Alistair couldn't remember the dream that awoke him.
He was laying, curled on his side, shoulders too broad for the small tent space and a growing cramp in his ribs. He shifted. Fuck.
Alistair felt his back brush, feather light, against another and craned his neck as far as he could in his cramped sleeping position.
Zevran lay still, arms wrapped tightly around the backpack he held to his chest, hair still braided. He was sleeping, Alistair was sure, but his disturbing lack of movement slightly panicked the Wardens sleep addled mind. He wanted to reach out, lay a hand on the elf's chest to see if he was breathing. He twisted further, groping in the dark, fingers brushing the assassins shoulder.
Zevran shot up, a knife suddenly in his hand and Alistair pinned, the blade resting where throat meets jaw and pressure being applied, the other hand holding him still by the neck, choking him. Zevran's weight on top of him was unexpectedly heavy. He gasped. Zevran leaned in, brows furrowed and, somehow, incredibly frightening.
"Do not touch me."
Alistair shakily nodded and his throat was released. He found himself gasping again.
Zevran got up quickly, tucking the blade under the roll of blanket he used as a pillow and exited the tent, Alistair choosing to ignore the muffled mumbles as he left. "Idiota."
The Warden also ignored the way the assassins hands were shaking, raising his own the scratch on his throat.
It was going to be a long trip.