Notes: Alistair has a very, very good evening.
The description promised eventual smuttiness and we have now reached that eventuality. I hope it was worth the wait - I tried to keep it classy.
This chapter is LONG (so you might want to grab a cup of tea and settle in) because we're near the end of the fic and I wanted to touch on a number of themes as well as show several of the characters being happy and fulfilled before the end.
It was also a pleasure to write - it's such a joyful chapter. Although I hate writing smut; I am a massive prude (I blame my strict, Christian upbringing and years spent at a stuffy, British boarding school).
Varric is laughing as he refills Alistair's glass, the shaking in his arms from the full-bodied chuckles causing the wine to splosh across the tabletop as he pours. He mutters out an apology but doesn't stop pouring, filling the glass to its brim with dark, crimson liquid.
Alistair gives his friend a nod as he thanks him then lifts the glass to his lips to take a long, indulgent sip. The warm liquid slides pleasantly down his throat, dark and smoky, offset with just the slightest hint of sweet vanilla. Alistair is not an expert in wines but he knows enough to know that this is the good stuff, probably from Varric's private stash rather than Skyhold's usual holdings.
Alistair knows from his time in Kirkwall that Varric only shares his wine with a select cohort of friends, and usually only in the privacy of his rooms at the Hanged Man. So for Varric to have pulled out a few of his bottles tonight, and to be sharing them among such an odd assortment of acquaintances, is a rare honour indeed. It is an occasion to be appreciated – and Alistair does appreciate it.
Skyhold's Great Hall is alive with jollity tonight; the sounds of chatter and laughter bouncing between the high, stone walls to gather among the rafters. It's long past the usual rush hour for dinner, and only a few people remain at the long wooden tables of the Hall. There are a few mages, each sitting alone, flipping casually through books or fidgeting with talismans as they shovel hungrily at their food. And there are several guards too, the ones whose patrol shifts prevent them from enjoying their evening meal at the usual hour. But despite the relative emptiness of the Hall, the small group gathered around Alistair is somehow proving more than capable of filling the enormous space with noise.
Alistair is sitting at the smaller table near the fireplace, Varric's favourite spot in Skyhold for writing, and Alistair can see why the spot holds such appeal to his friend. It's comfortable, the only table in the Great Hall to be surrounded by chairs rather than narrow benches, and the large fireplace provides welcome warmth to ward off the usual iciness of the Frostbacks. It's also the ideal spot for people-watching, perfectly positioned to see anyone coming and going through the front entrance, but also the doors toward the library or the Chantry gardens.
Not that Alistair is doing much people-watching now, he's too engrossed in conversation to pay any attention to whomever else is in the Great Hall (or the dirty looks being thrown at him and his companions by those who'd hoped for a quiet meal tonight).
Varric sits to his left, the flush of too many drinks giving his cheeks and the bridge of his nose a pinky glow, while Moira sits to his right. She's out of her Templar armour for once, though she sits with the impeccable posture of someone unused to wearing casual clothes, and Alistair is astonished at how much younger she looks when her usually stoic face is crumpled with laughter and ruddy with drink. She'd seemed much older when he'd first met her in the Frostbacks Basin, cold and commanding, and he'd been surprised to learn that she is in fact slightly younger than him. But he can see it now, with her rounded cheeks framed by an unruly mop of short, red curls. She looks so much more at ease, so much more carefree.
It's the same with Harding. She'd been so authoritative, so efficient, while she'd barked orders to the rest of her scouting party in the Frostbacks. Now she's snorting inelegantly at Varric's outlandish stories while gleefully plucking at the impressive spread of food laid out before them, taking her pick of meat pies and bread rolls with nimble, sticky fingers. He supposes it's inevitable; that everyone just becomes warmer and softer when in the safety and comfort of home.
And that's what Skyhold is beginning to feel like, like home. His belly is full of food and wine, his face crinkled in laughter, and he's surrounded by people, good people, people he would gladly call friend.
There's a loud clink as Varric clumsily puts the empty bottle down, most of the wine having thankfully found its way into everyone's glasses rather than the tabletop, and the sound is loud enough to temporarily distract Varric from his story. He looks angrily at the bottle, upset at its impudence for having interrupted him, before gleefully returning to his tale, delighting in the rapt attention of his audience.
"So then Snowflake here manages to trip over this tree-root," Varric says with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Alistair's rib, "and he's just… flailing on the ground like an idiot."
"Hey!" Alistair objects with a childish cry, "I wasn't flailing, I was… providing a masterful distraction."
The assembled group laughs at Alistair's surly interruption, as well as Varric's exaggerated eye roll.
"If the flailing was intentional, why were you squealing like a nug?" Varric rejoins.
"It was all part of the ruse!" Alistair says, though the growing blush in his cheeks suggests that he finds this to be one of Varric's more embarrassing tales and is only trying to recover some tiny shred of dignity.
"Hah!" Varric bellows, "ruse my ass!" He takes a long swig of his drink, frowns when he sees the glass is already almost empty. "So now there's this bandit – mean fella, ugly as sin – and he's quickly approaching Alistair. And Alistair's still scrambling around trying to get off the damn floor. So Hawke runs forward to save his sorry ass, about to cast a spell to uh… to stun the bandit – but then she falls over the same fucking tree-root!"
There's an uproarious roll of laughter from around the table accompanied by the enthusiastic pounding of fists against the pocked tabletop. Tales of Hawke's shenanigans in Kirkwall have proven popular this evening, this one no exception, and Alistair has heard stories tonight of which even he was unawares. It's a nice way to ease the pain of her absence, though it only dulls the sharpest pangs. Hawke had parted ways with the Inquisition while Alistair was still trapped in the Fade, and while he's already sent a letter to restart their former correspondence, he wishes dearly that she could be here, in person, to share in the merriment.
