#really need to build up templar deserter boy

[clavicuss-vile]

yk. fuckin actually. in a weird turn of events are'veia and atlas might end up trusting cullen the most out of the advisors (minus josie. everyone loves josie). because- he's ex templar, immediate red flag bad books, and everything he says and does, red flag. they do not LIKE him. BUT. Leliana and cass were quite literally left and right hand of the DIVINE. the divine that was considering an exalted march on kirkwall. the divine that allowed and expected the templars to do their cruelty? not to mention cass is a seeker which is like the one group the templars fear and would listen to, and not once did she use this to keep the templars in check. aurelie would be FAR more hesitant with him because she's from a circle but the dalish kids probably blame the chantry more than the actual templar order

[trulycertain]

For Now

The Arbour Wilds fallout, and the "I’m going back to Tevinter” conversation. Angst, 5.1k.

Dorian nearly says it then. His fingers are trembling, and they’re about to march on the Arbour Wilds to face the thing of his very Tevene nightmares, with no guarantee of victory and survival. He’s standing in front of a man who kisses him without looking to see who’s watching, who admired him even after meeting his father, who smiles every time he takes his heart into his throat and says amatus and yet doesn’t even know what it means. There’s an army assembling outside, and everything feels so terribly final. This may be the last opportunity they have to be alone. It feels like unforgivable cowardice not to tell the truth. And yet...

He tries to say, I’m almost certain I love you and it terrifies me that I can imagine some sort of future with you because I’m not used to any of this, but I’d like to be someday. I’d like to take certain things for granted the way you do.  But that’s too much like making promises when an impossible quest and a demon army await them. What actually comes out is: “While you should be fine, seeing as you have me at your back… do at least try not to die. Leliana would destroy me.”

Gal blinks at him, and then looks pained. “Oh.” Gal swallows. “Look, if I - If I don’t make it - “

He thinks he knows what those words are. And… not now. Not like this.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice shakes and nearly fails. “We still have things to discuss, you and I. Don’t you dare promise me more and make me think - ” He can’t, he can’t. Damn it all. He kisses Gal, then, fiercely, trying to press Don’t leave me to Gal’s mouth. He manages, after too long a pause, “If you die on me, I may have to kill you.”

Gal laughs, low and trembling slightly. “Yes ser.”

Dorian takes Gal’s face in his hands, takes one last kiss while he still can. Then he tries to regain his focus, snatches up his staff and says, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” And yes, in that moment, this is us. “When you’re the great Inquisitor and I’m just some footnote in a history book. A decent one, mind you. With sub-footnotes.”

Gal snorts, even breathless as he is. “Footnote? Dorian, you’ll need your own volume.”

And then they open the doors, into blinding sunlight.

Some time after they survive, after he begs Gal not to abandon him for the sake of knowledge – and it hurts, having to be content with the not knowing, to step away from unknown truths that could be the key to everything, but too long in the Imperium has taught him that unimaginable power and smarter than everyone else come with hefty prices, and when Gal looks him straight in the eye and then steps away from the Well, he can finally breathe again – he has a realisation.

He stands in the wreckage of a half-dead civilisation, looks at corpses and broken stone, and listens to stories of his people as scavengers. He stands there and feels history and pride unravel around him, bit by bit.

It wasn’t them. For once, his countrymen and their idiot pride didn’t wade in and destroy a world, a people, a -

We can be better, he thinks, the way he always has. And then, abruptly: I can make us better.

It terrifies him. He all but physically backs away, thinking of his father telling him he was made for the Magisterium, he could be great, it’s his duty, he needs to see -

But what if - ? his mind starts. And aren’t those words the worst and most insidious in existence.

What if?

He tries to push the thought away. When he sees Corypheus breaking through, when Gal grabs them and runs through the Eluvian, he almost manages it.

He slams gracelessly into the floor and groans in pain, biting his lip and tasting blood. He notes that the rug in this room is truly abominable and the Inquisition needs to rethink its taste – and then he realises. Gal hasn’t come through.

He looks up, palms still on the floor, and thinks, no, because Corypheus was right behind them. After everything, surely -

There’s a sound, and then a clank of armour, and a crash. There’s a muttered curse, and all Dorian can think is, He’s alive, then. Thank the Maker.

Gal says, “Everyone through?”

They all grunt the affirmative, attempting to stand and mostly succeeding.

