andhiswife | The Tale You Tell

It's been a difficult week.

That's actually an understatement. But she can't let the full weight of it settle on her, not when she's out in public like this. So for as long as she's out here, doing some shopping, it's just been a difficult week.

She's told Baz and Simon about her situation. They'd offered to give her time off, but that wasn't what she wanted. The Gardens are one of the few places where she doesn't feel like climbing the walls. There's too much else going on, too many other things that require her attention. It's everywhere else that's the problem. Her apartment is too quiet and too empty and too immaculate; she can't even justify housework anymore because everything that could possibly need doing has already been done thrice over.

And she knows she has friends who would help her, who would be happy to provide company or distractions or whatever she needed. But that would require telling them. Repeating the story wouldn't make it any more real than it is already, but the thought of burdening anyone else with it -- and how could something this heavy not be a burden? -- turns her stomach. So much so that she's been politely deflecting the invitations she's received, rather than try to face anyone.

She'll say this for texting: it makes it easier to lie.

The thought of food rather turns her stomach, too, but she's getting groceries, anyway. Even if the chief appeal of cooking is making a mess that she would then have to tidy up, it's still a necessary chore. Her clothing is starting to hang a bit looser than it ought to, and she doesn't want to make new garments for what she knows, distantly, to be an impermanent state of affairs. So, groceries. She can do this.

[Find Greta looking terrible either at or en route to a grocery store, or on her way back to Candlewood. Closed unless we've spoken; hmu if you still want in.]

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Greta has never been a particularly gifted liar. Even if she could act the part, the slight but noticeable ill-fit of her clothes and the circles under her eyes would tell their own story. Of course he sees it, then... but he's not touching it, and she's grateful for that. The list of people she knows who might see her looking as she does and not ask is a short one, populated by those she's already told.

Leave it to a spy to show such restraint. Well, that's probably how it works, isn't it? Openly prying would be too obvious.

"How long have you been here?" she asks, unable to remember if it's a question she'd asked of Ashkaari. Small talk still feels inherently absurd, but it's preferable to the alternative.

"Coming up on a year," he said. He couldn't believe it had been that long, but there it was. "Passed out drunk in a tavern, woke up on the floor of my lover's apartment. He'd been here for a year before I showed up. I was pretty sure I'd gone mad or something, or was being tempted by a weird demon until he brought me outside."

He remembered that day, waking up on the floor of Dorian's apartment and knowing, almost immediately, he wasn't anywhere near the Herald's Rest or in Skyhold. He remembered wondering if Dorian was some kind of demon, disguised as someone he cared about and tempting out madness. At least he'd been real. It was a comfort in the face of Darrow being real.

One unanticipated side effect of being told her story is that these longer sentences are starting to feel reassuring instead of appalling. Being in Darrow for years sounds more like a reprieve than a punishment (though the reprieve still has an inescapably temporary feel to it, which makes it hard to justify uncorking any champagne). She doesn't expect the Iron Bull to see things that way, and knows better than to reply with some variant of 'oh thank goodness,' but the shift in her own perspective is rather jarring.

"I suppose there are worse places you could have woken up." Honestly, his account sounds downright convenient. No long walk into town, no need to impose on a stranger. Granted, she's glad to have met Biffy, but it's not as if she was at her best.

They reach Candlewood, and she looks up at the building, not knowing whether she feels relieved or defeated by the sight of it. "This is mine," she says, nodding at it. She feels an impulsive desire to invite him up, though it's hard to say whether it would be a good idea. He's been willing enough to distract her, which she greatly appreciates. But in the privacy of her own apartment, she's not sure she trusts herself to keep politely ignoring the elephant in the room. So she hovers indecisively, neither shepherding him toward the door nor attempting to retrieve her things so he can be on his way.

"Eh... he was engaged to someone here at the time. It was inconvenient in different ways." He knew other people showed up here in different ways, and while showing up in Dorian's apartment had been jarring, Bull knew it, maybe, could have been worse. He didn't necessarily feel guilty for being the reason Dorian ended his engagement with Biffy, but he did feel bad that it had caused so much heart ache on each side. "Both parties seem to have recovered, though. Asit tal-eb."

