For my lovely friend lucyrne, who listens to me scream about this game when I go (re)play it. This one's for you.

Some distant activity woke him up. The sound of bushes parting, the sound of heaving. For a moment, Alistair thought it was the mabari. But then something that distinctly sounded like sniffles surprised him. Was someone… crying? Maker, he really didn't know how to deal with that. For a moment, he considered rolling over and falling back asleep, but stupid duty is what pushed him off his bedroll. Well, if he was going to regret trying to sleep through it, he might as well eliminate the possibility before it could get worse.

The camp is eerily silent – not that it was that rare of an occurrence. But Bodahn and his boy have retreated back into their tents, their newcomer's, the Senior Enchanter's, things strewn about but nowhere in sight, and he was not about to look for Morrigan.

Another sniffle broke through the clearing.

Maker. It couldn't be.

But it was.

Her blonde hair was a curtain, even from the back. Alistair had always marveled at how her hair had a slight curl to it. But he pushed that thought from his mind, not when she seemed hunched over, one of her hands joined in beneath the curtain of hair.

"Lucy?" The foreign, Free Marcher name still felt a little odd on his lips. Ever since she'd insisted on her own name, and not her title.

She perked slightly, but she didn't dare turn. "Alistair?" Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. He took a step forward, and she stiffened. "Don't," she murmured.

For a moment, he was lost in bewilderment. Was she – still – "Are you –" his breath caught on his throat. He'd never handled women crying well, not since Isolde and her hysterics and – Maker. "-Do you want me to rub your back?"

Maker, help him.

She stiffened, before her shoulders rose and fell, her burdens he shared giving the gesture much more weight than normal. He took a few hesitant steps, and each one he felt her recoil just a little. Great. "I'm not really good with crying wo-people, I apologize in advance."

Something like a laugh bubbled from her lips, surprised – and not a trace of hysteria, either. "Crying? Maker no – I-"

Oh.

The smell hit him first.

"I didn't cook tonight, I swear," he said lamely.

Another half laugh came through, and to his relief, she stepped around the upturned remains of her dinner. Ah – her face, flushed red at being caught, but at least she wasn't, er, crying. Sure, a few tears still remained on her cheeks, but it wasn't the torrenty sort, and Alistair couldn't help but be bewildered at his own decidedly calm demeanour now that he knew she wasn't crying.

Maker help me.

"It wasn't food poisoning," she promised weakly, a half smile playing at her lips.

"Are you pregnant?" He half joked, but the look of absolute mortification that suddenly brought colour back into her cheeks was enough to answer his question. "Just checking," he said, raising his hands in surrender - trying to ignore the calm that washed out any jealousy that bubbled at the thought.

He didn't stop himself when a hand reached out to hers, and he realized – with a pounding heart – that she didn't hesitate to accept it. His other arm came around her, and he was all but too aware that he was holding (supporting!) the small of her back, but she seemed to sag a little into his touch. When he sat her down, her face lit with brief gratitude, and then another smile cracked on her lips as he passed her waterskin.

She took a long drought, the long seconds stretching in the silence, and then she lowered it, catching his eye. He shrugged. "I'm more used to people spitting on me."

He swore her eyes rolled as she leaned to the side, the mouthful of water spewing from her lips.

And they sat like that for a while, in muted silence. It didn't take long for the blood to begin pounding behind his ears, for his hands to feel suddenly empty without something - a sword, a shield – to toy with. So he stowed them into the pockets of his trousers. They began to play with the material, fisting and unfisting, waiting.

"How do you do it?"

Her whisper was soft. Alistair wasn't even sure if it was meant for him. "Didn't you know that I'm used to shovelling dung from the barn? I slept there after all." This time, he definitely earned his small muffle of laughter, but as that too died out, he inhaled slowly. How does he explain? How does he begin to soothe the anxieties that came with the first time he'd killed?

Andraste, he was this far already. He might as well share.

"It wasn't easy, at first. It was only darkspawn, and they weren't, well."

She was listening to him, with full attention, and he tried to ignore her large hazel eyes (Maker, who knew eyes could do that) and that natural curl in her blonde hair (seriously, so unfair). He swallowed and kicked a burnt out log, watching it roll over with an unceremonious thump. "And eventually, you learn to remove yourself from it."

The silence was just as tense before she shifted. Dirt scraped under her heel, the upturned grass rolling limply to the side. "You know, I had to kill a demon once."

Ah. The Harrowing. "So I recall."

"It wasn't hard then," she murmured. Her fingers played an interesting pattern against her robe, her skin seemingly pale in the waning moonlight. "I guess they weren't human. But I don't think I can get used to it." And then her eyes caught his, and his breath hitched at his throat. "I don't want to, Alistair."

His name was like a caress in his voice. He all but reminded himself to breathe before he tried, for as hard as he could, to swallow the self-deprecating comment before it came from his lips. "I know," he said lowly instead.

She stared at him for several moments longer, before she stood. Irrational fear spiked at his throat – was she going to leave him? Like everyone else had? Now that he'd laid her heart for her to take? – but then she settled beside him. A breath blew from her lips before she plopped herself down beside him. And then, in one heart wrenching moment, she lowered her head on his shoulder. Maker. His heart tripled in tempo and he was praying that she didn't look at him, lest she notice his blush. It took several breaths before he even felt as if he could move – but then his hands, again, against his own volition, find her hair. His fingers threaded into her blonde tresses, and he couldn't help but to watch as he combed along the length of her hair, following the natural curve as he went.

"I should style your hair more often," he murmured, all too aware of how his lips were close to the crown of her head.

Her eyelashes fluttered and she glanced up at him. "Don't you dare," she whispered.

Ah.

Her cheeks, too, were flushed. Her hands were clasped together on her lap, and he almost moved to touch one, to hold one. Another time, he thought before he did something rational. Maybe.

But amidst the warmth in his chest, the soothing presence at his side, and the quiet breathing they shared, Alistair was quite content to remain there a while.