Notes:
In this chapter, Bron and Alistair realise they have feelings and then decide to do nothing about them because they're both idiots.
The last chapter was a bit grim and things will get increasingly grimmer once the Inquisition heads out for Adamant so here is a whole chapter of excessive fluff between our two protagonists. Seriously - this thing is so indulgently saccharine, I got tooth ache just writing it. Enjoy!
The sun sits heavy in the sky, bathing Skyhold's courtyard in warm, golden hues as it slips behind the peaks of the Frostbacks. The fortress is alive with activity, merchants packing away their stalls for the evening, Dennet and his stablehands tending to the horses, and people simply chatting with friends, filling the yard with the comforting sound of mundane contentment. Despite the wintry chill in the air, the early evening sun still holds a lot of heat and people seem determined to enjoy the fresh air for as long as possible before retiring to the warmth of the Keep for the night.
Alistair likes evenings like this, when the sky is clear and cloudless and the air is crisp. It's invigorating, he thinks; he can feel each move of his muscles, each breath of sharp, cool air as it fills his lungs. No, there's nothing quite like a bright, biting winter's evening to make you feel alive.
"All right," he says, pitching his voice loud enough that Bron can hear him from the other side of the training yard, "now try again."
Even at this distance he can see her eyes narrow in irritation, though she's trying to hide it behind her usual mask of calm indifference. Today has not been a good day for her. Perhaps she's fatigued, or her time in Orlais has left her unused to Ferelden winters, but she's definitely slower than normal, abnormally clumsy. They've been sparring for several hours already and Bron has yet to land a single hit.
Alistair starts moving forward (because Bron is never the one to move first), sword held casually but firmly at his side, ready to be raised when Bron is in range. He's watching for her reaction, trying to imagine her every possible move and then thinking of how he will counter it. She doesn't move until he starts to lift his sword, barely a few metres away from her. She dives right, feints left, then pitches forward to pierce her rapier into Alistair's shoulder. Instead, her blade meets Alistair's with a light clang and he pushes back with such force that Bron is sent fumbling to the ground.
"Oh, Maker, sorry!" he calls, immediately stepping forward and extending a hand to help her up.
She lets out a frustrated growl as he pulls her to her feet and while Alistair doesn't want to appear unsportsmanlike, he finds that he can't help but chuckle in response.
It's not like Bron to get frustrated. She's normally so calm and collected, infuriatingly calm even. So he just can't help but find her funny, this little bundle of anger, swearing colourfully as she dusts herself down. There are few who get to see her like this, unguarded, emotional, honest. He tries to relish in these moments; knowing full well how lucky he is to experience them at all.
"Don't laugh," she says, voice testy but lacking any real sharpness.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, although now his chuckles have grown into full-blown rumbles of laughter.
"I'm serious!" she cries indignantly. She's trying hard to frown at him, tightening her eyes and furrowing her brows, but he can see her lips pursing tightly and it's obvious to him that she's only just holding back a smile. "Stop laughing or I'll-"
"Make castanets out of my testicles?" he finishes for her, playfully mocking her penchant for creative battlefield taunts, and this time she can't stop herself from smiling, "feed my entrails to the dogs? Maybe knock out my teeth and wear them like a necklace?"
"Yeah," she says, and now her smile is accompanied with a bright laugh of her own, "something like that."
Their laughter fills the yard, bouncing off Skyhold's tall, towering walls until the whole courtyard is filled with the echoes of laughter. Several people turn to find the source of the noise, smiling indulgently when they see the giggling fools standing at the centre of the training yard.
"No, really," she pleads, playfully hitting him on his shoulder, "you need to stop laughing or my ego will be as bruised as my body."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he says, palms raised at her in apology, "I can't help it – you're cute when you're mad."
Her laughter immediately stops and a strange expression falls across her features. She looks shocked, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as if intending to speak, but then her nose is crinkled and her brows are creased, and Alistair's not really sure what that means but he's assuming he's somehow managed to cause offence with his teasing.
