bakerstreet | alternate universe

( he doesn't want to take his boots off. it's like one last barrier between himself and the horribleness of this place. but, he watches alistair do it and knows he needs to as well. it's only polite. when they decide to bed down, he will. )

Two blankets and a bedroll. Luxury it's not, but I think we can manage.

( a little positivity never hurt a situation. no matter how dismal it actually seems. and, right now, it's pretty dismal. though, he thinks it could be worse. he could be alone here. that wouldn't be good. dorian leans back on his hands, thinking over his impression of the south and comparing it to home.

most of the time, he tries not to think too much or too long about home. it makes him feel wistful in a way he knows will never be fixed. he absently picks some grass off of his leg. )

You know, you certainly could have fooled me.

( he looks over at alistair with a soft laugh that closes with a soft smile. )

I've seen nothing but mud and terrible weather. If it's not rain, it's snow. It's miserable. How do you stand it?

Well... [How to begin. First off, he extended his legs toward the fire, crossing them at the ankle so his socks and feet could get both warm and dry, slowly tipping back until he was laying down with his head resting on his crossed arms.] In the springtime, all of that rain turns into flowers as far as the eye can see. Fields of them, and fields of freshly-tilled earth, smelling rich and clean, ready for planting. The trees grow tall and green, and there's nothing like a nice, cool swimming hole in the middle of summer.

And in fall, they tap the trees in South Reach and start getting syrup from the sap. Boil that down until it's thick and it's an amazing candy, or there's a kind of cookie where it's mixed right in, and it's soft and gooey and it melts in your mouth? It's wonderful.

[He sighed, and the sound was nothing if not wistful. He'd missed it all. And-- Right, he might as well explain that.]

And technically, if I'm caught here by any royal guard, they're allowed to kill me, because I'm supposed to be in exile.

( a tease is right there on the tip of his tongue. it's not all water and mud! here he is talking about freshly tilled dirt. that's just dry mud! not to mention dirty. a swimming hole. more water! literally everything about this place is dirt and water. water and dirt. they may as well have named ferelden that. but, fortunately, alistair is saved from the unending tease about this country. )

Exile?!

( dorian reels back at the word as if it was a physical blow. this is the first he's heard of it! how has he been wandering around out here to and fro? not that dorian's requested a full life history on alistair -- or anyone in the inquisition -- but this seems like a pretty big issue to work around. has he gotten leeway because of the mark on his hand? so many questions! where does he begin? )

What do you mean? Explain.

[Now that was a surprise. He'd figured it would be common knowledge around Haven and Skyhold, the fact that the Inquisitor isn't just a prince but-- Well.

He looked over at Dorian, gaze lingering on his face.]

Just a moment - let me take this in. The face of someone who doesn't know.

...All right. So.

[So he sat up on his elbow, and then on one elbow so he could motion with the other.]

So I'm sure you know some of the history of Ferelden. King Maric, and his son, King Cailan - who was killed at the start of the last Blight? Well, what few people knew was that Maric left behind another son. A bastard that he had with a serving girl in Redcliffe. And that bastard is me.

There was a huge debate at the end of the Blight about who had rightful claim to the throne of Ferelden. It was between me and Anora, Cailan's wife. Some suggested the two of us marry, but she was against it, and so was I.

In the end, the Warden chose to make her queen and spare her father, Loghain Mac Tir, who let the king, the Wardens, and most of the Fereldan army, die at Ostagar. She also decided that Loghain needed to be a Warden. Needless to say, I objected. And for that, they decided I needed to be executed. Exile was offered, in the end, and I took it. So, as I am a threat to the throne, I am not supposed to be in Ferelden.

( and, just like that alistair becomes someone completely different to dorian. you think you know a guy.

maybe the good thing about being the evil magister from tevinter(tm) means that he doesn't get much gossip. oh, he hears things about himself more than he doesn't. but, no one really takes the time to talk much to him. since they think he's going to use blood magic on them or eat their children. or worse, depending on who's telling the story. bull and varric are the only ones who really talk to him. dorian's already accepted he'll be leading a lonely existence. but, that's not the point.

dorian had no idea alistair's history was so sorted and interesting. or that fereldan royalty were just like all the others. lying, cheating, backstabbing. this whole thing only opens up more questions! his mouth opens and closes a few times on false starts. )

I don't know where to start.

( dorian stares at the small fire in the hopes he can get some form of order to his thoughts. while he works on that, he has to ask this one first. )

How is it the Warden chose? What authority do the Wardens have over Fereldan royalty?

