Work Text:
Anders cradles the blossoming bruise on his jaw. His smile is ecstatic.
Solas serves him a glass of wine. An ice pack would be infinitely better, but he'd throw it away.
"She punched me," Anders whispers.
---
Solas bandages Hawke's hand. The thin skin over her knuckles is torn.
"I punched him," she whispers.
Her dark hair has finally been brushed and swept up. He doesn't want to be here.
---
Solas holds Lavellan's hands between his own and blows hot air onto them. Her chilly palms thaw.
"I'm not cold," she whispers.
He kisses her nose and doesn't ask what she doesn't want to share.
---
Some might call it denial, but he brands it as respect. If she doesn't want to talk then he won't pressure her. So whenever Lavellan wakes him up at night and tells him to take off her clothes, Solas obliges her. And he tells her that he loves her and she says it back and it's all right.
They're all right.
---
She is bored.
He can tell by the way his phone keeps vibrating in his pocket, interrupting his lecture. Her new position allows for too much freedom, and she abuses it daily.
Once, a student - a nosy girl going by Sera - asked why she didn't come back for the next term. Solas responded with his usual silence and the matter was laid to rest. But then Varric had barged in at the end of the class to announce that his 'girlfriend' - the word made him cringe then and continues doing so now - and he had decided to head out for coffee and would he like to join them? The display was promptly embellished by Lavellan peeking over Varric's head and now, well, long story short, the few students that remained behind to gather their things have spread the tale.
Still, he's intimidating enough so they stay quiet. Small blessings.
"Pardon me," Solas says into the stillness.
With his back to the class, he pulls out his phone, unable to fight the grin forming on his lips.
Lavellan – 10:05 am – That is one ugly figurine
Lavellan – 10:05 am – lol
Lavellan – 10:07 am – Srsly look at this wtf
Lavellan – 10:08 am – (Attachment: 1 Image)
Lavellan – 10:10 am – Is this supposed to be Elgar'nan??? Why did they make him so ugly???
Lavellan – 10:11 am – You have to be stupid to pray to this AND I'M DALISH
Lavellan – 10:12 am – I know where the door is. I'll show myself out. Sorry. Go back to whatever u were doing hahaha
Solas switches his phone to silent mode. It takes him a moment to convince his mind stop reeling, to not laugh.
The figurine really is ugly.
---
There are times when he hates Varric. Deeply, profoundly, passionately hates him.
Vivienne sips at her tea, looking at them over the screen of her laptop. Her pinky leads a life of its own, away from the cup, elegantly brandished upward. "Do I book you for the Orlais conference, then? They did put forth a request to have you as a guest lecturer, after all."
"No," Solas says. "I'll give you the research. You can pass it on to someone to read instead of me."
"Disappointing," Vivienne comments, one hand typing away at the keyboard.
"He's too busy robbing the cradle," Varric says with cultivated nonchalance. "It's very important, you see."
Vivienne's lips twitch. "Yes, I do see."
Solas has mastered the art of leaving within an instant; he puts it to good use.
---
It happens. Sometimes the planets align and he concedes to an evening with Varric. Or Anders. Or both. What hasn't happened yet is sharing such a night with Lavellan.
It's unexpected, and he's somewhat annoyed, but she's kind and doesn't allow him to chase the intruders away.
So here he is, one arm draped over her shoulders, a glass of something perhaps too strong in his free hand. Usually, Solas would object and find an excuse to leave, but Anders' energy has reached new heights since his... conflict with Hawke. He can't sleep and if he isn't working then he's off on a worthless errand. Solas understands; it's a way to keep his mind off things. It doesn't mean it's not tiring, as he usually finds himself on the receiving end of Anders' sickly giddiness.
He's also started sending him cat pictures. It's always interesting when it happens.
At first it proved irritating, but Anders got progressively creative and now Solas hates himself for checking his phone not only to glimpse news of Lavellan but also to see what monstrosity Anders dug up from the bowels of the internet.
Solas takes another swig of his drink. His cheeks are already pleasantly flushed and he catches himself drawing nondescript motifs on Lavellan's arm.
