Title: Five Times Alistair Wasn't Kissed

Author: Jade Sabre

Notes: So, I renamed the chapters to reflect where they take place, to give some kind of continuity or something, I suppose. The fic is sort of pyramidal—the last chapter was the longest, and now we're on the back slope and things go a bit…downhill.

Disclaimer: Dragon Age still doesn't belong to me. Whoopsies.

four

Alistair was beginning to realize he'd never really known a girl before.

When he'd been a child, Lady Isolde had been a flowery, overdressed blot on his life, all glares and cutting words and out-of-my-kitchens, and he'd been glad to turn his back on her. The Chantry had the Revered Mother, but he'd only seen her when he was in particularly deep trouble; she had stern looks and a sharp voice that mellowed when she sang the Chant, but he'd never really spent time with any of the women at the Chantry. When the templars did mingle with the sisters, it was usually in the line at the mess hall or during holy celebrations, and those weren't exactly good times to try to talk to one pretty intended while she praised the Maker with her fellows. The girls at the Chantry clumped together, and even if he had wanted to single out one of them, he was pretty sure the others in the clump would do their utmost to protect her.

From what he could gather, things were quite different in the Circle of Magi. Boys and girls all shared the open dormitories, although they had separate bathhouses, but nothing ever happened; everyone knew the templars were watching, and that tended to kill any stirrings of the libido brought about by sleeping with a pretty girl's perfume in your nose. It was no wonder the mages threw themselves into their books and their magic; it resembled the way in which the templars conducted their battle training. Except the girl mages and the boy mages all spent time together, and knew how to interact with each other, while the templars were all nervous fuddy-duddies who choked on their tongues.

None of this helped him to talk to his fellow Grey Warden, who certainly fell under the category of "pretty girl" but also under "comrade" and "only other hope for saving Ferelden if not all of Thedas," and when he thought of her in those ways, he found conversation with her fairly easy. And she was quiet and focused and didn't really talk outside of such conversations, at least in the beginning, and so they got along well enough. Morrigan drew her out with questions about the Circle, and riled him up with insinuations about his intelligence, and the ensuing chatter filled their travel to Lothering. Sten didn't talk much, but Leliana seemed to take great delight in dancing verbal circles around him, and although he'd never admit it Zevran provided a pretty good example of how to talk to women…assuming he didn't actually care about the woman to whom he spoke.

Which was exactly the problem—he cared about her, and it had snuck up on him, wormed its way through the chinks in his armor, and now he didn't know what to do when she flopped down on the grass next to him and asked questions, because he couldn't tell if her interest was merely friendly or—or something more, and he'd never met a woman where he wanted it to be something more, and finally he gave up and told himself that the only way to find out was to ask.

"Um," he said, having lured her into the privacy of the trees near camp and now finding himself subjected to an amused expression and crossed arms, "I was just thinking, about the tragedy and the death and the Blight and the battles, and I was wondering…" Suave, he told himself, but he didn't think it was working. "If you would miss it, when it's over."

"Will you?" she asked, which was not what she was supposed to say, and he waved his hands, searching for an answer.

"Well, I mean, it's what I was trained to do, the fighting anyway," he said. "But it's easier when you're here."

She smiled at that, her brow wrinkling with confusion, and so he took a deep breath and clarified. "I…look, I know you think I'm crazy, and so this sounds crazy, but I care about you," so, so much, "a great deal, and I just…I can't tell if, maybe, if I'm fooling myself, or if maybe you…"

She stopped him, then, a hand against his lips, her face settling into a fondness he didn't like. "Alistair," she said, and he was still, because her voice made him calm, because her fingers were resting on his lips and she wasn't laughing at him. "I like you. I really do."

"That doesn't sound good," he said, surprised at how steady he sounded.

She wasn't immune to the movement of his lips against her hand, but she pressed her fingers more firmly against them, asking silence. "It's not bad," she said. "It's not that, if I thought I could, I wouldn't let you keep talking and sweep me off my feet, but I'm a mage, and Eamon wants to make you king." Her eyebrows quirked in warning when he tried to open his mouth, and she said, "I know you're going to tell me that there's a lot of time between now and then, and that maybe it would be worth it to take what we can in that time, but I…I have to remember who I am, what I am, and Alistair, there are few things more vulnerable in this world than a broken-hearted mage."

He'd never heard her say so much at one time, and she was apologizing and sad and he could feel that tiny part of him that cared folding back into itself, curling up inside behind the humor and the sadness, waiting for its next opportunity. Her eyes searched his face, and her hand dropped away; the air was cold against his lips, but he tried to smile at her all the same. "I understand," he said, and he did; he didn't like it, but she was nothing if not determined, and he couldn't help but love—no, respect her commitment to duty.

She sighed as if she didn't believe him, and said, "Thank you." They stood quietly for a moment, the forest around them still save the chirping of crickets, and then she mustered up another smile and said, "Well, we should be getting back to camp before people start getting the wrong impression."

"You go ahead," he said. "I'll…scout."

She touched his hand, then brushed by, heading for the flickering light of the campfire; he looked into the darkness, and tried not to care.