talk about it."

Benedict is lucky, he thinks—only if you tilt your head and squint—that Alexandrie sent someone with an ample reservoir of forbearance to fetch him. If you're going to fuck off for ages and refuse to be honest about it, the least you can do is lie well. Practise, maybe, while you do your fucking off. What's he been up to all this time? Leander can't imagine doing nothing for so long.

Tilting his head, and squinting, "Dropped off from where?"

It was hardly nothing, but when one is so singularly relied upon to be both already good at everything expected of him and fully willing to do so, it's all the more obvious when he... isn't.

He fights with himself a moment-- fighting fatigue as much as anything else-- and shakes his head.
"Please don't," he says, a bit more softly, and flashes a smile Leander's way: one that's both ingratiating and pleading. "...please. Forget about-- about Riftwatch right now. And Tevinter. ...let me forget." The smile drifts away into something more self-conscious.

Benedict struggles and smiles and drifts, and Leander is unmoved by any of it. But he's responded well to kindness so far; a little more may not go amiss. Even if it does take a little effort, now, not to roll his eyes externally.

At last, he smiles in return. It's thin this time. Perhaps he's tired, too.

"Very well."

Perhaps he is tired, at that; standing out of the chair feels like a chore. Fortunately there's plenty of sitting to be had in his immediate future, but first he must reach the door. Check the latch. Engage the lock. And, in the same moment he engages the lock, place his other hand on the wood—casually, like he's steadying himself, or creating leverage for a sticky mechanism—and nudge it out of shape enough to wedge it against the frame. Once he's done that, this door won't open. Not even with a key. Not without tools.

(Like he was meant to do months earlier, with the door to the Speaker's room, before he lost consciousness along with much of his blood.)

"Sleep, then—and hope the spirits are kind enough not to ask you either."

There's that feeling again, like something's not quite right in Leander's eyes, in his smile, but sleep is beginning to take Benedict and there's no fighting it now. Something has happened to the door-- it's locked? Beyond locked, there's something else happening, but-- sleep, his mind says, and so does Leander, so that's permission enough.
Tugging off the towel, he instead pulls the covers over himself and, in very little time at all, proceeds to lose consciousness. He'll worry about it tomorrow, whatever It is.

By tomorrow, Leander will have come and gone from the room twice: once simply to remove himself from the presence of a sleeping body, thinking it would help him keep awake (he was correct); and once to take the dishes down and ask after the clothing he'd requested hours before. Both visits to the downstairs would reassure the keep that there'd be no reason to call at the room, since all was well.

Which it was.

If Benedict had woken up before Leander's return, either time, he would've been fine, given the pitcher of potable water (though he could certainly drink from the leftover bath if he really wanted to), and the makeshift privy box hidden behind a folding screen in the corner furthest from the bed. (The screen's a thoughtful addition, in Lea's opinion, despite being old and damaged.) The locked and jammed door, on the other hand, may have given him pause.

Fortunately, when Leander reenters the room, the body hasn't moved from the bed, and so he doesn't disguise the brief wood-warping as anything but; he reckons that little amount of magic shouldn't be enough to rouse Benedict from a dead sleep. But then, neither does he disguise or soften his footfalls, either. Fabric rustling, clothes being shaken out. A soft tut of disapproval at something or other. Sound of a chair moving, a glass being filled.

Whether or not Benedict has shown signs of stirring by now, Leander brings a cup of water to bedside and bumps it against the sleeper's shoulder. And again, if necessary.

"Here. Up you get."

Never an especially early riser, Benedict isn't easily coaxed from sleep, glancing groggily over one shoulder toward the cup before rolling onto his stomach and hugging the pillow with a little sigh.
"Half an hour," he mutters into the pillowcase.

"Up you get," Leander repeats, entirely unmoved in any direction by the refusal. The cup continues to hover just there, insistently. The hand holding it is relaxed, the arm too, and the face above them both—should Benedict happen to peek upward—is a mask of unsmiling calm. Not severe, only still. "You've slept long enough."

Peek upward he does, in exasperation, but the look he sees stops him cold. It takes him a moment to strategize how to proceed; perhaps further stalling is in order, placating rather than facing a still and awkward interaction with a man he barely knows and can hardly even hope to read.

"Or you could join me," he offers coyly, lifting his head to rest it on the back of one hand: here is a man who knows he has charm and roughly when to use it, even if it's misguided in this case.

Misguided, indeed, and paradoxically welcome.

The opacity of Leander's expression seems to lessen. (It's just increased.) He smiles, and tilts his head, and seems to be thankful for the reminder that he's allowed to be a human being now and then—or, at least, that he should relax once in a while. (No one has ever needed to remind him of that.) With a pleasant, chuckling hum, he reaches out to run his knuckles along the crest of Benedict's jaw.

"Poor thing," like this is a little joke they now share, "you must be starving for friendly attention, after all that." Whatever that is. He can guess; that isn't what he wants. "But I really shouldn't."

Such a workaholic. If only he could escape the chains of professionalism.

Benedict mirrors his smile, such that it is, not even really seeming to mind the condescension of Leander's response. He's not proud, but... well, he is starving for it, and one might say always has been.
But he's been told no, and based on the delicacy of the situation, he'll have to accept that. But instead he just sighs and rolls onto his back again, blinking up at the ceiling.

"What's your hurry, anyway," he murmurs, "if you've somewhere to be, just leave me here and I'll make my way out."

To show him an alternative path, only to snatch it away just as quickly: a direct hit to his patience. Continuing to appear benign suddenly requires more effort than he'd otherwise care to spend, but he's already committed to it, and so—taking special care to keep his hands soft, his posture relaxed, belying none of his frustration—he sits on the edge of the bed.

"I could." He still might, just to see what would happen next. "I could've left after you fell asleep." Pale fingers (still soft, still steady) find a bit of the hair spread beside him, toy with it almost hesitantly. "But I didn't, did I?"

That's... true.
Benedict's brow furrows, and then he raises his gaze to meet Leander's with a searching look, warily prompting him to get to his point.

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[closed] the boy is back in town

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