Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dorian wasn’t reading. Or rather, he was, but his eyes had been glazing over the last five pages of his tome without absorbing any of it. Not that he needed to. As with any Ferelden book, any mention of his homeland had to be immediately followed by a list of all the ways in which Tevinter was terrible, all of which he’d heard before. Some books at least aimed for originality, but this was the usual rehashed saga of imperialism and enslavement. He’d have dropped the book then and there if it wasn’t one of the few historical texts in Skyhold he hadn’t yet read. Holding the book in one hand balanced on a crossed knee, he rested the other across the back of his chair as his mind began to wander from the words. The soft pad of feet and an opening door in the rotunda below dimly registered in his consciousness, the presence of the Inquisitor as she came once again to visit the apostate elf. He idly turned another page, wondering if Vivienne might be willing to part with any of the Circle tomes they’d recovered for an hour or so.

“…didn’t think we’d be doing it in the Fade. Or, for that matter, doing it in the Fade.”

Well. That kind of statement was not the sort to pass unnoticed through his ears. He snapped the book in his hand shut, slowly turning to face the banister as Solas’ chuckle floated up.

“I apologize. The kiss was… impulsive and ill considered. And I should not have encouraged it.”

By. The. Maker. Solas had kissed the Inquisitor? No, wait, the other way around. This was too much, really. They’d been eying each other for weeks but he never guessed the apostate would do anything about it. He thought he’d have to take the pair and shake them at each other himself.

“You say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue.”

Dorian practically launched himself out of his seat, springing to get a better view, but managed to stop himself before he drew too close to the railing. With exaggerated casualness, he wandered towards the table and began rearranging his pile of reference materials as the apostate sputtered in indignation at Lavellan’s comment and her subsequent teasing retort.

He snuck a glance downward. They were standing in the middle of the rotunda, near Solas’ desk, and while he couldn’t see the apostate’s face, he could make out the blush creeping across the back of his neck and bare head.

“It’s been a long time.”

I’ll bet it has, Dorian mused. Living alone in the woods for years can’t do much for one’s relationships.

“And things have always been… easier for me in the Fade. I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

No. No, no, stop that, no backtracking now you idiot. Dorian barely stopped himself from throwing the wretched book still gripped in his hand down at the fools, resorting to a silent inarticulate gesturing at the elf’s back instead. Fortunately, they were too absorbed in each other to even glance at him.

“I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

Yes! That’s the spirit, girl.

“I… maybe. Yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

Nooooo.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you. I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now, and if you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking…”

Dorian tuned the pair out as the conversation turned to spirits and old ruins, the apostate’s usual ramblings. Well. Some progress at last, even if it was technically only in the Fade. He studied them consideringly for another moment, before turning back to the table.

The Inquisition’s spymaster was approximately four inches from his face, staring him intently in the eye. It took every ounce of his self control and some he must have borrowed from her to stifle his shriek of surprise into a muffled whimper.

“Dorian.” Her whisper was low and almost threatening in its intensity.

“What—do you make noise when you walk ever, or must you sneak up on—”

“Dorian. No. Listen.” She reached up to grab him by both shoulders. “Dorian. Did you hear them. Tell me you heard them.“

“The Inquisitor and—”

“Shh!” Eyes wide, she risked a look over the balcony, but the elves below were still deep in conversation.

“All right,” Dorian obliged, lowering his voice to match hers. “Yes, I saw them. Finally taking some initiative, they’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now. I’ll bet he messes it up before it goes anywhere, though.”

“What? No! We can’t let that happen.”

The maniacal gleam in her eye was beginning to become a bit unnerving, Dorian thought. “I never pegged you for such a romantic. First I catch you trying on those frankly ridiculous slippers, and now this. Why the interest?” He turned to watch the Inquisitor depart, exiting the rotunda with—did he detect?—a certain merry bounce to her step.

“Those shoes are going to be the next big thing. Trust me. And it is my job to watch people. Curiosity is a natural advantage. Why shouldn’t I be interested in the Inquisitor’s happiness?”

