"I know you," said Maxwell. "You're… who are you?"

"You forgot me," said the boy. "You didn't need me anymore. But you can remember now, if it helps."

Helping. Maxwell fought through the sweet fog in his mind and finally found a name. "Cole. You… where have you been?"

Cole looked at him in surprise. "I've been where I am," he said. "Where else is there to be?" He glanced around curiously. "Right now, I'm here."

"But why are you in Tevinter?" asked Maxwell. It was difficult to ask the right questions while his mind was disconcertingly throwing out, with perfect clarity, scenes and times and conversations that he'd had no memory of a minute before.

"I wanted to help," said Cole. "And then Dorian needed me. It was good to help him again. He let me ask him questions, like a friend. Like Rhys."

The study door burst open, and Maxwell whirled towards it as the Inquisition rushed in. Their daring rescue was somewhat ruined when Cullen stopped to stare and caused a brief pile-up behind him.

"Cole?" said Cassandra incredulously, peering around the Commander.

"Hello," the spirit said again. "I'm still me. Don't worry. I'm not an enemy."

"Inquisitor, are you okay?" asked Cullen.

"I'm fine," he answered absently. "Cole, why did you say the Inquisition didn't need you anymore? We always needed you. You're our friend."

Cole frowned. "The Inquisition is an idea. It's not a thing. It can't need. Except when it's you. Then it's not just an idea anymore, but your pain wasn't the right shape for helping," he said. "I asked The Iron Bull, and he said that he would fit the shape better. And there were other people, pulling and pressing against the world."

The spirit cocked his head to the side. "I thought it would be easier if you forgot. But your eyes are very sharp. They cut me back into the world," he said. His blue eyes blinked, once. "Dorian couldn't remember me, but that's okay. It was easier to stop the ones who came to hurt him, when he was busy forgetting."

Sera wrinkled her nose, Varric shook his head, and Cullen and Cassandra were at their most impassive. But Maxwell relaxed and put his sword away. There were a hundred questions to ask, a thousand that Leliana would demand he ask, but right now he had only one focus. "Thank you for helping him," he said softly.

"I couldn't make him sleep," said Cole.

Maxwell turned around and saw that Dorian's head was bobbing down toward his chest, and only Maxwell's protective stance was keeping him upright. "I think he'll sleep now. Do you know where his room is?"

"A lot of them have blood," said Cole. "But there are some that don't. I can show you."

He nodded, then turned to the rest of the group. "We'll stay here tonight. I'm going to take Dorian to rest - he's in no shape to talk to us - and we'll talk about guard rotations and next steps when I get back."

Varric shook his head. "Stay with him," he said, only a hint of a smirk on his face. "We all know you want to."

Everyone else nodded, and Maxwell thanked the Maker that he didn't flush like Cullen. "Thank you, Varric. I'll see you in the morning."

He hoisted Dorian's arm over his shoulder while Cole moved to the other side, and together they walked the still half-asleep mage to the door. Cullen was already talking to the rest about watch schedules and entry points to monitor, and Maxwell relaxed into their competency. The walk through the house and up the stairs was quiet, until Maxwell asked, "Why didn't you make me forget? About Dorian, I mean. I've seen you do it before to people. Like that Templar from the Circle."

"You didn't want to forget," said Cole. "Smooth skin, lightning under your lips. Quiet eyes, dangerous in the light. The smell of his soap, lavender, like the flowers outside the Chantry window. You smiled when he wanted more, taking and giving. Would more have been better? Would less have been enough? Questions, always questions, never settled, slicing into the soul. But a forgotten question can never be answered. Don't take it away, Cole."

Maxwell swallowed. "I told you that?"

"You thought it, when I said goodbye," said Cole. He paused. "The shape of your pain is different now. Is The Iron Bull still helping you?"

Maxwell looked at the exhausted mage between them. "No," he said. "Not anymore."