Varric clears his throat. With the air of a scholar, he goes on to recite a passage from his upcoming book. "Her heaving bosom..."
Solas finishes his glass.
Lavellan giggles.
"Oh my," says Anders, busying himself with a dusty tome from Solas' library. "Who could have expected such a turn." His sarcasm is light, mocking.
"Shut up," Varric says. "If I am to marry the Duke on the morrow, I wish to have one night of passion to remember you by!"
Lavellan buries her face into Solas' sweater. She's a lightweight and her hands are still cold. "Who says it'll be a good night? What if he's horrible at the whole thing?"
Solas muffles a chuckle into her hair.
Varric arches an eyebrow, smiling. "What's that?"
She waves him off, arms flailing in his general direction. "Please continue. I'm enthralled."
Anders is - somewhere. His voice arrives with an echo. The kitchen, then. Probably. "You know what would really make for a good twist? An STD. No, no, don't protest. Listen to me. We've all read about tragic heroines who give birth to love children, but imagine this. The Duke goes to fu - oh, sorry, we're in polite company tonight. So the Duke goes to make sweet tender love to his lady and boom she has herpes. It's like a double fuck you." He sighs. "So much for trying to stay polite."
"Really, Anders? How old are you again?" Solas asks, but his lips still curl.
Solas concludes that Anders is drunk.
Anders confirms it by staggering back.
Lavellan is about to cry.
"All right," Solas says. "Let's go get some air, Anders."
Varric promptly throws his journal onto the couch, declaring that they are all morons and undeserving of his art. Lavellan joins him and together they whisper terrible secrets, throwing glances his way. Solas takes it as his cue and drags Anders back into the kitchen. Because, yes, that is the perfect place to get some air.
Anders fills his glass with tap water, drinking in greedy gulps. After he's done, he jabs Solas with his index finger right in the chest, painfully so. "You're deflecting," he slurs.
"And you're becoming a drunk," Solas counters, stepping away. He conceals an unopened bottle of wine behind the bread cutting board. It seems like a lot of his conversations take a turn for the passive-aggressive lately.
"Can I crash on the couch?"
"No, you may not."
"You're in denial," Anders says. He's not smiling anymore. He leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms, glaring in an accusatory manner. For an instant, he's sober enough to make sense and Solas wants to pour an entire bottle down his throat for the look to go away.
Solas retrieves his glass from him and turns on the water, setting off to do the dishes. "I am being respectful."
Anders sighs. "Well if one day you decide to quit being 'respectful', stop by my office. After everything you've done for me, I might forget what physician-patient privilege is for a short moment."
Anders retreats to the balcony to smoke. Solas wipes his hands and returns to the living room. He perches on the side of the couch where Lavellan and Varric are once more engrossed in his rough draft of a novel.
"His hand slid between her quivering thighs..." Varric trails off, momentarily frowning. "I don't know, I just feel like it's overused."
Lavellan takes his pen from him and scribbles a modification in her messy penmanship. Solas is surprised she doesn't draw a star or two. Her expression is one he often saw her wear while grading. Pure concentration; she is taking this seriously. "Here, that's better," Lavellan announces.
"You sassy minx," Varric manages between fits of laughter. "Solas, care to add something of your own?"
Suddenly, Solas is coughing. "No thank you. I think I'll rejoin Anders."
"If Anders gets him to start smoking, I'll kill him," Lavellan says playfully, loudly, for all to hear. "Can't wash that smell out."
"You should have seen them a few years back," Varric snorts. "Chimneys. Both of them."
Lavellan stretches and yawns. "Yes, I suppose they are very similar."
---
Varric ends up half-carrying Anders when the night draws to an end. Blessed be the Maker they have a cab waiting downstairs, otherwise Solas is quite certain Varric would end up dumping Anders on the stairs and hobble home alone.
He supposes he ought to address it, this overindulgence. Varric certainly will. But he doesn't want to think about it just now. That makes him a bad friend, in retrospect, but he never aimed to be a good one which is quite a sad thing to say. Varric just happened, Anders just happened, and throughout the years Solas just kept up with them and they with him.