Luckily, Varric is unlikely to run out of material to satisfy his hungry audience; he's still only scratched the surface of the grand tales of the Champion. But as much as everyone loves hearing about Hawke the Champion, the stories about her, well, somewhat less heroic moments have proven even more popular this evening. Alistair can easily understand why; Varric's books about the Champion are epic and exciting, painting Hawke as this larger-than-life figure. But in Alistair's opinion, the truth is far more entertaining, more endearing. He barely recognises the Hawke in Varric's books – but the woman Varric is describing now; that's his friend.
"So she trips over this root and her spell, well, she misses. So instead of hitting the bandit – she hits Alistair!"
Another roll of laughter, though this time Alistair doesn't join in, merely twists his features into an exaggerated, childish sulk. He can remember the fight Varric is describing vividly and being on the receiving end of Hawke's magic had certainly not been funny.
"So what did you do about the bandits?" asks one of the wardens sitting around the table (and Alistair has had a bit too much drink to remember his name properly – and he has met a lot of wardens in the last few days – but he's pretty sure it's Roland… or maybe Rodney).
"What do you think? The rest of us had to deal with them – while Hawke and Alistair were flapping around on the ground like fish out of water. Some fucking Champion, right?" Varric's laughing so much his words come out in quick bursts between each wheezing chuckle. "The best part, though, was afterwards."
"They don't want to know about what happened afterwards," Alistair quickly chimes in with a vigorous shake of his head. From the eager nods of his companions, they clearly do.
"So – afterwards – I don't know what was in that spell Hawke had cooked up but Alistair was high as a fucking kite. He skipped all the way from the Wounded Coast back to Kirkwall, and then when we got him back to his room at the Hanged Man, he tied his sheets around his neck like… like a cape – then danced around his room declaring, 'I am the mighty nug King, all shall look upon me and despair'!"
There's another roll of laughter and Alistair is dismayed to hear that it may be the loudest, most amused yet.
"You know, I don't remember that at all!" Alistair protests, frowning deeply at Varric and his laughing companions. "I really think you might be making it up!"
"You really think I would tell an exaggerated version of the truth just because I thought it made a better story?" Varric asks with feigned offence, clutching his hand to his heart in a mockery of innocence.
"Yes!" Alistair cries, "you do that all the bloody time!"
Varric's chuckle is lost in his glass as he takes another long swig. "A magician never reveals his secrets."
Alistair rolls his eyes and Varric nudges him in the ribs again in response. And then everyone's laughing, Alistair included, and while it's a little embarrassing to be reminded of the somewhat less than auspicious start to his mercenary career, this moment is kind of… well… perfect. The sound of laughter, the circle of smiling faces around him; everything is exactly as it should be.
He's reminded of the Blight, the last time he'd been in a similar situation, surrounded by a group of unexpected allies united through a common cause. And it had been nice – travelling across Ferelden with a group of like-minded people, with family – and at the time Alistair had believed himself to be the happiest that he'd ever been in his entire life. But it's better now – somehow – with the Inquisition. Because the group of people he'd travelled with during the Blight had been Elissa's allies – she'd chosen them and it was because of her that they'd stayed. But these people – Varric, Moira, Harding and everyone else he'd befriended since arriving at Skyhold – they were his friends, people he'd met and come to know through his own actions and his own decisions.
Alistair is suddenly snapped from his thoughts by the sound of the main door creaking open laboriously and his head jerks up out of curiosity. He's surprised that he even noticed the groaning sound, he's barely noticed anyone coming and going all evening, but Varric has miraculously managed to produce yet another bottle of wine and there is a small lull in the conversation as he merrily tops up everyone's glasses.
He's glad that he did look up though because it means he doesn't miss it when Bron enters the Great Hall, doesn't miss the way her lips quirk up into a small smile when she sees him staring at her. She'd promised that she'd come, as soon as she'd seen to a few other matters, and he's been looking forward to this moment all evening. Bron's company is the final piece that will make Alistair's evening complete perfection.
Her smile only grows as she walks the short distance to his table and Alistair's so mesmerised by the gentle curve of her lips that he almost doesn't notice how different she looks. Her hair is not in its usual neat braid, but instead falling down her back in a thick curtain of black that bobs jauntily from side-to-side as she walks. She's wearing a dress, of all things, in a pale violet colour and with a low-cut neckline revealing the delicate embroidering of the white shirt worn underneath. The dress stops just below her knees, exposing a pair of dainty leather slippers rather than the sturdy boots Alistair would have expected. Alistair has never seen Bron in anything other than completely practical footwear; these things seem more suited for dancing than hiking.
Dancing with Bron – now isn't that an enticing thought?
He stands as she nears and pushes gently but persistently at Moira's shoulder. "Can you move aside?" he asks, "make some room for Bron?"
Moira sighs testily, though Alistair can tell from the subtle tilt of her smile that she's not really annoyed, and she shifts her chair aside without complaint before grabbing one of the spare chairs from the table behind to offer to Bron.
Bron accepts the seat, smiling gratefully at Moira before casting Alistair a reproachful glare. That was rude.
Alistair simply shrugs in return; too pleased to have Bron sitting beside him to care about etiquette.
As Bron settles in her chair, Alistair grabs a relatively clean-looking plate from among those crowding their table and starts piling on food from the various platters littered around. He grabs a couple of pies, smothering them with ladles of gravy before picking out a couple of Bron's favourite cheeses from the cheeseboard. The spread laid out before them is remarkable, and the kitchen staff have kept bringing new plates out even as the evening has stretched well passed the usual dinner-time. For the hero, they'd said when he'd asked why he was the recipient of such unexpected generosity. That had made him blush, and even his usual technique of self-deprecating humour hadn't been able to alleviate how awkward he'd felt.
And it's not just the kitchen staff; people have been treating him strangely ever since he'd returned from the Fade. The word 'hero' has been used a lot recently – for fighting at Adamant, for facing the Nightmare, for volunteering to stay behind in the Fade to allow the Inquisitor to escape, for carrying a dying Bron to safety. He's not used to such attention – certainly hadn't expected to be showered with the best foods the Inquisition has to offer and a few bottles from Varric's private stash – but despite how uncomfortable it makes him feel, it also feels sort of splendid. It makes a nice change to feel so highly valued.
