The next morning, it was quite apparent that none of them had slept as soundly as they should have. Still, even rumpled and bleary, her recruits were obedient and quick about their tasks— personal gear was loaded and the wagon was rumbling over the frosty North Road before breakfast had even settled in her stomach.
She pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself, glad for the layer of wool and fur, and for the always-surprising warmth provided by her drakeskin leathers. Carran, sitting beside her on the bench with the wagon's reins in hand, was humming softly to himself.
When a simple flick of his wrist slowed the horses' gait over a patch of icy slush, she shook her head with a bit of wonder. "I'm glad one of us can handle these beasts, Carran."
He shrugged, smiling modestly and wiping at his reddened nose. "Ah, it's not so different from oxen, ma'am. And they're mighty fine horses anyway." The road ran out relatively straight before them, and Carran allowed his eyes to stray over and meet hers. "They've got more speed, of course, so I've just got to keep an eye they don't decide to use it. We're lucky you found someone to give them a bit of training before now— a saddle and a wagon are very different things."
"So I would imagine." She was still wary of the animals, and not simply because they were huge and foreign. They just seemed so… flighty. Give her the solid bulk of a bronto any day, even with their notoriously short tempers. "I thought they might be most useful to us as draft animals."
Ambrose, striding along on the wagon's left side with his brother, barked out a laugh. "The Orlesians would be having kittens if they knew, Commander."
Amery pulled a snooty expression, turning to walk backwards for a few steps. "Zee horses, zey were a geeeft, but..."
She wouldn't allow herself more than a slight curl to the corner of her lips at the ridiculous impression. "Right, that's enough. The Orlesian Wardens deserve your respect, Amery." Even if the ones she'd met were miles too priggish, and had a tendency to fall into patronisation too easily.
"Yes, Commander. Sorry." Falling back in line easily, Amery slung one arm over his brother's shoulders. "Amby and I only ever met one Orlesian, and he tried to have me hanged for stealing. I may be biased."
She raised one brow, asking the silent question, but it was Ambrose who continued. "A crime that, shockingly, he hadn't actually committed. The trader accidentally left his purse at the village tavern, and some of the older folk had decided to divide it out as war reparations. It was a good leather purse, though, so when we found it being kicked around the tavern floor, we took it."
Snorting in a way that was mostly amused and perhaps slightly bitter, Amery sent some loose stones into a small bank of snow with the toe of his boot. "Hardly matters now. My neck's firmly un-stretched."
"I'm glad," Carran said simply and without a hint of sarcasm, his gaze fixed back on the road before them, and it was clear there was no addendum.
"Uh, thanks Car." Amery sounded a bit surprised at the honest sentiment, dropping his arm from around his twin and hooking his thumbs in his belt. "You're a mate."
It was snowing lightly, not enough to really bother anything, and if the weather held then they'd likely make it to the Circle Tower in a few days. Travelling the North Road was quicker and safer than trekking through the deeper Bannorn, where bandits and the rare darkspawn stragglers were still an occasional hazard. After the Joining, she'd have to take the recruits— the Wardens— down for a proper purge.
She wasn't nearly so confident in her balance yet to try and stand while the wagon was moving, but she did lean around the canvas and glance back at the rest of her trailing brood.
"How goes it, recruits?" Not shockingly, she received mostly unenthusiastic grumbles in response, but they'd been travelling for the better part of the morning, and the road they trudged over was wet and slick. Noticing that even Alistair was looking rather cranky, she touched Carran's shoulder. "Pull us over, Carran. Let's stop for lunch."
They had simple rations for midday meals, although the biscuits and cured meat were quite a step up in quality from the hardtack she and her former company had been able to afford and carry during their quest. They also hadn't had a cook packing their supplies during that adventure, and it made for a nice change.
Alistair was munching on one of the surprisingly fluffy biscuits that he'd sandwiched around a hunk of white cheese, leaning against the side of the wagon next to where she stood, stretching her legs. She slapped his hand lightly when he tried to steal a strip of dried beef from the dwindling pile she had balanced on the wagon's edge. "Don't make me bite a finger off, you bottomless pit."
Feigning terror, Alistair clutched his hand to his chest and widened his eyes. "But my love—"
She narrowed her eyes, purposefully picking up the last of her lunch to remove temptation. "Don't even start, my love. You've been spoiled, sneaking food from the kitchens at all hours. We're lucky we left the dogs behind, or we'd be out of supplies before we passed Soldiers' Peak."