"Want to take a shower with me?" Lavellan asks. She slips her hands under his sweater.
Solas checks his watch. "Interesting question to ask - at four thirty in the morning."
"Hm." She's not tall enough to pull the sweater over his head so she settles on undoing his belt. "I was just curious."
Solas stills her hand. Brings it to his lips for a kiss. "If you tell me Varric's disgusting literature is what brought this on, I will go jump off the nearest cliff."
"Come on, you can slide your hand between my quivering thighs. I'm not sleepy just yet." She takes off her shirt, drawing his gaze downward.
Solas unclasps her bra. "I think we're missing the heaving bosom part here, vhenan."
Lavellan laughs. It's loud, beautiful, and unrestrained. Her cheeks are a delicious shade of pink and if she keeps laughing this way then everything will always be well.
He refuses to believe otherwise.
They don't make it to the shower.
---
Solas doesn't stay respectful for long.
Anders' secretary, a fidgety girl named Merrill, attempts to pry a conversation out of him but he just gives her a distant smile and turns his attention to the window. Chases the condensation with one gloved finger.
"I mean, I know he's always happy to see you," Merrill blabbers, "and he always says 'Merrill don't keep him waiting', but he's speaking to someone else right now. You don't mind waiting, do you? I can get you tea - oh! I remember, I remember!" She seems ridiculously proud. "You don't like tea! Something else then?"
Solas makes it a point to exhale in front of her. "Breathe, Merrill. No harm done."
After that it gets hard to ignore her determined gaze. She thinks he doesn't see the way she stares at him - from behind her mug, over her monitor, from the corner of the plant she's watered twice already - and keeping the pretense up tires him out.
Solas sighs.
Merrill beams.
"How are you?" he asks in defeat.
Like Lavellan, she too wears vallaslin. It stands out against her pale skin and pixie features. Abandoning her work, she pulls up a chair next to him and thrusts a box into his hands.
"Would you like a hearth cake?" Merrill prattles excitedly. "Anders tells me you like the Dalish now. He won't say why but I don't mind. So you really do like us now? Do you like hearth cakes too? They're my favorite. These ones are honey-flavored."
Solas plucks the smallest pastry from the box with two fingers, holding it up into the light like a curious specimen. It's begun to crumble so he shoves it into his mouth rather quickly, all dignity aside.
He feels himself grow shy as Merrill fixates on his chewing with near-religious interest. He hides his mouth behind his hand.
"It's very good." He's not trying to spare her multitude of feelings, it's the truth.
Merrill's smile widens. She pushes the box so it digs into his stomach. "Keep them!"
The door swings open.
Hawke storms out.
Solas ignores Hawke and she gives him the courtesy of ignoring him back. They're not friends; they barely acknowledge each other as acquaintances unless the situation warrants it.
He won't admit that she intimidates him at times.
She still wears her wedding ring, Solas notices.
Anders emerges and immediately motions for him to come inside. Says, "Stop force-feeding him, Merrill," which leads to Merrill blushing and apologizing profusely. She vows to stand guard over the hearth cakes until his return.
Once the door closes behind him, Solas quickly scans the room and is relieved not to discover a massacre. Although, he does cough and turns away after looking Anders over.
"You missed a few buttons," Solas says, suddenly fascinated with the discarded papers on his desk.
"Thanks," Anders mutters, resolving the matter. Still, he doesn't look happy. There's a fresh scratch on his neck.
Solas settles into a chair. "I won't even pretend I feel ashamed at this breach of privacy whatsoever. Just tell me everything."
"You and me both," Anders agrees. He digs through his drawers for a folder. It's not thick - for which Solas is grateful - but dates back two years - for which Solas is less grateful.
He throws it to him. Solas catches it and flips through endless pages until his eye centers on a singular word.
"No," he says.
Anders rubs his neck. "You might know it as the 'blight.' The scientific name is longer."
Solas drops the folder as if it just bit him. "Is it...?"
