[ Zevran is deeply pleased by his earlier round with the Chevalier, content and glowing as he works over the finer measurements for a particularly vile poison. Ear tips high, smiling as he measures out the ground herbs- and humming. As such he does not notice either the dog nor Alistair's expression- though he can hear Alistair's with his eyebrows and his jaw all emotive as they are. ]
[ The puppy—the hideous, ratty, helpless one—had fallen asleep on the walk over, but the change of scenery and position when he sets her down wakes her back up. He puts his finger to his lips at her, silently. ]
[ Still humming, still focused on getting the exact number of flakes of dried herb into the vial. ]
He is noble and human and Orlesian- and wants me. It confuses and shames him to want me, let alone to let me have him. That makes it fun. Also he is not half bad to look at when I have him tied to the headboard and desperate.
[ The point, the nuance, all of those lovely things, fly right over Alistair's head. He turns to frown at Zevran's back instead of watching the puppy. He isn't really the "beat people up on your behalf" sort, but at the moment he sounds like he could be. Like he'd like to be. It isn't shocking that there are people who'd look down on Zevran, but they're not allowed to sleep with him.
You do realize how Orlesians view elves, yes? You even know how Fereldans view elves- why are you surprised that it is worse elsewhere?
[ Alistair you have lived in this country for ten years, Zevran refuses to believe he hasn't seen something of the treatment they are given in the fine, noble country. ]
Even if he is not- he should. And he is a Chevalier. A disgraced one, to be certain, but habits and what he was taught to think of us will not change simply because he is away from the court. But I am exotic and forbidden and dangerous. It makes it all the more thrilling for him. My enjoyment comes partly from fucking him- but mostly from fucking with him.
[ He finishes measuring everything out and caps the vial, setting it aside. ]
I think I almost have him trained to respond to Antivan leather. I stumbled upon his fascination with it but he does respond so well.
I'm not surprised, [ Alistair grumbles under his breath. It's fine—or not fine, but different—for people to be racist off elsewhere, without touching anyone Alistair cares about. But this—
The second explanation manages to sink in. ]
You're horrible. [ Weary, fond; if he sounds bothered, it's mostly lingering distress that anyone who doesn't believe Zevran personally hung both moons has been allowed to touch him, now or ever. Mostly. Zevran is, also, genuinely horrible. ] No more details, or I'm sleeping on the floor.
[ He does sound bothered. He is grumbling and that isn't terribly irregular but-
The why of it settles in like a warm stone against the hollow of where his heart might have been were there shreds of it left. For him. Even after ten years he remains astounded that Alistair becomes all huffy and irritable and irate-
For him. Over things which he simply accepts as a fact of life. He sets his tools aside and turns enough to look back at him, smile thin and terribly fond. ]
You are. It bothers you. You were going to go and loom at him until he learned the error of his ways, weren't you?
Do I strike you as someone that does not know what they are doing? I am not the one dazzled by appearance and desire in this, Alistair. I am the one doing the dazzling.
[ Trying to balance protectiveness and patronization, the fact that Zevran can look after himself against the fact that he shouldn't always have to. It's hard. Alistair sits on the edge of the bed and frowns across the room at him. ]
If anyone ever mistreats you, Zev, you'll tell me?
[ Alistair can hope he wouldn't allow it to happen, and guess that he might not always recognize it if it did, and know he'd be perfectly capable of handling it himself if it did happen and he did recognize it. By methodologically assassinating everyone involved, maybe. But he still has to try.
The puppy sniffs his hip. He nudges her behind his back with his wrist, verrrrry smoothly. ]
When I need help hiding the body afterward, certainly.
[ Of course he'd know it when he saw it- of course he'd say something. Promises he would like to make and knows that he cannot due to this whole 'trying to lie slightly less around people he cares about' notion. And he does care. That Alistair cares is...touching.
Unfamiliar.
Edges of it remind him of Taliesin.
'Show me who touched you so I can take their hands-'
But it is and is not that. ]
...I- [ Wait, what was that? ] Do wonder what you are hiding from me. What have you brought into our room?
[ Hiding bodies isn't his usual style, but if the bodies deserved it, sure.
Though hiding things, even tiny ones, is obviously not his strength. ]
Nothing, [ he says, but it's only a token attempt. He relents immediately and reaches behind himself to pull her around into view. ] I don't know. I've been assured it's a dog.
[ Dogs chew on things. PEE on things. And that is when they're already trained- like this? No. No, he is not dealing with a hideous little dog in his room, sleeping on his nice sheets, and smelling of rot.
