'Truth or dare?'

Carver took a swig of beer as he considered the question.

'Truth.'

Varric sat back in his chair.

'OK, then… Junior's gone for "truth". What shall we ask him?'

Garrett smirked. 'I'm a little disappointed, Carver. Not brave enough for a dare?'

Carver scowled at him. The last time they'd all sat and played Truth or Dare over a few beers at the Hanged Man, Garrett had dared him to get up onto the bar, drop his trousers, and yell 'You, me, and an audience! That's what this is all about!' to a startled Corff. Carver had been drunk enough to do it, too. Corff had had him banned from the Hanged Man, and it was only thanks to a handsome bribe from the elder Hawke that Carver had been allowed back in again.

No way was Carver falling for that again.

'Come on, guys, what shall we ask Junior for his "truth"?' Varric looked round expectantly at them all, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers on the table. A slow smile crept over Isabela's face in response; Carver had a nasty feeling he was going to regret this.

'Perhaps we should ask him what he was doing at the Blooming Rose a couple of nights ago. I'm sure I saw him at the Blooming Rose then.'

'What? No you didn't.' Carver's face was hot. Maker, but he really wished he didn't go red quite as easily as he did.

'I suppose someone else stole your chin to romance Faith?'

Carver scoffed. 'That's unlikely. She wasn't even working!'

'A-ha!' Isabela slapped her palm down on the table in triumph. 'Got you,' she smirked over the table's laughter; Garrett was laughing the loudest of all.

'No I didn't – it's not – it's not like that at all!' Carver stuttered. 'Maker…'

'Carver!' Garrett's voice cut in, smooth, smug, superior, mock-horrified. 'What would Mother say?'

'You're just – that's not what I – shit!'

'I don't get it,' came a singsong voice to his left; Carver turned his head and saw Merrill frowning into her glass. 'What's the Blooming Rose?'

Isabela sighed; Anders and Fenris rolled their eyes.

'I'll explain when you're older, Kitten,' Isabela said, patiently, soothingly. 'Don't worry your pretty little head about it.'

Carver chanced a glance at Merrill. She was still glaring into her glass, pink spots on her pale cheeks. He felt embarrassed, and slightly ashamed, although he wasn't entirely sure why. He decided perhaps he was outraged for Merrill's sake: although Isabela meant well, and meant her words kindly – she was always so kind and protective where Merrill was involved – he didn't like the way everyone treated Merrill as if she was a child. Sure, compared to everyone else, she seemed very naïve and unworldly; she betrayed her innocence with almost every word she spoke; but she was not stupid and she certainly was no child. Carver knew how that felt, to be constantly talked down on, to be constantly told it was for his own good… yes, he decided, of course that was what he was feeling – he was outraged for Merrill's sake. Not sure where the embarrassment and shame came into it, or why it was that he might be embarrassed or ashamed of the Blooming Rose revelations in front of her in particular…

The game moved on; Garrett, sitting on the other side of Carver, leaned across the table with sparkling eyes as he tried to challenge Aveline to a dare (which she refused, of course. Aveline was far too sensible and smart to take on any dare of Garrett's). But Carver was no longer paying attention; he was too busy staring at the petite dark-haired elf next to him, racking his brain trying to think of something to say – or racking his brain as to whether he should say something to her, and if so, what.

Eventually, he could stand it no longer.

'What are you thinking about?'

Maker, that came out far harsher and far less friendly than he meant it to. He cringed, grimacing at how surly and demanding he sounded, and wondered if the Maker could just open up the ground and let it swallow him here and now. Yep, it was official: he was having a terrible evening. Perhaps he should just order another beer – that might help him forget tonight. Or maybe even another ten. That would really help him forget tonight.

Merrill's lilting voice cut through his brooding thoughts.

'I was just thinking that… I've run out of twine. I wonder if I can ask Varric for more? Do you think Varric will have more twine he could give me?'

Carver blinked. 'Erm… twine?'

'Varric gave me a ball of twine to help find my way round Kirkwall, because I kept getting lost,' Merrill answered him chirpily. 'I don't how anyone lives in this city without it! But now I've run out of twine, and I'm afraid I'll get lost again without it.'

Carver blinked again, and ran his hand through his dark hair. That was the problem with trying to talk to Merrill: it's not that he didn't want to – of course he wanted to; he found her fascinating – but she always managed to say something that left him completely and utterly stumped. Even though no one else seemed to have quite the same problem. 'Erm… I'm sure Varric will be fine if you ask him for more…' His hand stilled as a thought struck him. 'Wait… where do you use this twine? I've never seen any whenever I'm in the alienage…?'

