This story takes place in a slight AU in which the twins Rory and Simon Trevelyan share the burden of the Anchor, although Simon, a warrior, holds the title of Inquisitor. The story focuses on Simon and Dorian, though Rory appears partway through. Rory belongs to probablylostrightnow and is used with his permission; many thanks to probablylostrightnow and theherocomplex for their excellent beta reading.
"And what's all that?" Dorian asked, noticing the heap of fine fabrics piled on the chest in the Inquisitor's quarters. Simon was tidy enough, typically, and Dorian didn't recall seeing the material before.
"Formal dinner tomorrow night," Simon replied. "Josephine insisted on dressing up."
"New attire? How splendid." Dorian cast an appraising eye at the pile.
"Apparently we're dressing to impress—" Simon squinted and took a breath "—a dowager duchess, a marquis, and a couple of barons. Dull as dirt, I expect, but you know how it is. Politics. So. Afraid I'll be occupied tomorrow."
"A pity," Dorian said. "Alas, just my books and me, and perhaps a bottle of brandy. No, no, don't worry, I'll find some way to occupy myself without suffering too terribly."
"I've no doubt of that." Simon was smiling. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, hesitated, and then said, "It'd be less dull with you there. You could keep me company."
Dorian blinked. Simon couldn't possibly be serious, and yet there he stood, looking earnest and guileless, even hopeful. Dorian narrowed his eyes, adopting the most carefully neutral expression he could muster. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?" Simon asked, his eyes bright and sincere.
Wasn't it obvious? Dorian crossed his arms. "You're supposed to be impressing these people, aren't you? The Inquisition has trouble enough without courting additional scandal." He caught himself shifting weight from one foot to the other and forced himself to stop, trying not to show his nerves.
"They're Orlesian," Simon said. "It would be gauche of them to let on that they were scandalized by something so ordinary as men bedding each other."
Dorian's lip curled. "Even I've never done that at a formal banquet."
"You know what I mean," Simon said, rolling his eyes. "They won't think anything of our being there together, or if they do, they won't say anything. It's not as if we're a secret. Everyone in Skyhold knows."
Dorian was not entirely convinced that that was a good idea, either. He did not regret what they were doing, no, but he did occasionally wish they'd practiced a little more discretion. Flirtation had moved to friendship and then to stolen moments in the library and beyond in entirely too intoxicating a fashion, leaving them both exposed. "Oh? And you really think your oh-so-devout Orlesians won't mind that their honored Herald of Andraste associates with a dangerous Tevinter mage?" He kept his temper banked, but with a snap of his fingers, he summoned fire to his hand, and let the flame burn in his palm like a torch before squeezing it back into nothingness. "There's a difference between what everyone knows because it's whispered and what everyone knows because it's flung in their faces."
The hopefulness had dropped out of Simon's expression, replaced with resignation. He still said, "Most of the Inquisition is just as devout. And you like flinging things in people's faces."
Dorian could no longer contain his annoyance. "No, you do," he snapped. Whether it was battering down a door with his shoulder or pushing his opinions on others, Simon Trevelyan never held back, did he?
Simon blinked at the vehemence of his retort, and his mouth tightened. "Fine," he said. "It doesn't matter. Forget I asked."
Dorian stared at him for another long moment, eyes narrowed, and then nodded. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do."
"I just don't like hiding you," Simon said to Dorian's retreating back.
That struck home, burrowed into his flesh and stung. Dorian paused and glanced back over his shoulder, but continued on his way without saying anything.
#
No matter how Dorian felt about Simon Trevelyan, illustrious Inquisitor, he could be an idiot sometimes. Foolish and naive, if not downright stupid. The good folk of Skyhold might have grown to tolerate the "magister" in their midst; Dorian had proven himself useful enough, after all. Or at any rate, they'd learned to keep their opinions to themselves. The rest of the south was not the same, and the Inquisition was far too important to risk people's good opinion if they saw their Inquisitor dallying with a dreaded Tevinter. Besides, even in Orlais, people were subtler about such things. Subtlety might be a concept that Simon had only a passing familiarity with, but that only made it more important for the rest of them to keep it in mind. It was for his own good, and more than that, the good of the Inquisition. Dorian was being the sensible one, for once.
