What's in a Name (Menage 17)

[onemorealtmer]

 Title:  What’s in a Name (Ménage 17)

Words: 1097

Rating: G

Characters: Alistair/f!Surana (Philoméne)/Zevran featuring Anders, Nathaniel, Oghren, and Ser Pounce-a-lot

Summary: Morale is important. Alistair is cheered up by a kitten and pays it forward. Sort of.

 
<-Previous: Forgive Me If I Rush (M)

 

            Alistair had, it was confirmed, completely lost the knack for sleeping by himself. He didn’t even have Bouche to curl up against, and since Oghren smelled worse and the other two were still nearly strangers, there was nothing to do but tie up his laundry in a sack and drape himself over it at night. It was hardly the same.

            Little wonder, then, that he woke up at the sound of something moving in Anders’ tent. He rolled over – which was a complicated affair, since it also involved deciding whether to try curling his back against the laundry sack or heaving it over him to the other side – and tried to ignore it, but it persisted. And furthermore, it persisted in being a not-Anderslike noise. It was small and scuffling, like… rodents? Odd if it was rodents, since they didn’t keep the food in Anders’ tent. (One never, ever left the food unguarded with the newest recruit. Any Warden who wasn’t completely green knew better than to do that.)

            What, then?

            He pitched fitfully back and forth a few times before resigning himself to the knowledge that he wouldn’t fall asleep again unless he found out. He threw his shirt on without closing it and crept out of his tent and toward Anders’, then quietly lifted the flap to look inside.

            Anders was, by contrast, a sound sleeper. He was sprawled wide across most of his pallet, oblivious to the little orange ball of fuzz that was attacking the hem of his robe with great abandon.

            Alistair dropped to his knees, staring. The orange ball of fuzz paused for a moment from kicking ferociously at Anders’ robe with its hind feet to stare back. Alistair tried not to snicker, and failed. The fuzzball resumed its assault, and was not entirely distracted even when Alistair introduced his hand between it and the fabric it was trying to kill. After he scratched its belly for a moment, though, its grip and its kicks both shifted to his fingers, and it added in a weak grab with its little kitten fangs.

            “Who’s a ferocious rat-slayer?” he crooned softly, tumbling it back and forth with one hand. “You are, aren’t you?”

            That was enough to wake Anders up, at least partway: he moaned and slitted his eyes toward the open flap of the tent. “Mph. Alistair?” he croaked.

            “Kitten in your tent,” said Alistair.

            “Found him near the Keep,” Anders replied, throwing one hand over his eyes. “Commander said I could keep him.”

            Alistair continued to wrestle the kitten as they spoke. “Keep him where? This is the first time I’ve seen him.”

            “Pocket of my robe, when we’re moving. He’s little. Sleeps most of the day anyway.”

            “Hmm. What happens to him if you get hit?”

            Anders started to sit up, more alert. “Maybe you’ve noticed I usually like to stand in the back. Healer, you know? Also means I’d heal him. And besides that, he helps me!” He scooped up the kitten and spun it around to touch their noses together. “Ser Pounce-a-lot loves to help!”

            Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Ser. Pounce. A. Lot.”

            “Male. Pouncy. I fail to see the problem.”

            “Well, I mean. It’s not even really a name, is it? We don’t call you “Earring Mage Boy.””

            Anders lifted his chin at Alistair. “Maybe you should! And we can call you “That Big One With the Sword.” And then we can chat about waiting around for Grumpypants, as long as we don’t distract Whiskey Beardo from his watch.”

            “Bad news for you,” the gruff voice came from outside. “Whiskey Beardo’s distracted. Why is a deformed nug in your tent?”

            “Jealous,” Anders said to the kitten, ignoring everyone else. “They’re jealous, Pounce.”

 

            Grumpypants – which was to say Nathaniel, although perhaps Anders was onto something – arrived near dawn, during Alistair’s watch. “Let’s go,” he said as soon as he was close.

            “After breakfast,” Alistair said. “You don’t need a nap first?”

            “I had a rest earlier. I’ve reported to the Commander, she’s going to look into what we’ve found here, and she’s sent the goods we recovered up to the city. There’s no reason to stay here.”

            He really was more of a Grumpypants than a Nathaniel, Alistair thought, and raised an eyebrow. “Right. You don’t mind if we do go ahead and eat first, though, do you?”

            Nathaniel frowned – more – and shifted his weight. “Sorry, ser. I’m just keen to move on.”

            “Mm-hmm. My name’s still Alistair, by the way. I’ve always preferred that to ‘ser.’”

            A wince rather than a smile. “Sorry. I’m still trying to – you know, your friends really don’t like me. At all.” He cleared his throat, and for a moment his whole body tensed as if he was about to either lash out or run, once he decided which. “I don’t want to overstep.”

            Alistair shrugged. “Well, you have to expect it to take a while, after your father. It may not seem fair, but given time you can get past it. Maker knows I didn’t like people expecting me to do certain things once they knew I was a Theirin.” Interesting comparison, that: he hadn’t really thought about it until it came out of his mouth. “Look. Is it really all of them? How is Philoméne treating you?”

            “The Commander… is very kind. Moreso than I had any right to ask.”

            Of course she was! Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with the question. “There you go,” he smiled. “That’s the important thing. If she trusts you, everything else will fall into place eventually.” Nathaniel did not look entirely reassured, so after a moment’s thought, Alistair decided to go on. “You know,” he confided, “when she first let Zevran join us, I wouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could throw him. But she was right. She usually is.”

            Nathaniel stared at him silently for a minute, obviously choked by the sweetness of trust. Not a common sentiment from or among the Howe family, he assumed.

            “Thank you,” he said at last, in a low, growly voice. “Breakfast. I’ll get it started so it’s ready when they’re awake.” With that, he hurried toward the fire, throwing down his pack and his bow as he went.

            No idea how to accept a friendly gesture. Well, it was understandable, and there was time enough. Alistair dismissed it from his mind and, relieved of duty, decided to check in on the kitten before breakfast.

 

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