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It had been a slow day. The roads were long, and the waves of darkspawn seemed endless. They'd called for an early rest, with Warden Mahariel begrudgingly explaining that her feet ached and she was done for the day. It wasn't unusual—she wore heavy plated armor most of the time. Alistair, clad in his own, could certainly relate to the toll it took.
The sun hung low, still casting warm golden light over the world as they arrived at camp. Mahariel tossed her sword and shield to the ground in frustration, her face streaked with darkspawn blood—or maybe their remains. Whichever sounded worse.
Alistair laughed as she collapsed onto a log near the fire, armor clanking loudly as she groaned.
"Tough day, huh?" he said, beginning to loosen the straps on his bracers. He glanced at Mahariel, now burying her face into her arms. The metal must've felt nice against flushed skin. "I swear, I think I have darkspawn bits everywhere."
"Gross, Alistair," Mahariel mumbled through her armor. "But... yeah, same. I'm scared of what slipped past and is about to be revealed."
"My dear Wardens," Zevran interjected, stretching lazily as he removed his elbow guards, "you act as if this is not a regular occurrence. I would be more surprised to see you not covered in blood. The heavier the sword, the greater the splatter, no?"
Mahariel chuckled, her armor rattling with the motion. "Fair point." She sighed and stood. "Alright, I'm taking this off."
"Good idea, El." Alistair smiled, stretching his hand as he pulled off one of the bracers. "Might join you."
"Need a hand?" Zevran offered with a mischievous smirk. Most of his arm armor was already unbuckled, his eyes meeting Alistair's. A shiver crept up the Warden's back. The look was... strange, yet pleasant. Why did he like the way Zevran looked at him like that?
"I've been told I'm rather good at loosening all sorts of things," the Antivan added with a wink.
Alistair sighed, exasperated, and did what he always did when flustered: raised an eyebrow, chuckled awkwardly, and hoped someone would change the subject. Zevran had been doing this more and more lately—teasing him until his face turned red and his tongue tied. It was... confusing. Or maybe upsetting? Hard to say.
Mahariel tapped his arm, pulling him back to the present. He blinked up at her. "We'll manage," she said, laughing at Zevran and giving Alistair a reassuring look. You're fine. "Thanks for the offer, but I think Leliana's done a pretty good job undressing me so far. Come on, Alistair."
"You wound me," Zevran purred, bowing slightly. "But if you ever want another handsome rogue in the mix, my tent is always open."
Mahariel nudged Alistair toward their shared tent, waving to Leliana as she passed. The bard was just about to come over but sat near the fire instead, fiddling with her bow. Inside the tent, Alistair resumed working on his armor, still a bit flustered.
"You alright?" Mahariel asked, now almost fully unarmored and placing her pauldrons neatly beside her bedroll.
"Oh—uh, yeah. Just glad to be getting out of this," he muttered, fingers fumbling with the buckles. His ears still burned. He cursed softly as he struggled with a shin guard.
"Seriously, Alistair," Elenora scoffed, already out of most of her armor. "Did Zevran offend you?"
"No—no, not at all." Alistair groaned, finally yanking the piece off. His chest heaved as he tried to focus, still sweating, armor sticky and gross.
"Alistair," he heard her say again—her voice sharp, serious. He stopped moving, sitting heavily on his bedroll. His hair was damp with sweat and Maker-knows-what. His face was flushed. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"It's hot in here—this armor, and the sun, and—" He broke off with a nervous laugh. "Maker."
She handed him her flask, then placed a bare hand on his forehead. "You're burning up. Did you feel like this all day?"
"Well, no—" he admitted, groaning as she helped him remove his chestplate.
"Maybe it's heatstroke," she said, brow furrowed. "Ask Wynne for something. You need to be sharp tomorrow. Washing up might help."
"I'd kill for some cold water right now..." he murmured. "Wanna come with? We'll just go in our smalls. I just don't wanna... pass out and drown."
She laughed, ruffling his hair. "Sure. I don't usually strip for men, but I'll make an exception for you."
"Maker, I didn't mean it like that. You're like a sister to me."
"Of course, stupid," she snorted, pinching his cheek. "I've never been interested, no offense."
"None taken." He grabbed her hand and stood, shirt clinging awkwardly with sweat. Elenoradidn't look much better, her clothes bloodied and damp.
They ducked out of the tent. Most of the camp had shed their armor, lounging in the warm sun. Zevran sat in simple trousers and a loose shirt, laces undone. Leliana wore a light shift with a laced top.
Only Sten remained in full armor. Alistair wouldn't be surprised if he slept in it.
Elenora ducked back into the tent, grabbing two towels. "We're going to wash up. Be back soon," she told the others. Leliana pouted, drawing a rare smile from the Warden.
