A/N (Aroihkin's Notes) 04.12.2010:
...I hated the last chapter because I had to stare at it for too long, guys. XD But I'm glad you liked it anyway! It's rare that I'm pleased with a chapter when its fresh, but I haven't been that sick of looking at one in a good long while.
Not much to say about this one, it's just some random floof that takes place within a few days of the last one. Those previously-acquainted with Alley will no doubt find the idea of her doing random floof just a little bit brain-breaking. But hey, all the other versions raised Tannusen! She's not all coffee dregs and gasoline! ...Just... you know, mostly.
Reviews make the world go 'round!
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Lust is easy. Love is hard. Like is most important.
-- Carl Reiner
The innkeeper's son, as it turned out, was very interested in fighting, and the innkeeper himself was even willing to accept lessons for his boy on the subject as part of their fee for room and board. And the Warden, it turned out much to the entire group's surprise, was an excellent instructor. Between that and Leliana's performances in the main room, they were nearly staying for free.
"No," Zevran heard the Warden's voice, back to its usual level of bad instead of the terrible wreck it had been when she'd first woken up from her injuries, "you're clenching too early." The assassin peeked around the corner, into the small courtyard being used for the lesson, and watched as his Warden demonstrated a greatly-slowed punch into a dirt-filled sack.
"Clench right before impact," she stated, as though she'd said this all before. "Keep your fist loose until then. Aim two inches past the surface... the energy should not stop at impact. It should continue." And a demonstration at normal speed, the elven woman's gloved fist snapping into the bag.
"Ahh, is that how I ended up so bruised when we last fought?" Zevran asked, turning the corner smoothly, "And here I thought I had simply grown too delicate." The Warden was too pale, and just the slightest bit unsteady on her feet, not even recovered enough to bear the weight of armor again. He'd been checking up on the lesson at regular intervals waiting for this, and now the Antivan smoothly strode into the courtyard and took her still-bent elbow in hand.
Her visible aggravation as he tucked her arm into his lacked any real heat, and so he chose to find it amusing. Zevran flashed them both a brilliant smile. "I am afraid our dear lady is still recovering from her injuries," he said apologetically to the human boy -- a teenager who was already a little taller than Zevran, "so I will have to steal her away for the time being."
"Of... of course," the boy blinked down at them, seeming to take in the Warden's pallor for the first time, "it was a good lesson, thank you. Another tomorrow?" Very polite of him, but if he'd been bothered by his teacher's race, Zevran highly doubted that their leader would have agreed to instruct him at all.
The Warden grunted an affirmative, and then allowed Zevran to lead her back into the building. "I look that bad, huh?" she asked once they were out of ear-shot, trying to pull her arm free and not succeeding.
"Indeed, although 'bad' is not the word I would have chosen," Zevran replied in a silky tone, letting her take her arm back only once she was seated on a stool at one end of the bar. He slid onto another beside hers. The place was empty at this hour, only those who were staying in rooms upstairs really had access and most of them were either out, or asleep. "...But tired? Yes. And I have been left to keep you company while the others take care of Sergeant Kylon's latest needs."
"You mean you were left behind to coddle me," the other elf grumbled sourly. "I'm about ready to start beating on all of you with a stick. I'm the same as before. Just, in repair."
"You are not a sword, my dear, to simply be put back to the forge and fixed," Zevran managed a very faint little laugh, though it held a nervous edge. He didn't like the way her expression didn't change at all at his words. The longer he knew her, the stronger he suspected that she was not nearly so well-adjusted as he was; some of that madness he'd glimpsed in that brief, single flash of a sharp-edged grin seemed to run deeply indeed. He'd seen that kind of crazy before, but they -- fellow trainees, largely -- had rarely lived very long after.
It was rather intriguing, in a morbid sort of way. And a little worrisome, since she was the one leading them around on this mad quest to save the world from another Blight... and she was what stood between himself and a gruesome death at the capable hands of the Crows. Was he going to find her dangling from the rafters, some morning? Unlikely, but he felt in hindsight that she had been throwing herself at danger just a little too eagerly, much as he had in ambushing her. But she was much more successful at it, and so they had all let her do it, until now, fooled into thinking her stubbornness was some form of unsurpassed strength.
