Title: Mistaken Identity
Summary: Carver has spent six lonely years with the Wardens, when his unit is one of several called to Vigil's Keep for an inspection and ceremony.
Disclaimer: BioWare owns all; I just play in their pond.
Author's Notes: Written in response to a k!meme prompt, as I need to get more used to writing this sort of thing. The prompt:
Situation b) Great Big Grey Warden Gathering. Or something like that. Carver's group is there, the Warden Commander, of course, is there as well.
Let's say the Warden is a little on the effeminate side. Carver only sees him from afar the first few times, never hears his voice. He develops a crush on the elf girl- only to find out after some time that it's actually a male elf.
To his frustration, the crush doesn't go away, even though he tries to convince himself that no, he isn't into guys.
What happens then is up to you, sexytimes with Carver and the Warden Commander would be very much appreciated.
Bonus points:
- Dalish Warden (this would give them a topic to talk about, namely Merrill)
- Nathaniel being involved somehow
- If it even gets mentioned: A Warden who refused the dark ritual with Morrigan (either having someone else do it or having Loghain sacrifice himself)
And now the fill. Comments and criticism are always welcome, but please, be both gentle and honest.
Nathaniel was amused, in his gruff way. The most unlikely recruit he'd ever seen – since himself, in any event – had come into his own in his time as a Warden, but still managed to miss some of the most blatantly obvious cues to pass before his eyes. Of course the boy had been quick to proclaim his disinterest to the handful of men who had made advances in the years. He'd missed many more opportunities, though, with the women they'd met in half a decade and more, by utterly failing to perceive their interest.
The archer laughed to himself for a moment, thinking of the number of times he'd complained about having to return to his old family home. He'd gratefully taken the lieutenant's posting that gave him Stroud's former unit in the Free Marches, having long since wanted to free himself from the echoes of his past that managed to haunt Vigil's Keep. Of course what he'd said out loud only made reference to the stuffy nature of pomp and ceremony that seemed to follow the First Warden on the rare occasions the man decided to venture away from Weisshaupt.
It was a momentous enough occasion, he supposed. Vigil's Keep had been all but destroyed, and in just five short years had been rebuilt stronger than ever. That vile Dworkin had hunted up all those gathered who had moved on to other duties to crow about his successes in design and execution. Things had been quiet enough in his area that he couldn't justify declining the invitation that had been sent, for any Wardens previously involved with the Keep to return to see it dedicated. But the memories still remained.
And so he could amuse himself at the expense of the ever more competent – and still utterly oblivious – Carver Hawke. Since their arrival three days ago, it had been plain on the boy's face, his interest in the captivating woman who circulated around the Keep. And rightly so, the archer thought as he suppressed another laugh. Any woman with such a sway to her hips and grace to her steps, confidence exuded in every move, should catch the eye of any red-blooded man fortunate enough to see her.
The hair, jet-black and swept into an eminently practical tail didn't hurt either. Neither did the piercing eyes or the lips that looked as if they'd be very much at home in the bedchamber. After hearing Carver in his cups, speaking of a girl he'd never had the courage to court, it was hardly surprising that his eye would follow the elf around the Keep, even if the boy hadn't gotten within any approachable distance.
Yes, it was no wonder Carver was enraptured of her.
Nor was it any wonder Nathaniel was so vastly entertained. Warden-Commander Theron Mahariel was many things indeed, but after years of communal camp baths and hastily treated injuries, the archer was quite certain woman wasn't one of them.
It might have been the decent thing to do, as Carver's superior, to disabuse the lad of his misconceptions. But with a nod to the friendly, teasing rivalry that had been growing between the two in recent years, Nathaniel chose instead to wait for the boy to find out on his own.
Idiot, Carver thought. Why couldn't I have kept my interest the least bit subtle? Oh, he'd thought his dream had come true, when the target of his attraction had finally found time to visit them yesterday in the room they'd taken in one of the new towers. The elf was obviously popular, well-received and plainly well-respected, if the reactions he'd observed among the crowds of people were any indication.
But all of that had changed when the introductions were made. He hadn't come to the Keep expecting to have any particular opinion of the Warden-Commander, but Carver knew very definitively that he – unquestionably he – had ended up being a good friend to his lieutenant. He hadn't known what to think when the elf had very blatantly given him the visual once-over.
Or when the elf's face had registered very clear approval of what he'd seen.
