#enjoy varric being a shit and not dancing worth shit vae

[extravagantliar]

there is no need to tell anyone that. — josephine

"I don't see the point in this, Ruffles." He states, rather indignantly - almost childishly. "I am not built for dancing, I have two left feet - shouldn't someone like - Dorian be here?"

"Master Tethras, this is for the good of the Inquisition, please - there is no need to tell anyone that" Josephine reminds - again.

There is no need to tell anyone that — yet he opens his mouth again, asking wholeheartedly if they should disclose his status as a lapsed everything and furthest from the list of names invited to the Winter Palace and its parlay. "Should I really be going, known smut peddler and tax evader?" That's half a point; he never wishes to harm the image of his inquisitor.

Yet he asks all the same, rolling on the balls of his feet as the Iron Bull laughs and Cullen clears his throat - something about the Inquistor needing to know how to dance with all kinds of people and those three being summoned up from the trenches.

So he asks another question, shrugging, "If this is a recon mission, why are we all in dance lessons?"

"Once again, Master Tethras, this is a delicate situation," one punctuated with a reminder, "We will need to act smoothly and efficiently."

"Like cattle." He states, half flourishing and half prostrating as if he knows they are being led like rams to slaughter. That even makes Cullen snort in a way that surprises Varric. 

It carries on the three of them as the Inquisitor is led around them like a prize, and Varric fights rolling his eyes of all things; Bull says something smart - smarter than him about how they should divide and conquer in a different way - using the unexpected as the expected. Bull makes a good point, leaving those men of various sizes feeling more than small under Josephine’s ire and her words. Those words drift into a melody not quite something he can place, but the hand in his is warm, and a laugh behind him belongs to a friend rather than a foe when he missteps for what may be the thousandth time. He steps, not on the inquisitor's foot, but something nearly like it. 

“Thank you, Master Tethras,” Josephine states somewhere between sets, and he is more than happy to bow out; the lessons his mother imparted to him never bubble forward, and Bull ends up being the best dancer of the lot. She reminds them again, and he sighs, somewhere relieved and somewhat disheartened by the exchange all at once.  It doesn’t matter, he thinks as he skulks out of the lesson, ducking under those around him. He was the paragon of what not to do. They all danced anyways.