Work Text:
“Can you teach us to play?”
Twangggggg.
Scanlan glances up, strings humming against his shock-still fingers. Takes stock of things. Pike is absolutely fucking wasted, leaning against Grog’s leg and swaying even when he’s steady as a stone pillar. Grog’s the one who asked, though, and he’s got the earnest, slow voice he uses when he really means something and has been thinking about it a while.
“Sure,” Scanlan says too easily. Then, because he’s curious and just a smidge wary: “Why?”
“‘Cause you’re just so good, ” Pike slurs.
Yeah. That’s not exactly news to a bard. He’d be dead if he wasn’t this good.
Scanlan opens his mouth. Pike, drunk and loud, steamrolls over him: “How do you remember them all? All the songs? There’s so many, so many more than in the church, and you always nail them.”
Grog adds, “Or make ‘em better!”
“Yeah, yeah! And - and you just make people feel things. Without even trying! And. When you do…” She leans heavily into Grog’s knee, blinking up at Scanlan with a dopey grin. “Wow.”
“How do you do it?” Grog sits down on a chair that wails in protest, places Pike on the table with a hand to keep her from toppling over. “I just haveta hit things and they die. You’ve got all these lil’ threads and words to get right!”
Well, gods be damned.
They’ve made him blush.
Scanlan clears his throat. “I - well! It’s a hard-earned skill, one I can do my very best to share.”
He pulls his lute from its spot on his lap, padding at the strings carefully. Squints at Grog’s massive, powerful fingers.
“... let’s start with Pike first,” he decides.
(Pro tip: do not let Pike handle any delicate instruments this drunk! How did she bend it in
half?!
)