"Perhaps we should go as a group," Zevran called. "Wouldn't want our heroes ambushed, would we?"
She gave him a sharp look, eyebrow raised. Are you underestimating me? Zevran held up his hands in surrender. "I know when to stop."
By the time they reached the stream's edge, the heat of the sun clung to their skin, sticky and relentless. Stripped down to his underclothes, Alistair stepped into the water first, and a shudder rippled through him. The cold hit like a balm. He nearly wept from the relief, closing his eyes as he tilted his face to the sun. Its sting on his wet skin only deepened the contrast, sharpening the bliss. He stood still, reverent, breathing deep as if the stream could wash more than just the sweat from his body.
And then Elenora shoved him.
He yelped in surprise, flailing before vanishing beneath the surface with a splash. When he resurfaced, sputtering and laughing, she was already floating lazily nearby, her arms outstretched, hair fanned around her.
"This is amazing," he said, running his fingers through his soaked hair and sending a wave of water her way.
"Tell me about it," she replied, her voice drowsy with contentment. She kicked gently, letting the current carry her in slow spirals. The sunlight danced across her face, freckles vivid against her dark skin.
"Who knew water was this good for... darkspawn bits?" Alistair muttered, grimacing. "Honestly, some of the stuff in my armor could've cooked if I stayed out there any longer."
Elenora laughed. “Speaking of cooking—how's your head?” She drifted closer, lifting a hand to poke his forehead with exaggerated concern. “Still sizzling?”
"Better," he said, softer now. The water eased the heat and, with it, the restless churn inside him. But it wasn't just the sunburn cooling. It was something else. Zevran. The thought of him lingered like a whisper—his teasing, sharp but not cruel. Playful, maybe even... warm.
"I think I just got in my own head a bit."
"You're thinking too loud," Elenora said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Your face crinkles when you do that. Like a confused mabari trying to do taxes."
He gave a sheepish chuckle.
"You know you can be honest with me, right?" she added, more gently now, her tone losing its edge.
"Yeah," he said. His eyes met hers. "I know."
—
Evening arrived swiftly, though the sun stubbornly clung to the horizon, casting the sky in warm shades of orange and gold. The group had set up camp, and the crackle of a modest fire signaled the start of dinner preparations. Tonight, it was Leliana's turn to cook. Meals were often a haphazard affair—whatever they could forage or barter for in passing towns. With no proper rations, Leliana had ventured out to find something edible, while Morrigan gathered herbs and vegetables to add some semblance of nutrition.
Alistair was just relieved it wasn't his turn to wrestle with the ingredients. His inexperience with cooking had a way of announcing itself to everyone involved. Elenora often came to his rescue, slicing up the better cuts of meat or guiding him on what paired well together. Still, he was grateful for the reprieve.
Leliana stirred a large pot over the flames, working with the few worn utensils they carried. The limitations of the road were ever-present, yet spirits were surprisingly high. The pleasant weather seemed to lift a collective weight off their shoulders, allowing them—for a rare moment—to forget the swarming darkspawn and the grim road ahead.
"He fell from the carriage—dead before he hit the ground!" Zevran burst into laughter, the story apparently nearing its punchline. "A most convenient assassination, wouldn't you agree?"
Sten frowned, clearly unconvinced. "Would that even be considered an assassination? It does not seem... delicate," he rumbled, tone as flat as ever.
Zevran shrugged with a grin. "Perhaps my blade would have been more honorable, my friend," he offered before giving Sten a hearty slap on the shoulder—only to retract it as the Qunari glared at him. Without a word, Sten stood and walked away from the fire. The Qun, it seemed, preferred silence to frivolity.
Meanwhile, Alistair had drifted into his thoughts, staring into the flickering flames as the others continued chatting around him. Elenora had wrapped her arms around Leliana's shoulders, both of them giggling at some private joke. Zevran tossed a teasing remark their way—lighthearted, nothing cruel.
Elenora eventually handed Alistair a plate with a warm smile. He smiled back and began devouring the stew with little ceremony, shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth like a man starved.
"You eat as if you haven't seen food in weeks. Tis most unbecoming," Morrigan remarked, arching a brow in disapproval.
Alistair looked up with a grin, cheeks full. "I shall endeavor to eat even more unbecoming," he mumbled through his mouthful.
Morrigan groaned, turning away with a flick of her hair. She rose and left the fire to eat her stew in solitude. Elenora settled next to Alistair, while Zevran took the spot to his right. Wynne had retired earlier, likely worn out from a day of magic and travel.
As Alistair continued eating, he suddenly felt a hand on his arm. He glanced up, meeting Zevran's amused gaze with a raised brow.
"Alistair, my friend, you really must learn to eat properly," Zevran said, patting his arm lightly before leaning in. His tone dipped into something more suggestive. "Or perhaps... we could find other ways to fill your mouth instead—"
"Zevran," Elenora said flatly.
