A/N: My first time posting a multi-chaptered fic (and writing sexy stuff)!

For the tenth time that evening, Cullen fiddles with his surcoat in front of the mirror. He sighs. He shouldn't have agreed, although he knows rejection is not an option. He studies himself in the mirror, his ceremonial plate gleaming, his fur surcoat neat and tidy. He narrows his eyes as he spots yet another bunch of fur out of place.

Cullen hates balls. He hates the politicking and gossiping that's bound to occur. He hates the dancing, the music... He shudders as he remembers the Winter Palace, and blanches. A bunch of Orlesian nobles had taken to fawning over him, no doubt viewing his position as an asset, and his status as a bachelor, fair game. One even had no sense of personal space and propriety as she reached out a cheeky hand to pinch his bottom. When he had complained to Josephine she had simply laughed, and he had been left red-faced with embarrassment. Sera had overheard, and well, it didn't take long for the whole of Skyhold to find out. What's worse is that Evelyn had found out, and Cullen turns red at the memory.

But this ball is different, he reminds himself as he combs his hair for the thirteenth time. It's one thrown by the Inquisition – Josephine, actually – to celebrate the defeat of Corypheus at the hands of their darling Inquisitor. This ball he will attend.

Evelyn Trevelyan has been the object of his secret – and if you ask him, totally unworthy – affections for some time now. The fact that she's a mage doesn't deter him – he's liked a mage before, after all – although the fact that she's a noble does give him some pause. The truth is that the entire matter deters him simply because he knows he's not good enough for her, knows that she can do so much better than a workaholic, washed-up ex-templar. Somebody who can shower her with love and riches, bring her power and fame; somebody who's not fundamentally lacking, somebody who's not him.

A knock on his door brings him back to reality, and he opens it to see a messenger, come to "remind" the Commander that the Inquisition ball is about to begin and will he please kindly show his face in the grand hall now. It's as if Josephine half-expects him to bail, and he snorts in derision. He dismisses the messenger curtly, and gives himself one last look in the mirror as he adjusts his surcoat for the eleventh time and drags a comb through his hair for the fourteenth. Here goes nothing.

The hall is packed with various visiting dignitaries, and countless commoners from and around Skyhold. It seems as though Josephine has invited everybody and their mabari in Thedas. It frightens Cullen, makes his toes curl, as the dignitaries give him overly-polite and overly-friendly smiles. Warriors fight with their swords in their hands. Diplomats fight with hidden daggers behind careful smiles. He forces wan smiles in response as he makes his way forward to find the others.

Leliana is busy, of course. Solas had disappeared with nary a word after the fight with Corypheus just a week ago, his personal belongings conspicuously missing and the rest of the things in his room left untouched. Cullen had wanted to approach Evelyn the past week, wanted to speak with her, but she slept like a log the first two days, barely rousing to eat the third, and in the last four he lost all semblance of courage as she took to the streets of Skyhold to speak with all their refugees – and their mabari.

The rest of the Inquisitor's inner circle are standing near the centre of the hall, waiting for Maker knows what, Cullen realises, until he observes that Evelyn isn't among them. Ah. He's barely made his way to Dorian when the doors are flung open and the Inquisitor, flanked by several guards, enters.

Cullen's breath catches in his throat. Evelyn looks ravishing in an off-shoulder rich red gown trimmed with gold. Her hair is tied up in a bun, gold adornments shimmering in her hair. Her bare face is made-up today – no doubt Leliana's doing – and she looks even more beautiful than ever. Cullen never thought that possible.

She walks until she reaches the dias, and sits regally on her throne. Cullen barely conceals the smile on his face as he realises she's trying her hardest not to slouch, as she's wont to do whenever a prisoner was brought before her. Old habits die hard. Josephine stands on the dias then and makes a proclamation, a rousing short speech about the defeat of Corypheus, and on how the Inquisition will continue to help Thedas.

Cullen doesn't listen. He's transfixed, of course, by Evelyn. She looks radiant, light from the candles high up in the halls falling on her hair and face. She's positively glowing. When Josephine announces for the Inquisitor's entire inner circle to stand in front, Cullen isn't paying attention, and it's only when Dorian grabs him by the cuff of his sleeve does he startle back to reality.

He stands with the others as the Inquisitor makes a short speech. Her speech isn't as flowery as Josephine's – nor as politically correct; Sera sniggers when Evelyn "slips up" and says Coryp-shit instead – but it's blunt and direct and it gets the message across. Excitement is palpable in the air, and even Josephine gives her a nod of approval as the crowd bursts into enthusiastic cheering and clapping.

