Chapter Text
"It's an archaic practice, is all I'm saying."
Resting his elbows against scarred, weather-beaten stone, Dorian slides his gaze to Cullen, taking in the stern lines of his profile. Heat leeches into the battlements, chilling him from shoulder to elbow where he leans, but as much as he'd like to tuck up against something with a little more give and warmth, he's not quite that reckless just yet. Even with the strong line of the commander's jaw softened by a wry, barely-there smile, perhaps one he doesn't even mean to indulge in, it's still a bit too risky for Dorian to gamble on.
A pity. It's a brave new world that might be coming to a rather explosive end sooner rather than later, and there are some things that will still trip him up, even so.
In the courtyard below, a young woman with a plait down her back offers a bundle of flowers to her rigid-backed companion. Cullen doesn't say anything, and Dorian finds he's waiting, too, with bated breath, to see what happens --
He needn't have worried, apparently. The other woman accepts the flowers, hesitating a moment before striding away quickly, and at his side, Cullen huffs a soft laugh.
"Works, though," the commander murmurs, tapping gloved fingertips against the pommel of his sword.
After a moment's thought, Dorian concedes, "It does seem to have a little more meaning behind it here, I suppose. Courtship is a rather political affair in Tevinter, a statement that shocks and appalls, I'm sure."
"Obscenely," Cullen agrees, twisting slightly at the hip to aim that soft, half-smile in Dorian's direction. It does strange things to his stomach, and to his chest, for that matter, and he wishes that the handsome commander would -- not.
On the same token, he knows if anyone else were privy to those private smiles, they would find their hemlines smoking apropos of apparently nothing, so he supposes he doesn't really want him to stop. Admitting as much is out of the question, of course.
Cullen gives his back to the courtyard below, gaze fond on Dorian's face, and he feels an answering warmth blooming.
Ugh, sentiment.
"Your southern practices are--" Cullen's eyebrows arch, and because he's expecting a jab and Dorian does hate to be entirely predictable, he flicks the fingers of one hand airily between them. "--quaint, and I suppose I can see the appeal, though you didn't hear that from me. I have a reputation to uphold."
Cullen's smile tugs at the scar on his lip, a move that used to drive Dorian to near distraction, as he rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm aware, Dorian."
Pushing off from the stone, his air as haughty as his expression, Dorian sidesteps the commander. "I don't think I appreciate your tone, amatus."
Cullen falls into step with him, expression thoughtful. "And somehow, I will endeavor to survive."
The door to Cullen's office swings open, a scout bobbing his head respectfully and holding it for them, and Dorian takes advantage of Cullen's momentary distraction to snake a hand between them and pinch his thigh. Cullen jumps a little, scowling, and swats at the rapidly retreating hand
"For your cheek," Dorian supplies, backing away with his fists tucked behind his back. "And be lucky it wasn't your cheek I pinched."
---
Later, the candle on his desk burning low, Cullen steadfastly ignores Dorian's jiggling foot and general air of impatience. It's difficult, because the man is perched on the corner of his desk and doing his level best to be as distracting as possible, but Cullen has weathered worse and still gotten his work done.
Dorian wouldn't appreciate a comparison to any of the worse that springs to mind, but there's no discounting that a little prick here and there does his ego some good. It's (almost) always well meant, and regardless, they'd agreed from the beginning of their relationship that they would carry on much the same as they always had, at least to the public’s eye. There really isn't an option otherwise, given that the inquisition demands more and more of them each day, but they have managed to find something resembling balance between their professional and personal lives.
Well. Mostly.
With a sigh, Cullen wets his quill, gaze flicking to where Dorian has rolled a ball of wax between his fingers and is pinching it flat.
"I told you I had work," Cullen points out, angling the feather at Dorian. (The quill had been a gift from him, actually, extravagant and ridiculous and far too ostentatious for his tastes. He loves it.) "And that you'd only be bored. So you can stop huffing and sighing any time now."
With a narrow look, Dorian flicks the glob of wax at Cullen's head.
"Mature," he says dryly, attention pulled back to the parchment in front of him, though he can't quite hide his smile.
"Why did you," Dorian begins, and then stops, tucking his arms around himself in a move so casual that it immediately sets the hairs at the back of Cullen's neck standing straight up. "No, nevermind."