The room Cole led them to had obviously been deserted for some time. There was a fine layer of dust on all of the furnishings, but it was clean and free of bodies, so it was perfect. Maxwell stripped off Dorian's shirt, then his own, and settled down on the bed with the mage tucked against his side. Dorian curled into him trustingly, and Maxwell ran his fingers through his hair while he slept. He looked very young this way, and the smooth, gentle lines of his sleeping face made Maxwell realize how miserable Dorian must have been, since he'd returned. And Maxwell had been too dazzled by the man's performance to see it.

But that would change.

"I'll make you happy," he said softly into the empty room. Cole had left to do whatever Cole did when no one could see him, which was less than comforting, but right now that was Cullen's problem. Maxwell kissed Dorian's thick, black hair gently before laying back and trying to find his own rest. The tension in his shoulders was gone, but the worry still remained. "I don't know how, exactly. I'm not good at this part of things. As far as I know. I've never actually done it before. But I'll find a way, okay?"

The only answer was a gentle snore, and Maxwell closed his eyes.


Dorian drifted inside the confusing haze of a very strange dream. In it, Maxwell Trevelyan had shown up at his father's estate, full of glory and purpose and sword-brandishing, only to tuck him into bed like an overprotective mother hen, clucking all the while. Even Dorian had to admit it was one of his least convincing dreams in quite some time, but the Fade was as impossible to predict as it was to control.

But when he blinked open his dreaming eyes and saw an expanse of chest lightly dusted with dark hair, he frowned. He never dreamed of hairy chests, even if they were true to life. How much more realistic had the Fade gotten recently?

He shifted to see Desire wearing the handsome face he expected, then turned slightly and took in the room. Maker's breath, he was in his childhood bedroom. Points for consistency, he supposed. It looked exactly how he remembered it, right down to the entirely unappealing pictures of beautiful women on the walls. His father's addition to the decor.

The thought of his father brought on a new tightening of his stomach, a helpless feeling of grief, and a wave of exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him despite the well-rested set of his mind. Being tired in the Fade was another unheard of phenomenon, and when he realized he was, against all odds, wearing pants, he was forced to conclude it wasn't a dream at all. The Inquisitor, somehow, had ridden into Minrathous, sans white horse, all to find one Dorian Pavus.

How very dashing of him.

Dorian sat up and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake away the remaining cobwebs. His companion stirred behind him, and a shiver-inducing, "Good morning," floated across bed. Dorian almost groaned at the purring, seductive tone of the words. Or maybe it was just what he was hoping to hear, no matter how unlikely this whole scenario was. A long journey with only a rather quiet elf for company had left him a lot of room for imagining various scenes in which Trevelyan begged him to return, and all of them were clamoring for recognition now.

And that simply wouldn't do at all.

Dorian turned around with a deliberately considering look and grinned at the man watching him in turn. On treacherous ground, it was best to tread lightly. "My word, a man stretched across my childhood bed. Shirtless, no less. If my fourteen year-old self could see this, he simply would not believe it."

Maxwell grinned back, eyes only half-open in the morning light. "Would he be impressed?"

"More surprised, I think. You're not really his type, if I'm being honest."

The other man's grin vanished as his brow drew down. "I'm everyone's type," he said, with that hint of pique that was always real.

Dorian nearly laughed. Maxwell needed adoration even from specters of the past to be satisfied. "I'm afraid young Dorian Pavus was more excited by the prototypical mage ideal at the time. Thin to the point of emaciation, brooding manners, cheekbones fine enough to slice parchment. He thought it was all very mysterious."

"So you would have preferred Solas to be here instead."

"Venhedis," said Dorian, horrified. And slightly aroused, here in his old bed, given how perfectly the elf would have fit his little fantasies. Even the pointed ears had been something of an old standard at the time. "I don't want to think about that. Thank goodness that my tastes refined considerably as I aged."

Maxwell wriggled up to lean against the wall, crossing his arms behind his head as he studied him. Dorian eyed the on-display biceps with his usual open interest, and Maxwell's own eyes narrowed. "I never would have thought they'd be so esoteric as to prefer these," he said, nodding to the pictures that lined the wall.

