Work Text:
Of course he'd noticed the stares.
They were not subtle.
Dorian had taken to narrowing his eyes at him every time he entered the rotunda. It felt very much like being scrutinized by a hawk. Always, without fault, at the slightest creaking of the door heralding his arrival, the man would scurry to the railing and throw his weight against it.
And glare.
And glare.
And glare some more.
Solas wondered if he'd had the door rigged some way or another. This was starting to feel like a conspiracy.
Once, Dorian even dropped a book on his head. A hefty tome with a good dozen of dog-eared pages.
After taking one quick glance at the cover, Solas quickly—and absolutely accidentally—lost it.
Three hundred ways to prevent conception—the wonders of lambskin!
The title still burned the insides of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes.
The second drop, thankfully, didn't land anywhere near his head. And this time Dorian was kind enough to bestow words of personal wisdom upon him.
Truly, they felt like a threat.
"Cut your dirty hobo nails," he hissed, and proceed to hurl a pair of very sharp precision trimming scissors in his general direction. "I know what they touch."
The scissors may or may have not poked him in the thigh, and he may or may have not released a sound somewhere between a choked cry and an undignified squeal, but Solas took the advice to heart lest next time the library rat sent a scimitar flying his way to tend to some other imaginary flaw.
When Ellana asked why his fingers were raw, he mumbled something about his new staff grip requiring breaking in.
This dance of theirs went on for weeks until, at last, Dorian abandoned his post. With the air of a king and the eyes of an executioner, he slowly descended the twisted staircase.
Solas very much doubted he came bearing a white flag.
"Greetings," he said calmly, not getting up. The desk was as good a barrier as any between them.
Dorian didn't reciprocate. Very casually, fingers trailing idly along the wall as he inched closer, he declared, "I will learn blood magic just so I can make you bend over for very well-endowed Tevinter Magisters with a fetish for bald elves."
"Pardon—"
"—if she sheds a single tear because of you," he finished, punctuating the final word with an overly-sweet smile.
Solas pretended to write. "You care deeply, I understand that, but—"
"I will roast you alive, Solas."
"—this is a private matter—"
"And feed your carcass to gurguts."
"—between two consenting adults—"
"Hm. Adults. Indeed. How many years you've got on her, again?"
And, well, that was infinitely harder to ignore. Even harder to refute. Solas found himself momentarily mute.
"Right. Now that I've got your attention, you fade-pervert, we may proceed." Dorian cleared his throat. "You two are free to play Little Dalish and Hairy Hahren—"
"The word is simply 'hahren.' Ellana drags out the vowels."
"I care this much about the correct pronunciation." Dorian very eagerly showed him the finger. An efficient conversation stopper. A very good point, too. "Now then. You two can play whatever you want—so long as she keeps on smiling."
"Point taken," Solas muttered, reaching for a random book.
But Dorian didn't appear ready to leave. He settled in the extra chair, legs crossed.
"And now we're moving on to The Talk," he announced.
Solas' eyebrow climbed to unprecedented heights. "You have made yourself very clear already. No need to prolong this." And torture him.
Dorian conjured the dreaded book seemingly out of thin air.
For some reason, Solas had been certain he'd burned it.
"Truly a marvel," Dorian said, licking one finger to anchor the pages with moisture. "Since she blushes at every word, I thought I'd have this conversation with you. Now, then. Chapter one. Pulling out is not advisable—"
Solas stormed out of his own rotunda and the matter was never brought up again.
Centuries ago, he sat at the very heart of Skyhold, commanding armies and wearing a name sewn with threads of fear and respect.
Now he couldn't find solace from one pestering Tevinter shem no matter where he went.
He wasn't mighty, but oh how low he'd fallen.
*
Foolishly, he thought the ordeal would end with Dorian.
It didn't.
Apparently, he got the bulk of Skyhold on board.
Vivienne he could endure with ease. All their talks basically consisted of them spitting venom at each other.
And so when she idly said for all to hear, seated at the head of the dinner table, that, "Solas, with all due respect, you are perhaps not the emotionally wise choice for our dear girl. Your edges are too sharp for her to handle," he calmly waited it all out.
Then wiped his mouth with a pristine white napkin and murmured, "I am surprised you know anything of emotions, Enchanter."
And that was that.
Once, Cole, in his quiet way, crept into his room and perched on the edge of his bed until he arrived.
"Yes, Cole," Solas said when it became clear the boy had much on his mind.
"Merrin from the kitchens said she will put rat poison in your soup," he said, sounding rather nonchalant for such a declaration. "Some people are rats anyway, said she, so what does it matter."
"Excuse me?"
"Too hard for her, you are. She is so nice, too nice, and you are not."
Solas dragged a hand down his face.
"Who is Merrin?" he muttered.
"And Jim thinks she should still go to the Commander," Cole continued, unconcerned.
Who the hell was Jim?
*
One would think Leliana, the fearsome Nightingale, would be the subtle one.