And then the ball officially begins. The band at the corner begins playing music, Orlesian court numbers mixed with upbeat Ferelden favourites as people instinctively clear out the space in the centre of the hall and turn it into an impromptu dance floor.

Cullen opts instead to remain at the side of the hall and follow Evelyn with his gaze. She swans her way through the crowd slowly, making polite small talk with the various dignitaries. He smiles and relaxes as he watches her converse with several Orlesians with ease, and then he stiffens as she catches his eye. He swallows nervously as she begins making her way towards him.

"Commander." Another number begins playing. Around them, the people mingle and dance and eat, the delectable buffet table nearby tempting, with its offers of Thedosian cuisine.

Cullen doesn't notice any of that, of course. His eyes are transfixed on Evelyn's bright ones. Of all the people, she's sought him out. Panic bubbles in him as he realises she's looking for him and has found him.

"You look beautiful tonight, Inquisitor." Cullen dips his head slightly.

"Thank you, Commander." Evelyn smiles prettily and he blushes; he hopes that the pink on his face isn't too obvious.

"I – would you like to dance, my lady?" He's danced with her before, of course, back at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, but that was different. They were there as a group, a united front, and when she had asked him to save a dance for her he had thought it to be a part of that silly Orlesian Game or something. He's reminded himself not to read too much into it, although he's ashamed to admit that at that point in time, he had.

He's convinced himself rather successfully over the past few months that his affections for her are unworthy and that he's beneath her. He can almost imagine the others tutting under their breath should they discover that he holds a candle for their darling Inquisitor.

Still, that does not keep him from hoping. One can still hope.

"I would love to." Evelyn replies with measured enthusiasm and he's positive it's part of a show, part of an image she wishes to project to the Inquisition's allies. She's getting better at the Game, he can give her that. She can't seriously enjoy dancing with him or being around him.

Cullen's only ever allowed himself to like another girl once – a certain young lady back at the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad. That had been a disaster, as well. When he had tried to speak to her, he had frightened himself so much he actually fled the scene and had maybe even wet his pants. Maybe. He shudders at the memory before he realises Evelyn is looking at him, expectant.

Right. He wants to slap himself now.

He bows gracefully, a polite smile on his face, as he extends a gloved hand. Templars don't dance. Ex-templars don't dance. Commanders definitely don't dance. He's not sure why he's offered her a dance. As he splays a hand across her back and holds her hand with the other, he suddenly wishes that he had at least taken some dancing lessons. At least then he wouldn't suck at everything.

Evelyn is gorgeous and is definitely the light of the ball. Cullen remembers the many dignitaries eyeing her with interest – mainly men, but some women. The fact that they are all nobles bothers Cullen even more. If he's felt bad at himself before he feels worse now. He leads the dance carefully and gently, making sure not to step on her feet or make a fool of himself. At least, going slow, there's more room for error and mistakes. Evelyn, on the other hand, is a patient dance partner. She's also somewhat more competent at dancing than him.

The world seems to shrink to the two of them, her grey eyes on his brown ones as they dance to the music. Cullen tries to remember the moment, tries to capture the memory so he wouldn't ever forget it. But just as quickly as it began, the music stops and the dance ends as Cullen lets her go, afraid to hold on any longer to her lest he betray his one-sided affections.

Evelyn smiles and curtsies; he bows low as she thanks him and heads off. She's almost immediately accosted by an eager lady asking for a dance, and Evelyn obliges politely. If Cullen had been looking forward to any romantic sparks between them during the dance, the chance was long gone.

He's squandered it, as he's squandered away all the other opportunities he's had over the past few months. He tells himself he's not good enough for her, that he's somehow more deficient than the others but yet he still wants her, craves her, desires her. Word has reached him that Evelyn hasn't shown any romantic interest in any in her inner circle, which only further serves to fuel his impossible dreams and desires. Evelyn Trevelyan is his guilty pleasure, he reflects as he makes his way away from the dance floor, and to the side of the hall where the buffet tables are. A guilty pleasure, a secret fantasy, as he lies awake in his bed at night and daydreams of her touch, her feel, and her scent against his bare skin. What he would give to run his fingers along her blond hair, to pleasure her and make her mewl beneath him...

