look. i'm just being honest. ( closed )

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin + Alistair.
WHAT: Bonding.
WHEN: A while after Sabine leaves to do elf things.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Drunk adults talking about adult things, probably. Will update if necessary.

Sabine's absence is not immediately noteworthy, mostly because Gwenaëlle has avoided Sabine's presence being immediately noteworthy as much as she's been able. With, admittedly, mixed success - nevertheless. There are lots of people in Skyhold, and lots of them she doesn't see every day, and a particular few of them she would be happy to own she has no pressing desire to see every day. The resentful distance is mutual, as far as she can tell, what with that hair-pulling incident-- Alistair, on the other hand, has never in so many words denied being her friend. When they talk he seems to care about her opinions, and possibly her feelings, if she were inclined to acknowledge having any, as she largely is not. He is someone whose moods she notices and then bothers to remember, later; some awareness of how incredibly stupid he is about Sabine is unavoidable. His face does a thing when she's around, even worse when he doesn't think anyone's looking -

So when she realises that the elf has gone, it's mostly because of the things Alistair's face have started doing. Different things. Sadder things, mainly. She hasn't actually seen him gaze meaningfully at the horizon and sigh, but it may only be a matter of time and lack of proper supervision, which means that proper supervision must therefore be applied.

With alcohol, as it turns out. That's how you know it's proper.

Gwenaëlle doesn't wait for him to come and speak to her, or to express a need; she preempts it entirely by joining him one evening in his tent (which she surveys with a critical eye, but it isn't why she's here and she keeps her editorial remarks to herself) with two bottles of what probably came from her father's cellar and very likely cost more than the entirety of the Warden encampment. They are, to put not too fine a point on it, virulently alcoholic. Without any preamble whatsoever--

"Guess what we have in common now."

Go on, Alistair. Guess.