He opens his mouth to start apologising but before he can say anything she asks, "cute? I'm… I'm cute?"
It's endearing really, how utterly baffled she looks when she speaks, and while Alistair is pleased that she doesn't appear affronted by his comment, he's also wary that he's said something he probably shouldn't have. He doesn't want to spoil their friendship by saying something that makes her uncomfortable.
"Yeah," he replies, "you… um… occasionally."
She responds with a simple, huh, and then that weird expression returns, the one that's part surprise and part something else.
"Shall we… uh…try again?" he asks, desperately keen to escape this conversation, "I mean, with the sparring."
There's a slight pause, a moment of awkward stillness before Bron gives a theatrical groan and twists her face into an expression of exaggerated distress. "Ugh – do we have to?" she moans, "haven't you humiliated me enough for one evening?"
She's smiling again, her momentary discomfort seemingly forgotten, and Alistair is relieved that he does not seem to have caused any lasting damage.
"Come on," he cajoles gently, "let's try again. You're – you're being too tense. All your movements, they're stiff, a little slow. It's why I keep intercepting your blows. Normally you're running circles around me."
"Oh right – I'll just… be less tense then," she drawls sarcastically, "problem solved!"
"Look – just – stand there," he commands, earning him a confused glare from Bron.
He sets his long-sword down, leaning it against the fence that circles the training ground, then moves to stand behind Bron. She makes to turn around, head craning to try and watch him, but he places his hands firmly on her shoulders to stop her. He can't see her face but he knows she's probably scowling.
"Your shoulders are all bunched up," he says, "no wonder you're so awkward. Let me try and…"
He gives her shoulders a squeeze, gentle at first but then with increasing pressure, pushing his thumbs into muscle and rolling her shoulders back and down.
Her spine immediately goes stiff and he can feel as much as he can hear her sudden, sharp intake of air. He knows that she's not overly fond of physical contact, and he respects that, but she's been so different recently, so much more tactile than he ever would have expected from her, and he thought she wouldn't mind the intrusion on her personal space given that he was just trying to help. He realises now that he's made a mistake and quickly pulls back his hands.
"I'm so sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have – I should have asked before I…"
"It's all right," she says quickly, interrupting his sputtering apology and turning slightly to look at him from over her shoulder. "I was… surprised, is all. But it felt – it was… it was good."
Oh – well, good.
Encouraged by her words, he returns his hands to her shoulders, working the pads of his fingers into tense muscles until he can feel the knots unravel. She relaxes into his touch, lets out a shuddering breath. It's a quiet sound but… enticing, and it makes his cheeks burn.
She's only wearing a thin shirt, her jacket having been shed a long time ago during their sparring session, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. It hadn't occurred to him how intimate it would be, touching her with only a thin slip of fabric between his hands and the smooth expanse of her back.
Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun atop her head, revealing the long, elegant column of her neck. It would be so easy, he thinks, to press his lips to the juncture between shoulder and neck. To drag his tongue up the line of her neck and taste the sharp saltiness of her sweat-slicked skin. He just needs to… lean forward.
He steps back – surprised by this sudden, burning thought.
Where in the void did that come from?
"Better?" he asks, voice cracking like an awkward teenager.
"Ugh-um, yes," she replies, uncharacteristically inarticulate, "much better, thank you."
"So shall we try again?" he says as he steps around to face her once more.
"Of course," she says, nodding officiously.
He thinks she might be blushing but she spins around before he can get a good look at her face.
As he watches her walk across the training ground, he can feel his hands tingling oddly, the phantom warmth of her skin lingering in his palms. He tries to school his thoughts, to push aside his more… ungentlemanly thoughts so he can concentrate on their sparring. But now that his traitorous mind has started thinking of Bron, he can't seem to stop it.
At the other end of the training ground, Bron rolls her shoulders before falling into a ready position, body pitched forward and weight resting on the pads of her feet. She is poised, her well-muscled body held perfectly still, and Alistair is finding it impossible to ignore just how… striking she looks.
