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Solas should head home, but he is tired. There's a dull throbbing behind his right eye. He rubs it, but nothing comes of it. So he stares. At his hands, at his desk, at his permanently closed office door. He should really get up and walk out, but his mind refuses to.
Varric comes to him in confidence. Without sending word first. Without apology for intruding. But he's not really intruding, he's always welcome, though Solas won't admit to it in fear of encouraging his visits. He does love quiet.
"You're getting a T.A," Varric says.
"T.A?" Solas repeats.
"Teacher's aide. Vivienne will let you know tomorrow."
Solas hides his eyes behind his hand. "I don't require one."
Varric is already leaving. "You're getting one anyway. Be nice to her."
He supposes he could try, but for now all he wants is to sleep.
---
She is Dalish.
Thin, small, pretty, somewhat nervous.
But Dalish.
She plays with her ashen hair as Vivienne makes the introductions. He watches the pale strands come undone in her hands, twisting around her fingers, turning into knots. The vallaslin highlights her cheekbones, a delicate blood writing of barely visible gold.
"Lavellan," she says.
"Professor Solas," Vivienne answers in his stead.
She is Dalish.
She smiles, but he doesn't return it.
---
She - Lavellan - brings him coffee next time they meet. A large to-go cup complete with packets of cream and sugar. Considerate girl. She has a lopsided smile and sparkly eyes and a too-young face. She is eager, but wary.
"What is this?" Solas asks, words tumbling from his lips before he can think twice.
"Coffee," she mumbles.
"No. This position. Why are you here? Did you get a grant? Do we have a quota to fill?"
He references her heritage, a free pass, a singularity. She shies away from him, eyes glued to the floor. Lavellan wrings her hands. Licks her lips. Doesn't find an answer for the longest time. He goes back to grading.
"Should I leave?" Lavellan inquires quietly. She doesn't settle into the chair across from his; won't do so without his permission.
"No," Solas says. "Sort these out."
He pushes a pile of essays her way. She clings to them as if each were a lifeline.
---
The coffee goes cold.
---
Solas is forced to introduce her to his students. She's his personal shadow, following in his footsteps, always two paces behind so he can't look at her. So she doesn't see him looking at her. A fair compromise, he thinks.
Lavellan smiles shyly at the students. She's their age, perhaps only a year older.
It doesn't make it better.
She is dressed in white.
White top, white pants, nearly white hair. Her lips turn pink when she bites them. He looks away.
"Here are my office hours," she whispers and passes around her schedule.
The instant she is done, Solas sends her to the back of the auditorium.
Lavellan takes notes with the rest of the class. She isn't required to, but she does.
---
Nor does she have to attend any consequent classes.
But she is always there, penciling down his every word.
---
She comes to him one evening as he is locking up his office, her eyes red. Solas doesn't know what to say. Until now, their interactions have remained strictly professional. The students like her well enough and that's all that matters.
"The vallaslin," she breathes.
"Yes, the vallaslin?" Solas encourages.
"You said... you theorized..."
"Yes?"
A quivering whisper. "You said it was a slave marking."
Solas is tempted to check his watch, but she is making it very difficult to move. "There is a lot of evidence pointing to it. I could recommend a few good reads."
Come to think of it, 'good' was perhaps the wrong way to phrase it.
Lavellan rubs her cheeks with her knuckles as if such an innocent gesture could extract the ink from her veins. When she pulls away, identical angry red marks sit upon her cheekbones. He wants to press something cool to her skin, something to soothe it.
"My Keeper said it's to honor the gods, but I've heard that before," Lavellan murmurs.
"What changed?" Solas asks. He doesn't know why he does, why suddenly it seems like a fact worth knowing.
She tilts her head. He's taller than her.
"I've read your books," she admits. "But not only yours." Perplexing. "Many stated the same thing. But hearing you say it made it true."
She is small and she is frightened and she is lost. He attempts a smile and her own mouth twitches in response, curling into that signature lopsided grin he's seen her throw around time and again. Some of her makeup has smudged beneath her eyes, adding an appearance of dark circles, but he won't tell her that.
"You give your vallaslin meaning, not the other way around," Solas tells her, his voice soft. "Don't torture yourself with things of the past. This is only history."
"Only history," Lavellan repeats. "You don't hate us then?"
He could tell her how passionately he disagrees with the hoarding of knowledge the Dalish are infamous for. How he participated in court cases to extract relics from their possession, declaring this or that clan juvenile and unworthy. How he is personally responsible for cutting funding for some of the reservations, his opinion is worth its weight in gold not only within the halls of the University. How he put down her people whenever asked to write a piece or two for a journal.
But she read his books. She knows his views.
"No, I don't hate you," Solas decides.
Her warm little hand captures his. "Thank you," Lavellan says.
His reassurance seems to mean too much to her.