There’s the sound of a very heavy man in equally heavy armour climbing to his feet, and Gal looks at Cassandra, Sera - until his eyes meet Dorian’s, and he smiles, ever so slightly.

Dorian’s mouth runs on before he can stop it. “Oh look, you’re alive.”

“So are you,” Gal says, quietly.

Sera pipes up from behind them. “So’re we. And you’re not as sappy about us. You should… I dunno, take it to a cupboard or something.”

“Well, seeing as we’ve arrived ahead of our dear advisers… war table?” Dorian says, with increasing cheer, throwing Gal a rogueish grin.

“Dorian,” Cassandra says, in the tone of a dragon that’s about to burn him to a cinder. He looks over his shoulder, and notes the hint of pink in her cheeks.

“No?” he tries, watching Gal try not to laugh. “Just a suggestion.”

“I think I would have preferred to die in the Wilds,” Morrigan mutters.

“We ought to get out of armour, if we’re just waiting for the others,” Gal says. There are noises of assent, and they all start the walk back to their respective quarters. Gal falls into step with Sera, and throws an arm round her shoulders. “Of course I’m sappy about you.”

Sera makes a disgusted sort of noise. “Just don’t put the eyes at me, right?”

Gal chokes in an appalled sort of way, and there’s probably a retch in there somewhere. “I would never. But if you’d died, I would have made them build you a statue.” There’s a pause. “One with two fingers up.”

Dorian can’t help himself. “Or mooning the populace.”

Sera says, “Yeah, see, that works.”

Dorian watches them walk up ahead, exhausted and blood-covered and yet still somehow bright in the sunlight, pride and something quieter, more painful, welling in his chest. They said he was a Marcher nobody who should have died at the Conclave. And in a world that lets someone like that be an Inquisitor, do so much, perhaps a Tevinter pariah can…

No, he thinks, and then, He’s alive. Kaffas, we’re alive. Everything else can wait.

After a brief, but decent bath, he ends up lying on his bed, savouring the only half-decent patch of sunlight his quarters get, dressed but trying to make himself move and put his leathers on. He aches from the fight, and the simplicity of cloth is soothing, somehow. It reminds him that for a moment, he can breathe, and he isn’t about to be called out on some wild goosechase. The goose being... a very ancient, very angry magister. He winces. Now there’s an image.

He looks up when there’s a knock on the door, knowing exactly who it is. “Come on in. I’m not stopping you.”

Gal quietly steps in and closes the door behind him. He looks exhausted, and there’s a healing cut on his forehead, but he’s clean and here and oh yes, breathing. “You asked for me?”

“When you had a moment, I said. You should get that seen to.” Dorian looks pointedly to the cut.

Gal shrugs. “Always have a moment for you.”

“I should be rolling my eyes. No, in fact, they should almost be falling out of my head.”

Gal crosses the room and flumps down onto the bed next to him. “Dorian.”

“I just wanted to say thank you. For surviving. For walking away from the Well, when the alternative must have been tempting.” He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re terribly busy, what with all the adoring followers and the army you’ll have to prepare a welcome cake for. And weren’t you meant to judge the red templars’ general, or have I found Sunday’s itinerary? It happens, sometimes - ”

Words desert him after that, because he’s being pressed to a broad, lye-scented body. He tries to think of something to lighten the mood, possibly a comment about needing to breathe sometime soon, but the world has narrowed to warm skin and a fundamental, painful relief. He tucks his face against Gal’s and inhales, closing his eyes.

He says, after a moment, “You’d think we’d be used to this. The imminent death thing, I mean.”

Gal sighs. “I used to be. Don’t know what changed.”

I have an idea, Dorian doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “You smell like embrium.”

“Might have checked on the gardens while I had the time.”

“Hmm. The great Herald, gardening. Did the Revered Mother have a heart attack?”

“She told me something about it being good for morale.”

Dorian snorts. “Of course she would.” He sighs, and reflects that a man made of muscle really shouldn’t be so comfortable. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“And you’ve got research to do.” Gal pulls away gently, and retreats to the door. When he looks back, hesitates, Dorian just gives him an imperious, off you go sort of wave, not moving from his horizontal recline. Gal leaves, but does it with a smile.

Dorian tries to push aside the thoughts that enter his head. They’ll probably die long before any of it becomes relevant; there’s no reason to consider it. For now, he can have this.

