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Solas gets rid of all the phones he ever used in the past. There are several. Disposable, cheap trinkets with enough information to bring him in for questioning. Oh, he is safe, he is smart, he never actually discussed anything incriminating - but it's a thread he doesn't want authorities following.
Feeling sentimental, he keeps his current one. A few random pictures of Lavellan remain saved up next to stock photos which came with upon purchase. Cupcakes, legs, smiles and oh is that a bridge he never visited. She would blush and tell him to delete half of those, if she knew. That means she doesn't need to know.
The news show Anders as he is being led away. He's concealed his efforts well; the headline announces him being simply one of the suspects in a large pool. All know how quickly blame shifts; it may be on him today, but will find a new victim tomorrow.
Anders was never just a pawn.
Solas shuts off the television.
---
"Are you coming with?" Varric asks.
Lavellan has slipped away somewhere. Solas keeps his eye on the ajar office door, pretending to read a book. She still has two weeks left before her new job. The box with her things already sits in a corner.
Varric slams his fist against the desk. Solas is jolted into awareness.
"I said," Varric repeats, "are you coming with?"
There's movement in the hallway. "No," Solas says quickly, dismissively, barking out the word.
"We can get him out," Varric insists, "but we need to talk to him first. I have lawyers ready to pounce, but you know him. He's a stubborn shit."
"Then go talk to him yourself and don't drag me into this," Solas hisses in reply. Just when he thinks Lavellan is about to stride back in, he busies himself with his book. It's about ancient Arlathan. Probably. "I don't want to hear his name. Not here. Not anywhere. Not around her."
"Fuck you, you self-obsessed asshole," Varric passionately declares, red in the face.
Solas glares.
Varric glares back.
Neither comes up on top.
Varric storms out, brushing past an arriving Lavellan without as much as a greeting. Her gait loses its cheerful bounciness as she freezes. Her wide eyes follow him out; she even leans against the doorframe to admire his escape.
"Is anything the matter?" Lavellan asks, her beautiful smiling sliding off her beautiful lips as her beautiful face contorts with concern.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, ready to leave yet again, thinking she's interrupted something - but how could she interrupt anything? No, not her.
Solas is upon her immediately, one hand in her hair, the other locking the door. He kisses questions out of her, steals whatever she might inquire next with his lips. He keeps her pined against the wall, mouth moving, moving, moving, his office filling with the juvenile sound of it all. Smacking, gasping, breathing.
Lavellan laughs. He plucks that from her lips as well like an offering.
Then Solas laughs too. The blush in her cheeks is delightful.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asks.
"Don't go easy on the sugar, vhenan," he says.
She doesn't.
---
Solas fears getting into the car with Lavellan.
Her aversion for glasses notwithstanding, she also rather enjoys disregarding the rules. She's been served with a few speeding tickets already; each he paid off, smiling at her profuse apologies. But she likes his car and he loves her so whenever she asks Solas moves over to the passenger seat and clenches her hand.
She laughs and says he can't keep his paws off her.
That's quite true, but it also gives him an opportunity to somewhat control the wheel.
And, well, the hand is not far from the wrist which in turn leads to her shoulder, her throat, down, down, down, her stomach, her thighs.
Solas loves it when she drives.
---
"Why is there still snow?" Lavellan says.
"Hm," Solas replies. "Just like your hair."
"You have a nice library."
"You are kind."
He's not sure what the catalyst for her sticking her hands under his shirt is, but doesn't really care. Her palms are chilly and Lavellan finds delight in stealing his warmth. Solas reciprocates the sentiment by undoing the buttons of her blouse.
Lavellan hums. "Not what I had in mind."
His fingers still. He feels stupid. "Forgive me."
"But just as good," she finishes, locking her arms around his neck.
Ah, well. Maybe he's just not as good at reading her as he thought. It's a terrifying prospect.
Not that it really matters at the present. He'll obsess over it later, as is his nature. Right now the matter of her wrapping herself around him demands precedence.