That did not stop him from muttering to himself, or from finding that his eyes had scanned through a whole page without registering its contents. It did not stop his mind from wandering, either, to the enticing, if unrealistic, prospect of being out in public with his amatus, of daring to clasp hands for a moment, or make some other gesture beyond simple camaraderie.
Dorian frowned, and, with an effort of will, refocused his attention on the words in front of him. That sort of daydream was mere romantic foolishness, the exact sort of nonsense that had doubtless overtaken Simon's head.
I just don't like hiding you.
It was what Dorian wanted, wasn't it? That secret yearning he'd barely done more than allude to, even to Simon. To have that affection and commitment, yes, to be recognized, but that sort of public appearance — the idea was positively alarming. Dorian was prepared to grant that such behavior might be accepted among ordinary folk — the south was more permissive on such points than Tevinter, after all — but for a person of rank like the Inquisitor's? A person who needed diplomacy and political support? No. Impossible, no matter what Simon thought.
It was taxing to be so sensible, and it left Dorian in a mood too foul to enjoy anyone's company. He stayed resolutely in the library past the typical dinner hour before slipping down to snag a bite to eat from the kitchen, and took it back up to his own assigned quarters to eat alone.
Dorian's resolve lasted through the morning, unpleasantly cold though it was (sleeping alone was bad enough, especially when one had grown somewhat accustomed to sharing a bed, but dragging oneself out of the covers into the chilly air was simply beyond what any reasonable person could expect). It only faltered as the afternoon wore on, and Dorian lifted his head at every sound of footfalls on the stairs, and still Simon did not appear. He told himself that Simon was likely sequestered with Josephine, preparing for the banquet. Most probably. Nothing to be concerned about.
Probably.
And yet, Dorian shifted in his seat at the thought that he and Simon might be genuinely on the outs. Past paramours had rarely lasted long enough to have any kind of spat in the first place, so it was an unaccustomed worry. Likely an unfounded one, too. Simon Trevelyan was an even-tempered sort. He wouldn't hold a grudge over a difference of opinion like this. Besides, Dorian was right. Simon would come around to see that in time.
Still, the thought ate at him, and eventually Dorian pushed himself out of his favorite chair and set off in search of the Inquisitor.
He found Simon in his quarters.
He was already dressed for dinner, frowning into the mirror as he combed through hair damp from the bath. The close-fitting doublet, in a deep crimson and rich with embroidery, accentuated the width of his shoulders and lines of his back quite nicely. Dorian knew from personal experience that there was no need for padding of any kind to achieve the desired silhouette, which could hardly be the norm among the Orlesian nobles. The shirt beneath was white, with flowing sleeves gathered to cuffs. It really was quite a pity to conceal Simon's arms, Dorian reflected; they were quite impressive arms, due to all the time spent slinging a sword and shield around. All the same, the crisp linen was a nice contrast to the lushness of the silk velvet doublet, and the polished boots. Overall, quite a nice picture of healthy noble masculinity. A little conservative in style, perhaps, omitting most of the feathers and furbelows that Orlesians tended to favor, but the natural appeal of a fine physique added considerably to the effect. Dorian could not but approve.
"Do I pass muster?" Simon asked, angling his head so he could see Dorian in the mirror.
"You're presentable enough," Dorian replied. Understatement, but he was fairly sure Simon knew that.
The half-smile directed his way said he was correct in that opinion. "Good of you to say so."
"Good of you to wait for my opinion," Dorian said, strolling over.
"You keep telling me I can hardly do without it," Simon said, setting the comb aside and turning to face Dorian. "And you know, I was beginning to think you might be angry with me."
His tone was light, but there was a vertical line between his brows that spoke of real worry. There was a certain temptation to reach out to smooth it away. Dorian crossed his arms instead. "Don't be ridiculous."
The line did smooth away, as Simon's eyebrows went up. "Ridiculous?"
"As if I could be angry with you," Dorian said, with a sudden sharp realization that there was more truth to that than he might like. Exasperated, yes, temporarily peeved, perhaps, but not truly angry. Not for long. He added, "And if you wanted to know, you had only to ask."
