[ Alistair doesn't react very much—listening, but still preoccupied with having feelings—until that last bit. Then he looks up, face screwing up in a way not entirely unlike the way Lucci's had, and helpfully demonstrates exactly why the secrecy was necessary: ]
What the flaming pyre else would you have done with him?
Given him to a family that is unable to have children, that would care for him and keep him safe as I am not someone that would make a good father- nor is my work terribly safe. [ Oblivious to his father's discomfit and Alistair's upset, Lucci continues to babble and roll over, crawling to the new person- or rather to Doghren.
Don't be ridiculous, [ Alistair says, but that's all. For now. Zevran's already said he's keeping him, so there's no need to fight about it, and Alistair is distracted by the child's approach and Doghren's renewed straining to be free to play with him. Alistair lets her go this time, leaving Alistair to curl one arm around his middle and rest the other hand on his knee. He isn't used to feeling awkward here. ] How did—how old is he?
[ An argument for another time, that. For now Zevran reaches out to keep Lucci from yanking on Doghren's ears- though he cannot quite stop the infant from tugging one gnarly paw and attempting to gum it. Doghren, somehow infinitely patient with these shenanigans, permits it so long as she gets to chew on Lucci's curls.
It is ultimately the lesser of many evils and Zevran allows this. ]
He's cute. [ Nonspecific, distant. He still needs a few seconds to adjust. But those seconds pass, and he smiles, finally. It's not his best smile. A little smirky, a little sharp, not quite forgiveness for the hurt feelings that Alistair has no actual intentions to voice aloud and will get over all on his own with a bit more time. ] He might be cuter than you.
It is the only reason I did not give him up, that cuteness. No one else would appreciate it.
[ Well, no one besides him and Alistair. Zevran sighs and tips over to fall on his side, watching the boy and dog at play- Lucci tires of the taste of paw and babbles, crawling over with both the rag and himself somehow more sticky for it. Marvelous. He sets upon Zevran's hair as he'd been so foolish to leave it loose and Zevran-
[ He watches quietly for another few moments—still on the other side of that line—before pity and empathy and the fact that Zevran hasn't actually told him to keep out win the day. He pulls the flame pendant out from his shirt and over his head by the chain and dangles it in Lucci's line of sight. It's too small for him to play with on his own, but Alistair won't let go. ]
Have you been keeping Zevran awake all night? That's my job. [ No. He's not going to be jealous of an infant (again). He refuses. There's barely a pause before he goes on. ] Hurry up and learn how to talk, and I'll teach you to do it right. The trick is to ask him questions. It doesn't matter if they're not important. He can't help answering.
[ Immediately drawn by the new toy, Lucci heaves himself up- rolling like a chubby little elf ball, to stretch and reach for that dangling pendant. Every swipe comes with it's own bright, gurgling squeal. Adorable the first few times- but it quickly becomes tiresome. Zevran's glazed, weary eyes probably are proof enough of this truth. ]
You are not teaching my son your bad habits. [ There's still that moment of hesitance before he says 'my son'. There likely always would be. This? This is not something he ever saw for himself. Not in truth. Not in any way that he'd have to live with it for long. ] He does not need words to ask. He points and grunts meaningfully often enough.
A man of few words, eh? Going to be the strong silent type?
[ Fat chance. Forget Alistair's bad habits; he'll pick up Zevran's. Alistair watches Lucci, lets him catch the pendant but stops him from putting it in his mouth, and casts an occasional glance toward Zevran, who looks—miserable. Alistair has been in better shape himself. He's tired. But it isn't the marrow-deep exhaustion he's been carrying around for a year, anymore, and if he can't save his order from itself or anyone from anything important, he can at least do this: he can sweep Lucci up into one arm, and Doghren in the other, and relocate with them both to the floor, as far from the bed as he can get. ]
We're going to get acquainted, [ he announces on the way. ] You're not allowed to help him impress me. He has to do it himself. So you just—stay there. For at least half an hour.
[ It says something for how new to this Zevran is, how uncertain that even when it is Alistair doing the sweeping and the scooping- he starts, scrambling upright, hand outstretched as though to catch or clutch away. Playing is one thing. Sudden movements another- but the offer is made and it is one that...he can get behind. He is weary, he cannot continue to watch Lucci while so exhausted not safely.
