[ His current theory is that Zevran finally killed all of the Crows he needed to kill. Fortunately, a baby is one of the few things that won't be a disappointment in comparison. ]
Maker, it's quiet, [ he says, mostly to himself. Louder: ] I really am sorry for scaring you.
[ Though this one may, perhaps, come with yelling. He cannot very well do the same with Alistair as he had with Pel, sit Lucci in his lap and wait for the dots to connect. He will...burn that bridge when he gets to it. For now Alistair yet lives and he might manage to sleep for an hour or so before Lucci wakes and requires his attention.
Always, his attention.
He'd thought living with Alistair would prepare him for such things (no he didn't) and finds himself surprised that Alistair is practically aloof compared to Luciano. ]
...Are you complaining that there are no longer old gods attempting to sing you to madness? Is this a thing that is happening now?
I'm not complaining, I'm—remarking. It's like when you've been riding a horse all day and walking on the ground feels funny. Or taking armor off and feeling like you don't weigh anything. It's weird.
[ Maybe complaining a little. Maybe now he'll make people talk to him to fill the silence instead of to distract him from the noise. But right now— ]
[ And perhaps that is the creep of crank in his voice that comes from being ill rested but- emotional whiplash, it is a thing. He is allowed to be cranky at these shenanigans.
Even if part of him is still and quiet and relieved to know Alistair yet lives. ]
You cannot tell me to go to bed. You are not my real father. [ Gripe, gripe, yawn, gripe. ]
[ The only thing that keeps him from breaking the crystal when he throws it to the other end of the room (as if that would solve the problem) is the stack of pillows he'd set there for Lucci's crawling. Alistair's voice sails and thuds against softness and Zevran rolls over, in fact, to sleep. ]
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[ His current theory is that Zevran finally killed all of the Crows he needed to kill. Fortunately, a baby is one of the few things that won't be a disappointment in comparison. ]
Maker, it's quiet, [ he says, mostly to himself. Louder: ] I really am sorry for scaring you.
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[ Though this one may, perhaps, come with yelling. He cannot very well do the same with Alistair as he had with Pel, sit Lucci in his lap and wait for the dots to connect. He will...burn that bridge when he gets to it. For now Alistair yet lives and he might manage to sleep for an hour or so before Lucci wakes and requires his attention.
Always, his attention.
He'd thought living with Alistair would prepare him for such things (no he didn't) and finds himself surprised that Alistair is practically aloof compared to Luciano. ]
...Are you complaining that there are no longer old gods attempting to sing you to madness? Is this a thing that is happening now?
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[ Maybe complaining a little. Maybe now he'll make people talk to him to fill the silence instead of to distract him from the noise. But right now— ]
Go back to bed, Ombra Nera.
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[ And perhaps that is the creep of crank in his voice that comes from being ill rested but- emotional whiplash, it is a thing. He is allowed to be cranky at these shenanigans.
Even if part of him is still and quiet and relieved to know Alistair yet lives. ]
You cannot tell me to go to bed. You are not my real father. [ Gripe, gripe, yawn, gripe. ]
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Do you want to hear some dragon jokes?
[ That's more of a threat than an offer. Go back to bed. ]
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You wouldn't.
[ Would he? It is Alistair, of course he would. ]
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[ Who's a real dad now?? ]
Why do dragons live where there's blood lotus? [ They don't. ] Because that's how they make high dragons.
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