Chapter 2, In which a grooming defeat is had

"No, Dorian," said Josephine without raising her eyes from the documents. Dorian leaned over her desk in an even more annoying fashion.

"The least you can do is hear my plea. We make time for every Avvar mutt and wanted criminal we pick up along the way, surely you can find a minute to listen to a dear old personal friend?"

"If this is about the crate of whisky found in your room, I'm very sorry, but there's nothing I can do. Leliana is very clear on the rules about alcohol in the tower. Now, if there isn't anything else…"

"Found in my-" Dorian stuttered. Then forcibly reminded himself that being disembowelled was momentarily higher on his priority list than drinking whisky. "We'll get back to that. I would still have a humble request, Josephine…"

She sighed, putting down the quill. "Alright, Dorian. How can I help you?"

"I need your expertise on how to be Antivan so I can turn myself into one for the time being."

He had to give it to the diplomatic advisor: she was good. It took her less than two seconds to rearrange the surprised and very indignant look on her face into something nice and pleasant.

"No, Dorian."

"You're literally killing me, Josephine."

"Now, now, Altus Pavus," she chastised, turning her eyes back down to the document "One would assume that someone as well-read as yourself would have had some practice discerning literally and figuratively."

"I memorised a dictionary before I turned six, Josephine. And I can assure you that you are quite plainly leading me to a violent, painful demise, bringing down the wrath of the Inquisitor whose personal favourite I remain."

"And the only solution to your violent, painful demise is to be Antivan."

"Indeed so."

"Tell me, Dorian," she offered, "would you consider the possibility that maybe, perhaps you could be exaggerating?"

He made a dramatic flourish. "I would never." Josephine sent him a pointed glance; joke was on her, however. Appealing to Dorian's shame was an endeavour doomed from the start. "Say, Josephine… how much do you know about Champion of Kirkwall's love life?"

He thought the Antivan blushed slightly. Or it could just be the rose-tinted glass in the windows. "Not at much as Cassandra, I imagine, but a… considerable amount." No, definitely a blush. "Still, it would be rather rude to recount it, now that serah Fenris is in Skyhold."

Dorian looked at her very intently. "Yes. Fenris is in Skyhold."

And, just like that, Josephine paled. If, having seen what he had in the tavern, Dorian ever doubted again that his life was in danger, that was proof enough. Apparently even in the diplomatic circles, the very name of the elf stood for ultra-efficient Tevinter-killing machine of death and revenge.

"My sincere apologies, Dorian. It is after all sensible that you've come to me." Josephine moved the pile of documents aside and set her quill down in a decisive gesture that, for some reason, sent a shiver down Dorian's spine. "I will alert Leliana. We shall begin immediately."

Blinking, Dorian wondered whether he might have started something he would end up regretting. Deeply.

Still, anything was better than being vivisected by a flesh-phasing angry elf with a grudge, right? Right?

-/-

"Shave," ordered Leliana dispassionately, and Dorian's train of thought ground to a halt.

"Pardon me, sweet lady Nightingale, what did you say? Surely my ears have deceived me."

Josephine gave a thoughtful nod. "Yes. Antivan fashion does not allow moustaches this year. Well spotted, Leli, it was almost too obvious to notice. The hair will have to change, too, perhaps we can arrange with Cullen's barber-"

"Firstly, don't be ridiculous. Secondly, I'm presuming that the barber deals with our dear Commander's feather mane? Heavens know he's not managing the hair."

Leliana eyed him up and down thoughtfully. Suddenly Dorian had very unpleasant sensation of feeling like a corpse on display, one that wasn't not quite stinking yet but whose garments would have to be chosen carefully not to show the decay. It was a surprisingly vivid image.

He would not gulp loudly. He had integrity.

"And the clothes? We still have some of the Antivan ambassador's wardrobe after he left last month, and they're fairly fashionable for the season, but not... quite the same size. We will have to have them tailored." Josephine's quill was dancing on her pad as she was taking her quick, efficient notes that amounted to the bringers of destruction. "They cannot be made too conspicuous either. The less attention the change will attract, the better."

"Finally, my dear Josephine. We agree on something."

"It is fortunate that the Inquisitor is not here," said Leliana, looking straight through Dorian. "Otherwise it might be difficult for the two of you to keep up the pretences."