---
What Varric doesn't know is that Solas is glad to have his company.
What Solas doesn't know is that Varric is soaking up the time his friend is willing to spare to sketch his likeness on paper. Sketch with words. He's an inspiration for a character, but if he were to find out he would forbid it.
It's not as though Solas ever picked up one of his works anyway. Crude, immature, filthy - but a few colorful praises he bestowed upon him years ago when his first novel got published. Varric takes no offense; all of it is true.
"How are your students?" Varric asks, memorizing the way Solas waves his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture.
"Well. They like her."
"To be expected. She is sweet."
"I trust your judgment," Solas concedes and readjusts his glasses.
---
She's looking at her feet.
He cranes his neck, trying to find her eyes, but she just keeps looking at her feet. In a way, it's infuriating. He can't read her.
Then, a small inquiry, "Can I have your number?"
Solas is taken aback. So much that he rattles it off before his mind has the chance to catch on. As she adds him to her contact list, he notices the knees of her pants are dirty, soaked with muddied water. Her palms are bloody.
He doesn't know what to make of it.
So he just asks, perhaps a bit too plainly, "Are you hurt?"
Lavellan laughs. She shouldn't be laughing - her hands are scraped raw. "I ran and fell. I wanted to return home, but I had no way to warn you I wouldn't be coming in. I don't know your extension," she adds as an afterthought.
"Hence the request," Solas finishes for her.
She nods. "Yes. I am sorry."
"Go home."
---
xxx - xxx - xxxx - 6:00 pm - Hi, it's me!
xxx - xxx - xxxx - 6:02 pm - Lavellan
xxx - xxx - xxxx - 6:03 pm - Do I have the wrong number? I just wanted to make sure I made no mistake.
(To xxx - xxx -xxxx) - 8:00 pm - Don't worry, it's the right one.
xxx - xxx - xxxx - 8:02 pm - Good! Ty! Night!!!
(To xxx - xxx -xxxx) - 8:15 pm - Goodnight.
Message read 8:16 pm
---
Vivienne is intimidating, but they've been acquainted for years. Solas knows that when she scowls, it isn't to bare her teeth. She won't pounce, won't attack. At least not him, not yet. This is a circling game; who will lower themselves to their haunches first and submit.
He hates tea and she knows he hates tea, but it's their ritual for her to pour him some. A tame version of her very own power play.
"Your girl really admires you," she says, crossing her legs.
Solas cradles the mug between his hands. He might detest the stuff, but the porcelain is warm to the touch. He leeches off it.
"She dreads you might fire her. She fought tooth and nail for this position."
He can't just fire her. He lacks the proper authority. He'd have to write a letter and then make his case, climb the useless ladder of bureaucracy and by then the semester would be over. They both know that.
And at this point he doesn't truly care.
"I won't," Solas says.
"Good," Vivienne concludes.
The tea warms his fingers.
---
Lavellan brings him coffee again.
He doesn't touch it until she's out of view.
---
Again coffee.
This time she asks him how he likes it. Solas feels childish when he shares - under his breath - his preference for too many sugars. Lavellan grins, but indulges him. He doesn't know why he doesn't protest to her preparing it for him, but she does it so quickly there really isn't any time to interject, his mind argues.
Her nails are a bright blue. He comments upon it.
"Ah!" she exclaims and sticks a thumb into her mouth. "Do you like it?"
"It suits you," Solas offers an elusive answer.
Lavellan smiles and then she is bringing student essays to his attention. She's walked around the desk, pulled her chair closer to him, and now is resting on her elbows as she flips through the printed pages. She has a messy penmanship, too many loops, too little space in between words. Somehow, she makes sense of it all. Solas doesn't, but she's here to translate, a warm presence at his side.
"See, this one," Lavellan says, "he knows how to write, so he tries to confuse you."
Solas gives the paper a brief overview. "Yes, I know. He makes up pretty sentences to blind you to the fact that he has nothing to say. I can't place a face on him; I doubt he's ever attended a lecture."
"He comes to the workshop, though." The one she's in charge of.
"Because attendance is mandatory," Solas remarks, but not harshly, not as a reprimand.
Lavellan giggles. "Yeah. Touché."
She moves her braid over her right shoulder.
She smells of lilac.
---
Anders shares Solas' views. But where Solas bids patience, Anders favors headstrong options. He isn't the type to sit back and watch water crack diamond over the course of years; he'd rather do it himself.
Anders moves his pawn. Solas cuts it down.
"I wonder if she'll stay," he says, quiet, forlorn.
"She stayed so far, hasn't she?" Solas observes, though is well aware it isn't much of a consolation. Things change. People do as well. Hawke and Anders are on opposite ends of both morality and values. Yet, somehow, five years in they are still together.