When she stopped, he realized the building was probably where she lived. He also noticed Greta's hesitation. "How about I come up and make you some tea," he offered. "You can ask me awkward and invasive questions that I probably won't hesitate to answer."

He was quiet a moment, then added, "And if whatever is bothering you needs to wordlessly come to the surface, I'm warm and well-padded, and I will never speak of it to anyone if you need to cry on my shoulder."

Oh. Oh. It's an embarrassingly belated epiphany, though in her defense, it's not as if little Ashkaari and Dorian had presented themselves as lovers. That would have been appalling. But she knows Dorian was Biffy's fiancé, and she doubts it's some other engagement the Iron Bull coincidentally broke up.

She wonders if she ought to be indignant, on Biffy's behalf, but finds she doesn't have the energy.

The first half of his offer isn't particularly surprising, but the second half is. She can't help but think of what an absurd picture that would make, her sobbing on this enormous, battle-scarred spy. She'd need a stepladder just to reach his shoulder, unless he sat down on the floor for her. Which he just might, if she asked.

It's absurd, but it's touching, too, and she can already feel her eyes welling up. She inhales deeply, then nods, leading him into the building and up to her apartment.

At least she doesn't have to be embarrassed by the state of the place; it's neat as a pin. She's recovered herself enough to nod towards the cabinet where the tea's stored as she starts to put away her groceries. "Tea's up there, and the kettle's on the stove."

He saw the pieces fit together, saw as the picture form, and as Greta realized what the picture was. But Bull didn't say anything, just offered a small smile and let her lead the way to her apartment. He supposed thinking of he and Dorian as a thing would be difficult when she'd first met him as a child. He also saw the tears she held back, and he didn't press. The offer was there, and it would remain.

Bull wasn't surprised to find that Greta's home was neat and tidy, with everything in its place. He went into the kitchen and set her back of groceries down, then tended to filling the kettle and turning the stove top on. He found the tea and looked through the selection. "What kind is your favorite?" he asked.

Edited 2017-07-03 01:04 (UTC)

She almost says that it's all the same to her, because it's true. Nothing tastes particularly good to her, these days; she eats and drinks because she must, and not because she enjoys it. But such an answer would be concerning at worst and unhelpful at best, so she says, "I think there's some mint in there somewhere." Probably near the front, in fact; she's been drinking more of that than usual, lately. It's easy to stomach.

She ought to offer food, but she's not sure if she can do that without her own lack of appetite stealing the show. Instead, she methodically tucks her groceries away, watching the Iron Bull out of the corner of her eye. He seems too big for the apartment, but he's also plainly used to such close quarters. He's able to putter about without knocking his horns against anything. She supposes it makes sense. There might be different apartment layouts between the buildings, but overall, the size is about equal. He'd probably have to look elsewhere for vaulted ceilings and extra-wide doorways.

She also can't help but note how easily he maneuvers despite his leg brace and eyepatch -- though he's probably had even longer to get used to those. "Is spywork normally so... injurious?" she asks, a bit hesitantly. He'd outright invited her to ask probing questions, and she'd rather take him up on that offer than share her own sob story. Still feels a bit rude, though, despite her curiosity.

Bull puttered around, seeming downright comfortable in the small kitchen despite his size. Once the water had boiled, he poured it over the bags of mint tea in each mug. "It's not supposed to be," he answered. "But my cover identity was to act as a mercenary, which meant taking jobs."

He offered Greta her mug and picked up his own, hip leaning against the counter.

"The eye went first," he said, his tone easy, light despite the subject matter. "I had other scars before that, but that was the first... big one. A Tribune and his men were harassing a young soldier - a deserter - in a tavern. They were going to do something bad to him, so I stepped in. Got hit in the face with a flail during the ensuing fight."

The Tale You Tell

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