What passed between the Inquisitor and the imposter in that jail cell, neither of them ever told anyone else. But they rode out of Val Royeaux with another person in the party, his beard clipped short and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

He didn't talk, and that was fine by Dorian. He was nursing a grudge against the not-a-Grey Warden.

It was really quite a good grudge. Dorian had dwelt lovingly on it for hours. It covered a vast range, from Blackwall's parentage to hygiene to choice of livestock for romantic partners.

The only problem was that Blackwall was so overcome with self-loathing that he would probably have enjoyed being hated by somebody else, which made the whole thing rather less satisfactory than it could have been.

Stupid Blackwall. Stupid Wardens. Stupid Orlesian politics. Stupid…everything.

They rode into Skyhold at mid-afternoon. They had set a decent pace on the way back, but not bruising, and Dorian was feeling as if he might possibly have enough energy to have a lengthy discussion with the Inquisitor that evening on the subject of exotic things in one's bed.

He swung down off his horse and led it into the stable, alongside the Inquisitor. Lavellan liked to stable his own horse when he could. (Dorian thought horses were nice enough animals and should be treated well by someone who knew what they were doing—i.e., by someone not Dorian.)

He leaned against one of the wooden columns and watched Lavellan with the horse. The Dalish man murmured to it in Elvish, running his hands down its legs, checking for unsound spots. Dorian was nearly certain that the horse did not appreciate that nearly as much as Dorian would have.

I am seething with envy for a horse. I have reached a new personal low.

Lavellan stepped out of the stall and looked over at Dorian. He smiled. The oil lamp painted orange and red shadows over the dark half of his face. He looked like a masked figure in an ancient play. Comedy, perhaps, with that smile… Dorian's eyes drifted down the defined muscle of the Inquisitor's upper arms. Or Strength. Or Willpower.

Willpower was definitely feeling like an external force right now.

Lavellan arched an eyebrow at him. "I believe we were having a discussion before all this started…" he began.

"Venatori, wasn't it?" said Dorian. "Yes. I've had quite a lot of thoughts." No, Desire. Definitely an allegorical representation of Desire.

The Dalish man took a step toward him. "Well, then. Perhaps we should—"

"Uh, boss?" said Bull from the doorway.

Lavellan froze in mid-stride. He turned his head very slowly, looking as if he would like to yell, but wasn't going to. "Yes, Bull?"

"Um. I just got some news from the Ben-Hassrath. Ah…it's time-sensitive, Boss."

"Of course it is," said the Inquisitor, with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his boots.

"Sorry," said Bull. "Message is a couple days old, and urgent. Krem handed it to me as soon as I walked in. If you want to follow up on it, we'll need to get up to the Storm Coast pronto."

Dorian narrowly prevented himself from sliding down the pillar and putting his arms over his head.

The Inquisitor took the letter in Bull's hand and read it. "A Qunari alliance?" he said.

"The Chargers are saddling up now, boss. I know we just got in, but…well…"

Lavellan handed the letter back. "Get me a fresh horse. We can't afford to pass up that chance."

"Thought you'd say that, boss."

"The Storm Coast?" asked Dorian, of no one in particular. "Now? Really?"

"Hey, you don't have to come." Iron Bull cleared his throat. "Probably shouldn't, actually. Vint mages and the Qun get along like wyverns in a sack, only not as fun-loving."

"Fine! When you all get roasted to death by Venatori wizards, don't come crying to me!"

"We'll ride out with the Chargers, then," said the Inquisitor. "Give me ten minutes to report in to Leliana."

Bull turned away. Lavellan looked quickly around the stable, reached out and seized Dorian's wrist. He gave the mage a single burning glance, pressed his lips very briefly against the mage's knuckles, then turned away.

Dorian watched the Inquisitor ride out of Skyhold, less than an hour out of riding in. He could still feel an echo of the warmth where Lavellan had kissed him.

"Just my luck," he said bitterly. "Cockblocked by the Qun."

"Hey, that's a good title," said Varric, behind him. "I'm stealing that one if I ever start writing erotica."

Dorian could think of absolutely nothing to say in response, and took himself grimly off to the bar instead.

Dorian closed the door to the Inquisitor's chambers behind him, very softly. This time he locked it. He was taking no chances on another emergency. If Blackwall or Thom Rainier or whoever he was turned out to be impersonating the Empress Celene, he could hang for it and be damned.

He moved quietly up the steps, his stomach knotting in anticipation. Lavellan, Bull, and the Chargers had returned from the Storm Coast that afternoon. Dorian had been loitering in the hall to make sure that no one went into the Inquisitor's rooms on business, urgent or otherwise.

This time. This time he would have the Inquisitor all to himself.

