Alistair doesn't believe him. Maybe there isn't anything he can kill, precisely, but he's sure there are things he can do, and he's sure Zevran isn't broken. Not in any way that can't be mended with enough effort and support.
But he doesn't say so. He doesn't want to fight. If Zevran's already saying his name that way—like a sharp elbow in the ribs, but Alistair shakes it off, it doesn't matter, he doesn't mean it—he won't be able to last a real argument. That isn't the same as agreeing, though, or giving up; he'll keep trying without announcing it beforehand, that's all.
For now he only puts a hand on Zevran's back and sighs, frustrated but ultimately agreeable.
"Thank you," he says, "for protecting me." Battered and drugged and still. If the list of other things already breaking his heart weren't so long, that would do it. "Come on, I'll hush. You should try to sleep."
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But he doesn't say so. He doesn't want to fight. If Zevran's already saying his name that way—like a sharp elbow in the ribs, but Alistair shakes it off, it doesn't matter, he doesn't mean it—he won't be able to last a real argument. That isn't the same as agreeing, though, or giving up; he'll keep trying without announcing it beforehand, that's all.
For now he only puts a hand on Zevran's back and sighs, frustrated but ultimately agreeable.
"Thank you," he says, "for protecting me." Battered and drugged and still. If the list of other things already breaking his heart weren't so long, that would do it. "Come on, I'll hush. You should try to sleep."