[ He complies with the propelling, at least, if not the command. ]
Not if you're going to use them to dress me up like this, [ he mutters, one more thing he will protest but actually allow. ] Don't take it in. The only benefit to wearing it would be being able to hide things in it.
Everywhere, [ Alistair says, with extra theatricality just for her, while he runs where she pinched and possibly ruins some of her efforts in the process. ] Why can't I wear armor?
Alistair so help me, [Teren mutters, slapping his hand away and fixing what he messed up,] because it's an Orlesian ball, you oaf, and we're going as Inquisition representatives. If I show up in my scuffed-up leathers instead of a bloody great ballgown I'll never hear the end of it.
[She turns him forward again and steps back to survey her work.]
...and if I can't wear armor, you can't either. Besides, you'll be less easily recognized without the griffon plate, and you can spend more time with a certain pretty little redhead on your arm.
[ His multiple protests—that he doesn't want to wear scuffed up leathers, that they're going as Warden representatives and there's no need for Wardens to look fancy when the people are paying for their clothes and aren't always thrilled about it, that if he's allowed to not be recognized then why does he even have to go—die in his throat as he instead silently turns faintly pink. ]
[Ha. She cracked him. Teren can't help but smirk when she notices his pinkening face, acknowledging her victory.]
Then imagine how very handsome you'll look when she does see you, [she continues, circling him to tug and prod on various connections to make sure everything's fitting well.] Just pretend it's all for her.
[She steps back once more and brushes off his shoulders, folding her arms in satisfaction.]
Not to mention I spent fifteen sodding hours on it, so between this and starting over it'd be easier to just kill you and hide the body.
She'll laugh at me, [ he says, but with a great deal more fondness than concern, ] and run off with someone who doesn't look ridiculous, and then I'll ask you to kill me and hide the body.
[ He looks down at himself, and sighs, and goes on with less hyperbole and drama. ]
I wouldn't fit in with them no matter what you put me in. Trying just looks pathetic. You might as well take a dog in a hat and leave me here.
Stop it, [she hisses in mounting exasperation-- just when she thought she'd made a little headway, he so easily falls back into his dramatics.
But as she begins to pack things up, he continues, and she turns to look at him with a particular glint in her eye: her fuse is deceptively long, but Alistair is nearing the end of it.]
Boy, [she intones, her voice a bit too quiet and calm,] are you calling me pathetic?
No, [ he says, looking up from where he's already started picking unhappily at fabric, and to his credit he does look genuinely distressed by the idea. ] You can pull it off. People respect you. [ Back to fussing with threads. ] Not giving a damn is all I've got going for me.
You are! [she insists, once again smacking his hand away from the threads-- is he determined to undo everything? Her voice picks up in its brusqueness, growing more aggressive as her anger builds.] You're suggesting I don't know what I'm doing, that I'm a fool for trying, that I'd let you look like a dog in a hat! And you're acting like a spoilt little boy in the meantime, fidgeting and whining because you can't wear your armor! Poor you.
[Picking up her sewing box, she nudges her head at the tent opening, curtly indicating for him to follow.]
You haven't even seen it on yourself yet. Now come look, you petulant whinging child, or I'll bloody make you. [Among other useful things, she keeps a sewing mannequin and mirror in her tent for such occasions.]
[ There's a rant starting to percolate in Alistair's dumb little heart, one about Teren picking out his clothes without asking him like he's a child and then calling him childish, and Zevran mending his socks without asking and treating him like he's helpless, and the world in general ignoring that he's an adult when it's fun or convenient and then chiding him when it isn't anymore.
But only just starting. He scowls wordlessly instead and stands there a moment, contemplating mutiny, then does as he's told because he doesn't want to die. He doesn't even really want Teren to be angry with him. ]
[He's lucky he complies when he does, because he was at serious risk of being dragged by his ear. Childish, helpless, perhaps he's neither of these things or both-- either way, deep in the black recesses of Teren's shriveled heart, there is affection for him and genuine affront that he would be so rude.
She stalks ahead of him and flips her tent flap open, her eyes like the points of daggers dragging him across a flat surface, and once he's inside she gestures at the mirror.
The ensemble is for certain fancier than anything he's likely worn before, but all things considered, it's fairly understated and isn't half as frilly as it feels. The style is more Fereldan than Orlesian, and, like most of Teren's creations, strikingly utilitarian.
She stands with her arms crossed, glaring and waiting for him to comment.]