She's pulling him to the floor, climbing in his lap, raising her arms for him to drag the blouse over her head. Her white hair tumbles around them. Don't cut it, never cut it, Solas remembers pleading with her during a similar moment. She is still awkward in her advances, but he adores the fervor. They'll work on that. They have time, they have so much time.
They'll probably be done in a few minutes. That's all right.
Her pants are off; his are more than ready to join them. She's breathing hard into his ear, moving her hips, kissing his neck as he is kissing hers. He pries her knees further apart, hooking them around him as his back finds the perfect spot to lean on against the wall.
His landline transfers a call straight to the answering machine.
"Solas, you dragged yourself into this the moment you called in favors and pulled strings to get him that job - "
Lavellan pulls away from him, her lips leaving his with a little wet sound. They never made it far, barely exited the lobby. Solas scrambles to his feet and all but punches the answering machine. It's a fragile thing and shatters to pieces upon collision with the floor. The cord gets tangled around his wrist; he shakes it off with disgust.
Lavellan stares. The flush in her neck disappears. She shivers.
Solas stares too. Fixates on a point past her shoulder. Takes her into his arms as he rearranges her clothes around her trembling frame.
She is cold again.
"Are you all right?" her lips are on his ear, her face nuzzling.
"Yes," he breathes.
They help each other dress.
Later, she finds him in the kitchen as he is pouring himself wine. It's the bottle Varric brought over when news of Anders broke, and Solas is glaring at it with disdain. The vintage doesn't respond in kind, no hatred emanates from it, so he has no choice but to drink it while seething alone. Lavellan slips her arms around his waist.
"Want to get drunk?" she whispers, laughing into his back.
He does. "I'd love to see you out of your mind, but I have an early class tomorrow."
Her voice catches a little. She always sounds so shy asking things of him. "Can I stay the night?"
Solas downs the glass. His free hand squeezes hers where it's crossed over his middle. "Must you ask?"
Lavellan exhales in relief. "Maybe we can have a second go at it."
"Still on the floor, vhenan?"
He can't see her face, but feels her blush. She presses her face between his shoulder blades. He rubs his knuckles over hers.
He teases; she gets embarrassed. He loves it. A pattern worth repeating.
"Or the bed," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt.
"Ah, well, do keep me informed."
Solas spins her around. Lavellan giggles as he leads her into an improvised dance, her footing clumsy. She melts into him and then he's the clumsy one because she decides to step on his feet and she's not exactly a child to lead this way. Her nose bumps against his chin and she laughs; her voice rises, ending with a little snort which she tries to hide.
Lavellan jumps on the counter, opening her arms. Solas holds her. Just holds her. Her hands massage his back. She is warm, so real, and here. Wants to be here. Her nails are painted red today.
He tastes the wine on her breath when he kisses her. Hums in agreement and kisses her once more just to make sure, tongue trailing over her lower lip.
Solas runs a hand through her hair.
"Go sit down," he tells her. "I'll prepare supper."
For the next few minutes, she circles his table. But then she finds the thermostat and cranks the heat up and goes rummaging through his library.
---
Lavellan wanders back toward him as he is setting up their plates. Her exploration led her to uncover one of his cardigans which she now wears with pride.
"I know what it's like to have bad co-workers," Lavellan says.
She pats his hand.
He smiles and pulls out a chair for her.
---
Varric – 11:03 pm – You wouldn’t know friendship if it stared you in the face
Varric – 11:04 pm – How can you just ignore him???
Varric – 11:04 pm – Pick up the phone
Varric – 11:10 pm – Fuck you
---
Solas turns off his cell phone when Varric’s attempts to get through to him via text escalate into pure cursing. That’s it, he won, Solas has a headache now.
Lavellan is in the shower.
---
He's sitting on the edge of his bed when she joins him, hair wet and skin pink. She is so wonderfully warm as she climbs under the covers. Solas can't stop kissing her. It's chaste, it's simple, it's gentle.
"I should get a towel," Lavellan begins, noticing the way his pillow is soaking up the remaining water from her hair.
"No, no," he's saying, mind stuck in a loop, fingers digging into her ribs.
She laughs into his mouth. He bites her lip.
"I winked at you once."
