"You and half the Inquisition-" But this is the one that stings. He locks up at the approach, tense and silent and not flinching so hard for the space of the moment it takes him to realize there are no grasping hands or teeth in play.

Lighter hair, different nose, not a ghost.

Zevran remains tense under that press- uncertain what it means. Angry means walking away, means sleeping in different tents, means not being around one another, let alone touching if it isn't to cause harm. No harm is forthcoming. "What do you want, Alistair?"

The Brother, the Assassin, the Hero? What mask does he want? Zevran cannot keep up.