Pairing: Alistair/f!Cousland

Whatever the hell Oghren has in that flask, it is strong.

The thick spicy liquid trickles down Alistair's throat like scorching sap and it feels really, really good. The heat mimics the warmth from the fire, spreading from his belly all the way down to his toes. He takes a long swig, hoping it drowns out the image that has been branded into his memory since early this morning.

"Woah, slow down there, kid. Don't want you passin' out on me like last time," Oghren grunts, snatching the rough leather flask from Alistair's hands. "I'm not haulin' your sorry ass to bed."

"I'm fine," he argues, reaching for the alcohol again, a sea of ale raging within his stomach.

Please don't get sick, please don't get sick, please don't get sick….

"My ass you are, lightweight. Just hasn't kicked in yet." Oghren snickers as he downs a hearty swig to himself. "Judgin' by how green your face is, I'd say it's comin' pretty damn soon."

Alistair watches as the flap of Emilia's tent opens and she steps out, shooting him a wide smile. Each step she takes brings her closer to him and the idea of even being near her right now is thrilling and nauseating and wow is the world turning fast.

"Evening Alistair, Oghren," she laughs (probably at him). She receives a short "warden" from the dwarf and a groan from the drunken idiot himself. "Alistair, are you—"

Blackout.

The next thing Alistair sees is the inside of his tent, and the moon beaming in through a small hole at the top that he keeps forgetting to fix. His head is pounding and his stomach is still churning the contents.

"Ah, look who's awake," Emilia says, handing him a bucket. "You'll probably need this."

Alistair snatches the thing out of her hands, ready to empty his stomach until he nearly rids his body of that too, but a few breaths and the nausea calms. He looks up, his eyes meeting the soft green of Emilia's, and the thought he was trying so hard to bury was resurfacing with a vengeance. He has to be quick with the placement of his bucket.

"Are you alright? You're acting a bit odd. Well, odder than your usual drunken state, at least."

"I'm… yeah. I think? I don't know." Woah. If Alistair survives any of this whole Blight nonsense, he should seriously consider being a poet.

"Honestly, you haven't spoken to me all day. Did I do something?" Emilia takes her seat next to Alistair on the bed roll, hand dangerously close to his arm. He can practically smell the elfroot she was picking this morning right before she—

"—had a bath," his mouth forms the words of its own accord because he certainly did not want to say that out loud. If there were ever a time Alistair wanted the Void to take him, it's now.

The female warden scrunches up her nose, eyebrows furrowed. "A bath?"

Oh, no. What he meant to say was that he's not talking because he's too scared that he'll just keep rambling on, just like good old Alistair does, about things like cheese and swords and statuettes, but then he'll just blurt out that he watched—no saw, he did not watch he saw it because it was an accident. But no, she will never know because Alistair wants to keep his genitals—and, more importantly, his head.

"Alistair?" she asks again, sounding more worried. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I…"

…think your hair looks lovely in the moonlight. You've got the most beautiful black hair I've ever seen, and I just wanted to say that I—

"—saw you having a bath."

Honestly, out of all the other things he could have said? Was there bloody truth serum in that flask?

"What?" she yelps, her hand flying to her mouth.

There's no running away from it now, idiot. "I didn't mean to. I was trying to find you. Wynne needed you for something, and I just… it was an accident, I swear." Alistair is all hands and knotted tongue, and in his honest attempt to try and salvage what dignity he has, he knocks the bucket away to reveal his… umm…

"Oh," she breathes, scrambling to get up. A furious pink rises from her neck onto her cheeks and her eyes begin to water. "I—um… I need to go now."

"Emilia, wait—" He fumbles with his sheets to try and cover himself, but everything is still sort of wobbly, and whatever coordination he had in his hands is completely depleted.

"No, no, I will be going now. Hope you feel better soon with all of your… stuff." And in the span of Alistair's depressed sigh, she runs out.

He's so going to hell.