He bites his lip and balls his hands into fists in his starchy gloves. His face turns red as he remembers he's in public, and that it wouldn't do for him to think any more dirty thoughts about their beloved Inquisitor. It's impossible and he knows it, but yet somehow he wishes with all of his soul, holds out hope that maybe she has room in her heart for a washed-up ex-templar, room in her heart for a broken man, room in her heart for... him.

Several nobles are getting far too friendly with Evelyn – one weaselly-looking young man has brought her hand to his lips to kiss it far longer than what is considered strictly polite – and Cullen's hand instinctively flies to his belt, and grasps at thin air. Of course his sword isn't with him. No weapons allowed, Josephine's rule. He grumbles softly as he leans back against the hard wooden chair. At least Josephine had some sense to ban weapons at the ball. If he had his way, he probably would have drawn his sword and challenged the Weasel Man with that itchy lips to a death match. And that wouldn't do. He slumps almost defeatedly.

"It won't do; it'll be terrible. His blood will stain the carpets." Beside him, Dorian drawls and gives him a knowing look, almost in response to his thoughts. Cullen stifles a sigh as he turns to face the Tevinter, who has a bowl filled with plump grapes before him. Dorian's dressed outrageously, as he always is, although now Cullen finds himself suddenly jealous of the mage's confidence and flair.

"You didn't hear me say anything." Cullen grits.

"Of course I didn't. I can see it written all over your face."

Cullen narrows his eyes and Dorian regards him indifferently. "Is it that obvious?"

"What? Your lack of confidence or your feelings for our dear Inquisitor?"

"Both." Cullen lowers his voice, exasperated, and hopes he's not as open a book Dorian paints him to be. Confiding in Dorian isn't something he's expected himself to do; but at this juncture, stuck in a ball with nothing but his thoughts and his proximity to Evelyn has left him with little options, if any.

"Ask her out."

"What?" Cullen whips around to face him, his voice nearly strangled in response to the Tevinter's smooth comment.

"Tell her. Show her." Dorian enunciates the syllables clearly as if Cullen were an idiot – truth be told, he's pretty sure he looks like one now, with his red face and gaping mouth.

"I can tell her. I want to help." A small voice pips up.

Cullen glares at Cole, who's made his way over to them and is looking innocently at him.

"I want to help you." Cole repeats. He's still wearing his hat.

"Please." Cullen massages his temples, which have suddenly begun to ache. "No."

Cole looks at Dorian, who shakes his head. They watch Cullen in silence for a while more before they both make their way to the dessert table, and Cullen's finally left alone at his chair, his face buried in his hands.

He finally straightens up as he notices Evelyn walking to a door, probably hoping for a respite from the happenings of the ball. Maybe this is his chance. Gathering his courage and ignoring the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ear, he makes his way across the room, and to her.

Cullen follows her quietly out into the garden of Skyhold. Several months ago she had decided to remodel the garden into one of quiet meditation; a statue of Andraste stands polished in a nearby alcove. Evelyn hadn't been – and still isn't – particularly Andrastian, but she had reasoned to her advisors that many of the refugees were, and it would be good to provide them a space for spiritual comfort and solace.

Now, at least, the garden is thankfully empty. There is only the two of them. Cullen takes a step forward, walks onto dirt, and immediately crunches a leaf beneath his boot. Maker's breath.

Evelyn turns around quickly, training as a Knight-Enchanter having honed her reflexes, and her demeanour relaxes as she realises it's just him. Just Cullen. Cullen feels pained, suddenly, as her eyes search his, and he wonders whether she had been expecting somebody else, but had instead turned around to find plain old, boring, Cullen.

"Commander. I didn't expect to see you here." Evelyn looks pretty under the moonlight. The air is slightly chilly and Cullen briefly wonders whether she's cold. "Did you follow me out here?"

That she will call him out so obviously is not something he expected, and he finds himself red-faced in embarrassment as he searches for words to reply, tongue-tied.

"I – I wanted to speak with you."

"Is it urgent?" She presses, and Cullen's face falls as he realises her intent.

"No. But –" he pauses, unsure whether to continue. "I need to talk. About you. And me."

Evelyn frowns slightly and Cullen scratches the nape of his neck with one hand. "How do I say this – I –" He looks up to meet her confused eyes and his words catch in his throat. And then he thinks better of it. "Never mind. I – I should be going now."

He turns to flee, not daring to turn around, and Evelyn doesn't call him back, either.