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“Ali, Ali, you alright?”
Vision came back grudgingly. Alistair touched his temple carefully as he sat up. “Yeah, I think my bruises have bruises, though.”
“Let me fix that - Wynne showed me another spell.” As Daylen’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, he couldn’t hide the small contented sigh he made. It was stupid, really. Feeling safe with a mage. Not because mages were dangerous. Because they were, well, as Shale put it … squishy. Daylen didn’t wear a helmet, or even chain mail, but he just was so … certain all the time. Cool healing energy soothed his various aches and pains down to a dull tired soreness and he closed his eyes to bask in that blissful absence of hurt. “Better?” Daylen asked, stubble brushing his ear.
He shivered at the contact. “Er …”
“Need some more?” the mage asked with a light chuckle. “I can do this all day.”
“Uh.” Where had his tongue gone? Alistair really hoped it hadn’t gotten into trouble without him. No, he hoped it hadn’t gotten into trouble at all.
“C’mon, Ali, does it still hurt or not?” Daylen’s voice was no longer amused, but concerned.
Alistair shook his head. “Sorry, no, it’s fine. I just - magic just feels nice, you know?” Ugh, why did he always say the dumbest stuff around his fellow Warden?
Daylen patted his shoulder reassuringly with one hand as he held up the other, letting it spark with some kind of purple glow. “I do know. Big fan of magic, as you might’ve guessed.”
Maker, how did he always know how to put Alistair at ease too? He grinned. “You? Magic? Perish the thought.” He glanced around their newest killing ground. “Should we keep moving or camp here?”
Daylen frowned. “I’ll ask Sten.” As Alistair moved to stand, the mage pushed him back down. “Oh no, you’re staying put until Wynne checks over my homework.”
He sighed and settled back onto the ground as his fellow Warden walked off. Getting healed was nearly as exhausting as being in a fight some days. Maybe he’d just rest his eyes for a bit …
“Oh good, you’re not dead.”
Void. The bloody Antivan. Hah, bloody. Because assassin. Alistair opened one eye. “Here to fix that?”
“Oh nonononono, my dear Warden,” Zevran tutted. “I only kill for money. Or when my life depends on it. Or when I -”
He sat up. “What do you want, Zevran?”
The other man crept close and spoke softly. “I wanted to ask you something. It’s a bit personal, and you are, after all, quite popular, so getting you alone has been no small feat.”
He tried to scoot back, but there was a tree blocking his exit. “Um, alright then?”
“Do you have any … designs on your fellow brother-in-arms?”
“What?” Alistair’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Why would you - he’s my best friend, I don’t - what?”
Zevran arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “You haven’t been with a man?”
He shook his head. “No, I haven’t -” he clamped his mouth shut. No way he would tell Zevran of all people he was a virgin. “He’s my best friend.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I … borrowed him?” The assassin waggled his eyebrows.
Oh Maker. This was not happening. “I don’t - why are you even asking me this?”
The elf stood up with a shrug. “You seem very close, that is all.”
This couldn’t possibly be happening. “Just promise to feed and walk him.”
“Oh, I can assure you, I’ll do far more than that,” Zevran laughed softly as he patted Alistair’s shoulder and walked away.
Alistair shook his head. What the fuck just happened there? Maybe his skull really was cracked.