Word Count: 343, 611, 771, 1155
Pairings/Characters: Inquisitor Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus, others.
Synopsis: A series of (connected?) drabble things for Dorian and the Inquisitor (Male, Trevelyan)
Comments: Chapters 1 and 2 were actually written back in January, but apparently I only posted them on AO3. Whoops. Characters are not mine, please enjoy! Comments are awesome.
"And just where do you think you're going?" Dorian asks, as the Inquisitor rushes by his alcove in the library without so much as a glance. "No shameless flirting today?"
The man stops in his tracks, cracks a smile, steals a kiss. "I promise to shamelessly do anything you want me to when I return," he answers. "But I've got to go. I've got to grab a new sword and some new armor from the Undercroft before I do anything else, and at this rate, Bull is liable to up and leave without me."
"Really, where are you going?" Dorian asks again, because this is weird. In all the time since Dorian joined the Inquisition at Redcliffe, the Inquisitor has never not brought him along. They've been at each other sides for every fight, at every turn: Alexius's time spell, the Fade, the Winter Palace and everything in between.
"We're going after the High Dragon in Crestwood."
"Leliana's research says it's resistant to electricity," comes the clarification. Obviously, Dorian's powers lie mostly within the realm of electricity.
"So I'm not invited."
"I'm taking Bull, Blackwall and Vivienne with me," he explains. "Vivienne's the most skilled with healing spells."
"I understand," Dorian replies, and he does. Taking him along would be pointless if the dragon is immune to his abilities. At least Vivienne might be able to do some damage to the thing when she's not busy with keeping everyone on their feet. "Do be careful, Amatus. I rather like you in one piece."
"Always," he assures the mage, doubling back for another long, slow kiss full of promise. "Nothing could keep me from you."
"Boss!" The Qunari's impatient shout echoes from below, shaking the wooden floor beneath their feet. "Come on, we've got a dragon to kill!"
The Inquisitor heaves a heavy sighs, "he's going to be impossible, isn't he?"
"You should have told him you were going nug hunting."
"I'll keep that in mind for next time."
Dorian laughs, hopes that next time he'll be able to join the fight, "Go."
By the time Dorian finally takes his leave of the library, with a stiff neck and the echo of elegant script on old paper still blurring in and out of his vision, Skyhold has fallen dark around him. Solas is nowhere to be found as he descends the spiral stairs to the atrium, and the throne room is eerily vacant and dim (empty of the gaggles of people who are constantly milling about there, as well as Varric and Vivienne, both of whom have also evidently taken their leave) as he makes his way across the hall to the entrance to the Inquisitor's chambers. That hall, which seems to be perpetually under construction, is pitch black and freezing and only memory gets him to the last door and up the stairs.
The room, he discovers, is empty.
It's been empty, at least of its main inhabitant, for nearly two weeks now, given the Inquisitor's dragon hunting mission in Crestwood. It's been a long two weeks, and Dorian has gotten very little sleep in that time, worrying over the Inquisitor.
But, even lit only by the pale glow of moonlight through the large windows, it's clear that the Inquisitor has not returned to his quarters since his return to Skyhold this afternoon. Probably off celebrating with Bull in the Herald's Rest, Dorian figures, or else he's trapped in the War Room with Cullen, Josephine and Cassandra discussing the politics of the Inquisition or planning the next move they'll make against Corypheus.
Nonetheless, he's too tired to make his way back to his own rarely used room, so he'll just stay. It's not like he doesn't have an open invitation to stay here. Hell, more than half of the books piled by the desk in the corner of the room are texts he's working through - keeping them here prevents other inhabitants from wandering off with them, he's learned. His armor and staff are here, tucked away in the closet along with the Inquisitor's great sword and dragonscale armor - though those are likely being looked over after the dragon. Even the runners knows to find him here, it seems, as Leliana and Cullen have both sent people for him while he was comfortably sprawled out in the Inquisitor's bed in the early hours of the morning.
So, he strips down (a task which requires some dedication, given the sheer number of buckles involved) and settles into bed, where the blankets are thick and warm, to combat the ever-present chill in the air that he swears he will never grow accustomed to, and he sleeps.
When he wakes, it's to find that he's no longer alone.
Whatever had been going on in the War Room (not the Tavern, Dorian decides, given the lack of the overpowering smell of alcohol), must have finally come to an end.
"Was hoping you'd be here," comes the Inquisitor's tired voice, as he climbs into bed and curls himself around Dorian, bare limbs tangling together.
"Where else would I be?"
His bedmate presses kisses along the back of his neck and shoulder, pulling him in close, "I missed you."
Dorian laughs, "I noticed."
"I had to share a tent with Blackwall," the Inquisitor says, "I didn't know anyone could snore so loudly."