Popping the last bite of biscuit into his mouth, Alistair crossed his arms sullenly. "You're a cruel, cruel woman," he mumbled around the crumbs, but it was loud enough that Zevran laughed as he sauntered around the wagon's corner. The elf had been scouting ahead for the majority of their trip thus far, and the solitude apparently agreed with his lecherous tendencies, if his wicked expression were anything to go by.
"Does a little cruelty not make you burn for her, Alistair?" Crowding quite close, Zevran ran his hand surreptitiously under her cloak, up the side of her thigh and over her hip. His touch was firm enough that she felt it through her leathers, and she growled softly as a flush crawled up her neck to her cheeks.
"I'm not the only one spoiled," Alistair drawled, watching them with obvious interest quirking his lips. "No quiet corners to sneak off to— just the road and the recruits. Zevran might have an apoplexy."
Glancing over, Zevran favoured Alistair with a long, suggestive kind of scrutiny. "Don't test me, cariño. Or do, if you like, and we'll see how long you can keep your composure."
"By the Stone, Alistair—" She sighed, half amusement and half exasperation. "Whatever happens now, you've brought it on yourself."
Alistair stared purposefully into the fire, quietly trying to slip into the calming exercises he remembered from his templar training. He was a pool of still water. He was a steady flame. He wasn't going to let Zevran win.
"Why my dear Alistair," Zevran purred, leaning as close as possible on their deadfall seat— he was close enough that all Alistair could smell was spice and leather, warmed by the heat of the fire and overwhelming him. "What have I done to deserve be ignored so cruelly? Have I not been your dutiful servant this evening?"
Dutiful servant— Alistair clenched his jaw. During the rest of their uneventful day of travel he'd almost forgotten his off-handed comment at midday, but Zevran had certainly seemed determined to remind him since they'd made camp for the night. Lewd looks, not-so-subtle remarks that sent bolts of heat through him, and fleeting touches that were obviously designed to break his will. The recruits, for the most part, seemed to think it was hilarious. Zevran was a consummate flirt, and a tease, and a bastard— Maker help him, he needed to focus.
No, most of the recruits didn't seem perturbed by the relentless teasing Alistair had been suffering for hours. They likely thought it was all simply Zevran being Zevran, unless the three of them had been so obvious that the change in their relationship was old news. Alistair was far beyond caring.
And there she was, sitting a little farther down their shared log-bench, smirking like the wicked woman he knew her to be. He'd find no help from that front, he knew, but at least she wasn't actively assisting with his torture.
He'd worn his dragonbone splint mail for the journey, enjoying the lightness and the flexibility it offered after a few months puttering about in his old veridium set. His doublet and undershirt cut most of the cold from reaching his covered skin, so he was relatively comfortable in that regard, but after all Zevran's… attentions, he was distinctly uncomfortable in a very specific way. Maybe it was good that his armour hid the most grievous evidence of how easy it was for the elf to rile him— because wouldn't his raging hardness just send the brood into giggling fits, the heartless fiends— but he was starting to squirm with the incessant throbbing.
"Alistair." Zevran's voice was quiet, barely audible over the blood pounding in Alistair's head. "Even if you lose this game, would that truly be so terrible? I can feel the tension in you, and I am sure I could help relieve that… any way you'd like."
Carefully keeping his eyes fixed on the fire, Alistair unclenched the fists he'd unconsciously balled up. "So says the cause of the tension," he grumbled softly, very aware of their audience, and barely stopped his hips from twitching when Zevran chuckled against his ear.
"Ah, but the lady spoke rightly, my friend. You brought this on yourself."
He wasn't some blushing virgin anymore. He was a man, and in a relationship that many people would likely class as out of the ordinary. He didn't have to be the prey here. Zevran was right— even if he lost, he could definitely still win.
Flitting his gaze up, he shot Zevran a look out of the corner of his eye. Finally on the receiving end of some attention, the elf smirked triumphantly, but Alistair just smirked right back.
"I did," he agreed easily, keeping his voice light so as not to spring the trap even a moment too early. This would only be a proper victory if Zevran were completely surprised. "But then again, so did you."