They're on their sides, mouths meeting in between words, sometimes even during. Who is saying what is a mystery of its own. He has his knee between her thighs and she's arching her back. Lavellan traces the sharp lines of his face. She likes doing that. He likes it when she does.
"How did I respond?" Solas asks. He has no recollection of the event; in itself that is odd since he prides himself on his thoroughness.
She shifts, trying to bring the memory to the surface, baring her throat in the process. It's easy to roll her on her back after that.
"Oh, you know. Looked right through me."
That sounds like him. "That does sound like me."
It's rather impressive how they manage to carry out complete conversations while fucking. Lavellan is talkative like that. Solas loves hearing her voice catch, break, rise, fall whenever she shares odd facts. She'll talk of stars, and about that one book she found in his library, or even the caramel apple vendor a block from the University.
She's wearing a nightgown. That matter is quickly resolved. Her thighs part for him.
"Dorian told me - "
Maybe not that.
His hand presses to her mouth. Her tongue darts out to tease his palm.
"I do not wish to discuss your friend while we're in bed." Solas kisses her for the longest time. Until she is done laughing. Until his own mouth is raw.
Lavellan giggles for the umpteenth time. It doesn’t take away any of her loveliness. “What a shame. Because he sure enjoys talking about you.”
“Stop it.”
She wraps her legs around his waist, bucks her hips. “Would you rather I do this?”
“Yes, but you can keep talking.”
She helps him out of his shirt. “Would you have winked back at me, had you noticed?”
“Maybe. It depends,” Solas decides. He unhooks her long legs and traces the warm skin down to her knees. He's rewarded with shivers and a sigh.
She tries raising those perfect legs again, but he pushes them down, using his weight to pin her in place. This is a nice place to be. Her chest rising, falling; her skin warm, sweaty; her foot clawing at his thigh still.
“Depends on what?”
“On whether it was before or after I kissed you.”
“Oh, so you admit you were the one who came onto me.”
“I am declaring it, love.”
He kisses her throat, which she likes. He kisses across her chest and down her stomach, which she likes just as much. He whispers words of a dead language into her skin until she brings her hands to her face and hides her eyes. She’s laughing, back always arching, throat rumbling, mouth singing and she is beautiful.
When his lips brush the inside of her thigh, Lavellan is wriggling and gripping his shoulders and saying “Solas, Solas,” and pulling him back to her. A deep scarlet has stained her cheeks and she buries her face into the crook of his neck when he’s caught staring. Solas indulges her. She dictates everything. The rhythm, the kisses, his breath, even his heartbeat at times.
Lavellan embraces him too tightly, refusing to let go for the longest time. Eventually, his forearms whine from the strain; it's hard to remain motionless, balancing himself atop her without crushing her.
Solas whispers something and at last he is allowed to roll over to his side of the bed.
She’s very quiet.
---
Lavellan wakes him up in the middle of the night. Her phone, resting on the bed stand right next to his dead one, shows that it’s around three in the morning when he prods it.
She’s straddled him. Her nails rake across his chest to wrench attention out of him. Solas props himself up, leaning against the headboard. Her hair is still slightly damp when he brushes it away from her face. The scent of lilac lingers there, enticing, arousing, beloved.
“I’m very awful at this, but you don’t mind, do you?” Lavellan is whispering. "I know you say you don't mind, but how could you not?"
She kisses him, pulls back to admire her handiwork, kisses him again, pulls back one more time. He has to seize her wrists for her to finally still. The tension has turned her skin to stone. Solas caresses her back, kneading muscles, while his lips tease the corner of her pursed mouth. She's not kissing him anymore.
“Of course not. Don’t say that. Never say that again.”
He must repeat it twice, thrice, an infinite number of times. Something lurks in the corner of her mind and his reach isn’t long enough to smother it. At last, she submits and he holds her from behind for the remainder of the night.
---
Lavellan drives. Solas keeps a watchful eye on the road. In the evening, he’ll drive and she’ll nap.
It’s her first day at her new job. She decides she needs to be the one to drop him off at the University and Solas can’t argue with such flawless logic. Especially since she is going to leave the car there and walk the rest of the way. Foolproof plan.
