congrekate | hey lambert, let's talk about your problems

hey lambert, let's talk about your problems

It was a few days after the kissing booth disaster and Cole is still lost in thought, beating himself up over how terribly it went. He's lurking on the top floor of the tavern, in a corner he often lurked at, while he was lost in thought. Lambert said that people don't like to hear the truth. But how can he help through the hurt and work through the worry if Lambert didn't hear the truth to begin with?

Frankly, it was all very confusing. But one thing was certain: he needed to actually find Lambert, come up with a plan, figure out what to do in order to try and help the hurt, and then do it. And he wouldn't be able to find Lambert if he lurked up here (despite the fact that Cole liked it up there, it was quiet, it was safe, he could idly touch the minds of everybody below but they weren't overpowering).

Of course, he didn't expect to run into Lambert just so soon. The top floor of the tavern was great for sleeping off being drunk, hiding to escape someone you had a grudge with who had just entered the tavern, or (the most unlikely option of all) talking to Cole, as that was one of his normal haunts. Lambert enters just as Cole is about to leave and there's an awkward moment where the two make eye contact and just kind of stare at each other, before Cole steps out of the way.

Well, there's no use trying to vanish and run away now. Not while he's here. And congrats Lambert! You have 100% caught Cole off guard. He was supposed to have time to make a plan, to think things over, to decide what to do, what was he going to do now? Just wing it?

There's a pause before Cole confusedly asks, "Hello there?"

The greeting's heavy on his tongue, as if Cole is testing a new word out for the first time. That's what people do to start off a conversation and perhaps it would be best for this if he was more people than spirit.

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Of all the reasons Lambert could be here, it's naturally the one related to alcohol. A game of Wicked Grace turned drinking contest downstairs means the mercenary's five sovereigns richer and in a much better mood than when Cole saw him last, which is perhaps one of the reasons he didn't immediately register his staggering approach up the stairs. For now, at least, all those sharp edges are softened and blunted -- not gone, but not a source of pain, either.

Although the alcohol might be a different story, when he inevitably wakes up with a hangover tomorrow.

"Hey," Lambert slurs, one hand reaching out to steady himself on a convenient post nearby. Talking and being completely upright at the same time is a bit much to ask of him. He knows this kid, doesn't he? After a few seconds of trying to recall his name to no avail, he gives up and slumps harder against the wood, smirking at him.

"Didn't see you downstairs. Not a fan of parties?" It had been a bit rowdy, and he has a vague notion that someone as quiet and unobtrusive as the spirit -- no, boy, where'd that thought come from? -- would likely make himself scarce from so many yelling people. These days, a successful mission's about all the excuse the Inquisition needs for a celebration, not that Lambert's complaining.

"I was down there at the start," Cole explains, almost as a justification, as he hurries over towards Lambert, offering himself as a perch for the man to lean or steady against if needed. His thoughts...oof, his thoughts feel weird. Warm and fuzzy and unexpected for Lambert. Cole's not entirely sure if he likes it. He knows what drunk feels like, he knows what drunk thinks like? He knows how to tell drunk thoughts from other thoughts, he's listened to the Iron Bull, you'd have to be able to tell drunk from sober with how much the Iron Bull and the Chargers drink.

No, the weirdness and slightly confused state from Cole's end is entirely that it's Lambert drunk. His scraps of a plan were for sober Lambert, not drunk Lambert.

"Some parties are celebrations, minds bursting with joy, everyone enjoying everything, celebrating that we are alive. Others are just loud." And, based on the slightly annoyed way that Cole says the word 'loud', he's obviously not a fan of those sorts of parties. It's easy to be forgotten, easy to slip away among the loud noises and the loud thoughts and loud actions. For those types of parties, he might as well slip away once the loudness reaches a crescendo. He'd most likely be forgotten anyway.

"You do know me," Cole adds in, trying to reign in that confusion with helpfulness. "You've just forgotten. Or can't remember. It's hard to tell the difference between the two sometimes."

Lambert waves off Cole's help with a twinge of annoyance and a grunt that's a little more with his usual self -- he can still walk, dammit, just not in a straight line. To demonstrate, he'll push off the post and wobble over to a crate, dropping down to sit with a grunt.

