Between them, Flint departs the gathering first. John remains for some time around the fire, finishes a few cups of wine. Finds himself pleasantly surprised when nothing goes absurdly, destructively wrong, as tends to be the tradition. Eventually, takes his leave to ascend the many flights of stairs to his room.
There is work to be done, if he were so inclined. It would only be one more flight of stairs to his office. Or a short trip across the harbor into Kirkwall, where surely the Walrus men are gathered at the Red Lantern. Or a salon in Hightown is packed with people celebrating, in the right mood to open their purses for a good cause.
But the end of the evening finds John in the plush armchair he'd appropriated from one of the guest bedrooms, shutters cracked open and a bottle of faintly glowing liquor set on the sill alongside his crystal. The sea chest tucked away in its far corner been opened. The oil lamp is burning. John has occupied himself with the assembly of some joints, pouch of elfroot over one thigh opposite a few sheets of parchment bearing cramped scribbling John is half-reading as he works.
Which proves to be a blessing, as it makes it considerably easier to knock the door open with some combination of wrist or elbow. Flint—with the black sheepskin mantle still about his shoulders, and the black about his eyes worn down to grey smudges without the wolf's mask—follows, insinuating himself halfway over the threshold before he bothers with a knock to the doorframe with the knuckles of a loosely bent hand.
The impression is an odd combination of grizzled and boyishly out of sorts: heavy shoulders, smudged makeup, shockingly sober despite the hour and the general uncharacteristic effort made to be seen indulging in the holiday, and a palm scraped raw enough that it can be seen by lamplight at the distance of a few paces.
"Do you keep any bandages?"
He's loath to go rustling around down in the infirmary at this hour. There's probably a line forming for late night holiday witherstalk.
John pauses in his work to take in the effect, from the heavy mantle to skinned palm to smudged face. Amusement seeps into his expression, and he finishes the joint with a brisk twist before beginning the process of disentangling himself from his work.
"Bandages, yes. And salve, if you're lucky."
The crutch is slung within reach. John hooks two fingers at the handle as he invites, "Make yourself at home."
It's a small room, but space enough to maneuver within it together.
fully did write that whole tag then go 'wait a second-- gdi eppy'
Obviously he's been inside this room before. They have been rare, mostly brief instances in which he has ordinarily lingered no further than just inside the threshold. The space afforded by the division office's rooms, or the anonymity of various tavern balconies, or the perfunctorily professional veneer of that split office Silver shares with Madame de Cedoux has historically been more often in line with their needs than this narrow room has. Still, there's no reason for Flint to pause over shouldering the rest of the way into the room.
Except, maybe, for a second scraped palm.
If he's at all abashed over it, it's in the way that scoundrel boys caught throwing rocks at Chantry windows must be—not at all penitent over the broken glass, but foolish for being caught. Flint shuts the door behind him with his elbow.
A passing thought: John might have climbed a flight or two more, to wait in that inner room within the Forces office.
They might still ascend, in due time.
In the moment, as the door closes, John settles his weight onto his crutch. The brief press of his hand as he passes offers silently: Sit, please. Flint might have his choice between bed and chair as John lowers himself to root through the sea chest.
"Skating?" he questions, as contents rattle unseen within the chest.
"Falling," seems like a far more accurate description of what he'd managed to accomplish during his short stint in the abandoned patch of ice.
He makes his way to the edge of the bed, the mattress and the cording between the bed's rails groaning faintly under his weight. While John busies himself with the contents of the trunk, Flint gingerly picks free the clasp securing the fur mantle.
Boat. Gwenaëlle may have the dubious honor of Flint's good regard and that cursed thing she's taken up residence in may be of considerable importance to her, but let's not stretch the definition of certain principle nomenclature on that account.
Shrugging free of the mantle, Flint leans after the pot of salve and the roll of bandages.
Mr. DeGroot is, after all, nowhere to be found and John's vocabulary is limited to what can be absorbed secondhand.
A short hop and pivot lands John alongside him on the bed. A passing glance for the thick mantle, amusement flickering across his face, before John catches up the bandages himself. Flint might take custody of the salve, easily applied between two scraped palms without much difficulty. While he waits, John loosens the roll of bandages between his fingers in preparation.
It's not difficult to work the salve's seal free with just his fingertips, and the initial application of its contents onto each scraped raw palm stings exactly as much as it probably should in order to serve as a fine reminder for the next time someone attempts to bait him into acting the fool. Mercifully, there's not much in the way of debris to pick free—just scuffed skin, and tender flesh, the blood that had welled up in the immediate aftermath of his idiocy long since smeared away into a handkerchief.