But that night, lying in Gal’s bed, he extrapolates, because that’s always been what he does. He takes his tentative future from where he’d locked it away in the back of his mind. He unspools that future ahead of him, thinks if and then and but and tries not to drown under the weight of them.

He thinks of leaving, heading back to sneers and old rumours and his father’s disappointment following him, constantly, and his mother drinking rather than dealing with the truth of their existence. He thinks of the inevitable, That’s the Pavus boy, isn’t it? He thinks of being laughed out of rooms, of Circle enchanters snickering behind their sleeves when they see the drunkard layabout. Of being the poor, idiotic fool who comes back with wild stories of the South and a band of heretics, of a world without slavery, of working next to elves, of… courting Southern barbarians. Of laying with the same man twice, and wasting amatus on some Marcher soporati who doesn’t even speak the language and… loves him. Perhaps. He thinks.

Unfair, really, to measure it that way. This entire thing has been an unexpected variable, a hitch in the works, a – a -

A gift. More than he ever thought he’d be allowed. And perhaps he isn’t – allowed, that is. Perhaps he never was.

He thinks of staying here. Experimenting with the rifts, waking up with the same warm body next to him, drinking with his friends. Whispers in corridors and staying in the Inquisitor’s shadow, watching his homeland rot, knowing he didn’t do all he could. The slow drifting away of everything he is.

But he’d have friends to miss him, and for once in his life, he’d be more than the resident disappointment. He’d…

He’d have this. Maker, he’d have this.

He runs a finger through Gal’s hair, watches moonlight on sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, thinks of the softness of that mouth and the way Gal’s entire face changes when it lights in a smile.

He could stay. It would be good, it would be kind, it would be… so easy. And he’s never been good at easy, because easy is so rarely the same as right. If he’d wanted to go for the less painful option, he’d have drowned himself in a bottle and watched the end of the world from the comfort of someone else’s bed.

He knows, in his heart. Perhaps he’s always known.

It was a nice dream while it lasted.

He quietly starts to climb out of the preposterously-sized bed. He has both legs out from under the blankets when he hears Gal mumble his name and then ask, “Something wrong?”

He pauses, and then looks over his shoulder. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, amatus.” He tastes the word in his mouth, lets himself feel the truth of it, as he touches his hand to Gal’s forehead, briefly strokes back some of that sleep-rumpled mane.

Then he puts on his boots and leaves, thinking that he used to be so much better at sneaking out of men’s beds. He’s been here too long.

He thinks he’s going to drink. Instead, he ends up leaning against the library window, watching dawn bleed into the sky and trying to become used to loneliness again. He hasn’t missed it.

“You all right?”

He looks up from his book, and knows that he must seem tired. He’s run his hands through his hair enough times while thinking over his options that it’s probably a mess, one that would frighten the Orlesians – though that’s rarely a bad thing. He considers undoing a few more buckles and “accidentally” sauntering past the Revered Mother, just to give her a conniption, and the thought is cheering.

Gal, on the other hand, looks much better, leaning against the shelves and regarding him with nothing more than gentle curiosity. Trust. “You didn’t come back to bed. Wondered if you’d got caught up in something.”

He attempts to smile. “I find all this concern for my welfare rather touching, but is there a reason for it?”

Gal takes a few more steps and stands next to his chair, glancing out of the window before looking back to him with the hint of a smile. “Not sudden at all.”

All at once, Dorian feels as if his heart is in his throat. “I see. Like that, is it?” When Gal just raises an eyebrow, amused, he continues, “I was just researching. Considering some options for flushing out the Venatori. It’s all usually tedious enough to send me to sleep, but… not last night. I thought I’d let you get some rest.” He pauses, looks up at Gal, and says, “By the way, I continue to be glad you’re alive and also not an agent of some elven goddess. The alternative would put a dampener on things.”

Gal’s mouth twitches. “I agree.”

He glances back to his book, briefly, gathering his words, and then says, “Do you ever wonder whether things would have been better without all… this? A quiet life. Some sort of cottage or hideously adorable mongrel, or woodcutting in a village, or whatever your heart desired.”

“The woodcutting was only for a year. And I was running from the Chantry, or from my parents. I was never going to have a quiet life.” Gal looks at him levelly, but there’s something gentle in it, too. “Don’t think you were made for one either.”

