Never Get Used To You

Note: This is a series of drabbles for Dorian and the Inquisitor (male, Trevelyan). Characters are not mine, please enjoy! Comments are awesome.

THREE

You lie awake in the pre-dawn darkness of Skyhold's tallest tower, the pink and yellow beginnings of the sunrise are only just starting to creep over the mountain peaks on the horizon, so your quarters are still dark, lit only by the dim green glow that radiates from the mark on your hand. It's still quiet, too early for even the earliest of rises, too late for even the latest to bed. Dorian is sleeping soundly beside you, sharing your bed more often than not these days, and the two of you are so entwined that it's hard to tell where you end and he begins, the sheets a tangled mess between you. It's perfect.

Unfortunately, it's the last morning you'll have like this in quite a while, as tomorrow marks the start of a lengthy trip to the Hissing Wastes, and Dorian won't be accompanying you.

Dorian shifts a little closer to you, and you curl your fingers around his and settle in, perfectly content to stay like this as long as possible because you're going to miss it.

Normally, Dorian's with you when you leave Skyhold, and the two of you have shared a tent since long before you ever got together. You're so used to him being there, at your side, when you fight that something feels like it's missing when he's not. Vivienne is just as good, but it's not the same.

Eventually, as you drift in and out of sleep, the sunlight slowly stretches its way through the grand windows, creeping closer and closer to the bed. The sounds of morning are beginning down below, as well, the crows of roosters and the clacking of hooves, the chatter of the kitchen staff, moving about early to prepare breakfast for the castle, the clank of armor as the soldiers trade posts.

It will rouse your bedmate soon enough, you're sure - assuming no one comes looking for you before then, to summon you off to some last minute meeting about the upcoming journey - and another chaotic day with the Inquisition will commence. Then everyone will be out of bed, back into the chaos of Inquisition life - researching ways to defeat Corypheus, debating the best strategies, organizing troops and supplies, sending out scouts and messengers and spies, planning the next move.

But perhaps you have overestimated Dorian's level of consciousness. You feel the man shift at your back, pulling away from the shared warmth. A chill settles in where he'd been pressed against you.

You want to move, to reach out to him and drag him back down. You want to convince him (probably won't take much convincing, really) to just stay in bed with you for as long as possible today, because it's going to be weeks, maybe months, until you see each other again. You want to pull him in for a long, hungry kiss and go from there.

But something stops you.

"I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified," Dorian says, with a slow, shuddering breath.

The words are whispered, and so quiet that you're sure that he never meant for you to actually hear them, but you have. Has he been awake as long as you have, worrying over this like you've been worrying about being away from him?

He reaches out for you, and a shaking hand lands on your shoulder. You turn toward him, your hand reaching out to cover his, but when he realizes that you're awake, that you heard, he pulls away, moves away.

"I don't know why I said that," he admits, and even though he doesn't go far, the distance between you seems insurmountable in that moment, like you could never hope to reach him where he sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Sometimes you wonder what happened to him to make him think the way he does. You know his history with his father, what he tried to do to Dorian, but there's something more, you're sure. Maybe one day he'll tell you.

What makes him so sure that he's not worth loving, that no one ever could?

"Hey," you start, escaping the tangle of blankets and sliding up behind him. You curl your arms around him, pressing a series of long, lazy kisses against his neck and jaw, finally finding his mouth, as you pull him back down. "If it helps," you say, just as quietly as Dorian's own words had been, "I know that I'm in love with you."

You do, Maker, you do, more than anything, and maybe one day he'll believe that.