Cloak
Morgana
She needs to say something, she thinks. The odd silence since the demons is almost painful, and she needs the anchor of his speech...
She's jerked out of her trance by the sound of a small flump. A sudden weight lands on her shoulders, and a familiar masculine voice close to her ear murmurs, "You're shivering."
Shoulders abruptly tensing, she looks around to see his face close to hers, one hand still on the cloak and brows creased in concern. She swallows nervously - she can feel his breath on her neck, knows it's as rough as her own. She sees something in his face soften, eyes flickering to her lips; then he steps away with a hasty apology. "I'm... I'm sorry, you were just..."
She shakes her head, gathering the cloak closer to her and giving him a small smile. A chance to patch this up, perhaps. "Thank you."
He smiles back, shaky as it is. "I think we need to buy you one of those." A pause. "Still worried about Orzammar?"
Her fists clench instinctively at the thought of all the lyrium down in the Deep Roads, and she nods.
A sigh, and he looks at her properly. "I know I've said it, but I should apologize for the past couple of days. Really, I should, and I shouldn't have..."
She lays a finger to his lips, as Leliana has done to her in the past, abruptly hushing him. "Please, stop apologizing." Her other words die in her throat as she realizes that he's staring at her, and she curses her Tower upbringing once again. She must have crossed some kind of line, she knows, and takes it quickly away, cheeks heating.
His words are soft, eyes meeting hers, and she is surprised to see a half-smile on his face. "Will do."
They walk on in silence for a while, until she feels him gently take her arm. She slows down, hears a distinctly unsubtle cough from behind them (Leliana), and ignores it. He looks at her, eyes large and almost scared, and she's confused; he clears his throat and says quietly, "Look... I... I think I..."
She looks at him, her own eyes wide as his, and asks haltingly, "Alistair?"
He swallows, still frozen in place, looking at her. "It's..." He stops, glances down, and the moment's lost. He quickly lets go of her arm, starts walking at their usual pace, and says, false-briskly, "It's not important. Doesn't matter at all." He lets out a long breath, eyes briefly closing and a hand running through his hair, before he looks at her. "Poultice supplies. I think we're running low."
When she checks later that night in camp, however, they seem to be well-stocked, and she frowns, fastening the pack; sitting back, she pulls the cloak closer, looking into the fire and trying to pretend the chill of the mountain isn't there. Something catches her eye, and brows crinkling, she briefly brings her head to the cloak for a closer look. Looking back up again, she recognises what had eluded her.
His name, stitched neatly in the lining. She grins.