The fact that Zevran was nearly in his lap already made it all the easier to scoop his lithe, wiry body and sling him over one shoulder. Alistair clamped his arm firmly over the backs of Zevran's thighs to discourage kicking, and growled a clear warning as he got smoothly to his feet.
"Zevran, if you wiggle I'll drop you right on your smart mouth." Ignoring the startled looks he was receiving from the few recruits sitting across the fire, Alistair turned to face one very amused dwarf. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, I've got to attend to a few things."
She waved her hand casually. "Of course. Carry on."
"What?" Heedless of the warning he'd received, Zevran started struggling and squawking, though only half-heartedly. "Mi amora, please—"
"Not my problem," she interjected, the words sounding almost lyrical with fiendish delight. "Both of you deserve this."
Holding his cargo tightly, Alistair strode purposefully towards the edge of camp and the shadowed bulk of the wagon. In the course of the short trip, Zevran had transitioned from actively struggling to a roundabout way of securing his freedom— more blatant suggestions.
"Such a view is utterly unfair when the prize is armoured," he complained, then Alistair felt something slap his arse hard enough to tingle. Not about to be outdone after his recent display, Alistair slid his hand purposefully up the back of Zevran's thigh, revelling in the surprised moan he received for his efforts.
Straining just a bit under the weight of his now much less reluctant captive, Alistair grabbed hold of one of the wagon's support beams and hoisted them both up and inside. It was dark, and cramped with supplies that had shifted about during their journey, but too much effort would be required to find and light a lantern, set up their bedrolls, or do anything besides toss Zevran down in the nearest empty space.
He was already kneeling, and a quick swipe of his hand assured Alistair that he wouldn't crack the elf's skull open or anything so dramatic. With a grunt he heaved the familiar, sinewy body off his shoulder and onto the floor. Zevran wheezed when he landed hard on his back, Alistair's arm cushioning his head from the impact. It was apparent that he caught his breath quickly when he started cursing, but Alistair was already crawling forward, sliding one knee firmly between Zevran's thighs.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, aware that the sincerity of his concern was overshadowed a bit by the raw need roughening his voice— but whose fault was that?
"I am fine for a sack of potatoes, you beast," Zevran growled, and Alistair flinched just slightly when a hand suddenly gripped the back of his neck. "Now get down here."
There were grasping hands, flailing limbs, and much more cursing, but eventually they were skin to skin, though Alistair's ankles were still tangled up in trousers and smallclothes. Zevran's fingers were biting sharply into the flesh of his arse, urging him to jerk his hips faster, harder, just there—
Alistair lost his balance, all his weight crashing onto Zevran's chest, when something yanked the last clinging vestiges of clothing off his feet. Zevran grunted, shifting around to manoeuvre Alistair onto his side, and glared at the dwarf climbing inside the wagon.
When Alistair reached out to caress his shoulder, Zevran shrugged him off. "I am feeling rather abused, my darlings, and not in a way I prefer." There was little heat in the complaint, and Alistair pulled the sullen man close again, this time with Zevran's back cradled against his front. "Am I now bruised enough to slake your revenge, amora?"
Tossing Alistair's trouser aside, she seemed to seriously consider the question, biting her bottom lip as she tied the canvas flap of the wagon closed behind herself. Alistair had been long enough in the wagon that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he watched intently as she began to unbuckle her own leathers. Despite the interruption, he was still very interested, and a gentle grope assured him Zevran was as well.
"I'm sorry I squished you," he murmured, flicking his wrist in time with his slow grinding against Zevran's trim hip. The gasp he received in response was encouraging; as was the demanding kiss he was suddenly caught up in when Zevran craned his neck around.
She sighed deeply, tossing drakeskin aside and shimmying out of her breeches. "And here I was, hoping the pair of you would be torturing each other." It was challenging, but Alistair managed to keep one eye on her even while Zevran wriggled backwards, seating himself snugly in Alistair's lap. Suddenly there was a beautiful man in his lap and a breathtaking woman stripping down past her smallclothes only an arm's reach away, and Alistair was staggered by his sheer good luck.
"Holy Maker…" Amery whispered breathily, gawking after their distinguished commander as she sauntered off in the direction of the shadowed, occupied wagon. After the incident between Alistair and Zevran, she'd barely reacted at all, remaining nonchalantly by the fire long enough to assign watch shifts and evening duties in no great hurry. She'd acted as if absolutely nothing untoward had just occurred, was likely occurring as she spoke, and the recruits had managed to keep their shock confined to blatant staring.