Dorian laughed as he stood, settling his trousers around him more securely. It was strange, here in the brightness of morning, to have an audience once more. Like blinking away from a captivating book and reorienting into the world once more. Those long days of solitude were blending into unbroken, confused memory, one that didn't quite seem real. Perhaps he ceased to truly exist when there was no one to watch him do it. That was a depressing thought.

"No, these were my father's idea," he said. "Halward Pavus is -" He paused, swallowing slowly as he blinked and turned away. "He was a firm believer in exposure to the right sort of influences."

The silence between them was perfect for a long minute. "I'm sorry," said Maxwell eventually.

"Thank you, Inquisitor."

From the creaking of the bed behind him, Maxwell was making his own exit, and Dorian tamped down his sudden fear. He didn't want the Inquisitor to touch him out of pity. Pity would never survive the grieving period, but it would make Dorian want far more than he'd be given. And besides, he felt strange right now, hollow and light, and he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone at all. Even Maxwell Trevelyan.

"Wait," he said, striving for artless grace. "You won't get the proper show if you're out of bed."

Maxwell laughed, and when Dorian turned around he was sitting upright with an expectant look on his face. The moment of sympathy was past, and Dorian was very glad to be playing again. "For my next trick," he said, flourishing his arms in the manner of a traveling entertainer. He ended up with his hand pointing at the largest picture, across from the bed. "Now you see it."

He waved his hand and lightly called the Fade in that familiar way that even a decade would never tear away from him. As he watched, the image on the picture changed from the pouting, beautiful woman to a smiling, half-dressed man.

"Andraste's ass," said Maxwell, stifling a chuckle. "I take it your father didn't approve that part of the design."

Dorian smiled. "No. It was entirely my own creation. Well, mine and another enterprising lad that I studied alongside. We were both prodigies, though I was a bit more prodigious than he. In all ways, much to his annoyance."

"Is that him?"

His smile vanished. "Neither he nor I would have found much pleasure in fantasizing about something so easily obtained as each other. And, of course, the image changed over the years. This last one was a man named Rilienus."

Maxwell leaned forward suddenly. "You talked about him, once, when we were in the Dales." When Dorian crossed his arms, the Inquisitor shrugged. "I eavesdropped on all of your conversations. It's not like you were whispering. I got the impression he was an old lover."

"A strangely apt description," said Dorian. "He was certainly older than I. I suppose he was my first love. He was a guard who accompanied a group of mage students to Nevarra, to learn from the Mortalitasi. I learned quite a bit on that trip. Some of it was even about magic."

"A guard? Not a mage?"

"No, my father was much too clever for all that," said Dorian. He wasn't sure why he was so interested in taking this journey into the past. Maybe because it wasn't the present, which was empty, or the future, which was emptier. "I was accompanied by only female students. Aspirational matchmaking, I think. And I suppose he thought it impossible I, the future Archon, would see any non-magical persons as anything but furniture."

Maxwell's eyes drifted back to the still-changed picture. "He looks cheerful."

Dorian laughed. "He was. After a life of noble masquerades and dreary playacting, it was a breath of fresh air to meet someone who could truly greet the morning with a smile. Which we often did, together. I realize it was all very scandalous, now, but back then he was glorious. My highly-sophisticated, very refined flirting drew him in immediately, of course, and he taught me all of those little things I hadn't managed to discover for myself," he said. He looked back to the wall and allowed the picture to settle back to its more permanent setting. "He was very kind about it all. A gawky teenager, breathless and eager, could hardly have been his romantic ideal."

Maxwell frowned slightly. "I get the feeling that you cared for him much more than you're letting on."

"Full marks for the Inquisitor," said Dorian lightly. "As I said, he was my first love. Also my last. When we returned, he was in Minrathous for a time, between jobs. We still met when we could. I was only sixteen, full of idealistic fantasies and hopes that I know now were absolute piffle, but at the time they consumed me. I was on the verge of asking him to take me with him on his next assignment, one that would take him to the south of Tevinter. I was going to run away, from this." He waved his hand vaguely at the surrounding house.

