[ He tugs Alistair's hair gently to chide him. Smart ass. Why does he care for this impossible human again? The light brush of his fingers against Lucci's nose is reminder enough. Gentle in his clumsiness, honor in his pragmatism. Large and careful and terrible in turns but- His.
The first friend he chose right back.
Family, brother. Zevran does not bother painting on a smile or hiding the weary weight to his shoulders, the shadow in his eye. ]
I find myself thinking of the future often, now. Of legacy. Of how it damns or blesses those based upon the smallest of details. Of how the weight of your father's life and death has shaped yours; how Morrigan's mother crafted her into something she might not have ever wished. He was to be a prince, our Luciano. Simply because he is no longer in Antiva does not make this less so- and it would be a thing for the tales would it not? Years later a dashing rogue comes to claim his rightful place. Builds his own legacy.
We need you. If there is a cure? I would have you attempt it. But- if you would choose to remain a Grey Warden...I wound understand. I would hate it and hate you for a time for it is foolishness of the highest order to seek your death in those terrible caves and Lucci would be told bedtime stories of how his favorite uncle was an idiot of the highest caliber for ignoring the opportunity to live-
But. I would understand. What you do is important. It only now occurs to me that I might leave behind a line that would endure until the next Blight.
[ That's a very interesting speech that Alistair did, in fact, listen to and is, in fact, thinking about. But the thinking is set momentarily aside at that last word, because he needs to light up and grin as he, too, realizes that for the first time-- ]
Nnooo, [ Alistair says--to the eyebrow threats, not to the slapping, which he endures without wincing. He would wince if it were Zevran. Make a production out of being in pain. But he is, as is known, tougher than he acts. He makes an entirely different sort of face at Lucci and prods him in his chubby little belly.
But then he sits up, holding Lucci along the way so no one falls and cries, and gives Zevran a more serious smile. The proud-eyed, pleased kind. ]
If he does go back to Antiva, maybe it will be a kinder place because of you.
[ Never mind the Wardens and a Blight that may or may not happen in another four hundred years. ]
Or worse. The House of Crows falls and leaves a void behind. Antiva will have to rethink how it does things- or other guilds will fill the void. And then I will spend my days assassinating them instead.
[ But it is...a thought. A hopeful thought, one he considers while curling his fingers through Lucci's hair. Such bright eyes. Such affection. ]
I blame you, you know. Making me think noble thoughts.
Yes, it was all me, [ Alistair says. ] Zevran, I said, you should leave the Crows. You should follow us lost causes around Ferelden instead of making a break for it. You've handled Taliesin and you're free from your oath, but please, stick around to fight an Archdemon.
[ A pleased, nostalgic sigh for all of those conversations that definitely occurred, while he hooks his arm around Zevran's shoulders to squash him in a sideways hug, like they're gazing ahead together at something magnificent. ]
That is more or less what Jonas said. [ He snorts a soft laugh, leaning against Alistair easily. ] Though he capped it off with 'if you leave Alistair will make the saddest eyes and mope for weeks and you wouldn't even be here to make fun of him for it.'
[ Not the safest topic but- He wants to have these moments of fond remembrance back without Alistair being a sulky child. ]
[ Jonas sure didn't care about him making the saddest eyes and moping for weeks when he recruited Loghain, Alistair does not say, because this is pleasant and he does have some self-control. But he does knock his head over against Zevran's, in revenge, before loosening his squashing arm. ]
You're noble all on your own, Zev. [ He's going to insist. ] Maybe we gave you space to figure it out, but that's all. [ He turns his attention back to Lucci, gives him a little bounce in the crook of his other arm. ] You papa doesn't like to take credit for anything good.
[ He is a roguish lover and assassin, no noble is he. Noble rogues often were killed while being terribly romantic and noble and he? Suddenly has a great deal of interest in not dying quite so easily- or so soon.
Lucci meanwhile claps happily, well pleased by the attention. ] You offered me a space to sort out a great many things- and gave me a family before I understood what it was to have one.
[ A little smug. A little pleased. Quieted--his earlier whining, as
it was, having very little to do with wanting to take up with Shale or
anyone else and very much to do with not wanting everyone else to begin
having drinks on Fridays to discuss their Functional Adult
Relationships.
Not that he isn't still concerned they might. They
might.
But he probably won't get left behind if they do. They'll let him
come along and be the whatever-odd-numbered wheel if he wants to. That's
family. Probably. As far as Alistair understands it--since Jonas, bless
him, stuck dealing with Alistair's numb and hot-faced I thought family
was supposed to accept you no matter what, had managed an awkward
I don't know what to tell you instead of a life-altering
everyone is out for themselves.