Dorian raised his chin and sent her an absolutely scorching glare back. "I'll have you know that the Inquisitor and I are capable of the utmost discretion."

Leliana looked him dead in the eye. "Summerday."

Dorian opened his mouth to retort something witty and brilliant, but to his terror, nothing came. It wasn't his fault that the Inquisitor had got horribly drunk on the Feast of Summerday, now, was it? It's not like he'd expected this small, wiry Dalish to be such a lightweight. Then again…

"I'll send word to the Inquisitor that he should not hurry back to Skyhold. Hawke mentioned they would be leaving in a fortnight, we can contain the situation until then."

Fortnight? Dorian pouted. As much as he enjoyed his peace and quiet in the library, not seeing Lavellan for two weeks was another thing entirely. Especially now that whisky was out of the equation.

"Say, Josephine… Can't we just sent the bloodthirsty elf away, as opposed to the Inquisitor? I happen to know a person who would be delighted with that kind of switch."

Josephine's face crinkled indignantly. "Goodness gracious, Dorian!" Again, was that the rose-tinted glass in her office, or was the blush creeping up the ambassador's cheeks once more? Dorian groaned internally. But of course Josephine's crush of choice would be the dark, brooding hero with a heavy past and homicidal tendencies. Who just so happened to have a very murderous intent towards his own person. Of course.

"It is known that the Champion of Kirkwall comes with a package," said Leliana matter-of-factly, but her eyes were glimmering. She looked Dorian straight in the eye, and suddenly the room got darker. And colder. That was the only plausible reason why a terrible chill ran down his spine. "I am told it is not up for debate. And, if forced to choose… regardless of the Inquisitor's personal preference… the Inquisition will benefit more from having the Champion than yourself."

Leliana very slowly stood from her chair. Dorian watched her, speechless. He was suddenly very vividly reminded of the sound Fenris' fist made as it exited Krem's chest. If he rips out your heart, do you still get to hear it in your final moments? Maker, what a terrifying last thought.

Leliana's smile was very much like a shark's.

"I already offered you my advice, Dorian, and for the sake of our friendship, I will repeat myself this once. Shave."

-/-

Dorian prodded at his upper lip experimentally.

"This," he said to the mirror flatly, watching his mouth move in shapes that seemed inherently weird now that there was no hairline to contour them, "is what defeat looks like."

His face was naked. There was no other word for it. He was a sixteen-year-old again, chasing pretty boys in the murky alleyways of southern Minrathous and scoffing at necromancy teachers who pretended to know all the answers. Looking at the face in the mirror, Dorian conceded that he did look rather deserving of all those annoyed comments to his father. Just a snarky teenager, and very little more…

Until his gaze stopped on the hair. Oh, Maker, the hair. They did drag him to Cullen's barber, and if he wanted to keep his sanity as roughly intact as he emerged from it, he needed to be very, very, very firmly committed never to think about that encounter. A Southern barbarian with a razor-sharp blade to his head was hardly anything new, but at least usually, he was allowed to reciprocate with some cleverly aimed death magic. This, however…

He'd fought, and he'd lost. Josephine was very adamant in what she wanted, and the barber had looked as if, after months of grooming soldiers, he'd been rewarded with a trip to his personal heaven of creative licence. His hair was now partly shaved over his ear, with the rest combed over the hairless spot like a balding man's toupee. His proud waves of chestnut glory had been mercilessly straightened, and cut in a haphazard, irregular manner that'd had Dorian almost in tears as he'd watched his smooth curls chip away, only to be replaced by ragged chaos. Truly, after this whole ordeal was over, his hair was best suited to be just shaven off completely; nothing short of scorched earth would ever blot out this indignity.

He'd tried combing it back, and to the other side, and – in the final fit of desperation – up in an Avvar ponytail. The only worthwhile finding from that endeavour was that contrary to his beliefs, it was possible to look even more appalling. It seemed like his best hope was just to leave it as it was and, heavens permitting, find some appropriate-looking cap to hide his shame until the thrice-damned Hawke and her beastly companion left Skyhold. The jarring lack of facial hair was more difficult to hide; nothing else to do than wait, since the next prop shop was in the far, far Orlais. Sighing, Dorian turned away from the mirror and resigned himself to the life of reclusion and solitude until at least his moustache grew back.

"Hey, Dorky!"

Dorian blanched and turned back slowly.