'Well, that's the problem, you see,' Merrill chirruped. 'People trip over it a lot, and they get really cross about that. And then afterwards it disappears. I think the people who are getting really cross about it are getting rid of it, but I wish they wouldn't, because then I just get lost all over again.'

'How in Thedas do you manage to get lost? You've been living in the alienage for a few weeks now. Don't you start to recognise places after a bit?'

Merrill looked at him crossly, her wide forest green eyes meeting his bright blue ones. 'Why would I? There is just so much concrete, and wood, and it's all the same colours, and it all looks the same. It's just so… so dull. There's no forests or water or mountain to show me where I am, no flowers that I can use as a guide – so much of Kirkwall just looks alike, why would I recognise anything after only a few weeks? It's not the Sundermount.'

Carver was confused as to how the Sundermount and its (admittedly beautiful) lush surroundings could cause anyone to be less lost than in Kirkwall, but he decided to let it slide. That was the thing with Merrill; every time he tried to talk to her, he just ended up getting more confused and lost. And, unlike Merrill when she got lost in the city, he had no ball of twine to help guide him through their conversations.

He decided to try a different tack.

'I suppose… I suppose I could walk you home later? To stop you getting lost, I mean.'

Before Merrill could answer him, the game had returned to them.

'Truth or dare, Daisy?' Varric asked.

Carver and Merrill looked up, startled. All eyes were staring at them. Varric perched on his chair like a king on his throne, raising an eyebrow; Anders and Fenris were glaring; Aveline's gaze was expectant; Isabela's gaze was curious; Garrett's gaze – Blight take him – was knowing.

But Merrill was smiling very sweetly at them all.

'Dare.'

Varric leaned forward, his hairy chest gleaming golden in the bright candlelights of the tavern room. His tone was gentle. 'Are you sure about this, Daisy? Because if you don't do the dare, you will have to do a forfeit…'

'Don't go soft on her, Varric,' came Anders's sharp voice from the other end of the table, a sour expression on his face. 'I hardly think she deserves it.'

'For once we agree on something, mage,' growled Fenris next to him, his voice as dark as bitter chocolate. The two exchanged a look. Carver felt the irritation rise inside him like fizz.

But Merrill simply shook her head. 'I want to go for a dare, Varric,' she repeated brightly.

Varric sighed. 'OK, Daisy, but don't say I didn't warn you. Now, guys and girls, what shall we…'

'I dare Merrill to drink a "dirty pint".' Anders's voice was menacing.

'Oh come on, that's unfair!' cried Carver.

'What's a "dirty pint"?' Merrill piped up. 'Is it something dirty?'

'Not in that way, Kitten,' Isabela told her. 'It's basically where you have to drink a pint made up of… the remains of everyone else's drink, and whatever else they've decided to put into it.'

'That's… ew,' Merrill said, weakly. 'I'm not doing that. I'm not doing your dare, Anders – and anyway, Varric asked me, not you!'

'Anders,' Garrett sounded horrified. 'That was mean.'

Anders shrugged. 'Suit yourself, Merrill. If you don't do it, you'll have to do the forfeit.' He casually took a sip of his drink.

'I dread to think what her forfeit is,' murmured Aveline.

Fenris spoke, his voice as smooth and deep as a double bass. 'We could always make her kiss you as a forfeit.' He nodded at Anders.

Anders ignored the obvious provocation and smirked. 'Or we could always make her kiss Carver as a forfeit.'

Before Carver could splutter his horror, Garrett whooped loudly. 'That is an excellent idea, Anders,' he laughed, and it was unclear whether he was agreeing with Anders to annoy Carver, or because of another ulterior motive. Anders's grin widened. Carver wanted to punch him.

'On the lips,' added Anders, encouraged by Garrett's jeering approval, ignoring Carver's clenched fists. Blood rushed to Carver's cheeks; not for the first time he wished his face didn't give his feelings away as well as it did, and he swore to himself he'd make that stinking abomination freak regret it. 'Actually,' Anders drawled – Carver felt the panic rising as the mage's cruel smirk broadened – 'let's even make it with tongues: if you're going to kiss him as a forfeit, might as well make it a proper one.'