This is a very Disney tag. Let me make it worse by saying that
Alistair ducks his head down to gobble against Lucci's neck to tickle him.
]
[ Sentiment is for other people, people without Alistair's to point out such things, without lives like his and loss like his. Without as much blood on his hands- and yet this sentiment has found him.
Somehow this is Alistair's fault, he's sure.
Somehow.
the only way to not burst out in helpless laughter at Alistair's antics with his son is a very deadpan, not at all concerned- ]
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The first friend he chose right back.
Family, brother. Zevran does not bother painting on a smile or hiding the weary weight to his shoulders, the shadow in his eye. ]
I find myself thinking of the future often, now. Of legacy. Of how it damns or blesses those based upon the smallest of details. Of how the weight of your father's life and death has shaped yours; how Morrigan's mother crafted her into something she might not have ever wished. He was to be a prince, our Luciano. Simply because he is no longer in Antiva does not make this less so- and it would be a thing for the tales would it not? Years later a dashing rogue comes to claim his rightful place. Builds his own legacy.
We need you. If there is a cure? I would have you attempt it. But- if you would choose to remain a Grey Warden...I wound understand. I would hate it and hate you for a time for it is foolishness of the highest order to seek your death in those terrible caves and Lucci would be told bedtime stories of how his favorite uncle was an idiot of the highest caliber for ignoring the opportunity to live-
But. I would understand. What you do is important. It only now occurs to me that I might leave behind a line that would endure until the next Blight.
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Grandpappy Zevran.
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[ And yet? Not at all surprised, though his scowl is more for show. ]
Call me 'grandpappy' again and I will shave your eyebrows in your sleep.
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No, I need them. [ They're his secondary form of communication, coming only after his mouth. ]
Take my hair.
Grandpappy.
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[ He tugs at Alistair's wrist- Lucci leaning up to slap Alistair's cheeks since that's what they're doing.
Right? right. ]
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But then he sits up, holding Lucci along the way so no one falls and cries, and gives Zevran a more serious smile. The proud-eyed, pleased kind. ]
If he does go back to Antiva, maybe it will be a kinder place because of you.
[ Never mind the Wardens and a Blight that may or may not happen in another four hundred years. ]
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[ But it is...a thought. A hopeful thought, one he considers while curling his fingers through Lucci's hair. Such bright eyes. Such affection. ]
I blame you, you know. Making me think noble thoughts.
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[ A pleased, nostalgic sigh for all of those conversations that definitely occurred, while he hooks his arm around Zevran's shoulders to squash him in a sideways hug, like they're gazing ahead together at something magnificent. ]
I am wonderful.
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[ Not the safest topic but- He wants to have these moments of fond remembrance back without Alistair being a sulky child. ]
Marvelous.
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You're noble all on your own, Zev. [ He's going to insist. ] Maybe we gave you space to figure it out, but that's all. [ He turns his attention back to Lucci, gives him a little bounce in the crook of his other arm. ] You papa doesn't like to take credit for anything good.
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[ He is a roguish lover and assassin, no noble is he. Noble rogues often were killed while being terribly romantic and noble and he? Suddenly has a great deal of interest in not dying quite so easily- or so soon.
Lucci meanwhile claps happily, well pleased by the attention. ] You offered me a space to sort out a great many things- and gave me a family before I understood what it was to have one.
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Now you're being sentimental.
[ A little smug. A little pleased. Quieted--his earlier whining, as it was, having very little to do with wanting to take up with Shale or anyone else and very much to do with not wanting everyone else to begin having drinks on Fridays to discuss their Functional Adult Relationships.
Not that he isn't still concerned they might. They might.
But he probably won't get left behind if they do. They'll let him come along and be the whatever-odd-numbered wheel if he wants to. That's family. Probably. As far as Alistair understands it--since Jonas, bless him, stuck dealing with Alistair's numb and hot-faced I thought family was supposed to accept you no matter what, had managed an awkward I don't know what to tell you instead of a life-altering everyone is out for themselves.
This is a very Disney tag. Let me make it worse by saying that Alistair ducks his head down to gobble against Lucci's neck to tickle him. ]
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[ Sentiment is for other people, people without Alistair's to point out such things, without lives like his and loss like his. Without as much blood on his hands- and yet this sentiment has found him.
Somehow this is Alistair's fault, he's sure.
Somehow.
the only way to not burst out in helpless laughter at Alistair's antics with his son is a very deadpan, not at all concerned- ]
no, please, stop. Don't eat the baby. Stop.