More laughter, and Dorian rolls to face the man for a proper kiss. "Serves you right."
"Ah, that's right. I have some shameless flirting to make up for, don't I?"
"You might," Dorian agrees, "Though I believed you promised 'shameless whatever you want,' at the time, actually."
"Well," the Inquisitor grins, shifting until he's trapped himself under Dorian, and claiming kiss after kiss "if I promised..."
You lie awake in the pre-dawn darkness of Skyhold's tallest tower, the pink and yellow beginnings of the sunrise are only just starting to creep over the mountain peaks on the horizon, so your quarters are still dark, lit only by the dim green glow that radiates from the mark on your hand. It's still quiet, too early for even the earliest of rises, too late for even the latest to bed. Dorian is sleeping soundly beside you, sharing your bed more often than not these days, and the two of you are so entwined that it's hard to tell where you end and he begins, the sheets a tangled mess between you. It's perfect.
Unfortunately, it's the last morning you'll have like this in quite a while, as tomorrow marks the start of a lengthy trip to the Hissing Wastes, and Dorian won't be accompanying you.
Dorian shifts a little closer to you, and you curl your fingers around his and settle in, perfectly content to stay like this as long as possible because you're going to miss it.
Normally, Dorian's with you when you leave Skyhold, and the two of you have shared a tent since long before you ever got together. You're so used to him being there, at your side, when you fight that something feels like it's missing when he's not. Vivienne is just as good, but it's not the same.
Eventually, as you drift in and out of sleep, the sunlight slowly stretches its way through the grand windows, creeping closer and closer to the bed. The sounds of morning are beginning down below, as well, the crows of roosters and the clacking of hooves, the chatter of the kitchen staff, moving about early to prepare breakfast for the castle, the clank of armor as the soldiers trade posts.
It will rouse your bedmate soon enough, you're sure - assuming no one comes looking for you before then, to summon you off to some last minute meeting about the upcoming journey - and another chaotic day with the Inquisition will commence. Then everyone will be out of bed, back into the chaos of Inquisition life - researching ways to defeat Corypheus, debating the best strategies, organizing troops and supplies, sending out scouts and messengers and spies, planning the next move.
But perhaps you have overestimated Dorian's level of consciousness. You feel the man shift at your back, pulling away from the shared warmth. A chill settles in where he'd been pressed against you.
You want to move, to reach out to him and drag him back down. You want to convince him (probably won't take much convincing, really) to just stay in bed with you for as long as possible today, because it's going to be weeks, maybe months, until you see each other again. You want to pull him in for a long, hungry kiss and go from there.
But something stops you.
"I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified," Dorian says, with a slow, shuddering breath.
The words are whispered, and so quiet that you're sure that he never meant for you to actually hear them, but you have. Has he been awake as long as you have, worrying over this like you've been worrying about being away from him?
He reaches out for you, and a shaking hand lands on your shoulder. You turn toward him, your hand reaching out to cover his, but when he realizes that you're awake, that you heard, he pulls away, moves away.
"I don't know why I said that," he admits, and even though he doesn't go far, the distance between you seems insurmountable in that moment, like you could never hope to reach him where he sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
Sometimes you wonder what happened to him to make him think the way he does. You know his history with his father, what he tried to do to Dorian, but there's something more, you're sure. Maybe one day he'll tell you.
What makes him so sure that he's not worth loving, that no one ever could?
"Hey," you start, escaping the tangle of blankets and sliding up behind him. You curl your arms around him, pressing a series of long, lazy kisses against his neck and jaw, finally finding his mouth, as you pull him back down. "If it helps," you say, just as quietly as Dorian's own words had been, "I know that I'm in love with you."
You do, Maker, you do, more than anything, and maybe one day he'll believe that.
Of all the places he's followed the Inquisitor, Dorian thinks, Emprise du Lion has to be his least favorite.
Which is saying a lot.
The Storm Coast had been wet, but at least it had been warm. The Fallow Mire had nothing going for it, the godforsaken pit of mud. The Hissing Wastes were little more than a vast, empty desert wasteland slowly cooking him from the inside out. But Emprise du Lion is bloody cold, colder than he's ever been, and there's no relief from it, won't be until they take Suledin Keep.
Short of the Fade or the ruined future Alexius had thrown them into, he'd take anywhere else.
The tents are the only thing keeping him from freezing to death, and he makes eagerly for the one he shares with the Inquisitor the second he gets the chance. They've just finished clearing out a Templar encampment and making camp for the night. It's been a long day of fighting and they'll be back at it tomorrow. He'll take whatever reprieve from the cold he can get.