Simon grimaced. "Sorry. Josephine's had me in fittings and meetings most of the last two days. Sometimes she's like my great-aunt and my mother and my tutor all rolled into one."
Dorian snorted. He'd guessed as much, but it eased him to hear it. "She's a formidable lady, our ambassador."
"She is, at that," Simon said. "And I'm afraid I'm due to greet our guests momentarily."
"One moment," Dorian said, on impulse, and went to retrieve his own things from the washroom. He kept a few spares there, for those increasingly common mornings when he'd spent the night. It was extravagant, after all, for the Inquisitor to have a space practically to himself. Simon only made so much use of it, and Dorian required space to keep himself properly groomed, so there was no need to waste it. There was no need, either, to think about any additional significance the familiarity might have. The point was, he had a spare vial of scent ready to hand. "A finishing touch," he informed Simon, and without waiting for a response, put a drop on his finger and touched it to Simon's throat.
He could feel the pulse beneath the skin; was it his imagination, or was it a trifle faster? But Simon neither moved nor sighed, but simply held Dorian's gaze and said, "Are you sure I'm not going to smell dangerously of Tevinter?"
"Nonsense," Dorian said. "It's the merest dab. Just the right touch of sophistication."
Simon's lips twitched before he leaned forward and kissed Dorian, a warm, promising brush of lips and tongue. "I'll see you after," he said, not quite a question.
"I shall wait with bated breath," Dorian replied.
#
That was hyperbole, of course; in actuality, waiting was dull. Dorian had a whole assortment of stratagems to assuage the tedium, ordinarily, and he chose the first and easiest resort, returning to the library and his books. He even managed to engross himself for nearly an hour in a history of the ancient magisters that was probably half legend and riddled with bookworm holes besides. That was the point at which his stomach reminded him, rather forcibly, that he'd neglected to eat anything since breakfast.
The journey to the kitchens took him past the formal dining room, and Dorian slowed. Casually. The door was open, and it would do no great harm to observe how Simon was doing with the Orlesians.
It was a rather larger party than Dorian had anticipated. They had apparently not yet reached the formal, seated phase of dinner; rather, at least a dozen strangers in bold striped silks and glittering masks were milling about with glasses of wine. He could see Vivienne, an arresting figure in silver and white, gliding gracefully through the crowd, and could hear Josephine's voice among the chatter—the ambassador was too short to be easily visible, especially among the full sleeves and stiffened skirts favored in Orlais these days. It took him a surprisingly long moment to locate Simon, though, in spite of the latter's height and size. The problem, Dorian discovered with irrational irritation, was that he was surrounded, facing a stout man in shades of green and purple that grated on the eye and one of those stuffed headdresses, and flanked by a woman whose skirts were nearly as wide as she was tall. She was petite, to be fair, but it was still an astoundingly bottle-shaped effect. It rather made Dorian thirsty. There was another woman with them, too, younger, resplendent in ruffled sky-blue silk and blond curls. She giggled, one hand rising to cover her mouth—Dorian could not pick out her laugh from the din of conversation, but he recognized the gesture clearly—the other hand clutching at Simon's arm.
Ah. A coquette. Well played, young lady, Dorian mentally congratulated her, as her fingers fell away from her smiling mouth while the other hand remained on Simon's arm. Yes, nicely done, for all she appeared quite young. Those damned masks made it difficult to tell, but the quality of her skin suggested she was no more than twenty, possibly younger yet. She'd tilted her head back to stare adoringly at Simon, and, well, it wasn't as if Dorian could blame her.
Simon laughed at something she said and extricated himself from the grip in a smooth movement, turning toward Lady Bottle and making some remark that set all three of the Orlesians smiling. It was all graciously done, subtly enough that no one could complain of either impoliteness or impropriety. Simon looked quite at ease, Dorian realized, quite as much as if it were the training ground. If this was a facade, it was a good one.
"He's good at this," he said to himself, and only realized that Leliana was at his elbow when she replied.
"Yes, he is."
Dorian did not quite manage to conceal his start. The corner of Leliana's mouth turned up, although her eyes remained on the room. "It was rather a relief to Josie to find he doesn't require much tutelage," she continued.