His hand falls back to the bed and he crumples, curling around a pillow. A little shifting and tucking has him propped up somewhat, facing them, good eye giving him a solid view of the three of them on the floor. ]
He grabs, he's teething and if he starts to gnaw upon his hands and cry there are chilled rags treated with mint oil and honey in the wooden chest on my desk. If he is hungry there is a list of what is best for him also on my desk- lately he has taken to mashed up apple quite well. He rubs his eyes and starts to tug on his hair when he's tired but too cranky to actually nap-
[ Alistair listens, nodding here and there, while he settles down onto the floor with his kidnapping victim, Lucci in the corner, Alistair's back to Zevran and legs splayed to create a barrier the baby will have to cross to escape. Alistair's reflexes are at least that fast. ]
I'll wake you up if he needs you, [ he promises. He won't be able to help it. With how jumpy Zevran is, Alistair doubts he'll be able to sleep through any crying or commotion. To Lucci, he's quieter: ] You sound like a lot of trouble, ser. Just like your father. Does he put oil in your hair?
[ Alistair cannot expect Zevran to let his son have frizzy hair now, can he? The answer is muffled, mumbled into the softness of the pillow. Rest is a welcome respite but he does not let himself drift so easily, wishing to watch Alistair and the child for a little while longer.
Lucci makes another one of his burbling, chirping happy noises and crawls for Doghren on the other side of Alistair's leg, working his way up as best he could. No limbs are going to stop HIM from getting away. ]
[ Alistair raises his knee to keep Lucci from crawling over it, lowers it to keep him from crawling under it, then relents and leans backwards to recover Doghren from the floor beyond it. In the time it takes him to do that, his leg barrier is unguarded, but he catches Lucci on his way back to upright and sets the puppy down within reach. He would apologize to her, but she doesn't seem to mind. ]
No frizzing for you. Nope. What would the Orlesians say?
[ In a sleep muzzy slurred Orlesian Accent, Zevran manages . ]
He looks like a little dandelion, that one.
[ Lucci rolls back over with Doghren in his grasp, burbling happily and hugging the dog. There is some playful wrestling about, that is to be certain. ]
[ Alistair laughs, briefly but without all the heaviness that's accompanied the sound of late—like there was a counterweight to any levity, trying to drag it back into his throat—and shakes his head. ]
They have terrible taste. Dandelions are adorable.
[ And so's Lucci. Any future bickering on the point aside, it is like watching after a puppy, only more clever and more likely to get Alistair murdered if he messes it up. He lets the baby wrestle with Doghren until she seems too excited and on the verge of turning nippy, briefly interferes, engages Lucci in a game of let's learn about object permanence by guessing what hand the pendant is in, and only almost loses him once. He makes it almost the full promised half hour—almost—before the baby is making fussy noises, on the verge of disaster, and Alistair is up with him in one arm, trying to discern the cause. Chewing on his hands meant he was hungry? Or teething. Or tired.
[ Zevran? Dozes. Blinks himself awake now and then to watch his boy and his brother now and then before sleep takes over for good. He simply cannot stay awake any longer. Of course when he finally manages to drift into some manner of restful slumber- his ears twitch at the sound of Lucci being cranky.
A sharp pitched whine that's the beginning of a wail has him pushing himself upright while still mostly asleep and wandering to the desk. Chilled rag with elfroot, mint, and honey, swaddling cloth to keep Lucci from being chilled- (the one this time is a scarf Alistair might find familiar- something Wynne knit him ten years ago). Without so much as a word or a blink he scoops his son into his arms, mumbling incoherent Antivan as he wraps him in the scarf and pops the chilled corner of cloth into his mouth. Then?
[ Like magic. Or like Zevran being a good father. There's a very brief and very faint pang of something—brief and faint because Alistair never really wanted children, and has one anyway, and isn't actually all that sorry that he never saw Kieran as an infant. He's more fun now. But this is sweet. ]
His baptism will be in a week or so. You are going to be his Padrino. Should anything happen to me? You are to raise him. Leliana will help.