[ The puppy is hideous. The puppy is probably not very smart. But the puppy licks his nose, while Alistair struggles to keep his expression cynical and unimpressed, and the puppy is not actually going anywhere. It's their room. Zevran just said so. No take-backs. ]
I'll keep her on my side. [ Does he really have a side? He did technically bring his bed roll. ] I can sleep on the floor with her so she doesn't wander around. Only until she's big enough she won't be crushed in the stables.
Lady Thevenet is an eccentric northern minx attempting to ply her way into either the wardens or the templars by bedding them. Do not be fooled by gifts of small fuzzy animals.
[ He stands and squares his shoulders, crossing his arms to glower up at Alistair while somehow maintaining the appearance of glowering down at him, high and large and imperious.
That he doesn't make himself small for this, that he faces Alistair directly and argues the point? Speaks well for how thoroughly comfortable he is around his friend. ]
You are going to take her back- you are a Grey Warden! You do not have time to mind a puppy, she is going to need to be fed, to be walked, to be socialized so she doesn't become a ravenous beast that bites everything- a dog is a large responsibility and you are not-
[ Wait what in the Andraste's name is he saying? ]
...what have you done to me? [ Squint. Such Squint. ]
[ Alistair listens to most of that lecture with his eyebrow raised and a faint hint of a smirk, because:
(1) That's more or less what he said, yet here he is with the dog. That Zevran doesn't think he can handle it isn't even remotely insulting; Alistair is pretty sure he can't, too. He wouldn't trust anybody who knew him well and thought he could.
(2) Zevran Arainai is lecturing him about responsibility and pet care.
When Zevran seems to notice No. 2 and stops himself, Alistair grins, he can't help it, and opens his mouth to try to answer the question, then abandons that attempt with a shrug and a head shake. He has no idea. ]
[ Tamed him. Domesticated him. That is what Alistair has done- what being far from the Crows has done. He fetches him breakfast. He darns his socks. He rubs his feet, oils his hair, helps him patch his armor as though he was some manner of valet or personal pet rather than a comrade at arms!
For a tight, vicious moment, Zevran aches for the clarity of his youth. A target is given, the hunt made, the target killed. No ambiguity.
It passes.
His shoulder slump. This is domesticity and tedium that he's chosen- that felt good to choose. Why be upset about it? Apparently that is what families do. Bicker. Have dogs. Care for one another. On this edge of resigned he reaches out to poke the puppy's nose.
[ If Zevran ever says the words pet or valet out loud, he'll never touch Alistair's socks again. Alistair will burn them all and go without.
But since he doesn't, everything is fine. Alistair goes cross-eyed for a moment when his nose is poked. He grins wider when Zevran touches the dog, which is the first step toward getting attached. Alistair holds her out with both hands under her tiny front legs to encourage her to lick Zevran's face, which is another step, and here's a third: ]
[ He turns the puppy—Doghren, whether Zevran likes it or not, unless he comes up with something better—back to face him instead and squints into her trusting, too-small eyes like he's expecting her to convince him of something. She doesn't respond at all, but after a moment he looks satisfied. ]
And it always ends so well. [ He nudges Zevran's boot with the toe of his own, grinning, before his face changes-without-changing, the way faces sometimes do, with tighter edges and a different light in the eyes even though nothing actually moves—it changes into something with forced, artificial nonchalance. ] You've met Morrigan's boy, right?
[ So small, so fragile, so horrid. It truly does remind him a little of ogrhen- well. Save the fragility part. Not even the dwarf's ego was fragile.
Zevran settles back in his chair, watching Alistair, as he's come to do often, minding the way the light hits his jaw and his eyes, how it softens or hardens based upon a twitch or a thought. He's never been terribly good at hiding his emotions. His eyes give him away.
And the eyebrows. ]
Kieran, your boy? [ He is not going to let Alistair distance himself so easily. ] I have indeed. He has a liking for carved and jointed figurines; so I gave him a very fine Warden- full armor and all that.