“You’re quite right. What about me screams ‘quiet,’ exactly?” He sighs. “I just meant that… it must be so easy, not knowing you could be more, do more. You could have had a life without the Inquisition. An easier one, maybe. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Gal shrugs. “Not really. And this has given me… good things, too.” He glances at Dorian, then away just as quickly. He pauses, and seems to consider it. “And it’s not like there was anyone else lining up to do it, either. Might as well be me. No-one else could.”

Dorian rubs a hand over his forehead, absentmindedly smooths his moustache, knowing it must be wilting. “I… Forgive me. I blame tiredness for making me morbid.”

“You’re a necromancer. Part of the job description.”

Dorian barks a laugh, and puts the book aside, standing. “Good point. However, I’m sorry for not being there. It meant I missed what’s probably my favourite sight in the morning.”

Next to him, Gal gazes out of the library window, looking genuinely thoughtful, and then nods. “Glad of the balcony. You can almost see out to the Hinterlands.”

Dorian stares, thinking that Gal’s not usually this dense. Maybe the head wound was more severe than they thought. “Yes,” he says dryly, taking Gal’s head in his hands and stepping around him until their eyes meet, stroking a thumb over Gal’s cheek. “The balcony.”

Gal looks at him with surprise and dawning, pleased realisation, and then it becomes a smile that’s almost blinding.

Go south? they said. It’s nothing but swamps and barbarians. They’ll burn you as soon as look at you. What do you expect to find?

Not this, he thinks. Never this.

He steps back, and it feels like loss.

The conversation happens eventually, because it must. He’s put it off long enough, and he knows he’s beginning to seem distracted. Distracted is acceptable – frequent, even, what with the amount of magical mishaps and cultural barriers he so often finds here; there’s so much to consider, to try and understand – but distant is another matter. Distant can be cruel, and distant is the mage in his study, drawing maps of the future and his grand plans for conquest and lineage, not looking up to see the people around him leaving. Distant is cold, and he’s never been good at cold, no matter how much he’s tried to practice. That’s gotten him in trouble enough times.

He tries to put together the words as Gal watches him expectantly. “What happened at the elven temple – it’s got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. When this is all over. If we survive.” He lays it all out, the thoughts he’s been having. The dreams he’s been turning over, again and again, staring at the ceiling. Not just now – for years, really. But he’d never thought there might be a way...

For a moment, he almost misses that inscrutable Chantry calm, and the five layers of war paint - the Gal in front of him is barefaced, and briefly looks like he’s been slapped, all wide-eyed, pale pain. “You’d just… leave? What about… us?”

And there it is, the most difficult question, yet somehow the easiest to answer. Dorian inhales, and decides, for one of few times in his life, to be entirely serious. “Trust me, amatus, it would give me no pleasure to leave your side. But,” and he knows the truth of the words as he says them, “you make life-changing decisions every day. How can I not consider some of my own?”

Gal frowns. “You said the Temple. Why then? Seems like you’ve been thinking this a long time.”

Dorian tells him of standing in a pile of broken history and knowing that the Imperium had to understand the truth. To stop priding itself on death and destruction and fabulous silks above common decency. To face the truth of what it truly is, and what it can be.

Gal watches him with something bright, something… proud. It hurts to see, finds an answering echo in his chest. He remembers that look from after that mess with his father, but this is more, if possible. Something deeper and altogether quieter.

He realises that silence has fallen after his fine, noble declaration of change; Gal is silent, thinking, head downturned.

When Gal looks up, those eyes are wide and blue and frighteningly earnest. “You’re right. You wanted to change things.” Gal swallows. “You could do great things. You’re... brilliant. Always were. And I’m not going to force you to stay here. It’s not like I haven’t seen the way people talk to you, or how much less you have here, or… the things I’ve read about alti. The things you could do. If you want to.” He pauses and flounders, attempts to be the strong, certain Herald again. It’s strange to be able to the see the act, the careful rearranging of his face that wasn’t nearly as obvious before, when Dorian thought him unreadable.

Dorian waits for the But…  For the argument, or the anger, or the quiet breaking of ties.

Instead, Gal offers, “I could go with you. If you’d like me to.”

