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Krem just looks at him a moment, and then bursts out laughing.
Adaar pauses a moment, thinking it over. “Well, there are various traditions among Vashoth that would count as romantic--”
“I never said romantic.” Dorian hastens to correct her. “A thoughtful gesture. One that says something along the lines of 'I'm sorry you're feeling so upset about the whole Qun business, would sex help?' and implies absolutely nothing more.”
“That's quite specific.” Adaar replies, and can't stop the smile creeping onto her face.
“I see you, getting ideas. Wrong ideas.” Dorian says, frowning at her. “Oh, forget it. I'll go see if Cremisius has stopped laughing yet.”
He hasn't, or at least the sight of Dorian sends him into fits of laughter again. He has found time to inaccurately explain the situation to the rest of the Chargers, however.
“The most heartfelt gifts,” Stitches opines, “are those made with your own two hands. It's about expressing sincerity.”
“Take a pie and a tankard up to his room and drop your trou, he'll get the hint.” Rocky suggests.
“Kill a shem for him.” Skinner says.
Dalish sighs happily. “That is the most romantic thing.”
“For the last time,” Dorian tells them, “this is not a romantic gesture.”
“It's not-- oh Maker, I can't breathe.” Krem wheezes at the back.
Cassandra slips him a note as they pass in the courtyard.
He has a bad feeling about this. He unfolds it carefully, in private.
The first line has the word POETRY underlined three times.
He folds it back up again.
No.
Sera drops down on him from a rooftop, looks slightly annoyed when he doesn't startle (that only happened the first two dozen times she pulled this trick), and hands him a pot, sticky around the sides. “Here you go. Sorted.”
“What is it, is it explosive, and why am I being given it?”
“Me and Widdles invented it. It's like paint, but you can eat it. Blueberries. You're going to have to figure out how to paint the dragon by yourself, though.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I sort of like you, fancy pants, even with the gold shitting and everything, but I'm not painting your crotch.” She throws off a haphazard salute and climbs back up onto the roof, apparently considering her job done here.
Well that's-- ah. An interesting interpretation of the current problem Dorian is facing.
After a moment's thought more, he pockets the pot.
A pie. And not a tankard, because Josephine actually presented him with a nice little bottle of brandy, with a wink-- there's something to be said for people being under the misapprehension you're attempting to make some sort of grand romantic gesture, he supposes.
So, a meat-and-egg pie, a bottle, and two glasses. The Iron Bull doesn't come down for dinner, so Dorian goes up to him. “Mildred from the kitchens assures me this is your favourite.” he says. “I asked her how it would go with a well-aged Antivan brandy and she looked at me as if I'd asked her how it would go with a side of baby sacrifice, so we'll just have to try it and hope for the best.”
Bull looks at him and smiles, just a little. That's definite progress. “Pie smells good.”
“As usual, it will probably have a crust on it we'll need your axe to break through, but I'm sure the brandy will make up for it.” He pours two glasses as he speaks. The pie does smell good. Will undoubtedly taste good. Southern living is doing terrible things to his tastebuds, honestly. To his taste, generally.
“Anything for dessert?”
Bull might mean it as a joke, or innuendo, but there's no attempt at a wink. For a moment he wonders if he should have accepted Mildred's offer of a second, fruit-based pie, but that had really just seemed like entirely too much pie.
He shifts, and is suddenly reminded of Sera's little pot, still in his pocket. Hmm. “If you play your cards right, I'm sure I can come up with something.”