[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

[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."