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Far be it from Dorian to keep his tongue still. He’s been making observations—which could hardly be called such, really. Anyone with fully-functioning eyes could confidently state that grass is green, the sky is blue, and there’s an overwhelming amount of palpable sexual tension between Cassandra and Varric.
“So, Varric,” he begins, watching the dwarf cast him a sidelong glance. “Are you and Cassandra…?”
That catches the Seeker’s attention as well. Her shoulders tense, and the Inquisitor releases a choked noise of blatant amusement.
Varric’s reaction is instant. Defensive. “What? No! Why would you even ask that?”
Drawling, Dorian muses, “Truly? Bizarre.”
“I’m right here,” says Cassandra—as if she is not also guilty of party gossip. She still hasn’t turned around to show her face.
"See? She's right there. What are you waiting for?"
Varric rolls his shoulders into a posture of relaxation before he deems it necessary to add more—as if his initial response hadn’t sold Dorian into belief. How perceptive!
“Just because two people dislike each other doesn’t mean they’re about to kiss, Sparkler.”
“Not according to your books.”
“Don’t mistake me for that hack who wrote Hard in Hightown II. I can spell.”
Dorian has to admit that that’d been an exceptional attempt to steer their conversation in another direction. They stumble upon three giants in the Emerald Graves, and when Dorian finally manages to make himself discreet enough to cast spells from a distance, things go to hell.
The Inquisitor uses their mark as soon all of the giants are in close proximity. Unfortunately, one of the beasts manages to step outside of the circle, its movements swift compared to the remaining two, and casts a thundering fist down upon Cassandra’s pretty head.
Well, it would have, if not for Varric’s quick thinking. The grappling hook that he normally reserves for foes latches onto the grooves of Cassandra’s armor; she’s yanked abruptly away from the giant and toward Varric instead, narrowly avoiding what would have likely been a gruesome death.
Dorian and the Inquisitor take advantage of the giant’s confusion, felling it with relatively minimal effort, thanks to that handy (pun somewhat intended) trick of their leader’s mark.
The area falls back into an eerie silence. Beautiful place, really—but pretty far down on the list of places Dorian would choose to have a picnic.
“Let’s all agree to never do that again, shall we?”
He turns back to the rest of the party. Varric’s usually deft hands seem to have lost all of their finesse; he struggles to release the hook from Cassandra’s armor. The woman in question has her lips pulled into a peevish frown. Still, there’s no denying that she looks pleased.
The scene looks as though it'd been copy and pasted from one of Varric's books.
“Tell me you didn’t get us stuck,” she says.
“I may have gotten us stuck,” Varric admits, voice light.
They begin to argue, which is a surprise to absolutely nobody, and Dorian casts a look of exasperation toward the Inquisitor—who seems to be endlessly entertained, at the very least. They watch with great patience as Cassandra and Varric fling retorts at one another while pressed close. Varric strings an arm around her waist to gain access to a piece of armor that looks to be the cause of their predicament, causing Cassandra’s words to catch, and Dorian’s glad that they’re finally free because he wouldn’t have been able to watch another moment without saying something that would have likely ended in bloodshed.
Dorian tells himself not to meddle. But it gets worse.
Despite their ever-present banter, Cassandra and Varric have found a middle ground of some sort. Any soreness about Kirkwall, or the Champion and her convenient unknown whereabouts, has healed. Cassandra asks about Varric’s friends as though they’re actually people and not characters in a novel; meanwhile, Varric poses questions about the Seekers of Truth, knowing fully well that Cassandra still regards them as family.
That alone could not be called friendship. Teaching Cassandra to play Wicked Grace, however—
“At least you’ve got the right face for a card game,” Varric concedes, reassembling the cards into a deck.
“What do you mean?” she demands.
“Not everyone can maintain your level of stoicism, Seeker. Except for a Qunari, maybe.”
“Oh.”
Oh, indeed, Dorian thinks. He’s seated at the table across the hall, a glass of wine in one hand. Orlesians chitter about, the fires burn, and Dorian doesn’t realize he has company until he’s nudged by an elbow.
“Inquisitor,” he greets.
“Dorian. What’s going on?”
“Nothing we haven’t already witnessed. See for yourself.”
He nods toward his source of entertainment for the night. Cassandra holds out her new hand in front of her, peering at it skeptically. Varric’s leaning in, close, and points at each face to explain what they mean.
“Wow,” the Inquisitor says.
“Precisely. It’s almost embarrassing.”
“I wonder what’s stopping them. Pride? Genuine obliviousness?”
“A little bit of both, I’m afraid.”
Cassandra laughs abruptly and Dorian and the Inquisitor stare at her, a little wonderingly. Varric looks mighty pleased with himself, lips curled into a matching smile. The three of them watch as she attempts to compose herself, trying and failing at pressing her mouth back into a straight line.
“He’s looking at her like the sun shines out of her backside,” Dorian mutters, minor disgust coloring his lament. Then, he huffs, downing the rest of his wine. “Alright, then. Let’s have a bet. I say Cassandra caves first.”
“You think that Cassandra will make the first move?” the Inquisitor asks, completely disbelieving.