"Hm." Dorian crossed his arms. "He did grow up in a noble household," he said, finding himself peculiarly defensive of his lover, even though he'd spent the last two days decrying Simon's sense of politics himself.
"Yes, though so have any number of fools," Leliana said.
Dorian frowned, momentarily having no better response. He watched the young woman titter and edge closer to Simon.
"The Marquis's daughter, Lady Nicolette," Leliana said. "Eighteen. Excellent bloodlines, if perhaps a trifle naive."
Dorian shot her a narrow, sidelong glance, but her face, per usual, gave away nothing. "What are you suggesting?" he said.
"I'm suggesting nothing," she said. "Though they wouldn't be the only nobles who brought along an eligible daughter."
"What, to impress the leader of an upstart heretical movement?"
Leliana laughed quietly. "Evidently they have a positive view of our chances. I find it intriguing to observe."
"Do you," said Dorian flatly.
"It's valuable information," she said. "It says something about their aspirations and intentions. Now, the Inquisitor would prefer to put it about that he's not available."
Dorian blew out a breath through his nose. "And there's your folly."
"You think so?" Leliana's eyes darted toward him.
"What, to admit his real... involvement?" Dorian hated fumbling for the word, and snapped: "It's politically stupid."
"Mmm," she said. "Perhaps. This is a time of change, though. Why should the Inquisition not set new standards?"
She was not, he thought, talking about the political dimensions of the problem. He frowned, staring into the room. The knot of people around Simon had loosened, two others joining into a larger circle. Vivienne, across the room, was talking with other quartet of nobles, and Josephine was moving among the rest. A servant in Inquisition livery entered the room, tray in hand.
"There is already gossip, after all," she added.
Dorian knew that too well, after the business with his amulet. Mother Giselle still cast disapproving eyes at him every time their paths crossed. "Have they even served dinner yet?" he asked abruptly, changing the subject.
"Not yet," Leliana said. "It should be nearly time."
"There's the main course now," Dorian said, observing the servant making his way across the room. The man was not taking a direct course toward the head table, but veering toward Simon, as if to present the dish for the Inquisitor's approval. Odd.
Leliana stiffened. "No," she said. "That man's not one of ours." She was already moving, but she had further to go than the not-servant, who was already nearly within range.
Dorian did not waste time wondering how Leliana apparently recognized all the servants' faces, if that was even possible, or what the false servant might actually be intending. Even without a staff, it was the work of a moment to summon magic, to form a barrier out of the air and let it coalesce into place around Simon. A murmur of surprise and fear rippled through the room, as those standing nearest him noticed the magic singing through the air.
But it was enough. Enough to get Simon's attention, so that, as the barrier absorbed the attacker's first blow, he whirled, dropping into a defensive stance, and caught the second blow on his raised left arm. Enough time for Leliana to make her way into the room, her own daggers drawn; enough time for Vivienne to slow their opponent with a spark of frost.
Dorian did not dare follow up with fire, not in a room full of non-combatants, not without his staff to focus and guide the power to its target. He could do no more than occupy the doorway, in a certain defensive, if rather useless, impulse.
Fortunately, it was over in seconds. Vivienne's spell set the assailant back, and a few servants followed Leliana's lead and knocked the man to the ground, where he promptly began weeping. At the sudden defeat of the threat, the room was still for a moment before breaking out into a babble of alarmed questions, while Leliana turned to give low-voiced orders to the servants and Josephine darted toward the Inquisitor.
Dorian's heart was still pounding, and he found himself staring suspiciously about the room for signs of any more concealed weapons. He shook himself and strode into the room. Simon was still on his feet, but Dorian's heart would rest easier if he could see the damage for himself.
"It's quite all right," Simon was saying, apparently attempting to reassure the Orlesians. Lady Bottle did look a bit pale beneath her mask. "No real harm done, I'm fine," Simon added, with a glance in Dorian's direction, as he approached.
The crimson staining his sleeve, as well as the napkin he held clutched to his left arm, gave that statement the lie. Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Bleeding like a stuck nug does not constitute fine," he pointed out.
Simon ignored him, his eyes widening with a sudden thought. "Josephine, we need to find Rory. What if there was more than one?"
