It is the night before they leave for Denerim, quite probably for the last time. Zevran has waited patiently all night, and that, more than the earring, more than a word he has bandied about when it has been useful, more than the fear that Zevran feels, tells him that he has gone and done the most foolish thing ever.
He has fallen in love with his warden.
When Dal finally returns to the room they were supposed to share that last night, he sets his staff wearily by the door. His expression is shuttered, his movements slow as though he is already mourning.
"Zevran," he says. Not "Zev" or "my beautiful one" or "lover" but Zevran.
Zevran does not know what Dal plans to tell him, but he will give anything to forestall it. He is off the bed, his fingers pressed to Dal's lips before he can send him away or make some dire confession.
Now that they are so close, he can see a bit of oil glistening on Dal's neck, smell incense on his skin, and his lips are full from someone else's kisses.
He sees these things and Dal sees him seeing them.
Zevran has been trained to take pain without flinching, but it takes everything he has ever learned in the brothels and from the Crows to keep the wound from bleeding for Dal to see. This is why Crows and whores do not love.
"It is near dawn," he says in the face of Dal's guilt. "Come to bed." He forces a jaunty smile. "No one should go dancing with an archdemon with bloodshot eyes. They take it so personally."