WHO: Benedict, some other people, you?? WHAT: just a catch-all WHEN: tra-la, it's may, the lusty month of may WHERE: around and about NOTES: If you'd like something bespoke I'm happy to include it!
There hasn't been a lot of time for catching up, all things considered. Perhaps it's a gesture of goodwill that had Benedict inviting Octavius to come and help him spruce up his office in the aftermath of both the Gallows attack and himself being replaced by an impersonator for two months, but whatever the reasoning, he's brought up some things he managed to recover from his demolished quarters with the intent of making the space a little more his own.
He stops dead upon opening the door: what he couldn't find in the rubble is already here, hung and arranged so tidily as to be indistinguishable from his own actual handiwork. He takes a shuddering breath, glancing wide-eyed around the closet of a room. He didn't do this, but someone with his face did: someone who knew his sensibilities exactly, who had access to every aspect of his life.
Octavius has been putting in his hours in the infirmary and in the library (and, with what little time he has left over, into his search for evidence of his father's whereabouts), and so Benedict's invitation arrives as a pleasant break from a lot of very tiring work around lots of people who understandably don't trust him yet. He accompanies Benedict to go poking through the rubble in search of anything that might be his, and eventually follows after him to his new office space.
When the door opens, he peers inside with an expression of benign interest on his face--yep, that's an office, doesn't look nearly as sparse as he'd been expecting, actually--only to do a double-take when he notices Benedict's expression. Immediately he frowns. "What's the matter?"
Pressing his lips together, Benedict sinks back against the doorframe and clutches, like a comfort object, the small pile of gauzey draperies he'd brought up.
"It decorated," he stammers, "it knew I was planning to decorate, and--" And so it did.
And didn't do a terrible job, even, which is somehow worse. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a scowling wince, trying to will away the disorientation of the moment.
"Tear it all down," he suggests. A beat, and then, holding up his hands placatingly, "I don't mean literally tear anything apart, I just meant--" a vague wave of one hand, "--take everything off the walls, off the shelves. Rearrange the furniture. Then we'll put it back up again."
Octavius' voice brings him back to the moment, and with it follows a flash of embarrassment-- to let himself be seen like this, by fucking Tavi Vedici-- but this is just one of many such revelations lately, considering the very same has been looking after him while he recovers.
It's not a great feeling, being indebted to this person. Or to see him so readily jumping in to help now, even if he's right. A nameless disdain lurches out from somewhere deeply buried to mingle incongruously with gratefulness. This little twerp.
"Yeah," Bene agrees with a breathless nod, taking his time to straighten again.
There had been the very beginnings of a little smile starting to form at the corners of Octavius's mouth, but something in Benedict's expression nips that impulse right in the bud. Awkwardly, Octavius clears his throat and drops his eyes to take an interest in the desk, fakes seeing a bit of dust near the inkwell, and sweeps it aside.
"Anyway, um," he begins smartly, "I'll grab what's on the walls, if you want to start with the surfaces."
He sets the pile he's currently holding down onto the desk, beginning to painstakingly remove any knick-knacks or drapings that are already sitting atop it: little gifts from Satinalias past, a coffee carafe, a candlestick he bought in Antiva City. It's so violating-- he has to force himself to think about anything else, lest the office he worked so hard to attain be ruined for him forever.
"Any progress on finding your father?" he asks, beginning to transfer objects onto the seat of the chair so he can rearrange them to his liking.
Octavius can relate, though he thinks better of bringing up his own experience with violation of his living space and his autonomy. (Given, well, Benedict's mother was the one responsible for making it happen.)
He's got a few maps and tapestries in his arms when Benedict asks that question, and nearly catches his toe on a loose brick. "No," he admits, checks where he's going this time, and heads over to the desk to set them down just for now. One quick, neurotic look at the door, but in truth he's given up on the disguise anyway. "It's like he turns into a bloody ghost after he's been at Skyhold for a few months. Did you know they have his phylactery?"
"Ew," Benedict intones, with more breath than voice, turning to look at Tavi in mild horror, "no." It's one thing to keep phylacteries, a vile enough practice, but to keep Atticus' phylactery?
"Why don't they just track him down like a Southern mage, then?" he asks, drawing up a tapestry from the pile Tavi just set down, to get a better look at it. "They're hardly above that."
"That's the strange part," Octavius says while tugging over a chair, clambering up onto it (wobble-wobble), and reaching up to collect a few more maps off the walls. He wobble-wobbles alarmingly for another moment or two before hopping safely back to the ground. "Seems like his phylactery keeps insisting Father hasn't left Skyhold."
He drops this armful of, uh, stuff, on top of the other armful of stuff.
With a little scoff, Benedict goes to hold the chair still-- it wouldn't look great if the new guy brained himself in the Personnel office, especially when there's no demon to blame this time.
"Wait," he says after taking a moment to process, "what?"
"That's what I said," Octavius says. A beat, then a tip of his head and he admits, "Not in as many words, but I wrote back asking how that is even possible, and I haven't heard anything back yet."
"Well how should I know?" Snippy only because he's really thinking about it now. "I've never been to Skyhold, I don't know what the--" he waves a hand around, "--secret hidden passageway situation is like there."
settle down ladies you're both the prettiest ponies in this stable
The pissy energy fizzles out the longer he studies Benedict's scowl. Octavius frowns thoughtfully. "He never reached out to you after he left, then." It's not a question; he knows the answer.
Benedict shakes his head primly, avoiding Octavius' gaze-- he can't help himself, something about being back in the boy's-- man's-- presence has him reverting to old mannerisms and thought patterns. Like being back at home with his mother and feeling that childish helplessness. There's a spitefulness that rises in him, clawing to get out, and it's certainly not Tavi's fault.
