Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Having Solas in his head was . . . an experience.

He couldn’t sleep without waking in the Fade with Solas waiting for him. It was . . . bothersome, to say the least. He missed dreaming. He even missed his nightmares. Because this was — it wasn’t real rest. At least when he had nightmares he usually snagged a few hours of sleep before they consumed him. Here, he doesn’t feel like he’s getting any rest of any kind. Here, he’s stuck with the Dread Wolf, and the Dread Wolf doesn’t leave him alone.

He pesters him with questions about this and that. What the team had done today. What progress they were making. What their next move was. And he always has something to say about Rook’s answers. Either they’re too slow, or are wasting too much time, or spending too much time helping people. That one causes Rook to arch an eyebrow, and give a sassy retort. Solas responses in kind, as is their game. Exchanging verbal jabs seems to be all they do. Sometimes, Solas is helpful. Sometimes he gives good advice, answers a question they hadn’t been able to figure out the answer to. But other times, it seems like all he wants to do is hear the sound of his own voice, and he rambles relentlessly. He tells Rook stories, about his past adventures. He tells Rook about the Inquisition. He tells Rook about things long, long before that. And Rook would say he doesn’t care, but . . . maybe he does. Maybe he finds the stories interesting enough to listen to. That doesn’t mean he isn’t an absolute menace, making quips whenever he can. But Solas always responds in kind. It’s almost like — banter. Which is an odd thing to have developed with the Dread Wolf of all people. He hates it most of all when he’s amused by something Solas says. He’s not supposed to be amused by Solas. He’s supposed to hate Solas, and not believe a word he says. Only . . . he doesn’t actually think Solas has lied to him thus far. Spun the truth, absolutely. But not lied. And it’s not like that mattered. He’s still supposed to hate Solas. And he does. 

He’s just . . . learned to appreciate the company, in the weirdest possible way. He likes his companions — all of them — but there’s something — different about Solas. Something — something he can’t name. He can’t put his finger on it.

All he knows is, when he wakes up in the Fade tonight, Solas is there waiting for him.

“Rook,” he greets, as he always does.

“Dread Wolf,” Rook greets back, petty as usual. He refuses to call Solas by that name.

But Solas only smiles. It unnerves him, a little. Solas’s smile. It feels . . . condescending. Not a real smile, but a smug smile that says I’m better than you. Rook wants to point out that he’s not; he’d tried to destroy the world, after all. But he also knows Solas is far, far more powerful than he is, smarter than he is, and decidedly way more pretentious than he is. “Update me,” he commands, and Rook crosses his arms over his chest. He’ll relent and tell Solas — he always does. But he likes to feel like he has a choice.

“Not much,” he admits. “We’re still waiting to hear back from Harding’s Grey Warden contacts.”

“Hm,” Solas muses. He’s already heard an earful on Solas’s opinions on the Grey Wardens. He doesn’t need to hear it again. But, thankfully, Solas lets the matter drop. “There’s something else,” he says instead, and Rook — tenses.

“There’s nothing else,” he lies reflexively.

“There is,” Solas presses, stepping forward. Not close, but close enough that Rook takes a step back.

“Nope,” Rook denies.

“Tell me,” Solas commands, and Rook scoffs. He’s under no obligation to tell Solas everything. Solas sighs, and then stares way too intensely at Rook, so intensely it makes him suppress a shudder. He doesn’t know what Solas is reading on him, but then Solas draws his eyebrows in together and says, “It’s your heart. It’s . . . broken.”

And Rook — shit. He can’t hide his flinch, and he knows Solas, Fen’Harel, did not miss it. 

“It’s not broken,” he denies weakly.

“It was Lucanis?” Solas asks, and Rook wants to wake up now, thank you very much. Only he doesn’t. Only he’s still here, in the Fade, with Solas. And —

“That’s none of your business.”

Solas takes another step forward, that confused expression still on his face. “He rejected you?”

“Shut up,” Rook grits out through clenched teeth. His hands have balled into fists at his sides. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to think about this. Yes, Lucanis had rejected him. Lucanis — hadn’t felt the same. He’d considered Rook a friend, nothing more. And Rook — fine, maybe his heart was a little broken. It had been — a lot. He hadn’t even wanted to confess. He probably never would have. No, instead, Lucanis had already known. Spite had told him. And Lucanis was nice about it, promising he still cared for Rook, but it had been — humiliating. So, so humiliating. He never wanted to show his face to Lucanis again, really. Or the rest of the team. They probably all knew by now; knew how Rook felt, knew how Lucanis didn’t feel. But he’d still rather be there than here. Here, where Solas has figured it out and is now going to mock him for this endlessly.

Only . . . he doesn’t.

He still looks confused, as he takes yet another step forward. Rook wants to move back — Solas is getting up into his personal space, now — but he’s too numb to move. The heartbreak is too raw. Only hours old. “Why?” Solas asks.

“Why?” Rook repeats.

“Why did he reject you?”

Rook doesn’t know what Solas is playing at, but he’s frustrated enough that he answers, “How should I know? All he said is that he doesn’t feel the same.”

“Hm,” Solas hums. 

“What?” Rook snaps, feeling so small under Solas’s scrutiny. 

“This is not the first time your heart has been broken,” Solas explains, and Rook tenses. 