Alistair presents the plate to Bron with a theatrical tada then watches with great satisfaction as she eagerly tucks in to the mountain of food. It's nice to see that she's got her appetite back. And it's nice to see colour back in her cheeks too, and warmth back in her eyes. She's made remarkable progress over the last week. After she'd awoken, she'd been insistent that she was fit enough to travel back to Skyhold and they'd left early the next day with Bron nestled safely on the scouting party's cart. A few days later she'd been well enough to ride, though only for a few hours at a time. By the time they'd returned to Skyhold, Bron was almost back to her old self, though Steve was adamant that she had to report to him every day for a check-up (and though Bron smiled and dutifully attended every appointment he arranged for her, Alistair could tell that she just wanted to be left alone).
As if summoned by Alistair's thoughts, Steve suddenly barrels through the main door of the Great Hall, eyes searching frantically across each table until at last coming to rest on Alistair's. From the way his chest is heaving, and the disarray of his robes, it's clear that he's been running at quite a pace. He hurries the last few steps toward the table then delves his hand into the pocket of his robe before revealing a small bottle which he thrusts at Bron.
"You forgot this," he says through desperate gasps of breath. "I made it just for you – my best potion yet! I mean, not the taste; that's awful. But the healing-"
"Thank you!" Bron snaps, keen to stop another one of Steve's long-winded rambles before it can truly begin. She rises from her seat to accept the proffered bottle then frowns at the brownish-green tincture swirling inside as she sits back down again.
"You're welcome!" he replies with a beaming smile then gives the assembled group an awkward little bow before turning to leave.
"Wait! Alistair cries, rising from his seat with such speed that the chair's legs squeak loudly across the stone floor. "Where are you going?"
Steve turns back, face a little startled by Alistair's sudden outcry. "I'm going back to the Mage's Quarters. I'll probably… read a book or something."
"That won't do!" Alistair bellows. "You have to join us! Varric," he gives Varric a sharp poke on the shoulder, "get this man a drink!"
The young mage tries to stammer out a refusal but Alistair won't hear it. "Nonsense – you saved my life! You saved Bron's life as well! Come, friend, will you do me the honour of having a drink with me?"
Steve's surprise quickly melts away into a bright, pleased smile as the table responds to Alistair's question with a resounding cheer, and there's only the briefest moments of hesitation before he grabs a nearby chair and joins the circle of friends in their reverie. Varric hands him a glass and he gladly accepts it, holding the brim hesitantly against his lips for a moment before finally taking a tentative sip.
"To Steve!" Alistair shouts as he raises his glass, "one of the finest Mages I have ever met!"
The Great Hall is filled with a hearty chorus of 'Steve' followed by drunken, raucous laughter and Alistair notes with delight the way the young man's cheeks are mottled with a bright, red blush. His expression is wide and open and Alistair recognises it at once because it's the same expression that he's been wearing a lot since joining the Inquisition – it's the dazed expression of someone only now realising their worth.
Varric is quick to start up again with another one of his stories, this one, luckily, not involving Alistair making a fool of himself, and Alistair soon finds himself washed away by the gentle tides of conversation. After Varric has delivered his punchline, and the table has once more erupted into laughter, Harding joins in with her own story – something involving new recruits, bears, and a long, uncomfortable night spent up a tree – and then Moira with a few stories from the days of her Templar-training. Even Bron, normally tending toward quietness when in big, noisy groups, divulges a few stories of her own, delighting the audience with some of the more scandalous fiascos from her time in Orlais.
There's a comfortable rythem to the conversation, an easy pitter-patter as the assembled group of friends talks back-and-forth, passing the role of storyteller easily between them. He doesn't want it to end, can't think of anything he'd rather do than keep on talking, keep on sharing stories, until the first hints of gold and pink start to colour the morning sky. But then someone in the Great Hall starts to play the fiddle, at first a slow, sentimental song that is largely drowned out by the lively chatter of Alistair's companions, but then something far more energetic and bouncing. The conversation stalls a little as the rapidly skipping tune proves harder to ignore and Alistair realises that perhaps – just maybe – there might be something he'd rather do than talk.
Harding is the first to stand, pushing her chair back and tugging insistently at Varric's sleeve until he relents to joining her in a dance. And Alistair is surprised to see his friend relent so readily; it may have been a few years since Alistair had last been in Kirkwall but he doesn't remember Varric being much of a dancer. To be honest, Varric doesn't seem like much of a dancer now. Either from too little practice or too much drink, the proper moves to match the fiddler's tune seem to elude Varric and instead he and Harding cavort around the room in unsteady fits and starts, accompanied by their delighted shrills of laughter.
Next is Rodney (Roland?), dropping into a gentlemanly bow before proffering his hand to Moira. She rolls her eyes at his overly-formal offer but the smile on her face as she accepts it, and the bounce in her step as she walks toward the music, betrays her happiness at having been asked. Soon most of the table is on its feet, dancing to the music with varying levels of ability (but similarly high levels of enthusiasm).
Alistair, still in his seat, leans over to Bron. "Dance with me?" he asks, a hopeful lilt to his tone (and he's not actually sure whether Bron even likes to dance; though he sincerely hopes she does).
"Absolutely," she replies warmly, turning her head to nudge her forehead against his.
He rises from his seat with a grin plastered across his face then holds his hand out for Bron's. She readily accepts, placing her hand within his before rising elegantly from her seat and following Alistair toward the impromptu dancefloor.
Alistair will concede that he's not the most skilled of dancers. Of course he knows the steps to the most popular dances but he hasn't really had the chance to practice. In fact, he doesn't think he's danced since the last time he visited Kirkwall and Isabella had given him something very suspicious to drink (which he, foolishly, had accepted) – and even that had been several years ago. Unsurprisingly, the life of an exiled bastard-King turned mercenary did not present itself with a surplus of dancing opportunities. But Alistair can move with surprising grace and control, the inevitable side-effect of being such a well-trained warrior, and as he pulls Bron closer, one hand holding hers while the other makes itself comfortable at the small of her back, there's a smug smile in place to hide the jittering thrum of nerves.
