(Courtesy warning: M/M romancy stuff.)

101. Crow-Watching

Zevran was up to something. It was in the furtive way he studied Alistair. It was in the way he smiled mysteriously whenever Fin caught him at it. It was in his words and his silences: the assassin was up to something.

At first, Finian had been merely curious. Zevran was often inexplicable… as far as Fin was concerned, that was part of what made him exciting.

But it went on for days, and Finian couldn't shake the feeling that, whatever he was up to, it had something to do with himself. If it was just some sort of game, the Antivan would have let him in on it by now.

The party worked their way down the mountain, their progress achingly slow because of the injured chantry scholar they were escorting back—they had refused to leave the man alone on top of a mountain, as he'd wanted. It was the least they could do to bring him back to Redcliffe, where he might hitch a ride home to Denerim.

It did mean they had to move slowly and take breaks often, though, and Finian got a taste of what the trip from Ostagar to Lothering must have been like for everyone else. Back then, he'd been the injured one.

Not that he wasn't injured now. It was hard to keep a cheerful face on everything, despite their success with the Ashes, now safely stowed in Alistair's pouch. His throat hadn't healed from the fight with the dragon, and small surprise: he'd swallowed dragon fire. It was a fight he couldn't regret (when else would he ever get the chance to ride a dragon?) but the loss of his voice was a bit steeper payment than was fair.

But he couldn't show the others how much it bothered him, so he kept his disposition calm and cheerful.

They stopped at midday about halfway down the mountain from Haven, once again settling onto the side of the path so that Genitivi could rest on a boulder. Fin settled onto a fallen log nearby, taking out his lute to occupy himself while the others bantered, and Fang circled around their camp protectively.

Sure enough, Alistair turned a look on the Antivan. "Is there something I can help you with, Zevran? Or are you just going to stare at my posterior all day?"

"Hm… well, now that you mention it, the latter option does seem the better, yes?"

"No."

Leliana giggled. "Better you than me, no?"

"Wynne!"

"No, Alistair. I'm not getting involved in this one." The elderly mage settled on the boulder beside Genitivi.

Zevran gave a sigh. "Obviously, we have many issues to work out among us. I think we must go back up the mountain and face the Gauntlet again. And let us be particularly thorough about walking through that fire, yes?"

When Zevran flashed Fin a wink from across the clearing, Finian cast him a playful smile, but he found he couldn't feel it. It… bothered him, seeing Zevran flirt like this. He'd never minded before, but there was something different now that made Fin ache just a little bit every time the assassin flashed that smile at someone else.

Was Zevran getting more aggressive in his flirtations? Was it the fact that Fin couldn't join in, with his voice destroyed? Or was it the fact that he worried that Alistair's strong, golden good looks or Leliana's sweet charms might lure his Zevran away?

His Zevran. That was the problem. In truth, he had no claim over the Antivan… their relationship had always been one of convenience: Finian releasing tension caused by his yearning for Percival, and Zevran ingratiating himself with the only Warden who could walk beside him without constantly checking over his shoulder for a dagger in the back.

Except… it hadn't been about Percival for a long time, now. He kept coming back to the assassin for his own sake: because Zevran was fun, and handsome, and a talented lover, and just complex enough to intrigue a people-watcher like Fin. The pickpocket had gone and become attached.

And now this dagger of his own making was stabbing him in the back, because Zevran had slowly but surely wheedled his way into the hearts of their companions, earning their trust through his loyalty and his wit. And that meant Zev no longer needed to keep himself attached to Finian as a matter of protection. It was only a matter of time before Zevran realized that, and started questing out.

And so it was that every time Zevran flirted, Fin felt a discordant note ring in his head. But he had to keep smiling and laughing along, because otherwise Zevran would detect his attachment, and go running in the other direction all the faster.

That night, Zevran didn't follow Fin into his tent as he usually did, and Finian could only figure that the assassin had finally realized it. He smiled to himself as he shucked off his dusty clothing and curled up into his bedroll. At least it had been a fun run, right?

With a heavy heart, he blew out his candle, falling asleep to the sound of the rest of the camp settling in for the night.

He was roused sometime later, as someone slipped smoothly into his tent. Fin jerked up in bed, instantly recognizing that cat-like grace.

Zevran pressed a finger to Fin's lips, as if the latter were capable of more than squeaking a greeting. In the dim light, Finian thought he could make out a mischievous smile.

"I have a surprise for you, my Warden. Forgive me that it took so long… you are, admittedly, a far better pickpocket than I."

Fin was confused, and reached for his taper to figure out what in the Fade the other elf was talking about. However, Zevran's hand on his stilled him, and he instead felt a half-full waterskin pressed into his hand.

"What are you-?" He whispered, even that making his throat burn.

"Hush, amor. Don't speak, just drink."

This was all very perplexing, the assassin's intensity entirely out of character. Fin spent a moment studying what he could see of Zevran's face in the dim light leaking through the tent walls. Zevran's eyes were bright with both anticipation and… anxiety?

Fin gave his lover a smile, and dutifully raised the waterskin to his lips. It was filled with… water. He'd expected a potion or something, given the elf's insistence that he drink, but instead merely got a couple mouthfuls of water. Not very clean water, either… there was a chalky taste to it.

When Fin lowered the waterskin, Zevran watched him so anxiously that Fin had to smile. He cleared his throat and teased, "Is this the part where you inform me that it was all a trick, and now you're assassinating me after all?"

Then, he froze, and Zevran's face split into a victorious grin. Finian raised a hand to his throat, realizing that there was no pain. Gone, just like that.

"And to think that I never did put much stock in miracles," Zevran said.

Finian smiled back, realizing what his lover had done. "You think it's maybe time to start?" and his voice was as strong and smooth as ever.

"Perhaps," Zevran purred, and Fin chuckled as the Antivan leaned forward to kiss his throat. "But then again, if these are indeed the ashes of the Maker's bride, would it truly have been so easy for me to sneak a pinch away from Alistair for my own selfish ends?"

Fin fought down a laugh, delighted and amazed (and, admittedly, relieved) that Zevran had done this for him. "How is curing my voice selfish on your part?"

"Simple, my dear." Zevran moved downward and lapped at his clavicle, and the pickpocket released a surprised moan. "Mm, there it is. Yes, rest assured, it was entirely selfish."

Finian fairly giggled, wrapping his arms around his lover. "In that case, you've been a very naughty Crow, stealing a holy substance in the dead of night."

Zevran hummed his approval. "Going to punish me, my Warden?"

Fin moved so that his lips hovered over Zevran's. "Someone has to."

"In that case, amor, I am glad it is you."