She’s grinning at him in the rear-view mirror. He squeezes her thigh.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Solas asks, his voice as warm as her breath.
“No,” Lavellan says and before the light turns green elbows him in the ribs.
---
Dorian is a conservator employed by various museums. That raises multiple questions. Why he isn’t in Orlais is but the first. What he is doing renting an apartment where the rich and powerful don’t dwell is a more interesting one.
Solas supposes in different circumstances they might have shared an intriguing conversation or two.
But their circumstances are anything but ideal.
The man is hell-bent on making a nuisance out of himself. His voice is as loud as his mannerisms, and that’s saying a lot.
Despite swearing not to come back, Solas is here once again, sitting at Lavellan’s kitchen table, waiting for her to get ready. It's late and he's tired, but he hasn't seen her in two days.
Dorian claims the chair across from him. Solas averts his gaze.
“How old are you?”
Solas drinks his coffee.
“Can he speak?” Dorian calls.
Lavellan cries from the bathroom, “What do you think?”
“Hm.” Dorian crosses his legs. “Aren’t you a joy to be around.”
Solas drinks his coffee.
“I’ve read about you. You’re sitting on quite a few boards. Didn’t you advocate for the College of Enchanters – why they call themselves that is beyond me, it’s not like there’s magic, if there ever was – a few years back?”
Solas is almost done drinking his coffee.
Dorian throws his arms in the air. “Delightful company. So glad you brought him along.”
“Trust me, I'm not thrilled about this," Solas mutters. He can be petty at times. "As if I would be here for you."
Dorian leans forward on his elbows. "I need to get to know you." He waggles his finger before Solas' nose to give his point dramatic weight; a ring of Tevinter design adorns his index. "Considering you're fucking my best friend and all."
The spot behind Solas' eye throbs. It's a pain he hasn't felt in months. He wants to kill Dorian. "Are you quite done?"
It's the wrong thing to say. Dorian takes it as encouragement to resume his questioning.
His annoyance is at the point where he can no longer ignore it. His eye twitches. Solas stands up and, by the grace of all gods, Lavellan emerges. She’s swaying and after a few steps stumbles straight into his arms. Oh, yes. Solas remembers her texting him about going out drinking with Dorian.
Lavellan looks up at him. Her smile is feral. “Wink at me.”
Solas does. Of course he does.
She explodes into loud laughter, beating her fist against his chest, stealing his breath as she always does.
“You're ridiculous,” Dorian announces and produces a newspaper seemingly out of nowhere.
---
She sits on the floor before the couch, legs crossed. No amount of coaxing succeeds in convincing her to join him.
Solas feels her hand on his knee.
"How drunk are you?" he asks, smiling.
"Would you like to take off my clothes?" Lavellan asks back.
"Ah, so that drunk."
---
It doesn't mean he doesn't do it.
---
Solas peels all outer layers off her body and wraps her in a blanket. Pulls her into bed.
"I'm tired," he says.
"Me too," Lavellan replies. "Let's sleep a long time. A very long time."
She nuzzles her face against his throat. He kisses her pale hair.
---
It doesn't matter how fast he walks, what corner he turns, or shortcuts he finds, Solas can't outrun Varric. When he slams into him in one of the hallways of the University, Solas can't retaliate by wrenching free. Too many pairs of eyes are glued on them.
From the sidelines, Professor Solas and Professor Varric are having an argument. The students find amusement in it.
"You're coming," Varric says.
"I am not," Solas clarifies.
"He wants to confess, Solas."
"Then let him confess."
Varric's fingers curl into Solas' collar; it's a feat, considering his height. "They have nothing to implicate him. We just need to convince him to shut the hell up. He'll walk."
"Professor Solas, hello."
A tall boy intrudes on the conversation. He fidgets, he whispers, he has too much hair before his eyes. His fingers are stained with charcoal and he raises them into the light to admire the black powder. Rubs them together and watches the particles fall with enthrallment. Laughs a small laugh.
Solas doesn't know if he stepped into their world or invited them into his.
"I drew a raven today," he says. "You are softer, kinder. You don't frown as much anymore. That is good."