They fall into a waltz, lively and fast, and Alistair is at first very aware of his feet, eager not to burden poor Bron with yet another injury. But he soon finds himself not caring about the proper steps, or counting the beats, or anything else really as his attention is held solely by the expression on Bron's face. There's a broad smile on her lips, an unusual softness in her eyes, and she's wearing the kind of unguarded expression that he imagines few ever get to see.
He's suddenly reminded of just how fucking lucky he is.
How lucky he is to have met such an extraordinary woman. How lucky he is to have fallen in love with her, to have proven himself worthy of her affection in return. There are so many paths their lives could have taken, so many decisions he could have made differently, and it seems like such an astonishing twist of fate that they should have found themselves together in such a way.
When the fiddler reaches the end of his song, the dancers give him a well-deserved round of applause, shouting their praises while simultaneously bombarding the unfortunate man with a variety of requests for the next song.
Alistair doesn't hear any of this, too focused on the woman in his arms. She looks beautiful – her skin shining with a golden sheen in the candlelight, her eyes bright and alert with exertion, her mouth twisted into a crooked, lazy smile. The wine has stained her lips a deep crimson and he finds himself suddenly curious as to whether her lips now hold the same oaky, sweet taste as the wine.
He leans closer, curving his body around hers as he dips forward for a quick taste. His mouth is a mere whisper away from hers when she abruptly turns her head, causing him to miss her lips and press a clumsy kiss against her cheek instead.
"Not here," she gently admonishes, shaking her head to show her disapproval though smiling to show that he's not caused any genuine offence. "Not where people are watching."
He's pretty sure that no one is watching; they're all far too consumed with their own dancing and laughing and general drunken frivolity. But he doesn't want to do anything that makes Bron uncomfortable so he simply nods in understanding.
"Where then?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows provocatively.
She hesitates for a moment, and Alistair feels a flash of panic when he thinks that maybe he's crossed some sort of line (maybe the eyebrow waggling was a bit much). But his panic is quickly relieved when she leans a little closer, pressing her hips against his in what he's sure is a purposeful gesture, and whispers in his ear, "how about my room?"
He might be imagining it but her voice sounds a little huskier than normal. And her eyes seem a little darker than normal but he might be imagining that too.
Actually – he's imagined a lot of things during their many months of travel together. He's imagined what it feels like to card his fingers through long, silky hair, to watch the black strands fall against the naked expanse of her back. He's imagined what it's like to feel her calloused palms slide down his chest, to feel her hot mouth press against his flushed skin, her legs tighten around his hips.
To be honest, he's thought about her, about that, a lot. Not to creepy excess (he hopes) but certainly… enough. After all, they've been travelling together for a really long time, often in excessively close quarters (and it's not his fault that Bron always insisted that they shared a room; more cost-efficient that way apparently).
"Your room?" he asks, just to be sure he heard her correctly, and it's a little embarrassing how his voice cracks as he speaks.
She nods, peering up at him coyly through her eyelashes.
"Well… good," he says, though 'good' doesn't really convey the full gamut of emotions he's feeling. He's excited, of course, thrilled and needy but also… somewhat terrified. Actually, very terrified. Although it's not the same terror he felt before, the terror he felt with Elissa. That terror had been borne from inexperience (which has since been remedied by a number of women he'd met during his exile). Whereas this terror is borne from hope. Hope that this relationship – this one – is made to last. He may not be the same blushing boy he was during the Blight but this is Bron – and this is important – and he's terrified because he really doesn't want to fuck this up.
He hides his fear behind a smirk, a cheeky curl to his lips that fills his eyes with humour. "Because, actually, I've long been curious as to which of us has the better room. You know, I don't even have a mountain view! My room overlooks the stables and while I'm a big fan of horses, the smell-"
"Shut up, you fool," she mutters with a wearied shake of her head, swatting him playfully with the back of her hand.
And he's heard that before – fool – normally spoken with such cruel glee, the word forced out between clenched teeth. And yet when Bron says it, she somehow makes it sound strangely fond.
She steps back, looking at him with the kind of expression that makes his spine tingle, her eyes hooded, her lips curled with a smirk of her own. When she turns to stride out of the Great Hall, Alistair almost trips over his feet to follow, focusing only on her retreating back and not paying attention as to whether any of their companions note their departure.
Her hips sway as she walks, the muscles in her calves flexing with each confident step, and Alistair can't help but wonder just how far it is to Bron's bedroom. There's something strangely enticing about her movements, careful and precise, like a well-trained dancer in perfect control over every muscle. He can't help but wonder what it would take to unravel that control. Would her back quiver if he swept his fingertips down her spine? Would her knees buckle if he kissed her at the juncture of her thighs? He can feel his fingertips tingling – so desperate to reach out and touch-
No, he reminds himself, he has to wait. All he has to do is wait. All he has to do is wait until they reach her room.
They make it as far as the corridor.
When the door shuts behind them and Alistair finds himself in the relative privacy of the hallway, the raucous sounds of the Great Hall suddenly made muted and distant, he can't help but step a little closer, placing one hand on Bron's hip as he leans forward to whisper into her ear, "you know, there's no one here."
She chuckles softly, and he can feel her hair tickling against his cheek as she gently shakes her head.
"You're incorrigible," she mutters, and he's not entirely sure he knows what that means but she says it with such affection that he assumes it's a good thing.
"So does that -?"
She suddenly turns on him, wrapping her fists into the collar of his tunic to pull his head down to her height. Her expression is fiery, her eyes alight and playful, and Alistair can't help but feel something stirring, hard and wanting, at her sudden fierceness.
"One kiss, you get one kiss," she says before pushing her lips against his.
The kiss is hot and firm and insistent, a bolt of fire as her lips sear against his skin. Her fingers are still curled into the fabric of his tunic, holding him close, keeping him near enough that he can feel the heat of her body, smell the delicate lilac of her freshly-washed hair. He raises his hands, cupping her cheeks so he can tilt her head back, giving him the perfect angle to deepen the kiss.
