A/N: Ello all! It's been a while since I've written but to gear up for Inquisition, I've decided to write a little bunch of ficlets for both Origins & DA 2. The very first is Zevran!
It's the first quiet evening they'd had in a while; Zevran muses as the party finishes setting up camp. Oghren had already begun drinking by the fire, attempting to chat up Leliana who tried hard not to grimace every time he belched. Morrigan had wandered off to her tent, as far away from the rest as possible, still somewhat unused to company, despite their months on the road. The Qunari sat, meditating outside his tent, attempting to concentrate while Wynne berated Alistair for leaving socks by her pillow again.
She soon comes out of her tent, having changed from her usual leather armor to her robes. She gives him a smile and nod in greeting before sitting down against a pile of packs by the fire, legs stretched out in front of her. He watches as she begins to clean the inscribed leather, piece by deliberate piece. She's nothing if not fastidious, if the vigorous scrubbing is anything to go by.
She remains a mystery to him, despite their conversations and he still has a multitude of questions he wishes he could ask. Where had a mage learned how to clean armor? How in the world did they keep such a beauty locked up inside a tower for so long? Could she still speak the language of their forefathers? Does she wear anything under the armor?
His thoughts are interrupted as the Mabari plods over and falls head-first onto her lap and she groans, trying to shove the beast off the newly polished armor.
He's beginning to enjoy the sound of that frustrated groan, he realizes. It's usually followed by a burst of magical power so intense he never thought he'd see its' like. Not that he had much experience with mages, but it was impressive all the same - that so much power could come from the hands of so slight a person.
He grins as she nags at the enormous hound and it sits at attention and hangs its head in apology. He laughs and sits next to her and offers to help (with her armor, and with the tension in her delicious shoulders) and she accepts (the former, not the latter) and tells the beast to ask Alistair for his dinner.
They work in an easy silence, both focused on the task at hand. They're in camp, and it's as good a time as any to talk but he finds the more difficult questions get caught in his throat.
Why did she choose to save him, he wonders as she scrubs at a bit of blood that doesn't seem to budge. They're sitting so close to one another that their arms touch and he frowns, wondering why she would let him come to close to her, knowing his past and his skills. How could she let him watch her back, when he had, not three months ago, been tasked to kill her?
Her fellow Warden soon joins them by the fire, complaining loudly of Mabari drool in his boots and she laughs, telling him he's to blame for standing so close to a hungry war dog. He watches the two playfully argue for a while, the chemistry between them so strong, he feels invisible.
He sees the way her eyes seem to glow in the firelight, fixed onto Alistairs like beacons in the night and a strange ache begins to grow in his heart. He would join in with the banter, but the feeling has him silenced.
Another thought wanders unbidden into his consciousness:
What can I do to make you look at me that way?
Zevran's eyes go wide, and he frantically scrubs at the armor in his lap, unnerved by the blush burning his cheeks and thanks whatever Gods that be for the darkness of the night.