"Hello Cole," says Solas. "A raven, is that so?"
"Your class is about to start, Cole," Varric grumbles. He makes a conscious effort to appear nonchalant.
"Yes," Cole agrees and leaves. His cheek is smudged with charcoal.
Solas' gaze drifts after the boy. For once, his interruption wasn't ill-timed. He pushes Varric off. At least now they don't look like they're about to fight it out.
"I don't care how much softer or kinder you are" - Varric is faking a smile, Solas is faking indifference - "but you're the only one who can get through to him."
Solas nods at a passing student; he gave the quiet girl an extension, but she hasn't turned in her paper yet. "Is that so?"
"Don't pull that 'is that so' shit on me. You two are basically the same person."
Solas feels color drain from his face. "I didn't kill the Grand Cleric." A smile. His face isn't suited for smiles, but he has to do something to soften the words coming out of his mouth.
Varric already knows he's won. "And as long as Anders stays quiet neither has he." A strong hand lands between Solas' shoulders. He stumbles. "We both know you would have danced on her grave had...circumstances been different."
He would have. Anders and Solas would have played chess and laughed and drank and toasted the crumbling of the Chantry beast.
Anders can bite, but Solas can talk.
---
Solas brings his chessboard.
When Anders opens the door, his cat makes a run for it. Anders catches the animal and drags it back inside before it's past the threshold. Claws dig into the faded door mat and catch on threads, ripping them out. Solas sidesteps, avoiding both.
Anders is under house arrest.
Solas clears his throat.
Anders sighs and retreats deeper into the house. He clears out a table for them to play. Solas notices all the framed pictures of Hawke are lying face down. Years of love suddenly turned into painful reminders. Anders sports a several days long beard and is wearing baggy pants. His shirt is stained with wine.
Solas takes white. Anders takes black.
"I didn't think I'd see you again." Anders sends his bishop into action as soon as a path is cleared.
Solas blocks its way with a knight, knowing he'll have to sacrifice the piece. "How are you?"
"How do you think I am, Solas?" Then, a whisper. "She won't talk to me. I can't explain, can't make her understand. She won't speak."
Solas picks up one of the frames, but Anders is quicker. His hand captures Solas' wrist and brings it crashing against the table. The casing breaks. Sharp glass defaces the beautiful features of an equally beautiful woman. Solas and Anders pick out shards from their wounds in silence, bleeding on opposite sides.
"I did not want to come," Solas admits.
"And I said I understood," Anders counters. He uses his fallen pawn to brush glass off the chessboard.
The next few moves are erratic. Their armies of wood fall rank by rank. There is no strategy to any of it, just a twisted desire to see whom will outlast whom.
"They are listening, Anders."
Anders' hair is too long. He needs to cut it, but instead he ties it back. "They are?"
Solas nods. He feels at ease. He's not lying. "Yes. Just like you wanted. Gears are spinning." He is being consciously vague.
Anders wears the face of a madman; it's come to the surface at last. "But I need to tell them. They won't understand the why of it all otherwise. It can't be just another life taken. It has to have purpose. They need to understand, Solas."
Solas corners his queen. "They are listening," he repeats. The queen is cut down. "They are talking." His own bishop falls. "That is all you need. You're not a martyr. You don't deserve the title."
Anders buries his face in his hands. His chest deflates and he is nodding, his lips moving, saying, "Yes, yes, yes."
Solas checks his watch. "Talk to the lawyers," he says.
A laugh rips through Anders' lips. "You shouldn't have helped me get this job."
"You saved lives, Anders."
He's nodding again. Solas is nodding. They're absolving each other.
Anders peers at Solas through his weaved fingers. "Have you spoken to her?"
Solas is already at the door. "Varric has."
Anders toys with the chess pieces. They'll stay and keep him company. "Good," he decides. "That's good. Hawke needs to hear someone different."
"Talk to the lawyers," Solas says again and leaves.
---
Anders heeds his advice.
Speculations against him are dropped. He is released. The other healers remain in custody.
