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. ]
Alistair- [ Muffled, faintly, by pillow and thumb- A man with large hands and an elf with a slim face? There will be mouth touching. Accidental mouth touching that usually would end in a nip or a lick or whatever would make Alistair screw his face up like a child and mumble about grossness-
And such reprisal is forthcoming save for the clatter of beads. ]
What is this on your wrist, mm?
[ It was not there when he'd left and Alistair is not one to create such things himself. ]
But Alistair cracks an eye open, just a bit, as if he has to check and see what Zevran is referring to, and sleepily drawls, very casually, as if he isn't blushing at all— ] Punishment for falling asleep on Sabine. [ Not really. Probably not really. He hasn't quizzed her about her intent. ] But the joke is on her. It makes me feel pretty.
[ He smushes Zevran's cheek up toward his eye. That's his punishment. ]
[ With as much feeling as he can muster while being half-dead. He lets go of Zevran's face to rescue his own from indignity. There's a difference between I missed you pats and aww pats. Aww pats get batted away. ]
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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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And such reprisal is forthcoming save for the clatter of beads. ]
What is this on your wrist, mm?
[ It was not there when he'd left and Alistair is not one to create such things himself. ]
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But Alistair cracks an eye open, just a bit, as if he has to check and see what Zevran is referring to, and sleepily drawls, very casually, as if he isn't blushing at all— ] Punishment for falling asleep on Sabine. [ Not really. Probably not really. He hasn't quizzed her about her intent. ] But the joke is on her. It makes me feel pretty.
[ He smushes Zevran's cheek up toward his eye. That's his punishment. ]
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The blushing, now- the falling asleep on her? THAT is something. Zevran snorts a soft laugh, reaching over to pat Alistair on the cheek. ]
You are the prettiest princess in Skyhold, this is true. So, tell me. Are you no longer wooless? Is there wooing going on behind my back?
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[ With as much feeling as he can muster while being half-dead. He lets go of Zevran's face to rescue his own from indignity. There's a difference between I missed you pats and aww pats. Aww pats get batted away. ]
We were only talking. Mainly about the weather.
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[ He manages a low, wry crackle of laughter, softly dropping his hand back down to rest against Lucci's curls. ]
No wonder you asked me for help ten years ago.
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[ Wooless. Honestly. ]
I'm falling asleep now, [ he announces, which isn't a lie. ]
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[ And more familiar, honestly. In the middle of all this- he needs the familiar.
Something about having Alistair around makes dozing with Lucci seem less strange, less stressful. ]