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?
I am short for my age, what can I say? And Serena is likewise a petite woman. [ All leg, though, long, lovely legs he will recall with great affection in the years to come. ] Absolutely not. I have no idea what I am doing, I am not fit to be a father yet there are no others that can mind him for me, I did not count on this when I chose to spend the night with her and I cannot very well turn him away. The Crows still want me dead, the world is falling down around our ears and-
He needs so much that I do not know how to give. So...no. No I am not all right, Alistair. But I am making do.
[ Alistair makes a face at the baby--a goofy one, tired eyes crossed and tongue briefly flopping out--who is only forgiven for causing Zevran so much stress because he's tiny and adorable and not actually at fault. ]
You're as fit as anyone I know, and you aren't alone. But you do have to let him rest sometimes, [ he says, now to Lucci, ] or you and me will have a problem.
I considered writing the Madame that raised me before the Crows- but it would not be safe for her to know. [ That is what it boils down to, ultimately. Is it safe for them to know? Most often the answer is no. ]
When his teeth have finished growing in it should pain him less and he should sleep more. Or. So I have been told.
[ Effective, but maybe too much for such a tiny boy. They wouldn't want him going loopy. Diluted in a paste for his gums, maybe—Alistair isn't a herbalist. But maybe he'll ask someone who is. For the moment he sets it aside, eyeing Lucci and his chilled cloth with the terrifying, immediate fondness that only babies with their enormous harmless helpless eyes could inspire so quickly.
He lists to one side, while he's watching, unless his shoulder is against the bed's headboard. Then his head. He won't fall asleep and drop the baby, though, he's fine. ]
I could take Doghren to camp so you're not worrying about her, too. She'll be all right if she sleeps with me.
I was going to give him brandy as is customary in Antiva, but the face Mia made.
[ It was a frightening face- not at all like this soft, warm affection present on Alistair's. Lucci seems to have worn himself out somewhat, suckling on that chilled rag lulling him into a drifting sort of slumber. Soon enough he would be a warm, dead weight in Alistair's arms.
And Zevran might manage a half hour or so of sleep. ]
During the day. At night I can keep an eye on her. Bethany has one of her litter mates out there and it hasn't died yet.
[ A glowing report. He won't say that he'll carry her in his shirt front if necessary and let her sleep on his chest, because he is still standing by the principle that dogs belong outside and on the floor no matter how much he loves them, but he totally will, if it gets Zevran a little more sleep and cuts out the need to take her outside every few hours.
Lucci is very still. Alistair frees a hand to touch his nose tip—an insatiable hey pay attention to me impulse—but, receiving no response, doesn't bother him further. ]
If you do not let her sleep in your tent with you she will whimper and whine and that will be your problem. Perhaps...every few days or so? Lucci has become accustomed to her.
[ He has lost his mother in this- Zevran is loathe to take what few moments of comfort and familiarity that the boy has managed to find here away. ]
Alistair... [ A low word of warning, his eyes on that finger. ] With all due affection and respect- if you wake the baby? I will cut off your hand.
It is better than what I said I would do if Alejo woke him again.
[ That had been a rather...graphic and angry threat, one he as still somewhat proud of considering how little sleep he'd been going off of at the time. ]
Thank you. I am certain it will be quite a hardship.
Give it a moment or two more- he may still wake if you move now. When he starts to drool, then you know it is safe to move. [ Things he has learned. ] It will not take long. He has had an exciting day.
[ The affection in the look Alistair shoots at Zevran is not very different from that in the look he'd previously aimed at Lucci, if much briefer, before he leans his head over onto his own shoulder and shuts his eyes without letting his arms shift. ]
[ He absolutely counts and they both know it, much as Zevran is loathe to do much of anything one way or the other on that matter. Lucci is his for...as long as it takes. As long as they can manage safely. ]
Don't call him that, [ Alistair rumbles without moving—not too chastising, more whine than command. Already smitten. Slightly projecting. ] Say unexpected. Or surprise.
Someone has become attached quickly. Perhaps I should say he was determined to be born- Serena mentioned falling ill while with child and that she had been certain the witherstalk was fresh. He simply wished to be. I have to admire that.
