Disclaimer: Not mine!

Warnings: Slash

There were six distinct times that Zevran realised he and Alistair were more:

The first time was when they were all sat around the fire in the Dalish camp, listening to the Elves tell us stories from their legends and past. Zevran was sat crossed-leg on the floor, as close to the heat of the fire as he could get, and he stretched and leant back in contentedness. He knew Alistair was sat behind him, was not surprised when he felt the Warden's leg against him as he leant back, but found that resting against it was far more comfortable than leaning forward. What did surprise him was that Alistair did not move as he shuffled backwards to lean more fully on the leg, nor did he move through the course of the storytelling. Zevran ignored the fact that he was basically sat at the Warden's feet all night. Alistair was panicking so much that he dared not move all night.

The second was when Alistair had broken his arm during a fight and Wynne was having trouble healing it fully. Sometimes they forgot her powers were not miracles, and she was learning new spells and talents just as they all were. As they sat in camp that morning with the usual activities going on, Zevran had sat and watched Alistair struggle to hold his smaller blade steady enough to shave, fingers flexing around the hilt accompanied by many grimaces from the man himself. Zevran had gone over, held his hand out for the blade and Alistair had wordlessly handed it over, allowing the Elf to settle in front of him and examine the tool in his hand. With a sigh, Zevran had sharpened the blade quickly and efficiently until the metal gleamed in the sunlight, holding Alistair's chin gently with long delicate fingers while the other held the blade under his chin.

"Wise? To invite an assassin hold a blade to your throat?" Zevran asked, pausing as Alistair looked down at him.

"I trust you." Zevran swept the blade up, up Alistair's throat and under his chin without hesitation, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin. It was the quickest, best and most relaxing shave Alistair had ever had. Zevran convinced himself that it wasn't a bad thing for someone to trust him, even if he was an assassin and had a blade at that certain someone's throat.

The third time was after the Crows had attacked them in Denerim and Zevran had found himself worrying for the safety of his friends against these assassins. Even as Taliesin was talking, Zevran was scouting the surrounding buildings, seeing where his companions were located and if they were listening to Taliesin or actually noticing where the remaining Crows were moving to. Zevran had taken it upon himself to take out as many of the assassins as possible, moving quicker and more deadly than he had ever done before, incapacitating one Crow after another and allowing his companions to end them. He killed Taliesin himself, the two Crows dancing around each other, employing exactly the same moves at exactly the same times, blades ringing off each other, hands and feet blurring with the sheer quickness of the movement. Zevran had finally overcome by feigning to one side then smashing the hilt of his dagger up into Taliesin's nose then slicing the Crow's throat as he stumbled back. His heart was pounding, adrenaline thudded through his veins, his friend's blood covered his hands and he grinned at his companions who stayed silent. Their leader thanked him for his loyalty, announcing his contract was terminated and he could stay or leave, entirely his own free will. He looked over at Alistair and saw fear in the Warden's eyes – fear at the possibility Zevran might leave? He felt his heart lift and agreed to stay. Alistair had never seen anyone fight with such deadly precision, move so accurately, take such delight after his foe had fallen – he finally realised how afraid of the assassin he actually was.

The fourth time was when Alistair had been sat with him on look out while the rest of the camp slept. He had asked about life as a Crow, the missions he had been sent on, the people he had killed.

"Did you ever feel bad for killing someone?"

"Once. A woman. I prefer not to talk about it."

"One of those types of stories eh?"

"No Warden. Few kill the one person they loved for no reason." They lapsed into silence for a short while.

"Was she a target?"

"She was a Crow."

"Would you ever kill one of us?"

"Perhaps. I hope never to have to make that choice." Alistair squeezed his shoulder lightly and Zevran surveyed the Warden.

"I've never spoken to anyone about her. She is why I left Antiva."

"I'm sure there were reasons for what you did."

"It was reported that she had betrayed the Crows. I agreed to let Taliesin remove her."

"Well, that's... not understandable, but I get it. That is a valid reason for your actions."

"It wasn't true, Taliesin had his information wrong, or purposefully lied. She was no betrayer." Alistair shuffled closer and inched an arm around Zevran's shoulders, rubbing gentle circles onto the assassin's arm as they sat and watched the dawn rise over the camp.

"I'm sorry." Zevran turned his head slightly and pressed a chaste kiss to Alistair's lips, surprised when the Warden did not leap away from him, stuttering madly. Alistair was surprised by the contact, but with the dawn rising and Elf's presence against his side, he did not feel the need to be worried by it.

The fifth time was when Alistair asked Zevran to take him. They were once again on look-out over the camp, something which they had taken to doing often and the kiss shared a week or so previously had escalated into passionate kisses, with promises of leading to more but Zevran always stopped before anything happened.

"I do not want your first experience to be with me."

"Are you that selfish actually during sex?" Alistair had replied, surprising Zevran with his cheek and sheer boldness.

"No, I am famed for my generosity, ah the things these fingers – this mouth! – could do to you." Zevran lowered his mouth to Alistair's neck as his hand slid under the Warden's loose armour. "But I repeat, not with me. I am not the right one to experience this with."

"I trust you." Alistair shrugged off his armour completely, kneeling beside Zevran in nothing but his underclothes and the assassin could not help himself. The arousal radiating from Alistair, the exciting fear that was in the man's eyes, the shaking hands that reached up to remove Zevran's leather armour, made heat pool in the Elf's groin and he pushed Alistair to the ground. Alistair's cries and pleas that could surely be heard throughout the forest, never mind in camp, were liquid gold in Zevran's ears and he devoured every inch of the Warden eagerly to draw more of those delicious sounds out of him.

The last was when the rest of the group cornered them about their relationship, with accusations thrown at the Elf, ones full of cruel implications and unsavoury nature. Forced, innocent, hateful, poor Alistair, sick, unfair, forced, cruel.

"Stop." Alistair stood up and took his place next to Zevran. "None of what you say is true, and I can't believe you can think such of him." The Warden turned to his lover and smiled at him. "I did something, last night." Alistair removed his helmet, turning his head slightly to the side, and Zevran's golden earring caught the sunlight as it hung from his ear.

"Oh my," Wynne whispered as the group stared at the new piercing.

"That's some nice jewellery you have," Zevran commented, trying to quash the excited bubble that was expanding in his stomach, but not able to prevent the huge grin that spread across his face.

"You always did have good taste." Alistair smiled sheepishly, taking Zevran's hand. "Hurts like hell though."

"This is pointless." Sten stony voice broke through the group, accompanied by the Qunari's heavy footsteps as he retreated to the other side of the camp.

"This isn't," Zevran whispered, capturing Alistair's lips in a quick kiss.