Then she'd smiled, a slow curl at the corners of her mouth, and for the first time Ambrose caught a glimpse of the woman behind the Commander. Certainly, she was always striking to look at, with sharp sea-green eyes and bold, crisp features, but she was more a force of nature than a person. Rather embarrassingly, Ambrose had found himself glancing quickly away when her surprising expression stirred something wholly inappropriate deep in his gut.
His brother's elbow jabbing into his ribs brought Ambrose firmly out of his musings. "You saw that, right? I mean, everyone saw what just happened?"
"We saw, Amery," Keliani assured him, sitting close to the fire as she stretched her healing elbow in the heat. Her hair was down from its usual tight knot, falling in glossy black waves around her neck, and there was another woman Ambrose couldn't risk watching for too long. Andraste's flaming sword, he was getting as bad as Amery.
"I think I'm owed some coin," Remya added, grinning saucily as she shuffled closer to where Eddard was standing. When one broad hand came around her shoulders and pulled her smaller body against his legs, Ambrose noticed her grin flicker into something softer.
Amery was still gaping like a fish, but at the mention of debt he seemed to shake off his stupor, furrowing his brow in a way that reminded Ambrose rather unpleasantly of their father. "You bet the Commander was bedding the pair of them, separately, not that Alistair and Zevran were rutting. And anyway, that whole experience might have been some mass delirium brought on by a long day of travel. We can't be sure."
Crossing her arms and leaning against the mountainous man beside her, Remya shook her head. "You could go check, salroka. See how well Zevran's stealth training stuck in that cavernous skull of yours."
"Oh, do it Amery," Rimon piped up, gathering the supper dishes he and Leofric had been charged with washing up once the pot of snow they'd just set near the fire melted into warm water. "And I'll swear I'll pay you twice what you lost to Remya. Every coin I've got."
"I'll match it." Eddard smirked, making a show of jingling the purse dangling from his belt. "Maker, you'll be in money, even after that debacle with the cards last night."
Carran rocked back on his heels, whistling a long stream of breath into the chilly air. "Nah, you didn't see how much he lost after you left, Ed. Keliani can really bluff." Leofric chuckled in agreement, and Amery glared daggers at the lot of them.
"Sod off, you hateful pricks. Some bloody comrades in arms, trying to get me killed for your own perverted curiosity." Ambrose shrugged noncommittally when his brother shot him a look begging for help, and after drawing out the stalemate another moment or two, Amery sullenly yanked his purse open. "Fine. Blasted fucking arse."
After that tasteful outburst Amery started counting out copper bits, just as Soren trudged back from his visit to the privy trench, looking slightly ashen in the flickering light. Despite the tension between them, Remya looked somewhat worried for her fellow dwarf, and that alone peaked Ambrose's concern. Amery, engrossed in his slow separation from his beloved coin, heard the crunch of footsteps and spared only a fleeting glance.
"Soren, mate, you missed it." Handing the small pile of money to Ambrose (as usual, since Amery claimed it was easier to lose money when he wasn't actually the one giving it away), Amery finally noticed Soren's sickly pallor. "Ah, you all right? You look like shit."
Unsurprisingly gruff, the dwarf merely grunted as he took a few more lurching steps to sit heavily on the deadfall the Commander had so recently vacated. "No worse than you, and tomorrow I'll feel better," he said with an undercurrent of his typical dry humour. Soren wasn't an unlikable fellow, if you could stand the occasional obstinacy and the bouts of bad temper. Really, it wasn't any worse than dealing with Amery day-in and day-out. "What is it I missed?"
"Amery losing his shirt," Ambrose replied before his brother could start spinning a tale, pulling himself to his feet and passing the coins to Remya's waiting hands. "And confirmation that the Commander's bedding Zevran too— all amicable. Harmonious, really."
Flinching when a mound of snow smashed against his back, Ambrose turned to find Amery wiping his hands on his cloak and scowling at him. "Couldn't tell a story if I wrote it for you Amby, I swear."
If anything, the news made Soren go even paler under his enviable beard (Ambrose had tried to grown one once, and managed to keep the sad, scraggily thing for a fortnight before he realised it emphasised his scars more than it hid them). Not precisely known for his subtlety, Soren's disgusted expression quickly dampened the campsite's previous humour, and after a long, tense silence, Ambrose couldn't hold his tongue anymore.