“That’s none of your business,” he grits out through clenched teeth. He’s not about to travel down memory road with Solas of all people. Not now, not ever.

“Tell me,” Solas says anyway.

“No,” Rook grounds out, not even considering it.

“Why not?”

“Why not — because we’re enemies! I’m not going to — to — share and care with you!”

“Hm,” Solas muses again, and Rook is starting to really, really hate that noise. Rook narrows his eyes at Solas, and Solas raises his hands in a placating manner. It should piss Rook off, especially considering the mood he’s in, but — in a weird way — it calms him. Calms him enough to allow him to let Solas continue, “I can think of no better person to — ‘share and care’ with. I am trapped here. I cannot tell anybody. I am, for all intents and purposes, a sounding board for which you can use to let your emotions out on.”

Rook, who had been intently staring at a spot in the Fade past Solas, looks back at him. “A sounding board,” he repeats dryly.

Solas nods.

Dangerously, Rook asks, “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Rook scoffs. “I’m not telling you everything.” 

“When’s the last time you told somebody?”

“Never,” he snaps.

“You need to let it out,” Solas says calmly, and Rook hates that it calms him even more. Solas should be enraging him. Especially by — especially by asking for this. Asking for everything. Rook hates that the conversation has become this. From Lucanis to — everything. He hates it, only . . . well, it’s like Solas had read his mind. He’d been thinking about — everything. Before he fell asleep. Everything had been on his mind, and he’d been — hah — he’d been wishing there was someone he could tell. Twenty-eight years of keeping it all to himself, and he’d thought maybe he could finally open up — to Lucanis. And then Lucanis hadn’t wanted that, and now —

Now —

He sits down.

Solas arches an eyebrow.

“Get comfortable,” Rook says, more casually than he feels. “It’s a long story.”

Solas — sits down. He hadn’t expected that, really. He looks more — human when he’s sitting. He doesn’t say anything, but, somehow, Rook knows he’s listening.

“Where should I start?” Rook asks, not even sure why he’s doing this. He hates Solas. Solas tried to destroy the world. His world. Even with his ‘precautions’ in place, who knows how many would have died? Too many. And yet — 

And yet — Solas is right. Who better to tell, than someone stuck in the Fade, in his mind? He doubts it’ll help him at all to share the story. That’s not why he’s sharing. Yes, a part of him wants to finally open up to someone. But another part of him — wants to scare Solas away from his curiosity. Even ancient Elven Gods — no, not a God — would be disturbed by his stories. He wants to show Solas just how disgusting he really is. Stop this little game they’re playing once and for all. Let them go back to being enemies.

“The beginning, I’d assume,” Solas says easily, and Rook fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Chapter Text

“Maker, I’m not giving you my life story,” Rook gripes. “Just the bad things.”

“And how much of your life is made up by these bad things?” Solas asks, and Rook feels — shame. Shame, because Solas is right. The majority of his life is made up of bad things. One bad event after another. And he’s never confessed it to anyone. Some people know, sure, but that’s only because they’d been involved. No one outside of the bad things knows, and that’s about to change. Out of — spite. Ironic, really. No demon is possessing him, but he’s about to reveal his biggest secrets because he wants Solas to back off.

Not because — not because he just wants to finally tell someone. That has nothing to do with it.

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no real heat behind his words. Solas looks at him, unamused, and Rook wonders why the Hell he’s actually doing this. But Solas does — shut up. He inclines his head in a gesture saying he’s ready to listen, and Rook tries to prepare his words. He’s never told this story before. He’s not exactly sure how to. Only that it’s going to hurt him, and he knows it. This won’t be easy to tell. But spite is one Hell of a motivator.

“My mother died during childbirth,” he says, keeping his voice as toneless as possible.

“I’m sorry,” Solas says, and Rook whips his head up to look at him questioningly. “What?” Solas asks, noticing his look. He sounds almost — offended. “I am not without compassion, nor am I without sympathy. I regret the loss of life.”

Rook snorts. “Just not the loss of life that comes with tearing down the Veil?” 

Solas doesn’t rise to the bait. He looks like he wants to for a second, but then he schools his expression. “I don’t want to debate with you right now. I want to listen.”

“Why?” Rook can’t help but ask.

“Which reason would you prefer? No — scratch that — which reason would you believe? That I am simply interested? Or that I am finding myself to be quite bored stuck in here? Or that I want to know your weaknesses to exploit you in the future?” he asks, listing off the reasons. And — huh. Rook is so fucking naive he hadn’t even considered the third one. But that — makes a sick kind of sense. And yet — somehow — Rook doesn’t think that’s the actual reason. Which means he considers the other two options. Boredom is such a base human emotion, but it’s possible that Solas feels it, too. It’s more likely than him being interested, by any means.

But — “Perhaps it’s a combination of the three,” Rook muses, tearing his gaze away from Solas and focusing on something in the distance. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter,” he adds. He’s going to tell this story anyway. He’s made up his mind already. He wants to see how an ancient Elven God reacts to the horrors he’s about to recount. See if his sympathy stretches there. Or if he’ll tell Rook he’s seen worse happen in his lifetime, and that Rook’s experiences are insignificant. Maybe Rook is secretly hoping for that.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His nerves are already rising, telling this story. “She died during — my birth. I have — a twin brother. She survived his birth perfectly healthy. The complications only arose when it was time for me.”