[That, Alistair sighed at, leaning back onto his elbows again. It still made him ache a little to think about.]

Honestly, they don't. Wardens are supposed to stay out of political matters, but at that time, the nobility was deadlocked. Half wanted Anora on the throne. Half wanted me. The civil war was going to continue and Ferelden was going to be overrun by the Darkspawn, so she brought up the treaties that compel all nations to do what they can in time of Blight and she chose. I still don't know why she chose the way she did, but it ended in me nearly losing my life and entirely losing my country.

[A quiet sigh and, voice low, he added-] And I thought she loved me. I thought she'd never choose Loghain over me. But that was swiftly proven wrong.

( so, it's even more complex than dorian thought. it always is when feelings get involved. without thinking too much if he's crossing a line or not, dorian moves a little closer to rest his hand over alistair's nearest. sympathy for what he's lost. empathy because he's felt a similar loss. lost love isn't easily forgotten. )

I'm sure burns their toast knowing they can't actually harm you.

( a little squeeze to alistair's hand, then he pulls away. )

If we didn't have you, the world would be plunged into chaos. No pressure, of course!

( in order to have something to do that isn't face his own issues bouncing around in his head, or look at alistair at all, he begins to unlace and unbuckle his boots. because, saying genuine things isn't something dorian really likes to do unless it's a last resort! but, he likes alistair and deserves something. )

For what it's worth, I think she's a fool. No one deserves that fate.

( he gets one boot off and begins on the next. exhales a breath like that somehow will clear the seriousness he started. )

Unless you were a criminal of sorts. But, I can't imagine you running from village to village and slaying anyone who gets in your way.

[The thought makes him laugh. It's a good distraction from the feeling of having a hand on his - something he's not felt for a very long time, and something that made him feel... real. An odd way to put it, and yet it was true. He'd almost been offended when Solas had grabbed his hand and thrust it at a rift all those weeks ago, but Dorian's gesture of understanding was different. Welcome.]

No, I'm not exactly the 'mad slaughter' type. Unless it's undead or darkspawn - and then it's justified.

[This, he decided as they sat there, was nice. Even with a fire that was only now really starting to catch, it was still good. Of course, he could think of a hundred ways that it could be better - like not being in a bog outside, and not being drenched to the skin. The thought came and he voiced it without thinking:] We should do this again. Not the 'wading through a swamp' part, but the sitting and talking part.

( it brings a smile to dorian's face to hear alistair laugh. not much of that going around these days. so, it's just nice to know it's something people are capable of. he makes a noise of agreement that, yes, killing undead and darkspawn without abandon is totally justified. it's something dorian will gleefully help with.

well. more or less. it's still really gross.

he's soon successful in getting the other boot off. a small cloth is found in his pack, so he uses that to wipe his hands as clean as he can. then, he finger combs his hair. fussy. even in muddy conditions. though he was making the attempt to leave the fire alone, he flicks his hand toward it to make it grow a little more. his skin is like gooseflesh.

finally, though, he sits back again. a one brow raised look is fixed on alistair. )

You ought to be careful with those kinds of wants. If you're looking to get in anyone's good graces over your exile, cozying up to a Tevinter 'magister' ( the sarcasm is very palpable. ) isn't going to help your standing.

( it's an easy out for alistair if he wants to take it. right now, dorian is too scared to say he'd really like that. )

First of all -

[He tried a Tevinter accent. He failed miserably, but he still tried--]

I am not 'cozying up to a Tevinter magister.' The person in my company is a Tevinter Altus. Secondly, there is very little cozying happening here. In fact, there is a distinct lack of cozying. Cozying requires more blankets by far, and less damp clothing and at least ten pillows.

[He's aware of what 'cozying' means figuratively, but damn it, this is a hut in a bog. Cozy can happen back where there's a roaring hearth and hot cider and cheese with buttered bread. ...And Dorian to talk to, so he can feel like he might actually still be himself under all of the 'Herald of Andraste' trappings.]

( it delights dorian in a way that he's not even fully aware of to hear that. not so much the attempted accent -- which has him laughing very genuinely -- but the distinction in his title. he's fought over that so much since he arrived. no one listens. and, yes, that alistair wants more. dorian's been left wanting so much that he almost doesn't know how to react.

no getting his hopes up. he needs to remind himself of that. he didn't come here to make friends, but to do the right thing. everyone's made it clear how they feel about him, and he's content to keep his distance. it does get lonely sometimes. so, he should take the opportunity when it comes.

dorian shifts until he's mostly on his side, and propped up on one elbow. his fingers drum softly against the tarp beneath them. )

I see you've spent time on this. Ten pillows! How extravagant. Your tastes are more auspicious than mine!