With all of this in mind, Zevran nudged the Warden's arm on the bar-top with his elbow to get her attention. When she slanted him a curious glance, he smiled slyly and inched his stool a little closer to hers, leaning in conspiratorially. "...So," drawled the Antivan, "do you come here often?"
He ducked away from her agitated swat at his head, grinning."You hauled me in here to use that line?" the Warden scoffed.
"Well... no," Zevran laughed, "but why let the opportunity go to waste, hm? You should cheer up," he added with another nudge at her arm, "all of this brooding you insist on doing... it will give you wrinkles. And if it does not, it will certainly give them to me instead! You don't want that, do you?" The Antivan couldn't exactly tell her that she'd get gray hair; he'd long since noticed the beginning of dark steel streaks from her temples, blending in with the brown... but there they were anyway. They'd been there longer than he'd known her.
"Too late for that," the Warden grunted in eerie echo of his thoughts, making Zevran blink at her in momentary puzzlement. His confusion turned into amusement when she reached up and poked him squarely on the forehead with one gloved fingertip, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she did so. "You can tell me not to brood all you like," she added gruffly, lowering her hand back to the polished bar-top, "but you've got worry-lines all over your face," a snort, "hypocrite."
"You just poked me," Zevran said, laughter in his voice. "You poked me."
"Yup," leave it to the Warden to make that one word sound gruff and weathered. He wondered how old she was... surely not as old as she acted? The gray in her hair only made her age all the more indeterminate, even for an elf. Frustratingly so. Some of the scars on her face seemed quite aged, but it was so hard to tell... and he knew little enough of her background. A fresh recruit into the Grey Wardens, yes, but how old did they accept with a Blight on their doorstep?
Zevran leaned close again, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, "...Does that mean you like me?" he breathed, looking up at her from under heavy eyelids as she glanced aside at him, her brow furrowed.
"Don't push your luck," she replied flatly, and he actually hesitated, surprised at how cold those words felt. Unexpectedly callous, even from his Warden. But then she continued, looking away, "...but you don't see me poking anyone else, do you?"
He stared at the side of her face for a moment; at that hawkish, battered profile with all its ageless faults, dark blue eyes staring fixedly at the bar-top as though it was fascinating, and he felt a grin slowly pull at his lips. "...You like me! Does that..." Zevran leaned even nearer, shoulders brushing, "...does that mean I can poke you back?"
His innuendo couldn't be helped any more than her aggravated glance. "If you want to poke someone," grumbled his Grey Warden, "perhaps you should try my student. He seems likely to let you, and gladly enough."
"Oh-ho, you noticed that, did you?" Zevran chuckled, putting his elbow on the bar and his chin in his palm, remaining leaned-in quite close to her as she carefully went back to not looking his way. It was sort of adorable, how utterly he could push their stoic leader out of her comfort zone, and yet he'd never been told off for it. Those who resisted temptation often secretly wanted temptation to stick around anyway, just in case, as he'd long since discovered.
"I'm a lot of things," said the elven woman, "but I'm not blind. Go on." And the Warden shot him an unreadable look, finally, eyes widening a little at how close he still was.
Ah, but this was dance that Zevran was a master of, and he knew that sometimes a pull was more effective than a push. "...As you wish, then," he sighed wistfully, "he's a handsome enough lad. Perhaps if I wear him out enough tonight, he will wear you out less tomorrow, hm?" And the assassin leaned back, and then climbed off his bar stool. "Would you like an escort up the stairs, my dear?"
A dry rag left out on the bar-top flew at his head, and Zevran gave his Warden a cheerful grin before he left the room with a wave. That he didn't actually go very far, and instead lurked just around the corner for a while longer... well, she didn't have to know that, now did she?
-- --: -x- :-- --
Dragon Age belongs to someone else.
All here that is not found in the canon... is mine.
Never steal if you value your spleen.