"But let's default to barge if we're determined to be polite."
The stopper is fit back onto its pot. Flint offers John one greasy, medicinal hand for bandaging.
"Anything interesting?" His nod indicates the papers on the side table not reserved for rolling.
"Only if you've investment in the ship's library."
In this application, library is as misused as John's earlier reference of boat. Or at the least, the meaning is being stretched beyond its usual limits.
"The crew have come up with a number of requests. I'm assuming titles they've picked up from those passing through."
Who had they corralled into writing the list? John hadn't recognized the hand-writing, but has his suspicions.
His thumb runs along Flint's wrist, draws his hand in closer before John begins wrapping the bandages. It's a delicate process; his fingers skim along Flint's palm, catch at his fingertips, minor snags of contact in the process of cinching the cloth securely into place.
No, he doesn't much care what ludicrous pornography the Walrus's men have decided to they require so long as they're still being in some sense mollified by the whole silly song and dance involved with their acquisition and subsequent performance.
"At this rate, you'll turn some of them literate."
Let it be noted that James Flint is at least a perfectly biddable patient. His hand is easy under the attention. Wrist idle, fingertips patient.
"Literate," is echoed in a chuckle. "I think we can say they've developed some appreciation to for the literary arts, if nothing else."
Appreciation.
Another word whose meaning is being stretched beyond its limitations.
"It's the least of their requests," John continues. Newly bandaged, Flint's hand is surrendered as John takes hold of the other. Examines the damage briefly, before repeating his work. "If we're lucky I'll get hold of another trunk of books. It'll occupy them for the whole of the coming year."
"A whole year in exchange for a cache of books. Maker, hands come cheap these days."
There's some rueful note in it, mostly unserious save some nip of irony. Imagine if men always were so easily satisfied.
The pressure of the bandage and the salve on the cuts in combination makes for a consistently dull, unremarkable sting. After a brief flex of fingers, with his second hand still subject to John's ministration, Flint makes to displace the resealed pot of salve to the little side table. He trades it for the list, twisting it round to get a look at the titles and what's written there prompts a low sniff not unrelated to a laugh. Andraste help the taste of fucking (metaphorically and otherwise) sailors.
"I'd wondered whether you might join them tonight."
The roll of gauze is allowed to drop into the space between them, joining the hems of that great furred mantle.
"I'd considered it."
Bandages secured, their loosely linked hands have fallen to John's thigh. His thumb is moving idly, back and forth along the edge of bandage where it overlaps warm skin at the heel of Flint's palm. This stretch of skin, unscathed by whatever abrupt landing Flint had come to on the ice, is subject to the brush of contact as John continues, "I had also considered ascending two flights more."
The motivation behind that exertion would be self-explanatory, surely.
(Silver must qualify as one whether he cares for it or not, whether he knows the difference between a halyard and a buntline or not.)
With the salve already doing it's work to blunt the sting of the opened skin, Flint raises the loosely linked collection of their hands and presses a kiss to the backs of John's knuckles.
"Among other things," John allows, because certainly they might have shared that whiskey in the course of time spent together.
But among other things is colored too by the attention paid to Flint's mouth, the lift of their linked hands. John's eyes linger there for a long moment before he tips his head towards the faint glow of the bottle in the window.
"We could certainly entertain the alternatives I have on hand before we go up."
Assuming they do ascend the stairs together. It feels a foregone conclusion, that John might turn out his lamp and gather the parcel in this room meant for the man beside him, and they leave side by side. Habit does trend towards the relative luxury of the side room of the Forces office.
His attention follows along the same line. It prompts the unravelling of their hands and a pat to John's thigh that has the same cadence as one Flint might afford that terrible Antivan mare (who has never required any reassuring) before he rises to fetch the bottle down from the windowsill.
"Dealing with the Carta now, are you?"
Presumably there is a cup or cups somewhere in the room that an experienced raider of personal property might successfully scavenge.
Which may well come to the same thing, all aspects of that journey considered.
Regardless, there is a cup near to hand. Dented spectacularly, but still of good use. Clearly in use, as there is some glowing liquid already occupying it.
John is observing him, intent, examining the effect of Flint moving through the narrow space of this room as he continues, "Though there's a trio of very grizzled dwarves who I've had a passing acquaintance with who may well have ties."