“Her personal affairs are not exactly the same as whether or not the Orlesain Court is going to collapse under their civil war.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t listening just as closely as I was. I saw you. You’re invested too,” Leliana pointed out, a mischievous grin flickering across her face.

Dorian sighed, stroking his chin absently. “All right, fine, I will admit I am… interested in seeing where this may lead. But I have no plans to meddle, and neither should you.”

“I know, I know. I just wonder what’s going to happen. You said you think it won’t work out?”

“He’s spent his life paying more attention to the Fade than other people. Not to mention he lived in the woods for Maker knows how long. His idea of ‘seduction’ is probably a handful of berries and some interesting looking sticks.”

“Nooo. He can’t be that bad. Can he?”

“You’re the spymaster,” he pointed out. “You tell me.”

“Solas is... surprisingly difficult to find any accounts on, actually. Perhaps he’d be more willing to open up about his personal history if he had stronger ties to the Inquisition.”

“Aha! I knew there had to be some other angle you’re playing.”

“Oh, stop that. I just want her to be happy. Maker knows she has enough to deal with.”

“But you won’t mind the benefit of him feeling closer to the Inquisition.”

“Closer to the Inquisitor, at least,” she winked.

“Maybe she can loosen his tongue a bit more, eh?”

Neither could help snickering at that, the increase in volume enough to draw looks from Leliana’s scouts above and the apostate reading below.

“Nice chatting with you, but you’d best get back to your duties,” Dorian pointedly told the Nightengale, and headed back to his chair.

Well, he thought, maybe there are some advantages to this open layout after all.

Chapter Text

Over the next three weeks, an incredible amount of nothing happened. Solas sat in the rotunda, slowly transforming the walls into fantastic murals with his frescoes; and the Inquisitor continued to direct their efforts against Corypheus. Dorian would have believed they’d quietly agreed to forget all about their brief affair, except he at least could see the way they keep glancing at each other when they thought no one was paying attention. It was sickening, really, how adorable they acted when the other wasn’t looking.

It was also infuriating that both seemed willing to wait indefinitely.  Don’t they know the world is ending? he fumed to himself, eavesdropping as they chatted idly about spirits and the Fade and whatever other nonsense. And so, despite his cautioning Leliana against the every same thing, he couldn’t help but poke at the pair’s tenuous relationship.

It wasn’t difficult. Lavellan seemed to be going out of her way to spend time with him, always asking to borrow a book or for more details about life in Tevinter. Conveniently, of course, this also gave her the chance to say hello to Solas on her way. Dorian didn’t begrudge her for the pretense of her visits; far from it—she was charming and witty, and he enjoyed their conversations greatly despite her ulterior motives.

On one such morning, she dropped in to return a history on spellcasting to him, climbing up the stairs after a lingering “good morning” with the elf below.

“Inquisitor!” he greeted her with enthusiasm. “Fancy meeting you here. And what brings so radiant a being to speak with me today?”

She laughed at his usual dramatic flair. But far more interesting was the way Solas briefly stopped his incessant writing at his desk, as her giggle floated through the rotunda.

“I’m just here to bring this back,” she replied, handing him the heavy tome. “It was—interesting. Very different from what I was taught about magic, at least.”

“Oh, I’m certain,” he responded, mind whirling frantically. “Although you have a particular finesse that would rival any circle mage, and half the Imperium, even.”

She scoffed at his praise, and again—from below—he heard the scritch of quill on paper suddenly halt, before continuing with an increased ferocity.

He risked a quick glance below as Lavellan replied, delighted to see the faintest of furrows creasing Solas’ brow.

“Only half? I imagine you’re one of the ones I don’t rival, then?”

