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She was always under the impression that their first kiss had been in the Fade. In truth, that was the one he counted as their first, as it held meaning for both of them. Kisses shared and then forgotten the following morning were something to be discounted. He never brought it up with her in order to save her the embarrassment, but he remembered the first time she pressed her lips to his in vivid detail.
Bull was quite literally carrying her – Solas imagined that when their journey from the tavern had begun, his arm had been around her delicate waist as a way to support her steps, yet by the time they reached the rotunda she was so far slumped over that he held her much like one would a loose sack of flour, her feet only barely gracing the floor in a flawed attempt to mimic proper walking. Bull was drunk – that much was obvious – yet sober enough to still look sheepish as Solas shot him a quizzical glare.
“Heeey, Solas,” he said, his tongue lazy in how it shaped the words. “Um, so. Learned something new. Don’t challenge Isii to a drinking contest.”
“Damn right,” she muttered, her head still slumped towards the floor. At least she’s still conscious, Solas thought grimly.
“Not cause she’ll win,” Bull continued, letting her fall onto the couch, “but cause she doesn’t have the common sense to stop when she can see she’s already lost.”
“Hey!” she objected, her voice muffled into the cushions as she awkwardly rolled herself over, a tangle of disorganized limbs. “I didn’t lose. I matched you drink for drink.”
“Right,” Bull said, unimpressed. He glanced over at Solas. “You, uh, gonna fix her up, right?”
Solas closed the book he was reading with an irritated thud. “Are you honestly asking me to manipulate the delicate balance of ancient and unseen forces that make up the very fabric of existence simply to cure your foolishness with a wave of my hand?”
Bull paused, then shrugged. “You could just watch her until she sobers up.”
Solas let out a slow sigh. “Yes. Alright, fine.”
“Called it,” Bull muttered to himself, seemingly satisfied as he walked back out of the room.
His task went easily enough at first. He handed her the glass of water he had intended to drink himself and she consumed it without protest. She pulled him down to sit next to her and he gave into her insistence. She was very talkative when drunk, her mind slow to process concepts yet eager to bombard him with questions. They were odd questions, strange thoughts about magic that lost much of their logical formation as they progressed from her mind to the slurred words on her tongue. He was patient in his responses, answering her demands. As they spoke, she slowly drew closer to him. A hand on his knee, her arm pressed to his, her head slumping onto his shoulder. She seemed to hold no awareness of her actions, so he did not take them to hold any meaning or intent.
It was only when she lifted her chin, tilting her head so that her face buried against the crook of his neck that he noted any sort of turn in their conversation. “I like you, Solas,” she slurred, her breath hot on his throat. “We should spend more time together.”
“I would like that, Inquisitor.”
“I want to get to know you better,” she purred, his posture stiffening as she slid her hand along his inner thigh. Not high enough for him to stop her, yet farther than was appropriate. “Do you want to get to know me better?”
He placed his hand over hers, drawing it away even as he felt her lips brush lazily against his skin. “I think it’s best you head to bed.”
The sound she made was half-way to laughter, swallowed by a heavily pleasured moan. “I like that idea,” she said, catching his ear between her teeth. He felt an eagerness rising in his veins despite himself, a warmth spreading from her touch but he made himself pull away. Her weight still pressed against him as he did and she reached forward, wrapping the cording of his necklace around her fist and giving it a hard tug.
He could have fought it, if he had truly wanted to. She was strong, but she was drunk, sloppy, uncoordinated. He felt guilty later for allowing it to happen, but he did not resist when she dragged his mouth down to meet hers. Her lips were soft, much softer than he had imagined, wet and slick as they met his own. The kiss began simply enough, closed-mouthed curiosity and gentle caressing. But when her tongue flicked against his lips, asking for entry, he gripped her by the shoulders, pushing her back.
He knew that when he coaxed her to her room, she went under the impression that he was accepting her advances. When he put her to bed, she tried to stop him from leaving, cooing promises to him that he knew she would have never said sober. He put her to sleep with a spell – one he was hesitant to use, but deemed necessary at the time. Normally, it took quite a bit of control and willpower to accomplish, but her resistance was lowered by drink. He slipped her boots off of her – a final courtesy before leaving her to rest.
When she sought him out the next morning, asking for help in easing a powerful hangover, he found she remembered little from the night before. He was relieved – mostly. He could not deny there was some tinge of disappointment. But at the time, he told himself it was for the best. It would be foolish to let himself get attached to what was clearly motivated by alcohol rather than any genuine feeling.