Anders looks over the chessboard. He is still wearing his lab coat and his hair is disheveled. He is tired. Solas is tired. Neither want to go home.
Solas considers moving his tower, but the glint in Anders' eyes dissuades him from it.
"Will you talk to her? Try to make her understand?"
The expectancy of a promise drapes between them like a curtain of lead. It isn't something to give away freely and nothing is certain.
"Try to make her understand what?" Solas asks, apprehension creeping into his tone.
"That it's the only way," Anders whispers.
"What have you done Anders?"
"There's still time," Anders says, plastering a smile back on his face.
Solas presses the matter no further. Yes, there is still time. His joints whine from the cold, his coat suddenly doesn't seem enough, but there's time. Neither of them have to return yet.
---
"That's a nice painting," Lavellan says, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet.
Solas is a little afraid she might lose her balance and so comes closer.
Varric, a passing shadow, comments, "He made it."
Her mouth shapes a wordless 'O' as her fingers daintily brush against the canvass, aiming to bury themselves into the wolf's matted fur but encountering only layers of paint. He's not upset when some of it lodges itself beneath her - teal - fingernails.
Solas lowers his gaze. "It isn't finished."
"Yet it's here?"
"I paint between classes, at times," he confesses.
"It's beautiful," Lavellan murmurs, eyes darting between the wolf in the panting and the jawbone hanging from his neck.
He can't see her vallaslin when she smiles this wide.
---
Lavellan doesn't let his daily coffee sit on his desk anymore. She forces it into his hands and sometimes her thumb brushes over his.
---
He catches an occasional glimpse of her in the University's library on days he has no lectures to give and she no workshops to run. Solas doesn't want to be here, unlike her apparently, but there is no denying Vivienne.
Except that today she isn't alone.
Lavellan leans back in her chair, her pale hair tumbling down like a waterfall of silver. She has her long legs stretched out - she is all legs - and in the lap of some man who massages her ankles. He speaks with a barely perceptible accent and looks at her with adoration. Too old to be a student; not old enough to be teaching.
"I'm tired, Dorian," she tells him, her eyes closed.
"Run away with me," the aforementioned Dorian quips, not missing a beat. His voice carries the eternal promise of a jest. He can see how she would enjoy that.
She brings her hand to her lips, muffling laughter. They are in a library after all.
Solas shakes his head and resumes his trek to Vivienne's office.
---
She is tired. Just like she said. But not to him.
"How do you take your coffee?" Solas asks instead when she sets out on her daily quest to prepare his.
Lavellan shrugs. Her shoulders roll, joints popping. Her hair is up in a bun and he can see her long neck, not unlike a swan's, and there, just there, is a small blue vein she usually takes precaution to hide. It's yet another small thing to add to his collection. He started noticing those a while ago, piling them up in a dark corner of his mind. He doesn't want to dwell upon them, but does for some reason.
She squints when reading, but has no glasses. She always arrives a few minutes before him, turning up the heat and pulling aside the curtains. She doodles stars in the margins while grading and then erases them, thinking he won't notice the outlines left behind by the pencil.
Small things.
Small things he thinks of, at times.
"Like you," Lavellan answers. "Five sugars, five creams."
"Take it."
"Oh, no, no, it's all right. I'll go buy one during my break," she insists, stumbling over words.
"You're tired," Solas says. "Please."
Lavellan gives up. Her chair is so close to his, ruining the symmetry of the room, but it doesn't seem to matter that much any longer. She drops into it with a grateful sigh and watches the first snow drift by the window. She is like snow herself.
---
After that, she makes it a habit to arrive with two cups. One for him, one for her. They drink in comfortable silence.
Sometimes her fingers draw lazy patterns over his wooden desk, shuffling papers, sending pens rolling, crawling over the lid of his laptop. She wears an old sylvanwood ring, battered but precious.
Sometimes she kicks his foot underneath the table, her movements rendered jerky by the caffeine. He pretends he doesn't notice and it leads to her continuing with the kicking.
It occurs to Solas that she is spending her money on him. He goes to the coffee shop while she is conducting her workshop and purchases a gift card. The amount is ridiculous. The cashier frowns at him and asks three times if he is sure. He's eyeing the pastries while she speaks, oblivious.
Varric catches him when he comes out.
"Went it to ogle the barista but found her not to your liking?" he chuckles.
Solas buries the gift card in his pocket, hoping his keys won't scratch the surface. "The barista is fine."
"But not what she has to offer, I gather." Varric winks. Solas rolls his eyes. "I understand, I understand. Some things are sweeter."
---
"Oh," Lavellan says when he presents her with the gift - no it's not a gift, not quite. "Thank you! I don't really know what to say. Why?"
"A gesture of thanks," is all he can come up with.
"Oh," she says again and gives him a warm smile.
That should last her a while.