[ Alistair is glaring and crossing his arms, too, looking into the mirror—still unhappy, still uncomfortable, still feeling a bit like some sort of sad clown who will no longer be able to act like he's above all of the pretense rather than in over his head, good bye to the high-chinned I-wasn't-trying-to-impress-you-anyway careless confidence that got him through the Abbey and a dozen things after it, farewell forever, perhaps he'll just hide in a corner where no one can see him use the wrong utensil or hear him say the wrong thing and think, ah, that man is clearly trying to be one of us and failing, what a buffoon—
but at least there aren't ruffles. ]
Next time we go somewhere, I'm choosing your clothes.
[ Not a chance doesn't make him sulk any less, and neither does being shooed, but he does pause at the entrance to her tent to turn and raise an eyebrow over his shoulder — still a little sharp, but with a glint of better humor. A small glint. ]
You aren't going to threaten to kill me if I get her pregnant?
Usually, [ Alistair admits, with cheek, and also with a deliberate scrunchy wrinkle of his nose that requires his mouth to do something similar to a smile. He doesn't actually need to be told twice—not this time, not this specific thing, he's very careful—and he turns to leave for real rather than force her to do so. ]
[Now that he seems to have accepted the outfit, Teren's anger has dissipated. But that doesn't mean he needs to know that.
She catches the smarm in his expression and rolls her eyes, waiting until he turns around to pick up her measuring tape and whip him once with it before he can get out of range.]
Arse. [There definitely isn't any affection in her tone, she has no idea what you're talking about. Get out.]
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[If he doesn't comply, she propels him around by the arms and begins to take in the jacket's somewhat generous sides.]
Look at you, [she intones, pleasantly surprised.] I'll have to take your measurements again.
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Not if you're going to use them to dress me up like this, [ he mutters, one more thing he will protest but actually allow. ] Don't take it in. The only benefit to wearing it would be being able to hide things in it.
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Is it too tight anywhere? Spare me the theatrics.
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[She turns him forward again and steps back to survey her work.]
...and if I can't wear armor, you can't either. Besides, you'll be less easily recognized without the griffon plate, and you can spend more time with a certain pretty little redhead on your arm.
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She won't be there, anyway. Not in the ballroom.
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Then imagine how very handsome you'll look when she does see you, [she continues, circling him to tug and prod on various connections to make sure everything's fitting well.] Just pretend it's all for her.
[She steps back once more and brushes off his shoulders, folding her arms in satisfaction.]
Not to mention I spent fifteen sodding hours on it, so between this and starting over it'd be easier to just kill you and hide the body.
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[ He looks down at himself, and sighs, and goes on with less hyperbole and drama. ]
I wouldn't fit in with them no matter what you put me in. Trying just looks pathetic. You might as well take a dog in a hat and leave me here.
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But as she begins to pack things up, he continues, and she turns to look at him with a particular glint in her eye: her fuse is deceptively long, but Alistair is nearing the end of it.]
Boy, [she intones, her voice a bit too quiet and calm,] are you calling me pathetic?
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You're suggesting I don't know what I'm doing, that I'm a fool for trying, that I'd let you look like a dog in a hat! And you're acting like a spoilt little boy in the meantime, fidgeting and whining because you can't wear your armor! Poor you.
[Picking up her sewing box, she nudges her head at the tent opening, curtly indicating for him to follow.]
You haven't even seen it on yourself yet. Now come look, you petulant whinging child, or I'll bloody make you. [Among other useful things, she keeps a sewing mannequin and mirror in her tent for such occasions.]
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But only just starting. He scowls wordlessly instead and stands there a moment, contemplating mutiny, then does as he's told because he doesn't want to die. He doesn't even really want Teren to be angry with him. ]
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She stalks ahead of him and flips her tent flap open, her eyes like the points of daggers dragging him across a flat surface, and once he's inside she gestures at the mirror.
The ensemble is for certain fancier than anything he's likely worn before, but all things considered, it's fairly understated and isn't half as frilly as it feels. The style is more Fereldan than Orlesian, and, like most of Teren's creations, strikingly utilitarian.
She stands with her arms crossed, glaring and waiting for him to comment.]
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but at least there aren't ruffles. ]
Next time we go somewhere, I'm choosing your clothes.
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[Not a chance.]
Go on then, take it off and I'll have it ready by the time we leave for Halamshiral.
[She pats his back, shooing him back out to return to his tent where his other clothes are.]
And stop sulking, it's unbecoming.
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You aren't going to threaten to kill me if I get her pregnant?
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Do you need to be told twice? [she counters, angling her head warningly.]
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She catches the smarm in his expression and rolls her eyes, waiting until he turns around to pick up her measuring tape and whip him once with it before he can get out of range.]
Arse. [There definitely isn't any affection in her tone, she has no idea what you're talking about. Get out.]