[ Zevran chuckles, finishing his sketch and leaning forward to peer at Lucci. He is, indeed, drooling. ]
[ Alistair cracks open his eyes to evaluate the baby, then the bed. He probably shouldn't stay; he isn't supposed to be here without cause. But maybe Lucci counts as cause. Surely Seeker Pentaghast would understand.
He lays the baby down in the middle of the bed (he's not an idiot, completely), carefully. He tries to be careful stretching out alongside him, too, but he's big and slightly clumsy and it only does so much good. Plus he pauses to put his boots in Zevran's lap, just for a moment, joking, before pulling his legs up to arrange them behind him instead so he can lie on his side and stare, sleepy-eyed, at the baby, who doesn't have to move to be adorable. ]
[ In the few moments he has Alistair's boots Zevran begins tugging them off out of habit- only to lose them (and have boots on the bed, Alistair, for shame) as he moves his feet. Zevran sighs softly- setting aside his sketch to turn about where he sits and remove the boots anyway, Maker only knows what all he has tracked in here and on the sheets his son rolls around on regularly. ]
Elves do tend to be small, Alistair.
[ Indulgent is not a tone he takes often, let alone teasing and indulgent- but between sliding off one boot and the next, Zevran becomes just that. Alistair is home, the world is not so strange, Lucci...fits. In this whatever they have. This strange manner of family. ]
[ Alistair makes a vague noise and wiggles his feet, first in half-hearted protest and then to assist in his boots' removal. Once they're off he protests more directly by sticking his clammy sweat-damp socks on whatever bit of Zevran's arms or chest he manages to reach.
[ The socks go next, clammy and sweaty and all- before there might have been a shudder, token swearing, tickling- now? Now Zevran has been shat and spat up upon regularly for the past few weeks. A little gross human sweat? is nothing. He pats Alistair's calves and begins a new sketch of Lucci and Alistair on the bed, small and large, human and elven, both adorably rumpled. ]
[ Alistair shoots Zevran a wounded, bewildered look, not unlike a dog that's been ignored upon bringing a stick to play and doesn't understand whyyy, but it's immediately banished and replaced with a smile of the genuine, bright, non-smirky variety. He isn't often good at things, but he's pretty sure he can do uncle. Fun Uncle. ]
One ought to have the mind of a child to appreciate them, this is true.
[ Zevran tugs up one of the many quilts he's found to pull over Alistair's feet, plucking up a smaller one to drape over Lucci's bottom half. He will squirm free in an hour or so but is as easily chilled as his father. ]
[ Lucci, being asleep, doesn't respond. Alistair puts one (relatively massive) hand on his belly, as if to hold him in place, and shuts his eyes. He's an increasingly dead weight himself. ]
And he needs to stop drawing and get some rest while he can.
[ He is getting a great deal of practice with softness and curls in these sketches, in shadows and how they shape the line of hair and brow just so. But- he finishes quickly enough, sets the book aside. gives Doghren her customary space by his pillow and settles on his side, curling protectively around Lucci. ]
Good, [ Alistair says, vaguely—it isn't actually good, probably definitely not good for Zevran, but he can't stay here forever. He probably won't manage to sleep through Lucci crying. Maybe.
He takes his hand off the baby's chest to feel blindly for Zevran's face instead, eyes still shut, and clumsily pats his cheek—his forehead, first, and then his jaw, a new strip of leather and wooden beads around his wrist (courtesy of Sabine, don't ask, he'll be a dork) clacking a little in the process, but eventually his cheek. It's an I missed you pat. ]
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He needs so much that I do not know how to give. So...no. No I am not all right, Alistair. But I am making do.
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You're as fit as anyone I know, and you aren't alone. But you do have to let him rest sometimes, [ he says, now to Lucci, ] or you and me will have a problem.
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When his teeth have finished growing in it should pain him less and he should sleep more. Or. So I have been told.
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[ Effective, but maybe too much for such a tiny boy. They wouldn't want him going loopy. Diluted in a paste for his gums, maybe—Alistair isn't a herbalist. But maybe he'll ask someone who is. For the moment he sets it aside, eyeing Lucci and his chilled cloth with the terrifying, immediate fondness that only babies with their enormous harmless helpless eyes could inspire so quickly.
