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Summary
Well, I was more than just a body in your passenger seat
And you were more than just somebody I was destined to meet
I see you go half-blind when you're looking at me
But I am
--He sighs. He sticks the filter between his teeth. He makes an attempt, again, to see the world around him. It is grey and rainspattered, wreathed in the smoke of scorching habit and sweet offering both. The latter is afixed not betwixt the chords of weight-sure fingers, but trapped instead within the backdoor hinge of the van Felassan hardly recognizes himself sitting within.
It matters not where he is. He is consumed entirely by the predicament of being absolutely, positively fucked.
--"Wait, who shaved Solas' head during the rebellion?"
"Felassan, duh."
"You're telling me Felassan's the midnight barber?"
"Yep, and that's why Solas shaves his whole head now. He can't get the lines quite as crisp."