Chapter 2

Vanessah Pavus sipped her wine. It was deep red, sweet but not sugary, spiced with something she couldn't put her finger on. It was quite good. Of course, she had put Dorian in charge of the wine, so she had known it would be. He had an eye for the nuances of it. Not just in the tasting and selecting of it but also the message that selection would send. The wine was fine, but not the best money could buy, conveying to their guests that they were respected, but not esteemed. Why he ever left and joined up with the Inquisition when he so clearly had a gift for rubbing elbows she couldn't guess. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She had known why he left, an event she would never forgive Halward for, and, empirically, she knew why he had stayed. He had found someone worth following, a purpose, and, to her chagrin, he had found love. Not that she hadn't wanted him to find love, she adored her son, of course she wished happiness for him. Only, he could have had better taste.

Fitzwilliam had some points in his favor – he was from good breeding for one. In Tevinter the standing of your house mattered, but not quite as much as the blood to which one could lay claim. House Pavus had a line which supposedly went all the way back to the first age. Her family had a similar claim, even documentation, but she suspected it had been forged some ages ago. Still, it was basically the only reason she had married Halward, that claim and the promise it gave of a "gifted" child. The Inquisitor, came from a line tracing all the way back to Tevinter, and from that line, she had learned, it went back even further. She'd be surprised if Trevelyan shared the blood of the first Altus, considering he didn't have the spark, but it was still an impressive ancestry. Not that he could give her nepoti, mind, so it didn't really matter.

Vanessah felt the scowl twisting her lips as she considered the man her son had brought home. She attempted to smooth her expression into something neutral but she'd never been good at that. Her feelings, particularly ones as strong as these, tended to be shown right on her face, plain to the world. Sometimes that worked to her advantage, because it made people think she was honest, or that she couldn't lie. She didn't correct them. It was a valuable tool.

She would endure anything for Dorian but she had received reports, whilst he was away, of the Inquisition and the "magister who took advantage of his connection" with him. Her Dorian would never, but again and again she heard similar tales. And more disturbing ones. Ones that made it clear the so-called Herald was using her son to legitimize his agenda. She did not care for it one bit. It was crass. And then, her darling son had brought him home. She'd take any baggage he came with, if it meant having him in arm's reach again, but she simply couldn't stomach the Inquisitor.

It was as if her unkind thoughts had drawn a summoning circle – in strutted the high and mighty Inquisitor. He was standing to Dorian's right, possibly an intentional statement by her son. Placing the Herald to his left would denote a lesser status. To the right was a wink to his alliance with the Inquisition, as well as to the gossip about how deep that "alliance" ran. Trevelyan, for once, was dressed fabulously. She stared, trying her best to scrutinize, but not a thread was out of place. Dorian pointed over at her and the pair made their way across the room. "Mater," Dorian said with a sly grin, bowing gallantly and kissing her free hand. She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn't help the smile that crept over her face.

"Magistra Pavus," Fitzwilliam said, cutting her a bow and nod that was appropriate for their difference in station, but not exaggerated. She replied with a curt nod, hardly glancing at him. She had to admit, the way he deflated at her dismissal, though nearly imperceptible, brought her a very small degree of amusement.

She turned back to Dorian, "You," she said accusingly, gesturing to the Inquisitor. "You're responsible for this, aren't you?"

Dorian smirked, lifting glasses of wine from a passing slave. He handed one to Fitzwilliam. "Are you asking if I dressed him?" He drawled playfully. "Or if I am responsible for the smile he had before you got to him?"

"Dorian," she scolded. "That is not appropriate."

He chuckled to himself, hiding his face behind his wine glass as he drank. "Either way, Mater, the answer is 'yes'."

"Well," she sniffed. "I suppose I can hardly critique your work. Though I still think his wrists look stubby in those cuffs." She considered tapping her finger to her lips. "Perhaps he just has stubby wrists."

"I'm right here," Fitzwilliam grumbled. She continued to ignore him.

