[open + closed]

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Barrow, Teren, Fifi, whoever
WHAT: general catch all
WHEN: gestures vaguely
WHERE: gestures vaguely again
NOTES: hmu if you want something bespoke or honestly just throw something at me, I trust you

*~* starters in comments *~*

Comments

for Basterly; post Nessum Prison Blues

[altusimperius]

There's a light knock on the door, but its source doesn't wait long to be admitted-- and judging by the way Whiskey's baying and Rat Red's fearsome yapping turn into happy whimpers of greeting, the intruder hasn't come to do any harm.
Not intentionally, at least.

Stepping softly, carrying a basket under one arm and the smaller dog in the crook of the other, Benedict peers into the sitting area to assess the consciousness and general state of the house's occupants.

[cozen]

The sitting room is empty and silent and in the same amount of cluttered, comfortable disarray as it usually is, save for an extra-large collection of unwashed cups and bowls on the tables. Two bowls have made it onto the floor, licked clean (for a certain definition of the word) by the dogs in the absence of better supervision.

But they're not here alone. The house feels occupied, the way houses sometimes do, and aside from that, Benedict's crystal swiftly lights up.

"Is that you downstairs?" comes Bastien's voice, wide awake despite the fact he's asking from bed. Benedict has the dubious honor of being the only other person with a key. If he doesn't answer—well. That's why there are knives in the nightstand.

[altusimperius]

For one thing, the dogs would be much more distraught if they'd been alone, and for the other--

"yes," Benedict primly answers, "I brought you some things."

[bouchonne]

"Things!" If Byerly's voice is a bit hoarse, he would prefer that no one comment on it. "I adore things. Let's see them."

[cozen]

"You can come up," Bastien adds. "We're decent."

If it were only him, he'd come downstairs before he'd invite Benedict into the bedroom, however sore. But it's not only him, and they are decent, dressed comfortably but thoroughly enough to have taken the dogs out earlier without raising any eyebrows. Bastien's sitting up on the bed, discarded book tented beside him.

He'd stopped reading it well before Benedict arrived. He'd been staring into the middle distance, tired and ill at ease and unable to focus on the page, and devoted a hand to running fingers through Byerly's hair instead. That he stops, for Benedict and decency's sake.

[altusimperius]

The procession ascends the stairs, with Benedict still carrying Rat Red when he enters. Whiskey trundles in after him and approaches to snuffle at the hand of the bed's nearer occupant, her long lazy tail whipping about. Look, fathers, a visitor.

Shuffling the basket so he won't have to disturb the smaller dog, Benedict sets it down on the nearest surface and begins to take things out of it, listing them in turn.
"An ointment for soreness, some herbs to burn-- make the room smell nice--" he holds Rat Red away from the little pot of herbs, there being no guarantee she won't try to eat them-- "I've got some packets of tea that relaxes the muscles and the mind, I think there's elfroot in it probably," which leaves only one item in the basket.
"And some stew! From that stall you like in Lowtown. I thought I'd," he pauses, like someone who's about to say a word he's only ever read, "heat it up for you. If you want."

He looks awkward, standing there with his haul, not making direct eye contact with either Bastien or Byerly: he's never taken care of anyone before, but he's sure as shit going to try.

[bouchonne]

"A proper nursemaid," says Byerly, with enough mockery in his voice that he'll likely cause Benedict some measure of offense. Which is likely a good sign. After all, Byerly only is kind when things are truly going terribly, so they must not be going so very badly now.

Still, maybe it's a bit alarming to observe just how much care he takes in shoving himself backwards in the bed. He must be hurting, if he's not quite able to bluff his way into seeming hale and hearty.

"What's in the stew? Actually, no, whatever they said the meat was, that was probably a lie. That's what I like about the place. The element of mystery."

[cozen]

Bastien laughs, a soundless huff that tapers off quickly because it aches. Mystery isn't his favorite ingredient—but he's not fussy about it, either. It tastes great and it's never made him sick. Therefore, an excellent food stall.

He's more fussy about Byerly, though the only outward signs are a hand falling loose over his forearm, a polite-company alternative to holding his hand, and his eyes sliding over to watch his progress toward sitting up until he's succeeded. Then Bastien looks at Benedict instead, taking advantage of his avoidant gaze to examine him openly. His care with Rat Red. The awkwardness that signals sincerity. The shaky foal legs of it all. Bastien's smile is slow to stretch into something less polite, more fond.

"Thank you," he says. "Eating seemed like a lot of trouble, but we should. Can I see the ointment?"

He answers Whiskey's snuffling by playing with her long, floppy muzzle. She doesn't usually need an invitation to hop onto the bed—By's won that one, resoundingly—but she's seemed aware it's a bad time to crush their legs and ankles with her heavy hound bones. He has to click his tongue twice in encouragement before she hops up now and settles into the space at the foot of the bed they've left empty by sitting.

[altusimperius]

"I thought so," primly, to Byerly, but Bastien receives most of the gentility as Benedict passes over the ointment. It has a pleasant, subtle aroma, something that can be effectively slathered on one's person without overwhelming the senses.

"It wouldn't do to have you running around hurting yourselves all over again," he explains, as he lifts a smallish ceramic tureen from the basket, still avoiding Bastien's gaze; he himself has put back on a lot of the weight he'd lost from his stint in Envy Jail, in no small part because of how he was cared for afterward.
Not that he has the social finesse to mention that aloud, but he can at least hope it's sufficiently implied.

He goes to the fireplace to hook the stew over it, using a gesture to bolster what flame remains. There's a poker right there, but he is, after all, from Tevinter.
"We were worried," he says in the same stuffy, professional tone as before, his back turned, his expression hidden-- "when you went silent, it. Well it's easy to assume the worst."