Dorian tries not to stare. For some reason, he hadn’t expected such a thing, but of course, Gal, with no home to go back to and that terrible, easy earnestness; Gal, who will do anything for a friend, never mind… more. Of course. For a moment, he wants it, fiercely, damn any thought of being careful or the political risks, or any of what he was taught. The thought of that quiet, solid calm at his back and those dependable arms, even back North? Maker, he wants that more than he can say.

And yet he imagines watching Gal wilt, day by day, alone and uncertain. Imagines receiving the blithe letter one day telling him of the inevitable assassination, or even simply being in the Inquisitor’s shadow once again, having doors closed on him at every turn.

He knows. No. Some things simply can’t be.

“Leave all this? I can’t ask that of you. And besides, much as it would amuse me to see my homeland beaten into submission, this is something I have to do.” And there it is, the simplest truth. It will take one of their own to break it all down from the inside. Someone who can say the right words, play the right games, wear the right titles, profit off an old and noble family name.

It’ll take him.

He expected a fight, perhaps. An argument, a declaration of what exactly this thing between them is, or… something. Instead, Gal looks at him with that dull-eyed resignation that’s so familiar, and he realises where he’s seen it before: the siege at Haven. That quiet acceptance of pain. “If that’s what you have to do… I understand.”

His heart is sinking in his chest. Perhaps, he realises, he wanted a fight. He’s never had someone fight to keep him before. An arrogant desire, yes, but… novel. Important, maybe.

Gal smiles, and it’s wholly unconvincing. “You’re right. You should go.” Then it’s gone, and back in its place is that silent, unnerving blankness. He glances down the stairs. “Morrigan asked to speak to me. I’ll… see you.”

Dorian opens his mouth, tries to say something that might fix this, even if it can’t be fixed. Not really. “Ask her if she’s got a recipe for that mana resilience potion. It works wonders.”

Gal nods, and then leaves, silently as a shadow.

Hours pass. Night falls, and eventually Dorian finds himself back in the library, trying to focus on the notes in front of him. Prolonged effects of red lyrium. Yes. Instead he shifts, restless, and tries not to think of this morning. Tries not to think of Gal’s easy acceptance, the quickness with which he was happy to let him go.

He looks up at the sound of footsteps.

“I lied,” Gal says quietly, standing on the other side of the desk, cheeks shadowed by candlelight.

Dorian raises an eyebrow, trying to find his bearings. “About what?”

“About you leaving.” Gal’s eyes close, and he looks away, leaning a hand on the desk, putting another to his forehead. “…Fuck.” He seems unsteady on his feet, and it’s strange to see, even if it isn’t the first time: it’s akin to watching a great oak sway in the breeze, suddenly, worryingly fallible.

“Have you been drinking?” Dorian asks. A stupid question, really: as he straightens, walks around the desk, he can smell the ale. Not that that’s saying much: the scent can probably be picked up in Antiva.

Gal nods, ashamed, resigned.

Dorian keeps his voice soft, even in his confusion. “What is this?” And what was so difficult to say that it needed intoxication to even make an attempt?

“I wanted to smile and wave you off, or… I wanted to be better.” Gal inhales, bracing himself, and then looks up. Their eyes meet. Gal says desperately, “Please. After all this, if there’s a way… stay. At least for a little longer.”

“Gal…”

“I want you to do it, I… I... don’t want to keep you here if you shouldn’t be, but – I need you. At least until we close the rifts, or...” Gal mutters something. “Long as you can. Long as you want, whatever you want.” Gal sways, and falls back against the bookshelves, his eyes closing. “I… Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Dorian tries to breathe. “I’m not sure I can. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say some of this before, when you could stand?”

Gal’s eyes open, slowly, and focus on him. “Because I meant what I said.” Warm hands come up to cup Dorian’s face and probably destroy his hair entirely, gentle even with their owner’s unsteadiness. “So proud of you. Brave. But fuck, I’ll miss you.”

Then Gal’s pushing away from the shelves, starting a long-legged, unsteady walk back down the stairs.

Dorian stares after him, tries to say something. Loses… whatever it was.

He blinks once, twice, too rapidly, and decides that it’s time to have a drink or ten.

Too much whisky later, by the time he’s swaying up the stairs to Gal’s quarters, his head is somewhat clearer. Or foggier. He has a few thoughts arranged in his head, visions of what he’ll say, even though some are blurrier than others. He has a faint idea, at least.

He knocks on the door, and it opens to reveal a frowning, only mostly-awake Gal.