"The wine is quite good, darling." She turned slightly, just a fraction, from the Inquisitor and addressed Dorian. "An excellent choice. I knew you were right for the job," she lay a hand on Dorian's perpetually bare shoulder and rubbed it affectionately. "But there's something in it, isn't there? Some spice? It's very complimentary."

Dorian's lips curled like a cat who'd cornered a mouse, his mustache twitching, and Vanessah knew she had walked into one of his clever traps, though she could hardly see what it could have been.

"Gingermint," he said, eyes squinting as he smiled, looking all too pleased with himself.

"Why does that sound familiar?" She said, affecting an air of ignorance. She had a suspicion, but in a rare moment, she actually hoped she was wrong.

"It's the plant Fitz has been cultivating in the garden of the west wing," he said slowly. Damn, it was as she'd suspected – Dorian had tricked her into paying the man a compliment. "It was his idea to add it to the wine too, when I brought him to the tasting. Doesn't it add a refreshing bouquet?" He asked, still smirking that damnable smirk she blamed on his father at every turn, but knew she had seen in her own looking glass.

"Well," she said, sipping again. "I suppose he did a fine job, though I think it would have complimented the Orlesian nine twenty-three better." She did not really think that, she just hated having to admit the boy wasn't a total moron.

"He's right there Mater," Dorian said, giving her a pointed look that said 'you talk to him' more clearly than actually saying the worlds could do. "You might turn, just a little, and say 'you did a fine job.' Rather than 'he'." She glowered at her son, but it didn't hold much heat. Mostly, she resisted because she didn't want to see that smug expression of satisfaction on Trevelyan's face. But Dorian was relentless and at last she sighed and turned.

"Well done, Inquisitor. Such… eclectic tastes," she gave him a small nod and waited for that self-satisfied look so many men of station got when she paid them a compliment. It was as if they were saying "I know I am amazing. I tolerate your praise." But that wasn't what happened. Vanessah watched with mild shock as Fitzwilliam's face colored, flushing red up the high collar of his suit. He smiled at her but quickly ducked his head in a nod of thanks and, the surprise of all surprises, said nothing more. Though she did catch the delighted smile he shot Dorian, brief and glowing. Dorian's expression softened and he raised his glass in small toast to the victory, the most affection he dared show, surrounded as they were by the Altus of the Senate.

It would have been delightful to pass the event in the company of her son and away from the pandering members of the court, even if he did come with the Trevelyan boy. Sadly, it was not to be. Dorian was soon approached by Magister Appius. A vulgar rotund man who downright abused his vote every chance he got. Sadly, as Halward had yet to secure Dorian his own seat, her son was forced to pander to him.

"Appius," Dorian greeted, plastering a smile on his face. "How do you find the accommodations?"

Appius, all gristle marinated in wine grumbled, "They're satisfactory, though you could have provided a bit more food."

There was a great deal of food actually, just not an entire meal. It was a mid-day event, after all. Fitzwilliam reached out, placing a lingering touch on the magister's wrist and leaning in conspiratorially. "I quite agree," he whispered. Appius, who had a well-known affection for pretty, soft-spoke men, puffed up at the attention. "Though," the Inquisitor continued, "I'm not sure I should. Your figure is so resilient but mine will just fall apart with all these soirees."

The compliment was a blatant lie but Appius flustered delightedly all the same. "Nonsense, my boy," he chuffed. "You're a figure in this room and you know it." Trevelyan batted his eyes and looked down coyly. The way the magister brazenly flirted with the Inquisitor came as no surprise to her, nor anyone else in the room, though she did wish Fitzwilliam would be more discreet. Her son's reputation was at stake after all.

Others bought the Inquisitor's little routine without thought. A minor member of the nobility, sitting head of the Inquisition? Surely the rumors had been exaggerated. What he presented to them was exactly what they expected to see: a pretty man, with an affable attitude, some charm, some humor, but ultimately empty-headed. And because it was what they wanted to see, they accepted it readily. Vanessah, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. He was too good at it. His flirts were too well placed, his winks too well directed. Even his praise came off as too honest, though it clearly was not.