But when he spoke, he had simply complimented Carver on his achievements thus far in the Order, adding that word of the good work he'd been doing had been reaching the Keep for some years. The way he said it tended to discourage any thought that he'd updated himself on reports before making his introductions; it seemed as if he'd simply made it his business to remember those who showed promise, and Nathaniel had certainly made no secret of his disclosure up the chain that Carver had done well leading the unit in his absence. Distracted as he was by the praise, Carver almost failed to register that Mahariel's voice left absolutely no question of gender, being nearly as deep and much more commanding than his own.
And now, one of the many servants running around the castle had stopped at the room he was sharing with his lieutenant and two others from his unit – all mercifully absent, thank the Maker – to hand him a letter. Sealed with wax. Wax pressed with the Amaranthine seal. And his name. Right there. Under the wax.
He couldn't convince himself any longer that he'd put the first three days of his stay out of his mind. Not with an invitation – a formal invitation, no less – to join the Warden-Commander for the evening meal. In his study. Which was next to his quarters, a fact that could not escape Carver's notice as it had been so blatantly punctuated in the message.
Thinking of all this only sent him back into the litany of denials that had occupied his mind since the morning before. He hadn't been able to erase the three days of attraction that had built, or that shining moment of approval before he'd known just who he'd been following with his eyes. It should have gone away, shouldn't it? The minute Carver realized he wasn't mentally chasing after a woman, it should have stopped.
But it hadn't, which was… wrong. Not wrong wrong; he'd met or served beside any number of men whose preference lay in that direction since his Joining, and he didn't begrudge them any of it. But it wasn't right for him. Couldn't be. It certainly hadn't ever been before. Had it?
Still, there was that part of his mind that just… couldn't let the idea go, not after the dream that had broken into his mind as he'd slept the night before. And thank the Maker it had been alien enough to startle him awake before he'd had to endure questions from his companions about just how long it had been. But what had been so strange was the fact that, as he'd dreamt, it hadn't felt wrong.
And try as he might, he couldn't for the life of him imagine now why it should. Other than the fact that he'd gotten an invitation to dinner from the man who had almost single-handedly ended the Blight. Or that the stories all said how he'd calmly sent a man to his death against the Archdemon without a regret. Or that the man was superior to his superior. He almost wanted to ask Nathaniel about the whole thing, but he could just imagine the look on his face.
Yes. That one. That smirk that said he was laughing on the inside, at someone else's expense. The one he wore right now, as he leaned against the open door to the room and shoved his tongue into his cheek, the bastard.
"He never was one to go for the lighter complexions," Nathaniel said, kicking the door closed behind him and moving in to take a seat on a bunk. At the range of expressions – and colors – that crossed Carver's face, the archer's smirk spread into a full-on grin.
"And you would know?" the warrior retorted, relying on his old standby of firing a return volley to any humor directed his way.
"Oh, he kept it light. Almost joking. Never denied his interest, but he always respected the line after hearing my bow just doesn't aim at that target, so to speak."
"So if I told him…" Carver was visibly relieved, but he couldn't help wondering at the pang of guilt he felt under it.
"If you told him you weren't interested, he'd back off. You can hardly blame him for thinking you are, though, the way you gawped at him since the day we got here. Oh, I know it was always at some distance, but the man doesn't miss a trick."
"But I thought he was… I mean I didn't know…" Not that I know a lot more now than I did then…
Nathaniel gave in and let out the laugh that had been straining in his chest. "I'm aware."
"And you didn't say anything? Of course you didn't, you utter bastard."
"I believe I did mention on the way here that I wasn't looking forward to having any fun during our stay." The archer's tongue found its home in his cheek again.
"Repeatedly. So you know him, right? How do I tell him…" Carver trailed off again.
Nathaniel didn't miss that many tricks either. "Tell him what? That this is all new and unexplored… territory for you? You must know by now Wardens don't fear the unknown. It's a rule."
"No!" Carver cursed his voice for pitching high. "That I'm not- that I don't- that it isn't…"
"Mmhm. And if it's not, and you don't, and it isn't, what other reason have you had for gnashing your teeth since you met him yesterday?"
Carver slanted a look at his friend. The humor was still there – it would have to be, knowing him – but it was giving way to something more serious. Which only left Carver more irritated, that he hadn't kept his frustration to himself. And all the more grateful that he'd been shocked awake before the dream had reached any kind of… conclusion.
Nathaniel took Carver's silent thought to confirm his suspicion. "So go. Just be honest with him up front. Tell him you're out of your element. Entertaining as all this is, I wouldn't want to see you – or him – get hurt."
"Just like that? He'll back off if I tell him he's crossed a line?"
"Exactly like that. Just be sure he has actually crossed one before you say something. He takes it hard when he hurts others."