"You're the kid who never makes any sense," he says, with some slight touch of certainty now. He still can't grasp the exact details in his mind, but he's familiar enough, harmless enough, that the discrepancy doesn't put him on the defensive. At least, not yet.

Drunk Lambert's mind, soft and open, is sentimental right now. Memories of other nights like this, raucous and loud, surrounded by brothers and camaraderie. They're bittersweet, with a sense of loss, but right now they're far enough that it doesn't hurt. Skyhold throws a good party, but it's not the same thing.

"You want a drink?" He's taking the moment to examine the surrounding area, hopeful that a bottle of alcohol or two might produce itself. Well, it's an inn and people leave stuff lying around, if he can't find one in arm's reach he'll have to get up and look again. Somehow, he doesn't feel like he's had enough.

"I suppose I am?" He'll take that. All in all, compared to the list of things that people have said about Cole and thought about Cole, 'kid who never makes any sense' is fairly low on the roster of things he dislikes. Better that than 'demon.' "I'm Cole," he adds in, as an explanation.

The memories are bright, shining like the sun, Geralt and Eskel and Lambert, laughing and drinking and telling dirty jokes. Why does Lambert keep thinking he's alone? He obviously wasn't. He obviously isn't now, considering he was just laughing and drinking and telling dirty jokes. Surely he should see that, why doesn't he see it to begin with, what can Cole do to make him see it in the first place?

What he can certainly NOT do is get drunk. "I don't drink," Cole responds, as if it's fairly obvious. And then, because that statement has brought even more questions from even more people, Cole quickly amends it with, "I don't eat, either."

He can tell what Lambert wants. More alcohol. But there's a moment where Cole looks at him funny, with a frown, as if debating whether or not more alcohol would actually help or not. Lambert certainly thinks it would help. But Cole's learned that sometimes the best way to help is to not help at all, otherwise people keep drinking and vomit on your shoes and spend the entire next day being grumpy. So all he does is walk over to Lambert, debating whether or not to help him or not. There's certainly alcohol up here, though it's in a nearby crate, juuuust out of arm's reach enough to make Lambert actually get up to get the darn thing.

The table in Lambert's memories had been full once, other voices, other boys, a time when Vesemir's voice wasn't the only one raised to direct them. All dead, now, lost to the Deep Roads or superstitious villagers. Lambert remembers all their names.

"I'm Lambert," he says, and frowns slightly. Wait, the kid already knew that, didn't he? He certainly acts familiar enough ... though he's entirely distracted by the rest of what he says to focus on that, and he snorts.

"Yeah, I can tell." He isn't taking what Cole is saying literally, guessing he's underfed, probably still hasn't gotten his stomach used to having actual food yet. Lambert would press, but it's probably better not to get someone like that drunk ... bad enough getting used to food without having it come back the other way. That said, he'll continue to look around him for a moment before his eyes spot the crate with its distinctive markings and his eyes light up.

"Ah-hah! So this is where they keep the good shit." And up he goes, slightly wobbly as he reaches up. Luckily, his coordination isn't so terrible he brings the crate crashing down on his head. He cackles in triumph as he retrieves a bottle.

"I know," Cole simply responds, confirming that yes, the kid did already know Lambert's name. But it's Lambert's next statement that causes Cole to frown. He can tell? How can he tell? Cole looks fairly human but he's still not human, could Lambert see the spirit that's melded with the layers of human?

"How can you tell I don't eat?" he asks, genuinely curious, getting out of the way as Lambert retrieves a bottle. Solas could tell that Cole couldn't eat. Solas saw him for what he was the moment they met. Did Lambert know something about the Fade? Could Lambert tell these things as well?

Cole's got a pretty good feeling the answer is no, especially as Lambert drunkenly retrieves another bottle and Cole watches him carefully, ready to catch either Lambert or the bottle should one of them slip. He doesn't really seem like the sort who would think too hard about certain things. Besides, he doesn't feel like he knows anything about the Fade, certainly not like how Solas does. But that makes everything all the more confusing and annoying instead!

Lambert's knowledge of the Fade isn't much more than what most people already know from folk tales and superstition, so Cole's not actually wrong there. While he might have copious experience dealing with Darkspawn, demons and spirits are a little out of Lambert's purview, which means Cole is likely to find his explanation wholly unsatisfying.