[He shifts, crossing his ankles the other way. Now's not the time to get a hip cramp. And once his feet are settled, he lays back again, looking at Dorian with a smile on his face that's best described as teasing - though there may be a hint of fondness beneath. This is nice. This is good. Talking, joking, teasing - he loves it all. Just now, he's human again, and it's the best he's felt in ... Well, since his world literally blew up.]

At least ten. Twenty would be even better. Then there could be a nest of pillows and blankets and it would chase away all of the chill. It would be soft and comfortable, and I think someone would have to set it on fire to make me get out of it.

And of course you'd have to be there. You have the best sense of humour, and out of everyone, I like talking to you best. You don't even treat me like an idiot when I don't understand something, which is new and different. And if anyone dares say a word against you within my earshot, I'll fire them from one of Cullen's precious trebuchets.

( for all dorian can tell himself not to invest time and effort into someone or something, because eventually he'll be the one getting hurt, he never listens. he can claim he never cared. has used that more than once in a disagreement. but, it's a flaw. he cares. too much sometimes.

IGNORING IT ALL!!! )

Careful, you'll give a man a reason to swoon over something like that.

( he makes a gesture to mime along with what he says. )

I'm certain the commander would rather send me back where I came from on one of his little...toys. He wanted to personally strap me in when I showed up in Haven. I could see it in his eyes.

( he shifts further down to pillow his head on his arm. time to look anywhere else but at the man in front of him. )

So, I'm used to being treated differently for being who I am. I see no reason to pass it along.

Mm. Then that makes two of us.

[Arms folded behind his head, Alistair exhaled a sigh. His feet, at least, were finally approaching a comfortable temperature. The rest of him... Well, it would come in time.

As he laid there, he contemplated the ceiling - sagging as it was, it didn't appear to be in any danger of leaking any worse than it already was, and it thankfully wasn't leaking on them. He'd take the small favours.]

Bastard, Orphan, Templar, Warden, Prince, Exile - and now Inquisitor. I've been all sorts of titles all my life. I'm not sure I've ever just been Alistair. I try to see past all that with other people - when they let me.

( in a way dorian can understand. he's been any number of things to people but very few have taken the time to see him. it's tiring to deal with. but, he does because what else is there? despair? no thanks.

he stares at the fire for a few seconds. it's quiet except for the weather outside. he has the passing thought that lightning might strike this house down. but, he doesn't dwell on that. they also have the real possibility of a bogfisher crashing through the wall at any given moment. both are equally likely.

dorian turns his attention to alistair again. studies his profile. then, just sighs and closes his eyes for a second or two. )

Well, just Alistair.

( he lays his accent on very thickly. that nobility in him shines through. )

It's a veritable pleasure to make your acquaintance.

[It's a tone and a sentiment that gets a smile from Alistair, eyes trailing over Dorian's face before he answers.] The pleasure is mine, Messere Pavus.

[His Orlesian is almost as terrible as his Tevinter, but it could pass for lowborn - fitting enough for him, he thought.

But then, slighty daring, he lifted his hand, arm pivoting on his elbow until he placed it over Dorian's, where he could. Too far? He hoped not. But for now... he dared. It was good to feel close to someone again. To like someone. The want was there to curl up around him and shield him from the invective that was inevitable from all of the other Fereldans and Orlesians and a few Marchers, too. Dorian was a good person, but they could see no farther than the country of his birth and were too eager to paint him with Tevinter's own bloody brush.

Alistair knew better. He'd seen the man's intellect, his understanding, and the bruised feelings beneath the wit. Because that felt very much like him, those unseen bruises. Made him want to soothe every hurt.]

( no, not too far. dorian's surprised by the gesture. but, he hides it beneath one of his many practiced masks. it's easy to pull it from within. it's something he's done for years. conceal, don't feel. had alistair been anyone else, dorian would know what this sort of hesitant gesture means. checking the grounds for something that may or may not be there. in dorian's youth, he knows exactly what he would have done. now, though? he questions everything.

for the first time in years, he thinks he could trust alistair enough to be someone called friend. he's too genuine for his own good. it's something people would and probably have taken advantage of. dorian doesn't want to do that. or, let anyone do that for that matter. dorian understands now where he sees him differently. there's a common thread knotted between them. outcasts. a terrible thing to bond over. but, at this stage in dorian's life, he'll take it.

still, he will be very dorian about the whole thing. flirt heavily so there's always an out. don't read into anything so he doesn't get hurt. so, he smiles devilishly. moves his other hand to just barely brush the tips of his fingers over alistair's hand. his tone aims for the marches, and it's not terrible. evidence of time spent there, at the very least. that it comes out a little heated is just dorian's effect. he's not really sorry. )

You haven't begun to know the pleasure, serah.