Right, Carver thought. I'm the one out of my depth and he'll be the one taking it hard. I can't believe I'm doing actually considering this.
I can't believe I'm actually doing this, Carver reflected as he stood, awkward and nervous and hating himself for it, in the frame of the door to the commander's study. He'd almost convinced himself not to come several times, that all his life up to now had proven to him he shouldn't be here. But the more he thought about it, the more that felt just as wrong as the idea he'd held yesterday that he should have forgotten the whole thing.
The Commander, out of his armor for the evening, looked up from his inspection of the table that had been set at the sound of Carver's hesitant knock on the door. His pleasure at seeing his invitation accepted was plain on his face as he gestured the larger man toward a rather plusher chair than one might expect at a dinner table. "Glad you were able to join me, Carver."
"Warden-Commander."
Good humor settled across the elf's features, looking very much like it belonged there. "Theron, if you please. I swear every time I hear 'Warden-Commander' what follows is a jumbled report about something being on fire or under attack. Or both."
"I…" Carver's voice left him, unsure as he was how to respond. It struck him how similar the elf's tattoos – vallaslin, he remembered – were to Merrill's, now that he was up close and paying attention.
"Come, now. Nathaniel tells me you're hardly a shy one, at least not in recent years. You're on a first-name basis with him, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, but… It's just that I…"
"Oh, I see." Theron hesitated now. "Have I been mistaken? It's all right to say if I have."
"I had thought – um. I don't know?" Maker, you sound such a fool. At least you managed to stop 'I had thought you were a woman' before it got past your teeth.
"Then we have a couple of choices. We can sit and enjoy the meal and conversation – I'm sure we can find any number of suitable topics – I'm hardly going to rescind the invitation for that. And if during that meal you come to know, then we can… act accordingly. As long as you understand that I stopped being the Warden-Commander the minute you stepped through that door, and you can call a halt to anything that causes you discomfort."
Carver saw now that Nathaniel had been right, that the commander – Theron – wouldn't test boundaries. He sat, resolving to at least not make the evening a complete waste of the man's time.
And he found that they could, in fact, talk over any number of subjects. It surprised him, deeply, that once they had found their conversational rhythm, neither man ever seemed wanting for something to say.
By the time he'd gotten around to asking more about the tattoos, he seemed quite at home pressing for details that might have shown a bit of ignorance on his part. When Theron smiled in fond memory at his comparison of his vallaslin to Merrill's, and at Carver's mention of Marethari's unwavering calm, it felt… It felt like a connection, something they held in common, even if the commander did have to educate him in certain areas.
And Maker, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this much.
Some of Carver's nerves returned, then, as Theron regarded him over the remains of an excellent meal. The wine was humming in his head, but he was clear enough to give serious thought to the joking question, delivered in a terrible mock Antivan accent. "So then: as the priestess so famously said to the handsome actor… What now?"
He still didn't know. But he wanted to find out.
Following on the commander's heels out into the hall, he felt a brief burst of shame at his grateful thought that there were no guards to see them move. He scolded himself harshly as they stepped into the bedchamber, that Theron didn't deserve to be treated as a guilty experiment.
When the elf turned to face him and reached up to free his hair from the band that held it in its tail, butterflies welled in Carver's stomach. And, he realized, in lower places than that, fluttering whispers that hinted at attraction and anticipation. Not nerves, not shame.
"I, ah…" Maker's balls, why can you never speak when you get like this? "I haven't… ever…"
Smiling, Theron closed the distance between them. "Then we'll go easy. Unless you want to stop?"
"No. No, I don't." There. A short sentence, but it was complete.
"Good." Theron placed a finger to the warrior's chin, beckoning Carver's mouth down to meet his in a slow kiss, gentle and inviting. "Still all right?"
"Maker, yes." Carver's mind returned, unbidden, to flashes of the dream from the night before, and he realized he meant it. Placing a hand at the small of the elf's back, he turned to step backwards toward the bed, wanting more equal footing for this to continue. As he sat, Theron's hands pressed against his chest and slid up, over his shoulders, to bury themselves in his hair, and he welcomed the kisses that followed.
A steady heat rose from his groin, simmering as it spread to his chest. That nervous anticipation intensified when Theron drew his hands back down, back across his chest, nimble fingers pausing at a button on his shirt and a question in his eye.
"Yes," Carver breathed, a last invitation, a final reassurance that he wouldn't shy away.
Theron took his time undressing the warrior, reaching into his shirt and teasing at the skin beneath, adding to the heat and the desire with every pass of his hands. As he shrugged out of the garment, hands were replaced with lips, scorching a trail from his shoulder to his navel and back again, tongue and teeth taunting at his nipples, inciting wave after fiery wave of desire to gather and pool beneath his waist.
