Dorian hummed absently as he flipped through the pages of a thick book. The smell around him was nearly intoxicating. It was a mixture of his beloved books and that of the man who stood before him. His scent was earthy—not in a dirty, outdoorsy way. He smelled of fresh greenery after a welcomed rain—of woods and exotic spices. He smelled of a man who had lived his life travelling the world in complete freedom. A sweet voice joined Dorian's humming as Inquisitor Lavellan pulled a title from the shelf. Dorian looked up and found himself captivated.

The afternoon sun streamed through the dingy window and tinted the Inquisitor's white hair a brilliant gold. A small smile played on his full lips as his electric green eyes danced across the page. Almost subconsciously, his lithe, elven body did a small, hopping step in time with the song he hummed, and Dorian's heart beat a little faster at the sight.

Stressful would be a light word to describe their last great mission. The masquerade ball at the Winter Palace had been familiar and strangely nostalgic to Dorian, but to the free spirited, Dalish Inquisitor, being subjected to the petty hostility of the court had been stifling, at best. Dorian had yet to see the man quite so happy as he'd been since they'd returned to Skyhold two days ago. It was as though a weight of dread had been lifted from his thin shoulders. Inquisitor Lavellan would rather face down Corypheus and all his demons than endure another night in "The Game."

Dorian chuckled, and this caught the Inquisitor's attention. Curious green eyes fixed themselves on the Tevinter mage, and a smile tugged at his lips again.

"Something amusing you, Dorian?" His velvety voice sent a shiver down Dorian's spine.

"Not at all, Alistair," Dorian loved the Inquisitor's first name. It was the same as the Ferelden king, but the Inquisitor wore it so much better. "I was just remembering how dashing you looked in that uniform at the Winter Palace."

"Ah ha," Alistair chuckled, scratching absently at his shoulder. "And here I thought it fit me terribly."

"Oh contraire," Dorian answered sensually, but he frowned as the Inquisitor turned away. He didn't like the way Alistair still seemed bothered by that shoulder. A servant at the party stumbled into him and accidentally stabbed him with a letter opener.

The Inquisitor was a protector. He made it a point to place himself between his people and the enemy in every battle, if possible. It wasn't a matter of playing the hero or getting the glory—he thought they didn't notice. Alistair was a hero, and keeping his comrades safe was his top priority on the battlefield. Because of that, Maker knew he'd received much worse wounds than this poke on the shoulder.

"Is that still hurting?"

"What? Oh," The Inquisitor looked at his shoulder as though he just remembered it was a problem. "I think it's infected. I'm fine. I'll go see if Adan has anything for it later."

"I really wish you'd tell me when you're hurting," Dorian closed his book and sat forward.

"I will," Alistair flashed a charming grin, and Dorian's heart leaped. "This is nothing. I promise you, I'm fine."

"All right," Dorian sat back, finding his page. "When you smile like that, I can't help but believe you."

The relationship between the two of them was casual. They danced together at the masquerade, and they had kissed once—to Dorian, that had been the most incredible kiss of his life. He doubted very much it was the same for the Inquisitor. Aside from that, the two of them shared a near constant stream of flirtatious banter—Dorian did love that man's wit—and to all appearance, they were the closest of friends.

Dorian had settled with the reality of his choices. Relationships between two men weren't taken seriously—not even by the men involved. They were accepted as pleasure based and nothing more. Dorian adored the Inquisitor—far more than he should have. The man was vivacious and magnetic, but there was a subtlety and profound gentleness about him too. He was quiet but witty, sarcastic but just and fair, regal but humble—he was a thousand contradictions all rolled into one beautiful personality and wrapped in the lean, strapping frame of an elven man. As much as he tried to keep his emotional distance at first, Dorian loved Alistair with every part of his heart. He longed for a real, deep relationship with him, but he knew how unlikely that was. Dorian was content just being allowed to stand this close to Alistair's glorious light—even if that meant he might get burned in the end.

A comfortable silence fell as Dorian lost himself in his research and the Inquisitor in whatever he was reading. Dorian was close to a breakthrough on Corypheus's identity. He just needed a little more time with this tome and possibly one more.

"Dorian, I need to speak with you," The Inquisitor's voice held a different tone that made the mage nervous.

"Are we not already speaking?" Dorian hid his anxiety with wit.

"Yes, but…" Alistair bit his lower lip as though trying to come to a decision—an action Dorian found far too tantalizing to be remotely fair.

"I wondered if I might steal a moment alone with you."