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How to Drunk

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“Denerim, Denerim, what is your whim? Denerim, Denerim, do you sing a hymn?”

Falcon was sat across the table in the Pearl listening to Alistair drunkenly talk to the table. His fingers tracing the rim of his mug, Zevran very nearly missed the softly muttered children’s chant being formed on the mage’s lips – he couldn’t hear from this far away but he hadn’t let on he could read lips, and Ferelden at least used Trade rather than its own tongue as Orlais and Antiva tended to. Or well, part of the rhyme since the mage didn’t continue it.

The Gnawed Noble had been too likely to bring nobles who might recognize them, so drowning Al’s sorrows at the brothel had been the best plan. Sanga, the Pearl’s proprietor, had taken a liking the Wardens as they paid for rooms, took care of trouble-makers, didn’t bother her people, and the mages would provide healing for the workers at no charge. She would’ve let them stay just for clearing out Howe’s murderers, truthfully.

“You’re missing the parts about the King and his trousers,” Alistair mumbled particularly loudly.

He laughed, “I don’t know anymore – why don’t you tell me what those parts were?” Falcon suggested, and then sat back to listen as the drunken warrior sat up to try to explain the rest of the rhyme though it was definitely butchered and mixed up.

“The poor dears,” Isabela bumped into his side as she joined him at the bar. She smelled like booze and her gait was unsteady as if she were drunk but he suspected she was less drunk than she was pretending to be. “I should give them something else to think about tonight, I think.”

He didn’t even realized he’d frowned and looked at her sharply until she was giggling.

“Oh, one has got your attention,” she grinned, looking delighted as if it hadn’t been obvious to her before – Bela had known him far too long. “Zev, you wicked man, which one of the innocent pups are you planning on bedding?”

“Neither,” he replied, and then when she kept smirking he amended: “I have no interest in Alistair.”

“Oh? The mage then?” the pirate grinned. “Think you’ll keep him long enough to try some magic? This run-away came through a few nights back with this electricity trick…mmmm. Should’ve stolen that one for my ship.”

Blue eyes caught them watching and he was offered a smile before the mage turned his attention back to Alistair, from the way he was moving his hands he seemed to be convincing Alistair that singing was not necessary.

“He’s adorable,” Isabela was giggling beside him. “I could just eat him up. I might.”

Meanwhile the not-singing-Alistair was looking at his friend, almost thoughtful through his alcohol haze before a wide grin cracked the pensive stare, “You liiiiiiike him~” he laughed in a sing-song voice.

Falcon leveled a look at the older Warden that could’ve rivaled one of Fen’s if the Dalish ranger hadn’t opted to spend the day with Morrigan elsewhere, supposedly pursuing rumors of rebels, but in reality it was simply that they both needed a break from their comrades and time for their own relationship to be nurtured.

“I’m glad you’re cheering up but you can go back to mopey if you’re gonna tease me.”

“You an’ Fen,” Alistair decided. “You two all the siblings I need – you’re my brothas!” He suddenly gasped. “Wait, Falc, do you have any other siblings? I gotta know how many Satinalia gifts to get.”

“Don’t worry Al, you don’t have to get my sister a Satinalia gift.”

“You have a sister too?” of course the drunk listened to that as Zevran and Isabela joined them with a pack of cards for Wicked Grace. “Did you know he has a sister? You never talk about your family, Falc.”

“Because I haven’t seen or heard from them since I was six, Al,” the mage pointed out dryly, watching Isabela warily now as she shuffled the cards. “Though you know – if you adopt Fen as your brother that means Morrigan will probably be your sister-in-law.”