The Inquisitor said nothing, and Dorian continued, making sure his voice stayed carefully casual. "When my father found out, he had Rilienus prosecuted. Some trumped up charge, but one of the charming things about Tevinter, at least in the modern day, is that you're always breaking a rule, if the rulemakers look hard enough. He was convicted, branded, and his debt to society sold to a unit in Seheron that was fighting the Qunari. That was the last I heard of him. For all I know, Bull may have killed him personally. I never asked.

"My father tried to change me the same day Rilienus left. He held his little ritual, red clothing mandatory, but without true conviction what good is blood magic? My will was certainly stronger than his. So I ran away after all, on my own. I went back to Nevarra, then the Circle, secure in the knowledge he couldn't afford to disown me outright, and later Alexius took me in as his mentee. But after all that fuss, it seemed much simpler not to love."

Dorian looked around, at the present that was bleeding in once more. "They've hardly touched this place," he said to himself. He wondered if his mother had ever opened the door and thought to find him after he was gone, or if his father had walked the vast space and felt regret. He wondered if they'd thought of him before they'd died.

It would be nice to think so, anyway.

"Did they give you new quarters when you came back, then? The place is big enough, I suppose, though that seems strange," said Maxwell.

Dorian lifted a delicate eyebrow in confusion. "I haven't been to the estate since that fateful day," he said. "Until now. I could hardly stomach the sight of it."

"But your money. And Shayla, and the clothes," said Maxwell, a hint of question in his voice. "You went back to your father. He got you appointed ambassador."

"To the last, yes. Mostly to stop my embarrassing him with my bourgeoisie lifestyle here in Minrathous, I expect," said Dorian. "I did enjoy a good party, but I would always settle for a bad one. Shayla was a gift, unwanted but too difficult to refuse. She was more spy than helpmate, I expect, based on her grief at his passing. But as for the money, Felix had no wife or heirs, so he left the Alexius fortune to me. I lived in their house for years, you know, and I stayed there when I returned to Tevinter. The Alexius birthright is almost as valuable as my own was, even with their recent social diminishment."

When he looked up, the Inquisitor's eyes were narrow and accusing. Dorian shrugged. "I may have let you believe my means came from other sources. You were very intent on accusing me of inexcusable weakness, as I recall. I would have hated to spoil your fun."

Maxwell started to say something, but Dorian waved a hand. "You're forgiven."

"I wasn't going to apologize," said Maxwell. He stood and walked around the bed. He leaned against a post with a considering look. "I was going to say that you're a stubborn bastard."

"I am that," said Dorian, smiling reluctantly.

"Lucky for you I like stubborn bastards."

Dorian's heart skipped at the warm grin on Maxwell's face. "The things you say," he said carelessly, to cover his agitation. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them to reach for his shirt and tug it over his head.

Maxwell seemed to sense his need for distance, because he did the same thing quietly. Only when he was clothed did he speak again, nose wrinkled. "I need a bath. Your country is a smelly one."

"To anyone less exalted, I might suggest the delicate fragrance of Tevinter has merely revealed your own pungent odor," said Dorian, collecting himself once more. "However, given you are the Inquisitor, I will lead you to the house baths without a word. Well, after we eat and you explain what in the Void you're doing here in the first place."

"How chivalrous of you," said Maxwell. He curtsied gracefully, holding out nonexistent skirts behind him. "Such a pleasure to find a gentleman at the end of a weary journey."

Dorian shook his head and ushered him out of the room. Before they reached the stairs that would lead them to the kitchens, Maxwell stopped and frowned. "I don't actually smell bad, do I? I mean, usually."

As though Maxwell had any flaw at all. As though his smell of metal and horse was anything but intoxicating. But Dorian only shrugged noncommittally before he walked down the stairs, and the annoyed repetition behind him did more to distract him from the persistent sorrow in his heart than anything else could.


