Watching at the library window, Luck waits; she wants to be sure that she will catch him alone. Today, she tells herself. It will be today.

There is no reason to choose today over any other. No reason but the lingering warmth in the air, a memory of summers past and the leaves, gold-orange, swaying in gently in the breeze. No reason but that today felt lucky, as surely as her name was lucky.

She smiles to herself, hand skimming the wall as she skips down the spiral staircase, stepping through the solar. Riding boots rapping lightly on the stone floor, tap-tap-tap, shoulders squared back, she stands as tall as she can manage, crossing the bridge to the Commander's quarters. A moment, she adjusts the scarf around her neck before stepping through the door.

Cullen, alone at his desk, looks up as she enters, tired, but a hint of a smile on his lips. A welcome distraction, then.

A single butterfly in her stomach, the last twinge of nerve, before a certain victory. Her voice is steady as she asks to speak with him, alone.

It will work. All she need do is ask.

At his desk, Chance digs, delves through the sanctimonious drivel of officialdom, dreading the dozens of reports. The door at the bottom of the stairs drags across the floor. Fffft. He really must have that fixed, thinks the part of his mind that lived before, and through, and past Tranquility.

Footsteps on the stairs, familiar, he's listened for them often enough: Dorian. Pushes the papers away and stands to greet his guest, wondering what the occasion might be. There had never been a visit to his quarters before.

He comes up the stairs already speaking. Chance's eyes drawn down past hooked, hawkish nose, meticulously groomed mustache to the moving mouth. He slips, slides out of focus, remembers gentle pressure, insistent tug of teeth, tongue soft, slipping into an open mouth. As he goes, Dorian steps closer, around, behind him. It is intoxicating, this nearness, not quite touching, like that grog he'd found with Sera, drunk straight without diluting, three sips and a fog in his head. Breath, warm on his ear, whispers, "Just how bad does the Inquisitor want to be?"

The door shut behind them, careful lest it slam, disrupt the papers on his desk, they walk the walls. He seems nervous, hand already at that spot on the back of his neck, not two steps from the door.

"It's a… a nice day," he says, filling the silence.

She smiles. It is, but that isn't why she's here. "I beg your pardon?"

He stops, a step ahead, and turns to look at her, hands braced on the pommel of his sword as though preparing for bad news. "There was something you wished to discuss."

Everything. The birds in the sky, the plants in the fields and the fish in the seas. The stars, to moons, the sun. Philosophy, geography, politics. His siblings, her siblings, the book she'd seen him reading through the open window, the kittens that Cole was nursing back to health. All of it. More. But it would all require him. Her. Them.

"Cullen," the words are easy to find. He is a simple man, of simple tastes. Best say it simply. "I've not been subtle about how I feel."

An understatement. But it will serve.

Heart pounding, thump, thump, thumpthumpthump, loud enough for his soldiers to march to, warmth of a body still hovering behind him and he –

Yes. Yes, he wants. Yes. But. No. Not like this. Not a game, to be played and returned to the shelf until the need for a little entertainment strikes again. But he –

Warm trickle under his scalp, prick-prickling through his ears. His face is on fire, stealing the heat from his stomach, where a solid ball of lead is forming, spreading through his veins. Breath sharp in his chest – huh, huh, huh, he tries to remember how to calm. Never been here before, and now, a world of expectations, experiences to which he will be compared, and he doesn't know, has never, how?

Flashing hot-cold-hot, palms sweaty, clenched carefully at his sides, feels ice forming on his fingernails. Need to. Control. Remember the lessons.

Get away from the source.

Spins away to face him, catches sight of a bare, well-muscled arm. Not helping. Voice strangled, squeaks, "Isn't this moving a little… quickly?"

"I can't say I haven't wondered what it would be like."

It would be: chess in the gardens, quiet talks, reading aloud, or sharing the silence. Arguments, but forgiveness. She knows it could be all these things. More. And she wants to try. To reach out with both hands and grasp this opportunity before it slips away.