“You feel like it’s . . . your fault?” Solas guesses, and Rook hates that it’s that obvious.

“It is my fault,” he snaps. 

“It’s —“

“I’m not asking for your opinion,” Rook gripes. “Just — shut up and listen to the story, okay?”

Solas’s eyes flash with anger, but then he schools it. And smiles a little. “Fine.”

“She died, and my father killed himself,” he continues, eyeing Solas to see if he’ll interrupt. He does not. So Rook goes on, “So we were orphans. The Crows took us in. Raised us. Trained us. For years. Until — until our uncle showed up. He promised to take us to his home and care for us. Sawyer — that’s my twin — wanted desperately to go. He didn’t like the Crows, didn’t — like their ways. He thought they were too controlling. So he begged me to come with him, even though I was more . . . reluctant. I don’t know. I just had a bad feeling. Turns out, I was right to. Because he — our uncle — once we were settled in and comfortable at his house . . . he started to — to —“ He shudders, cutting himself off. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea. Even thinking of his uncle made him want to vomit. Even thinking of his twin made him want to vomit. He felt ill already, and he didn’t think he could continue. And why should he? Solas didn’t deserve to know this. He was right. It was a weakness, and he could use it to exploit Rook. This was canon fodder he didn’t need to be providing.

But then —

“What did he do, Rook?” Solas asks, and it’s so calming and gentle that it makes Rook shudder. 

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, but there’s no real heat behind his words. 

Solas hums.

“What?” Rook demands.

“I was only being polite,” Solas explains. “I can assume what he did. He beat you?”

Rook wants to be mad at Solas for — assuming. For stealing his own story away from him. For inserting himself, for taking the words away from him. But he — finds he isn’t. Finds that he’s almost . . . relieved to hear it. Relieved to not have to say it. Relieved Solas has filled in the blank, so all he has to do is nod. “The first time my heart was broken is when my mother died, even if I was too young to remember it. Same with the second time, which is when my father died. This was the third time, and the first time I was old enough to remember,” he explains, his heart aching as he says the words. Because he misses the mother he never knew. The father he never knew. And the innocence of the person he’d been before his uncle had used his fists to teach him and his twin about cruelty. 

“I know you won’t believe me,” Solas says, “but I am sorry that happened. I despise those who would abuse another in any way.”

Rook scoffs. He almost says something snappy again, but he contains himself at the last second. But he realizes he doesn’t actually know if he believes Solas or not. It’s not like he knows — Solas’s moral stances. He only knows one — that he’s willing to sacrifice Maker knows how many people. And he’d assumed that was all he really needed to know. But maybe it’s not. “Then I assume you despise me, too,” is what he ends up saying, looking away because there’s no way he can face Solas — face anyone — for this next part. Solas may question his words, but he doesn’t say anything. He waits patiently for Rook to continue, which is good because Rook needs a moment to collect himself. And then he shudders once before he says, “He’d also make us — beat one another. Fight. Fight until only one was left standing.”

And then — as he fills with the shame he’s so similar with — the most unexpected thing happens, the thing that should also be most unwelcome. Solas — well, Rook doesn’t see it, because he’s looking away, but he reaches out, and he rests a finger under Rook’s jaw. Rook doesn’t know what he wants to do — flinch away is what he should do. Pull back. Get that touch off of him. But — Maker help him — he doesn’t. He just allows that finger to tilt his head so that Rook is forced to look at Solas again, and he looks — suspiciously sad. His eyes are filled with a sorrow that not only shocks Rook but confuses him. There’s no need for that. He’d just admitting to abusing his twin, which makes him despicable, and yet Solas looks — 

“You think that was your fault?” he asks, voice low, and Rook nearly shudders. He doesn’t know why. He thinks it’s from the touch, though, because Solas’s finger is still lingering. And yet — he doesn’t hate it. Not like he should. If anything, he feels himself lean into it, craving — more. He hasn’t been touched without the intent to harm in — a long time. And that’s the thing. He has this — thing with touch. He doesn’t like it, most of the time. Tries to avoid it, when possible. And yet — he doesn’t dislike it now. Because it’s surprisingly gentle. And gentleness is something he has rarely known.

He swallows. He wonders if Solas can feel it. “It was,” he protests with a whisper, voice as dazed as he feels.

“Rook,” Solas says, and Rook’s heart does something funny, the way it always does when Solas says his name. Not his actual name, of course, but the only name he goes by. He’s never known what it means that his heart reacts, but currently he can’t find it in him to care. He just shudders, a wave of — something washing over him. He doesn’t want to try to piece together what that says. “You are not responsible for what happened to you.”

“I —“

“Did you want to hurt your brother?” he interrupts, before Rook can blame himself again.

He shakes his head in the subtlest of ways. 

“Do you blame him for hurting you?”

A funny question. Considering that Sawyer absolutely blames him for what happened. Even though it had been equal. They’d been of the same skillsets. But — no. No, he’s never blamed Sawyer. It hadn’t been his fault. And he’s aware that, by that logic, it wasn’t his fault, either. But it doesn’t lessen his guilt, his shame. Still, he shakes his head again, wishing he could believe Solas. And wasn’t that ironic. He wasn’t grabbling with Solas’s complicated stories, his half-lies and half-truths. In those moments, he’d rather not believe Solas. But here — he finds himself wishing that he did. 