"Ah, well," is in a knowing tenor despite the objective bullshit that follows: "You know what they say about trios of grizzled dwarves."
Flint returns to the bed and there makes himself comfortable to the extent that he reclines as horizontal as is possible across the width of the mattress while still retaining the ability to pour a measure of the luminous whisky into the battered cup. There is an air about it that implies a nearly instinctive familiarity with how best to arrange his limbs in the space.
(If he closes one eye and imagines the sway of the sea, this narrow room isn't markedly different from the close quarters of a petty officer's wardroom on a fleet little Tevine naval ship.)
The cup is passed over once it's been properly dosed.
"There's a public house in Qarinus that deals in this stuff." Or once did. "The Red Ribbon."
There is something in the way James Flint embodies a space.
There is something to the way James Flint embodies this space.
John is turning it over, feeling what reactions ripple outwards in response, as he accepts the offering. Their fingers catching over battered tin, John maintaining the contact long enough for a press of thumb over knuckle before taking hold of the cup.
"Have you a taste for it?"
Better than this strange-tasting, glowing liquor: the little ribbon given over with it, winnowing backwards in time. The past, there at the end of it. A tug away.
"My assumption is that then, yes, given how men in the service are ordinarily thrilled to drink anything that isn't three quarters squirming."
The contents of ships' casks being understood to be fucking awful. Surely there is a reason Flint's tastes in this particular field are so reliably rank; the sharper the alcohol, the less likely something is to be living in it. At the very least, there's nothing like a paint stripping scorch to obscure less palatable flavors.
"But I don't recall," he says. The glowing bottle has been tucked into the crook of his elbow. His hand returns from the cup to rub absently at the shadow of makeup black about one eye. "The Ribbon was better known for indulgences beyond its selection of dwarven liquors."
A significant look between fingers. That kind of public house.
Creeping fingers of a bandaged hand find their way to the cup, extricating it discreetly.
"We might say that. But clearly the one added to the general affect of the place."
He raises the pilfered cho in a gesture that's halfway toward a toast, then drinks a respectable measure from it. The contents earn only the slightest face—less critical and more merely assessing. In the end, the dented cup is passed back John's way regardless of what Flint thinks of the whisky.
"There was a woman there. Imelda. Renown for a particular thing she did with her tongue. But I'll confess that I never could get anyone to describe the act, or even saw a woman by that name despite how many sailors swore the reverse. I have my suspicions the whole thing was a fiction propagated by the establishment's master."
And presumably there were other ladies to be had with other tricks of the tongue to make up for the difference.
Has John orchestrated something similar? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe not an exact match of the situation, but to weave a fabrication so enduring that it propagates itself even in the face of so little evidence—
Well, it's an admirable skill. It is an admirable skill to John.
In possession of the cup, John takes a slow swig. Lets the flavor sit, earthy and bitter.
"You know, I am near certain at least one of the books on that list features an Imelda."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
satinalia.
There is work to be done, if he were so inclined. It would only be one more flight of stairs to his office. Or a short trip across the harbor into Kirkwall, where surely the Walrus men are gathered at the Red Lantern. Or a salon in Hightown is packed with people celebrating, in the right mood to open their purses for a good cause.
But the end of the evening finds John in the plush armchair he'd appropriated from one of the guest bedrooms, shutters cracked open and a bottle of faintly glowing liquor set on the sill alongside his crystal. The sea chest tucked away in its far corner been opened. The oil lamp is burning. John has occupied himself with the assembly of some joints, pouch of elfroot over one thigh opposite a few sheets of parchment bearing cramped scribbling John is half-reading as he works.
The door is not latched.
opening door description revenge
The impression is an odd combination of grizzled and boyishly out of sorts: heavy shoulders, smudged makeup, shockingly sober despite the hour and the general uncharacteristic effort made to be seen indulging in the holiday, and a palm scraped raw enough that it can be seen by lamplight at the distance of a few paces.
"Do you keep any bandages?"
He's loath to go rustling around down in the infirmary at this hour. There's probably a line forming for late night holiday witherstalk.
my trap has sprung
John pauses in his work to take in the effect, from the heavy mantle to skinned palm to smudged face. Amusement seeps into his expression, and he finishes the joint with a brisk twist before beginning the process of disentangling himself from his work.
"Bandages, yes. And salve, if you're lucky."
The crutch is slung within reach. John hooks two fingers at the handle as he invites, "Make yourself at home."
It's a small room, but space enough to maneuver within it together.
fully did write that whole tag then go 'wait a second-- gdi eppy'
Except, maybe, for a second scraped palm.