The kitchen had several more bodies in it than Dorian had expected.

Cullen and Cassandra stood at one of the many stoves, doing whatever it was that people did at them. Dorian had never been encouraged to find out, and while his campfire cooking had improved dramatically once he'd decided to join up with the Inquisition, when he was in civilization he still preferred to be pampered. Varric sat at the low kitchen table, the place where the slaves ate, disassembling his crossbow and cleaning it, while Sera was crouched on the sill of the large window, peering out at Maker knew what.

They all turned to stare at him when he entered, and he summoned up all of his reserves of dilettantism. "If I'd known I was hosting a party, I would have made the place a little more festive! I hope the blood and death didn't detract from the revelry."

No one smiled, but he felt the comforting weight of the Inquisition at its most noble pressing against him. It seemed they didn't need to be in Skyhold to be the very personification of aid and succor. Despite it all, the distance he'd placed between himself and them with his escape, the atmosphere held the camaraderie that he'd become addicted to, when he wasn't paying attention.

Cullen spoke first, but he only said, "I hope you don't mind that we're eating your food."

Dorian leaned against the doorframe. "Not at all, Commander. I assure you that you'll be using it better than I ever would. Or I assume so, anyway, with the delicious way you're holding that ladle."

Cullen flushed as Varric chuckled, and the tension in the room abated slightly. "My mother taught us all to cook, and I always enjoyed it. The Templars didn't afford much time for me to be in the kitchens, but I haven't forgotten everything," he said. "And I have a very good sous chef."

He nudged Cassandra, who smiled down at her work delightedly. "I'm making potatoes," she said. "I've never cooked before, but this is not so terrifying."

Maxwell stepped around him and plopped down next to Varric. The dwarf nodded in acknowledgment before saying in a carrying whisper, "Word to the wise. Don't eat the potatoes."

Cassandra whirled around, brandishing a spatula in a very threatening way, and Varric held up his hands as Maxwell smothered a laugh. "What? I thought you Seekers appreciated honesty! The last time I skirted the truth you tried to punch me in the face," said the dwarf.

"Honesty is not the same as saying all the thoughts that come to mind, Varric," said Cassandra.

"I'll eat his share," Cullen offered quietly next to her. "I'm sure they'll be delicious."

"Thank you. You are an actual gentleman," she said, glaring at Varric. "Rare to find these days, it would seem."

When she turned around, Varric winked at Maxwell, who grinned back, and Dorian narrowed his eyes. He took in the cozy domesticity of the two warriors, paying particular attention to the way Cullen's body stood slightly open to the Seeker, ready and waiting for her every move, and everything slotted into place.

Them? he mouthed to the two men at the table, and Varric nodded vigorously. Sera's rolled eyes were double confirmation, and Dorian smoothed a finger over his mustache. "You know, I think I know a poem about breakfast," he said. "An Ode To Ham and Eggs, I believe it's called."

Cullen coughed hurriedly, but Cassandra didn't turn around. "I don't know that one. Cullen knows a very lovely one about the moon, however."

"Does he?" said Dorian with exaggerated, wide-eyed surprise. "Will we be blessed with a recitation, right here in the kitchen?"

The blonde man mumbled something about looking for fruit and scurried into the pantry while Cassandra protested the abandonment. Dorian finally took a seat, carefully away from Maxwell, and Varric leaned over once he was settled. "Welcome to the club, Sparkler. It's like fish in a barrel around here."

Dorian smiled, but he didn't answer, instead saying to the entire room, "Yes, what are you all doing here, anyway?"

"The Inquisitor insisted on going after you, for your safety. We insisted on going with him, for his. And yours, of course," said Cassandra. "Not that there was much doubt, but Leliana has officially cleared you of suspicion. She, along with Iron Bull, have determined that the knife skills employed are beyond your abilities. The assassin was highly trained."

