Wynne: Alistair, may I have a word? Alistair: Of course, anything for my favoritest mage ever. Wynne: It seems you and our fearless leader are inseparable these days; joined at the hip almost. Alistair: That’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think? Wynne: Well then, now that you’re in an intimate relationship, you should learn about where babies really come from. Alistair: Pardon? Wynne: I know the Chantry says you dream about your babies, and the good fade spirits take them out of the fade and leave them in your arms… but that’s not true. Actually, what happens is that when a girl and a boy really love each other…. Alistair: Andraste’s flaming sword, I know where babies come from! Wynne: Do you? Do you really? Alistair: I certainly hope so! Wynne: Oh, alright then. Ooh, look, you’re all red and mottled. How cute. Alistair: You did that on purpose. Wynne: Now, now, Alistair. Why would I do such a thing? Alistair: Because you’re wicked… that frail old lady act? I’m so not fooled. I’m on to you now.
Alistair loves hugs. He just doesn’t admit it, not at first. But it’s evident every time his arms encircle you, squeezing firmly; it’s obvious in the half-smile he wears once he lets you go, as if affection to him is a delightful discovery, one he is happy to experience over and over.
Morrigan warms to hugs the same way she warms to everything else: slowly, and with hesitancy. When she hugs you she is slightly inelegant, elbows held out at strange angles. But she presses close all the same, and for a moment you get a glimpse of her true self. She is surprisingly gentle, and it’s a secret she guards closely.
Hugs are foreign to Sten. “The Beresaad do not hug,” he tells you sternly, but sometimes, right after a battle, he’ll put a large hand on your shoulder, the weight of it settling comfortably across your armor. “Kadan,” he says, and nothing more.
Leliana doesn’t just hug. She smiles and takes your hand, walks arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder with you as she tells stories, her voice lilting like birdsong. With Leliana a trek becomes a stroll, and the time passes pleasantly as you listen to her captivating accent, her red hair swinging lightly when she tilts her head to the side.
Zevran’s hugs are swift but fierce, slender arms snaking around you quick, pulling you in for a full-bodied embrace. He smells of spices and something you cannot quite identify. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “My friend,” he says conversationally when he steps away, “perhaps we should do this more often, no?”
Wynne always welcomes hugs. She folds you into her arms and holds you close, motherly. Her hugs are always paired with something else: a hug and a fond pat on the cheek, a hug and a pullback complete with narrowed eyes, a hug and a dear, you must remember to take care of yourself.
After the Deep Roads, after the Anvil, after Branka; after all of that, Oghren needs a hug. You can’t bring yourself to do it, though, because that would mean getting close to him, and his beard smells of filth and bitterness in equal measure. Instead you offer him something to drink and sit with him in silence. You touch him on the arm as you leave, and for an open, honest second, he looks at you, and rests his hand briefly on yours.
“I will try not to squeeze the liquid out of it,” Shale says. “I do not understand why puny flesh things insist on this practice.” You hug the golem anyway, and hope fervently that your ribs won’t crack between unyielding rock. A pretty new jewel joins the collection on Shale’s shoulders.
Dog is the best hugger of the bunch, giving you mabari hugs in the doggiest way possible. Dog rears up, rests his front legs on your shoulders (the way his paws dangle is just so cute), and gives you three slobbery kisses. “Ugh, Dog!” you shout, swiping at your face with your sleeve. Dog just sits, head cocked to one side, and lets his tongue loll from his mouth.