"'Snow White's twin brother' REALLY?"
"Heh. Well, you've seen m'duck and it suits him. Now how did it go again? Skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, kissable red lips?"
"Good Lord, Gadling, you are BESOTTED. It's disgusting."
"Oi, mate, I don't go twitting you for YOUR taste in men - dark, broody, sore loser Highlanders, was it?"
"..." A sigh. "Another round?"
"Sounds about right. Their classes should be over soon. Cheers."
"Ta ever so."
(Methos and Hob Gadling - drinking buddies. Tagay na, pare.)
🤣 *pets the plot bunny*
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For the DADWC: "I drank every sky that I could," from the Florence + The Machine lyrics prompt list, for Dorian Pavus?
Happy @dadrunkwriting! Have an adorable scene of Dorian and Cullen hiding from a party at Skyhold and drinking on the battlements!
Dorian storms down the hall of Skyhold as fast as he can without looking like he’s hurrying. He estimates he’ll have maybe until the next bells before anyone notices he’s missing, and he wants to savor every moment of freedom he can. Much as he normally relishes the chance to be everyone’s favorite exotic curiosity, tonight’s crowd is especially voracious.
He pushes through the final door and emerges into the frosty night air, breathing the cold deep into his lungs. Yes, tonight is a night for solitude. Contemplative, constructive. Quiet.
The battlements are mostly empty, sparing the odd soldier on patrol. Dorian storms past all of their stiff salutes without so much as making eye contact. Perhaps his impending departure and proceeding journey home has lowered his tolerance for being the center of attention, but tonight he really just wants to be alone—
He comes up short just as he rounds a corner and nearly trips over Cullen, leaning forward between crenelations, propped on his elbows and gazing out at the vast, white emptiness below. He might have anyway, at the rate he was going, if the foul-smelling smoke from his pipe hadn’t warned him just in time.
Cullen looks up in surprise at the dramatic near-collision, pulling the pipe from his mouth. He blinks once, twice, and then shock melts into wry humor.
“You too?” he asks.
Dorian takes a moment to straighten and readjust his stance, trying to reclaim some of his laconic charm and cover up his malcontent.
“I only needed a moment to catch my breath,” he says, coming around Cullen to lean with his back to the view and crossing his arms. “These people are relentless.”
“Tell me about it.” Cullen’s eyes roll dramatically, and he returns to puffing at the pipe and admiring the view.
Uh-oh. There’s that grumpy tone that Dorian has come to associate with the intrepid Commander’s darker moods. Even at a glance, it’s plain to see the broody shadow over his face.
“You’re not about to hurl yourself over the battlements, are you?” Dorian asks, only half-joking.
“Not yet,” comes Cullen’s flat response.
“Good. The Inquisitor would be so disappointed in me if I let you deprive her of another dance.”
“What’s disappointing is how difficult it is to find a good Fereldan ale tonight.”
Josephine had left standing orders that not so much as a single hops leaf be allowed within sniffing distance of the main keep, where it might offend the delicate sensibilities of a few dozen of her little Antivan merchant court.
“That’s because ‘good Fereldan ale’ is an oxymoron.” Hmm. Can an oxymoron be more than two words? Ah well, Cullen’s not likely to care.
“Don’t tell me you actually prefer that syrupy mess they’re serving in there?”
Dorian scoffs. “I should hope you think better of me than that.” And he pulls forth from the folds of his robe the wine bottle he’d managed to smuggle away from one of the servants. And by smuggle, he means bribe.
It’s a bottle of clear cordial made from some type of winter night-blooming flower Dorian only vaguely recalls are called something like “snowbells”. The label reads “Blissard” – a pun so terrible it should have landed its crafter in prison. But judging from how protectively the servant was hovering around the cupboard where it was stocked, Dorian is fairly certain it was well worth the loss of his second-favorite ring.
Cullen glances at the label with one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Is that one of the bottles Josephine has been so paranoid about? She better not catch you with it.”
Even better. “Catch us, my friend. I’m making you my partner in crime tonight.”
He and Cullen share a grin as he pulls out the corkscrew he’d grabbed on his way out. The cork gives way with little trouble, unleashing a pleasant if sharp scent that reminds Dorian of flower petals. He takes an experimental sip, and immediately his tongue is awash with something dry and pinpoint-sharp, a cold burn that he feels sliding smoothly down his throat. A bit like drinking the sun-kissed sky in the midst of winter.
He makes a pleased sound, and hands it to Cullen, who hesitates. “You’re really going to turn your nose up at this when you’ve already burned off half your taste buds with that?” Dorian points with his nose at the pipe.
Cullen smirks, and takes the bottle, challenge accepted. He lifts it to his nose and sniffs, giving it a thoughtful frown, before taking a pathetically small sip. “Mm, that’s actually not bad.”
He hands it back, and they trade it back and forth for a few rounds. Soon, Dorian can feel its effects tingling pleasantly in his extremities, and the relentless mountain winds don’t bother him nearly so much. It’s not the sort of thing they’d serve in Tevinter, and… surprisingly, that’s exactly why he likes it.
Tevinter wines are so dry they’re more like scorched earth than sun-kissed flora. Which he normally quite enjoys – “a vintage that’s as sharp as his wit” is his favorite joke at parties. Where else will he be able to sample such a wide variety of flavors, from so many different skies?
Vishante kaffas, he’s waxing poetic again. Usually a sign of melancholy. Better continue to drink about it.
“You leave in the morning?” Cullen asks, in a deliberately casual tone.
“That’s right.” Dorian takes another drink. “Within a fortnightI’ll be back to civilization at last. I can almost taste the sweet air of the Nocen Sea already.”
“Have you said your goodbyes to Tess?”
That’s the cordial – Cullen almost never lets his pet name for the Inquisitor slip in mixed company. Theresa never seems to mind when he does, though.
“Haven’t had the chance yet. She’s been waylaid by Josephine’s cadre of accountants most of the night. Supposedly, it’s absolutely vital to the future of the Inquisition.” Dorian allows himself a sly sideways glance at Cullen. “I think she’s avoiding me.”
Cullen smiles knowingly. “Don’t take it personally. That’s her default maneuver when avoiding her feelings.”
“Oh, I take it as a compliment. The longer she avoids me, the more she’ll miss me.”
“She’s not the only one.”
Dorian gives him a skeptical look. “Andraste’s arse, you’re not about to get sentimental on me, are you? Because I’m suddenly strongly reconsidering sending you over the battlements after all.”
Cullen laughs outright. “You wouldn’t dare risk Tess’s wrath.”
“I already risked it when I told her I was leaving.”
He’s met with a canny stare. “Are you sure it’s her who’s doing the avoiding?”
Dorian’s breath hitches for just a beat, but he recovers quickly. “You see? This is why I’ve got to leave. Far too many of you know me far too well. I need to return to a place where no one has the slightest clue what’s actually going through my head.”
It’s as close as he’ll ever come to an admission, and Cullen seems to recognize it, reclaiming the bottle with a victorious grin.
“Far be it for me to ever claim to know what’s going through your head.” He drinks, and hands the bottle back.
“There’s a good man.”
Yes, he’s going to miss this place.
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