Her skin is damp with sweat, glowing in the early evening sun like burnished bronze. And he realises that his internal monologue has come to resemble the worst parts of a Swords and Shields novel, but he really can't help it. Because Bron's eyes really do sparkle.
Not that it matters of course.
So what if Bron is beautiful? He knows plenty of beautiful women.
Leliana is beautiful, and Hawke is as well, and their looks had never impacted on his friendship with them. Why should Bron be any different?
Except – somehow – Bron is different.
Leliana's features are more delicate and elegant than Bron's but her smiles don't light up her face the way Bron's do. And Hawke's figure is taller and more slender than Bron's but she doesn't move with the same grace as Bron, doesn't carry herself with the same dignity.
Other women may be beautiful but Bron was so much more than that.
Oh shit.
A thought needles at the front of his mind, sudden but insistent.
He cares for her.
He cares for her more than anyone else he has ever known.
No – It's worse than that.
He loves her.
Oh Maker, he loves her.
And it's not just because she's there or because she's somehow managed to put up with him for so long. He loves her determination, her unwavering strength of character. He loves her willingness to listen and her quiet thoughtfulness. Even the stupid, little things – the way her fingers move when she braids her hair, the way she tilts her head to the side when reading a map – he loves it all.
In fact, his feelings seem so obvious to him now that he's not entirely sure why he hasn't realised them before.
And he's afraid. Not because he loves her – that bit's actually quite liberating now that he's admitted it – but because he knows, he knows, she doesn't love him back. She can't love him back. Bron's practical, she's sensible and down-to-earth, and while he's sure she values his friendship, she's never given any indication that she wants anything more from him. And he knows, too, that he's going to ruin their friendship. It's inevitable really – he's going to say or do something stupid, he's going to let her down, and then that will be the end of it.
Oh Maker, what in the void is he going to do?
Bron rests lightly on her feet, weight centred and muscles held taut in readiness. With her rapier clasped firmly in her hand, she waits. Alistair picks up his long-sword from where it rests against the training yard's fence, pivots it in his hands to feel the weight, then starts stalking toward her. Still, she waits.
Leliana had always taught her to wait – to observe her enemy and only strike when the right opportunity presented itself.
And so she watches, and she waits.
He brings his weapon up as he nears her, raising his arm to bridge the space between them with a broad swipe of his blade. Bron takes in a steadying breath and then, finally, she moves. She darts forward, feet bounding soundlessly across the grass. She dashes to the left, spinning gracefully out of the way when Alistair brings his sword down, then circles behind him. He raises his sword to try another hit but before he has the chance, she lunges forward until the tip of her rapier makes contact with Alistair's side.
He looks down at where Bron's rapier presses against the fabric of his shirt.
"It is a good hit," he comments, smiling gently.
She smiles back. It's very clearly not a good hit; were he wearing armour it would have deflected her attack with ease. She should have aimed higher, for his relatively unprotected armpit. But she's had a bad day and she appreciates Alistair's attempt at lifting her spirits, even if it is painfully transparent.
"Shall we call it a day then?" she asks, looking up at him imploringly, "please let me bask in my small victory."
"Deal," he says, chuckling softly, "how about we bask in your victory with a couple of pints?"
She nods enthusiastically in agreement. After the disastrous sparring session she has just had, she definitely needs a good drink – and probably something a fair bit stronger than beer.
She walks to the edge of the training ground to return her rapier to its sheath and then tugs at the tie holding her hair in place until the thick, black strands come loose and fall in sweaty clumps down her back. She cards her fingers through her hair to take out the worst of the knots (she'd need a proper comb to make it look actually presentable) then starts to roughly braid it over one shoulder.