Carver didn't want the elf to stop, didn't see how the man had known he was harder now, almost painfully so against the rough surface of the trousers he'd worn. And that was forgotten as hands dipped below his waist, brushing through the cloth. It almost didn't seem real that he would crave this touch, but his hips pressed up toward Theron's hands once, then twice, almost begging with the motion for something more.
His desire ignited once more as the commander's hands moved away, tugging at the laces on his trousers, pulling them down, capturing his smallclothes in the same fluid movement as Carver raised himself to allow the elf to tug the fabric off and away.
"Relax," Theron bid him with a hand on his chest, pushing him back against the cool surface of the bed. And then his lips were there again, tracing a trail ever lower until Carver cut off a moan in his throat and jerked up at the warmth surrounding his tip and sliding down, long hair breezing along his skin as the elf moved.
The elf kept the pace slow, steady, drawing his hand up the warrior's length to meet his lips and gliding back down to the base as he withdrew, driving Carver almost mad with his want for more. When his breathing grew ragged, Theron increased his pace, ever faster.
Short of breath, he called out his warning, but the elf paid it no heed. Carver's hips bucked again and he growled with his pleasure, unable this time to stop it in his throat, shuddering under the weight of his release.
It took a long moment before his breath returned, during which the elf disappeared. When he raised his head, he saw Theron at a curio, sipping quickly from a bottle of liquor that even from this distance looked expensive. Though the drink was abandoned as he rejoined Carver at the bed, a question again in his eyes.
Carver found himself amazed. "You can't seriously think I'd go now."
Theron's lips curved in a wry smile, "I'll admit I had hoped, but I would understand."
Sitting up on the bed, Carver hooked a hand into the elf's shirt and pulled him closer, tugging at the fabric and letting his hands give his answer. It felt… new, different, but somehow not altogether strange to ease a shirt off of a flat torso, or to slide the breeches down past hips that didn't curve. He guided the elf back to the bed again, beckoning him up to recline against the ornate headboard.
Only when he shifted around did he pause, unsure of himself, but he was determined not to let it show. He pressed his lips against the elf's neck, breathing in the scent of him that rose through the soap the man used, reminiscent of night in a forest. Just as slowly as Theron had for him, Carver traced his way down, lingering across the muscular skin. He thought it felt natural, then, to reach down and feather his fingers along the commander's hardening shaft, pleased as it twitched in response.
As Theron became fully erect, Carver's curiosity got the better of him and he moved down, mimicking the trail he'd felt before. Taking the elf fully in his hand, he was encouraged with a sharp intake of breath. His strokes were hesitant at first, growing firmer and more confident as he worked up his nerve.
Now or never. He shut his eyes as he pressed his lips around the shaft, almost moving too quickly to get used to the new sensation, and the taste. Slowing his pace, he found a rhythm, almost relieved at the insistent sounds escaping the elf and the rolling of hips rising to meet him and falling away. Curious again, he reached with his other hand to grasp Theron's balls, finding he liked the feel of them in his hand, enjoyed tugging and teasing at the line between.
From the breaks in the elf's smooth motion, evidently he wasn't the only one who enjoyed it. He gave himself over to the feeling, listening to the continued wordless encouragement the man offered.
Theron began pressing harder upward, and Carver struggled to match his urgency, ignoring himself the warning that the commander was close. He heard the commander cry out, felt his release, swallowing his pleasure and feeling strangely… proud, that he'd brought the man and had managed to handle the full experience.
Once Theron stilled, Carver extracted himself and glanced his own question back at the elf as he approached the curio. Getting the nod in return, he belted back a couple of strong sips himself, no longer questioning why the elf would have done so.
Unsure of himself again as he replaced the bottle, he still smiled as he thought of the strange comment that had started them on this path. Looking back at Theron, he adopted his own mock Antivan accent. "So then: as the cloistered brother so famously said to the painted tart… What now?"
Shocked laughter from the commander gave way to… something, Carver wasn't sure what, but it had the elf looking down. "That… depends on you. You have your room for the duration of the stay, or… I wouldn't mind if you stayed here. And… I know right this minute might not be the best time to discuss your other options, but maybe after the ceremony…"
Carver stood for a minute, seriously considering. He wondered now about the simple connection he'd felt during dinner. Did he also… I can't just ask that, can I? Is he even suggesting what I think he is?
Making his decision, he crossed the room again and slid into bed beside the elf.
He didn't know. But he wanted to find out.
