Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Dorian looks up at the quiet, precise dismantling of several magical wards and booby traps, but doesn’t bother to stand, or to reach for his staff. Shortly afterwards Gal slips through the window, with surprising grace for such a large man.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “You know you don’t have to do that anymore, don’t you?”

Gal shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “Keeps me in practice.” Moving to stand next to Dorian’s chair, Gal peers down at the desk. “Anything interesting?”

Dorian sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Trade proposals. In other words, no.” With the hint of a smile creeping onto his face, he meets Gal’s eye. “Nothing as interesting as the developing situation here.” He stands, wrapping an arm round Gal’s waist, and ends up murmuring into Gal’s hair, “It’s been too long. Try not to keep me waiting again, amatus.”

Gal laughs, quietly. “If it hadn’t been a long journey, I’d offer to make it up to you.”

“In the morning?” Dorian draws back, grins, and adds, “Or do I sound too hopeful? I need something to distract me in meetings. Magister Cardassius will be wondering why I’m so cheerful about diplomatic envoys.”

“In the morning,” Gal promises, and then kisses him.

It leaves them both breathless, but Dorian’s also too aware that it’s been a long day. Ignoring Gal’s protests about finishing his work, he extinguishes the candles and drags Gal to bed. “Sleep, before you fall over.”

Gal’s slouched, removing his leathers and putting them aside with barely a thought. His stubble practically has aspirations of beardhood and his hair is… well, the less said about his hair the better. Even so, he looks warily at Dorian and tries, “You - “

Dorian’s too busy concentrating on undressing himself to indulge any protests. “I can feed the magister more convenient lies tomorrow. For now, I’d rather you fell asleep on me.”

“I don’t fall…” Gal stifles a yawn with his arm, sighs, continues unbuckling and unbuttoning. “I do," he admits.

It’s only a few moments later that Dorian looks up, and pauses. “What’s that?” he asks, keeping his voice casual.

“What’s what?” Gal’s untying his hair, only half-listening. He scrapes a hand through it and winces at the snags.

Dorian crosses the room and touches Gal’s hipbone, moving Gal’s breeches to examine the rest. “This,” he says softly. He kneels and runs a thumb over the inked snake that curves around Gal’s hip, following scales that almost appear to shine in the candlelight. It’s new. The other leg has always been tattooed, but this one was free of ink.

Gal inhales, shrugs a shoulder, and half-smiles down at him. “Got another scar, and I like snakes,” he says, as if it’s simple.

“You like snakes,” Dorian echoes sceptically, and then he goes back to examining the tattoo, almost hypnotised. The snake is light, unlike Tevinter’s national trademark, and he can almost fool himself that there’s colour to it. The placement, with that amount of detail… “This must have hurt.”

That shrug again; it pulls at Gal’s torso, shifting the tattoo slightly. “Still better than losing the arm.”

Dorian glares up at him. “Such flippancy. Anyone would think I was rubbing off on you.”

Now it’s Gal’s turn to raise a brow and grin at him. “That idea’s starting to appeal.”

Dorian says flatly, “Appalled as I am to say it, you need sleep, and so do I. I’m uncertain I’m fit for the fun sort of pawing at you.” Then he returns to his perusal. “When did this happen?”

“Last time I went back to the Marches. I saw an old friend. She does decent work.” Gal gestures to his face. “It’s… Dorian, it’s not that bad. Better than a fight, because I choose to feel it. Besides, you’ve used sigils…”

“That’s different,” Dorian mutters. “There’s spirit healing, and they’re less… permanent.” The last word is too worried. Too honest.

“Not like it’s where any ambassador might see it.” Gal sighs. “It’s been seven years and we’re… If you’re going to break my heart, be faster about it.” His hand strays to Dorian’s hair. “Even if you did tomorrow… this is worth remembering. Or I think it is. It's taught me enough.”

Dorian swallows, and their eyes meet in the dim light. “I suppose you have a point.”

“You don’t have to like it. It isn’t your skin.”