Fussing with her hair, she watches as Alistair walks toward a low-lying bench next to where she stands. He places his sword carefully on the bench and then lifts the ladle from a nearby pail of water, eagerly slurping to slake his thirst. Once satisfied, he lowers his hands to the hem of his shirt and then, in one smooth motion, he lifts the shirt over his head and drops it on top of the bench. He scoops up handfuls of water from the pail, splashing them first into his face and then over his chest, washing away the sweat and grime from their sparring session.
Bron is aware that she's staring, tells herself that she should probably look away, but then she can't seem to draw her gaze away from the muscles on his back, transfixed by every flex and stretch each time he moves. She's seen him topless before, of course. They've been travelling together for months now, in too close quarters for propriety. But something seems different now.
Maybe it's the water, trickling down the planes of his back, catching the light of the setting sun as it inches down toward the waistband of his trousers. Some wicked part of her wonders what it would be like to reach out and touch him, to trace the rivulets of water criss-crossing his back, to feel the heat of his skin beneath her fingertips.
She's suddenly reminded of earlier, of his hands on her shoulders, his fingers pressing into taut muscles, and a blush comes roaring into her cheeks. It had been a surprise, yes, such a bold gesture of… well… intimacy. But then it had also been… nice. Really nice. The warmth of his hands, the strength in his fingers as they worked out the knots. She had wondered then what else those strong fingers could do.
Suddenly he looks at her from over his shoulder, and there's not enough time to school her features into her usual façade of nonchalance.
He smirks as he straightens, turning to face her more fully but making no move to don his shirt again.
"Seen something you like?" he quips.
"Don't be ridiculous," she immediately retorts, pulling her features into a disapproving frown.
"Then why are you ogling?" he needles further, his smirk widening into a broad, smug grin.
"I am not ogling," she insists, though she wishes her tone were sharper, "I was just – your scars. I was wondering… I was wondering how you got so many."
It's a poor lie, and she can tell from the way his eyebrows dip that he is not convinced. But then he nods, seemingly willing to play along with Bron's flimsy excuse for staring, and his grin thankfully softens into something a little less smug.
He steps closer to her, and something in Bron's chest skitters erratically as he approaches. It's not something that Bron is used to, this odd fluttering below her ribcage, but it's been happening with increasing frequency recently and Bron's not sure how to make it go away.
When Alistair stops he's barely a foot away from her, and her brain helpfully points out how easy it would be for her to just reach out and run her hands across his chest. She tells her brain to shut up.
"This one is from a hurlock blade," he says, pointing to a short, fat gash on his side, "and this one is from a wolf," he continues, tracing a pale semi-circle on his forearm.
"And… this one?" she asks, raising a hand toward a line of raised bumps across his stomach. For a moment she leaves her fingers hovering just above the scar, barely a whisper above his skin. But then she feels a surge of boldness, and maybe a surge of something a little more primal as well, and she presses her fingertips against his flesh and lets them rake over each bump. She can feel him shiver as her fingers moves down, and she likes to think that the shiver is for her but suspects it's just because he's ticklish.
"A dragon," he replies, and the breathiness in his voice makes Bron's toes curl pleasantly, "encountered in the Korcari Wilds."
"A dragon, really?" she gasps, and as much as she likes to keep her composure at all times, she can't keep the reverent awe out of her tone. Leliana had told her many tales of dragons over the years, sometimes myths, sometimes anecdotes of her own dragon encounters during the Blight. They were such extraordinary creatures, bones like metal, spitting fire. To face such a creature and come out alive was a feat that Bron couldn't help but find remarkable.
Alistair bursts out laughing, a bellowing chortle that seems far too loud for the intimate space between them. Bron startles at the sudden sound.
"No, not really," he answers between wheezing laughs, "I fell out of a barn loft as a child. Landed on a rake."
She can't help but burst out laughing at his admission, her own hearty chuckles joining his raucous laughter. Of course it was a bloody rake – the daft bugger. She can just imagine him now; a chubby-cheeked child with mussed curls and muddy hands, rolling around with the mabari in the barn, toppling from the loft in a moment of foolish enthusiasm.