---
xxx - xxx - xxxx - 9:00 pm - (Attachment: 1 Image)
Solas rubs his eyes. He taps his phone's screen with his index finger as though it's a curious beast. The message opens too quickly and he double-taps the picture trying to scroll down, saving it by accident.
From his screen, Lavellan grins back at him, mouth wide open, all pearly teeth on display and pink tongue slightly darting out. In one hand she holds the gift card and in the other a large coffee.
Sprinkled on top with cinnamon, he notices.
Not to-go, he notices.
Solas adds her to his contact list.
Lavellan - 9:04 pm - Putting it to good use!!!
He doesn't mind her abusive use of the exclamation mark.
(To Lavellan) - 9:05 pm - Isn't it a little too late for coffee?
He smiles.
Lavellan - 9:06 pm - Should I get a muffin?
(To Lavellan) - 9:10 pm - Get whatever you wish.
He regrets his tone might translate as harsh.
Lavellan - 9:13 pm - ( Attachment: 1 Image)
Cupcakes. Cupcakes and Lavellan. She has them hiding her mouth, placed in a neat little row on a blue platter. The perspective is crooked, suggesting she's slumped over the table with her arms extended at an elevated angle to take the picture.
(To Lavellan) - 9:15 pm - Those aren't muffins.
Lavellan - 9:16 pm - I like sweet things!!
The phrasing brings back the memory of Varric's words. Solas shakes his head. He doesn't want to think of his friend, not now.
(To Lavellan) - 9:18 pm - I understand.
Lavellan - 9:20 pm - Meaning you relate lol??
He also doesn't mind her resorting to texting jargon.
(To Lavellan) - 9:21 pm - This conversation is taking a turn for the philosophical. Need I remind you, these are cupcakes we're talking about.
The three dots indicating she's typing her reply immediately appear.
Lavellan - 9:23 pm - Does it hurt your thumbs?
Solas rummages around for his reading glasses and reclines in his bed.
(To Lavellan) - 9:24 pm - I'm sorry?
Lavellan - 9:24 pm - Typing full sentences like that lol
Whatever else she sends him, he can't see. His phone rebels and transforms it into a defaced symbol.
(To Lavellan) - 9:30 pm - Not at all. Goodnight.
Lavellan - 9:31 pm - Early, but night!!!
---
The next morning she bursts into his office with cupcakes in addition to their ceremonial coffee.
Solas attempts a joke but it tastes like ash in his mouth. He's unsure the moment it flies out and turns away.
"I suppose I'll have to get you a new gift card soon."
He can hear her smile. "Please do."
---
Lavellan has sugar on her lower lip. He waits for her tongue to lick it away, but it never does. So he just sits there and pretends he isn't interested, wringing his hands, trying desperately to avert his attention from her.
Solas loves it when she is dressed in white.
Eventually, she catches him staring. "What?" Her brows knit together in confusion.
He's sitting and she's standing, leaning forward, tracing with her finger an interesting passage from one of the books he's recommended. Her hair smells of lilac and she has sugar on her lower lip. Solas fiddles with his glasses; he's not wearing them, but he toys with them still.
She touches his shoulder; perhaps it's a gesture of concern, wariness, as she looks unsure. His silence has become a palpable thing around them, suffocating, oppressing.
He likes her sylvanwood ring. Her pale hair. Her pink mouth. Her blue eyes.
The sugar on her lower lip.
His fingers skim over her jaw line. He expects her to bolt, to gasp, to call him names and run out. She does gasp, but only briefly. Lavellan perches on his desk, her long legs suddenly swung over his knees, her hair tickling the sides of his face as she brings her face close. He caresses her cheekbone now, the skin soft and warm and smooth. She leans into his touch, but eventually her curiosity reaches a breaking point.
Solas has no idea what he's doing.
Her nose brushes against his. Coy, unassuming, but oh so provocative.
And he can't help himself. Solas is kissing her and her lips are a little dry so he allows his tongue to steal the sugar away, prodding for entrance. She permits it and exhales harshly into his mouth; he swallows her giggle. Her hands are on his chest; his on her hips. She is all warmth and flickering tongue and quickly moving lips. Solas is breathless. He pulls away just an inch, kissing her softly, lips closing over her lower one, trailing to adorn the corner of her mouth with a peck. Gently, tenderly, slowly. His hands crawl up to cradle her face. He can't stop, but he must.
His fingers coil around her wrists next. It's a safe spot. Far away enough from anything too tempting.
Lavellan gives his cheek a wet kiss.
"Time for class," she says.
"Yes," Solas agrees.
---
She is so kind.
She doesn't mention it, doesn't hint at it, doesn't force him into a corner.
Lavellan just comes in to work the next day as if nothing ever occurred and cranks up the heat. Pulls the curtains aside. Gets him his coffee.
