Disclaimer: I don't own DA:O or any of its characters.

A/N: Just how I imagine a possible romance unraveling between our favourite ex-templar and the female Dalish elf Warden.

Communication Breakdown

He wasn't sure of the exact moment that he'd begun to see her in a different light.

Perhaps it had been the kindness she'd shown the sick mabari hound. Or was it when she'd berated Morrigan for mocking him over his grief at losing Duncan? He hadn't expected her to care about his feelings. But when the witch had made her acerbic remark about him falling on his blade in grief, his fellow Warden hadn't hesitated in stepping in, her tone stoic, but leaving no room for argument. "Leave him be, Morrigan." Yes, her tone had been stoic, yet her eyes had been unrelenting, and they bore into the witch. For the first time since they'd met her, Morrigan actually looked ill at ease. The problem was that she barely spoke to him, save to shout out orders during battle.

Now, many months and several traveling companions later, they had still hardly uttered more than two sentences to each other. Most of their conversations consisted of him trying to discuss a plan of action, and her monosyllabic replies. She didn't even call him by name, instead referring to him as 'shemlen'. He had found it offensive at first, but he'd eventually gotten used to it.

On this particular evening, she was busy bartering with Bodahn over the price of some sort of sword she wanted to sell. He tried hard not to listen in or look at her, but with each passing day the need to watch her was becoming overwhelming. So entranced was he that he hadn't noticed the assassin sliding in to sit next to him.

"Enjoying the view?" came the soft purr in his ear. Alistair nearly leapt out of his armour, his heart hammered in his chest.

"Maker's breath, Zevran! Don't sneak up on me like that!" he bellowed. He sincerely hoped the Antivan didn't notice the blush that had begun to spread across his cheeks.

Zevran shrugged a shoulder. "Is it my fault that you were so captivated by our leader that you failed to hear me approach?" He gave Alistair a knowing grin. Although he had been adamant in his objections at having the assassin join them, Alistair did have to admit that the elf was good in combat. In the past couple of months they had even managed to maintain a tenuous agreement: you don't mess with me, I won't mess with you. It allowed them to be civil with one another when under normal circumstances, one or both of them would have been dead by now.

"I was not captivated by anything!" Alistair snapped. "I was simply…" He sighed when he saw Zevran rolling his eyes. "Is it that obvious?"

"To all but her, I do believe. Though she has little time for anything but fighting, it would seem," Zevran remarked. "Have you thought about telling her directly?"

Alistair's eyes widened. "Are you insane? We barely speak to each other. I don't even think she likes me enough to consider me a friend," his voice had taken on a rather sorrowful tone.

"Have you not made the gesture yet?" Zevran asked.

"Gesture? What gesture?" Alistair was confused. He was supposed to make some sort of gesture? Why hadn't anyone told him this?

"Ah, that is why she does not speak with you. Let me explain. With the Dalish, and all elves really, customs are key and need to be respected. One very important custom is the gesture of friendship. This is something the elves do in order to show that they bear no ill will to the other," Zevran tilted his head to one side. "I am somewhat surprised that you have never heard of this."

Alistair shook his head. "No, I don't know much of anything about the elves, least of all their customs. So what is this gesture?" Alistair was incredibly excited. Had he known about this friendship gesture, he'd have performed it months ago. How much time had been wasted because of miscommunication? There was so much about his fellow Warden that he wanted to know, and perhaps now she would be willing to hold actual conversations with him.

"The gesture is quite simple," Zevran replied. "All you need do is run your index finger up the length of her ear and brush your thumb against the pointed tip."

Alistair swallowed audibly. "I - I need to touch her ear?" He chewed on his lower lip. He'd always found her ears quite attractive. She kept her wheat coloured hair cropped short, and her pointed ears were constantly exposed. He'd often wondered what they felt like. Would this be his opportunity?

"That's all," Zevran smiled. "Once you perform that gesture, she will know that you wish to be friends." The assassin stood and wandered back over to his side of the camp. Alistair turned his attention back to the female Warden. He didn't notice the wicked sneer that had curled on Zevran's lips.

She returned an hour later with a small sack filled with several sovereigns. She deposited the bag in one of her packs and extracted one of her daggers. It had some kind of elvish name, he believed. Dar'misu if he wasn't mistaken. She began to sharpen the blade against a whet stone, her tawny, almond shaped eyes completely absorbed in the task. For the millionth time he examined her facial tattoos. They were much more intricate than Zevran's. Whenever he looked at her markings, he was somehow reminded of a silken spider's web, a beautiful pattern that had been woven specially for her features. He mustered his courage and wandered over to her, taking a seat next to her by the fire.

"Lyna?" he asked.

"Yes, shemlen?" Maker, that voice! It was slightly husky, but with a distinct feminine timbre. Every time he heard it, which was almost never, he felt a chill run down his spine.

"Why don't we ever, you know, talk?" he tilted his head to one side while he regarded her. Her gaze flickered over to him for a moment before returning to the blade.

"We speak when it is necessary. Is that not enough?" she replied. The sound of the whet stone sliding across her blade filled the campsite. Scrape scrape scrape.

"Well, I suppose that's alright, but I thought maybe we could just talk when it isn't necessary too," Alistair could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Was now the right time to do the gesture?

"What would be the point in speaking when it isn't necessary?" Lyna asked. She had yet to turn and face him. She continued to sharpen her blade. Scrape scrape scrape.

"I just thought that maybe, by us talking about stuff, we would someday become…friends?" He hesitated and then reached up with one hand, extending his index finger. He brought his finger to her earlobe and softly, slowly, glided his finger along the length of her ear. As he reached the pointed part he let his thumb rub against it gently. It felt exquisite. He saw her sharp intake of breath and was about to smile when she whipped around, her blade suddenly pressed against his throat. He didn't dare speak, didn't dare move. Her eyes were narrowed and full of such animosity he could scarcely meet them full on.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "Do that again and I will not hesitate to kill you." She yanked the blade away and stalked off toward her tent. Alistair sat there a moment, completely bewildered.

Leliana had watched the entire exchange silently. It was then that she chose to speak. "What was that about?"

Alistair shrugged, his eyes locked on Lyna's tent. "I have no idea. I was just trying to show her that I wanted to be friends…I just did the elf thing that Zevran told me about…" He shook his head.

"Zevran told you to do an elf thing, and you took him on his word?" Leliana asked incredulously. "Surely you are not that naive. He wants her for himself, why would he give you advice?"

Alistair blinked. He hadn't thought of that, hadn't thought of it at all. His bewilderment turned into anger. "I'm going to kill that bloody elf!" He got to his feet. Leliana jumped in front of him, pressing her hands against his chest.

"No, that will only make things worse. Let me talk to her. I'm sure I can explain things. She may not care, I don't know, but let's not resort to violence right away," she fixed Alistair with a pleading stare and he sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Good. I'll talk to her in the morning after she's cooled down. You should go to bed."

As Alistair made his way to his tent, he spared a glance over his shoulder, his eyes falling on Lyna's tent. He resisted the urge to go to her, to try and explain himself. He knew enough about the Dalish Warden to know that bothering her while she was angry would be an incredibly bad idea. As he stripped off his clothes in his tent, a sudden thought popped into his head. If the gesture that Zevran had described hadn't been one of friendship, what exactly did it mean? For all he knew he could have just shown Lyna the elven gesture for "you're an ugly shrew and I think you should cover your head with a linen sack". It must have been something awful to have caused her to react in such a way. With his arms folded beneath his head, Alistair stared up at the ceiling of his tent, wondering if Leliana would be successful in convincing Lyna that his intentions had been purely good.