[Even in the dim firelight, it's easy to see the blush on Alistair's cheeks. His pale, freckled skin isn't exactly the best at hiding such things to say the least. And it's proof that he isn't so good with flirting or with innuendo. Or maybe that Dorian's voice in that tone did things to him that he couldn't hide.

Or maybe both.

He wasn't really sure when he'd started thinking about Dorian in ways that included being curled up with him. Even if most of his thoughts were innocent, they were still there, still teasingly close to mind. Not all of the images in his brain were so chaste, especially now. It was enough to have him giving in to the least of those impulses, reaching over to let the fingertips of his free hand brush Dorian's cheek. And when he spoke, his own voice was soft and warm and... amazed.]

Has anyone ever told you that you're a wonder? Because they should have.

( in spite of still being damp, and having been in the rain all day dorian's throat becomes a little too dry when alistair touches him like that. it's too chaste to be vulgar. and, that's what has him reeling. internally, anyway. gestures like this strip him bare faster than anything. no matter how he's quick to claim he is a wonder and everyone is lucky to know him. because, this is real. too genuine. this isn't alistair telling him some sweet nothing to get dorian to do something for him. he's not that manipulative. dorian knows that kind too, too well.

dorian knows he could make this all go away with a handful of simple words. but, he hesitates. does he want to? or, would he rather push and see how far something like this can go? does he want to do that, though? he runs the high risk of ruining the rapport between them either way. old hurts are keeping him on the defensive. they're building another reinforced wall around his heart. what is he meant to do?

a gentle hand curls around alistair's wrist. dorian's thumb is the only thing that can touch skin, and he finds that a pity. armor. always complicating things. his lips twitch up into a humble smile. it isn't one dorian wears in front of others if he can help it. )

Not nearly as much as they should.

( even as he says it, dorian feels a little...exposed? his tone lacks the certain bluster it has when he's being self congratulatory. blank honesty makes him nervous. but, he pushes on. )

I suspect no one's said how remarkable you are. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

[Alistair's response was an even shyer smile and an even deeper blush, but there was an undeniable happiness in his expression. Compliments were few and far between for him - compliments like that. He knew he was a good fighter, and he knew he did a good job shielding those fighting at his side from harm, but that sort of compliment was never really about him as a person. He had good skills. That was different.

But just being called remarkable? All the more reason to keep Dorian from harm in every single way he could.]

Thank you.

[And then, with a quiet laugh, he shook his head.] This really isn't the place for all this, is it? With the dank and the mud and the armour. I feel like if I tried to hug you, my breastplate would bruise your ribs or worse.

[And he couldn't have that. But out here, in this environment, he knew better than to take off much more of his armour than his boots. Who knew what could happen at any given time? They could need to fight five seconds from now, and without armour and weapons close at hand, they'd be sitting ducks for anything with half a mind. Well, not entirely - Dorian was still one hell of a mage, but Alistair would prefer neither of them risk fighting without some sort of protective clothing thrown on.

Which meant that gathering Dorian up into his arms would have to wait.]

( no matter how tender the moment, dorian doesn't expect more than this. whatever sort of thing is happening right now will stay in this maker forsaken bog. it won't come up again. that's just how his life goes. they'll be back in mixed company sooner rather than later, and this night will just be another casualty to add to his list. what alistair says is proof enough of that. all the more pity there's been no further contact than this. then again, at least when the snub comes he'll be expecting it and it won't hurt as much. he's been a fool, and will correct that as quickly as he can.

it doesn't cross his mind that he might be a little too dramatic in damning this before it has a chance. past dictates the present, as far as he's concerned.

but, he doesn't let it show. that's an amateur mistake. and, when it comes to things like this dorian is no amateur. so, he smiles in a good natured sort of way. laughs. it's all very natural as he shifts to lay on his back and withdraws his hand. that arm drapes over his eyes instead. )

I don't think this is the place for anything. You have seen it, haven't you? Even the undead don't want to stay.