Alistair nearly choked, sputtering stew everywhere as he coughed violently. Zevran chuckled, thumping his back helpfully.
"My dear Warden, it was a jest. I meant no offense," he said with mock sincerity, placing a hand over his heart.
Alistair flushed red, looking anywhere but at the elf as he hurried to finish his meal. "I think I should... get some rest. I've got first watch anyway," he muttered, placing his bowl down and scrambling to his tent. His heart thundered in his chest, the heat of embarrassment clinging to his skin as he flopped onto his bedroll.
Outside, the fire crackled on.
"You're teasing him too much," Leliana said gently, her Orlesian accent softening the reprimand. She leaned closer to study Zevran's face.
He gave a helpless shrug. "What can I say? He's just so fun to tease."
Elenora's eyes narrowed, her stare sharp enough to prick skin. Zevran shifted under her gaze.
"You're confusing him," she said, her voice tight. "He's not acting like himself. If he's constantly flustered or ashamed, he won't be any use in battle. He's already tripping over your words."
"Then perhaps you should talk to him," Leliana offered, gesturing toward the rogue. "If he knows where you stand, it might bring him peace."
Zevran hesitated, then sighed. "Very well. But if he cannot look me in the eye afterward, I shall blame you both."
Inside the tent, Alistair stirred awake at the sound of fabric shifting. Elenora stepped in, her silhouette backlit by the fire outside.
"Time for your watch," she said with a small smile, offering her hand.
Alistair groaned softly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Right. Thanks." He took her hand and stood, still groggy. "Sorry about earlier. It was just... the heat, and the comment—just bad timing."
"I understand. Just talk to him, Alistair. Please." She held his hand a little longer. "I don't want you bottling everything up."
He nodded and kissed her knuckles before slipping out of the tent. Alone by the fire, he sat down, grateful for the cooler night air. The stars blanketed the sky above, and for the first time that day, he felt like he could breathe again.
That peace was short-lived.
Zevran approached soundlessly, a product of years of stealth. Alistair tensed, startled, and busied himself with cleaning his blade.
"Alistair," Zevran began, sitting beside him—deliberately not too close. "I hoped to speak with you. I wanted to apologize if I've made you uncomfortable."
Alistair gave a nervous laugh, setting his blade aside. "It's not that—I mean, not really." He rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to hide his blush. "You didn't offend me. Don't apologize."
Zevran tilted his head. "No? Still, I fear I've crossed lines best left uncrossed."
"I don't know what you want from me," Alistair said, voice strained. "You tease everyone, sure, but the way you talk to me—it's different. Even Elenora noticed."
Zevran chuckled softly. "I flirt with you. I assumed it was obvious."
"Why?"
The question came out sharper than intended. Alistair dropped his hands, face burning. "When you flirt with me, I can't think. At first, I thought I was just uncomfortable, but... I'm not. I just don't understand why."
Zevran's expression softened. "Because I'm interested in you," he said plainly. "Maker's breath, Alistair, do I need to spell it out?"
Alistair looked away with a flustered laugh. "You don't have to say that just to make me feel better."
"Alistair," Zevran said, exasperated. "Apologies, but are you dense?" He moved closer, dropping to one knee. "Look at me."
Alistair hesitated, then met his eyes.
Zevran's hand gently turned his face, his thumb brushing Alistair's cheek. "I wouldn't lie about something like this. I don't entirely understand it either, but it's what I feel. And I'm a man who acts on his feelings."
Alistair chuckled—just before Zevran leaned in and kissed him.
The contact was brief but warm, Alistair's breath catching in his throat. When Zevran pulled away, he looked him in the eyes.
"Do you believe me now?" Zevran asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Alistair blinked, then slowly nodded. "I think I do."
"Thank the Maker," Zevran sighed, only to be surprised by Alistair kissing him back—awkward, unsure, but genuine. Zevran returned it with a slow, exploratory press of lips, letting his tongue graze the other's lower lip.
They parted, breathless and flushed.
"Well, that was a surprise," Zevran murmured, his hand still resting on Alistair's knee.
"I don't know how to explain this," Alistair admitted, hands gesturing helplessly.
"We'll take it slow," Zevran said gently. "But let's be honest with each other, yes? It would save us a great deal of confusion."
The rest of Alistair's watch passed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional low murmur from Zevran beside him. They didn't speak much after that—just enough. A few shared stories, a smile here, a lingering glance there. The weight of earlier uncertainty had eased, replaced by something quieter. Something simpler.
They weren't sure what came next—and maybe that was fine.
For now, there was warmth at his side, a spark he hadn't expected, and the slow, surprising realization that he didn't mind not having all the answers.
Not tonight.