"Ah, to be cleared by my own ineptitude. A dream come true," said Dorian. "What about the note? Did Dagna know anything?"

"No," said Cullen. "She suspected it was infused with lyrium in some way, but that was all she knew. Without the note itself, further speculation is wandering, at best. Unless you know of such magic in Tevinter?"

Maxwell leaned forward. "We saw a man with a map, one that rose out of paper. And the trick with the picture. Does that use lyrium?"

"No," said Dorian. "The man must have been a mage. And a mage would have no need of lyrium activation - we can manipulate the Fade directly. I sensed nothing usable on it, at least not by direct magic."

He paused, then said reluctantly, "The effect could be perhaps be replicated, somehow, with lyrium by a non-mage. I've never heard of it being done, and I have no idea how anyone would trigger it to reveal its secrets safely. A watered-down lyrium mixture is relatively harmless, in small doses, but it would ruin whatever had been created. And anything stronger, more targeted, would drive the user insane merely by touching it."

"Maybe it did," said Varric. "After all, whoever it was did kill two people. Not exactly the sign of a balanced mind."

Cassandra shook her head. "If there a lyrium-mad lunatic wandering through Skyhold, they would have been found. To kill is nothing. To escape implies intelligence."

Sera hopped down from her place on the sill. "This is stupid. Let them sort it out. Who cares, yeah? It's not the big mustache, so that's it. Job done."

"Whoever killed the Comtesse and Jolan may know who redecorated my childhood home," said Dorian. His jaw tightened. "Despite the fragments of dramatic speech I remember giving, I am still quite interested in that information. And utilizing it. If you'll help me, of course."

Cassandra looked wary, but the rest of them nodded. To Dorian's surprise, Sera even crossed the room and leaned over to hug him awkwardly around the shoulders. When she pulled away, he arched an eyebrow in her direction and she scowled. "What? I never had parents, but that doesn't mean I like, think it's good when someone else's get killed. Unless they're assholes. And yours were nobles, so, fine, maybe, but that doesn't mean shit to you. 'Cause they were yours, yeah?"

Dorian smiled faintly. "A very accurate summation of our relationship."

The elf folded her arms. "You don't have to get all gushy," she said. She looked at Maxwell. "I'm gonna go do Jenny stuff. Big Boots here figured out the automatic security so I don't need to be here. Gotta be some little people who don't know they've got ears for listening."

Dorian expected Maxwell to protest, or at least call it dangerous, but instead he frowned. "Security," he said quietly, furrowing his brow. It cleared as he he looked around sharply. "Where's Cole?"

"Who's Cole?" asked Dorian, but the rest of them also looked around.

"I don't know," said Cullen slowly. He had several plates on his arms, and he passed them out as he spoke. "He left with you, and then he came back and told me where the security was. And then he was gone. He said he had to get back to… somewhere. Do you remember, Cassandra?"

"No. It was very sudden."

Maxwell ran a finger along his newly scruffy beard. "Well, he's always been odd. Try to remember him, at least," he said. "Hopefully he'll be back. I'll explain it all to you in the bath," he added to Dorian.

Varric coughed a laugh, and Dorian kicked him. It only made him laugh harder. But Dorian had never felt less like laughing as he searched for his usual smooth innuendo. "I'll do my best to keep my eyes closed," he said. "But temptations can be so overwhelming."

"Don't overexert yourself on my account," said Maxwell, winking, and Dorian couldn't resist smiling back despite his discomfort. It was sinful how alluring the man was. At least flirting wasn't as terrifying as what might come from it.

Cassandra sighed. "I would love a bath," she said wistfully. "It been ages since I've been clean."

"You're in luck," said Dorian brightly. "In Tevinter, baths are less solitary chores and more social engagements. My father has a particularly fine example of a family bathhouse, so we can all enjoy one together! I'm sure the Commander would also enjoy cleanliness as well."

"Breakfast is served," said Cullen loudly, a tinge of red on his ears. He waved them to their seats, likely to give their mouths other occupation. It worked, for the most part, and they ate in companionable silence. Including the potatoes, which Dorian had to admit were more edible than he'd expected.