Anders curses and reaches for the documents which are now scattered all over the floor. He needs to crawl under the desk, and when he speaks next his voice resonates from somewhere around Solas' shoes.
"It's minor, so far. Have you noticed how cold her hands are? It's tampering with her blood circulation," Anders says. He gets back into his chair, propping his legs on his desk. "Pay attention to the left arm. That's where it originated. It's in the bone."
Solas thrums his fingers over his knee. There's a painful, constricting sensation in his chest and he feels restless. He's not in control and he hates it. "So what do you suggest? I'll pay."
Anders scoffs. "I would cut off the arm. Any healer would. It's got a high success rate."
"But she won't have it," Solas concludes for him, rubbing his eyes now.
Anders shrugs. Smiles sadly. "Can you blame her? We can also resort to flooding her veins with a specific poison and hope it destroys it. That's a wild gamble, though. I wouldn't advise it. Too many chances it backfires." He glances at the clock on the wall. "It's time for my round with the interns. Let me know if I can help."
On his way out, Merrill is insistent he keeps the hearth cakes, going so far as promising to email him the recipe. Somehow, Solas doesn't doubt she'll be able to uncover his address even if he doesn't give it away.
When Lavellan sees the pastries that very evening, sitting on the kitchen counter, half already gone, she pokes at them and sticks her finger into her mouth.
"They're actually Dalish," she says happily.
"I thought I'd try them out," Solas replies. He's not exactly lying.
Solas kisses her and the distinct flavor lingers still on her tongue, making him crave another hearth cake.
---
Anders sends him a picture of a cat in a suit.
Solas texts him back to stop drinking.
Anders retaliates with a cartoon kitten weeping crocodile tears.
Solas powers off his phone.
---
Solas sees Varric.
Varric opens his book.
Solas turns to leave.
"Solasan caught her around the waist-"
Solas can't handle it anymore. He buries his face in his hands and groans. Loudly. There's no point in running; the more he evades Varric, the more his attempts at aggravation grow. "Are you serious, Varric? You are past trying, at this point. You couldn't come up with a better name? Go plan a lesson and be useful for once."
"My publisher is very demanding. I have to draw inspiration from somewhere," Varric affirms. He taps the preview copy with two fingers, showering it with affection.
"Not from me," Solas mutters.
Varric readjusts imaginary glasses. Picks a thread off his sleeve. "Unless you plan on suing me, I won't stop. Now then. The Inquisitor blushed as the apostate professed his love..."
Lavellan is a savior from a fairy tale much better than Varric's. She's here during her break, having brought lunch. A solitary pale eyebrow shoots up and she's kicking Varric out before he finishes reading the page out loud.
"Stop teasing him," she sighs, one hand busy with food, the other gripping the handle and pointedly slamming the door in Varric's face. "He doesn't blush easily; you'll just get him angry."
Solas collapses into his chair. "Thank you, vhenan."
Lavellan bites into her sandwich. "Don't go soft on me, Solasan."
He reaches across the desk to cup her cheek. "As you said, I don't blush easily, but you do." His thumb flicks over her lower lip.
She's silent after that, her eyes down, face endearingly red.
Solas desperately wants to ask then, but can't. Lavellan is as good at avoiding unpleasant matters as he is, which will make their eventual clashing that much more brutal.
But for now he drinks his coffee, bidding time.
---
Lavellan's eyes have a malicious glint to them. Solas rubs her shoulders as he peeks over her head to see what exactly has captured her interest so completely. She's busy texting.
"Hm?" he asks.
"Payback," she answers.
"Oh," he says and bites the tip of her ear.
---
Varric fixes his tie.
He says, "Lavellan insisted on setting me up with her friend. I'm taking her to this new Orlesian place; it's supposed to be fancy. Her name is Cassandra."
"Grand," Solas says, never once looking up from the sea of essays before him.
---
The next morning Varric has a very distinct imprint on his cheek. It's angry and red. He's been slapped. Hard. Solas smiles a glorious smile. He doesn't bother hiding it; if anything, he proudly parades it about.
