Work Text:
Solas hated tea.
But every now and then, when his dreams turned into nightmares, he would drink a special brew to chase the sleep away.
And every time, Ashara Lavellan would steal a sip.
She would reach over his shoulder without a word, pick up the cup, and drink from it as if it were her own. She would ask if he was okay, since she knew why he often drank it, or she would play coy, and ask why in the name of her gods would he drink it if he hated the stuff, or she would simply scold him for allowing it to get cold. He would use his magic to reheat it for her, and she would finish the cup; a mercy on him.
He started to make it just for her. He learned she took it with no sugar, that she preferred rose over jasmin, and chamomile over rose. He began to keep it warm for her, and he looked forward to her arrival every morning. She caught on; she must have, for she stopped asking if he was alright. She was always clever.
They carried on like that: an unspoken routine, in which he would make tea, and keep it warm; she would come down from her quarters, take the teacup without hesitation, lean against his desk, and slowly nurse it as they talked. And when she finished, and the duties of Inquisitor inevitably called her away, they would share a kiss. And when he tasted the flavor on her lips, he had one thought:
Solas loved tea.