'Come on, Merrill,' Garrett sniggered. 'Give our Carver a full-on snog. Who knows, you might even find it bearable.'

'Maker, I hate you,' Carver snarled, bright red, throwing a punch at his brother's self-satisfied face. Garrett reacted faster than Carver ever could have expected, especially after a few drinks: instantly he flicked a barrier up, casually yet powerfully done. The sheer force of the spell knocked Carver off-balance as his bare and brawny arm collided with it; fortunately Carver managed to grab hold of both the table and a nearby chair in time to stop himself from completely falling over arse over tit. He gritted his teeth, growling. Shouts, jeers, gasps, laughter, some wall of noise was coming from the others around the table, but Carver couldn't hear it, couldn't see it past his red rage and humiliation. Maker, he really hated magic. Especially Garrett's magic. Especially Garrett, in fact. Bastard.

Recovering himself, and settling back in his chair, Carver glimpsed at Merrill. She was sitting very still, staring intently at her glass again, and he was surprised to see she was as red in the face as he was.

'Are you OK?'

'Fine. Why would I not be?' Merrill snapped.

Carver was taken aback.

'I only meant – I thought it was a cruel trick to play on you,' Carver eventually said, softly. 'Making you drink a "dirty pint" and that. That's not fair.'

'And the forfeit is not fair… on you.' She continued to stare down at her glass, eyes burning into it so intently Carver was surprised the thing didn't spontaneously combust there and then.

'Isn't it?'

Her eyes snapped up to his.

'I'd say it's completely fair, Merrill,' interrupted Garrett's baritone voice, the owner of it still safe from fratricide behind his shimmering magical barrier. 'Doing your forfeit is probably gonna be the only time Carver will ever get a kiss without paying someone to do it.'

Anders chuckled. Carver wheeled around to face his brother, opening his mouth to retort… and in doing so, he saw every face on him and Merrill. Maker. This made it worse. Until now, Carver wasn't sure it was physically possible to flush even harder or sweat even more, but somehow he managed it.

'Get on with it,' growled Fenris, slamming his wine bottle down, and everyone around the table nodded.

Carver sighed, and turned back to Merrill. Her eyes were firmly fixed on his; her cheeks were still a deep pink – yet her expression was strangely unreadable, her thin lines of vallaslin unfolding delicately across her face and over her blushes. His breath hitched and his heart thumped.

'I don't mind if you don't,' he murmured, once he remembered how to speak. His voice suddenly seemed too loud for the silence that had descended onto the table.

'I don't mind,' Merrill answered quickly, breathily, her lilting voice diminished to almost a whisper. She was on the edge of her seat, as was he; their knees were almost touching.

'Might as well get it over with,' he muttered, his heart pounding so hard against his chest he was sure she could hear it. Act casual, Carver, he told himself, it's just a forfeit – it doesn't mean anything. (Although now that he'd told himself it doesn't mean anything he wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.) He spread his arms to embrace her if need be – or so he told himself. 'Come on, then.'

She moved unsteadily – almost jerkily – towards him. The thin arms that wrapped themselves around his neck and shoulders did so tentatively – were they shaking slightly? – and Carver wrapped his large arms gently around her slight body without thinking, sliding the elf into his lap as he did so. Bright blue eyes met dark green eyes, only for a split second, but somehow it felt like an age.

Their lips met.

The first tentative kiss was shy, gentle; as much a soft press of her lips upon his as a slight (and accidental) bump of noses. Carver exhaled shakily, turned his head ever so slightly, awkwardly parting his lips as Merrill parted hers, and closed his eyes. The rest of the table may have been whooping and jeering, but the noise was all a blur as far as he was concerned; she was the only thing that mattered right now. But the faint noise of longing that escaped her, a small sigh that he felt more than heard, caused the tautly strung emotions inside him to snap; and he pulled her closer, pressing her breasts against his chest, his tongue finally, finally, touching hers. Merrill gave a small squeak of surprise, then tightened her arms round him, her mouth clamped on his, their tongues twining, hungry, so hungry.