"We're going out again next week," Varric announces, pressing a bottle of water to his irritated cheek.
Solas stops smiling.
Lavellan doesn't understand when he relays the news to her. She just doesn't understand. Neither does Solas.
---
He can pretend her hands aren't cold and everything is perfect when they're like this.
Lavellan finally managed to drag him into the shower. Or rather the bath. She rests reclined on his chest and his hands are crossed over her stomach. Warm water threatens to slosh over, but he finds he doesn't really care. There are a lot of things he stopped caring about.
Lavellan slips her fingers through his. He hums his agreement. Solas has to lick his lips and angle his head to escape her damp hair as it inches itself into his mouth.
His thumb is absentmindedly chipping off her nail polish; he can't recall what color it is today.
His eyes flutter shut.
"Are you sleeping?" Lavellan asks.
Solas rests his chin atop her head. "No. Just relaxing."
"I'm a good blanket then." She gives his hands a squeeze.
"Very much so," he concedes. "I'm tired from having to drive to get you every evening."
"Oh." She tenses. "I'm sorry." She wriggles, gripping the edge of the tub and attempting to hoist herself up, but falls back when Solas fully wraps his arms around her. "I'll take the bus."
Solas maintains a tight hold on her, but allows one hand to crawl between her thighs. Lavellan gasps and he speak simply, matter-of-factly, into her ear while making her toes curl, "It would be easier if you just didn't have to leave, wouldn't you agree?"
He loses all air and his jaw drops when she decides to elbow him right in the diaphragm. Lavellan twists, turns, angles her head and finds his lips. She kisses him hungrily, benevolently lending her own breath as his lungs seem to have failed him after her attack. She nips at his throat.
"So much easier," she whispers.
The position is awkward, and there isn't enough space, but somehow she balances herself on top of him and he sighs against her shoulder when she slides down onto him. It's somewhat quick; he didn't expect her to literally jump around and get down to it, but she does, and his heart is beating a little too furiously. He's not even sure she finds her release as she can't stop laughing against his mouth and continues moving her hips until he's shuddering beneath her, never asking for anything.
Solas can but clutch at her back and wheeze against her throat.
The floor is wet and she slips when she climbs out. Lavellan throws a towel down so it doesn't happen to him.
Then he's the one laughing.
---
Dorian makes a dramatic display of it all. He has one hand over his heart as he helps Lavellan pack. She doesn't have much; most of it are clothes and a few mementos from back home. Solas curiously eyes an old clay plate, painted over with Dalish symbols, before wrapping it in paper. Some of the paint flakes off and clings to his fingertips.
"Don't complain," he hears Lavellan say to Dorian. "You know you're happy."
At this, the front door opens and a stranger strides in, all heavy steps and overwhelming confidence. Solas is happier than ever to take her away from this crash pad of endless visitors where the locks are for decoration alone.
"And here's your new roommate!" Lavellan cries, going over to hug the - huge, huge, huge - Qunari. "Hi, Bull."
Bull returns her embrace with one arm. Solas makes himself invisible. It doesn't work.
"Hey you."
A large hand lands between Solas' shoulders. The greeting sends him tumbling down in the most unfashionable manner. He's on his knees, arms raised high to preserve the Dalish plate, and Dorian and Bull are roaring their laughter.
Lavellan assists him up, shooting the couple murderous glances. "Don't mind them," she says. "They're idiots."
"So I gathered," Solas mutters, dusting himself off.
"I like him," Bull asserts, leaning against the wall. His hand seeks out Dorian's behind who squeals and bats it away. "You look like someone who plays chess."
"I do," Solas admits.
---
It finally happens five days after she moves in.
He finds her hunched over, teeth drawing blood from where she bites her lip still. Her left arm is shaking and she whimpers, but immediately goes quiet upon noticing him. Her forehead shines with sweat. She attempts a smile; it ends up mimicking a smirk.
"It's nothing..." Lavellan begins.
"I will cut off your arm myself," Solas snaps. He catches her before her knees fold and steers her to the couch. "I'm taking you to the hospital."