[ She? He asked. Alistair? Is bluntly informed as he settles back on the bed, infant tucked up against his shoulder. The moments of peace and quiet do not last. ]
[ Still going to die in ten years, in all likelihood. But Zevran knows that. And he know Alistair is as bad an Andrastian as they come while still technically being one, and he knows he doesn't know the first thing about small children, and Alistair decides to take it the way it's probably meant. An honor. If something happens to Zevran before something happens to Alistair, they'll figure out what to do about the rest of it after they stop weeping. ]
Maybe Leliana will be speaking to me again by then, [ he says instead. A joke. There won't be a then. Nothing is happening to Zev. ] Thank you.
[ He lifts a hand from where he's combing Lucci's curls out of his face, wiggling his fingers. ]
Let me show you how to hold him. Mia showed me. [ And it was less a moment of pride then than it was pure terror but seeing the same on Alistair's face? Would be worth it. ]
[ Simple. Surely. Alistair comes as called, though, and settles next to Zevran. He feels twice as awkwardly enormous and clumsy as usual, with an itty bitty elf baby as a comparison point, but he'll do as he's told. ]
You have to support his neck. [ Which makes sense, Zevran knows how fragile a neck can be, how simple it is to break one- to have a head too much for one to support seems baffling but- he is learning. He carefully moves Lucci to Alistair's arms, positioning his hands much in the way Mia had done for him. ]
[ Alistair manages--not because he's a natural, by any means, but because Lucci is very small and his arms are very large and the kid's capable of holding his head up instead of flopping like a newborn, so there's room for some fumbling without anyone dying, and he's been crawled on by enough children in Random Villages 1 through 50 that he doesn't make it worse by being terrified.
But his face does go sort of goopy, for a moment, once Lucci's settled in a way that feels sort of easy. ]
I did not pop out of the ground fully formed and primed for murder, Alistair. [ He snorts a soft laugh- reaching to snag one of his sketchbooks. It does not take long for him to find the right angle and shapes, slowly drawing the image before him. ] He seems so much smaller in your hands.
I know that, but he's so little. [ Alistair glances up, at the sketchbook and then at Zevran, eyebrow briefly cocking with the same exasperation teenagers may feel in six hundred years when Thedas develops photography and their mums won't stop taking pictures, but the moment passes without comment. ] Are you doing all right?
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action.
What the flaming pyre else would you have done with him?
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She is a favored playmate. ]
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It is ultimately the lesser of many evils and Zevran allows this. ]
Nine months.
action.
action.
[ Well, no one besides him and Alistair. Zevran sighs and tips over to fall on his side, watching the boy and dog at play- Lucci tires of the taste of paw and babbles, crawling over with both the rag and himself somehow more sticky for it. Marvelous. He sets upon Zevran's hair as he'd been so foolish to leave it loose and Zevran-
Allows this. Too tired to truly complain. ]
His name is Luciano. Lucci.
action.
[ He watches quietly for another few moments—still on the other side of that line—before pity and empathy and the fact that Zevran hasn't actually told him to keep out win the day. He pulls the flame pendant out from his shirt and over his head by the chain and dangles it in Lucci's line of sight. It's too small for him to play with on his own, but Alistair won't let go. ]
Have you been keeping Zevran awake all night? That's my job. [ No. He's not going to be jealous of an infant (again). He refuses. There's barely a pause before he goes on. ] Hurry up and learn how to talk, and I'll teach you to do it right. The trick is to ask him questions. It doesn't matter if they're not important. He can't help answering.
action.
You are not teaching my son your bad habits. [ There's still that moment of hesitance before he says 'my son'. There likely always would be. This? This is not something he ever saw for himself. Not in truth. Not in any way that he'd have to live with it for long. ] He does not need words to ask. He points and grunts meaningfully often enough.
action.
[ Fat chance. Forget Alistair's bad habits; he'll pick up Zevran's. Alistair watches Lucci, lets him catch the pendant but stops him from putting it in his mouth, and casts an occasional glance toward Zevran, who looks—miserable. Alistair has been in better shape himself. He's tired. But it isn't the marrow-deep exhaustion he's been carrying around for a year, anymore, and if he can't save his order from itself or anyone from anything important, he can at least do this: he can sweep Lucci up into one arm, and Doghren in the other, and relocate with them both to the floor, as far from the bed as he can get. ]
We're going to get acquainted, [ he announces on the way. ] You're not allowed to help him impress me. He has to do it himself. So you just—stay there. For at least half an hour.
action.