She really does taste like wine, dark and rich, though sweeter, because it's Bron.
He's forced to break the kiss to take a few raggedy gulps of air, their breaths mingling as their lips stay tantalisingly close to each other. "If I only get one kiss," he murmurs, his low voice causing the air to vibrate in the narrow space between them, "I better make it worth it."
With a growl he pushes back against her shoulders, pinning Bron against the wall with a dull thud. She lets out a breathy gasp as her back hits stone then breaks into a feral smile, crooked and delighted, before reaching out again to grab fistfuls of his tunic and pull him in close. He wastes no time, darting forward to capture her mouth once more, teasing against her lips with his tongue until she opens her mouth with a needy moan.
His forearms are braced against the wall on either side of Bron's head, boxing her in as if shielding her from the world. His arms create a private space, a small window of intimacy that just the two of them can see.
She gives a slow, pointed roll of her hips and Alistair can't help but groan in response, feeling her smile against his lips.
Suddenly there's a clatter and a roar of cheers from the other side of the nearby door and Bron suddenly breaks the kiss, ducking under his arms to escape his reach. They both jump apart – like misbehaving children who've just been caught by their schoolmaster, faces flushed and clothes dishevelled – but there's no one there. The corridor is still empty, only the sound of their drunken friends in the Great Hall permeating through the door to fill the corridor with the muffled sounds of revelry. How easy it would have been for one of their friends to catch them, to choose that moment to leave the Great Hall and find the two of them locked together so indecorously.
It's a bit of a thrill really, and Alistair can feel a pleased tingling at the base of his spine.
Bron is smiling, her face roaring pink with blush, and then she's giggling, and then she reaches out to beckon him closer, entangling her fingers with his when he offers her his hand.
"Come on," she says, giving his arm a sharp tug, "my room's this way."
It's not enough, this one kiss. It's only given him a taster and now he wants so much more. He wants to feel that warmth again, to feel the smell of her fill his nostrils, to feel that sweet richness on the tip of his tongue. But Bron had been adamant; only one kiss.
Bron is quickly proven wrong.
There's the tender kiss she brushes against his knuckles as they slink through Skyhold's corridors. There's the wet, sloppy kisses she presses along his neck as they stumble up the staircase. There's the tender, lingering kiss she gives him when they reach the landing, their bodies pressed so close together that Alistair thinks they might melt into one.
By the time they reach Bron's room, they're both panting with want, Alistair's skin burning at every spot where Bron has pressed her lips.
She fumbles a little with the key, her hands shaking with either nerves or excitement as she clumsily fiddles with the lock. Alistair almost growls with frustration until he finally hears a light click and the door swings lazily open.
Alistair wastes no time, pushing Bron through the door and banging it shut behind them. He's only just pulled the latch shut again when Bron is on him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she presses her mouth to his lips in hot, open-mouthed kisses. He reciprocates in kind, one hand between her shoulder blades and the other at the curve of her back to hold her tightly against him as he tastes and teases with teeth and tongue.
Moonlight is streaming through the window, painting the room in soft shades of grey and violet, while the smoldering embers of a residual fire cast a faint semi-circle of orange across the floor. Alistair spots the bed on the opposite side of the room (a much larger bed than his own, he notes dimly) and starts angling Bron toward it, their feet fumbling as their entwined legs struggle to manoeuvre. But then he sees a rather plush-looking chaise-long next to the fire and while the bed certainly has the advantage of size, the chaise has the advantage of proximity.
Alistair's mind is still debating between the bed and the chaise-long when he suddenly notices the selection of tasteful paintings on the walls, the rich brocade hanging at the window, and the rather magnificent view out over the Frostbacks.
"Fuck," he exclaims, the word coming out muffled against Bron's lips, "your room is much better than mine!"
Bron's head jerks up sharply and she looks at him with a mix of bemusement and a touch of frustration. One brow is arched sharply, her nose crinkled in confusion, and she glares at him balefully for a moment before her lips twist into an amused smirk.
"Josephine must like me a lot more than you," she teases, then dips her head to feather a string of kisses along his jaw.
"That can't be true," he retorts, and there's a hitch in his voice when he feels Bron's nimble fingers start to unbutton the front of his tunic. "I don't know whether you've noticed but I am, in fact, delightful."
"Is that so?" she asks with a chuckle before leaning forward to press her lips to his chest, a gentle, lingering kiss for each patch of skin exposed by each button she pops open.
"Absolutely," he says, amazed that he's able to keep his voice so even under Bron's ministrations. "I have a sharp, rapier wit; a folksy, down-to-earth charm; excellent dinner conversatio-" his words are lost to a moan as Bron's fingers run out of buttons and ghost along the bulge in Alistair's trousers instead. His body shudders involuntarily, a curling, coiling feeling from his head to his toes. There's a burning sensation along his skin, a tingling trail where Bron has kissed a path down his chest.
She lets out a puff of laughter, stretching her body against his as her hand strokes him through the fabric of his trousers. "Any other fine qualities I should be aware of?" she asks huskily.
He can't help but smirk; she's given him far too good of an opening to resist. "I am void-shatteringly good in bed," he answers with a playful wink, his smirk broadening into a cheeky, boyish grin.
He expects her to laugh and roll her eyes. Instead she leans her head closer and whispers in his ear, "prove it."
Alistair is happy to oblige, bringing his hands up to cup her face as he leans in for a fierce, punishing kiss. He'd wanted to be forceful but controlled – he'd wanted to tempt her and tease her with finesse – but every time Bron's hand brushes against his crotch, he loses a bit more of his composure, and the kiss ends up clumsy and wet, open mouths rushing together in a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth.
The room is beginning to feel hotter, though the fireplace still only burns with the dim glow of dying embers, and Alistair is suddenly very aware that they are both wearing far too many clothes. Bron has successfully unbuttoned his tunic but the garment still hangs gaping from his shoulders and Bron is (shamefully) still fully-dressed.
