To say Alistair didn't trust Zevran would be an understatement.

It wasn't just that he'd tried to kill them (although really, who attempts to assassinate the last two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden? That's just irresponsible). And it wasn't that Zevran was constantly flirting - with Wynne, or Leliana or even Morrigan. If Zevran had a death wish, Alistair wasn't about to go diving in to rescue him. And it definitely wasn't that Zevran was way better looking than Alistair was. He was an elf. Girls liked elves, didn't they? Especially sneaky assassin types.

Really, Alistair's intense dislike all came down to this:

Zevran made Niamh laugh.

He was watching them now, from the other side of the campfire. Zevran smirking - actually smirking! - at her, arm braced against her other hip as he leaned in uncomfortably close. Niamh throwing her head back and laughing, firelight glancing off midnight black hair.

Yup.

He was jealous.

And Alistair really did not like the feeling.

He'd never been jealous before, not really. He'd been envious when the other boys went out to play at being knights, and he'd been envious when every other boy got their first kiss and bragged about darkened doorways and rough skirts. He'd been envious when he'd look out the Chantry windows and saw parents walking hand-in-hand with their children. Alistair wasn't a stranger to envy.

But then again, envy and actual, red-hot jealousy were two different things, weren't they? Because Alistair couldn't remember ever actually wanting to kill those other boys the way he wanted to kill Zevran right now.

"Alli?"

Niamh raised an eyebrow at him, standing at the entrance to her - their - tent. "You coming?"

"Oh. Uh. Yes. Hold on."

He rose awkwardly, too-long legs cramped from sitting too long glaring at Zevran flirt shamelessly with Niamh. He made a point to avoid eye contact with Zevran until he brushed aside the flap to the tent. Then, and only then, did he turn and grin at a bewildered Zevran.

Hah!