“Look, there’s something I...” Dorian begins. And then he pauses, and stares.

Perhaps it’s the pillow-crease on Gal’s face, or the fact that even in a bloody freezing winter fortress, the man only ever seems to sleep in trousers. Perhaps it’s the half-tattoo peeking out from Gal’s waistband, something small and familiar that no-one else truly knows about. Perhaps it’s the way Gal visibly brightens at the sight of him, even through tiredness and half a beard. Perhaps it’s the whisky.

Perhaps… It could be so many things. Or everything.

All he knows is that he doesn’t even manage to complete the sentence before he’s throwing himself across the space and kissing Gal desperately, deeply, plastering himself to Gal’s chest and getting a hand on the back of Gal’s head to pull him closer.

Gal doesn’t even hesitate before kissing him back.

Dorian can’t make himself care about the unshavenness and the taste of ale, knowing he must be as bad; all his brain can manage is some combination of real and Gal and keep this and please, please.

It’s a white-knuckled thing. He manages to flail a hand behind him to close the door, and then he’s being pressed against it. He kisses Gal’s cheek, his eyebrow, the line of ink on his nose, anywhere he can reach; nips at Gal’s earlobe, briefly, a sharp reminder that he’s here and not across an ocean.

“Dorian,” Gal says, roughly.

“Amatus.” Dorian breathes the word against Gal’s throat, kissing the skin there and feeling the way Gal trembles. He works at Gal’s trousers with fumbling fingers, unable to stand not touching him, trying to memorise the skin under his fingers and the breath next to his ear, the warmth of the man who’s holding him.

“Stay.” It’s an exhalation, too, as though Gal’s had the word dragged out of him. A plea. Gal freezes and looks at him after saying it, as if wanting to take it back.

“For you, anything,” Dorian says, before he can help himself.

And then Gal’s lifting him off his feet entirely, and his back hits the door. He should care about that, really, or consider that he’ll miss this, that he’s never been with anyone else who could do it. Or they should talk this through, sit down and discuss it like the rational, semi-drunk adults they are -

Instead he clings to Gal, who kisses him like a man drowning.

In the end, they don’t even make it to the bed.

The rug in here is rather more impressive than the one in the Eluvian room; perks of being the Inquisitor, he supposes. It’s comfortable, even if he has the vague thought that he’s probably too old for this kind of thing. He’s tired, he can feel it, and yet he’s almost afraid to sleep. If he sleeps, he won’t be able to feel Gal lying beside him, and the way that he’s here, not in some lordling’s summer mansion.

“Amatus?” he says.

“Mm?” Gal’s mostly asleep, face half-submerged in the rug, and doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’m a bloody fool, aren’t I?”

“Good man,” Gal mumbles. “Just a fucking idiot sometimes. Best fucking idiot I’ve met.”

Dorian laughs at that, unable to help himself, and reaches out, managing to grab one of the blankets from the bed they ought to be in – but that would require moving, and he’s drunk and tired and most importantly, he doesn’t want to. He drags the blanket over both of them, tries to shake it out slightly and eventually gives up. He settles down, staring at the ceiling, fingers tracing over Gal’s shoulder.

It almost startles him when Gal speaks. “They’ll be lucky to have you. Nearly as lucky as me.”

“That is, if we survive this,” Dorian says airily. “If there’s one thing our time here has taught me to be wary of, it’s guarantees.”

Gal grunts, acknowledging that. “Did you mean what you said? That after Corypheus, we’d talk?”

Dorian swallows. “I meant it,” he says. It’s all he can say.

“Am I your... port in a storm?” The words are low, and there’s an edge of pain to them, not quite hidden.

“What? No. You’ve never been that.”

Gal says, half-into the rug, “Good. Told you. Not mine either.”

Dorian tries not to let the world make him a liar. “Let’s just focus on getting through this alive first. And if we do, I’ll think about it. Staying on, I mean.” He feels a warm hand on top of his, and at first thinks that he’s irritated Gal and he’s being told to stop pawing him – then calloused fingers wrap around his, and stay there. He wonders if he’ll ever be used to that. Probably not.

Gal murmurs, “See you in the morning?”

Dorian smiles. “I told you. I wouldn’t want to miss waking up to my favourite sight.”

He drifts to sleep with steady breathing next to him and Gal still holding his hand, and his last full thought is that for now, perhaps Tevinter can wait.