Be brave with me, she wants to say.

"What stops you?"

She watches him, where his eyes go, his hands, as he moves, speaks softly, as if to himself. A well-rehearsed argument to talk himself out of it, and behind it all, longing, hope, she hears it.

He steps closer, close enough to reach out, brush fingers along the back of his hand, run them up his arms to wind around his neck and hold, be held.

Not yet. Let him come to her, in his own time.

"You…haven't always seen me in the best light."

She remembers: a box thrown in an open doorway, shaking hands and fever dreams, fetid memories, still rank, rancid, rotting with the passing of time. A man insisting that he give his life, drive himself into the dust of an early grave. Then, a hand laid over a fisted glove. I'm here.

But

She remembers: red-faced, ranting, cluster of curses crash like waves on the coast. She rages against that which should never have been, secrets spilling into the sunlight. She doesn't hear the door open until he's nearly upon her, nearly crashes face-first into his chest. Is everything alright?

She half-smiles, "Nor you, me."

"Quickly?" A perfectly arched eyebrow is raised, quizzical, and Maker it feels like mockery. "By my standards we've been positively chaste."

Sneaking kisses in the library, embraces on the stairs, hands in hair, on hips, held, holding, hoping for… more, yes. Maybe. Eventually. But not yet. He's still learning, relearning how to feel, these flickers, flutters, flit and fleeting, hot and heavy and awkwardly adolescent again. It should be lighter, laughter, longing for something more than…

He has no standards to compare to. He can't say it. It should be obvious? Isn't it?

If he says no, is this it?

Wraps his arms around his chest to hold back his still pounding heart. Has to stay behind the ribs. Faster now, bapbapbap, grips tighter, ice pooling in his palm. Panicked. Looks away, eye contact too intense to hold, doesn't want to see the disappointment. "It just… it seems so sudden?"

It's all so new.

He chuckles at the point well made, "True."

A return smile tugging at his scarred lip, he steps closer, speaking. She follows the path of his feet, like a dancer, one step back, eyes looking up into his. No, not follows. She leads, slowly, gently, speaks with her body, stepping back but leaning forward, come with me, and he follows, until her back is to the wall, and there is nowhere else to go.

"I want to," he says, breathy, breathless, the both of them. His hands on her waist as she braces, leaning up, leaning in, the smell of him swirling around them: leather, metal, mint.

Closer, a little closer, head cants, eyes closed, breath held. Just a little closer.

Rusty hinge creaks, a heavy door slams on stone but it is distant and she is thoroughly distracted, drinking this in…

"Commander."

Damnit.

He looks back and Dorian is (brows knotted, delightful little wrinkle above his nose) frowning.

No. Don't. Please. It's not-. I don't-. I can-.

But he can't get the words out before the clipped Tevinter pronunciation of, "What is it you want from me, exactly?"

Sigh. Explain.

Words twist, tangle in his head and he tries but they won't come undone, reaching but they're so far, meaningless symbols which have nothing to do with what he's trying to describe. Like drowning in the deeps, vision blurring, heart clenched, chest tight, can't breathe. Throat closing, tongue tied, trembling.

"A relationship?" Dorian asks.

Yes! Maker, yes. That. Mind latches onto the word, a survivor clinging to a bit of flotsam, an answer. A solution.

But, look again. His nose is wrinkled, scowling, sneering, he looks disgusted. With me?

Don't look. Down. Eyes down, he watches his bare feet – toes curling in the thick pile of the carpet and whispers, "Would that be so bad?"

He prays to whichever deities might have deigned to listen that the answer isn't yes. Please, please. Don't say yes.

Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. It would have been too much to ask that they not be interrupted.

Her sides are cooling where his hands had been, already missing the warmth, her lips still tingling with anticipation, but at least this, they, had been established. There would be other chances to cement it.