Before he can sit down she walks over and kisses him. It's almost chaste. She retreats to her chair and says nothing of it.
---
She kisses him when she arrives and right before he leaves. It's become a greeting and a goodbye; one he's come to expect and awaits with sheepish anticipation. In the morning, her lips taste of coffee and sugar. In the evening, he picks up hints of fruit-flavored gum.
Sometimes, she'll comment on the weather while all he thinks of is her warm little tongue. Her hands will still be on his chest, her mouth close enough so her words are nearly his own, and she'll talk of how it snowed during the night.
It goes on for weeks.
Each time, he's left a little more shaken.
---
She does send him a picture of her legs, however. That breaks the delightful pattern.
Varric attempts to steal a peek over his shoulder, but Solas is on the other end of his office before he can flinch a muscle, all the grace of a behemoth in his steps. He opens one of the drawers of his desk - at random, and later he will search and curse and try to remember - and banishes his phone in there.
Varric scratches his jaw. "So about my next book..."
Solas is infinitely grateful for his tact.
Then that tact vanishes like a wisp of smoke.
There is no tiptoeing around the matter, no way to shift his friend's attention for the remainder of the hour; Varric can't stop chuckling under his breath and waves Solas off whenever he complains.
---
It's late. Solas doesn't know how he managed before she came along; the workload weighs heavy on his shoulders. Or maybe it's the fact that she's sitting so close yet again. Lavellan rakes her fingers through her hair before deciding absentmindedly to braid it.
He takes her hand and massages her palm with his thumb. She cocks her head to the side to get a better view, briefly closing her eyes.
Solas expects her to kiss him and call it a night. They're finally done grading.
She does kiss him, and he comes to her eagerly. She's in her chair and he's in his own; her legs are parted, on either side of him, knees digging into his thighs as she traps him in place. Not that he would run. He lets his fingers drift over her bare collarbone, feeling her shiver, and in return she bites him. This time when she laughs, he does too.
Lavellan disentangles herself from him and he immediately grieves the loss of her warmth. She hops on the desk and kicks off her shoes; her pants ride up, exposing her ankles. Solas watches the heels clatter against the floor. She opens her arms, inviting him. It's not that he hesitates; more like doesn't actually acknowledge it's happening. He's taking her up on her offer before he knows it.
Solas tilts her chin up just as she crosses her arms over his back. She brushes her lips against his own, demanding attention.
Is the door locked? He thinks it's locked. He doesn't want to leave to make sure.
For the first few minutes, Lavellan indulges his exploration. She is pliant, responsive. He kisses her behind the ear and she shivers. Parts her lips with his own, as he's done many times before, and she shivers. Caresses her side through the loose sweater, one hand sliding from her stomach and between her breasts to settle on her throat, and she shivers still.
Her foot rubs against his hip. She wears mismatched socks, grey and black. It's oddly endearing.
"You lack balance," Lavellan points out.
His knees are weak. He refuses to lean too heavily against her for support no matter how uncomfortable the position. "I do," Solas admits.
She's wiggling against him, making it even harder still, but then she lies down, pulling him with her. His knee is between her thighs.
She kisses him. He kisses her.
Her sweater bares her belly now and when he touches her skin she sighs. His fingers begin counting her ribs, a polite effort to hitch the piece of clothing further up. Solas doesn't really know what he's doing. Or why he's doing it. But she's warm, and kind, and here, and she laughs in between kisses. And he loves it when she does, so he smiles, encouraging her. He hasn't smiled that much in years; perhaps the corners of his mouth are already riddled with lines.
He feels her hands at his belt and suddenly she dissolves into a completely different fit of laughter. He pulls back to look at her.
"It's cliché, right?" Lavellan asks. Her breath crashes against his mouth.
Her Orlesian accent is woeful. He loves it.
Solas decides to bite the tip of her ear before answering. "What is?"
"All of this," she whispers, still struggling with his belt, wiggling, moving against him, readjusting herself, making him groan. "Your desk, and you, and papers..." She buries her face into his neck. "First time and it should be on a desk, with a professor."
Solas feels like he's been thrown into a frozen lake. Still dimly aware of her deft hands, he captures her fingers before she yanks off his belt completely. Thinks twice of it and weaves them with his so they don't go off running again. Though he still is between her thighs and it's a very pleasant place to be, he regretfully must depart. He brings her hand to his lips when concern mars her features. Then, just to be sure, kisses her one more time. She doesn't seem convinced.
"I...no." He knows how to talk. He gives speeches for a living. But that talent seems to have fled for now.
"No?" she queries, following as he lowers himself into his chair.
It's suddenly very uncomfortable to remain still. Solas shifts. Lavellan remains on the desk; her legs find their way back into his lap. Absentmindedly, he begins massaging her ankles. Her hair is a knotted mess and her lips are more red thank pink. Solas swallows.