[Natural it might've been, but it meant that he didn't see the hurt confusion on Alistair's face. He'd thought it was all right. He'd thought--

He wasn't really sure what he'd thought, but something hadn't gone right. He leaned up onto his side, starting to reach toward Dorian's hand again, but he stopped himself, fingers curling in toward his palm. Should he?]

Did I-- I mean... [Again, he stopped himself. There was a safe assumption to make, and so he made it.] I did something wrong, didn't I. --I... Oh, I--

[The realisation came at last, and he withdrew his arm, sitting up and shaking his head at himself. He should've known better. After all, Dorian was Dorian, made of charm and wit, and likely had people eating out of his hand back in Tevinter. He knew that, compared, the south was more than rustic, and he was just one of the rustics the south had borne and bred, no matter his lineage. Oh, foolish Alistair. He'd learn eventually]

I'm sorry. I- I didn't understand, did I. Went a little too far. My apologies; I won't, um. I'll let it go. Nothing to worry about.

[Better now than later, he told himself, and set about busying his hands so he wouldn't linger over it for too long. Were his socks dry enough? ...Close enough, he decided, as he started to pull them back on.]

I'll take watch so you can rest.

( curse it all.

it says something about dorian's own assumptions that he didn't think anything would happen from what he said. typical. he speaks often without thinking of what may happen afterward. then, things like this happen. not that he's going to change how he speaks, because that requires too much of an overhaul of his personality. but, he often wonders how easier his life would be if he just spoke his mind instead of hiding behind veiled words.

he suffers in silence. stomach clenched painfully and his teeth follow suit. dorian knows he should just let it go. there's nothing here. he'll just get hurt. alistair doesn't really care. he's lonely. dorian's just a body. he's always just a body. if he just lets it go, pretends that it is just a small misunderstanding...there won't be much trouble. alistair will get over the embarrassment. dorian will squash yet another disappointment down to join the others. it'll be fine.

but. )

There's no need to apologize.

( dorian feels the words form and come out before he can really think about it. this is mortifying on every level. not to mention it goes against every fiber of his being. it's a struggle against everything he's built around himself. )

You didn't go too far.

( now, dorian sits up. though at first he hesitates, he eventually lays his hand gently against alistair's arm. his tone is just a murmur. )

What is it you think you've done wrong?

[The smile he gives Dorian is one of those that says anything other than happiness. Regret, apology, sadness - and a hope to avoid pain. A little like a cringing dog, trying not to get hit again.]

Dorian - really, it's okay. I... I said too much. I got too personal, and we're... what, friends at best? And I started airing my past and ... let on a little too much.

[That he'd be more than happy to have Dorian spend the night wrapped up in his arms if he could just be sure he wouldn't hurt him - but that had been reason enough for Dorian to turn away and break the intimate moment that had hung between them for...

For long enough that Alistair had been fooled into thinking that maybe it was one he could hold on to. His own fault.

Dorian's hand on his arm really only made it worse. Like it was a mockery of what had been there before. Dorian trying to soothe hurt feelings. He really was a good person. A good friend, Alistair reminded himself, and he'd do well to keep that in mind. He'd keep the talk light from now on.

So he patted Dorian's hand in a way that said no harm done and started to stand.]

Go ahead and rest. I'll make sure nothing gets too close.

[After he said it, he realised the irony, and winced on his own behalf.]

...Not like that.

Edited (It's earlate and I flubbed a word.) 2018-02-12 10:39 (UTC)

( dorian knows he should let it go. he really, really does. because, there's no future here. there's nothing but heartache. and, he's had enough of that his entire life this far to not want anymore. but, something drives him to not let this go. stupidity, likely. dorian never said he was smart when it came to relationships. selfishness, because he's not as good of a person as alistair seems to think. he's going to have to do some fast talking to try and salvage this before it gets out of hand.

for a second his hand grips tighter against alistair's arm. soon after he thinks better of it. don't need further misunderstandings. a mage grabbing and holding on spells trouble to southerners. so, he lets it slowly fall away. )

Either you have misunderstood, or I have. Or both.

( he shifts into a more comfortable sitting position, but finds he can't really look at alistair. his heart is beating wild, and he feels as if he'll be sick any minute. a deep breath to straighten his posture. he stares at the fire, and feels a heat not from that warming his cheeks. )

If friendship is all you seek from me, so be it. I will give it unquestionably.

( this feels so stupid to say out loud. he feels stupid, and it shows in the way his voice gets lower. )

If there is more...you need to speak plainly. I'll not assume otherwise. Ever.

alternate universe

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Sorry for the delay; this weekend's been busy.

don't worry about it! it's all good! :)

Yay!

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