“My dear, if all mages from home had my charm and grace, no one would have wanted to rebel, and we’d be having this conversation in Tevine. No—be glad that I am but a bright spark among so many fading embers.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I’ll talk to you later, Dorian.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he replied lasciviously, with a wink. And oh, the sweet sound of a quill tip snapping, and the faint curse from below as blotches of ink ruined whatever page Solas had been working on.

Dorian smiled to himself as the Inquisitor departed. So. Solas was bothered when he flirted with her, even if he knew it was only good-natured fun. The elf was so collected and reserved—it must just about kill him to hear Dorian so casually flower her with praises, when he couldn’t seem to do it himself. Perhaps hearing a few more would finally kick some initiative into the man. Dorian grinned smugly to himself, watching the apostate pull out a fresh sheet of parchment in irritation.

This was going to be fun.

Lavellan continued to visit him often—and each time, he increased his playful flattery. 

            “Always with the questions, tsk tsk … what will people say?”

            “Ah, a vision of loveliness! To what do I owe this good fortune?”

            “Always a sight for sore eyes.”

Dorian couldn’t always gauge Solas’ reactions, bur he didn’t need to. He had his gambit, and he was going to enjoy it. The somber apostate could use some irritation to get his blood pumping, if the Inquisitor herself wasn’t enough—which Dorian had a hard time believing, knowing her. Honestly, the confusing part was what she saw in him. Oh, he was clever and skilled and astoundingly knowledgeable, but he was also aloof and arrogant and surprisingly sharp-tongued. Not to mention his hair—that was to say, his lack of it. If anyone knew the power of careful grooming, it was Dorian. Besides—the man could conceivably be almost twice Lavellan’s age. He wondered if it might just be an elf thing. Solas did seem a fair bit broader in the shoulders than any elf he’d ever met, but—he’d learned not to put much stock in the usual Tevinter assessment of elves.

However, Dorian did like Solas, in a slant and prodding sort of way. The Inquisitor could certainly do far worse for herself, and honestly, this was the time to size at any scrap of happiness available. So shove the idiots towards each other he would continue to do. 

             “Here I thought we were just getting to the good part.”

            “Then I’ll go back to being the first and second prettiest in the room.”

            “So long as you promise to return.” 

One day after she departed after his ardent reply, and he glanced down to ensure Solas is suitably annoyed; he picked up his book as usual. But as soon as he had settled back into his chair, with an explosion of feathers and a heart-stoppingly loud craaw, a raven careened over the banister and nearly smashed into the window. It stopped itself just in the nick of time by falling gracelessly into his lap.

With a yelp, he shoved at the feathery heap, which righted itself at the last moment while tumbling to the ground. Ruffling its wings, the bird hopped up onto the bookshelf, and eyed him warily. As it stuck out one scrawny leg, he realized that there was a message attached.

Curiously, he unfurled it, nervously watching the bird’s sharp beak as he did so. The note was short, written in a curling, graceful script:

            Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. –L.

Immediately, he turned to glance at the floor above. He just managed to glimpse a flash of red hair before Leliana ducked out of sight.

Really?! he wanted to shout up to her. The bloody birds?

He forced himself to bite his tongue, hastily scrawling a reply on the back of her note.

            Are we REALLY doing this?

Cautiously, he tied the message back onto the bird’s proffered leg. It gave him a reproachful look, before hopping over to the railing and soaring back up into the rafters. He did not have to wait long for the Spymaster’s flight-driven reply.

            What was that you said about “not meddling”? Besides, I haven’t done anything yet. –L 

The “yet” was a touch concerning, but he would have to confront that later. 

            I meant with the birds. It’s only one flight of stairs.

The disgruntled raven departed, and returned, this time crashing into the side of his chair.

            Oh. Well, I didn’t want them to see us talking together too much. They’ll suspect we’re up to something. And no one can eavesdrop this way. –L

Because sending an enormous black bird shooting through the air above was really that less noticeable than two companions having a quiet conversation? Dorian shook his head. He liked Leliana—quite a lot—but sometimes he worried about her thought process.

            If this is your idea of subtle, I cannot fathom how you managed to become Spymaster, of all things.

