~A Memory: Sideswiped~
The noise outside his quarters began just before dawn, as it had every morning since Dorian arrived at Haven. He'd had more than a week now to grow accustomed to its rhythms. First, it was the chickens, crowing and clucking outside his door. Then came hens of another kind: the Chantry sisters taking up their morning prayers. And if by some miracle he managed to sleep through all that, Commander Cullen's morning exercises with the troops were absolutely guaranteed to help one shake off the remaining cobwebs – either that, or inspire vivid dreams of being chased down by a pack of sweating templars, dreams which could end badly or very well indeed depending on what Dorian had had to drink the night before.
Either way, there was no ignoring the din, so he washed, dressed, and stepped out under a blushing pink sky, taking care where he put his feet lest he encounter the morning's fresh crop of chicken shit. The village was already a buzz of voices, but one in particular stood out, a silky tenor that caused him to stand up a little straighter, his hand passing fleetingly over his hair to make sure every strand was in its proper place. The Herald of Andraste stood a few feet away, chatting in low tones with the elven apostate, Solas. This, too, had become routine, and already Dorian was weary of overhearing snippets of The Ballad of Solas: Tales from the Fade. On the plus side, it often brought the Herald to his doorstep next, and Dorian found himself looking forward to those little visits more than he should.
Back home, nurturing harmless little crushes was just about his favourite pastime, but it wouldn't do to indulge in that here. Not with him, and certainly not now, with the world falling down around their ears. Dorian would not do anything to jeopardize his commitment to the Inquisition. He was here for a reason, and it wasn't to flirt.
But still. You couldn't help looking, could you? Not when you had that standing in front of you. Slender and yet sculpted, with the lithe athleticism of a feline. High cheekbones and a refined jaw, straight nose and full, kissable mouth. Silvery hair offset by the most extraordinary eyes Dorian had ever seen, the bright aquamarine of the Bay of Qarinus under a blazing sun. It was unnatural. The leader of an upstart rabble like this – and Lavellan was the leader, whether they admitted it to themselves or not – ought to be some grim, grizzled warrior just past his prime. Twice-broken nose, angry scars, broad shoulders burdened with the dour wisdom of a man who's known too much death. Instead, here was this young, vigorous, thoroughly distracting specimen who was walking over here right now…
Dorian folded his arms and propped himself against the wall, glancing away in apparent boredom. "Another lovely morning in Haven," he remarked idly as the elf drew near. "Cold enough to set your teeth chattering."
The elf's glance skimmed over him. "You might consider dressing more appropriately."
Dorian hoisted an eyebrow. "Am I dressed inappropriately? Oh dear."
"I only meant you could dress more warmly."
"How disappointing. I rather liked the idea of scandalizing you." So much for not flirting.
"It would take more than that to scandalize me."
"Do tell," Dorian purred. "I'll be sure to take notes."
Stop. It.
But it was futile and he knew it. Flirting was his nature and his habit. He was a cat with a length of yarn dangled in front of his eyes. He simply couldn't resist.
"Seriously, why not wear something warmer?" Those magnificent eyes fastened on the exposed skin of Dorian's shoulder, drifting down to his chest. "I can see the goosebumps from here."
That's not the cold, my fine fellow. Dorian shrugged his bare shoulder, making sure the gaze lingered a little longer. "Vanity, I'm afraid. An inevitable side-effect of looking this good. But I expect I don't need to tell you that."
The elf met his glance and held it, and Dorian fancied he saw the other man biting down on a riposte. He was capable of it, Dorian knew; he'd seen a few intriguing glimpses of the wit behind that careful demeanour. "All this for me? And I didn't get Alexius anything..." Of course, that only made him more interesting. It was all very inconvenient.
"How are you getting on? Are you comfortable?" He inclined his head at Dorian's quarters.
"Perfectly comfortable, thank you. After weeks of camping outside Redcliffe, this is positively palatial."
He smiled. "You're a terrible liar."
"Nonsense, I'm an accomplished liar. It's just that I'm not overly invested in convincing you. I thought perhaps an attempt to put on a brave face might earn me a larger bed."
"Perhaps you'd like to try my bed."
Dorian blinked.
"I'm not used to sleeping in them anyway," he went on seamlessly. "It wouldn't bother me in the slightest if we traded."
A perfectly plausible continuation of the thought. And yet Dorian had the distinct impression that his reaction had been carefully observed.
Could it be? He was accustomed to such ruses back home. A way of gauging interest from behind a shield of deniability. But surely not here? Not him? "That… won't be necessary," Dorian faltered. "I appreciate the offer."
The elf nodded. "We'll talk later. I have a feeling we'll be heading back to the Hinterlands today."
"Hurray," Dorian said wryly, relieved to find his practiced indifference settling back into place. Even so, his mind whirred as he watched Lavellan walk away. He was imagining it, surely? A bit of wishful thinking, perhaps? His discomfiture must have shown, because Varric, who was walking up the stairs, tilted his head curiously and came over.
"You all right, Sparkler? You look confused."
"I'm fine, thank you. Only I think I've just been sideswiped." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, and of course the dwarf asked.
"Sideswiped?"
"A bit of vernacular from back home. Borrowed from thieves' cant, I understand. It refers to the manoeuvre in which a pickpocket accidentally deliberately bumps into you in a crowd." It had come to mean something rather different in certain circles, referring to the sort of deliberately ambiguous flirting that could either be embraced or denied, depending on the reaction. But Dorian had no intention of explaining that part.
"You think you just had your pocket picked?" Varric laughed. "Who knew Haven was so dangerous?"
Who indeed? Dorian was going to have to be even more careful than he'd thought. The elf was a rogue, after all, well practiced in slipping past defences and making off with precious things. It wouldn't do for Dorian to let his pocket get picked.
It wouldn't do at all.