He shaves. Cuts his hair. Returns to work and sits with a sick little girl during her treatment. Solas watches, waiting for him to come out so they can go to lunch.
Hawke knows the truth, but Hawke loves Anders so she just sobs into Varric's shoulder. Solas never says anything.
---
"I can play two pieces," Lavellan says.
"A whole two?"
"Oh, yes."
The public piano is an old and tired thing. Lavellan caresses the keys with her fingers and Solas lowers himself to the bench beside her. He can't play.
Odd looks are thrown their way.
Solas kisses her cheek. Lavellan plays a scale.
"What is it?" she asks.
Her hands are cold. He knows it because he's been holding them between his own just moments earlier, trying to warm her chilly palms.
"You take my breath away," Solas confesses.
Lavellan rolls her eyes. "Hold down the pedal, vhenan."
Her playing is clumsy and untimely. The melody reaches an unnecessary crescendo before she forgets the notes.
She winks at him and takes his breath away a second time in the span of an instant.
---
Lavellan can't stop kissing him. Her lips are a little dry, but sweet from the candy she's been eating.
"You don't mind," she's saying again, and this time it's a declaration, a fact, the furthest thing from a frantic question. "You don't mind anything, right?" She kisses his face, his throat, returns to his mouth. "You never do."
"I don't," Solas agrees, breathless.
"Thank you," Lavellan whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
He takes her on the floor and this time no one interrupts and she doesn't go quiet afterward.
---
Anders stares at the amber liquid swirling in his glass. Solas looks away because at this point if he's not going to drink it then it's just unnerving.
"Oh," says Anders and picks up Lavellan's white sweater from the floor.
"Put that back," Solas says.
Anders chuckles. "On the floor?"
"On the couch."
The doorbell rings. Solas knows that particular ring. Hurried, impatient. He pries the door open and Lavellan rushes in. It must be raining outside because her hair is mussed and a droplet is ready to roll off her nose. Solas catches it with his finger and she beams at him, laughing.
"I forgot my bus pass," she says.
"I'll get it," Solas replies too quickly.
He doesn't want her crossing paths with Anders who is currently pacing back and forth in his living room, debating whether to drink or not. He will end up doing it, but he likes pretending he has control. Solas doesn't want her anywhere near the man who flooded the Grand Cleric's veins with morphine even if he calls him friend.
They're too similar.
Anders was right when he said Hawke didn't need to talk to him. Similarly, so shouldn't Lavellan.
But Anders is already glancing into the lobby, and Solas can't block him out.
Lavellan pushes herself up on her tiptoes to see past his shoulder.
Anders changes positions so Solas' back isn't obstructing his view.
Then, Lavellan is moving past him and saying his name. "Anders!" she cries excitedly. "Anders, it's you!"
Anders embraces her, his nose finding home in her hair.
He's saying, "Your hands are so cold, I told you to wear gloves!"
And Lavellan is replying, "I knew they were lying. You wouldn't do that. You're back, you're truly back!"
And Solas doesn't really understand what's going on.
Lavellan looks at him with warmth. "I think it must have fell under the table."
"That must be it," Solas agrees.
She is off. Anders' smile vanishes. He closes the gap between them. Solas tilts his head and waves his hand through the air. His mouth is dry. He regrets not having poured himself a glass.
"Care to explain?" he demands, his tone unintentionally harsh.
"She is my patient, Solas," Anders whispers. He rakes his fingers through his hair.
Lavellan returns. She sees them standing so close and the blush in her cheeks fades away. Her hands are trembling as she pulls Solas away. She kisses him until he responds. Solas cradles her face. Lavellan urges him to wrap his arms around her with another kiss.
"We'll be all right," she murmurs against his throat. "We'll be all right."
Then she is off, slamming the door in his face. Solas works the locks, unable to face Anders. Even once he is done, he undoes everything and goes through the motions once more. It anchors his mind until he's capable of relatively coherent thought.
When he looks back, Anders' glass is empty.
"She's sick," Anders says softly, simply, gently. "She's sick, Solas."
Anders offers sympathy. Solas offers him to get the fuck out.
"We'll be all right," Solas repeats and shows Anders the door.