“You were a victim,” Solas tells him, voice unwavering. “You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

Rook closes his eyes. “No,” he whispers.

“Look at me,” Solas commands, but it’s gentle. So gentle that Rook actually does.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Rook feels — confused. He’s so confused that he knows he should pull away; Solas’s hand is still holding his head up. But he doesn’t move. He just asks, “Why? Why do you even care?” And that’s the thing. He doesn’t understand why Solas is acting like he cares, unless he really is going to try to exploit Rook with this information later. He’s been alive for thousands of years. He’s seen it all. Rook is just one insignificant human to him. Why should any of this matter to him in the slightest? And yet — and yet he’s listening. He’s stopped making snide remarks. He’s actually listening, and offering support, and it absolutely and utterly makes no sense. 

It’s Solas who finally breaks the contact. He drops his hand, and Rook’s head nearly falls. If he were anyone else, Rook would think he was almost embarrassed. “I care more than you think,” he says, and Rook wants to point out that that isn’t a real answer. Rook wants to snap that he doesn’t think Solas is capable of caring at all. But — he knows what he’s seen. And maybe Solas is just that good of an actor, but he’s seemed like he — actually does care today. It’s a disconcerting feeling, seeing this side of Solas. 

I care more than you think.

It isn’t a real answer, but it’s an intriguing set of words. Is that just — in general? Probably. But there’s . . . something about how Solas had said it. Something that makes him wonder . . . if he’s talking not generally, but specifically. But that’s impossible. No part of Solas could possibly care about Rook, the idiot who interrupted his ritual. They’re enemies. They don’t care about each other. Rook certainly doesn’t care about him. Or — does he? He seems to at least care what Solas thinks of him. He seems to care enough to even be indulging Solas by sharing this story. The thought makes him unsettled. So unsettled that he doesn’t know what to say.

But Solas, as always, does. “It’s time for you to wake up, I believe,” he murmurs. 

Right. He’s been here a while. Much longer than he usually is. 

But he finds that he — almost doesn’t want to go. To face his companions. To face Lucanis, and his rejection. But wanting to stay makes no sense. Why would he want to stay in the Fade with Solas of all people?

So he wakes up.

And when he does, he feels . . . alone.

Chapter Text

A lot happens.

A lot of bad happens.

He has to make an impossible choice between his home and Neve’s, and he feels like a part of him made that choice for Lucanis. Lucanis, who rejected him. Who doesn’t want him. Who he’d let his stupid, pathetic heart feel something for, only to have it stepped on so kindly. He wishes it had been something ugly. That Lucanis had mocked him, humiliated him. It’s not in Lucanis to be that mean, but Rook wishes it had been. That way, there’d be a reason for him to be this hurt. He has no reason to feel heart. Lucanis still wants to be his friend. He hasn’t lost him, not completely.

Only in every way that matters.

Afterward, Darvin had asked him if he trusted Solas. That had been — worse, somehow, than both the dragon attacks. He’d felt absolutely frozen to the spot, like — somehow — everyone knew. Like everywhere else had been in his head that night, too. The night he can’t stop thinking of, no matter how hard he tries. The lingering, ghost of a touch under his chin. He shouldn’t miss that. He doesn’t miss that. He just — he remembers it. And he can’t forget it. And he’s been asked this question, and he has no idea how to answer it. But he’s aware all eyes are on him. He can’t stall this.

He replies in a way that suggests he does trust Solas, and he thinks it’s a mistake even as he says it. But it slips out of his mouth, before he’s even made up his mind about what he’s going to say. But apparently this is what he says, and he swallows hard because he didn’t know that was how he feels.

He talks to Solas once more, and they talk like they used to. The conversation is more civil, but it still has undertones of thunder. It makes more sense.

But then — they have to go back to Minrathous, to talk to Morrison. And the Inquisitor is there. The Inquisitor who — who is Solas’s ex. And for whatever reason — a reason he doesn’t understand — it makes him feel . . . something. Something he can’t name, because that would require walking down a treacherous road. So he doesn’t name it. Instead, he focuses on Minrathous, and how devastated it is. How broken, beaten, and damned. It’s not the Minrathous he’d been getting to know. It’s a completely different place, and it’s his fault. People tell him — if only you’d been here. And he takes that to heart. Because it’s true. If only he’d been here, instead of in Treviso. And he’s glad — glad that his home is safe for now. But it doesn’t excuse what he’s done here, what he’s let happen here. Because — all of this is his fault. He’d let the Gods out. He’d — this all falls on his head. He should blame Solas, he knows, but he can’t. He can only blame himself, because he’s the only one whose actions he can control.

And then he wakes up in the Fade again, and, as always, Solas is waiting.

“Something is wrong,” Solas immediately says, his brow creased in something like concern.

Rook — can’t help it. His first reaction is to feel — defeated. To want to cry, a little, which is pathetic and humiliating. But — “What is it now?” he lifelessly asks.

Solas’s expression softens, which is so different from how he used to look at Rook that it makes him feel a little dizzy. “Not with the world,” Solas clarifies. “With you.”