She sounds angry. But she's also in pain so that may have something to do with her high-pitched tone. "You made Anders tell you?" Shrugging him off doesn't work. "That is-"
Solas curses under his breath. "A horrible invasion of privacy. Did you expect me to sit idly by? Your passive stance could only last so long." He's already dialing Anders' number.
"Come to think of it," Lavellan whispers, "it might have been Anders' idea. He always said there had to be someone who could get through to me." She slaps the cell phone out of his hand with surprising strength. "Solas, no."
He stares at her, befuddled. "No?"
Her voice is small. "I'll make a decision soon. I promise. Soon."
Solas kisses her fingers. Every single one. He's shaking too. "Soon," he repeats.
---
He gets drunk, much to Anders' delight who finally acquires a companion.
He hasn't actually been properly drunk in years. It's like rediscovering how to walk.
"I could reach out to my contacts," Anders drawls out. "And...you know...falsify documents. I could put her in a coma and make you her proxy."
Solas giggles. He can't remember the last time he giggled - laughed yes, giggled no. "Do that." It seems like a terrific idea. Anders' ideas are the best.
"You've both had enough," Varric says, confiscating the bottle of expensive liquor.
Anders whines while Solas is somewhat glad for the interruption. His mouth is too dry as it is. Somewhere, clarity is begging to be allowed back in. He kicks off his shoes. Frowns when he reaches back to find them, but instead picks up a boot he most certainly remembers Hawke wearing. Where's the other one?
Varric has begun pointing fingers. "Anders - stop drinking, damn it. Solas - how many doctorates do you have? Think with your head."
He does.
He thinks with his head and cancels his early morning lecture.
One of his students, Sera, writes back to him.
Thx professor!
---
He regrets the entire evening.
Lavellan brings him pickle juice, even sticks a straw in it. Solas kisses her hand and empties it in a flower pot when she's not looking.
The plant dies a week later.
---
(To: Hawke) - 11:15 am - Anders has a problem.
Message read 11:15 am
---
Solas buys Lavellan new gloves. The inside is inlaid with soft wool and the cuffs are made of fur. They're too expensive to go with any of her coats, but she doesn't mind and neither does he.
It's a reminder.
---
Somehow, Solas agrees to accompany Lavellan on a double date with Varric and Cassandra.
He doesn't remember pledging himself to such a cause.
Lavellan takes off her shirt. Then her pants. "So we're still going, right? Promise me." She strikes a pose.
Ah. So that's how he got dragged into this predicament in the first place. "Yes, yes, I promise," Solas says hurriedly and pulls her toward him.
Two hours later she's the one waiting up on him as he slowly buttons up his shirt and picks out cufflinks. Lavellan doesn't have a watch - he'll have to get her one - but she taps her wrist impatiently. Solas insists on driving; it's a fair compromise, he supposes.
Varric and Cassandra are already seated when they arrive. The restaurant is Orlesian, the very same Varric took her to on their first date.
Cassandra is a stoic woman. If anything, she looks more annoyed with Varric than Solas does - and Solas loves her for it. She and Lavellan whisper too quickly to make out any words before settling across from each other. Varric drapes an arm over Cassandra's shoulders but she rolls her eyes and pushes it off. He chuckles.
"That's him," Varric says. "That's the man behind Fen'Harel, or Solasan if you prefer." He leans forward, winking. "Cassandra loves my books."
Maybe because the whole subject of Varric's book has drilled a hole in his head, or maybe because he never wanted to be included in a piece of literary smut in the first place, but all Solas can reply is, "Divorce has treated you well, Varric."
Lavellan stomps down on his foot. He's positive her heel may have broken a few of his toes.
Cassandra sips at her wine, her expression impassive.
Varric laughs. "Emptying your arsenal quite so soon, Chuckles? She already knows everything."
Lavellan's voice peaks at a previously undiscovered octave. "Cassandra, come to the bathroom with me?"
Cassandra takes a long time to get up. She looks unsure. "Very well..?"
Varric's eyes unashamedly follow her shapely backside as she strides away. "So. Fancy seeing you here," he says.