"Of course," Josephine said, gesturing to a guard, who promptly scurried out of the room.
"We will determine whether this person had confederates," Leliana added, with a nod to the additional guards who had just entered.
"I'll send for the healers as well," Josephine said.
"That's hardly necessary," Simon said, but both women were already departing about their business.
"Let me see," Dorian said, reaching for Simon's arm.
Simon rolled his eyes, but permitted Dorian to pull the napkin away. The gash was not terribly deep, as far as he could tell, but it was long enough, and still bleeding freely. Dorian wished, not for the first time, that he had any facility with healing magic. It was considered a low occupation for an Altus, in any case; of great utility, to be sure, but not the sort of thing that led to advancement. Only Alexius, of Dorian's tutors, had treated the subject in anything more than a cursory way. Even then, both of them had needed to bone up considerably on medical matters when they began to tackle the problem of Felix's illness.
This was just a wound. Messy and bloody, but no threat to life. Soberly, Dorian pressed the cloth back to the cut. "Bad habits," he chided Simon. "You'd best avoid blocking that way when you're not carrying a shield."
"Better the arm than vital organs," Simon returned.
Dorian could not argue that point. He frowned anyway, disliking the sight of his lover's blood. Simon gave Dorian his most engaging smile. "Thank you for the timely intervention," he added.
"Intervention?" ventured the girl—Lady Nicolette—and Dorian abruptly recalled that they were not alone, but rather surrounded by a crowd of bewildered Orlesians. And here he was, standing close enough to kiss Simon, and still holding his arm. Far too close; he took half a step back.
"My friend, Dorian Pavus," Simon said, as affable as one could be while still trying to stanch blood. "He had enough warning to cast that barrier and stop the assassin from the start."
"Oh," she said, turning admiring, wide blue eyes on Dorian. It was most disconcerting.
"Now, now, darling," Vivienne said. "Let's give the Inquisitor some breathing room."
Space did clear at Vivienne's sweeping approach, the Orlesians rustling off to the side. "Do let the healer have a look at that, dear," she added.
"I'm fine," Simon said again. "The wound is superficial. Nothing to worry about, really."
"Of course," Vivienne said, with a warm smile that somehow managed to convey that Simon was being an idiot, or perhaps that was only Dorian's fond imagination. There was enough of a waver in Simon's stance to put the lie to his words, too, and he was evidently going to stand there, bleeding and smiling, lest the noble Orlesian visitors be overly alarmed. Dorian couldn't help thinking was a bit above and beyond anyone's rational idea of duty, even for the Inquisitor. He edged a little closer to provide a supportive shoulder.
"Perhaps we should get you somewhere quieter," Dorian suggested. A couple of the visitors had blanched under their masks, he thought.
"Oh, no, that's quite all right," Simon said, still smiling, and Dorian was seriously considering hitting the man himself. Just then, however, Simon's twin Rory came in, eyes wide with alarm behind their spectacles. Cassandra was right behind, with an expression on her face that made several of the Orlesians paler yet. The crowd flowed away from her like water, murmuring among themselves.
"Simon!" Rory exclaimed. "Are you all right?"
"Just fine," Simon said, though Dorian thought he was beginning to look off-color himself. "It's only a minor wound."
Rory frowned, peering at the blood-stained napkin. "It doesn't look minor."
"I am more interested in knowing how the assassin got in," Cassandra said, casting a dark look around the room. Half of the Orlesians wilted and shrank before her gaze.
"Believe me, so am I," said Cullen, hastening through the door. Josephine and one of the healers, a plump middle-aged elf woman, were right behind him. The commander looked decidedly harried. "It was only the one attacker?"
"So it appears, unless Leliana has learned more." Cassandra crossed her arms.
"Maker," Simon muttered. "It is really necessary for all of you to be here? I'm not about to die."
"I would prefer to work somewhere quieter," put in the healer, with a nervous look at the whispering nobles. Floramel, that was her name, Dorian had seen her in the library a few times and loaned her a tome on Tevinter potion-making techniques.