Rook’s jaw tightens. “Not this again,” he mumbles, sitting up and pushing his hair out of his face. It only falls back in it again, but he’s too tired to care.

“Something is weighing on you,” Solas continues, like Rook hadn’t spoken at all. They’re both sitting on the ground tonight, and Rook pulls up his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Solas is looking at Rook so softly that it almost makes his head spin. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

So he scoffs. “Be more specific,” he drawls, because — what isn’t weighing on him? It feels like the whole world is, and . . . well, that isn’t that far off, really.

“Ah,” Solas says, understanding somehow. “There is not something weighing on you. You feel that everything is weighing on you,” he muses, and he’s not wrong.

“Isn’t it?” he asks bitterly.

“Perhaps,” Solas admits, and he looks — a little sorrowful at that. Rook wants to snap that all of this is Solas’s fault, but he doesn’t think that would really get them anywhere. He’s too tired to fight. And he enjoys their conversations more when they’re civil. So he swallows down his retort, and doesn’t say anything. He trusts that Solas will fill the silence.

And he does.

“But it’s not everything that has you upset tonight,” Solas continues, and he’s not — wrong. But that doesn’t mean Rook wants to talk about it. But that also doesn’t mean he shouldn’t. Keeping this inside, pent-up, is bound to lead to something disastrous. He just doesn’t know when the Dread Wolf became his confidant. And it’s — odd. He feels like he’s the confidant of the entire team, maybe minus Neve — who is rightfully still angry with him. She’s not angry with anyone else, he’s noticed. Only him. Because he’d made the call. And he deserves her anger, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. There’s . . . so much he has to bear right now.

“No,” he admits, slowly, hesitantly. He still isn’t sure he wants to have this conversation, but he figures there’s no one else who cares to listen. Or — scratch that. Varric would listen. But he already has so much on his plate, trying to recover from the injury Solas gave him and whatnot. Besides, he’s already worried about Rook. And Rook doesn’t want to give him anything else to worry about. No, Solas is the safer option. Because Solas won’t actually worry over him, and maybe that’s a little bit refreshing. A sounding board, he’d called himself. Maybe that’s what he was, today. So he sighs, and he explains, “It’s . . . Minrathous. I went back there today.”

Solas nods, as if understanding. “How is it?” he asks, like he gives a shit. Rook wants to snap that, too, but he refrains.

“Bad,” he admits. “It’s . . . bad.” He wants to explain how it’s bad, how everything is bad, but he doesn’t have the words. He tries anyway, up until the part where he gets to his meeting with Morrigan. And then he hesitates.

“What is it?” Solas presses, and even he sounds like he knows it’s not going to be anything good.

“I met . . . the Inquisitor,” he whispers, her presence still looming over him in his head. He’d heard stories — from many people, but more accurate ones from Varric and Harding — and she was, as they had said, larger than life. But she’d also been — kind. Helpful. Different than what he expected, in some ways. But not in the way he knew. He knew she’d — been with Solas. And she’d confirmed that, and sounded almost wistful when she talked about him.

“Ah,” Solas says again, and now his expression is — carefully blank. Rook isn’t sure he’s seen Solas with a blank expression. He’s always so — animated. Not in the typical sense, but in the sense where his emotions always show on his face. Whether that be anger, or concern, or something in between. Now, there’s nothing. Rook can’t get a read on him, and, for some reason, that frustrates him. He waits for Solas to continue, but he doesn’t. And then — that’s when Rook gets mad. He’s much too tired to get angry, but he manages it anyway.

“Nothing to say about your girlfriend?” he mocks, and he knows it’s unfair to the Inquisitor to reduce her to that. But he’s trying to hurt Solas.

Sure enough, Solas’s expression cracks, and immediately turns thunderous. “Don’t speak about what you know nothing of,” he hisses, eyes narrowing. Rook would be scared — to see the Dread Wolf this angry — but he knows Solas can’t really do anything to him that’s lasting in here.

“Am I wrong?” Rook bites right back, not letting himself be intimidated into silence.

Solas’s hardened expression intensifies. “We are not here to talk about me. We are —“

“Here to talk about me?” Rook interrupts harshly. “I don’t think that’s why we’re here at all,” he reminds, spitting the words. Solas. It’s his fault they’re here. Him and his cursed ritual. Him and his damn plan to kill thousands. Rook had found himself forgetting, but in this moment he knows he never fully can.

Solas stands, and glares down at Rook. This time — Rook is a little scared. Solas can’t do anything lasting. That doesn’t mean he can’t do anything. But then — as Rook is getting ready to do something pathetic like flinch back — Solas’s expression neutralizes, and then he sighs. “You should wake up now,” he murmurs.

“Now?” Rook echoes. “I just got here!” He doesn’t know why he’s protesting. He should be ecstatic to wake up and get out of this sour conversation. But — waking up means the real world. Means Minrathous, and Neve, and a debilitating weight on his shoulders only matched by his guilt. He’s not ready to be back in that yet — or ever, really.

But it’s not like he’s figured out to control this yet. Somehow, Solas says the words — and then he wakes up.

He sighs.

Chapter Text

The next time he wakes up in the Fade, Solas is looking at him with an apologetic expression. Rook arches an eyebrow, and pushes himself to his feet. So they’re standing today. 