"Have a problem, Soren?" He'd done his very best to keep his tone neutral, but he got a sour look for his trouble anyway. Bloody, pigheaded dwarf.
Planting his thick hands firmly on his knees, Soren huffed out a furious sigh. "It's not right, not done. None of you could understand."
"Maker's holy balls, Soren," Amery snapped, too loudly. "Pull that stick out of your arse before you rupture something. It's not like they're going to order you to join in."
Ambrose took note when Soren's knuckles went white, and prepared himself for the familiar experience of having his mouthy brother's back when the brawl started. Thankfully, Soren simply snorted scornfully and shifted his angry stare to the fire.
"There is a responsibility," he muttered, sounding almost ashamed. "The Commander is a woman of good blood, from a noble House restoring itself. Even if she's gone sun-touched, it's no excuse for shirking her duty, especially not dallying with tall folk."
"You're as thick as the Stone that shit you out, you nug licking gasbag—" Ambrose actually jumped when Remya started shouting, and by the look on Eddard's face he wasn't entirely certain the big man wanted to hold her back. "The Commander did her duty when she saved that pisshole you call a kingdom from collapsing into its own stinking corruption. And what about your duty? I don't see a pack of arse-faced little whelps nipping at your heels—"
Now Soren was on his feet, suddenly so red-faced he looked like he might burst. "Don't you dare speak to me of duty, brand! The Stone got stronger the day you slithered up to the surface, and no half-breed monstrosity you squeeze out could ever change that—"
Eddard's hand, the one that had been gently gripping Remya's shoulder, now pulled her out of the way as he moved forward. His deep, even voice was as cold as Ambrose had ever heard it. "Step back Soren, or I'll put you down."
Soren visibly bristled at the challenge, while Remya was still spitting mad, struggling against Eddard's iron hold and snarling. "Let me go, you sodding giant! I'll cut his fucking tongue out and make him eat it!"
"Stop it, the three of you," Keliani barked, rising to her own feet. In fact, every one of them was standing by that point, and the air was thick with hostility. "This is disgraceful behaviour!"
Running his hands over his hair in a gesture of complete frustration, Soren bellowed a wordless, enraged sound. "I told you, none of you can possibly understand—"
"What in the blighted pit is going on?" Every one of them, woman and man, froze stock-still. The look of hard fury on the Commander's face was utterly terrifying, and Ambrose had never wanted to be elsewhere more desperately in his entire life. She strode into the light of the fire like the Maker's own wrath, dressed in her leather breeches and what looked like one of Zevran's sleeveless undershirts, untucked and hanging down to her thighs. Ambrose almost winced when he noticed she was barefoot in the snow, but he didn't dare move a muscle. "Someone will answer me. Now."
"A disagreement, Commander." The strength in Keliani's voice made Ambrose embarrassed by his own fear, and also sent a bolt of heat through him. She wasn't cowering very much at all, although her hands were clenched tight together behind her back, and she even managed to meet the Commander's unyielding stare. "I apologise that things got carried away."
"Not good enough." Now Alistair and Zevran were tramping out of the shadows as well, both equally underdressed (although they did have their boots on), and Ambrose felt the breath he'd been holding shudder out. Zevran's expression had none of his usual mischievousness or good humour, and Ambrose was reminded starkly that this elf was a merciless assassin. And Alistair— Ambrose had expected confusion, perhaps disappointment, but not this flinty mask of barely controlled outrage. It was like a punch to the gut.
The Commander shot the new arrivals a weighty look, and the two men stayed silent, looming at the edge of the firelight. Then she turned her attention to Remya, whose eyes were glittering shockingly. Of any of them, she was the last Ambrose would have thought he'd ever see crying. "Remya, tell me what happened."
The usually vibrant little woman shrugged Eddard's hand from her shoulder and stepped forward, staring blindly at the snow near the Commander's feet. "Soren got me riled, ma'am," she replied, her voice thick but her words clear. "I got mad and stupid, and things got loud. I should've known better, kept my temper in check. I'm sorry."
When the Commander's expression darkened even further, Ambrose managed to think of one place worse than standing where he was— in Soren's skin.