[ The forced nonchalance is immediately abandoned in favor of a flat look, just short of a glare. There's no fire behind it, only flash-pan sulking at not being permitted to pretend. ]
No fire out of his eyes, or—
[ Or. Alistair isn't sure what he expects. He's also not really surprised that Zevran thinks he's being ridiculous. He knows he's being, if not fully ridiculous, at least slightly ridiculous, with nerves and uncertainty making any number of more legitimate concerns feel that much worse. But that's his way. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oh look it's got a dog too
Perhaps. Why do you ask?
ha
[ The puppy—the hideous, ratty, helpless one—had fallen asleep on the walk over, but the change of scenery and position when he sets her down wakes her back up. He puts his finger to his lips at her, silently. ]
And Orlesian. Did you notice he was Orlesian?
i'm so funny
[ Still humming, still focused on getting the exact number of flakes of dried herb into the vial. ]
He is noble and human and Orlesian- and wants me. It confuses and shames him to want me, let alone to let me have him. That makes it fun. Also he is not half bad to look at when I have him tied to the headboard and desperate.
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[ The point, the nuance, all of those lovely things, fly right over Alistair's head. He turns to frown at Zevran's back instead of watching the puppy. He isn't really the "beat people up on your behalf" sort, but at the moment he sounds like he could be. Like he'd like to be. It isn't shocking that there are people who'd look down on Zevran, but they're not allowed to sleep with him.
Again: point and nuance, flying by overhead. ]
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[ Alistair you have lived in this country for ten years, Zevran refuses to believe he hasn't seen something of the treatment they are given in the fine, noble country. ]
Even if he is not- he should. And he is a Chevalier. A disgraced one, to be certain, but habits and what he was taught to think of us will not change simply because he is away from the court. But I am exotic and forbidden and dangerous. It makes it all the more thrilling for him. My enjoyment comes partly from fucking him- but mostly from fucking with him.
[ He finishes measuring everything out and caps the vial, setting it aside. ]
I think I almost have him trained to respond to Antivan leather. I stumbled upon his fascination with it but he does respond so well.
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The second explanation manages to sink in. ]
You're horrible. [ Weary, fond; if he sounds bothered, it's mostly lingering distress that anyone who doesn't believe Zevran personally hung both moons has been allowed to touch him, now or ever. Mostly. Zevran is, also, genuinely horrible. ] No more details, or I'm sleeping on the floor.
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The why of it settles in like a warm stone against the hollow of where his heart might have been were there shreds of it left. For him. Even after ten years he remains astounded that Alistair becomes all huffy and irritable and irate-
For him. Over things which he simply accepts as a fact of life. He sets his tools aside and turns enough to look back at him, smile thin and terribly fond. ]
You are. It bothers you. You were going to go and loom at him until he learned the error of his ways, weren't you?
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[ Yes.
While he's sulking, he still thinks to shift sideways to block the dog from view. ]
I'd never expect an Orlesian to learn anything. I was just going to loom until he was put off. But if you're having fun...
[ Horrible. ]
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[ Just like always. ]
There is no sentiment involved. Loom elsewhere.
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[ Trying to balance protectiveness and patronization, the fact that Zevran can look after himself against the fact that he shouldn't always have to. It's hard. Alistair sits on the edge of the bed and frowns across the room at him. ]
If anyone ever mistreats you, Zev, you'll tell me?
[ Alistair can hope he wouldn't allow it to happen, and guess that he might not always recognize it if it did, and know he'd be perfectly capable of handling it himself if it did happen and he did recognize it. By methodologically assassinating everyone involved, maybe. But he still has to try.
The puppy sniffs his hip. He nudges her behind his back with his wrist, verrrrry smoothly. ]
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[ Of course he'd know it when he saw it- of course he'd say something. Promises he would like to make and knows that he cannot due to this whole 'trying to lie slightly less around people he cares about' notion. And he does care. That Alistair cares is...touching.
Unfamiliar.
Edges of it remind him of Taliesin.
'Show me who touched you so I can take their hands-'
But it is and is not that. ]
...I- [ Wait, what was that? ] Do wonder what you are hiding from me. What have you brought into our room?
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[ Hiding bodies isn't his usual style, but if the bodies deserved it, sure.
Though hiding things, even tiny ones, is obviously not his strength. ]
Nothing, [ he says, but it's only a token attempt. He relents immediately and reaches behind himself to pull her around into view. ] I don't know. I've been assured it's a dog.
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[ He frowns, narrowing his eyes at the misshapen thing in Alistair's hands. ]
...Oghren's finally reproduced, I see. That is no dog, Alistair. That is a rat. A...large, fuzzy rat.
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[ Only a little harsh. Alistair lifts her up to look into her beady little eyes, and she wags her tail, oblivious to the judgment being passed. ]
Whatever she is, she's too small to stay with the mabari and the hounds.
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[ Dogs chew on things. PEE on things. And that is when they're already trained- like this? No. No, he is not dealing with a hideous little dog in his room, sleeping on his nice sheets, and smelling of rot.