"Quite right," said Josephine, and took charge. It was rather a marvel to behold, as the petite Antivan put on her most charming smile and managed to shoo the visiting nobles to their seats and the rest of them out the door. She nearly had to shove Cullen and Cassandra, hissing under her breath that security matters really ought to be discussed in private. She and Vivienne stayed behind, to sooth the visitors' ruffled sensibilities, no doubt. Rory lent some support to Simon's other side, which was probably a good idea; Simon looked to be staying on his feet only by leaning more and more heavily on Dorian's shoulder.
Fortunately this part of Skyhold was riddled with odd chambers, mostly used for storage, and it was a simple matter to move into one. Simon sank down rather heavily onto a trunk.
"There now," said Floramel briskly. "Let see what we have here." She pulled the blood-stained cloth away.
Simon flinched, but muttered, "It's fine, really." Dorian felt his mouth twist in response, in an expression that was no doubt quite unbecoming.
"You can stop saying that now," Rory said, with a nudge to Simon's shoulder.
Simon made a good-humored scowl back. "It's purely superficial."
"I'll be the judge of that," said the healer. "Hm, it's messy enough. Let's get this cleaned up." She reached for the pack she'd brought with her, taking out clean cloths and a flask of water.
Cullen, still waiting at the doorway, cleared his throat. "With your permission, Inquisitor, I'd like to go see the prisoner myself."
"Go ahead," Rory said, somewhat to Dorian's surprise. "Cassandra, you might as well go, too. There's not much you can do here."
Cullen hesitated only a moment before nodding and departing. Cassandra lingered a moment longer. "You're sure you do not require any further assistance?"
Rory smiled at her. "I think we can take it from here."
She smiled back, an oddly soft expression on that sharp and elegant face. Dorian looked away, feeling as though he were intruding on a private moment. He looked down at Simon, who'd shut his eyes as Floramel cleaned fresh and clotted blood from the wound. When Dorian squeezed his shoulder, he looked up, eyes half opening, and offered a shadow of his usual smile.
"It's not serious," was Floramel's verdict at last, after Cassandra had left the room. "It won't be difficult to heal at all."
"You can just stitch it up," Simon said. Rory made an irritated noise. "I've had worse," Simon pointed out.
It was true. He had a scar in nearly the same place, a long pale stripe of scarred tissue running down his arm.
"Only because I'm not much of a healer," Rory said. "There's no need to do that again."
"Indeed there isn't," Floramel agreed. "I promise you, it will heal quick and clean, and won't itch for days like the stitches do."
"Have it your way, then," Simon sighed.
It was only the work of a few minutes; the healer bent her head, concentrating, and Dorian clearly felt the wisp of her magical aura. He watched the muscle and skin knit back together, fascinated. When she was done, nothing more than a red line across the skin remained.
"Hey there, boss." The Iron Bull's massive horned shadow fell over them. "You done bleeding on the floor yet?"
"Quite." Simon heaved himself to his feet, with only a little steadying from Rory and Dorian. "What are you doing here? Am I a spectacle now?"
"Nah. Cullen sent me down to play bodyguard."
Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of—"
"Good," Rory interrupted, and frowned back when Simon scowled.
"Just a precaution." Bull gave them his lazy smile. "Me and the boys will keep guard on the staircase up to your rooms tonight, that's all."
"Rory's as well," Simon said.
"That's what Cullen said. Don't worry about it, boss."
Simon suddenly brightened. "Wait, does that mean I don't have to go back to the banquet?"
"I'll do you one better than that," Bull said. "I'll get the kitchen to send dinner up to your rooms."
"Capital," Dorian said, as his stomach suddenly reminded him that he'd been on his way to cadge dinner when the crisis erupted. "Mine too, if you please."
Bull grinned. "Thought so."
#
Simon asserted that he could manage the stairs to his quarters quite well, thank you. Dorian doubted that to be true, and exchanged glances with Rory, who appeared equally dubious. Neither of them objected, however, merely followed until, somewhere around the second landing on the staircase, Simon faltered and put a hand out to lean on the wall. Then they both hastened forward to lend some support, again.
"Idiot," Dorian muttered fondly.
"There's really no need—"Simon began.
"—to be this stubborn," Rory finished.
"Look who's talking," Simon grumbled.
