"Cole told me he was hungry for the first time today," said the Inquisitor, smirking uncertainly, nodding into a mug.

A "ha" from the Iron Bull on the edge of the counter, a "heh" from Varric on an adjacent barstool. "Just like that?" said Blackwall, at a little table in the corner, across from Solas; the two held a fan of cards each in their hands.

"What was that?"

"He told you up straight?" Half a smile between beard and moustache. "If so, he's learning, all right."

"Actually, no—he described it, first, and then asked me if what he was feeling was hunger."

"He was alarmed, no doubt," said Solas.

He slapped a card down onto the little table like a spittly punctuation mark; Blackwall squinted, scowled. Muttered "Why do I even bother" and drew the card in, cue for each man to shuffle his hand.

The Inquisitor's eyes darted down into the mug of beer. Hung there for a moment. "A bit. I don't blame him."

"Don't know what it's like being a spirit—not having to do any of that. But I sure as shit am proud of him for feeling his way through it."

"Proud," said Solas.

Varric cocked a brow and looked to Blackwall with a question not verbally articulated. Blackwall's look back, however, clearly enough said "what", and Varric nodded his head – nothing affirmative or anything other than a movement – after Solas. "Yeah," he said. "Proud. And so's the Inquisitor."

"Are you, Inquisitor?" Solas's eyes were narrowed.

A beat. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't have brought it up, Solas."

"You might have," said Bull. Another "heh". He downed his mug, thumped his chest. "Maybe not in the way you did, though."

"Meaning?"

"Solas," said Blackwall, the fan of cards in his hand closed.

Bull said, "It could've had a little more—try, 'oh, no-o-o, demon kid's starving, or sick, or whatever'. Mother-henning. That, Boss? Did sound like a proud superior."

"There's nothing to be proud of," said Solas, splaying his cards again. "Except for his own ability to articulate and come to terms with changes in his sensation. In his system. In his nature of being. All that I am hearing is that one more thing can kill him: malnourishment. I asked if he was distressed because that is what killed the real Cole. I imagine he remembers the feeling through another."

"Lots of stuff'll kill you, Solas. Or worse." Varric shrugged and crossed his legs up on the barstool, wiped his nose. "Like, ahh – I dunno. Being bound, I guess?" A tilted head and a cocked eyebrow. "Going unseen your whole eternal life? Being forgotten, not letting anything that means anything stick to you?"

He drained his mug. The bard changed her song, and began to strum. Sera was never an agreeable girl… Blackwall smirked and began tapping his boot.

Solas stared into his cards like a man drinking bitterly alone, brow knit and eyes catching the torch orange.

"A spirit can live that way," he said, the consonants clipped and tidy like stems on a pruned shrub. "A spirit, Varric, doesn't need to 'do'. It simply needs to be. That is what a spirit is." The corner of his lip twitched. "Another rare spirit gone. This one, lost to us forever."

Varric's brow grew heavy. "We haven't 'lost him', Chuckles."

"My good friend Wisdom can reform. It is an idea. Not a person. An entire piece of an idea has been taken from the Fade and locked to the ground."

"Yeah, locked, maybe. Not dead." Varric's voice flattened, pressed; he looked over to the corner table to aim it. "We've still got Cole's compassion, Solas. It's just—" He stopped, shrugged again.

A tilt of the head from the Inquisitor. "It's just what?"

"You got nothing to worry about, Inquisitor. You know what I think."

"I'm curious; that's all."

"Curious to further consider the implications of your decision," said Solas, playing another card. Blackwall's nose crumpled and his eyes dropped, shifted around to solidify his "out" status in the conversation. "You'd like to hear a bit more of each of our interpretations of Cole's present status."

"Perhaps," said the Inquisitor, glancing to Blackwall. Mirrored cocked-brow looks.

"Like you said, Chuckles, and you're the expert here; a spirit doesn't do, it is. He isn't just compassion that gives itself away and wipes itself out anymore. He can still—I dunno, instill it. He's not afraid to let people react to him anymore."

"He doesn't just personify, you mean," said the Inquisitor.

Bull said, "Spirit-ify."

Varric laughed, and said "Personify, now!"

"You mean he can really represent it, if he wants to. It's his foundation, but he's more than that."

"I don't know, kind of."

"You're the writer here, Varric."

"I'm a very, very drunk writer right now," Varric said, smirking with a pull to let teeth shine. "We all get the idea, don't we? What about you, Chuckles; does Quizzy here make sense?"

Solas growled out a sigh, brow locked tense and eyes fixed on the table.

Another card flapped down. He held his hand on it.

"Well," said Blackwall, pleased.

Solas's brow then lifted, under a certain constraint. A few strums of a lute and a copper-chiming opening of space. Foam splashed, and Bull hollered a "hey!" to the Chargers, heading to where they sat on the tables by the wall with the windows; purple light cast for evening.

Varric watched them. The smirk was fixed.

And then he turned to face forward on the stool. Placed his elbows on the corner and laced his fingers, eyes on the Inquisitor. "What was the kid's first meal, anyway? Now I'm sure you thought to make it special." The smirk brightened without a change in expression; all in the tone, sliding along in beer foam.

The Inquisitor laughed. "Not special enough. Or perhaps too special. I brought him a few things, started him on a piece of herb bread, and he took one nibble and made this, ah—'ngh' sound. He said it was 'much'."

"What were his exact words, Inquisitor? Did he bite into a leaf? Was the bread imported Orlesian?" A chuckle. "I've been a person all my life and I'm not ready for Orlesian… stuff. That mostly being some of the cheese, though; bread's fine. Not to mention the snails… Keep him away from the cheese. Might blow the poor kid's mind."

"He's not a child, Varric," said Solas.

Blackwall hrrrmphed, pinching his temples, muttered something under his breath that took a step up to "Solas."

"Really?" Varric turned around again. "'Cause you and I sound like a couple of bickering parents right now. And you're the overprotective one. I'm the one who says, hey! Kid's going stir-crazy, let's take him out, expand his horizons."

"Varric," said Blackwall.

"Oh, don't worry," said Solas. Flapped his cards flat, face-up on the table; Blackwall slapped his hand down and leaned up on the table to examine them. "We're done—as in, you and I, with this round." He cocked his head slow; a "sinking-in" and a small smile. "I win."

"I—balls, not again."

"That's another twelve you owe me, but I believe I'll pass in favor of seeing you dance the Remigold. Here, and now. Please, stand near the singer."

"Learn to tune us out for next time," said Varric, lazily. "Next it'll be about who pays which bills."

"That's enough, Varric." Solas stood without looking, following Blackwall. Smile on hold.

The Inquisitor and Varric both turned, leaning onto their knees. The barkeep slowed down behind them, looking between the Chargers singing through the last of the daylight, over to the bearded warrior shaking his head by the elf talking to the minstrel. He poured out one beer at a trickle, and then another. "On us, your Worship."

The Inquisitor nodded, and said "thanks".

"You're welcome," said Varric.

"I—" The Inquisitor's eyes flicked open and down to him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you weren't talking to me, Boss, but." Another shrug. "I bet Solas says you're welcome, too, and that we both say thanks, and we say it to each other. In fact, this is probably our roundabout way of getting it said. We all care in here, don't we?"

"I do, Varric. And I know you all do."

Varric's smirk relaxed into a smile. "I know you know," he said.

They both rested on their elbows. The song changed, several sets of metal boots began to stamp out different paces. The Chargers turned and snorted; Solas laughed.

For the night, words as words went back to their rooms.

Crossposted to AO3.