"How?" Lambert snorts, gesturing at Cole with the hand holding the bottle. "Just look at you. You're all skin and bones." The wine sloshes around dangerously inside as he does, not that Lambert seems too worried about that, plopping back down on his seat to begin fishing out one of the tools from his belt to twist the cork out.

Cole seems downright annoyed at Lambert's explanation, small little frown appearing on his face. "That's not what I meant," Cole huffs, sitting down next to Lambert, though he's sitting on the floor compared to the other man's crate. It's not what he meant at all! Lambert, thinking things on a surface level, looking at him but not looking at him. Cole is skinny so that's why he must not eat. It doesn't work like that.

"I don't eat, I don't drink, I don't sleep, I don't. It's not hunger or thirst or the fact that I'm skin and bones, more skin and bones than you realize, a set of bones brought to life because of guilt. A borrowed Cole."

After all, he was Cole but he wasn't. An odd mixture of spirit and human, a spirit taking pity on a dying mage with this being as a result.

"I'm not drunk enough for this," is Lambert's rejoinder, with a little frown. Yeah, there's a reason he said he doesn't make sense. He gets the cork out, but he doesn't drink yet, letting it air out. It's probably a criminal waste of good alcohol to drink it this way, but hey, no one else is around to yell at him for it.

It'd easier for Lambert if Cole was human, though he does recognize -- abstractly, in a way that his mind still shies around, finds easier if he doesn't think too hard about it -- that Cole isn't even mortal. He's not so difficult from Varric, in that sense. Spirits, the Fade, things he can't influence with his own hands, those all make him uneasy. The tear in the sky, though, that isn't so bad. At least he can see it fucking things up, and there's an obvious course of action there even if he's not the one to take it.

"If you're borrowed, does that mean you have to give it back?" It's easier to take Cole's words and joke about it than to really think hard on it. A strange spirit that haunts Skyhold is one thing to deal with; one that's taken possession of a body somehow? Probably something someone would have paid him to kill, back in the day. (When Darkspawn make themselves scarce, mages that have turned to blood magic and become possessed are a reasonably lucrative alternative.)

He makes Lambert uneasy. Multiple things make Lambert uneasy, things he can't change, things he can't reach over and fix himself, those make Lambert just as uneasy as Cole does. Even through the alcohol, Lambert's mind blazes strong and steady, I have found this thing and I am going to keep going and blaze forward until I take care of this thing. Nothing could stand in Lambert's way even if it wanted to.

So how exactly can he help someone like that?

Cole simply shakes his head at Lambert's question. "He won't mind. He can't mind." The real Cole's dead. The real Cole has been dead for quite some time. The real Cole wouldn't mind if the spirit took his face, took his memories, took his body because it couldn't do anything to help the real Cole and desperately wanted to do something to help the real Cole.

"If you say so," Lambert drawls. For lack of a mug around, he's just going to ... drink the wine straight from the bottle, like a responsible adult. It's certainly a better alternative than asking more questions, like what Cole means when he says brought to life because of guilt because he doesn't want to dwell on that either.

"Are there more like you?" He's not ... sure what he's asking, and in the muddle mind he isn't really sure, either, what prompts the question. A fleeting sense of must get lonely if there's no one like him followed swiftly by does loneliness even matter to him to I hope not, if they're all going to be so nosy. It's an unorganized stream of consciousness in his head that his conscious mind barely touches on, more feeling than word.

With it comes quiet rise and ebb of unexpected compassion -- been there, know what that's like -- quickly snuffed out by self-castigation, criticism -- it's nothing like that, come on. It's a ridiculous endeavor to try and understand or relate to spirits in the first place. If they could be related to, they wouldn't be spirits, would they?

"Yes. And no." Cole simply answers, looking over at Lambert. There are other spirits, spirits in the Fade, flitting here and there being...spirity. Solas's talked to them, Solas knows they exist. But are there more spirits tied to the image of an Apostate mage, spirits who are and who aren't at the same time? Not really.

He picks up on Lambert's thoughts as easily as if the man said them. Does loneliness even matter to him to begin with? Cole can't help but frown, as if it's obvious. Of course it did, everything could feel lonely and he was part of everything.

