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I hate stripweed so bloody much. I’ve always hated it, but now I hate it even more because it’s not around and I forget it exists until it reminds me. Aggressively. At least back in Minrathous I could remember to ask if something was made with it, but no one fucking cooks with it. If I didn’t know Sera likes Trev too much to actually poison me, I’d accuse her of slipping some in my food, but no, this is just random chance and bad luck.
This damned allergy is just another example of Tevinter breeding calculations gone horribly awry.
Maker, my face itches. What if I settle for just rubbing a cheek on Alistair’s shirt? He still wears rough homespun most days, and it does make sense, given how easily linen tears and how horribly silk stains. Silk pajamas would be nice, but then he might stop sleeping naked, and that is just unacceptable.
His arm tightens around my back. “Babe?”
“I fucking hate stripweed,” I groan into his shoulder.
“Can I - are we done sulking?” He kisses my forehead. Charming man. Far too sweet.
I rub my nose on his shirt. It hurts, but in that good way that is just absolutely disastrous to my skin. “Never,” I mutter.
Alistair’s hand touches my cheek. “Look, I’m not a healer, but I have it on good authority from several motherly types that scratching makes it worse.”
“I’m not scratching, just … rubbing.”
He puts his hand under my face to stop said rubbing. “On my scratchy shirt.”
“Then put on a silk one,” I pout.
He pulls me along with him as he sits up. “I’m going to get you some tea that isn’t poisoned, then I’ll change shirts, okay? No scratching while I’m gone.”
“Bossy southern barbarian.”
Alistair snorts softly and kisses my forehead again. It’s probably the only part of my face that isn’t disgusting right now. “Oh yes, I’m definitely the one in charge here. Maker help us all.” He slides out of the bed and I still have to grab his ass even though I’m definitely not up to doing anything with it right now. “Back soon, babe.” He slips out the door.
My face is too hot. And puffy. I flop back onto the pillows and close my eyes. Eye. One of them is already practically swollen shut.
“Dorian, you still awake?” He’s standing over me with a mug of tea. It smells like ginger. And he’s put on one of his nice shirts.
“I am now.” I sit up slowly, fighting the urge to claw at my face, and nod at the mug. “Is that for me?”
Alistair nods, then points at the bowl on the nearby table as he hands over the tea. “That is too.”
My drink is the perfect temperature and has just enough honey; how he’s already figured out all of my tea preferences, I’ll never know, but it’s a delight. I sip it contentedly. Well, as contentedly as I can given my fucking face hurts like the void. “Oh?”
He turns that delicate shade of pink he always does when he’s done something incredibly endearing and is a little embarrassed. “I asked Fiona if she knew if anything would help and - well, let me just -” He grabs the bowl and scoots in to sit between me and the headboard. “Lie back, okay?”
Where’s the harm, as long as I can keep drinking my tea and sulking? Wait, am I scheduled for moping now? “If you insist, amatus.”
We’re situated in mere moments; learning each other’s bodies completely has more advantages than I ever imagined. He tilts me back against his chest and kisses my hair and then a cold wet washcloth is on my forehead and it smells odd, but not bad, and it feels divine. My skin is still on fire, but whatever is in that bowl is helping. “Better?” he asks softly.
I put my tea down and relax against him. “I knew you could manage being in charge.”