She looks up at him with those big eyes, and he thinks that this may be the sneakiest trap ever to be used on anyone in the history of creation. They will be the death of him, he decides. And right now, he realises, is not the best time to be falling into such a trap. He clutches the canvas of the tent opening tighter around his waist.

"Ah. Yes. Hm. Well." He coughs, feeling his face flush. She blinks, smiling that soft smile that he is fairly sure is reserved for him.

"This should be good," she comments dryly, folding her arms. He grins sheepishly.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah. About.. this." He frowns. "I told you we couldn't trust that Antivan."

"Zevran did this?"

"It has to have been him. Purely because I heard him and Oghren snickering last night every time I looked at them." He shuffles his feet, a cold breeze making him even more aware of his predicament. "And he's a rogue. They're practically sneaky all the time." She tries, in her defence, not to laugh outright.

"So you have.. literally.. no clothes?"

"Not even a sock," he says ruefully, pouting. She blushes hard, probably from trying not to laugh too hard, he expects.

"Maybe he's just being a kindly neighbour and washing them for you?" His glare answers that question succinctly. "Wait here a second," she concludes, and scurries back to her tent. He is left standing in his tent doorway, covering his modesty with his own bloody tent. He was going to kill that bastard Antivan. Glad that no-one else was in camp, he scans around for any sign of the missing clothes, but to no avail.

She is back in moments, with what looks like a shirt and trousers. Eyebrows raised, he wants to ask why she owns these, and she blushes again.

"They.. were going to be a present, actually. I found them in a lovely shop in Redcliffe. The colours suit you, I think." He is suddenly very aware of the touch of her fingers on his hand as he awkwardly accepts them. "They'll do for now, anyway. I'll.. let you get changed. I have half a mind to strangle Zev myself," she finishes, smiling. He grins back, but before he can say thank you, she is off, heading towards the stream where no doubt everyone is washing. He looks at the clothes in his hand, before a sharp breeze sends him reeling back into his tent quickly.

The colours were nice, he admitted, pulling on the trousers. And the feel of new fabric was something that made the skin tingle. Or maybe that was just because they were a gift from her, he admits, smiling as he buttons up the shirt that fits so well across the shoulders. Pulling on his boots roughly, he steps out to find the rest of his clothes.

When he finds them, Wynne comments on the cut of his new clothes, and Leliana is giggling and clapping at his new look. He grins at that. Approval by the womenfolk was always a good sign. And then he saw him – the Antivan. He marched up, but pulled up short at the scene. His clothes were being washed by Oghren and the rogue, under close, pointed supervision of their leader and her swords.

"And what have we learned, children?"

"Do not toy with the templar Warden," they chant in monotone.

"And why is that?"

"Because you are in love with him," chuckles Zev, receiving a jab in the neck with a sword, but earning a grin from Oghren. "Because it's not nice to leave a man without clothes," he amends.

"Exactly." Her face is slightly pink from blushing, but she smiles. "I know you two can take or leave clothing, but Alistair is not cut from the same cloth."

"Am I not?" he asks, grinning. She looks up, jaw dropping at the sight of Alistair, hands on hips and big grin on his face, in the well-cut shirt and tight trousers that only minutes ago were to be a gift. She blushes furiously. He cocks his head slightly, the grin becoming a softer smile. "What cloth, pray tell, am I cut from?"

"One that looks remarkable in a new shirt and trousers," chirps Zevran, looking admiringly at the man. Alistair glares at him.

"I'm still not happy with you. Get back to washing my clothes."

"As you wish, master," he growls, grinning.

"So?" She swallows hard.

"You're, um.. you're cut from.. nicer cloth."

"Nicer cloth?"

"Yes! Silk, maybe."

"Ooh, a wonderful deep blue Orlesian silk," purrs Leliana from behind him.


"Hmm. Not sure I like the sound of that, really. I'm a fighter, silk's no good for that."

"Then how about some soft, supple leather?" offers Zevran.

"He's much too young to be anything but suede if it's from a cow," replies Wynne, dumping the wet clothes in a pile and brandishing her staff. Everyone takes a step back as she conjures a small whirlwind to dry the garments, and within a matter of minutes the winds die down and the clothes stack neatly into piles. Leliana takes her straight back to camp, singing as she skips. Alistair picks up his and dumps them straight back into the bag from which they were brought here. Hauling it on his back, he laughs at the two still at sword-point, before winking at his leader and strolling back to camp. She lets out a small squeak, dropping her swords. Zevran pulls himself to his feet, chuckling at the blush that is creeping across her face.

"You are smitten, no?" She glares at him, and he beats a hasty retreat.

He approaches her, much later, when the joke has work and they are all settling down for lunch.

"I never did thank you, you know."

"What?" She is startled.

"For the clothes."

"Oh. OH! It's no trouble." She smiles, and he takes her hand in his.

"But really. They're lovely. And.." He chuckles. "Thanks for not thinking I'm the same kind of person as those two."

"Oh, Alistair.." She sighs, placing her palm on his cheek. "You never could be. And I wouldn't have you any other way." He smiles, cupping her face in his hands.

"So I fooled you, did I?" She blinks. "Good to know." And he leans forward to steal a kiss.