No. ]
Put her back where you found her.
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[ The puppy is hideous. The puppy is probably not very smart. But the puppy licks his nose, while Alistair struggles to keep his expression cynical and unimpressed, and the puppy is not actually going anywhere. It's their room. Zevran just said so. No take-backs. ]
I'll keep her on my side. [ Does he really have a side? He did technically bring his bed roll. ] I can sleep on the floor with her so she doesn't wander around. Only until she's big enough she won't be crushed in the stables.
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[ He stands and squares his shoulders, crossing his arms to glower up at Alistair while somehow maintaining the appearance of glowering down at him, high and large and imperious.
That he doesn't make himself small for this, that he faces Alistair directly and argues the point? Speaks well for how thoroughly comfortable he is around his friend. ]
You are going to take her back- you are a Grey Warden! You do not have time to mind a puppy, she is going to need to be fed, to be walked, to be socialized so she doesn't become a ravenous beast that bites everything- a dog is a large responsibility and you are not-
[ Wait what in the Andraste's name is he saying? ]
...what have you done to me? [ Squint. Such Squint. ]
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(1) That's more or less what he said, yet here he is with the dog. That Zevran doesn't think he can handle it isn't even remotely insulting; Alistair is pretty sure he can't, too. He wouldn't trust anybody who knew him well and thought he could.
(2) Zevran Arainai is lecturing him about responsibility and pet care.
When Zevran seems to notice No. 2 and stops himself, Alistair grins, he can't help it, and opens his mouth to try to answer the question, then abandons that attempt with a shrug and a head shake. He has no idea. ]
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For a tight, vicious moment, Zevran aches for the clarity of his youth. A target is given, the hunt made, the target killed. No ambiguity.
It passes.
His shoulder slump. This is domesticity and tedium that he's chosen- that felt good to choose. Why be upset about it? Apparently that is what families do. Bicker. Have dogs. Care for one another. On this edge of resigned he reaches out to poke the puppy's nose.
And the dog's while he was at it. ]
That is not staying here, Alistair.
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But since he doesn't, everything is fine. Alistair goes cross-eyed for a moment when his nose is poked. He grins wider when Zevran touches the dog, which is the first step toward getting attached. Alistair holds her out with both hands under her tiny front legs to encourage her to lick Zevran's face, which is another step, and here's a third: ]
We could call her Doghren.
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[ Ugh, slobber.
And hadn't he made noises, awhile ago, of getting Alistair a mabari pup? That was a mabari, though not this...hideous thing. ]
You never did get over your habit of taking in strays.
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[ He turns the puppy—Doghren, whether Zevran likes it or not, unless he comes up with something better—back to face him instead and squints into her trusting, too-small eyes like he's expecting her to convince him of something. She doesn't respond at all, but after a moment he looks satisfied. ]
And it always ends so well. [ He nudges Zevran's boot with the toe of his own, grinning, before his face changes-without-changing, the way faces sometimes do, with tighter edges and a different light in the eyes even though nothing actually moves—it changes into something with forced, artificial nonchalance. ] You've met Morrigan's boy, right?
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[ So small, so fragile, so horrid. It truly does remind him a little of ogrhen- well. Save the fragility part. Not even the dwarf's ego was fragile.
Zevran settles back in his chair, watching Alistair, as he's come to do often, minding the way the light hits his jaw and his eyes, how it softens or hardens based upon a twitch or a thought. He's never been terribly good at hiding his emotions. His eyes give him away.
And the eyebrows. ]
Kieran, your boy? [ He is not going to let Alistair distance himself so easily. ] I have indeed. He has a liking for carved and jointed figurines; so I gave him a very fine Warden- full armor and all that.
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No fire out of his eyes, or—
[ Or. Alistair isn't sure what he expects. He's also not really surprised that Zevran thinks he's being ridiculous. He knows he's being, if not fully ridiculous, at least slightly ridiculous, with nerves and uncertainty making any number of more legitimate concerns feel that much worse. But that's his way. ]
—hidden scales?
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[ It is a slimmer, more delicate version of it, to be true, but when he is grown? So too shall it settle into what is on Alistair's own face. ]
You and Leliana. I honestly thought better of you both.
[ He is not angry, not so- but he is disappointed. A ritual came and went, a life was made, the boy has strange dreams-
But he is a boy. A child. Why do they not see that? ]
I tell him stories- teach him how to play the lute. He calls me uncle.
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