“No, it’s…” Dorian loses his words, then. He leans in and presses his mouth to the inked skin, briefly, before he smiles. “Believe me, I like it.” Then he stands and says, “Come on,” taking Gal’s hands and darkening the room with a thought.

When they’re considerably more horizontal and half-conscious, Gal says, “Think the pain was worth it.”

“I think so, too,” Dorian admits, running a hand down Gal’s arm. It’s easier to say in the dark. “Are you fond of snakes?”

A huff of laughter next to his ear. “Yes. Always have been. It’s just new to want them tattooed on me.”

“Yes, I noticed you were nicer when Sera used to mock my robes.”

“The ones with the… serpents? Mm. The embroidery was good.”

“I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

Gal laughs again, low and sleepy. “That the only reason?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t let you get too fond of me. I’m half-afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll have my face tattooed on some part of your anatomy.”

After a thoughtful pause, Gal says, “There’s a decent space on my arse.”

Dorian snorts, and tries not to dignify that with much of a response. “Sleep, amatus. Before I murder you.”

He drifts into the Fade with a warm hand on his waist and soft laughter in his ear, and half-wonders how he stole this. Worth it indeed, he thinks, before he dreams.

Chapter Text

There’s a scraping and a quiet nullification of several wards before the window of Dorian’s Minrathous office opens, and a rather bedraggled Gal climbs through it.

At his desk, Dorian looks up from what might be a petition - that or a letter of complaint, the two are so easy to confuse these days - and feels himself smile. He’s been looking forward to this visit for some time.

Gal shrugs, and breaks out in a wide, embarrassing grin. “I was in the area.”

Dorian will say he’s not a hugger, but he’s across the room and wrapping his arms around Gal before his brain has any say in the matter. He’s missed that solid warmth. “Amatus.”

“Dorian,” Gal says, more of a sigh. Then he pauses and draws back. He tilts his head in an assessing sort of way, and… squints.

Dorian sighs. “Have I suddenly grown an extra head?”

Gal raises a brow. “Extra hair.” He reaches out and gently runs a hand through the aforementioned hair.  “You mentioned in your letters, but… I hadn’t realised.”

Dorian closes his eyes and leans into the touch, even as he says, “Yes, well, I’ve evidently been around you for too long. I seem to think it’s acceptable to avoid scissors and startle diplomats. That or I didn’t want you to upstage me.”

“You look good,” Gal says quietly. “Didn’t know it grew that fast.”

“It doesn’t. I may have made use of a spell or two to avoid the awkward in-between stage.”

Gal’s still blinking at him.

Dorian sighs. “It’s not that strange. It’s common for men of rank here, and I used to wear it long when I was younger. You’re going to tell me I look like an evil magister, aren’t you?”

“No, I… I like it.” Gal clears his throat, and looks slightly pink. “Very much.”

Dorian grins fiendishly. “Ah. Now that’s something we’ll have to explore later.” He takes Gal’s hand and looks through the window, at the brightness of the city. “Come, there’s so much I want to show you. You haven’t seen the fountains yet, have you?”

Chapter Text

Dorian thinks his parents would either be impressed or appalled that he’s hosting most of a Tevinter revolution in the lounge. Certainly there might only be about eight of them here, and they might be wide-eyed and not know decent battlemage armour if it bit them in the nose, but the Lucerni’s reputation precedes them. They’re halfway through brandy and discussions about whether Calorinus really is that much of an idiot - honestly, he could at least have disguised the scars and the stench of demon residue at the last hearing - when there’s a large crash, a startled, cut-off yell, and then a… splash? It appeared to emanate from outside.

They exchange looks - startled in the new ones’ cases, resigned in Maevaris and Dorian’s - and as one grab their staves, standing.

There are more noises as they run to see what all the fuss is about: the sound of metal rings out, and a cry… Ah. A shield. The young Corenta, Lucia, reflexively puts up a barrier, and he resists the urge to nod in approval like his old clucking professors. Or - kaffas - his father.

They pass a broken staff, and there’s soil everywhere; Dorian winces for the gardeners. He’ll have to pay them better for this.