She walked a little bit away, roaming without purpose, pretending to check on this or that, giving compliments in passing which were, largely, entirely fallacious. It was some time later when she noticed Dorian storming away from the room, into a corner, clearly fuming. Her son never had been good at schooling his expression. If she had to guess she'd say that one of the magisters he had been trying to get an appointment with had put him off again. They were so fond of saying "send a letter to my steward and he'll put it on the books." Of course that rarely happened. Agendas were discussed, fought, bartered for, and won in rooms like this.

If Dorian had had a seat he would have something with which to barter, but as things stood he was just one prodigal son, returned with influence and impressive connections, but little to call his own. And so, one by one the members of the Court shuffled him aside like so much mail to be sorted, but later. If she knew her son at all he was fuming about it. He did so hate to be ignored. Better negative attention than none at all, as far as he was concerned. She worried about him, in this moment, but her crossing the room to speak with him would only draw more attention. She hoped he could calm himself.

She was about to turn away when she saw it. The Trevelyan boy was crossing the room. It was impressive really, he was moving so casually that no one really paid him any mind, so when he arrived at Dorian's side no one, save her, was even looking in their direction.

Naturally, she couldn't hear them from here but she could see them, tucked where they were under the drooping boughs of a tropical houseplant. First, Dorian started waving his hands, mouth twisting in a way she knew well. Fitzwilliam's hand reached out to rest on Dorian's shoulder and the hands calmed. Next, it was clear to her that her son was arguing, explaining why he was upset and, likely, why the Inquisitor ought to be angry too. But Trevelyan just followed up with some remark, smirking playfully, and she watched with awe as Dorian's lips twitched too.

She had to admit it was nice to see someone could put Dorian at ease. He was clearly still frustrated, but he was no longer gesticulating and sneering. The Inquisitor glanced around briefly, noting no one was looking at them, and then his hand slid up from Dorian's shoulder to the back of his neck, resting there has he pulled and leaned in, pressing their foreheads together tenderly. It was intimate enough to set tongues wagging, of course they were already wagging, but not blatant enough to be considered proof of anything untoward. There were many among the Altus who would participate in such an act, even in public, should the need arise. It was an ingenious way to implement an affection they largely kept hidden and she couldn't help but wonder who had devised it.

And then they were breaking apart and easing out of the shadows, smiling and laughing again. That blank sort of smile returned to the Inquisitor's face. She was certain she'd seen something deeper there only a moment ago…

She shook her head and went back to the guests.

…

Fitzwilliam hated these parties. It was bad enough to be dressed up like a doll, and to be scorned by Dorian's mother, and to hear the whispers as people passed. Those things were all annoying, but to have to plaster on this mask of vapidity and watch them treat Dorian the way they did? It made his fingers itch for the daggers hidden up his sleeves. Assassining was so much easier. He felt his lips twisting and forced them to quirk upward instead, pulling into the pleased smile of someone who never thought too deeply about anything.

Leliana had trained him well, drilled this into him – the Inquisitor was his disguise, he couldn't let it slip.

Somewhere across the room he spotted Dorian. He was laughing and smiling again. That was good. He had been genuinely worried before. The mage was used to projecting this air of studied indifference. Now that he couldn't do so anymore he had trouble regulating. It was easy to be dismissive but the mage cared about what he was doing here. So when someone wrote him off he tended to fly off the handle and that wasn't gaining him the best reputation. So Fitzwilliam had taken him aside, talked him down, reminded him that in the not-so-distant future they would be naked, in their bedchamber, and politics would be the last thing on their minds.