"No?" Lavellan asks again, kicking him lightly in the ribs. It steals his breath away. When he says nothing, she moves her foot to his thigh before he catches it, guiding it away with a trembling hand. "Is it me? Is it that?" When he doesn't reply, she frowns. "What does it matter? How was your first time?"
His mouth is very dry. "Not on a desk," Solas sighs.
Some of the tension leaves her body. She asks him to retrieve her shoes, and Solas is so grateful for the distraction he even takes it upon himself to slip them onto her feet. Ties the laces into intricate knots.
"But it's not me?"
Her voice is so small, so unsure. He wants to take her in his arms once more, but that would involve getting up. "It could never be you."
"Thank you," Lavellan whispers.
Then she really does call it a night.
---
Varric arrives unannounced. He barges into his apartment before Solas can throw in a protest. He's brought wine, but neither of them are interested in drinking. Solas is in his dressing gown. He is tired, but suddenly his phone vibrates in his pocket and he isn't tired anymore. He forms a fist around it, knowing he can't chance a look until Varric is gone.
Varric turns on the news. He is still standing, rigid as a pole.
Footage of Grand Cleric Elthina is playing on repeat. First she is shown as a young woman, cleverly dealing with the mechanisms of the Chantry machine, until age catches up - and then she is bloody and bruised and carried away from her place of worship. The Chantry is burned to the ground, debris and shattered relics loitering the sealed off perimeter.
The image shifts and this time the journalist is in the presence of a healer. The man works his mask down so it's beneath his jaw as not to obstruct speech. It's Anders. He's an inspiring presence of hopeful reassurances and carefully crafted replies.
He's saying how he's in charge of the case.
How he's the head of the Emergency Department.
How he will work tirelessly day and night to assure the Grand Cleric's recovery.
He recites a prayer, but only Varric and Solas know it to be no better than a lie. Anders is a serpent, not unlike them, but actually has the will to bite.
Solas can't stand.
"What is he doing?" Varric hisses, color draining from his face.
Anders shares Solas' views. For once, he wishes he didn't.
---
Anders won't take his calls.
Varric says he went to visit Hawke and abused her hospitality for hours, but he never showed up. She mumbled something about an overnight shift.
Solas tries calling him again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
---
"Will you come home with me?"
Lavellan is trying to read a book at arm-length. She really needs glasses, but he enjoys watching her struggle with vanity.
Solas clears his throat.
"Ah, I..."
How very eloquent.
She licks her fingers and flips through the pages. "I've accepted a junior researcher position at the College of Haven. I start this fall." The place is a short drive from the University. Lavellan stares at him over her book. "So will you come home with me? Tonight?"
His voice is an ugly thing. Hoarse, low, quiet all at once. "I will."
She walks over to pat his hand. "Grand."
She's mocking him, using the word he relies upon when trying to cut short his students' questions. It's gentle, perhaps not as much mocking as teasing, and he plants a hot kiss on the inside of her palm before she leaves for her break.
---
Her day ends before his does. She texts him - something. He still can't tell what half of the things she sends him are. His phone refuses to acknowledge the symbols, transforming them into abstract shapes. He replies with a question mark and she sees it, but doesn't answer right away. When she does, it's her address rather than another meaningless emblem.
Varric intercepts him on the way out. His face is etched with worry.
Solas shakes his head before he can ask. "No. Nothing."
"No news is still news, right?" Varric mutters, looking at him with hopeful eyes.
"Of course," Solas says. It's the only acceptable response, even though they both know he's lying.
Varric accepts the trick for what it is. If it can lend momentary comfort, Solas is glad.
"We'll try again tomorrow, Chuckles."
"We'll get through to him eventually," Solas adds.
Varric mumbles something about luck.
---
He feels positively stupid showing up on her doorstep with not one but two bottles of wine. They're too fine, too expensive, too out of place in her apartment complex just as he is. The buzzer on her door doesn't work properly and shocks him when he pushes it. Solas withdraws his hand, sticking his thumb in his mouth. Lavellan swings the door open. Her smile is wide and when she pulls him inside, he doesn't really care about appearances anymore.
"You paint," he hears her say. "What else do you do?"
"I read."
Lavellan peels the scarf from his throat. "You can read to me. After."
She calls him an idiot when she sees the wine. Not entirely unwarranted, Solas supposes. She owns a small place, only two bedrooms along with a kitchenette and bathroom. The wine sits on the counter, forgotten.
"You should put it in the fridge," he says, playing with a tendril of her hair. Usually he wouldn't bother and simply find a chilly spot, but her apartment is awfully warm.
"Ah?" She stands on her tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. Her lips are sticky with gloss.
"White wine is best served cool." Somehow his coat is already off. Her fingers are working on his collar while he is still fiddling with her hair.