Desire shot through Carver's body from his chest to his groin, red hot, blinding. Her lips claimed his, wet tongues testing, tasting, exploring each other's mouths, desperate to be inside his as he was desperate to be inside hers; he could no longer see or hear but only feel, his mind simultaneously a scrambled mess and a laughing madman shouting thanks to the Maker. One hand moved up to cradle her head carefully and hold her in place as their tongues thrust and teased to taste each other again, to claim each other again, a delicious swopping of spit and pleasure, inaudible moans escaping them both. Somewhere in the distance, Carver thought he could hear Isabela laughing, Varric exclaiming 'Well!', Garrett whooping, Aveline tutting, Anders making some catty observation along the lines of 'eating each others' faces'… but he didn't care, because Merrill was in his arms, in his lap, her lips on his, her body on his, the smell of her hair – like Sundermount pine trees – in his nostrils, and it was the most beautiful, awkward, amazing, and terrifying kiss he'd ever had in his life. He thought she could feel it too, her tongue entwining enthusiastically with his, small breasts against his broad chest, her thighs around his waist, her lower regions grinding ever so slightly against…

Wait.

They broke off the kiss, panting, dazed; Carver wasn't sure which one of them broke it off first, but he let out a small whine of disappointment, eyes (and attention) still firmly fixed on hers. Carver couldn't tell exactly what to read in them. Surprise? Hesitation? Confusion? This being Merrill, Carver decided, confusion was probably the most likely – but Carver couldn't tell if she felt what he was feeling for her, or if she was waging some internal battle within herself. Still breathless, he tried to pull her back for more, to drink her in again – and instantly halted when he realised something he couldn't believe he hadn't realised before now.

He was absolutely rock hard. And it was pressing impatiently against the space between her legs, poking urgently at her groin, even with the layers of clothes between them. He jerked back in his chair slightly.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, blushing; Merrill went bright red too, and Carver realised she had felt it. Oh Maker, what an arse. It was only a bloody forfeit. Why did Carver have to go and balls it up, as usual? Why couldn't his cock not have decided to pop up and say hello?

Merrill scampered back into her seat, blushing furiously; Carver's torso and lap, now devoid of her, felt unpleasantly cold, but that was the least of his worries right now – he had a bulging erection to hide. He pulled his chair up to the table, face burning, and stared defiantly at the shocked faces around the table.

'What?'

Garrett's snigger broke the tension first.

'It was just a forfeit, Carver. No need to get all… excited about it,' he smirked, a knowing look on his face. Carver glowered at him – if it hadn't been for him trying to hide the bulge in his trousers this instant, he would be on his feet happily walloping his elder brother for all he was worth. Instead, Carver sat there, willing his erection to go down by thinking of the least erotic thing he could: Gamlen at the Blooming Rose. Maker. It worked, but Carver now just felt sick.

'Well, that was… unexpected! Not that I didn't enjoy it, of course,' Isabela finally burst out, with a saucy wink. 'I half expected the pair of you to get naked there and then.'

'Indeed. If you're both quite finished rutting,' Garrett added, examining his nails, trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant, 'then perhaps we can get back to playing.'

'Not me,' Aveline said, standing up, 'I think I've had enough for one night. Time to get back to the guard, I think. Goodnight all.' With that, she turned on her heel and clanked out of the room.

Merrill stood, her cheeks still scarlet. She wouldn't look at any of them. 'I think I'd better get going too,' she blurted out, words tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out. 'I've run out of twine and it might take me a while to get back to my house in the alienage.' She ran out of the door.

Carver was instantly on his feet and running after her.

'Merrill!' he yelled as he burst through the door of the Hanged Man and out into the cool Lowtown night air. 'Wait!'

She turned around, startled, as he sprinted over to her. Her face was pale in the moonlight; her eyes seemed to be shining for reasons he wasn't sure of.

'Merrill,' he panted. 'Merrill. I'm so sorry.'

To his surprise, she seemed genuinely astonished.

'For what?'

Carver suddenly felt very small. 'For tonight's Truth or Dare.'

'Oh! That,' she laughed, twisting her hands nervously. 'Don't worry about it.'

'Maybe I can make it up to you,' he began. 'Would it – would it be OK with you if I walked you home? So that – so that you don't get lost.'

She paused, and her eyes fell on his chest, and Carver started to feel very, very stupid.

'I suppose it would be nice to have you – have some company on the way home,' she murmured at last.

'Right. Thanks.'

'On one condition,' she said, lifting her eyes to his.

'Alright. OK, then…'

She smiled. 'We play a little Truth or Dare of our own.'

Carver could feel the colour drain out of his face.

'If – if that's really what you want, Merrill.'

'Oh, it is,' she told him cheerfully. She started to walk, and Carver had no choice but to follow her.