He passes by Sera, but the mischievous glint in her eyes give him pause, and he notes the ball of packed snow in her hands. Uh oh. "Don't you dare throw that snowba-" Dorian starts to protest. His warning comes too late, though, as the projectile has already been launched in his direction. It makes contact right on target, the cold snow sliding down his robes most unpleasantly. "Damn it!"
Sera's doubled over, cackling with laughter. "You should see your face!" she manages, and Dorian rather hopes her face freezes that way.
"Hilarious," he grumbles, just as another projectile sails over his head and nails her in the back. He smirks as she bolts upright in surprise at the unexpected attack. "Now that," he concedes, "that was hilarious."
"Who threw that!?" She demands, whirling on him, already armed again. With no other obvious targets, she launches that one at him, too, and this handful of cold snow explodes in his face. Ugh.
"It wasn't me!" He protests, brushing as much of the damned snow off of himself as possible.
"I don't see anyone else around, do you?"
It's true. Iron Bull is somewhere nearby, scavenging up some food for them all, and the Inquisitor wandered off to go gather some of the plentiful crafting materials they've found here.
But the Inquisitor must have finished with his task, because he comes out of nowhere, an arm curling around Dorian's waist, hauling him back the way he came, behind a well-placed drift of snow, where a stockpile of snowballs waits. "Come on," he says, passing one to Dorian before launching another at a protesting Sera, "you know I hate to fight without you at my side."
And Dorian, already cold and wet and miserable, can do nothing but agree. He fires his snowball and smirks in satisfaction when it nails her in the ass in her attempt to dive for cover of her own. "Unfair!" She shouts, already firing back at them. Their cover is better, though, and they're firing twice as often, so she ends up hit far more often than either of them - a fact which Dorian greatly appreciates - and things are well-skewed in their favor as the battle rages on.
Until Iron Bull returns. Dorian doesn't see him until it's too late, until he's already thrown the snowball that smacks into the Qunari's broad chest. There's a hulking bear over Bull's shoulders, which only makes Dorian's mistake all the more daunting.
"You'll pay for that, 'Vint," Iron Bull assures him, walking through the field of play to set dinner aside before he joins up with Sera.
Things go bad quickly after that.
The snowballs that the Iron Bull sends at them are more like snowboulders, and he quickly figures out just where to throw them to obliterate their defenses, leaving them scrambling for fresh cover as the over-sized snowballs continue to rain down upon them. They can hear Sera laughing herself silly, even more so when one of the shots trips Dorian up and sends him sprawling all over the Inquisitor, pinning him down into the snow and severely hindering their escape plans. The Inquisitor spins as they go down, so Dorian ends up more or less straddling him when they land, half buried in snow. They've both long since gone numb to the cold.
"I think we've been bested, Amatus," Dorian supplies, removing his elbow from the Inquisitor's ribs.
"It looks that way," the Inquisitor agrees, looking up at Dorian with a grin on his face, the likes of which Dorian has never seen in their time together. He likes this side of the Inquisitor, it's one he doesn't often get to see. They spend so much of their time focusing on the Inquisition - the battles, the planning, the traveling - that there is little time for anything normal, let alone anything fun like this. "This is a battle I think I can stand losing," he says, waving a hand in surrender. "You win!" He calls out, loud enough for Sera and Bull to hear. He sits up slowly, still half-trapped under Dorian. "We surrender!"
There are triumphant cheers from across the clearing and one final, extra large snowball comes hurtling toward them. They take the hit with grace, and Dorian can't bite back the laugh when he sees the snow sticking to his lover's face, frozen into his beard and his eyebrows. "You look ridiculous."
"As do you, Dorian," the Inquisitor replies, a hand coming up to brush the gathered snow from his mustache. It trails over his lips, too, and the cold of his touch makes Dorian shiver.
He leans forward, steals a quick kiss. His frozen fingers curl into the Inquisitor's snow-damp hair. "That's more than enough of the cold, I should think," Dorian says, claiming a long, slow kiss this time. "Perhaps we should go warm up in the tents, celebrate our near-victory?"
"I like that plan," the Inquisitor agrees with a grin.
Dorian stands, offers a hand to his lover and heads for their tent. They ignore the catcalls from Bull and Sera and duck into the relative shelter the tent provides, already struggling to strip out of snow-soaked clothes, a task made all the more complicated by their cold-numbed hands.
The warm blankets call them closer, limbs tangling together under the heavy covers, sharing kisses and touches as well as body heat until they're both more or less thawed out. Then there's warm clothes and warm food and warm ale, before they all turn in for the night.
It was worth it, Dorian supposes, as the Inquisitor sleeps soundly beside him with a faint smile still on his face. And maybe Emprise du Lion has it's upsides, after all - maybe the cold isn't so bad when you have someone to warm up with afterward.