But the Inquisition was a talkative group on the whole. When they finished, Varric said, "Not that an Inquisition group bath doesn't sound like a great storyline for This Shit Is Weird, but I think I'll go out with Sera. An elf this crazy alone in Minrathous seems like a good way for some people to get dead. I want to get the rest of our things from the market, anyway. If we're staying here, I doubt we'll need to be selling crap down by the city gates to earn our keep."

Dorian turned from his place at the washbasin. "You came as merchants? How did you get in the city?"

Maxwell gave him a smile that meant trouble. "Long story. I'll tell you later," he said. "But I should ask you the same thing. How did you get in?"

"The Alexius birthright, of course. I'm the long-lost cousin Thom Alexius, come to reclaim my estate after I wrestled it away from the treacherous Dorian Pavus. They waved me right through," said Dorian. "But I'm very interested in this merchant business. What were you selling, exactly?"

"We had a lot of Tevinter crap to unload," said Sera, a little indistinctly around her final mouthful. "The shite without patches on it, anyway."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "You sold my clothing?"

"For a very good price," said Varric.

"I'll have you know I was very attached to some of those shirts. They were like old friends."

But his irritation was buried under nerves when Maxwell gave him a blinking, imploring look and stepped closer. Too close for friendly flirtation. "The Inquisition will buy you a whole new wardrobe," he said. "More buckles. Less material. Whatever you want."

Before Dorian could begin negotiations, Maxwell ran a calloused hand up his arm and threw every possible thought out of his head. The roaming hand kept moving until it curled around the nape of Dorian's neck. "Can you forgive me?" he asked softly.

Dorian swallowed heavily, but he kept a light smile on his face. This was moving entirely too quickly for his tastes, but the surest way of shooing the Inquisitor away was to make him feel at a disadvantage. "You'll have to be very convincing in your groveling," he said. "I would never miss a chance to have the Inquisitor at my mercy."

But instead of flashing annoyance, Maxwell's eyes changed to a deeper, seductive green. "As you wish," he said, and while Dorian was still sorting through his shock, he felt those soft, damnably lovely lips meet his own.

He gasped when Maxwell pulled him closer, and the other man took the opening with his usual sureness. But the demanding pressure Dorian associated with the Inquisitor wasn't there. The kiss was gentle and restrained, and while a small part of Dorian was on fire, his fingers twisting into that beautiful hair, another part of him was only reminded of how fragile he really was.

Not that it stopped him from enjoying every second of it. When they were finished, Dorian was breathing heavily, and his other hand had wandered down to brush over the strip of fair skin that separated shirt from pants. Maxwell was always like a campfire, burning hot and strong, and the look on his face was even more blazing as he licked his lips. Dorian leaned up to kiss him once more, parting his mouth in blatant invitation, and Maxwell took the bait for another long minute, a little more urgently, before pushing himself away.

Dorian shot him a half-grin that was much steadier than he felt, and Maxwell shook his head. "I can't believe you made me wait so long for that."

"The kissing or the breakfast?"

"Both."

He turned around when Sera made a disgusted noise. They were all staring with various levels of interest, but she had her arms folded. "Too much sappy shite going on around here."

"You'd better get used to it," said Maxwell, tipping his head minutely at Cullen and Cassandra.

"Ugh," said Sera. She looked over at Varric balefully. "Don't you even think about it."

Dorian chuckled as she stomped out, but his heart beat in faster rhythm when Maxwell turned around again. "So, you said something about a large bath?"

He wondered if there was any way to decline without it seeming like he was broken beyond repair. He wondered if he was broken beyond repair, that he wasn't gleefully anticipating a thing he'd wanted again ever since he'd been dismissed the first time. Something he'd been wanting, period, since the first time Maxwell's warm, easy beauty had stepped into his life.

"Follow me," said Dorian with a carefully crafted smile. "Let's see if we can get you clean."