When he absentmindedly stroked the back of Ellana's hand during the morning fast, she stalked by and coolly mentioned, "In Orlais, bards carry five concealed knives at all times."
Solas choked on his water.
Sweet, diplomatic Josephine pretended not to notice and simply flipped through her book.
"I heard it was six," she said.
"In Ferelden we don't waste our time and simply grab a halberd," Cullen chimed in, uncharacteristically forward.
"What's a halberd?" asked Ellana.
*
At least the Grey Warden didn't play games.
"You carve rocking horses for children," Solas commented one evening, sounds of celebration coming in waves from the tavern. "That is commendable and noble."
The stables were a sanctuary, of sorts, if only for this night.
"I will make you eat it if you hurt her," Blackwall calmly said.
What a dispassionate affirmation. They could have been discussing the weather, for all it mattered.
The hand holding the chisel tightened its grip and Solas backed away. For a second—just one—he was quite sure the man would stab him in the throat with it.
"I appreciate your direct approach," Solas said, swallowing painfully, his throat very dry.
This was getting ridiculous.
"But you needn't fret," he finished.
"Right. Down. Your. Throat."
Well at least he wasn't being infuriatingly vague.
Small blessings.
Solas made a mental note to casually forget to cast a barrier around him next time they faced a high dragon.
*
Sometimes he didn't even realize he was being warned until it was too late.
"Oops!"
Scout Harding pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, eyebrows raised in shock—expertly feigned, as he would later understand.
"So sorry about that, Master Solas," she said, watching him recover from a graceless fall caused by her extended leg that just happened to be in the way.
"No harm done," he murmured. His knees would be sore for a week.
"I'm just always in the way," she said in between two very insistent giggles. "Just imagine if I'd dropped my dagger, too. You'd be skewered right now."
The wink that followed should not have been ice-cold. Winks weren't supposed to be.
*
Varric was...tactful.
And then he wasn't.
"I love Inky," he relayed, two fingers holding his pipe upright.
"You are a good friend," Solas remarked.
He fiddled with a shard they'd come across in the Western Approach, only half-listening.
"...I mean I still have Carta contacts."
His ears twitched. "The Carta?" he asked. "Are you doing business with Orzammar?"
Varric smiled and waved him off. "Keep working," he said, and blew a puff of smoke right into his face.
*
"The Inquisitor became a dear friend, surely you understand," Cassandra said, awkwardly patting the empty space next to her on the bench. "I worry for her. She is so young and has the world on her shoulders—a weight she bears admirably."
His smile withered.
Then he saw her shield, innocently resting in tall grass, and remembered how adept the Seeker was at bashing rows of teeth out with it.
His smile withered even more.
Solas said nothing.
Cassandra shifted, uncomfortable. "I know you are not Andrastian, Solas, but surely you are familiar with the greater details of our prophet's life?"
"Chanters are hard to miss," he said, on edge. It didn't help that Ellana had converted the garden into a place of worship. Now, every time he strode through it, he felt like a heathen.
"Then you know that she had a husband who hurt her, betrayed her, and in the end—"
"Are you comparing me to Maferath?" he hissed. Or maybe it was a growl. Or merely a choked sound.
Because clearly it wasn't enough that his own People thought him a Trickster and villain—he also had to be the Betrayer of a second religion.
Cassandra shook her head, flustered. "No, of course not." A pause that translated as yes, of course, that's exactly what she meant. "However you must remember that the Maker punishes all those who stray."
"I am not Andrastian, Seeker."
"...all those who stray, Solas."
Somehow, Solas doubted the Maker would dislocate his shoulder or break his teeth—but Cassandra was more than capable.
The Maker didn't go around bellowing blood-curdling war screams.
He carefully backed away.
"Have a blessed day," Cassandra called after him.
*
But all of that—all the threats, direct and indirect, violent and silly—he could forget when she kissed him so sweetly. Eager, greedy lips moving over his with awkward enthusiasm.
His hands went to her face, brushing pale hair out of the way so he could trail his lips up her cheeks. And when she laughed, the soft exhale of air crashed against his skin, warming the blood beneath.
"Hello," she whispered. "I've missed you."
Butterfly kisses. Little smiles. So endearing and innocent and tender.
He wanted to hold her and shield her from gods that didn't deserve to be called hers.
He wanted to kiss the tip of her nose.
Instead, all affectionate—mushy, she would say if she only heard—thoughts were forced to wait as a familiar voice intervened.
"Hands where I can see them, you dirty, naughty elves," Dorian hollered.
"Go away," Ellana called out, not turning around.
Solas buried his face in her shoulder. A rare moment of public weakness. Or exasperation. At this point it didn't even matter.
"Let's go to my quarters," Ellana murmured. Then added, in a much louder tone, "He won't see our hands there."
"Remember the lambski—"
Solas purposefully shut the door to the rotunda so hard the hinges whined.
He was owed a moment of quiet.