That was a huge part of what Fitzwilliam did at these events. People talked to him. Not only because he was easy to talk to, or because he seemed too dull to understand, but also because he didn't seem to care. Despite his known association with Dorian they had all decided he had no horse in this race. So he got everyone's opinion. On everything. Sometimes that information even turned out to be useful. Magister Trogus, for example was having serval extra-marital affairs. One of them was a woman. Two of them were men. And one of those three, though he had been unspecific as to which, was also sleeping with Trogus' wife. It was interesting, to be sure, but not particularly pertinent to his current quest.

Fitzwilliam walked the room aimlessly, allowing this person and that to pull him into their conversation. He never initiated. That would be suspicious. He merely wandered, looking bored and stupid, until someone took notice and invited him in. Of course, he did tend to watch the party-goers for signs. Body language, mostly. You could learn a great deal just observing people. And when the right kinds of signs presented themselves – hunched shoulders, leaning in secretively, a prideful twist of the lips – Fitzwilliam would breeze by, uninterested and unfocused. More often than not he was then welcomed into the circle.

It was the second best way to gather intelligence. The first, of course, being the servants—slaves, he corrected internally. Most of them were elven though, and extremely wary. Downcast eyes, and slumped shoulders. The small men and women moved with a quiet grace around the room. Until something clattered or someone yelled. Then, on by one, the slaves started, eyes going wide, but looking even more determinedly at the floor. It was just a part of the event, like the food, or the drink… Fitzwilliam took a large gulp of his wine, fighting with his conscience about what was going on in this city. It was hard to pretend all was well, when they were literally surrounded by all that was wrong.

He kept his feet moving, his eyes sweeping, his face disinterested. Damn, his glass was empty. He turned to a passing elf, placing the empty cup down on the tray and reaching for a new one. At that moment, just as his fingertip grazed the cool, smooth crystal, there came a bellowing, "How dare you," from across the room. Everyone turned to look. Everyone but the slave before him. His eyes stayed down, he froze. But he didn't jump, or flinch – nothing. A measured calm. That was unusual. Even among the slaves in better houses there was a degree of fear. Your master might be kind to you, but at an event there was little more than a fine to your owner for breaking their property, if the mood struck.

This elf didn't look afraid. He looked… uncomfortable. There were hints of other things, annoyance, exasperation, anger, but nothing lasted more than a flicker. His face was a carefully crafted mask. His control was impressive. But it was the eyes – blue, smart, attentive – no wonder he kept that gaze so steadfastly fixed to the floor. The hand which did not hold the tray kept twitching. A tick?

Fitzwilliam turned his gaze elsewhere as the chatter in the room settled once more. He could hear Vanessah across the way, "My dear Lars, have you seen the new garden instillation?" Her voice was sweet, charming. "I'm certain you will enjoy it. I finished lacing the magic in it just this morning. Glitters like a humming bird…" and then her voice trail off as she escorted the man outside. That meant, most likely, one of the slaves had done something to offend. Generally, Domina Pavus left her guests to their own devices. She did, however have strict rules regarding treatment of slaves in her home. She dolled it up behind blood being ghastly and hard to clean, but he had her number. Vanessah Pavus didn't care for the way slaves were treated.

He continued his round, discovering the route Cervidus would take that evening to indulge his horrendous gambling habit, as well as who was to accompany the Magister, what they would discuss at the event, and how many hands he planned on cheating on. Little else compelled him. He was, however, stuck here at least until he could sneak out. And then, depending on what time it was, he might have to head straight into planning and executing an assassination. Which would be, admittedly, delightful fun. Until then, however, he was doomed to be bored.

He kept an eye on Dorian who, to his credit, seemed to be managing much more reasonably. He was even laughing on occasion, and some of them were genuine! The other he kept on the blue-eyed elf slave. The hand which did not balance the drinks continued to twitch, once even reaching as high as his shoulder before the elf caught the action and jerked it back to his side. The elf's forehead wrinkled and his brows pulled side to side, almost as if trying to ease and itch he couldn't scratch. His nose, perhaps? That would hardly be an acceptable gesture from a slave serving wine at an event like this one. Or perhaps he'd read it wrong, and the elf was reaching for his hair. It didn't look quite right on him. Dark and short. It didn't match his coloring in the least.