If he's at all abashed over it, it's in the way that scoundrel boys caught throwing rocks at Chantry windows must be—not at all penitent over the broken glass, but foolish for being caught. Flint shuts the door behind him with his elbow.
https://i.ibb.co/Htxv9Nd/image.jpg
They might still ascend, in due time.
In the moment, as the door closes, John settles his weight onto his crutch. The brief press of his hand as he passes offers silently: Sit, please. Flint might have his choice between bed and chair as John lowers himself to root through the sea chest.
"Skating?" he questions, as contents rattle unseen within the chest.
no subject
He makes his way to the edge of the bed, the mattress and the cording between the bed's rails groaning faintly under his weight. While John busies himself with the contents of the trunk, Flint gingerly picks free the clasp securing the fur mantle.
"How went the rest of the party?"
no subject
A rarity, when it comes to Riftwatch.
Considering their poor attendance record at celebrations past, they've picked the right year to register an appearance.
A little pot of salve is pitched backwards to land on the bed beside him. The bandages follow, so John might lever himself upwards.
"How went Gwenaëlle's boat? Still afloat?"
no subject
Boat. Gwenaëlle may have the dubious honor of Flint's good regard and that cursed thing she's taken up residence in may be of considerable importance to her, but let's not stretch the definition of certain principle nomenclature on that account.
Shrugging free of the mantle, Flint leans after the pot of salve and the roll of bandages.
no subject
Mr. DeGroot is, after all, nowhere to be found and John's vocabulary is limited to what can be absorbed secondhand.
A short hop and pivot lands John alongside him on the bed. A passing glance for the thick mantle, amusement flickering across his face, before John catches up the bandages himself. Flint might take custody of the salve, easily applied between two scraped palms without much difficulty. While he waits, John loosens the roll of bandages between his fingers in preparation.
"Or preferred term, as it might be."
Ha, ha.
no subject
It's not difficult to work the salve's seal free with just his fingertips, and the initial application of its contents onto each scraped raw palm stings exactly as much as it probably should in order to serve as a fine reminder for the next time someone attempts to bait him into acting the fool. Mercifully, there's not much in the way of debris to pick free—just scuffed skin, and tender flesh, the blood that had welled up in the immediate aftermath of his idiocy long since smeared away into a handkerchief.
"But let's default to barge if we're determined to be polite."
The stopper is fit back onto its pot. Flint offers John one greasy, medicinal hand for bandaging.
"Anything interesting?" His nod indicates the papers on the side table not reserved for rolling.
no subject
In this application, library is as misused as John's earlier reference of boat. Or at the least, the meaning is being stretched beyond its usual limits.
"The crew have come up with a number of requests. I'm assuming titles they've picked up from those passing through."
Who had they corralled into writing the list? John hadn't recognized the hand-writing, but has his suspicions.
His thumb runs along Flint's wrist, draws his hand in closer before John begins wrapping the bandages. It's a delicate process; his fingers skim along Flint's palm, catch at his fingertips, minor snags of contact in the process of cinching the cloth securely into place.
no subject
"At this rate, you'll turn some of them literate."
Let it be noted that James Flint is at least a perfectly biddable patient. His hand is easy under the attention. Wrist idle, fingertips patient.
no subject
Appreciation.
Another word whose meaning is being stretched beyond its limitations.
"It's the least of their requests," John continues. Newly bandaged, Flint's hand is surrendered as John takes hold of the other. Examines the damage briefly, before repeating his work. "If we're lucky I'll get hold of another trunk of books. It'll occupy them for the whole of the coming year."
no subject
There's some rueful note in it, mostly unserious save some nip of irony. Imagine if men always were so easily satisfied.
The pressure of the bandage and the salve on the cuts in combination makes for a consistently dull, unremarkable sting. After a brief flex of fingers, with his second hand still subject to John's ministration, Flint makes to displace the resealed pot of salve to the little side table. He trades it for the list, twisting it round to get a look at the titles and what's written there prompts a low sniff not unrelated to a laugh. Andraste help the taste of fucking (metaphorically and otherwise) sailors.
"I'd wondered whether you might join them tonight."
no subject
"I'd considered it."
Bandages secured, their loosely linked hands have fallen to John's thigh. His thumb is moving idly, back and forth along the edge of bandage where it overlaps warm skin at the heel of Flint's palm. This stretch of skin, unscathed by whatever abrupt landing Flint had come to on the ice, is subject to the brush of contact as John continues, "I had also considered ascending two flights more."