"Mh-hm." Solas steals a piece of bread from Lavellan's plate.
"I'm proposing tonight," Varric says casually, stabbing away at his mashed potatoes.
So casually in fact that Solas chokes on his bread. He washes it down with too much water, forcing him to seek out the waiter with his gaze for a refill. "Congratulations," he says and his voice climbs at the end, turning the simple word into a question.
As the waiter arrives with more water, Varric jumps on the opportunity to order champagne. "Slip the ring into the flute," he says. "Also, isn't there usually a guy who sells roses here? I want like twenty. Or thirty. You know what, make it the whole basket."
Solas texts Lavellan his discovery under the table.
Lavellan - 9:30 pm - I KNOOOOOOOOOOW
Good.
Then he's the only out of the loop.
Solas tugs at his collar. He's not the one getting down on one knee and yet his heart is racing. "Don't you think it's a bit premature?" He tries not to sound accusing.
Varric rolls his shoulders. Stretches. "The worst she can do is say no, right?"
"I do not think that statement applies to this particular situation."
But Cassandra returns and says yes.
Cassandra says, "Ugh," and only afterward she says, "Yes." She's taken with the ridiculously overly-romantic presentation, but then again she enjoys Varric's books so it's to be expected. He's surprised she doesn't punch him for good measure; it seems to be their thing.
Solas is a bit tempted to snicker at the height difference between the two, but Lavellan is preoccupied with massaging his palm and her fingers aren't little blocks of ice for once. He concentrates on that.
Lavellan wrinkles her nose. Whispers, "This went better than expected," into his ear.
Solas rearranges the pale hair around her face that's fallen out of her bun. "At least you had a warning."
They've changed places, allowing Varric to gush over Cassandra. Lavellan kicks him again under the table, right in the shins, but this time it's playful. "Hush. It'll get him out of your hair - metaphorically speaking."
Solas chances a glance at the smooching couple. "Fair point," he agrees. They appear to be engrossed in each other.
"Are the dreadlocks ever coming back?" Lavellan asks indifferently, as though she's discussing the weather, but she's merely trying to keep her voice down.
"Not unless you shave off one side of your head again," Solas says just as calmly, going back to the food.
Across the table, Cassandra smacks Varric but then she's busy admiring her ring in the dim light. Someone sends over more champagne. On the house, the waiter says.
Solas still remembers the pickle juice and refrains from drinking.
"Shame," Lavellan declares, reclining in her chair. It's wobbly and she amuses herself by rocking back and forth. "Cassandra, share the wealth. Show me."
Solas smiles at Varric.
"Thank you," Varric mouths.
Solas inclines his head and returns to pushing his food around his plate. At least one of them has to eat. It might as well be him.
Lavellan pokes him in the ribs. "Good," she says. "You're too thin as it is."
---
Lavellan sits at the kitchen table, drinking tea rather than coffee.
"I'm going for the poison," she says, not looking up at him.
Solas feels like his heart has decided to take a stroll outside of his chest. "Vhenan - "
"I'm going for the poison," Lavellan repeats and takes a sip.
---
She likes watching him paint. Solas turns his attention away from the canvass and beckons for her to come closer. Lavellan has a little smile on her lips which he is quick to claim with a kiss. He makes her sit and rolls up her sleeve.
She quirks an eyebrow at him when he starts drawing on her skin.
At first she laughs and rolls her eyes as he decorates her forearm with abstract shapes, little patterns without beginning nor end. Eventually lines connect and sense is given. He adds forest green and radiant red into the mix, painting old Dalish symbols over her inflicted arm.
Lavellan starts crying and when she brings her hands to her face, hiding her embarrassment, she smudges her cheeks.
She peppers the line of his jaw with sloppy, wet kisses.
His face is covered in paint too once she's done.
---
If there is one thing he is grateful for, it's the older woman attending to Lavellan. Anders calls her Wynne and she has the kindest eyes Solas has ever seen. She takes his hand, thumb brushing over the back of it.
"Breathe," she says.