It's a rare instance that Dorian finds himself lost for words, and rarer still that he'll venture the beginning of a thought and not finish it. He's too careful by far, even with Cullen, and that's enough to have him slowly setting his quill down, brow furrowed.
"What's wrong?"
Dorian's mouth twists, and he glances away, throat working for a moment as he gathers his words. Cullen waits, because patience is a trait he's learned well in recent years, and watches Dorian lift his hands to his lap, settle them there.
He begins to play with one of his rings, and Cullen feels the first spark of true alarm.
"You never courted me," Dorian says finally, sounding as though the words themselves cost him to say. He looks at Cullen, finally, and there's a guard there that's been missing in recent months. It makes Cullen's stomach clench up tight to see it. "Not that I require courtship, and I certainly would have teased you mercilessly for it had you tried, but I was simply wondering -- why? Or rather, why not."
Cullen's stomach drops, and Dorian continues to work the ring around his thumb, flashing him a smile. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You don't have to answer. I'm not some starry-eyed maiden, heartbroken at the idea, I was simply curious."
It's late enough that no one will come bursting into his office unless there's an emergency, and to be frank, Cullen wouldn't care much if anyone bore witness to this; it's important, and loathe as he is to have his personal business become public knowledge, he is not ashamed. He knows Dorian is of the same mind as he on the matter, though, and it'd been by mutual, unspoken agreement that they kept their relationship quiet.
He wonders now if that was not a mistake.
Taking Dorian's hands between both of his, he smiles, squeezing lightly. "Dorian, I did court you."
There is a long silence, and Dorian frowns. "You certainly did not. I would have noticed."
He can feel heat crawling up from under his collar, and spares a moment to hope against reason that it doesn't flush his face with color. "Well. I've been subtle."
"So subtle I wasn’t aware it was happening?" Dorian asks flatly, though the corners of his mouth are tipping up into a smile, perhaps despite himself.
Sighing, Cullen tugs on Dorian's hands, scooting his chair back enough to offer his lap as an alternative seat. Dorian hesitates a moment, but either the late hour or the conversation at hand convince him; he slides down into a comfortable seat, letting Cullen loop his arms around his waist and prop his chin up on his shoulder.
"I had assumed that you would find overt attentions... unwelcome," he says after a time, rubbing his thumb in absent swipes against Dorian's hip. Silence is his only answer, and so he struggles onward, voice quieting. "The conventional approach didn't seem to suit you. And I..."
Dorian turns his head, bringing a hand up to rest over the top of Cullen's. "And you?"
"I wanted to be different," Cullen admits, embarrassed despite himself. "I confess I don't know much about Tevinter courtship rituals, but I assumed there was more pomp and circumstance involved than either of us could stomach. I thought, well, something a little more... simple. Would be best."
The more he says, the more inadequate it seems, and he wonders now what sort of message Dorian will take from it all. If he'll come to the conclusion that he doesn't mean as much to Cullen as he truly does, that Cullen doesn't consider him worth the effort of a proper courtship -- which isn't true, it's the furthest from being true that circumstances could be, but his tongue is clumsy and heavy in his mouth when he struggles to find the words necessary to convey that.
Maker be damned, the words are always failing him when he needs them most.
Dorian shifts in his lap, beginning to draw away, and Cullen's heart floods his throat. "Dorian--"
"Shh," Dorian instructs, turning to frame Cullen's face between his hands, rings warm against his cheeks. It isn't hurt or disappointment that Cullen sees in his face, as he expects, but something gentle and private that robs him of his breath. "You insufferable man. You wooed me with chess, didn't you? Chess, dead Venatori, book requisitions... honestly, Cullen, you're hopeless."
"I am," Cullen agrees, earnestly, as Dorian lowers his smiling mouth to Cullen's. The kiss is soft but lingering, and Cullen's wildly galloping heart calms with it. "This isn't news."
Rubbing his thumbs against scratchy, stubbly cheeks, Dorian laughs quietly.
"There was poetry," Cullen supplies after a moment, and Dorian groans, dropping their foreheads together. "In one of the books."
"It doesn't count if you don't recite it to me yourself, amatus."
Bumping noses, Cullen murmurs, "I could serenade you."
"I'm going to have to insist," Dorian agrees, and Cullen gathers him up in his arms, paperwork forgotten, as the candle winks out.