There's a correct and selfless answer here. And it's the answer Alistair gives, even while his heart is in his throat and he's letting go of the strands of Zevran's hair to twist and catch his hand: "Right behind you. Always. I'm sure it will get a little awkward for your lovers, sometimes, having me standing here over your shoulder, but we have a deal."
That's it. That's his line. Reliable and teasing. He squeezes Zevran's hand and lets it go, like he's supposed to, and his fingers return to combing through and parting his hair, like they should. But it doesn't sit right. Alistair's line was perfect but Zevran's wasn't—his voice too small, either trying to brave or trying to be careful of Alistair's feelings, and Alistair doesn't want him to have to do either. He crosses strands of hair once, twice, three times, trying to think, until his fingers brush the nape of Zevran's neck and he drops his hands at once and steps backward to sit on the edge of the desk again, with his palms cupped over his own knees, where they aren't violating any trust.
"No, Zev," he says, riding a burst of impulse, "I'd—I'd be fighting my way to the front of that line. And I'd fight dirty. I'd shove people off the bridge and everything." That's a lie. He'd wait his turn. Stand aside if he was bested. Cry for a few days and then stay, like he promised, except if it hurt him then Zevran wouldn't ask him to—
This is all so stupid. And now he can't take it back.
"I'm all right," Alistair says, "if you're happy. I'm happy. And we have... bigger things..." Now he's talking to himself. And he's not crying, but he rubs one eye with his knuckles, mostly as a precautionary measure. "You have bigger things. I'm sorry."
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That's it. That's his line. Reliable and teasing. He squeezes Zevran's hand and lets it go, like he's supposed to, and his fingers return to combing through and parting his hair, like they should. But it doesn't sit right. Alistair's line was perfect but Zevran's wasn't—his voice too small, either trying to brave or trying to be careful of Alistair's feelings, and Alistair doesn't want him to have to do either. He crosses strands of hair once, twice, three times, trying to think, until his fingers brush the nape of Zevran's neck and he drops his hands at once and steps backward to sit on the edge of the desk again, with his palms cupped over his own knees, where they aren't violating any trust.
"No, Zev," he says, riding a burst of impulse, "I'd—I'd be fighting my way to the front of that line. And I'd fight dirty. I'd shove people off the bridge and everything." That's a lie. He'd wait his turn. Stand aside if he was bested. Cry for a few days and then stay, like he promised, except if it hurt him then Zevran wouldn't ask him to—
This is all so stupid. And now he can't take it back.
"I'm all right," Alistair says, "if you're happy. I'm happy. And we have... bigger things..." Now he's talking to himself. And he's not crying, but he rubs one eye with his knuckles, mostly as a precautionary measure. "You have bigger things. I'm sorry."