"Cold and confused, lost and lonely. The Ghost of the Spire, coming towards mages just as cold, just as lost. You can see me. I'll make sure of it." Trying desperately so hard to be seen, to be noticed, that he did things he tremendously regrets, things Cole regrets and rejects with his whole being.

"I'm not lonely now, though," Cole responds, as if trying to stave off any worries (because Lambert does worry, he doesn't realize it but he worries). "Now's different."

Cole's not wrong about that last part, at least, for Lambert's frowning, already about to say something in response to that -- confusion, a question, something trying to understand the meaning of it -- but he's headed off at the pass.

It's too difficult to carry on complicated conversations while drunk, because he's having a hard time tracking what he's actually said out loud and what he hasn't. He's almost, definitely, certain that he didn't say anything about anyone being lonely, but the boy's statement invites a pretty obvious response, in the end.

"What changed?" There's a tear in the sky and a strange purpose uniting unlikely allies, among other things, but that changed things for everyone, and anyone who's at Skyhold right now could say the same. Perhaps Cole's one of those that got caught up in the course of events, much like Lambert was himself, or ... perhaps he means something else? Lambert isn't sure, it's hard to follow that train of thought to its conclusion, so he lets it alone in favor of tipping the bottle to his lips again, staring at the spirit expectantly.

"There's something I can do," Cole simply responds, looking over at Lambert. "There are people I can help." There's a tear in the sky and a strange purpose uniting unlikely allies and so much hurt, so much pain, not just from the tear in the sky but from people trying to deal with the tear in the sky, families flung apart due to war and pain.

He pauses, tentatively, because this is what went wrong last time he tried to help. Lambert didn't want him in his head. But now his head's still sharp, but it's a warm fuzzy sharpness, not the cold piercing sharpness that it was earlier. Now might be different?

"I can help you, if you want." It's said quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Something I can do. Yes. Those words resonate with Lambert, more powerfully than perhaps even Cole might expect. He needs something to do -- something that makes him feel useful, something that has an aim beyond cleaning dead monsters deep underground, where he could die and it wouldn't mean anything. More than anything, more than staving off his own sense of isolation and frustration, Lambert doesn't want to be purposeless. Not like the senseless loss of life he's seen before. If he dies tomorrow, he wants it to mean something. He doesn't want to be a hero -- he just wants to know it mattered.

None of this is going to keep Lambert from snorting at the offer, though at least he won't take his usual offense this time.

"I don't need help," he says -- repeats, probably, they've had this conversation at least a couple of times now, though it was always usually with him a lot angrier and Cole's had to fade away every time. He certainly doesn't think he does, in any case. Helping is for people with problems that can be solved with a word or a blade, problems they can't deal with themselves. Lambert's life may have been fucked up, but at the same time? If he hadn't lived it, he'd just be one of the many refugees that stream into Skyhold every day, shellshocked by things they thought only existed in bedtime stories.

Lambert's not a problem-haver, he's a problem-solver.

He won't let the memories go. The pain keeps him moving, keeps him fighting, keeps him connected to those who've come before him, a brotherhood bound by the blade. Somewhere out there, if they're still alive, Geralt and Eskel and Vesemir are probably doing the same damn thing. Peace isn't something for men like them: what would he even do with it if he had it? He doesn't even know what a normal life looks, either.

The future can wait, until they survive this. If they survive this -- no, he believes the Inquisition will succeed. He has to. It's the only shot they've got.

Edited ( ) 2017-06-20 06:12 (UTC)

Helping is for people with problems that can be solved with a word or a blade, problems they can't deal with themselves. Cole's brow furrows as Lambert's thought crosses his mind. No it isn't. Helping is for everybody. Sometimes people have problems that can't be solved with a word or a blade, but they can be lessened by a word or an action. You can't make the hurt go away, you can just soften it slightly.

Is this what's going to happen here? There's so much hurt boiling in Lambert, he's motivated by his hurt, he's pushed onward due to the shared hurt between him and his brothers. Would Cole never fully clear away that hurt, only lessen it somewhat? He doesn't know.