He drops his hands from her face to her back, his fingers tugging clumsily at the laces of Bron's dress until it's loose enough for Bron to wriggle her arms free. When the dress hits the floor, the fabric pooling in a halo around her slippered feet, he lifts up her shirt, which slips easily over her head, disappearing into the shadows as Alistair tosses it into a corner.
Bron now stands before him in only her smallclothes, the shafts of moonlight brushing stripes of silver across her body, highlighting each curve and plane of the thick muscles beneath her skin.
Maker, she is beautiful.
She's smiling at him softly, entirely at ease under his wandering gaze, and when he catches her eye, she gives him a rather pointed glare, nodding her head to the side. Your turn.
He quickly shrugs out of his tunic then bows his head so that he can make quick work of the laces at the front of his trousers, keen to be free of the restrictive material as quickly as possible. When the laces are free, Bron's hands join his, pulling down his trousers and smallclothes together until he's completely bare. When he looks up, she's bare too, having slipped out of her own smallclothes while he'd been tugging at his laces.
For a moment they both just stand and stare, appraising each other, though not in judgement but in appreciation. This time Alistair can't help but vocalise his thoughts. "You are…" he pauses, lost for words, "incredible," he finally adds, pleased to see a small blush spread prettily across her cheeks.
She steps forward, placing her hands on his chest as she leans forward for a kiss. Their previous kisses had been hot and fierce but this one; this one is tender, loving, though no less intense. He lifts one hand to clutch a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck while the other drifts lazily down her body, skirting around the curve of one breast before caressing gently along her waist and coming to rest at the hollow of her back, fingers stroking tentatively above the swell of her bum.
He trails a path of kisses across her face, lips whispering across her cheekbones then down the sharp edge of her jaw. When he nips at the soft flesh beneath her ear she shudders, and he can feel it quivering all the way down her spine.
His grip in her hair loosens and then both hands are sweeping down to cup her below her bum before lifting her with remarkable ease, holding her against him. Bron doesn't need any prompting, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, clinging onto him for support. He carries her to the bed, placing her gently on top of the covers with a fan of pillows against her back.
With her body stretched enticingly below him, Alistair gives himself over to exploration, determined to understand every dip and curve of Bron's body. He starts off gently, palms skimming lightly, almost shyly, over her skin before he starts touching her with firmer, rougher strokes, fingertips pressing firmly into flesh as he scatters feathery kisses along her collarbone to the hollow of her throat.
One of his hands sweeps down her torso, stroking teasingly at the cleft between her thighs before pushing two thick, calloused fingers between her slick, yielding folds. She sucks in a sharp breath, her whole body tensing and back arching so that her breasts press against his chest. He smirks against her neck, delighting in the intensity of her reaction, at the feel of her body curving taut as a bow beneath him. With strong fingers he strokes against soft flesh and Bron releases her breath in a shuddering gasp that turns into a loud, unguarded moan as he curls his fingers inside of her.
He'd assumed she'd be quiet. That in this, like in all things, Bron would remain stoically silent.
He is immensely pleased to be proven wrong.
One of her hands is gripping white-knuckled at the bedsheets while the other is tugging almost painfully at his hair, her fist buried into the blonde curls just behind his ear. Her moans turn into needy little mewls when he adds another finger, then breathy little gasps as his thumb strokes at just the right spot, and then her body is suddenly wracked with a shuddering spasm and he thinks he can hear his name among her cries. He coos soothingly as her body judders with the last dwindling tremors, removing his fingers and stroking gently against her thigh instead.
Her body is soft and pliant beneath him, her head rolling back on the pillows as she pants desperately to regain her breath.
Alistair has never seen Bron this undone and he can't help but feel somewhat (well – very) smug.
When she finally opens her eyes and focuses her gaze on him, he can see a world of feelings reflected there. There's affection, and satisfaction (thank the Maker), but also a burning, blistering spark that makes Alistair throb with want, already so hard and willing from every teasing kiss and every tantalising caress.
"Alistair," she murmurs between panting breaths.
"Yes?"
She hooks a leg around his waist, digging her heel into his bum as she shifts her hips. "I need you to-"
"Yes."
He doesn't need her to finish her sentence; he can see the neediness in her eyes, feel her body thrum with anticipation beneath him.
He brings one hand to cradle the back of her head, his forearm braced against the mattress to hold his weight above her. The other hand rakes along the leg that she's crooked around his waist, fingers digging into the soft, plump flesh of her thigh.
He ducks his head down for a kiss, another one of those long, lingering kisses that draws the breath away, slow and deep and thoughtful, and then he rolls his hips forward and Bron gasps into his mouth as he slides inside of her, their bodies finally enjoined. There's a pause, a fleeting moment of stillness as their laboured breaths mingle in the narrow space between them, Alistair's eyes locked onto Bron's face so that he can memorise every detail of this moment.
And then she snaps her hips forward, an invocation for him to move, and Alistair can't help the strangled moan that's pulled from his throat as he makes that first, slow thrust inside of her, then another, and another, building up a rythem, firm and steady, each thrust of his hips matched by a roll of Bron's.
It's not how he imagined it would be. It's better – because it's real. But it's also, just, different. Bron is stronger than he imagined, taut muscles stretched beneath smooth skin, her grip strong and insistent as she holds onto him. And she's more assertive, rocking her hips to set the pace, leading his hand to touch her just where she wants to be touched. He's happy to comply; happy to do whatever it takes to coax out those breathy little moans, those needy little mewls.
He leans forward to run his tongue along her collarbone, then down, kissing and licking a path to her nipple. She hisses as he licks at her breast, first one and then the other, her fingernails digging into his back as she holds onto him.
The pace had started slow and steady, each thrust measured and deliberate, but the pace has quickened, each snap of his hips coming faster and faster as he feels the coiling heat inside of him grow. A wild, thrumming flare surges through his limbs, building in intensity until every nerve ending throbs with crackling fire. His pace becomes frantic, the room filled with the sound of snapping hips and the smack of skin against skin.
"Alistair," Bron breathes, faint and airy and so, so close to the edge, and Alistair rocks a little harder, a little fiercer, until her body suddenly snaps, every muscle turning taut, her back arching from the bed as a deep, husky cry surrounds him.