His hand falls back to the bed and he crumples, curling around a pillow. A little shifting and tucking has him propped up somewhat, facing them, good eye giving him a solid view of the three of them on the floor. ]
He grabs, he's teething and if he starts to gnaw upon his hands and cry there are chilled rags treated with mint oil and honey in the wooden chest on my desk. If he is hungry there is a list of what is best for him also on my desk- lately he has taken to mashed up apple quite well. He rubs his eyes and starts to tug on his hair when he's tired but too cranky to actually nap-
action.
I'll wake you up if he needs you, [ he promises. He won't be able to help it. With how jumpy Zevran is, Alistair doubts he'll be able to sleep through any crying or commotion. To Lucci, he's quieter: ] You sound like a lot of trouble, ser. Just like your father. Does he put oil in your hair?
[ It's a rhetorical question. Go to sleep, Zev. ]
action.
[ Alistair cannot expect Zevran to let his son have frizzy hair now, can he? The answer is muffled, mumbled into the softness of the pillow. Rest is a welcome respite but he does not let himself drift so easily, wishing to watch Alistair and the child for a little while longer.
Lucci makes another one of his burbling, chirping happy noises and crawls for Doghren on the other side of Alistair's leg, working his way up as best he could. No limbs are going to stop HIM from getting away. ]
action.
No frizzing for you. Nope. What would the Orlesians say?
action.
He looks like a little dandelion, that one.
[ Lucci rolls back over with Doghren in his grasp, burbling happily and hugging the dog. There is some playful wrestling about, that is to be certain. ]
action.
They have terrible taste. Dandelions are adorable.
[ And so's Lucci. Any future bickering on the point aside, it is like watching after a puppy, only more clever and more likely to get Alistair murdered if he messes it up. He lets the baby wrestle with Doghren until she seems too excited and on the verge of turning nippy, briefly interferes, engages Lucci in a game of let's learn about object permanence by guessing what hand the pendant is in, and only almost loses him once. He makes it almost the full promised half hour—almost—before the baby is making fussy noises, on the verge of disaster, and Alistair is up with him in one arm, trying to discern the cause. Chewing on his hands meant he was hungry? Or teething. Or tired.
Maybe all three. ]
Re: action.
A sharp pitched whine that's the beginning of a wail has him pushing himself upright while still mostly asleep and wandering to the desk. Chilled rag with elfroot, mint, and honey, swaddling cloth to keep Lucci from being chilled- (the one this time is a scarf Alistair might find familiar- something Wynne knit him ten years ago). Without so much as a word or a blink he scoops his son into his arms, mumbling incoherent Antivan as he wraps him in the scarf and pops the chilled corner of cloth into his mouth. Then?
Silence. ]
action.
[ Like magic. Or like Zevran being a good father. There's a very brief and very faint pang of something—brief and faint because Alistair never really wanted children, and has one anyway, and isn't actually all that sorry that he never saw Kieran as an infant. He's more fun now. But this is sweet. ]
He's all right. I guess he can stay.
action.
[ She? He asked. Alistair? Is bluntly informed as he settles back on the bed, infant tucked up against his shoulder. The moments of peace and quiet do not last. ]
action.
[ Still going to die in ten years, in all likelihood. But Zevran knows that. And he know Alistair is as bad an Andrastian as they come while still technically being one, and he knows he doesn't know the first thing about small children, and Alistair decides to take it the way it's probably meant. An honor. If something happens to Zevran before something happens to Alistair, they'll figure out what to do about the rest of it after they stop weeping. ]
Maybe Leliana will be speaking to me again by then, [ he says instead. A joke. There won't be a then. Nothing is happening to Zev. ] Thank you.
action.
[ He lifts a hand from where he's combing Lucci's curls out of his face, wiggling his fingers. ]
Let me show you how to hold him. Mia showed me. [ And it was less a moment of pride then than it was pure terror but seeing the same on Alistair's face? Would be worth it. ]
action.
[ Simple. Surely. Alistair comes as called, though, and settles next to Zevran. He feels twice as awkwardly enormous and clumsy as usual, with an itty bitty elf baby as a comparison point, but he'll do as he's told. ]
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Like this.
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But his face does go sort of goopy, for a moment, once Lucci's settled in a way that feels sort of easy. ]
Were you ever this little? Surely not.
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