Still chuckling, he reclaims his shirt from the bench and pulls it over his head.
Bron's surprised at how keenly she resents it.
"So what about you?" he says as he guides her toward the Herald's Rest with a gentle push of his hand against her elbow.
"Me?" she asks, confused by his question.
"Any scars?"
"No, none," she replies without pause.
He looks surprised at that, brows furrowed and mouth curled. "Not a single one? How have you managed that?"
"What can I say? I'm just that good," she replies with a nonchalant shrug and a proud little smirk, "unlike some careless people, I never let anyone get close enough to leave a mark."
He chuckles, "is that it? You're just that good?"
She hums in assent as she nods.
"What about just moments ago when I was repeatedly knocking your ass to the ground? Were you just that good then?"
"It was a temporary lapse – I assure you it won't happen again," she says, and she somehow manages to sound imperious despite the lingering embarrassment she feels at having performed so poorly during their sparring session, "next time I'll thrash you just as thoroughly as I usually do."
"Is that so?" he asks with another laugh.
"Absolutely."
"Well then – how about we test that theory out right now?" he says, eyebrows wagging challengingly, "Come on, let's go – back into the training yard, right now!"
He lunges toward her, arms outstretched to grab her around the waist but she manages to dance back in time, letting lose a childish squeal so out of character that she clamps a hand over her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in. He tries again, reaching toward her with a roaring laugh, and this time there's a frisson of heat as his fingers skirt across her hip as she twists out of reach. It leaves her skin tingling, the touch of his fingertips still burning even through the fabric of her trousers.
She turns and runs, tearing up a nearby staircase and dashing along Skyhold's battlements. Alistair follows close behind, taking each step two at a time to catch up with her. She giggles excitedly as she runs, darting between bemused Inquisition guards, always looking behind her to keep an eye on Alistair.
She hasn't behaved like this since she was a child, charging through the streets of Highever with her brothers, snickering and screaming and just generally proving a nuisance. Her mother had never approved of childish games and had persuaded Bron that she was too old for playing long before she really was. It's oddly freeing now, to regain that sense of liberty, that foolish exuberance that she'd denied herself from far too young an age.
When Alistair does finally catch her, he wraps an arm around her waist and lifts her easily from her feet, spinning her around before holding her tight against his chest. She's breathing deeply from the exertion, her chest heaving against his with every laboured breath she takes, and she wonders whether he can feel her heartbeat racing where their bodies are pressed together.
"Got you!" he announces, a pleased smile on his lips.
"Yes, yes you have," she pants breathlessly. And she realises in a moment of startling clarity that she really means it.
Because he does have her. She is devoted to Alistair in a way that she never could have expected when they first met. She would accompany him through any trial, would fight any foe to keep him safe. And she suspects that there's more to her feelings than mere devotion, mere loyalty. But she's never known such deep or complex emotions before and she's struggling to really understand them.
There's a part of her that wants to tell him. And there's a far louder part that tells her that that would be a terrible idea. Bron is not good at emotions, not good at having them and definitely not good at expressing them. And she likes to be composed, she likes to be in control, and admitting that she has feelings would leave her vulnerable in a way that could potentially lead to some real harm. She doesn't mind if Alistair sees her being weak sometimes (and that in itself is quite a surprising revelation) but she has her limits and she thinks she's reached them.
The Wardens need freeing from Corypheus's thrall, the Inquisition needs her, Alistair needs her, and she won't be weak for them, can't be weak for them.
Maybe she'll tell him later. Maybe – when Thedas is safe and the Inquisition is disbanded – she can work through her feelings with him. But until then, she's going to keep quiet, she's going to keep in control, and she's going to keep him safe.
"Come on," he says cheerfully, settling her back down on the parapet and giving a nod of his head toward the Herald's Rest, "let's get you that drink." And then he smiles at her, wide and toothy and so painfully earnest, and her heart is skittering again, that excited patter of anticipation that seems to happen every time she's with him.
Oh Maker, what in the void is she going to do?