"You're hurt," Rory said.
"Not any more."
"Magical healing doesn't restore lost blood," Dorian felt obliged to put in.
"I've had worse. There's no need to make a fuss."
"There's no need to play the stoic!" Rory exclaimed. "You're the Inquisitor, of course people are going to make a fuss."
"I'm only the Inquisitor because you ducked faster," Simon said.
"That's not true. You're far better suited for it."
The twins kept up their bickering all the way up to Simon's rooms, even as they helped Simon settle himself on the couch. Rory started removing the bloodstained doublet and ruined shirt as well, without any prompting, and Dorian hesitated, feeling odd and superfluous. Simon and Rory had descended, at some point, into a series of jabs about long-past incidents, though not a word of it sounded truly barbed.
For a moment, Dorian wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a sibling, someone else to fill up space in the spacious chambers of the family villa, to share the weight of his parents' expectations. He also wondered, not for the first time, why there was none. With all that pride in the Pavus lineage, there should have been a whole brood of them, enough to ensure that one disappointment would hardly be missed. Dorian wasn't sure if it was simply that his parents couldn't abide being in the same room together, or whether something else lay behind that absence.
"Isn't that right, Dorian?"
Rory's voice broke into Dorian's reverie, and he found both Trevelyans looking at him expectantly. "Pardon?" he asked.
"Oh, stop ganging up on me," Simon said. "I'll be fine, Rory, they'll send up dinner soon, and I know you must have been doing something more interesting than fussing over me."
Rory adjusted their glasses. "Well. There is that treatise we found on the perceived geography of the Fade—"
Dorian's interest was piqued. "How is that one? It looked like it had potential."
"Oh!" Rory's demeanor brightened. "I think the author may be overly confident of her ability to predict the correspondence between real-world locations and echoes of the same spaces in the Fade, but there is certainly some relationship between physical space and Fade space, if you would—"
"Have you asked Solas?" Dorian said. "He'd be in a position to know."
Rory sighed. "He's not exactly the most forthcoming when he talks to me, so—"
Simon cleared his throat loudly. "As fascinating as this conversation is, I think it only proves my point that you don't need to stay, Rory."
Rory hesitated, looking torn, and Dorian said, "I can stay."
It was a selfish offer, of course, not motivated by any altruism. Dorian wanted to stay, wanted to make up for the time he'd missed in the last day, wanted to keep an eye on his incorrigibly stubborn lover himself.
Rory looked relieved for a moment, and then frowned. "If you're quite certain..."
"Of course," Dorian said. "I don't mind at all."
"Go on," Simon said, nudging his twin's arm. "And tell Cassandra hello and I'm fine."
Rory reddened slightly. "Ah. She's, um, she's probably busy."
"Mark my words," Simon said with a grin. "She'll check up on you tonight."
Rory shook their head, smiling faintly. "Good night, Simon."
"You don't really have to stay," Simon said once Rory had retreated to their own rooms on the other side of the staircase. "I'll be perfectly fine, if you could just find me a fresh tunic."
He was rather distractingly shirtless at the moment, in fact. Under other circumstances, Dorian would have found this a promising opening to the evening. As it was, he strode over to the clothes press and took out what he knew to be a favorite tunic, comfortable and well-worn. "Will be fine, you say," he said, tossing the garment in Simon's direction. "At least you've stopped pretending that you are."
Simon paused in the act of pulling the tunic on. "Dorian?"
Dorian gritted his teeth. All the worry and unease and irritation of the last hour were crystallizing into anger, and he was about to say something intemperate. "Someone tried to kill you, and you just stood there pretending everything was perfectly in order, for those puffed-up Orlesian parakeets."
Simon snorted. Dorian glared. Simon rolled his eyes and tugged the tunic into place. "Don't even try to tell me that wasn't meant to be funny, because I won't believe you."
"You might at least take something seriously," Dorian snapped.
"I do!" Simon protested.
"Name three," Dorian said.
"Well, you, for one!"
That silenced Dorian. He stood momentarily silent, breathing carefully to keep himself from saying anything else regrettable. Simon watched him while the silence drew out, and then sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. "Very well. You're right. I'm tired, and I don't want to quarrel right now. You said earlier I could ask you, so I have to ask. Are you actually angry with me?"