"Good to know. Next time I'm in Orlais I'll be sure to impress everyone with this knowledge," Lavellan says. "The bedroom is that way."
Solas cups her cheek. She smiles up at him, probably thinking he's finally given up. "Isn't there some young man who loves you?" he asks quietly. What he asks himself is why why why isn't there one. She deserves better.
"No, hahren."
"Hahren? This is an interesting development," he remarks. "Where do we go from here? Shall I actually read to you, da'len? Perhaps share my vast knowledge so it doesn't go to waste?"
Lavellan laughs against his lips; he can't resist it and smiles. "I still want you to read to me one day. I love your voice."
She has him on her bed soon enough after that. He kisses her face, tracing the vallaslin up her cheekbones as she sighs against him. The pattern reminds him of vines, but they are part of her and suddenly so very lovely. She's not really sure what to do with her hands, so he steadies them with his own. They are less fidgety after that, concentrating on roaming over his back. He kisses her slowly, undoing her braid and trailing his fingers through it.
"You like my hair," Lavellan says. Her lips are somewhere along his throat, always moving.
"Yes," he breathes.
His hands find their way under her shirt. He hesitates only for a second before pulling it over her head. She climbs into his lap and it becomes increasingly difficult to keep carrying on a conversation.
"I saw a picture of you," she admits, "when you were younger. You were at some conference."
"Ah." He's busy kissing the sweet spot where shoulder and neck meet.
"What was it with the dreadlocks?" Her laughter wafts against his ear and she shifts her hips just so until he grabs them and establishes a rhythm of his own. She makes a sound of surprise, but not the bad kind, so he doesn't relent.
Solas shrugs despite the situation they're in being decidedly not appropriate for shrugging. "As you said, we were all young once."
"I had a number of bad haircuts too."
He rolls her over so he's effectively on top of her. "Is that so?" It's not sarcastic; if she wants to talk, he'll talk.
Lavellan arches her back and he works her pants down her hips. She wriggles, assisting his effort, and then her legs are on either side of him. He likes how her throat has turned pink; how she sucks in a breath when his hand sprawls over her stomach and then brushes the inside of her thigh before unhooking one of her legs.
"...shaved one side off," she's telling him, pushing him back on his haunches to undo his shirt. Her fingers fumble with the buttons.
"Pardon me?" There is too much blood in his ears. Rushing, racing, beating. He can't hear properly.
She takes off the rest of his clothing with hurried hands; he takes his time.
They're skin against skin, flushed flesh against flesh. Lavellan pulls him back on top of her. He props himself up on his elbows, enjoying the way she's craning her neck to look at him. The gesture causes her back to arch as well, crashing her chest against his. She is so soft. He kisses her, tongue flickering over her lower lip even though no sugar resides there at present.
"Shaved one side off," Lavellan repeats. "Walked around like some kind of hippie for months until it grew back."
"I'm certain you were lovely." She is, she is, she is.
"I'm cold a lot," she whispers.
Solas reaches for one of her many covers, but she swats his concern away.
"I'm not cold now."
He takes her slowly and for some reason she laughs every so often. It's lovely. Everything about her is. At some point her head hits the headboard so he grabs her hips and pulls her away from it. He can tell she doesn't really like having her leg around his waist just yet and pushes it down. He pants in her ear and she holds him a bit too strongly, her embrace too tight for fluid movement, but Solas doesn't mind. He can feel her ribs, can count her heartbeats.
She tells him to remain still after they are finished. Lavellan throws a mud-colored blanket over his head. He gives her a smile. She is still flushed; his breathing is still ragged.
"Right color?" she asks.
Solas runs his palms from her waist to the sides of her breasts and then to her throat. "Somewhat darker, but close."
"Interesting," Lavellan decides, settling beside him. "Will you stay?"
"If you'll have me."
She is lovely. She is, she is, she is.
---
Solas wakes before Lavellan does. He feels like his younger self as he trudges through her room trying to find every last article of clothing. A look in the mirror confirms that he hasn't in fact gone back in time, and that's somewhat disappointing. If only for her sake. Yesterday, it would have been inappropriate to rummage through her kitchen - now it's barely a concern worth entertaining.
But the instant he exits her room, taking the utmost care to close the door with as little noise as possible, he is spotted.
Solas looks at the man sitting at the kitchen table.
The man looks at him.
Solas recognizes him as the one rubbing Lavellan's ankles in the library. He is impeccably dressed and his watch suggests he hails from a much better district. Or at least a privileged background. Dorian, she called him.
There's an awkward silence neither are willing to break. Dorian drinks in his dumbfounded expression while Solas debates between leaving, waking up Lavellan, or proceeding to make coffee as per the original plan. At last, Dorian stands and moves to retrieve two additional mugs from one of the cupboards.