"If he had," he sniffs, "I would have made him regret it." As if, but. Maybe somehow. Someday.
Well. What exactly is he supposed to say in response to that? Awkwardly, Octavius takes stock of what is sitting on the table waiting to be sorted, just to have somewhere to deposit his gaze while tries to get his thoughts in order.
"I'm sorry that he got you mixed up in his mess," he admits after a moment.
The awkward silence drags on for a few long seconds, enough time for Benedict to decide he can't stand it and come over to start picking up drapings, which he holds over the window (the window facing what used to be the Templar tower and which actually gets some light through it now that that's half-collapsed).
"It's not your fault," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Octavius, "and it worked out for the better anyway." He's not in Minrathous right now, for instance.
That response probably wasn't intended to land like a punch to the gut, but it does anyway. Octavius wavers a little bit on his feet, reaches out to steady himself against the desk, and tries to remember what sort of expression he had on his face seconds ago. Was he smiling? Frowning? Probably not the awkward rictus of a grimace that is there now. He clears his throat.
(This isn't Benedict's fault, either. Clearly, he doesn't know. Does he?)
"Yes, well," he starts, fumbles uselessly for a smooth segue into the subject of what transpired in Qarinus, and comes up empty. So he just. Lets the sentence hang, just like that.
It takes a moment for Benedict to realize how strange that reaction was, and it's something of a slow double-take that has him looking back at Octavius, eyebrow cocked inquisitively.
Even if he was capable of deftly spinning lies into existence on a whim to suit his purposes, he's not sure what good it would do here. Octavius meets Benedict's eyes, then sighs and looks aside and tucks his hands into his pockets.
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for Octavius
He stops dead upon opening the door: what he couldn't find in the rubble is already here, hung and arranged so tidily as to be indistinguishable from his own actual handiwork. He takes a shuddering breath, glancing wide-eyed around the closet of a room. He didn't do this, but someone with his face did: someone who knew his sensibilities exactly, who had access to every aspect of his life.
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When the door opens, he peers inside with an expression of benign interest on his face--yep, that's an office, doesn't look nearly as sparse as he'd been expecting, actually--only to do a double-take when he notices Benedict's expression. Immediately he frowns. "What's the matter?"
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"It decorated," he stammers, "it knew I was planning to decorate, and--"
And so it did.
And didn't do a terrible job, even, which is somehow worse. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a scowling wince, trying to will away the disorientation of the moment.
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"Well. Shit." What else do you say to a revelation like that? Octavius redirects his frown towards the rest of the office, then steps across the threshold like being the first to do so will help neutralize some of the bad vibes, or something. He turns about in a slow circle while taking in the décor. Hm.
"Tear it all down," he suggests. A beat, and then, holding up his hands placatingly, "I don't mean literally tear anything apart, I just meant--" a vague wave of one hand, "--take everything off the walls, off the shelves. Rearrange the furniture. Then we'll put it back up again."
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It's not a great feeling, being indebted to this person. Or to see him so readily jumping in to help now, even if he's right. A nameless disdain lurches out from somewhere deeply buried to mingle incongruously with gratefulness. This little twerp.
"Yeah," Bene agrees with a breathless nod, taking his time to straighten again.
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"Anyway, um," he begins smartly, "I'll grab what's on the walls, if you want to start with the surfaces."
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He sets the pile he's currently holding down onto the desk, beginning to painstakingly remove any knick-knacks or drapings that are already sitting atop it: little gifts from Satinalias past, a coffee carafe, a candlestick he bought in Antiva City.
It's so violating-- he has to force himself to think about anything else, lest the office he worked so hard to attain be ruined for him forever.
"Any progress on finding your father?" he asks, beginning to transfer objects onto the seat of the chair so he can rearrange them to his liking.
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He's got a few maps and tapestries in his arms when Benedict asks that question, and nearly catches his toe on a loose brick. "No," he admits, checks where he's going this time, and heads over to the desk to set them down just for now. One quick, neurotic look at the door, but in truth he's given up on the disguise anyway. "It's like he turns into a bloody ghost after he's been at Skyhold for a few months. Did you know they have his phylactery?"
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"Why don't they just track him down like a Southern mage, then?" he asks, drawing up a tapestry from the pile Tavi just set down, to get a better look at it. "They're hardly above that."
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He drops this armful of, uh, stuff, on top of the other armful of stuff.
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"Wait," he says after taking a moment to process, "what?"
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"...you don't think he's," he murmurs, "living in the walls or something?"
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Benedict scowls at the middle distance. "I've avoided it. Avoided him."
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settle down ladies you're both the prettiest ponies in this stableThe pissy energy fizzles out the longer he studies Benedict's scowl. Octavius frowns thoughtfully. "He never reached out to you after he left, then." It's not a question; he knows the answer.
THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE
Like being back at home with his mother and feeling that childish helplessness. There's a spitefulness that rises in him, clawing to get out, and it's certainly not Tavi's fault.
"If he had," he sniffs, "I would have made him regret it." As if, but. Maybe somehow. Someday.
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"I'm sorry that he got you mixed up in his mess," he admits after a moment.
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"It's not your fault," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Octavius, "and it worked out for the better anyway." He's not in Minrathous right now, for instance.
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(This isn't Benedict's fault, either. Clearly, he doesn't know. Does he?)
"Yes, well," he starts, fumbles uselessly for a smooth segue into the subject of what transpired in Qarinus, and comes up empty. So he just. Lets the sentence hang, just like that.
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"You didn't hear about what happened in Qarinus?"
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