This chapter title's a quote from The xx's "Infinity". I can't recommend that song enough - it's defined the mood of this whole chapter. Actually, their album, also called The xx, is quickly becoming a soundtrack for these two.
Also, a recent discovery of mine: Desire demons are bloody hard work to write in a T-rated story.
Someone Else's Touch
Alistair
The silence hangs between them, thick and grey, and he can barely look at her. He's humiliated himself, as usual, lost control and scared her off.
His blood boils and bile rises in his throat when they come across the evidence of Avernus'... experiments. Wardens, tortured and bled dry, for one small, stupid vial.
He reads the notes over her shoulder, about how this poison extends a Warden's life expectancy, and sees, feels, her suck in a breath in front of him. She picks up the vial, considers it, and he tenses, because she wouldn't, not after reading of that bastard's "research"...
She exhales, places it gently back down upon the desk, and he has to move as she walks calmly away. She looks back at it once, then leaves the room.
Suddenly something rises in him that he can't explain, an ache that's warm and sharp, and he wants to run after her, thank her for... something.
He's not quite sure what.
They silently agree, when they speak to Avernus - they exchange telling glances, and he knows that she doesn't trust the maleficar either. She keeps her mouth shut, however, unlike him.
Demons.
Andraste's sword, this is just...
It doesn't go well.
Rage, desire... they're toying with his emotions, and he's trying to fight them both in the outside world and in his own head.
Old memories resurface, of being sent away, an inconvenience, of the pain. An amulet, smashed against a wall.
How could Eamon do this to him?
He steps back from the flames that narrowly miss him, returning to the real world; shaking his head, he lets out a cry of frustration, readies his sword, and meets the flaming eyes of the thing.
It falls, and he lets out a rough, barely-reasoned yell of triumph, wondering what's happening to him, before he feels the hands snake gently into his head, a soothing voice whispering nearby.
Half-heard trysts, and the other men's stories; the yellowing books in the dark corners of the library he'd never looked quickly enough away from; the admiring glances given to the girls at the stalls, that he wouldn't dare admit; even the other Wardens' none-too-gentle teasing...
He remembers, and he wants, a fire kindled to its full, desperate heat inside him.
It's then that he recognises the voice in his ear, the hand tracing a path along his jaw, and he shuts his eyes, has to struggle not to mouth her name.
Oh, he knows this touch. Months of tentative attempts at comfort, of healing, have ensured that.
He swallows thickly as slender fingers reach his shoulder, and he feels her lips at his hairline, the three soft words whispered against his skin. His name.
No.
His eyes snap open, and he steps away, because he knows that this would never happen. He remembers every "templar", her confession that she was scared of him - scared, of all things - and the awkward silence that hangs between them now...
Now?
Real life rushes in abruptly, and he curses himself for letting his concentration slip like that. What was he thinking?
Any other thoughts are disposed of by the feeling of those familiar fingers, ungloved, on his forehead, her magic touching him again, and he wakes with a shuddering breath.
He's greeted by frightened blue eyes, her hand tracing down to his cheek before being abruptly removed; he looks around to see the others staring at them. Her voice is quiet as she says, "A rage demon caught you. Badly. It was... closer than I would have liked." She looks up from where she's kneeling beside him, and Leliana passes her a lyrium potion; she downs it in one, unable to meet his eye, and he suddenly realises that it must have been bad, to drain her like that...
"I'm guessing I'm not a pretty sight right now," he jokes weakly.
She cocks her head and considers him, a half-smile of approval appearing on her lips. "Not bad, really."
He abruptly remembers the demon visions in his head, her breath at his neck, and has to look away from her, his face heating.
"Alistair?" she asks, voice concerned. "Something wrong?"
He shakes his head quickly, sits up. The action provokes a groan of pain from him; Morgana's work is usually flawless, so he dreads to think what couldn't be healed painlessly. He sees her wince and suck in a breath, hand pressed to her side, and frowns; then the Chantry's training kicks in, and, understanding, he says sharply, "Stop that. " The healer's sympathetic pain, the best diagnostic tool around - she's hurting for him, and suddenly he can't bear the thought. "You've done your best," he adds, more softly.
She looks at him in wide-eyed surprise, and he feels the hum of the mana field contract, disappear. Spotting it on the ground beside him, he passes her the discarded glove - one of the pair he bought her in Lothering, he notices in surprise - and presses it gently into her hand; she instinctively raises her palm and takes it.
Their eyes meet, and in that moment, her skin scorches him - he takes his hand quickly away, ashamed of his thoughts, and doesn't miss the surprised hurt that flickers through her eyes. Immediately, he's even more ashamed of himself.
He stands cautiously, having to lean against the Keep's wall, and she rises as well, announces that they should get moving. He can't look at her, remembering the way his thoughts were crawled through, what was chosen as his ideal bait...
Why her, anyway?
What does that suggest, that he wants her? His fellow Warden, the quiet, Chantry-hating mage? The book-lover with the careful fingers and thoughtful eyes. Possibly the most frightening glarer in the world. A woman of awkward social graces and sudden silences. The one who stood by him, is still standing by him.
He remembers his name on her lips, the way it sounded like music to him, did only seconds ago...
No.
No.
He looks ahead of them, gathers his sword and shield, and tries desperately to shake the thoughts out of his head, following the others, but he knows his eyes are haunted.