He lists to one side, while he's watching, unless his shoulder is against the bed's headboard. Then his head. He won't fall asleep and drop the baby, though, he's fine. ]
I could take Doghren to camp so you're not worrying about her, too. She'll be all right if she sleeps with me.
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[ It was a frightening face- not at all like this soft, warm affection present on Alistair's. Lucci seems to have worn himself out somewhat, suckling on that chilled rag lulling him into a drifting sort of slumber. Soon enough he would be a warm, dead weight in Alistair's arms.
And Zevran might manage a half hour or so of sleep. ]
Is it warm enough for her out there?
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[ A glowing report. He won't say that he'll carry her in his shirt front if necessary and let her sleep on his chest, because he is still standing by the principle that dogs belong outside and on the floor no matter how much he loves them, but he totally will, if it gets Zevran a little more sleep and cuts out the need to take her outside every few hours.
Lucci is very still. Alistair frees a hand to touch his nose tip—an insatiable hey pay attention to me impulse—but, receiving no response, doesn't bother him further. ]
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[ He has lost his mother in this- Zevran is loathe to take what few moments of comfort and familiarity that the boy has managed to find here away. ]
Alistair... [ A low word of warning, his eyes on that finger. ] With all due affection and respect- if you wake the baby? I will cut off your hand.
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I'll let her sleep in the tent, [ he says, sounding pleasantly put-upon. And tired. ] I wouldn't want a griffon to eat her.
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[ That had been a rather...graphic and angry threat, one he as still somewhat proud of considering how little sleep he'd been going off of at the time. ]
Thank you. I am certain it will be quite a hardship.
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What will you cut off if I lie down and that wakes him up?
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I told you. Little Zevrans.
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[ He absolutely counts and they both know it, much as Zevran is loathe to do much of anything one way or the other on that matter. Lucci is his for...as long as it takes. As long as they can manage safely. ]
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[ Zevran chuckles, finishing his sketch and leaning forward to peer at Lucci. He is, indeed, drooling. ]
It is safe now to move if you like.
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[ Alistair cracks open his eyes to evaluate the baby, then the bed. He probably shouldn't stay; he isn't supposed to be here without cause. But maybe Lucci counts as cause. Surely Seeker Pentaghast would understand.
He lays the baby down in the middle of the bed (he's not an idiot, completely), carefully. He tries to be careful stretching out alongside him, too, but he's big and slightly clumsy and it only does so much good. Plus he pauses to put his boots in Zevran's lap, just for a moment, joking, before pulling his legs up to arrange them behind him instead so he can lie on his side and stare, sleepy-eyed, at the baby, who doesn't have to move to be adorable. ]
So little, [ he murmurs, still stuck on it. ]
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Elves do tend to be small, Alistair.
[ Indulgent is not a tone he takes often, let alone teasing and indulgent- but between sliding off one boot and the next, Zevran becomes just that. Alistair is home, the world is not so strange, Lucci...fits. In this whatever they have. This strange manner of family. ]
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That'll teach him to be indulgent. ]
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You will be a good uncle for him, I am certain.
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Maybe he'll appreciate my jokes.
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One ought to have the mind of a child to appreciate them, this is true.
[ Zevran tugs up one of the many quilts he's found to pull over Alistair's feet, plucking up a smaller one to drape over Lucci's bottom half. He will squirm free in an hour or so but is as easily chilled as his father. ]
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[ Lucci, being asleep, doesn't respond. Alistair puts one (relatively massive) hand on his belly, as if to hold him in place, and shuts his eyes. He's an increasingly dead weight himself. ]
And he needs to stop drawing and get some rest while he can.
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[ He is getting a great deal of practice with softness and curls in these sketches, in shadows and how they shape the line of hair and brow just so. But- he finishes quickly enough, sets the book aside. gives Doghren her customary space by his pillow and settles on his side, curling protectively around Lucci. ]
He will wake in a few hours, you know.
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He takes his hand off the baby's chest to feel blindly for Zevran's face instead, eyes still shut, and clumsily pats his cheek—his forehead, first, and then his jaw, a new strip of leather and wooden beads around his wrist (courtesy of Sabine, don't ask, he'll be a dork) clacking a little in the process, but eventually his cheek. It's an I missed you pat. ]
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