"Yes you do," Cole simply responds, looking over Lambert. "The people who say they don't need help always need help with something." It won't be the obvious help, Cole's realized that much. But whether it's a kind word or a simple gesture or just someone to listen, they'll still need some kind of help.

"And don't worry," Cole adds, as he still looks at Lambert. "I don't know what a normal life is either." He's a spirit inhabiting the body of a dead apostate mage, somewhere in the back of Cole's mind he knows that he'll never be 'normal', at least not in the way that most people think of it.

Cole's never thought about what would happen if they succeed. He knows he'd have to leave people, leave this place, but at the same time it's so nice having people see you and recognize you and realize you as you. He shouldn't be selfish, it feels wrong being selfish, but he doesn't want to leave that behind.

Lambert huffs, a mingled touch of irritation and -- begrudgingly, fondness -- at the repeated implication that he needs help with anything. Cole's like Geralt: he just can't leave anything alone, even when he should. As for having a normal life, well, that was obvious enough.

"I don't need help right now," he'll allow instead, rolling his eyes. Because he is fine right now. A little nostalgic, a little homesick -- Maker's breath, does he hate to use that word for that place -- but here those skills he spent years resenting learning have a purpose bigger than the next meal.

"If you're so busy worrying about how to help other people all the time," he can't help teasing, with a smirk. "Who's supposed to help you?"

Cole just responds to Lambert's teasing with a blank look of his own. Who's supposed to help him? Was someone supposed to help him to begin with? He didn't need any help, after all. Helping others helped him, that's how these things worked. Any problems he had, he worked through himself or talked it out with the Inquisitor or Solas or threw himself into helping so much that he could forget he had problems to begin with.

"I don't need any help," Cole says, as if it's obvious. "Should I?"

Lambert points a finger at Cole, triumphantly.

"Ah, but didn't you just say it yourself? 'The people who say they don't need help always need help with something.'" This deep into the cups, it takes more conscious effort to pitch his voice the right way to mimic Cole's intonation, the careful deliberation and weight to each word that could be mistaken for hesitation.

The body language is harder to remember, but mostly because he's so poorly coordinate right now. Lambert pulls the impression together from scraps of memories, carrying the image of Cole in his mind and shifting his limbs to match his posture: hunched-in, diminished, making himself smaller and as unobtrusive as possible. It's an odd sight, but Lambert doesn't hold it long before he relaxes into his normal slouch, giving Cole a smarmy grin.

"Not good at taking your own advice, are you?"

"I'm not people."

Again, it's said as if it's obvious but inwardly, Cole can't help but dwell on it. Is he people? He doesn't know. Cole's a spirit and a human and both at the same time. Solas calls him compassion, Varric calls him kid, occasionally the memories of the real Cole slip in and the real Cole's father called him all sorts of terrible things. Does that make him people in the same way that Lambert's people, that Solas and VArric and the real Cole were people? He doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'll ever know.

Lambert's impression also goes straight over Cole's head. It's an accurate impression all things considered, but Cole just spends so little time thinking about the concept of himself that the voice and the posture are familiar, but he can't place it. A song that someone's heard before and now plays in the back of their head. So, in a tone that's equal parts serious and confused, he asks, "Why're you slouching?"

Edited 2017-06-26 00:16 (UTC)

"Aren't you?" Lambert looks over Cole critically, then shrugs. "Because you seem people enough to me."

Existential angst isn't really something that someone like Lambert dwells upon for long. It's the sort of thing that complicates straightforward jobs. Start wondering about that kind of thing and you start wondering if Darkspawn have feelings and souls. It's easier to move on to the next topic, in any case, which is making fun of Cole.

"Don't recognize it?" He sniggers. "That's how you sit."

He's people. Or, at least, he's people to Lambert. There's a part of Cole that knows Lambert's only saying this because he's drunk, because he's not going to remember this conversation tomorrow and he can't piece out what Cole is while drunk. But the spirit won't lie...it's a bit nice to be thought of as people. It's a bit nice to be thought of period.

Even if Lambert makes fun of the way he sits. Cole sort of deliberately straightens up, arching his back and sitting up tall, as if that proves to Lambert that he's wrong and he doesn't sit that way.

"You don't understand," Cole simply explains, still arching his back. It's odd, because his expression is still hidden under his hat and hair. "I don't mind, though. Most people don't. Some don't want to."