Long minutes passed, perhaps even more than an hour, before Dorian slide up beside him smiling like anything. He was, probably, slightly intoxicated. "We should leave," the mage whispered conspiratorially.

Fitz quirked his head to the side, fighting the grin that threated to break his performance. "And why," he asked, pitching his voice low, "would you say such a thing?"

Dorian giggled. Giggled. "Because I took Placus Cita's wife to the gardens and convinced her she needed not one, not two, but three of mother's fixtures and now the man is out for blood."

Fitz chuckled, but held firm. "I fail to see why that is my problem, Serah," he whispered back.

Dorian moved closer, invading his personal space, making him feel warm. He could feel the intent of his word thrumming through the bond. "Because if we stay here," he purred, his hand reaching out and resting lightly against his elbow. Such an innocent touch but it set the Inquisitor's heart racing. "Mother will discover what I have done, and she will keep me all evening. And that will… interfere with my plans for you, Amatus."

As it turned out, Fitzwilliam did not require further convincing.

…

They didn't get far. They ran, laughing like children, down one hallway, around the corner, and then Dorian was backing him up to a wall. His lips descended hot and heavy, even as the mage reached behind him and, with a sweeping gesture, moved the wall hanging. Fitzwilliam pulled away, breaking the kiss to glance behind him.

"An alcove?" he asked, suppressing a sound as Dorian's undeterred lips slipped down his neck. The mage encouraged him back farther, until they were concealed with in. The hanging fell taking the light with it. Fitzwilliam could barely see.

"Mhm," Dorian hummed against his throat. "And a poorly hidden one at that. You'll have to be quiet, Amatus." There was a playful warning in those words, but the Inquisitor took the bait anyway.

"Quie-?" The word cut off in a strangled gasp as Dorian's hand slipped lower, cupping the growing bulge in his well-fitted trousers. The mage's mouth returned to slant over his own.

"Yes, Amatus," Dorian purred, lips brushing over Fitz's parted mouth as he spoke. "Shh. Someone," he trailed his fingertips over the now-aching erection, "will hear you."

Maker, this was bad. Fitzwilliam swallowed heavily, worried what Dorian had planned. "So what we're just going to snog in the hallway like a couple of randy adolescents?" The mage chuckled delightedly at his words as deft fingers unsnapped the buttons along the front of Fitzwilliam's trousers.

"No," he whispered, voice silky, smooth, and deviant. "No, we are not."

As the mage sank to squat before him Fitzwilliam realized what was happening. His head rolled back, a deep groan escaping as Dorian pulled the laces behind the un-buttoned flap loose and, in one swift motion, released him. "I haven't even touched you yet," Dorian teased softly, his hot breath ghosting across the sensitive flesh of the exposed hardness before him. Fitzwilliam shuddered.

Dorian didn't waste time, poorly hidden as they were. A wet mouth closed over the head of his cock, threatening to rip Fitzwilliam's voice from him in a ragged cry. He lifted his fist, pressing tightly against his lips, even as the other hand buried his fingers in the mage's hair. Dorian didn't need guidance, he had his tricks, knew his secrets. If this lasted more than a few minutes it was going to be because the mage was a wicked, wicked man.

Maker, but his mouth was warm. The slip of his lips sliding down made his body quake. His knees went weak when Dorian's throat relaxed around him, taking his entire length. The mage's nose was buried in the short-trimmed patch of hair as his hands reached up and took a firm grip on the Inquisitor's hips, offering much-needed additional support.

He could feel the contraction around him, followed abruptly by the suction as Dorian pulled his head back up, and then the twirl of a tantalizing tongue. He felt the tell-tale warning of his cock twitching. His sack tightened, his head fell forward. He could just see Dorian by the wan light, his head bobbing skillfully, his lips acting as cushion to his teeth and seal for the vacuum his mouth created.