“I am . . . sorry for how I reacted the last time we met,” Solas tells him, and the words sound like they’re true. Like he means it. Like he actually feels sorry for something he’s done, which is a little surprising in and of itself. Or is it? The more he learns about Solas — and they’re learning more each day — the more he feels like it shouldn’t surprise him. Solas is, clearly, capable of base emotions. He feels — some of the same things Rook feels. Regret. Guilt. Remorse. Maybe not for everything, but for some things. And apparently this.

Rook shrugs a shoulder. “It’s a sore spot, I get it,” he waves away, because he does. He doesn’t particularly feel like talking about Lucanis, so he gets it. 

Solas looks like he’s reading his mind — which, as far as he’s aware, Solas can’t actually do — and then nods. “Yes,” is what he says, and Rook can’t help but wonder. Wonder about — him and the Inquisitor. Not — like that. But like . . . what had she done, to make Solas feel something for her? Did Solas ever truly feel something for her, the way she clearly had for him? Was it all a ruse? Was it real? Does he miss her? Did he pretend to care about her, too? Or did he really care about her? He doesn’t know, and he isn’t sure he wants to know. Something in him — doesn’t like the idea. Of them. He isn’t sure why, but something in him makes something in his stomach twist. He isn’t sure he wants to explore what that means.

“I’m . . . sorry I brought it up,” Rook says, the words feeling odd on his tongue. He’s apologizing to the Dread Wolf, for . . . hurting his feelings. How strange his life has become.

Solas smiles, and something in Rook wants to call it a private smile. Because that’s what it looks like. It’s barely there, but it feels like a secret to be allowed to see this. “How are you feeling?” Solas asks, inclining his head. “Any better?”

Rook crosses his arms. Time to bring this up, then. What — what he’s learned, over the past few days. What he’s been up to. What he’s done. “No,” he admits, slowly, a little nervously. “But I am feeling like I want some answers.”

Solas — if he’d expected Solas to be angry, which he honestly admits he did — somehow seems to immediately know what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t look angry at all. He looks — if Rook actually thought Pride could feel shame — ashamed. He looks down and away, and nods once. “You saw my regrets.”

“Did you want me to see them?” Rook asks, because — if Solas knows, that easily, it’s a sign that he must have. Must have put them where someone — Rook — would eventually find them. 

Solas looks back at him, but that shame still burns in his eyes. “In a sense.”

“In a sense?” Rook echoes, because the things he’d learned — he’s not really in the mood to play games. He’s righteously angry on Harding’s behalf, even though — cursedly — he understands. He’d — seen Solas’s side, his point of view. In every instance. He understood. Understood what Solas had thought he had to do, why he thought he had to do it. He hates that he understands, that he feels something akin to empathy for the Dread Wolf. The person who had — the Titans — Harding — he feels wrong for understanding. But that doesn’t change the fact that he does, anyway. 

“I meant . . . for them to be found,” Solas explains, though it’s not really an explanation. Rook waits. Solas looks like he wants to look away again, but he keeps his eyes on Rook. And then — his face hardens, just a little. Enough for Rook to dread whatever it is he’s going to say. “An answer for an answer?” he asks, and Rook almost laughs out loud. The Dread Wolf is asking him. He’s not commanding him. He’s just . . . bartering, because he’s ashamed of something.

“You want to play games?” Rook asks anyway, because he’s amused but not entirely so. 

“I want to hear the rest of your story,” Solas explains, and — oh. That story. 

“That’s not an answer for an answer,” Rook points out. “That’s — a story for an answer. That’s not a fair bargain.”

Solas hums. “You are right. But I was not only offering this answer. I shall answer any questions you have about — what you saw. If you agree,” he adds, and it feels heavy. The offer feels heavy. He didn’t expect this tonight, but he should’ve. Of course nothing can never be easy with Fen’Harel. 

Rook mulls it over, considering. He had been willing to tell the whole story, the first night Solas asked. But he’d been interrupted by the waking world. Now, he’s more — hesitant. Because he’s said some really, really bad stuff. Admitted to hurting his twin. That should be the worst part, and maybe it is. But it’s not the only thing that’s ever happened to him. The rest is — was done to him, not done by him. And, somehow, that’s even harder to tell. It was surprisingly easy to spit out his crimes. But spitting out what happened to him — that’s going to be much, much more difficult.

“Fine,” he decides, because he owes answers to Harding. 

But then Solas says, as if reading his mind: “I would appreciate it if what I tell you will stay between the two of us.”

“I owe Harding — you owe Harding —“

“In time,” Solas interrupts. “In time, I will talk to Harding. Not yet.” It could be a lie. It probably is a lie. But Rook must be stupid, because he truly thinks Solas sounds genuine. He sounds almost guilty, and maybe that guilt will drive him to follow through with his words. So Rook sighs. And nods.

“Fine,” he says again. “But I won’t tell you everything at once. We take turns,” he decides, because that’s the only way he can actually trust that Solas will keep his side of the deal. 

“Agreed,” Solas says easily, which comes as a little bit of a surprise to Rook. But he’s not going to argue, clearly. 

So Rook sits down, and Solas follows suit. When they’re sitting comfortably, Rook sighs, because he knows there’s no way Solas is going first. That means — it’s Rook’s turn. And he has to pick up the story where he left off.