Edited 2017-07-13 23:22 (UTC)

Seeing Cole straighten up like that is only going to make Lambert outright laugh at him. It's not a friendly sort of noise, but there's no malice to it; just the sort of genuine amusement that comes with watching someone completely lacking self-awareness having all their attention to draw something about hem.

"Now you just look like a wyvern doing a mating dance," he tells him. He's only seen those once, in a book of heraldry -- dumb Orlesians and their weird obsession with the animals -- but Cole reminds him of that picture in that dog-eared book, puffing up to make itself look bigger.

As for which category Lambert falls into, that's probably self-evident when he shakes his head and rolls his eyes at Cole. "You never make any sense."

He's not sure himself, if that's a good thing or a bad thing. It just ... is.

Lambert's right. It just is. It's who Cole is, what he is, muddled and messy and desperately trying to make others understand and desperately trying to continue when they don't understand.

Still, at least he made Lambert laugh. When was the last time the man had laughed like that at something, so bogged down in his own thoughts, the edges of his mind keeping firm, the walls strong, the signals bright. When was the last time he felt amusement in Lambert's thoughts? Perhaps he was helping...somehow. Maybe.

"Most people don't like it when I make sense," Cole explains, still sitting upright and stiff. "You didn't like it when I made sense." Back in their conversation, at the kissing booth that didn't actually kiss, Cole telling Lambert the truth and Lambert reacting terribly.

"I can try again if you want. The edges are softer now."

And getting softer still, since Lambert's going to take advantage of Cole talking to take another gulp of alcohol. It doesn't even burn going down anymore, by this point, but he raises a brow at Cole as he sets it down, swaying a little on his seat.

"Try what?" Lambert doesn't remember, of course, what Cole could be talking about -- the memory cleanly, neatly excised from his mind as though it never existed, only a vague notion of missing time remaining.

The question's more to humor Cole than anything else. If Lambert's thinking of anything right now with any real effort, it's about how hard it's going to be to get down all the inn's steps and up into the loft above the stables where he actually sleeps.

"Try to help. Try to make sense. Try to find the hurt." Because it's so easy with Lambert. Other people hide their hurt, burying it beneath layers and thoughts. Lambert wears his like a badge of pride. Fuck you, fuck Vesemir, fuck everything that shoved him to this life. He never asked for this, he never wanted this, and he will tell you that time and time again.

And so, very carefully, taking things very slowly, Cole tentatively reaches out and tries again.

"Shoved into a life you never wanted without any choice. Words cutting like knives, freak, monster, how could you be so cruel. Some people do care. But others don't. Would they celebrate with a monster to begin with?"

Lambert can't help scowling as the words spill out of Cole's mouth, but he's right about one thing, at least: with the alcohol buzzing through the mercenary's body, fuzzing his perception, the anger is harder to reach for.

"You tryin' to pick a fight or something?" he asks lowly, frowning at Cole like doing so hard enough would reveal ... something. He doesn't know. If he can't help sounding a little defensive, well, he can't help himself, bristling automatically even if he's not really sure what the point is. He knows what a fight being picked with him looks like, and Cole doesn't seem like that's what he wants, but...

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know." If this is supposed to be 'helping,' Lambert's not really sure Cole knows what helping is to start with...

Edited 2017-07-15 19:48 (UTC)

"You still think you're alone," Cole insists, looking over at Lambert from underneath his hat. He ignores Lambert talking, ignores the defensiveness as Cole just continues. "You still close yourself off. But here you are, drunk and delighted, and not. You have people. You can talk to people."

Get yourself some friends and you'll be happier is what Cole's trying to say. But, in true Cole fashion, he can't just say it directly. He speaks around the sentiment, hoping that it will connect. Lambert thinks he's alone, Lambert thinks that no one else has shared the pain he had and yes that might be true, but they were at Skyhold! This place was bursting at the seams with pain, so much so that it threatened to overwhelm Cole at certain points. Find someone! Talk with someone!

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hey lambert, let's talk about your problems

how about let's not

how about we do. just talk about your feelings, nbd

no feelings allowed, ever

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hey surprise i miss these idiots

they're such idiots

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