Anders' own hands aren't shaking. If they were, Solas would have already beaten him to death. His face is pale with exhaustion, but he is fully aware. He retrieves an unassuming-looking syringe and Wynne and Lavellan perk up, their conversation dying out.
"Your arm," Anders mutters. He isn't pleased about her course of action and doesn't bother concealing his exasperation.
It's all right. Wynne's smile is enough to lend temporary serenity to all.
---
It goes on for months.
Color drains from Lavellan's face.
All she can do is sleep.
Wynne's hand is on Solas' shoulder. "All is well," she says, and he wants so desperately to believe it that he asks her to stay.
She does, and they speak of the weather.
---
One day he arrives to find an impromptu visitor at Lavellan's bedside.
Hawke sees his approach as it reflects in the window and pushes the free chair toward him with her foot. She doesn't look interested, but her fingers drum a furious staccato against her thigh. Solas settles in beside her. For the longest time neither talk; that is normal, they rarely do. Her black hair is loose and she hasn't bothered hiding the red scar across her nose with makeup today. Solas catches himself staring and diverts his attention.
"Anders spends a lot of time with her," she says at last, nodding into the stillness.
"Yes," Solas says.
"I like that," Hawke whispers. "It shows that he still cares."
Solas sighs. "I think caring isn't the problem here." He withholds any other remarks. Hawke is quick with her wit as well as violent; she'll have him regretting being in a place he has every right to be in a matter of heartbeats.
Hawke is shaking her head. Shaking it too much. "Yes, you're right. Maybe he just cares too much sometimes. I can tell he regrets it all."
"You still wear your ring," Solas observes, not looking at her. He shrugs off his coat but keeps his scarf.
"I don't want to take it off."
"Then don't."
Hawke bites the inside of her cheek and leans back into her chair. The front legs are in the air and she's close to falling over, but swings her weight forward before it's too late. She pins Solas with a stare, but he remains silent.
"I think I'll keep it," Hawke murmurs. From her tone it sounds as though she's admitting to murder. "For now."
---
Lavellan's cheeks are pink.
She doesn't hurt.
Solas brings her hearth cakes and she eats them all.
---
Was the recipe all right?
Yes. Thank you, Merrill.
She did figure out his email after all.
---
Anders beams.
"You stubborn girl," he says, nudging Lavellan who is laughing as hysterically as he is. "It's receding, not gone, mind you, but receding."
Solas rearranges himself on the bed where Lavellan has pulled him. Her legs are twined with his. He looks at Anders who gets the hint and gets rid of all the IVs. She sighs in relief and curls around him.
"I'll go ready the release forms," Anders says, slipping away.
Lavellan smells of medicine and sweat, but Solas embraces her as tight as his position allows and her nose bumps against his throat. He grants himself the luxury of feeling tired. His fingers slowly thread through her hair.
"I think I'd like to teach one day," she says, her words warm and winded against his skin.
"I think you'd be rather good at it," Solas replies.
"Truly?"
"Yes," he says sincerely. "I went into academia because I'm a narcissist who enjoys talking about his interests all day long, but you actually like people."
Lavellan snorts. "Well, I wouldn't say a narcissist..."
---
It's been days since her release, but he can't stop holding her hand all day long. As if his touch is somehow a remedy for all ills. As if it is logical. It's not. It's anything but.
Lavellan is speaking about how it will rain soon while Solas takes it upon himself to wrap her scarf around her throat tighter still. It's almost fallen off. She pulls at it with two fingers, lessening its grip on her windpipe.
Then she's kissing his lips, finger curling into the lapels of his coat. It doesn't matter that they're out in public, in the middle of the street. He's a little breathless when she pulls away. He wants to kiss her again, but she takes his other hand and makes him turn around.
They're in front of a bookstore.
"Look," Lavellan says. "Varric's book is a bestseller."
She has to stifle her laughter at his stunned expression. Then she's back to kissing him, but it is his cheek that benefits from the attention this time.
"You love it," Lavellan whispers. "Don't deny it. You love it."
He does.
"Let's go get ourselves a few copies then," Solas says.