Sera was dangling upside-down from his bedroom window, a jar of something buzzing and angry in one hand, and a battle smear of strawberry jam on her chin. He could see her inverted wide grin falter at the shock of his face, leaving just a black, incomprehensive silence… and then the grin returned, even wider.

"You're kidding me."

The upside of being a scion of a noble house was the necessary skill to fake, and – even though he refused to apply it more generally – Dorian was a very skilled student. He summoned a lazy smile onto his face. "Ah, Sera. You're the first to enjoy my transformation. I've been needing a change for months."

Sera pushed the window in and slipped into the room glibly, cackling like a madwoman. Her face looked rather as if it was going to burst at the seams. "Thhhh, Dorky! Didn't know you were a gambler!"

"Appearances are no gambling matter, my dear stone monkey."

"Bullsheeeet. It's Varric, innit? Must've been." Sera jumped closer and tugged at the combed over bangs, prompting a very indignant expression from Dorian, and howled with laughter at the sight. "You're bald! Ehehehehe, you're actually bald! The greatest day of my life, this!"

"Glad to be of service," said Dorian acidly, with the most impressive deadpan he could muster.

"And your 'stache! D'you do it for Lavellan? Elfy feeling like he wanted to smooch someone all different? Ehehehehe!"

Oh, kaffas. Dorian considered the consequences of kissing with no moustache and his mood soured even further. Fenriel was not going to like this.

And, judging by the giddy noises Sera was making – Maker, she's quite literally seconds away from rolling on the floor, jar of bees and all – there was a very high probability that the entire Inquisition would find out about his new look within the next hours. He needed to play this very, very carefully.

"Alright, you got me," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "I did, in fact, lose a bet. But I would be blind if I missed the greatest pranking opportunity this present situation offers."

Sera's grin became more toothy. "Listening, Sparklefingers."

"No-one else in the entire Inquisition knows about my… ah… makeover," said Dorian slowly, hoping to heavens he was making himself clear enough. "It would be a shame if someone were to spoil their surprise. Especially if their reaction faces turn out to be as delightful as yours."

Sera giggled. "Knew I liked you for a reason. Alrighty then, but I get to see!"

O deity of embarrassed men, whatever is your name and offering of choice, I shall deliver it to you in thanks for your small mercies. This could actually turn out for his benefit. "There's actually a reason behind it, you see," Dorian said conversationally, and Sera's ear twitched curiously. "I have been given a dare that I cannot disguise myself for the next fortnight. If I can convince people that I am, in fact, not a Tevinter, but rather an Antivan born and bred…"

Sera burst out into peals of laughter again, spreading the strawberry jam across her face and making herself look fairly murderous in the process. Dorian tactfully decided not to comment on that. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Dorky. I'm loving it!"

Dorian perked up slightly at the perspective of having gained an unexpected ally. There was still a risk that Sera would overdo it, but now that the entire business was a pranking matter, he was fairly certain that she would not pass up the opportunity. He splayed his arms wide, showing off his new visage. "Perhaps I should tone down the all-new brilliance of my looks. Evidently, even you were overwhelmed."

"I was oversomething. Definitely." Sera giggled to herself again. In the privacy of his own mind, Dorian congratulated himself on crossing yet another frontier of outrageousness. "Sooo… the plan is, make everybody think they're crazy, yes? For thinking you're Tevinter?"

"Outstanding, dear Sera. I believe this is scientifically called messing with people." Suddenly, the prospects for the next two weeks did not look so terribly glum.

"And those who won't believe get a face full of bees!"

Dorian blinked. "Wait. No. Why on earth-"

"I got a massive bee shipment to get rid of before Elfy comes back. Bees or I'm out." Sera shook the jar in her hand. It buzzed furiously.

Dorian considered his options for a moment, and then nodded philosophically. Some fights were not worth to be having, especially on a bad hair day.

"I am sure we can incorporate bees in the plan somehow," he said solemnly, and Sera's eyes twinkled.

"Righty. Now listen, Sparklepants, this is how we're gonna go about this whole Antivan business…"

-/-

Cullen's high-pitched scream was heard across the entire battlements. Dorian took only half the credit – his looks might have been a major factor, but the dripping red goo on his face and fingers certainly helped. Poor Commander must have been too absent-minded to contemplate the qualities of strawberry jam.