Characters: Zevran, Wynne
Pairing: Zevran/ Wynne
Rating: T. Nothing graphic at all.
Summary: After all is done, and the war is over - Wynne still can't stop pushing herself to exhaustion. A friend will help her.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
"You shouldn't be here."
She didn't ever turn, there really wasn't any need. He didn't make any sound, but after a year on a road together — and so many, many battles — her magic knew him perfectly.
He wasn't newly injured and old wounds were healing quite well. Very good that, thought Wynne, if an attack comes now, he will most probably need attention only in a last quarter of the battle...
Then she remembered that war was over.
"You shouldn't be here either," he said. "What are you doing at the Chantry?"
Bed creaked. The nerve of the man!
"I'm a healer. I heal. And that is my room. So, unless you need healing, you should leave me to take some rest."
She finally put her book down on the table, turned. He was sitting on her bed, head tilted, smile shining.
"Why, dear Wynne, I do need healing! My heart is broken by your rejection. And you have a purely... magical remedy for it... Two, in fact."
His gaze, directed on her bosom, was all heat and lust.
Sweet Maker, she would have never believed that this... scoundrel fought Archdemon, if she herself didn't see him on top of the black dragon, plunging his blades deeply in its neck, grinning through blood and pain.
"Be serious, Zevran."
"Why should I?" he laughed. "The Blight is over, we saved the world, everyone is alive, we should celebrate!"
"We did," she said. "I do believe Oghren is still sleeping our celebration off."
"I'm not talking about Oghren. I'm talking about you."
"I distinctly remember that I did, in fact, celebrate," she said. "Even more than should be wise. And you know it, because you teased me about it next morning!"
"Ah, apologies for that. That was my cruel assassin's side. Not fully tamed, I'm afraid. But the right hands could well accomplish it, no?"
And she had to chuckle at the vision of his crestfallen face.
"But why?! And here I believed we finally overcame our differences, after all we have been through!"
They have been through nightmare and back. But just as she remembered blood, broken ribs, filth and darkness, his dirty jokes came to mind — his almost sacrilegious levity in the darkest hours and for the first time she wondered how would she fare in the Deep Roads without his constant pestering.
He was so young, seemed even younger than usual without his armor. Just a kid, really.
She stood up, came to him — his eyes lit up — and hugged him tightly.
It was all chaste for a moment, then she felt a strong hand caress her neck and slowly move down along the spine.
Impossible man. She sighed and pushed him off.
He broke the embrace, but as his face was near hers, suddenly moved in, and stole a kiss. And in the next second evaded her slap — laughing. She sighed again.
"Really, Zevran. I told you, I'm not interested. Do you ever relent?"
"Rarely," he grinned. "But just explain it to me - why exactly are you not interested?"
"You are not my type."
"Ah, you're such a tease, you. Believe me, I'm everybody's type."
"And everybody is yours it appears."
"Not everybody. I mean, Howe for example... I do have some standards!"
"That's reassuring to know."
"You will be in an excellent company, my dear, believe me."
She should be scandalized and show it, but... oh Maker, she was in a middle of a nightmarish, wounded, bleeding Denerim for almost a week now and didn't realize how much she missed this. This irreverence, this blatant disregard for her age. This ability of his to just appear from the thin air when she was about to be put to a sword and deal with the problem.
She was about to fall apart. She was...
"You are not dead," he said. She met his eyes, startled, and he just smiled. "Wynne, you shouldn't be. Even if the Blight is over. You have the right to be alive. Without a purpose."
Young face, full, sensual lips. Honey eyes. From behind a whore's face a warrior was looking at her, seeing through her.
"I'm already dead."
A hand came against her cheek, caressed lightly.
"You breathe, you are warm, you talk, you eat, you shit — I say you're alive."
She laughed — half-laugh, half-sob.
"I'm an abomination. I shouldn't exist."
"I'm a renegade Crow. I shouldn't exist either. Let's go throw ourselves from the Fort Dracon?"
"I know. It's your body, dear Wynne, and it's alive. Wants to be alive. Feel it."
"Stop. I'm old."
"Magnificent. Do you feel...?"
"You're a wonder, dear, dear Wynne. Wonder. Do you feel — that?"
"You... Stop. Please."
"...Zev. Zevran. Stop. Now. Stop."
He recoiled, put a distance between them and looked at her with concern.
"No," she interrupted, "no, no. You didn't. But you shouldn't... do this."
"Even if I want to?"
"I'm an old woman. I know it. I know exactly how not attractive I am under my robes. And you... It's not right."
"You are hardly molesting me, my dear," he laughed easily, but the concern didn't leave his eyes. "It's more other way around."
"For Andraste's sake, Zevran! I know — I know! — you don't love me. You shouldn't treat yourself like this. You are not some potion I have to take to feel better!"
"And why not? Don't I make you feel better?"
"You deserve more."
"Deserve — what exactly? A happy ending?"
"Dear Wynne," he said, without a smile for once, his voice flat and tired. "My happy ending is sitting on Ferelden's throne near our fair king and will never spare me a thought."
"My dear, I..."
"I wanted to give her everything I am, but it was — unsurprisingly — not enough. I'm not much. But if I can be your potion, I'd like to. I would like to give you some... happiness. If I can."
She suppressed her tears and touched his cheek, tracing the tattoos.
"You are impossible."
He smiled, moving nearer. Leaning towards her.
..."And I'm still old," she gasped, coming for air after a long kiss.
"You are you," he said. "And by the way... don't you feel the potion's effects already?"
She laughed and pulled him on top of her, drinking him deeply. If he was a potion — he surely was an elixir of eternal youth.