Emma was weak, after everything, and could hardly sit up, so he understood why Wynne insisted she should not travel. Alistair caught her with a grunt that would’ve been embarrassing if she hadn’t been distracted by much bigger problems.
“Right,” he muttered, adjusting his grip. “This is happening.”
Carrying someone down a spiral staircase while wearing full plate armor is an experience exactly no one should have. The metal shrieked at every movement. His pauldrons scraped stone. Emma’s head lolled against his chest plate with each step.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
“I’m starting to agree with Irving,” he said, mostly to fill the horrifying acoustics, “these towers are a bad idea. Who builds these things? Sadists?”
Emma made a noise that might’ve been agreement or might’ve been pain. Hard to tell. Her eyes cracked open, unfocused.
“You’re… loud.”
“I’m loud? I’m wearing the loudest outfit in Thedas. This is a walking bell tower. This is—” He paused mid-rant, adjusting his grip as they rounded another turn.
The stairwell seemed to go on forever. His arms burned. His back screamed. But at least it was a distraction from having recently watched Emma die.
“You know,” he said, because his mouth apparently couldn’t stay shut, “the last time I carried you, we were jumping out a window. This is somehow worse.”
Her fingers caught on his mail, hooking there, trying to remember the last time he held her against his plate.
“At Ishal,” she said slowly. “You grabbed me.”
Alistair begging her to make a decision that should’ve killed them both. The darkspawn pouring in. Emma turning to face them.
Without Flemeth’s rescue, they would have splattered on the cliff.
But he was correct.
“At least that was quick. This is just—” Clank. Clank. “—endless suffering. With acoustics.”
A sound that might’ve been a laugh fogged against his breastplate. He’d take it.
Then she said: “That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“You’d keep doing stupid things. And I’d have to keep you alive.”
He laughed despite himself.
They were halfway down—he hoped they were halfway, Maker let them be halfway—when they took a break on the landing. He gently put her down, sitting against the wall, and sat next to her. It was probably the worst time and place… but he had to say something before he left her behind, in this awful tower.
“I know it might sound strange…” He paused and started again. “We haven’t known each other very long. But I’ve come to care for you. A great deal.” The armor still clanked. He tried not to move too much. “I think it’s because we’ve gone through so much together. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m—”
He backed out of that sentence and came in from another side: “Am I fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever… feel the same way about me?”
Emma blinked at him. She slowly focused on his face like she was working out a complicated problem.
“You’re asking,” she said carefully, “if I care about you?”
He nodded. And held his breath. His stomach constricted horribly.
“Of course.” She sounded tired. Confused. Hoarse. “Of course I care.”
He let go of the breath. The knot in his stomach loosened.
Emma: “You–You really didn’t know?”
“I had to check. I’m wearing eighty pounds of metal and my arms are about to fall off. Give me a break.”
“Now you know. Don’t forget it.”
They should go. He really should’ve picked her up and continued their nightmare descent. But instead she reached out, fingers hooked over his gorget, and pulled him down to press her lips to his forehead. Brief. Warm. Deliberate.
When she withdrew, he was fairly certain his brain had stopped working. For a second, he just stared at at her.
People were below them, far below. Gone ahead. They were alone. The stairwell echoed around them. Empty, it was waiting for him to say or do something clever. Then, because apparently some part of him still functioned, he exhaled, focused.
“So I fooled you, did I?” he grinned. “Good to know.”
Emma frowned, “Wha—?” with that confused expression. He tended to have that effect on her, lately.
He didn’t let her finish.
Maybe it was the stairwell. The long echoes. The fact that he was about to carry her down into whatever came next and had no guarantee either would walk out of it. Maybe it was the way she’d said of course like it wasn’t even a question.
Whatever it was, it snapped. He leaned in and kissed her.
A real kiss.
It caught her completely off guard. He felt it in the way she stilled, the brief, sharp intake of breath against his mouth, the second where she didn’t move at all.
Then she did.
Her hand tightened on the metal at his throat. She pulled him closer instead of pushing him away. That was the permission he got, and apparently all he needed.
There were numerous constraints he regretted. The angle, the armor, the cold stone. But he adjusted, one gauntleted hand against the wall beside her, the other steadying at her side as the kiss deepened into something inexplicable.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t especially smooth, either. But it was passionate and it was certain. Sure in a way he hadn’t been about anything since… well, since before Ostagar.
When he finally pulled back, it was abrupt, like he’d just remembered where they were. Or what they were supposed to be doing.
Alistair didn’t go far. Just enough to look at her, like he needed visual confirmation she was still there. She was, staring intently, almost smiling. and leaning toward him, bracing herself on his knee.
He said after a breath, his voice quiet, scraped down to something bare: “That—” He had to check. “That wasn’t too soon, was it?”
“Mmmm, I don’t know,” she released his gorget and caressed his face, lingering where her mouth had been, an echo of a sort. “We should do more testing, to be sure.”
“Well, I’ll have to arrange that, then, won’t I?” Now she was smiling, literally holding him in the palm of her hand.
Emma was smeared and dirtied by everything they’d just been fighting– they both were. Her dark hair recently grew enough to fall over her brow and stuck to her skin, the color of russet.
“Maker’s breath, but you’re beautiful.” Alistair spoke slowly, taking her in.
“Don’t remind me,” her smile became more a smirk.
“Oh, but I will.” He brushed her hair aside, locking eyes with hers. Always absorbing, now dilated though he could barely tell, gazing at him with admiration.
Or perhaps, actually probably, more than admiration.
“Shh,” she pressed his lower lip with her thumb, those dark eyes somehow sparkling and smug as she held his breath there, for just a moment. “Flatterer.”
“I can’t help it,” his voice was still rough. Heart was still pounding. “I’m a lucky man.”