And then, Dorian looked up at him, their eyes locked. And, Andraste's silky knickers, they were smirking, self-satisfied, positively daring Fitzwilliam's control. He felt his stubborn streak rise to the occasion, retuning the look with steely determination and shook his head. If the mage hadn't already busied his mouth he would have grinned and Fitz could tell, just by the way his eyes danced, that this was a challenge he wouldn't give up easily.

Dorian redoubled his efforts, and Fitzwilliam descended into a fit of whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut tightly against the pure sensation that rocked him. His hips jerked inelegantly but he would not be broken, would not let out the cries he knew Dorian sought. And then one of Dorian's hands slipped down his hip, his touch vanishing for a short span while his tongue and mouth tormented. He didn't even notice the fingers between his legs until they were sliding up and back, into the cleft of his ass.

He wouldn't really… but he did. A single, somehow miraculously oiled finger, sank into him in a single slow push. A sharp gasp escaped him and Fitzwilliam shoved a crooked finger into his mouth in a useless attempt to resist the pants and whinnies that came without end. Dorian was relentless now, sucking and bobbing, digit pumping, curling to brush over the spot that made him weak.

Fitzwilliam could almost hear that cocky voice whispering to him: Just let go, Amatus. Just now, he had to admit he couldn't remember why he was resisting. A strangled cry ripped from his throat as his fingers grabbed a fistful of Dorian's, previously, perfectly coifed locks. And that was it, he was falling over the edge, his shaft shooting hot streams of sticky seed as Dorian swallowed, actually pulling back to taste him, as the mage so often did. And, yes, Fitzwilliam's cries were enthusiastic, appreciative, and dangerously unfettered.

The moment the tremors of blissful aftershock had abated, the Inquisitor's face was already turning a brilliant red, aware of what had transpired – of the battle he had lost. He was not, however, so distracted as to forget to offer his hand to the mage who squatted before him. Dorian had pulled his finger free at some point, though Fitzwilliam could not, for the life of him, say when. The mage took the offered had, licking his lips as he straightened to his full height. "You," he purred softly, "are delicious." Dorian kissed him then, slow and sweet, despite the hardness Fitz could feel straining through his trousers.

Fitzwilliam reached down, his fingertips tracing teasingly. He felt the humid air on his face as Dorian let out a slow sigh. But a moment later the mage was removing the wandering hand and returning Fitzwilliam's softening member to the confines of his trousers. "I can wait, Amatus," he insisted. The mage rested his head against his lover's shoulder, nuzzling in a tender moment of pure affection.

It didn't last long, however. It was unlikely they had gone entirely unnoticed and lingering would be a poor choice. "Come now," Fitzwilliam chided Dorian as he laced and buttoned the front of his trousers. "You're a right mess. Make yourself presentable."

Dorian mock-scowled in the low light, his hands smoothing his hair. "Maybe if someone had a bit less zeal…"

"You're one to talk," he chirped back. "With that finger trick."

Dorian smirked, positively delighted. "Well, I stole it from you," he rumbled, moving in close again. This time lips went to the shell of his ear. "For all your protests," he gasped breathily, "I know how much you enjoy knowing someone might hear you." The words, their cadence, the sex that dripped off them, made the Inquisitor tremble. He could feel his trousers growing tight again already. His Adam's apple bobbed hard as he swallowed thickly.

And then, quick as a flash, Dorian had pressed a chaste peck to his cheek and slid out from their hiding place. Fitzwilliam could hear the soft leather of his boots on the hard stone. "Coming?" he called.

AN: Aaaaaaand that's two! I've had a heck of a week, and a heck of a weekend ahead of me, but I am delighted I got this done on time for you all to enjoy! Remember to comment, should you feel inclined, and leave your thoughts. I do apologize if there are slightly more errors or less word variation than usual. I have been exhausted. (Also, if I messed up any of the Latin;))

V-bird: You have met Vanessah at last:)

Shadow: You're welcome ;)

Have a beautiful week, darlings.

~Love!