The memory of that glance had kept him warm for days.

He reached the bedroom, opened the door, and found that the object of his desire was already in bed.

Actually, the Inquisitor was facedown on the bed, snoring gently. He was still wearing his boots and part of his armor.

His massive greatsword had been hung on the wall, where it belonged. His breastplate was hanging sideways on the armor dummy. There were pauldrons scattered across the floor and a chainmail hauberk dangling off the side table.

There was also a strange, heavy, burnt smell that Dorian couldn't place, and he had set a great many things on fire in his day and considered himself something of an expert on burnt smells.

The Inquisitor was still wearing the padded jerkin that went under his armor, one forearm guard, both shin guards, and a single gauntlet. Parts of his armor had black scorch marks on it, and there was a smear of ash across his cheek.

Dorian closed the door and stood, looking sadly down at the hope of the free world.

Then he heaved a great sigh and began hauling off the Inquisitor's boots.

"Ngggh?" said Lavellan, coming awake. "Izza 'sassin?"

"It's Dorian."

"Oh. Th'nk M'thal." A long pause. "What're y' doing?"

"Taking off your clothes."

"Yay…" said the Inquisitor, and then began snoring again.

He woke up again when Dorian took off his gauntlet. "Oh…Dorian? I didn't dream that…?"

"What on earth happened to you?" asked Dorian. From the front, he could see a raw red welt running through Lavellan's short red hair.

"It was Bull. Or…not Bull. I mean…" Lavellan pushed himself up one elbow. "The dreadnought. Thing. It blew up. The Qunari are pissed. Mostly at Bull. He was sad." He thought for a minute. "Well, I think he was sad. You know how hard it is to tell with him. He just…um…kills things with less vigor. So I said we'd go kill a dragon to cheer him up, and we were on the Storm Coast anyway…"

"You killed a dragon?"

"…a small one," mumbled Lavellan, collapsing back to the blankets. Apparently the explanation had taken the last of his strength. "It tried t'eat me."

"Maker!"

"Then Bull want to celebrate. You don't want to know what he said to the dragon. Like, you really, really don't want to know." Lavellan wiggled his eyebrows. "I think he's into dragons. Really…into dragons..."

"Are you drunk?"

"No. M'tired. S'mostly the dragon."

"That's the smell," said Dorian suddenly. "You smell like dragon blood."

"S'not blood. S'guts. Blood tastes better. Guts just stink."

"How on earth do you know what dragon blood tastes like?" Dorian unlaced the shin guards and tossed them over with the rest of the armor.

"Drank it. S'reaver thing." His brow knit. "Wait...don't tell Thram I told you. S'posed to be a secret. I think."

"I'm flattered you trust me. Roll over."

The Inquisitor flopped over on his back like an injured fish. "'Course I trust you," he said, smiling lopsidedly up at Dorian.

"Oh?" said Dorian archly.

"Oh yeah. Hopelessly in…hopeless…thing…M'thal, 'm tired…" He began to snore again.

Dorian managed to get the Inquisitor's jerkin free, after heroic effort and several small cantrips.

The Tevinter mage stood gazing down at the Inquisitor. He had seen the other man shirtless several times before, but had never had the opportunity to look as long as he wanted.

The Dalish man was so thin. He was all whipcord and wire over deceptively slender bone, skin marred with scars and long smears of ash. Dorian had traveled with him long enough to know the strength in those bones, but still...he looked so fragile lying there, without layers of chain and scale mail to lend him bulk. The blue tattoos that covered half his face trailed off into lines and swirls down his neck and shoulder, serving only to emphasize the delicate bones. One long scar ran through his eyebrow and down his cheek, almost faded to nothingness now, but marking a blow that had nearly blinded him.

Dorian reached out, traced the line of that scar over Lavellan's cheek, and sighed.

The Inquisitor was profoundly asleep. Dorian wanted nothing more than to strip off his robes and curl up around him and listen to him breathe.

A dragon. Maker's mercy. I could have lost him to a damnable dragon, because he was worried that the Iron Bull was sad.

But he did not. Old habits died too hard. You didn't sleep beside your lovers in Tevinter. That was a good way to get caught. And you did not sleep with dreadfully attractive men who were exhausted and inebriated, even if you did nothing more than lie there, because eventually the morning would come and there would be very awkward questions, like "What are you doing in my bed?" and "Why don't I remember what happened last night?"

He pulled a blanket up under Lavellan's chin, kissed his forehead, and then snuffed out the candle. He padded away down the stairs with a silence that would have done Sera proud.

And if I find Iron Bull, I am going to levitate him over the courtyard, upside down, in his underwear. And leave him there.

Dammit.