“Sawyer killed him — our uncle — one day,” Rook admits, feeling — feeling that same sense of weakness he’d felt that day. “I never could. I never even thought of doing it. I mean — I did. I thought of killing him every single day. But those were — passive thoughts. I never intended to follow through. Because . . . because killing felt wrong. Killing my only remaining family. He was, in a sense, all that was left of my parents. My mother. He was her brother. So I never really — intended to do anything about it. I — I should’ve. But I didn’t. It was Sawyer who did it, in the end. Poisoned his drink.”

“I do not regret his death,” Solas says, and Rook’s heart may or may not skip a beat. He doesn’t regret his uncle’s death, either. It’s the one good thing Sawyer ever did for him. But he does regret that he didn’t do it himself. Rook looks at Solas expectantly — he’d given an answer, so to speak, and now it was Solas’s turn. Solas’s expression floods with that same shame, and he looks away. “I meant for someone to find them, yes. Maybe even you, at some point. I just . . . I admit, after our conversations, I began to hope you would never find them,” he explains, and Rook — doesn’t get it. 

“Why?” he asks.

Solas arches an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. “Right. Okay. After that, we went back to the Crows. Or . . . I did. Sawyer did for a while, but then he left. He said he was tired of them, the constraints they put on us. So he left. And then he — a few years later, he said he wanted to meet me,” he admits quietly. This is — this is the part of the story he really didn’t want to tell. He doesn’t like thinking about it. He can’t, really, think about it. Even after all this time. Not without feeling like he’s going to break. But he does want answers. Enough that he whispers, “It was a trap. He didn’t want to meet me. He wanted to — to — to sell me into slavery.”

Solas — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Solas’s expression looks like, because he’s looking away. But he feels something thunderous in the air, like the very ground around him is shaking. It causes him to, reluctantly, look back at Solas — and find that he looks more enraged than Rook has ever seen him. He looks like — like he’s going to destroy the world. “I will kill him,” he says, and the words sound like a vow. Despite himself, Rook’s heart does something like flutter in his chest. Hearing Solas — the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel — this mad on his behalf, vowing to kill the person who sold him into slavery . . . it’s very nearly too much. He kind of feels like he wants to cry, which he will not do under any circumstances.

And Rook can’t help but ask: “Why?”

“Why?” Solas echoes. “I know you know I detest slavery, and have worked incessantly to stop any slavers I come across. I have killed more slavers than —“

“I know,” Rook interrupts, because he’s not really in the mood to listen to one of Solas’s rants. Not when they’re about — this topic. “But that can’t be the only reason.”

Solas — pauses, and then he swallows. Rook watches the motion, and wonders what it means for what he’s going to say next. “I suppose I owe you an answer now,” he starts, and Rook tenses. He isn’t sure if he’s going to like this answer. Because he isn’t sure what, exactly, it is that Solas is going to be answering. He looks straight into Rook’s eyes, and Rook almost flinches from the intense eye contact. But he doesn’t break Solas’s stare. “You asked me why I didn’t want you to find my regrets, not now.”

“Yes,” Rook agrees, though he doesn’t know where this is going. He feels so nervous he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest anyway. 

“I — I did not wish to . . . change how you view me,” Solas eventually admits, and he looks away as he does. Rook immediately mourns the loss of the eye contact, but he doesn’t know why. He just knows he’s holding his breath, though for what he’s also unsure. But he gets the sense Solas has more to say, and so he doesn’t want to let it out. He just — waits. Waits until Solas, the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, whispers: “I have grown . . . fond of you.”

Rook’s lungs burn with the lack of oxygen, so he lets out his breath and takes a new one. Solas still isn’t looking at him, and he sounds like he has no more to say. But Rook has to know: “What does that mean?” he asks, as neutrally as he can. He doesn’t want to — scare Solas off from answering. And what an odd thought that was. To be scared to scare Solas off. Once, that was all he craved. When he’d started this little story of his. Half his motivation had been to scare Solas away. But now — for some indiscernible reason — he wants the opposite. Wants to hear whatever Solas has to say. 

But Solas has nothing to say.

Instead — instead — he turns back to Rook with something akin to determination showing on his face, and then he — before Rook can even react — leans forward, into Rook’s space, and — and — and he kisses him.

Rook can’t help it. He freezes. His first instinct to being kissed, apparently, is to totally and completely freeze. He can’t process the feel of Solas’s lips against his, because he doesn’t have enough time. Solas immediately pulls back, and he doesn’t waste a second before he’s quickly apologizing: “I’m sorry. I —“

Rook doesn’t want to listen to the rest of it. He doesn’t let himself think. He just — without any thought at all — leans back in and crushes his lips against Solas’s. Solas doesn’t respond at first, not until Rook reaches his hands up to draw Solas in even closer, and then it’s like he’s lit a fire under Solas. Solas kisses him hard, like he’s been wanting to do it for all his life. Which is, very obviously, impossible, but Rook can’t find it in himself to mind. He tries to kiss back, but it’s mostly letting himself be kissed, because Solas is doing most of the work. He slides his tongue into Rook’s mouth, and Rook has to suppress a moan. He — he’s never been kissed like this. Not with — passion. And this feels passionate, so passionate it makes his head spin. It feels like Solas is devouring him with just a single kiss, and suddenly all he cares about is being devoured. He lets Solas explore his mouth with his tongue, and can’t suppress the shudder that wracks through his body. He’s still holding Solas close, but that doesn’t feel like enough. He wants to be even closer. So he tugs Solas in until their chests are pressed together, and he shudders again at that contact. 