"Soren." No matter how much of an arsehole the dwarf might be sometimes, Ambrose wouldn't have wished that tone of voice on anyone. This was a woman who'd raised an army with nothing but her own strength to back her, who massacred darkspawn like a normal person killed ants, and who'd slain a bloody archdemon. Ambrose squeezed his own hands into fists when they started trembling.
Gazing straight ahead, Soren's posture was painfully rigid. "Yes, Commander."
The Commander, on the other hand, was fluid and deadly in her grace as she turned to face him. "I thought you and I had an understanding, Soren. You left your caste behind when you were recruited. You assured me I would never be forced to have this discussion with you again."
"Yes, Commander. I apologise." Ambrose couldn't see the Commander's reaction, except the brief flexing of her fingers as they hung loosely by her sides.
"Soren, look at me." A flicker of tawny brown eyes, and Soren did. Ambrose tried hard to swallow over the dryness in his mouth. "Listen very carefully: this will never happen again. There will not be a third chance. I speak now as your Commander, and also as your Paragon." Both Soren and Remya had tried to explain that title to him, but Ambrose wasn't entirely certain he understood the implications. If what they'd told him was accurate, the Commander was some kind of infallible god among the dwarves. It certainly wouldn't surprise him.
"Paragon," Soren murmured, and the word seemed to hold equal parts reverence and misery. There was a collective intake of breath when the Commander stepped forward and placed one hand on his chest, just over where Ambrose assumed dwarven hearts were as well, but she simply touched him firmly.
"Yes, I am your Paragon. Chosen by the Assembly, and supported by the King. Soren, you are a proud son of Orzammar, a warrior of superior skill, and a good man, but if you disregard this final warning I will cut you down myself without hesitation." She must have moved her hand, because suddenly Soren stumbled back a step, but it all happened too quickly to really follow. "Now get to your tent and don't come out until your watch shift."
Nodding sharply, Soren marched across the short distance without another word and crawled inside his tent. Even as a sliver of tension bled away after Soren's retreat, the Commander was whipping about to face all of them again, still obviously in a less than pleasant mood.
"No more," she ordered, jabbing her finger towards them. "We are travelling through the land I am sworn to protect— a land in which our Order's presence is still tenuous. You will all behave like adults, and more importantly like Grey Wardens. When I recruited you, I expected better than this."
Even though his involvement in the argument had been minimal, Ambrose felt like she'd cut the legs out from under him. Biting back a useless apology, he watched as she, Alistair and Zevran walked silently back to the wagon. The bile in the back of his throat was bitter and hot.
"Ah, damn it," Amery said quietly when it was likely the trio was out of earshot. Needing some familiar support himself, Ambrose stepped near and slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Damn it," he said again, leaning into the hold.
It wasn't surprising when Eddard and Remya disappeared somewhere shortly thereafter, likely to one of their tents, and the six of them who remained quickly got to their chores, or simply sat quietly. They were all shaken, and perhaps it would have been better to grab whatever sleep they could, but it seemed none of them wanted to be alone just yet.
Ambrose poked at the glowing coals with a thin stick, taking some small pleasure when he managed to make them pop and hiss. Tomorrow would be a new day— one day closer to the real challenge. One day closer to being Grey Wardens, when Da had always told them they'd be lucky to shovel shit for the rest of their lives. They'd managed something great, him and his wonderful bastard of a brother, but now life was serious. More serious even than staying out of gaol and avoiding the angry fathers of sweet young lasses, which had been central concerns of theirs for several years. This was more serious than anything they'd ever done.
Amery was sitting close, making sleepy sounds as he rested his head on Ambrose's shoulder, and if the question hadn't seemed so bloody important Ambrose wouldn't have bothered him. Slowly, he turned his head so that his cheek pressed against Amery's frizzy hair, keeping his voice to barely a whisper. "Are you glad we're here, brother?"
"Hm?" Amery lifted one hand and rubbed his nose idly, but Ambrose knew he was honestly considering his answer. "Yeah, brother, I am. You?"
In the stillness of the camp, Ambrose could feel another heartbeat thumping against his arm. It was perfectly in tandem with the rhythm in his own chest.
He smiled, despite the dark and the danger awaiting them. "Yeah."
AN: Currently putting finishing touches on a Zevran/Fem!Surana fic I've been working on, and a Garrus/Fem!Shep for ME2. Hopefully I'll have them up within a day or two, if you're interested. Thank you for reading!