"You're an elf," Dorian says, pouring coffee.
Solas moves closer, ready to snatch the offering and disappear. "And you're from Tevinter."
Dorian scoffs. "Absolutely. Are we stating the obvious now?"
The mugs are full now so Solas turns to leave, yet Lavellan's companion isn't done talking. He imposes upon his personal space, refusing to be ignored.
"The walls are paper thin here, you know," he says, smirking.
Solas doesn't answer.
He forgot the sugar and the cream, rendering the tar-black spill in their mugs utterly undrinkable, but going back is out of the question. Even if it is only a few steps. Solas shifts from foot to foot. The heat has been turned down; the soles of his feet are freezing.
"Dorian!"
Lavellan emerges from her room, hair in a disarray and with only a blanket wrapped around her. She doesn't protest when the man embraces her. Dorian whispers something in her ear and she punches him in the chest, giggling.
"This is my roommate," she explains, fondness in her eyes, brushing past her friend and coming to stand next to him.
The stone sitting in his stomach dissolves to ash, to dust, to nothingness. Solas releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. Thankfully, none of the two notice. Lavellan is prying a mug out of his hand, wincing at the lack of sugar just as he did. He gulps down his coffee like a shot of liquor. It burns his tongue and sends a rush of heat to his head. But it's good, it's all good, because this way he barely tastes the bitterness.
"I should go," Solas says, leaning down to grace Lavellan's forehead with a kiss.
He wants to kick Dorian when he snickers. Possibly break his jaw.
"All right," she says. "I'll see you later. I still have time before the workshop."
When he leaves, Solas realizes that the walls are paper thin indeed for he hears Dorian boast "How pleased are you right now?" and Lavellan reply with a laugh.
---
Solas refuses to go back to her place.
When Lavellan asks if Dorian is the reason, he says nothing out of concern for her but she understands and rolls her eyes in desperation.
"I'd like to learn to paint," she tells him one day in between lectures.
So naturally he goes out and buys a blank canvass and an assortment of expensive brushes. Paint, he has plenty of.
Lavellan quickly grows frustrated with not being able to recreate anything and resorts to finger-painting. She's content with her abstract shapes and he's content with her smile.
"I want to draw a wolf too," she says.
"Very well," Solas acquiesces and guides her arm.
A funny looking animal ends up staring at them from the canvass; she can't stop laughing and twitching and changing her mind about colors. It does look like a wolf, or perhaps a wolfing, from an angle but altogether is a quite unfamiliar beast. Lavellan loses interest quickly enough and it is like he predicted, he's the one finishing the painting while she draws flowers on his forearms. His sleeves are rolled up, but his shirt is a stark white so it gets stained eventually.
"I'm ruining your apartment," she says, looking herself over, noticing the paint on her knees and her bare feet. Even her face has fallen victim to it, though of that she is not yet aware.
"You couldn't if you tried," he replies, watching her from the corner of his eye, his attention still half-focused on the canvass. Then adds, "Vhenan."
Lavellan hums. "Maybe I should try then."
Solas knows where this is headed, but she enjoys the thrill as it is new for her. He doesn't turn around just yet, will let her savor it. "Perhaps."
Her arms wrap around him as she pushes him down. There's white paint on her nose.
It's only a display and she lets him roll her around. He takes her on the floor this time and she gasps so loudly into his ear that for a moment there is nothing else but her voice.
Lavellan wipes her palms on his chest afterward; they are blue and he's left with rather precise imprints right above the heart. He kisses her throat and her sternum and her warm stomach, laughing into her skin when the taste of paint finds his tongue.
"Your phone is going wild," Lavellan mumbles.
So it is. It's annoying. It won't shut up.
The screen lights up with a lone name. Anders.
Solas pulls himself up and she is kind enough to give him privacy.
"Solas?" Anders' voice is a broken echo, devoid of strength, of hope.
"Anders, I'm sorry. I can't. Not anymore."
Anders exhales. Solas' knuckles go white from his tight grip on the phone.
"I understand. Will you tell Hawke? Tell her..."
"I know, I know."
Anders steadies his tone. There's no anger in it. "Be happy, Solas."
He closes his eyes. "Thank you, Anders."
The line goes dead. In the morning, it will be announced that the Grand Cleric was found dead and her healers taken into custody by the Templars until the investigation is resolved. Solas will not be surprised, and neither will be Varric.
Solas erases Anders from his contact list.
Lavellan wanders back toward him. She is all long legs and white hair and pink lips. She squints when trying to read a book and refuses to wear glasses. She has a golden vallaslin decorating her cheekbones. She likes her coffee just as he likes his, overly sweet and drowned in cream, and even as he kisses her now her lips taste of sugar for some unfathomable reason.
Solas pulls her into his lap. "Shall we try painting that wolf again?"