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Morrigan disdains casual touching. It draws this unpleasant reaction up into the surface of her skin, a feeling too intense for her body to comprehend. Touch has ever been a forewarning of pain.
Her Warden is quite adamant on touching. That is all he seems to do, ever since she brought him into her tent. She does like laying with him; after all, she can control it, direct and command and say "no" as she wishes and watch with amusement as he follows her every whim without much fuss, but during daylight--
In daylight he refuses to keep his hands to himself. He touches her arm to get her attention instead of speaking up. He brushes a rough kiss over her fingers like she is some simpering lady and he a gentleman. He looks at her sometimes and the expression he wears is a caress.
It all makes her ache, in the most awful bone-deep way, like there's something he's feeling that she'll never want to feel. Sentiment is-- it's-- she does not like it. And she hates touching.
Morrigan snaps at him. She seethes and snarks. She slaps his hands away. As unflappable as the stone he comes from, he's not at all hurt by her disgust to his misplaced affection, and even seems to take it as encouragement. It becomes a game to tease her.
With a particularly painful spell, he finally seems to realize it's not just a front.
He hunkers down at her campfire later that night, warming his scarred hands from the ever-present freeze of Ferelden. Morrigan does nothing more than stare acid at him as he takes his time settling into a comfortable position.
"You really don't like all that touching and romance stuff, d'ya?" He says eventually. When Morrigan's expression blackens, he's quick to add, "Well. Of course not. You made it very obvious. I thought it was... hmm. Playing. Saw noble hunters in Orzammar do it."
This is as close to an apology that her Warden will make, which is lackluster at best. It just makes her angrier. She'd rather no apology at all than this.
"I do not play games of love." Morrigan spits. "Love is weak. I will not pretend at it and I will not abide it."
Her Warden laughs in that callous, dismissive way of his. She does not love him, but the way he brushes people off is part of why she likes him the most, even if she doesn't appreciate it when directed at her.
"Good," he says, which is a little surprising. "We're alike. I'm not very good at love." The serious look he levels at her tells Morrigan that he's actually... relieved?
Morrigan leans back and allows herself a very small smile. "That's settled, then. We are just--" friends. The word sticks in her throat. "-- in a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Her Warden snorts and rolls his eyes. "Friends," he says, and pulls out his flask from a pocket to raise it like a toast before taking a drink. When he offers it to her, she accepts.