The motivation behind that exertion would be self-explanatory, surely.
no subject
(Silver must qualify as one whether he cares for it or not, whether he knows the difference between a halyard and a buntline or not.)
With the salve already doing it's work to blunt the sting of the opened skin, Flint raises the loosely linked collection of their hands and presses a kiss to the backs of John's knuckles.
"For the whisky bottle I keep in the cabinet."
Obviously.
no subject
But among other things is colored too by the attention paid to Flint's mouth, the lift of their linked hands. John's eyes linger there for a long moment before he tips his head towards the faint glow of the bottle in the window.
"We could certainly entertain the alternatives I have on hand before we go up."
Assuming they do ascend the stairs together. It feels a foregone conclusion, that John might turn out his lamp and gather the parcel in this room meant for the man beside him, and they leave side by side. Habit does trend towards the relative luxury of the side room of the Forces office.
no subject
"Dealing with the Carta now, are you?"
Presumably there is a cup or cups somewhere in the room that an experienced raider of personal property might successfully scavenge.
no subject
Which may well come to the same thing, all aspects of that journey considered.
Regardless, there is a cup near to hand. Dented spectacularly, but still of good use. Clearly in use, as there is some glowing liquid already occupying it.
John is observing him, intent, examining the effect of Flint moving through the narrow space of this room as he continues, "Though there's a trio of very grizzled dwarves who I've had a passing acquaintance with who may well have ties."
no subject
Flint returns to the bed and there makes himself comfortable to the extent that he reclines as horizontal as is possible across the width of the mattress while still retaining the ability to pour a measure of the luminous whisky into the battered cup. There is an air about it that implies a nearly instinctive familiarity with how best to arrange his limbs in the space.
(If he closes one eye and imagines the sway of the sea, this narrow room isn't markedly different from the close quarters of a petty officer's wardroom on a fleet little Tevine naval ship.)
The cup is passed over once it's been properly dosed.
"There's a public house in Qarinus that deals in this stuff." Or once did. "The Red Ribbon."
no subject
There is something to the way James Flint embodies this space.
John is turning it over, feeling what reactions ripple outwards in response, as he accepts the offering. Their fingers catching over battered tin, John maintaining the contact long enough for a press of thumb over knuckle before taking hold of the cup.
"Have you a taste for it?"
Better than this strange-tasting, glowing liquor: the little ribbon given over with it, winnowing backwards in time. The past, there at the end of it. A tug away.
no subject
The contents of ships' casks being understood to be fucking awful. Surely there is a reason Flint's tastes in this particular field are so reliably rank; the sharper the alcohol, the less likely something is to be living in it. At the very least, there's nothing like a paint stripping scorch to obscure less palatable flavors.
"But I don't recall," he says. The glowing bottle has been tucked into the crook of his elbow. His hand returns from the cup to rub absently at the shadow of makeup black about one eye. "The Ribbon was better known for indulgences beyond its selection of dwarven liquors."
A significant look between fingers. That kind of public house.
no subject
A slanting glance in answer, the corner of John's mouth pulling up.
"I see."
Another sip, and the cup is offered. Or lowered, within easy reach, to the space between them.
Three quarters squirming indeed.
"So we might say that offering made a more lasting impression than mushroom-flavored liquor?"
no subject
"We might say that. But clearly the one added to the general affect of the place."
He raises the pilfered cho in a gesture that's halfway toward a toast, then drinks a respectable measure from it. The contents earn only the slightest face—less critical and more merely assessing. In the end, the dented cup is passed back John's way regardless of what Flint thinks of the whisky.
"There was a woman there. Imelda. Renown for a particular thing she did with her tongue. But I'll confess that I never could get anyone to describe the act, or even saw a woman by that name despite how many sailors swore the reverse. I have my suspicions the whole thing was a fiction propagated by the establishment's master."
And presumably there were other ladies to be had with other tricks of the tongue to make up for the difference.
no subject
Has John orchestrated something similar? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe not an exact match of the situation, but to weave a fabrication so enduring that it propagates itself even in the face of so little evidence—
Well, it's an admirable skill. It is an admirable skill to John.
In possession of the cup, John takes a slow swig. Lets the flavor sit, earthy and bitter.
"You know, I am near certain at least one of the books on that list features an Imelda."
Ha, ha.
the world's shortest tag
+applause
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writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something
variety is the spice of life i hear
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my irl lol
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