By her next reply, the bird seemed to have given up on finding a decent landing spot. For a moment it looked as though it intended to perch atop his head; but his murderous glare at the approaching animal seemed to convey even to its tiny brain that “blackbird pie” could be the only future to emerge from that scenario. With a displeased caack, it dropped to the floor again, before fluttering close enough to untie the latest missive.

            Baron Plucky is wonderfully intelligent, and can be very discreet. Anyway, you still haven’t told me what you’re up to. –L

Dorian eyed the raven, now preening itself on the edge of his chair. If anything, it looked ready to pluck out an eye, though he doubted that was her intent when she named it. With a sigh, he picked up his pen.

            This isn’t meddling. Meddling would be whatever strange and surreal circumstances you were hoping to throw them into to ignite them. This is me being irritating enough to force him to admit he’s jealous. Then maybe he’ll do something on his own. 

“Go on, then,” he muttered, shooing the bird with a wave of one hand. “If you’re so clever, bring it to her quietly, then.”

Baron Plucky glared at him reproachfully, clacking its beak open and closed a few times, before flapping down off his armrest. Then, to Dorian’s astonishment, it proceeded to casually walk across the floor of the rotunda, strutting beneath Helisma’s unconcerned feet before it vanished up the staircase in a few short hops.

Dorian found the whole ordeal vaguely distressing. He had never been overly fond of nature, and now he was certain he wouldn’t ever be able to relax around the animals of Skyhold again. But Leliana seemed to find his last reply satisfying enough—or Baron Plucky had begun staging some sort of bird’s rights coup—because no more messages were forthcoming. Stretching, he settled back into his chair to continue reading, and smugly awaited the Inquisitor’s next visit.

To his credit, it took only five days before Solas caught on to his game. The first time he felt the elf’s disapproving from on his back, he gave him a cheery wave. But the next time when Dorian followed it up with a knowing wink, Solas’ eyes widened, before his mouth pursed into a thin line and he turned away. But being discovered only made the pastime more enjoyable for Dorian, now that he had a properly attentive audience.

            “Illustrious Herald! Of Andraste and our hearts.”

            “For you, my dear? Anything.”

            “You know where I’ll be.”

With each flirtation, Solas grew visibly more annoyed, although Dorian doubted there were many who would be able to tell. Lavellan seemed to find his increased flattery amusing, and he half-suspected she was aware Solas could overhear it, even if she didn’t realize Dorian was doing it on purpose. Either way, she was clearly unoffended, and he tooks it as permission to continue.

 After a full two weeks and almost a dozen conversations, he decided it was time to end his diversion. If Solas hadn’t taken the hint by now, he never would. He seized his chance the next time Lavellan paused to say hello, on her way to return a found circle tome to Lady Vivienne. After a few routine pleasantries, she waved goodbye, heading towards the side door of the floor.

“I do rather like watching you LEAVE,” he called after her, but turned to lean over the banister as he shouted, grinning gleefully at the silently fuming elf below. Balanced on the edge of the railing, he considered the apostate.

“You could give it a go, you know,” he advised the man as Lavellan vanished through the door on her way to the Madame de Fer. “Maybe if you flirted with her, she’d do more than laugh at your jokes.” He knew full well they had already more than “just laugh”—but if they still thought that was a secret, Dorian saw no point in revealing that he at least knew.

“Who the Inquisitor wishes to spend time with is her personal business,” Solas snapped, pretending to pay studious attention to whatever manuscript lay before him.

“Whatever you say,” he replied archly. “It doesn’t hurt anyone to be generous with compliments, is all I’m saying. But there’s no need to be jealous of my affection,” Dorian retaliated, favoring Solas with a mischievous grin. With that, he pushed himself back onto the floor, brushing invisible flecks of dust from his robes before retreating to his usual alcove. But not before he saw Solas’ indignant expression turn into a thoughtful frown.

Satisfied, he picked out a new book, and began to read.