She looks up, watches the scout back away, hand returning to her side as Cullen turns back. The ghost of his glare is still haunting his face, but it fades quickly as he comes closer. No doubt to explain that duty calls.

He is a busy man; she can return later.

She opens her mouth to say so, "If you need to, mmpf!"

Leave, muffled in his mouth as his lips crash into hers. His hands cradle her face, pull her closer. One, two, three, and he breaks it off just as quickly. He pulls away, and that, at least, is slower. She is half a beat behind, tried to follow his mouth with hers before she realised. He is already watching as she opens her eyes.

"I'm sorry," his voice is shaky, but he's looking like he wants to try again.

Let him.

"That was…" he continues.

"It was," she agrees, rising on her toes. Hands braced on the arms that circle her waist for balance, she stops halfway, waiting. "But not nearly long enough."

"Yes, well." He's not above laughing at his own expense, endearing, he is dear to her.

He ducks his head, and, expecting it this time, she can return the kiss properly.

Silence. Pulse thudding in his burning ears, da-dum-da-dum-da-dum, each beat an eternity in which to contemplate all the ways this has gone wrong. Hands locked under his arms, he fights the urge to cover his face, run his hands through his hair. Toes holding firm to the carpet keep him from pacing a hole in the floor. There's nowhere to run. Just waiting. Waiting. What's taking… how long has it been?

Peek up through lashes to see... … … shock.

Beautiful, his eyes are so beautiful, grey-green, black-rimmed, wide. Mouth under the moustache is hanging slack, and Dorian turns away.

No, wait! He reaches out a hand. Don't leave. And just as quickly, snatches it back.

please

Tucks the hand back under his arm where it belongs, tears welling. He should have known that's all this was. Should have known. After all, he was branded, broken. Better now, but still barely keeping it together. But he had thought, had hoped, after everything, if perfection was just an illusion, that he might be good enough.

"I see." He finally manages. "I appear to have misjudged your…"

Pauses to swallow, mouth dry. Look up. Look up! Don't cry. Not until he leaves. Don't embarrass yourself more than you already have.

"… regard."

"No!"

The vehemence is startling, eyes drawn back down to the man before him, as he explains what relationships have meant for him, "You just don't hope for more."

But I did. I do, he wants to say, words strangling in his throat. And I thought that was what you wanted too, knives and needles in his lungs. Wishing, for once, to go back, not to feel.

"So," he struggles to stay steady, just a little longer. All be over soon. "You want to call it off then."

Tries to be nonchalant, lips pressed in a line, nodding, like he's been here before, like he understands. Doesn't. Wants to crawl under the bed, curl up in a ball, let someone else solve the problems of the world while he cries.

"Fasta vaas." It's ground out through gritted teeth, and to Chance, it looks like Dorian would love to reach out and shake him, patience wearing thin. "I'm not saying that. But you're asking me to turn into a unicorn, and I don't even know what one looks like."

Oh. OH!

The band around his chest breaks, it's alright, it's alright, he breathes a little easier. Presses the heels of his palms to his eyes to push back the tears, shakes them off. Gestures to the scar on his forehead with a shaky laugh, heh, "Because I have so much experience, myself."

Watches Dorian sigh, shoulders sagging in surrender, maybe, maybe, just as scared as he is? "A fair point," he concedes. "Have it your way."

Closer now, cold and shaking hands reaching for, taken in Dorian's warm ones. "I am not," he is told, with a smirk. Maker. Knees week. "Leaving empty handed. It's a matter of pride."

Heart full, light, lifting up, up, smiling into the mouth moulding around his, tongues tingled, hands running down his back.

Don't leave at all. Stay. Another time. For now. For now, enjoy now.

Somewhere, a boy looks to the sky and smiles. Some hurts heal on their own.

Notes: Most of the dialogue should be pretty recognizable, as it's from in-game. These scenes do not actually happen simultaneously, but are presented so for effect.

Amourette: French (n.) – a flirtation, a love affair