He can feel the waves of sensation rippling through Bron's body, igniting his already fraught nerves, and he gives a few final pumps before there's a crackle of fire – a searing heat followed by his own trembling release – and then Alistair is groaning with relief as ripples of pleasure sooth the burning of each nerve.
When the tingling finally subsides, the heady roar fading into a dull glow and then a cool relief, Alistair presses his forehead to Bron's. He can feel the heat radiating from her, the stickiness of her sweat-slicked skin. Then he kisses her, a little clumsily, only just catching the corner of her mouth, and she hums, sated, against his lips.
He rolls off of her with a groan, careful not to crush her as his body falls spent atop the bedsheets. He's hot, so hot, the coolness of the air giving a glad relief, and he waits a few moments for his body to cool down before seeking out Bron.
His eyes are closed, his eyelids suddenly feeling heavy with exertion, and he reaches out blindly to find her. His fingers skim against the outside of her hip and Bron's skin must still be feeling sensitive because she lets out a surprised oh as he brushes against her. His hand travels from her hip across her stomach and then to her waist, fingertips drawing a meandering path across sweaty, sticky skin. When his hand finally comes to rest, she places one of her own on top of it, her thumb stroking gently back-and-forth across his knuckles.
Once their breathing has finally steadied, a comfortable silence falls gently over the room, a cloak of stillness to match the muted greys as the moonlight gives everything a dull, silvery sheen.
Alistair had thought his evening perfect before. When it was just him and his friends in the Great Hall, when he had food and laughter and unprecedented access to Varric's personal wine collection. And then Bron had arrived, with her shining smile and her violet dress and Alistair had thought that that was perfection; that nothing could possibly make his evening better.
And now Bron lies naked beside him, her body limp from exertion and her eyes hooded with pleasure. His muscles are exhausted, his skin clammy, but he also feels a comfortable drowsiness, the cozy contentment of feeling utterly satiated. She turns her head to look at him, and she smiles, tired and happy and blisteringly beautiful, and her eyes are filled with such naked affection and happiness that Alistair feels his breath snatched away once more.
And he was wrong before; this – this is perfection.
Morning light is creeping over the Frostbacks, soft fingers of pink and violet cresting over the mountains and banishing the inky blackness of night. The colours seem to blur and run onto the white-capped peaks, daubing the icy canvas with a rainbow of warm pastel hues.
Alistair had been right last night. Bron really does have one of the nicest rooms in Skyhold; it's spectacular view being just one of its perks. She'd been given the room because she's Leliana's second, and one of the Inquisition's first members, having been a part of the movement before the Inquisition had even been declared. She even pre-dates Josephine's recruitment, and while most people pay Bron little attention – assuming she is just another one of Leliana's spies and in all ways unremarkable – Josephine seems to hold her in special regard, recognising Bron's unique relationship with Leliana and her years of loyal service.
The room is still mostly dark, last night's shadows still lurking in the corners, but beams of soft light have managed to stretch over the rug and across the bed, giving warmth to bare limbs left exposed to the chill morning air. Bron is lying on the side of the bed farthest from the window, her body stretched lazily over the sheets, head propped up on a pile of pillows, while Alistair is sprawled on his belly at her side.
She's staring at him (though she would deny that was the case should someone ask), eyes drifting from broad shoulders down to the muscled expanse of his bare back, hungrily admiring each toned limb tossed haphazardly across her bed. The shafts of pastel-coloured light seem to add definition to every cord of muscle, every dip and curve of his body. There's a strip of gold hugging his spine, a fan of yellow against his shoulder blades, and a blossom of soft pink across the round swell of his bum, as if it's blushing from embarrassment.
Maker, Alistair really does have a splendid bum.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice drowsy but content as he cranes his head up from the mattress to look at her. She hadn't realised that he was awake but it's clear from the pleased grin on his face that he's been awake for some time and knows exactly what she's been doing.
"Admiring your backside," she answers with her usual candour, deciding that a lie would be pointless now when he's so clearly caught her staring.
His smile somehow broadens. "Then by all means, carry on."
She chuckles softly, rolling her eyes and scrunching her nose in feigned annoyance at his smug tone.
And it's not like Alistair isn't doing his own fair share of staring. She can see him watching her, feel his gaze as it casts across her skin, his eyes falling from her face to her breasts and then down to the smooth planes of her stomach. His grin has softened into something lazier, something easy and pleased as he lets his eyes wander, eyes that are so open with admiration that Bron can scarcely look at them.
Then his eyes fall upon the jagged scar across her stomach and his face stiffens, the smile wavering and falling until his lips are pulled into a pursed frown.
She can understand the feeling; the scar upsets her too. It's such an ugly thing, red and angry and puckered. Steve had told her that it would likely remain until the end of her days. It would soften, most likely, and fade, but the raised line of tissue would remain, a constant reminder of just how close she was to death.
She hates it; she hates that she will never be rid of it.
And it's not that Bron is a vain woman, she's not, but because it's an indelible reminder of her failure. Bron's been injured before – many, many times before – but never seriously, never in a way that would leave a permanent mark. Bron is in fact very proud of her record in largely avoiding battles, succeeding in her missions through coercion and subterfuge rather than belligerence. And when she does get into fights, Bron is very proud of her record in largely winning battles. The scar is an unsightly blot on that record and one that she would rather be rid of.
"I hate it," she murmurs, largely to herself, and she keeps her eyes on the scar even as Alistair jerks his head up to look at her.
"I hate that you were hurt," he says, then lifts his hand to run his fingertips along the raised line of bumps, "but this… this isn't so bad. I have far worse."
He's right, of course. Alistair's skin is a web of scars, some old and long-healed, some far fresher, standing pink and persistent against the dark golden tone of his skin. And Bron doesn't mind the scars on his skin (though her heart aches for how one man could endure so much punishment) – they don't look like failure when they're on Alistair's skin, only her own.