The kiss is hard, but it’s also — gentle. Solas isn’t being intrusive. He’s — taking his time, responding to the way Rook responds. Solas may be doing most of the work, but Rook gets the feeling he’s leading this kiss. And that’s — overwhelming. He’s never led a kiss before. He doesn’t know how to now. But he doesn’t particularly care about that right now, because, somehow, it’s working. Somehow, this is the best kiss of his entire life, and he never wants it to end.

But then — all too soon — Solas — and it is Solas, not Rook — who pulls away, and Rook is left feeling strangely empty. Rook can only wonder what he looks like right now, panting with swollen lips and dazed eyes. Solas, though, looks — like he usually does. Collected. Too collected for someone who just took Rook apart with a kiss. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Solas mutters, and there’s that damn shame again. 

“Then why did you?” Rook asks, still too dazed to muster up anything like anger. He thinks he should be angry. It’s clear Solas regrets kissing him. And that does make him angry. But it’s a distant emotion, one he currently cannot reach. 

“I —“

“Don’t lie,” Rook whispers, and it comes out like more of a plea than anything else.

“I wanted to,” Solas whispers back, and then he looks away. The shame. He’s still ashamed. Ashamed of — what? Wanting to kiss Rook? Or actually kissing Rook?

Rook doesn’t know, but — in his trancelike state — he doesn’t particularly care. In a mimic of when Solas had tilted up his chin, he reaches out a hand to Solas’s furthest cheek and turns his face so he’s looking at Rook again. “Did you hear me complaining?” he asks seriously, because — because it’s important. He’s never been kissed and — felt something. Never. Every other time had been — with a purpose. And even then, it’s not like he had much experience.

“Rook, I —“

“Call me Law,” Rook decides, then and there. He hasn’t — only Varric knows his real name. No one else that’s currently in his life. It feels huge, to be confessing this. But he — he wants to hear Solas say it. This — whatever they are — it’s too much for a nickname. There’s intimacy in a real name, to him. That’s why he keeps it so close to his chest. But he’s not feeling like himself. He’s feeling like — someone better. Someone capable of scary things.

“Law,” Solas tests, and — oh. Oh, boy. That may or may not have gone straight to his dick. “Law,” he goes on, more sure this time, “why did you allow it?” 

Rook — he doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. Only that — only that it felt right. But he doesn’t know how to explain that to Solas, because it feels like — too much. His name was one thing, but his feelings — those are a different beast entirely. And he doesn’t even know what he feels. Only that he’d . . . liked it. Wanted — more. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice low. “I only know that I wanted it.” That feels like — too much of a confession. But he’s capable of scary things. In this moment, he’s emboldened by the fact that the Dread Wolf has admitted to wanting to kiss him.

Solas’s face twists, into something indescribable. Rook — if he had to name it — would almost call it yearning. “How?” he asks, and he — Solas, the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel — sounds . . . a little insecure. First the yearning, now this? Rook doesn’t know if he can handle much more. Seeing this side of Solas feels — like too much. Like something too private, something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. Solas is — so confident. So agonizingly full of himself. But he isn’t now. Now, he looks — just like Rook usually feels. “You know what I’ve done. How could you possibly have wanted it?”

Rook’s in the weirdest possible position. He could be honest, sure. He could also — be cruel. He could use Solas’s sudden insecurity to gain an upper hand in their little dynamic. He’s never possessed an upper hand before. But he realizes — he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to rub in Solas’s face his misdeeds. He wants — “Those things — the person that you were did them. I didn’t want to kiss that person. I wanted to kiss the person you are now.”

Solas shakes his head a little, as if disbelieving. “Do you honestly think I’ve changed?” he asks, and he’s not a rhetoric question. He sounds almost too genuine. The insecurity is still there, like he’s waiting with bated breath on Rook’s answer. And that — more than anything else — is what makes him honestly say:

“Yes.”

Solas looks — close to tears, for some indiscernible reason. Has he possibly changed that much? Rook believes he’s changed, but he doesn’t know to what extent. He’s still expecting a betrayal any day. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed at all, and Rook genuinely believes he has. He genuinely believes Solas’s regrets that he’d seen were just that — regrets. That he regrets them. That he feels — sorry, for the things that he’s done. And that he’s trying to make it right now. That’s what he believes. 

And then — Solas looks away, like something distant and only audible to him is calling his name. When he turns back to Rook, he swallows. “It’s time for you to wake up, regrettably.”

Rook huffs. “What? Just like that?”

“I think we — both need some time to think. I know I do. And you should. Think about . . . why you wanted it,” he explains, and Rook wants to protest on instinct but then considers Solas’s words. He — he probably should think about it. Because he — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, not about how he’s feeling. Some time to think might do him some good.

“And next time?” he presses anyway. “Do we pretend this never happened?”

Solas smiles a little ruefully. “Only if that’s what you want.”

“It isn’t,” Rook says immediately, because he may not know a lot but he knows that much.

And then — cursedly — he wakes up.