Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: A very, very random idea but the first I tried wouldn't write itself. Therefore, it might seem somewhat weirdish. It is supposed to be light-hearted. Two to go~ And also, thank you ever so much for the support after last chapter. It was amazing.
In this chapter: There are things children shouldn't have to deal with. Non-PG rated things. You know.
048.
"My uncle? No. No, no, she can't! I-It's wrong! And you're older than her. And… and, you know, my uncle."
It is the first conversation, real conversation, since the Archdemon has been killed. And it wasn't supposed to start like this, he knows. In his mind, he had this perfect amazing apology to do which she, of course, would accept. Everything would be fine between them again. Right.
Only he comes to find her and finds a sleeping figure and a mostly awake noble, their hands loosely held together.
To anyone else, this would seem rather innocent. But this is him and them. After seeing them all friendly and friend-like and just, you know, this isn't innocent. In their chart, this is almost pornographic and just below perverse.
Teagan raises his head and for this tiny small amazingly amazing moment, the ever in control noble seems to be slightly off guard. There's pride in his heart about that, a battle won without the barest effort. Alistair cherishes this moment for all two seconds before the older man's brow furrows lightly and the gigantic mountain of blankets moves, signifying his companion's awakening.
She really doesn't look happy, Alistair thinks fleetingly. Maybe he should have listened to his life preservation instinct which had told him not to do this. Perhaps he should leave right now, as she looks even worse than he remembers, all glary and pointy eared, more cuts and bruises than he can bother to count and bag eyes that reach her calves. And not happy. Really not happy.
Perhaps he shouldn't have yelled. But! His uncle!
"I hope," even her voice sounds like a mess. Like someone made her drink the Archdemon, scales and all, instead of battling it. "I hope you have a very good reason for being here."
He had. His apology. His life depends on that apology. But his uncle. Those words keep repeating themselves in his mind and that can't be good. He's just doing what he thinks to be right though. He always does. And getting this subject all cleared up is a good thing. Right?
"My uncle!" Dear Maker, that's not an argument, that's a blood connection. He can do better. "Shouldn't he be. Away? You know, from your bedroom? Since you're here and sleeping and it's private and he really shouldn't because you might just have some momentary madness and take advantage of him."
A small sound that can either be laughter or something lodged on someone's throat interrupts him.
Teagan looks too innocent.
Huh.
"Aren't you getting that backwards?" Tasha pushes herself slowly to a sitting position, small and injured, even more bruises now than the blanket slides down. She looks almost fragile, he would hazard, tons of bed hair and bad clothes. That's the thing though. This is deception, a huge illusion, wrong. She cannot fool him. He had tried to wake her by himself once and she had almost bit him. And then. And then. The ogre which she had battled alone. And the Dragon, she just killed a whole huge gigantic dragon. No. He has it right.
She would take advantage, no doubt there.
"Not really."
Another chortle. No one seems pay it any attention though Alistair does notice Teagan wincing just barely, his hand almost releasing the one it is holding.
He feels like fleeing himself. If only because this seems almost private, this little display of female prowess. And it might evolve into something and...
"Look, your majesty," she continues and he can see just how much she's Not Pleased at him with solely three words and there might be death around the corner. Except her sword is broken. No sword. He checked.
"You are worrying too much." Teagan says, finally standing up – and patting her hand like he is some sort of well domesticated dog, what in the Maker's beloved nostrils? "If we wish to be technical, I am not your uncle. I am your step-uncle." That sort of technicality is almost hurtful. Just saying. "And if we want to keep that pattern of thought, your majesty clearly has no say in whatever two willing, full grown people do in our free time, especially when considering this is the room of a lady, a sick lady at that." In all the wrong meanings of that word. "Who could have been indecent prior to your entrance."
What's this could have been? She wasn't decent! Neither was he!
For some reason, Alistair finds himself taking a step back when Teagan comes closer, his face set in a frown, a deep one he has only seen before the battle at Redcliffe. Or when speaking to Isolde while Eamon was bedridden. All of those moments dangerous and he was angry and now, he's pissed. One eyebrow is ticking, so he is definitely pissed.
"It is also highly likely that either she or her cousin will speak to you about your manner addressing her, especially considering your past dealings." Why hadn't he been told Shianni was around, Maker damnit. Teagan's face softens just barely then, not in kindness but something like daydreaming. "Finally, in case of any kind of ravaging, I assure you I would not be the unwilling part."
Oh Maker. He has not. He has not. Said that!
Silence fills the room, the kind of silence that fills a place when a child just asks its parents those things that involve sheets and the making of babies and Maker, what is he doing here and…
"Perhaps you could leave now? Except if you wish to watch."
…Oh dear Lord, are they? Will they? This is not what he had been planning to interrupt and.
His brain choses to take a long journey somewhere and his feet want to take over, possibly to drag him outside the room. His eyes, those clearly fail to notice just how the man's face seems to soften and change into amusement in but a moment.
"So you do have a mean bone in your body." Tasha's voice, dry and clear. Familiar. "Your majesty, get out, I'm still angry at you."
"Lies and untruths, lady," the noble retorts. "You should go back to sleep."
"Not while our king is staring. Will you let me handle this next time? Because he seems to have believed you."
He was kidding. He had been kidding. Teagan knows how to joke? Alistair stares at the man, realizing that yes, the lines around his mouth are smile lines, currently contorting his mouth as he bickers with the elf. Careless, even. Really nothing like the Teagan he knows. This Teagan seems amused beyond belief as he walks close to the woman, touches her cheek – almost – gently before sitting by her side again.
Tasha hesitates, as if he has just stolen her words away. Aw, she's bashful. Wait. Who exchanged her for some other elf who acts like a maiden? Tasha's just. Not a maiden. Maker, this room is like an alternate reality! He's probably sleeping about his uncle and surrogate sister wanting to do weird things to each other.
"Tasha. It's just not right! I mean. It's not respectable."
Her eyes narrow. A jar barely avoids his left ear and obvious treason to the crown! Her patience, where is it?
"I said. Get. Out. And you." She points a hand to his uncle. "This is all your fault."
Teagan laughs, lowly, richly, happily. Weirdly, the kind of laughter which seems younger and definitely not something he had ever associated with his uncle. This man who became a boy out of nowhere.
The king gets out, the door closes behind him, stays closed and the king can't find the will to complain the fact that he was thrown out. Instead, he leaves to find something that makes sense, a huge jug of coffee and Wynne for a full healing spell.
And then someone to locate the true Warden so he can apologize.