Colin looks genuinely horrified for a split second, not because he thinks Benedict is actually dying, but because his brain goes Places when he sees things like this. He gestures Bene into the infirmary toward a cot he can sit down on.
"Tell me people didn't all actually attack out out of nowhere," he says with the sobering realization that that might have actually come of Jone's actions.
"No," Bene mumbles, and rather than sit on the cot, he sort of curls sadly onto it like a beaten dog. He's had his throat slit, his gut stabbed, lived in a dungeon, been manhandled by Templars, but never once has Benedict worked out. He'd take it all back, if he could.
"Everyone is cut out for it," Colin counters, choosing a tonic and coming back to him. "It's not like magic where each person can only get so powerful. Sit up and drink this."
It's not a healing potion, just something they give to dehydrated patients.
"It should keep the worst of the soreness from setting in," Colin says. "Lots of fluids. Get a good rest tonight. What stops the pain is getting stronger, which your body won't know to do if I make everything feel all better."
"A little." A smile and a shrug. "You'll get through this just fine. Besides." Colin feels a bicep that is probably already sore. "You'll look very nice with a bit of muscle on you."
"Now you're getting the idea. Just remember that pain is your body getting stronger. And if she goes too far, remember she's a Fereldan. Gotta be direct, gotta be stubborn. It's the only language we speak."
That sounds hard, moreso than he's able to deal with presently. Finishing the flask, Benedict sets it aside and flops on the bed again with a little groan.
"Just let me die," he mumbles, but less miserably than before. He's just languishing at this point.
"Think about the abs," Colin says, giving Bene a playful pat where those muscles will eventually be. "And take a hot bath in the Templar tower. That feels good for the soreness."
"Good." Colin beams at him. "This is going to make you stronger and healthier, and you'll be able to throw a mean right hook before long, I promise. You could get into bar fights anywhere you want."
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"Tell me people didn't all actually attack out out of nowhere," he says with the sobering realization that that might have actually come of Jone's actions.
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He'd take it all back, if he could.
"I went to training."
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Colin bites down briefly on both lips to keep from smiling.
"Yeah? Magic or hand-to-hand?" he deadpans, turning away to rummage through a cabinet.
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He spreads out so he's lying face-down on the cot with his arms dangling over both sides and his feet hanging over the end of the cot.
"I don't think I'm cut out for it."
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It's not a healing potion, just something they give to dehydrated patients.
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He takes a sip, makes a face, and looks accusingly at Colin. "What is this?"
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"It should keep the worst of the soreness from setting in," Colin says. "Lots of fluids. Get a good rest tonight. What stops the pain is getting stronger, which your body won't know to do if I make everything feel all better."
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"This is awful." Someone's feeling positive.
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He whines again, but there's a bit of humor in it, because Colin is smiling, and it's hard not to mirror him in a good mood.
"Soon I'll be so handsome and masculine you won't even know what to do with me. Girls all over. They'll write songs about my abs."
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"And this is a good opportunity for you to learn how to set your own boundaries. I couldn't do that for you even if you made me."
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"Just let me die," he mumbles, but less miserably than before. He's just languishing at this point.
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"...maybe I will."
Slowly, he begins to sit up again, grimacing.
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He begins to hobble back toward the door in the same gait with which he entered, this time gently rubbing one of his arms.
"I'm off to have a soak. Join me if you get lonely." In the middle of the day.
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"Byerly doesn't get in until late afternoon, I have plenty of time." He waves his hand, dismissing hte concern.
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