The trail leads to the ornamental pond - more of an ornamental lake, Dorian has always said - and at the water’s edge is a very, very familiar shield. Dorian looks at it and thinks, Ah.

The figure that hauls itself out of the pond looks like a tale the Avvar would use to frighten small children: a mess of blood and mud and armour, with gritted teeth only just visible through a wild mane of hair. Said figure drags with it a very dishevelled, waterlogged mage in robes that might have been fashionable, once.

“Is it a bear?” Dorian hears one of his comrades whisper, and he fights not to break into appalled laughter. He’s either terribly proud, or he wants to Fade-step far, far from here. The Deep Roads, for instance. They might do.

Dorian ignores Mae’s smug look; she’s probably already recognised their guest from the… somewhat florid descriptions in Dorian’s letters. And to be fair, there are only so many tattooed, one-armed foreigners who would turn up at the Pavus estate.

Dorian says, trying not to stare, “No, that’s my - That’s Lord Trevelyan.” Here, with these people, he can afford the slip.

The mage hits the ground and only gives a quiet whimper. It’s probably difficult to speak with an armoured boot on one’s chest.

And then Gal looks up, and finally seems to realise they’re here. He blinks at them through the mask of dirt, tattoos and very smudged warpaint, pushing his dripping hair out of his face. Then he looks back to the mage he’s half-standing on, who appears to have fallen unconscious. He slowly removes his foot.

It doesn’t help. He still looks like every possible warning about barbarians of the south.

“Gal,” Dorian says, attempting to keep a straight face.

Gal nods, and manages, stiffly: “Dorian.” He stares at the startled mages, who stare back. “Evening,” he says, faintly. And then he looks back to Dorian with an air of helplessness. “I’m sorry. I… didn’t know you had company.”

Dorian realises he’s smiling. “They’ve seen worse. At least this time a pride demon didn’t explode all over the lawn.”

Gal looks back to the mage at his feet. “Caught him trying to sneak in at… the same time I was. He said something about killing you and the rest of the party. I thought you might want to question him.”

“Certainly,” Dorian says, already summoning several containment spells and a few wards.

He can feel some of the others doing the same. This, they’re used to. Gal, they’re… less used to.

Maevaris winks at him and then starts speaking pointedly to the others. One of them, Marius, hefts the unfortunate Venatori over his shoulder, and the others fall into step with him. Lucia tentatively picks up Gal’s shield. There’s some staring, but they’re polite enough not to whisper. Not in front of him, anyhow. Besides, it’s not as if this should be a surprise - “unconfirmed but obviously substantiated rumours” are not the same as “news.”

Dorian takes his cue, crosses the space and puts a hand on Gal’s arm. He says, for Gal’s ears only, “It’s good to see you. Even if you do smell like pondweed.”

Gal gives an apologetic smile, but his eyes are warm, and the rest of him seems to be slowly unfreezing. “Reminds me of the Fallow Mire.”

Dorian grimaces in a dramatic fashion. “The only good thing about that place was how often you had to get out of your wet clothes. Improved the scenery exponentially.” When he gets the laugh he’s been waiting for, he kisses Gal softly, briefly, and says, “Come on, amatus. Let’s find you a decent bath.”

Gal sighs as they walk back through the grounds. “I had a plan.”

“I know. So did I, but it paled in comparison.”

“I really am sorry.” Gal makes a vague attempt to wring out his hair, wincing.

“That makes one of us. I couldn’t have wished for an entrance that was more… you. They’ll have a dinner party story for years to come.”

“You don’t care?”

“About what half of Minrathous already knows? My good name’s already thoroughly besmirched. I’m just glad you’re here. I’ve… missed you.” That doesn’t even slightly cover the truth.

“I’ve missed you, too,” is Gal’s quiet reply, and he gives Dorian the sort of soft look that would feed the rumour mill for generations if they were at a party.

“Well, then. Let’s go and interrogate one of my idiot countrymen. It’ll be the perfect bonding activity. Just like old times.”

Gal’s laughter is a welcome sound. Dorian laughs, too, making his way back to the house with the man he loves a steady presence at his side.

Yes. There have been far worse days.