She knows that it makes no sense. She knows that she's just punishing herself for failing to live up to an impossible standard. But that doesn't stop the sharp, yanking feeling at the pit of her stomach every time she sees that little angry line of furrowed skin.
"I hate it," she says again, then sighs with frustration, "I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have let myself get stabbed."
"No one lets themselves get stabbed," he says, fingers still ghosting gently along the slightly curving scar, "stabbings just happen."
"It shouldn't have happened," she grouses petulantly, stubbornly refusing to let Alistair's words cheer her up. "If I'd been stronger, if I'd seen the demon, if – it shouldn't have happened."
"No it shouldn't have happened," he says, and while Alistair's voice had been soft before, attempting to soothe, there's now a strange determination in his tone. "You shouldn't have been stabbed by a demon. You shouldn't have even been in the Fade. You should have left me to die and left with the Inquisitor to safety. But instead you stayed – because you're an incredible, selfless, ridiculous woman – and then you got hurt. Hurt badly. Because you did a wonderful thing to save someone who certainly would have died otherwise. You are not weak because you have this scar; this scar proves how strong you are."
Bron's heart is doing this strange flippity-flapping thing and she marvels at how Alistair always seems to find the words that are – just right.
"You are wonderful," she says.
"I know," he retorts smugly, "I told you last night, remember?"
"Ah yes – your rapier wit and folksy down-to-earth charm."
"Exactly."
They laugh, and the sound pushes out into the room, vanquishing the melancholy thoughts like the morning sun banishing the shadows from the corners of the room.
Alistair is still running his fingertips across her skin, tracing idle patterns along her stomach as he runs his fingers down her scar then around her belly-button. He pulls his fingers between her freckles, connecting them all dot-to-dot, and Bron wonders whether the movement is just random or whether he's drawing imaginary constellations across her stomach.
It's peaceful, she thinks, this quiet moment, just the two of them, no one speaking but just… enjoying the nearness of each other. And she knows it will be far too fleeting – that the memory will turn into just a brief snapshot amongst a million other little moments in time.
Bron thinks idly that they should move. The sun is now peering above the mountaintops, drenching the stables and the training yard in a startling, vivid white, and Bron can already hear the familiar sounds of Skyhold as the fortress begins to awaken. There's the creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as the merchants set up their stalls for the day, and the whinnying of horses as Dennet and his stable-hands start the morning feeding.
Yes, they probably should move. Except Bron's body would really rather stay sprawled in bed, heavy and happy. Her limbs are exhausted from last night's exertions, first the dancing and then… everything else. They'd only slept in fits and starts, waking up to press feverish kisses to drowsy lips, to sweep curious hands over tantalising expanses of flesh. The night had not seemed long enough and sleep had just seemed like a waste.
Now they are sated and spent and just… too fucking tired.
So – no – she's not moving. Not for anything. Not even if Corypheus himself came knocking on the door of Skyhold's Great Hall. He'd just have to wait. Because Bron won't let anything ruin this perfect moment.
Well… anything, except for one tiny, niggling question.
Something's been bothering her since the Fade, something which she can't seem to get out of her mind. And at first she'd been able to concentrate on her injuries, focus on getting better, on healing – except she's better now and she can't put it off any longer. She needs to know.
"Alistair?" she asks, and her voice is small and tentative, anxious in case what she says next somehow ruins this perfect, peaceful moment.
He hums in response, hmm?
"Back in the Fade, when I…ugh – when I…"
"Tried to kill me?"
"Yes… that…"
He smiles, playful and crooked, eyes alight with unexpected humour – she's never going to live that down.
"You said…" she pauses, steels herself, tries again, "you said you loved me."
She can feel Alistair stiffen, his fingers stopping in their lazy circuit between her freckles. She wishes she was better at reading people (though she's better at reading Alistair than other people), wishes she could understand what that tension signals. Maybe he'd said it in error? Maybe it was just a ruse to break her from the demon's thrall? In that case, he probably hopes she hadn't heard.
But she had heard, and now she needs to know.
"Did you… did you mean it?" she asks.
He jerks his head up to glare at her reproachfully, clearly affronted by what he considers to be a preposterous question.
"Of course I meant it," he says, "I still mean it." The hand that had been brushing along her stomach now rises to cup her cheek, holding her face in place so she has no choice except to look at him. "Bron, I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved another living being in my entire life. I love you so much… it fucking astounds me."
"Oh," she murmurs, and even she can tell that it's a thoroughly underwhelming response. Alistair, remarkably, does not look disappointed or angry (though she would not blame him if he did), only content and calm, staring at her with a level of affection she's not sure she deserves.
She knows she's supposed to say something back; she's supposed to match Alistair's words with a love declaration of her own. And she knows that she does care for him – so fucking much – but is it love? How would she know if it was?
Sure, she thinks of him all the time, misses him when he's not around. She aches when she thinks of something happening to him, hurts when she thinks of losing him for good. His smile immediately brightens her day, his words magically banish all of her doubts and fears. When he's near her, she feels stronger, she feels like she's a better version of herself. He doesn't even need to touch her, doesn't even need to say anything, just his presence alone makes her feel like she could walk through life without ever faltering.
Shit – that seems an awful lot like love.
"Well… I-" she pauses, hesitates, her thoughts still so loud in her head that she can barely concentrate on summoning words.
"No," he interrupts, shaking his head while a gentle smile plays at his lips. "You don't have to say it back. Not now – just… when you're ready. I can wait."
Her heart does that flippity-flapping thing again and her own smile spreads from cheek-to-cheek. He's letting her wait; letting her wait until she's absolutely sure. And it's such a small thing – but such a glorious thing – to feel freed from expectations, to not have to worry about what she's supposed to do but rather what feels right for her.
Bron has never been in love before but she's pretty sure that this is it. This is love. And now she'll wait, until she's absolutely certain, because these things, once they've been said, can't be unsaid. And she doesn't want to say anything that she'll just have to take back later – doesn't want to say anything unless she means it for forever.
So she'll wait until it's right – just a little longer – and she knows that Alistair will be right there waiting for her.