Dorian took another careful breath. "No," he said, truthfully. His anger had faded considerably. "But you're cavalier with your well-being."
"It's not exactly the first time someone's tried to kill me."
"No," Dorian had to admit, thinking of Alexius, and Corypheus, and a hundred skirmishes since. He hadn't liked any of those better, but it was different on the battlefield, armed and armored. "It's the first in Skyhold, though, unless there's something you haven't told me." His voice sharpened on the last words, but he crossed to the couch anyway and sat beside Simon, hoping the warmth and closeness would settle his frayed nerves.
"No, this was a first," Simon said. "And the attack didn't get anywhere, because you were there."
"Mm," Dorian said, and then: "It was good timing. Exemplary, if I say so myself."
Simon chuckled and reached an arm across Dorian's shoulders. It was a tentative gesture; his arm was a little stiff, as if he expected to pull away at the least flinch. Dorian moved closer instead, and felt Simon relax. "It was, at that. But even if you hadn't been there, Vivienne was there, and Leliana, and there were guards nearby. I'm not even unarmed myself."
"You've only got a belt knife," Dorian said. The man would insist he could fend off an attacker with something meant for mundane tasks.
Simon shrugged. "It would serve in a pinch. And yes, I put a good face on it. What else would you have me do? Couldn't let our guests panic, far less spread tales of how weak the Inquisitor is and how shoddy our security."
"It wouldn't be weakness to react to an injury," Dorian said, sliding his own arm around Simon's back to return the loose embrace. Simon still smelled of Dorian's own perfume, underneath the faint tang of blood.
"It really was a minor injury. Ask the healer." Simon leaned a little closer.
"Hmm." Dorian reached out with his free hand and touched Simon's arm, the old scar and the new mark cutting a path through fine brown hairs.
"In a few days, it will be as if it never happened," Simon said, gaze following the motion of Dorian's fingers across his skin.
Dorian turned his head and pressed his lips to Simon's cheek, coarse where his beard was starting to come in again, and then slid over to kiss his mouth. The kiss was firmly and eagerly returned, all heat and vitality, and Dorian knew, with a rush of certainty, that he would never want to give this up. It felt like falling off a cliff. His heart jumped into his throat, and his stomach fell. He opened his eyes and made himself smile, even though his heart was still hammering. It took a little effort to keep his voice steady and light. "I dislike when anyone tries to kill you, all the same."
"The feeling is mutual," Simon said, returning the smile and pulling him in for another kiss.
Heady though it was, on this night Dorian chose to keep the kiss soft: warmth and gentle comfort, not a prelude to more vigorous activities. He leaned against Simon's shoulder when the kiss ended, listening to the beat of his heart and thinking over the events of the past few hours. "That girl, though," he said.
"Which girl?"
Dorian turned to look Simon in the eye, raising an eyebrow. "Was there more than one?"
Simon chuckled. "I take it you mean Lady Nicolette. What about her?"
"I might have to attend the next banquet after all, to keep an eye on you." Dorian attempted to look severe.
Simon's laugh lasted longer, this time, rolling through him in a way that made it impossible to keep up the pretense. "You know you've nothing to worry about on that score."
He said that sort of thing so easily that it hurt, a little, a sting like picking at a scab. Dorian even believed him, but that did not stop the part of his mind that listed off all the reasons this could not work, would not work. With an act of will, he pushed those thoughts aside. They had no place here; whatever the future might hold, whether or not what they had lasted, this night was not for that. "Perhaps I'll just keep an eye out for the next assassin, then."
Simon had always been ready with a smile, but this one went deeper, warmed his light brown eyes. "Whatever it takes to get you there, I'm grateful."
"Pish," Dorian said. "Don't be grateful for fools who try to stab you. That's just madness."
Simon laughed again. He had a good laugh, resonating through his whole body, and Dorian could never keep himself from smiling in turn. Even in the midst of chaos and turmoil, and with assassins infiltrating the keep itself, it was the kind of laugh that seemed normal, that promised everything would be all right. Curled up tonight, in warmth and privacy, Dorian chose to believe that promise.