fadewalk | RP: Zevran

Maker, this day (was it day? It was tricky with the sky in its state, though it had been darker for a while at least) was just getting better and better. Alistair shook his head again as he ambled down the hallway.

This was what Alistair got for falling in line behind the first person who looked like they knew where they were going who wandered by. They go remanding themselves to justice as if that were a thing and they thought anyone else here had a better grip on reality than they did. Wasn't the whole point that reality seemed to have completely fallen apart?

"Maybe someone will lock me up next. At least then I could have a nap." He stopped at a set of intersecting corridors that also had stairwells leading both up and down and groaned softly. "Whoever designed this place was completely, utterly insane." One of these branches would take him to the storeroom where things like blankets and dry rations were kept. The others... certain death?

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Zevran just tipped his head at Alistair. "Maybe is better than no," he decided.

"Well, we're looking for the War Room." Alistair folded his arms. "You've been crawling all over this place. Do you know where we're going?"

"Yes," Zevran said, "but you see my trouble: if I stop following you, my view will be much diminished."

"If you're just staring at my-- my backside you can lead for once!" Alistair reached to turn Zevran, both broad hands on his slighter frame, closing firmly over his shoulders and giving him a little nudge (the wrong direction). "Go on."

"If you wished your turn to stare, you only need have asked," he tsked sadly...turning and slipping past Alistair to go the right direction without pointing out the slip. "Here, I will put on a show for you."

Zevran settled into a willowy sway trained into him by his masters.

Alistair wasn't blind, and he wasn't stupid, and he'd been a Templar recruit for many years, had in fact gone through puberty around other young men with bodies shaped by training and fighting and... well, he'd noticed men before.

He'd even noticed Zevran before. How could he not, with the teasing and flaunting to whoever might be looking.

But this was just aimed at Alistair, and he felt his pulse suddenly pound in his throat.

He stood there staring, trying to throttle back the infuriated noise he'd wanted to make. A grunt, that was all he gave at Zevran's swaying walk, the mesmerizing roll of his hips. It wasn't different, this teasing, but it felt different with the brush of Zevran's lips still burning on his cheek.

It wasn't until Zevran was almost around a corner that Alistair realized he wasn't following, was in fact just staring that he lurched into a trot.

Zevran allowed himself a slightly (all right, more than slightly) smug smile, but he swallowed it back to nothing before Alistair could see. He was tempted to really put on a show but decided for once to resist that temptation. "The castle has very many very interesting rooms," he mused. "Like the Inquisitor's bedchamber. Have you seen it?"

Alistair glanced sidelong at Zevran from just off his left shoulder, trying to breathe steadily and let the red fade from his cheeks. "No? Why were you in the Inquisitor's bedchamber?"

"Because it was locked," Zevran said with surprise, as if Alistair had asked why he took a breath. "There is a long stair leading to her door, with all sorts of interesting weak points going down down down through the tower insides. It is a good thing I am not here to kill her, no? It would be a shame for it to be made so easy on me."

"Of course, because you are always so very good at opening locked doors." Alistair's grin turned cheeky, possibly even fond, though he wouldn't admit it. Watching Zevran fiddle and grumble over stubborn locks were among his best memories of traveling with Elissa during the Blight. Which should tell a person about just how bad the Blight had been, he supposed.

"I suppose it depends on my motivation. I do so love picking stubborn locks when I am motivated." Zevran somehow made that sound utterly filthy.

Then he pointed. "Is that the door we are needing?"

Alistair gave the assassin a flat look. "You go sneaking into peoples bedrooms to kill them. That's not a... you can't just make everything sound like-- nevermind." He pulled the key out once more, brushing by Zevran lightly to unlock the door.

Zevran chuckled, inordinately pleased with himself. "I do not always sneak into bedrooms to kill," he promised, slipping with Alistair into the room where the weapons and armor and enchanted gear had been stored. They closed the door immediately behind them. "I will sneak into your bedroom some night very soon to prove it, yes? You would like this, my friend."

"I've heard I snore very loudly. I probably wouldn't even notice you, all sneaky-quiet." The best way to guarantee Zevran to do it would be to protest loudly, right? Alistair looked sidelong at the assassin as he walked over to the sheaf of notes that had Cullen's inventory.

"So you would sleep undisturbed as I slipped into your room, into your bed, and curled close to share heat all through the night," Zevran purred. "At least until you woke tangled in fine elven limbs and silken sheets. There is no downside to this I am seeing. Perhaps I will share your bed tonight after all."

"I'd threaten to eat a barrel full of raw onions first but you'd probably have some reason that's an aphrodisiac in Antiva." Alistair grumbled as he flipped a page, and then handed it toward Zevran, cheeks pinked and his brow furrowed.

"On you, my friend," Zevran assured Alistair, taking it from him, "nearly anything is sweet and surprisingly difficult to resist. Now, to adjust this inventory..."

"Just how much time in Antiva do you spend sniffing me?" Alistair huffed, then held his hands up, warding off whatever answer was forthcoming. "Nevermind. Yes, please, adjust away. I doubt my penmanship is up to forgery."

"Are you certain you do not wish to know?" Zevran teased as he looked up, a single brow arched. But he did refocus on his task. "It helps that his is so neat. This will not take long."

The problem was part of Alistair, a large part, did want to know. Most of him thought it was all a joke, that Zevran's innuendo was worded just to make him a flustered, idiot mess (which was working), and would be revealed as an innocent misunderstanding eventually. He frowned at the top of Zevran's blond head as he bent back to his task.

It was hard not to watch the nimble fingers and graceful hands at work. Alistair's frown slowly faded, replaced by a soft, absent quirk to the corner of his mouth.

Edited Date: 2015-08-09 05:27 am (UTC)

Zevran concluded his work fairly quickly--he knew exactly what he needed, and Cullen's notes were immaculate--but when he glanced up and noticed the direction of Alistair's gaze...and the look on his face...he made a decision to drag it out longer than needed.

It warmed him from the inside out, made him feel perilously close to grinning like a fool. Shameful that Alistair could do that to him, but he'd long since come to terms with that.

Finally, however, Zevran had to set aside the quill. "And finished," he said, voice husky with emotion. "All that is left is to gather our ill-gotten goods and make a successful escape. You are criminally-inclined after all, it would seem."

It was like a spell, really, one that broke when the pen left Zevran's hand. Alistair blinked and then smiled ruefully.

"Well, I'm a bastard, a deserter, and a mercenary, which I have it on good authority is only one bad job away from brigandry... banditry?" Alistair moved to the crates, shifting some of the heavier ones around without being asked, stacking them carefully so that the ones Zevran needed were accessible. "All that was left to add was theft, really. How does it feel to lead me into perdition?"

"Like the world is finally right again."

He flashed a quick, easy smile, moving to dig through the crates. "I thank you, Alistair."

Now why did that make him blush? Alistair tried not to stare at the elf like he'd grown a second head at the simple thank you. "Er, your welcome, I..." He felt too warm, like he'd done something he was taking credit for but it wasn't his due. "I should go check the hallway, make sure the coast is clear."