“Once she’s got her heart set on something, she gets it done, does she not?” he counters.
“If fate allows, yes, but—“
“Not to mention her affection for clichéd romanticism. Varric may churn out the words in writing, but it’d be a peaceful day in Thedas before he’d ever recite poetry aloud—let alone to Lady Cassandra.”
The Inquisitor’s brows are raised dubiously. “Have you ever heard her speak of anything related to her feelings? If so, you probably hadn’t realized. She’s—awkward. And I highly doubt that a confession would go well, even if she were to be the one to crack first. She’s awfully stubborn, Dorian. If she has to wait until she’s old and gray to be swept off of her feet, she damn well will.”
Dorian squares his shoulders, sniffing. “Well. We’ll just have to see, won’t we? Fifty sovereigns.”
“Fifty? Confident bastard,” the Inquisitor mumbles fondly, nodding with acquiesce.
“Why, thank you! A pleasure doing business.”
It’s not cheating, Dorian thinks, as long as Cassandra mentions Varric first.
“You look like you’ve been trampled by a horse,” Dorian notes, falling into step beside her. The grass beneath their boots is crisp; Cassandra walks pointedly to her favored corner of Skyhold.
“Are you always this charming in the morning?”
“Of course! Although the distinction of time is moot. I’m always this charming, my dear.” And when she doesn’t contribute a response other than an exasperated eye roll and a noise of contempt, he has to ask: “Rough night?
“Rough morning. This is why I try to stay clear of overindulging,” she says as if chastising herself. A pause. “I drank with the Chargers last night.”
Dorian perks up. “Did you, now? I don’t suppose you were leaping at the chance to volunteer?”
She snorts. “Not even close. Bull offered, and when I declined, Varric had insisted.”
“Is that all it takes, then?” he teases. “For Varric to insist?”
As predicted, a scoff precedes the faint coloring upon her cheeks. “He—is good with people. It’s not a surprise that he would be on some level of friendship with Bull’s companions. He said that it would be nice for them to see me as an approachable human being. Apparently, that translates to getting drunk enough to sing tavern songs and spill ale all over myself.” She looks completely horrified with befuddled memories of the night prior, but it’s clear that she’s resigned to the idea of being seen as unprofessional by Bull’s merry little band of misfits.
However— “Tavern songs?”
“Varric taught me the words,” she admits, sheepish.
“Did he?” Dorian asks, interested. His glance passes along the immediate area, knowing fully well that the Inquisitor is scouring the Hinterlands with Blackwall, Solas, and Sera, but feeling the need to check nonetheless. “He seems invested in your inclusion these days.”
Her brows furrow as she unsheathes her sword, hesitating before the mannequin. Very slowly, Dorian watches her eyes, ever-intelligent, piece together the signs. Yes, that’s it…
“Wow. You look like shit.”
She sighs, head tipping back like a prayer to the Maker, eyes fluttering shut. “Does nobody have a sense of polite discretion?”
“The last time I lied to spare your feelings, Seeker, you held a knife up to my throat. But,” Varric adds quickly, raising a hand as if to intercept her sudden, heated glare, “that’s not why I’m here. A little dagger-happy birdy mentioned your—state—this morning.”
“Leliana,” Cassandra laments.
“Which is why I brought you this.” He holds up a flask. “It’s not an instant cure, but it’s saved a hell of a lot of dwarven asses from the shame of a painful hangover.”
When he passes it over to her grasp, she stares down at it dubiously.
“Trust me,” he adds.
And to her credit, Cassandra hesitates no longer. Dorian watches with great interest as she downs the entire contents of the flask, pulling away with a grimace and a wrist at her mouth.
“This is disgusting,” she intones flatly.
“Give it ten minutes. You’ll be thanking me.”
“Last night was your idea in the first place. I would not have to subject myself to this questionable concoction if it weren’t for your goading.”
“Sure, sure. Because it was I who insisted on those extra two rounds, right?”
“Vishante kaffas, I can only endure so much!” Dorian murmurs to himself, unnoticed by his companions. There’s a fine line between compassion, banter, and genuine disagreement—and Cassandra and Varric have managed to erase it altogether.
The Inquisitor, with a charming smile and a clever way with words, manages to persuade Dorian into eating at the tavern. Snacking, really, since one could hardly call roasted potato wedges a meal. It’s finger-food, and Dorian wouldn’t have agreed if they weren’t so damnably delicious.
“Baiting me with food and drink, I see. Is this where you reveal your elaborate plan of seduction? Should I be standing, or sitting?”
“I suppose it depends on which angle gives you the best view,” flirts the Inquisitor, holding the door open for Dorian. Their expression shifts abruptly into surprise. “Although it appears we should be taking that into consideration. Look.”
Dorian steps inside, greeted by the warmth of the fire and the ambience of a crowd. In one of the corners, Cassandra and Varric sit across from each other, postures relaxed and faces open.
“Oh, good. Dinner and a show.” After a moment, the Inquisitor’s words catch up with him and cause his brows to raise. “You’re suggesting that we spy on them.”
“I’m suggesting that we have a seat at the bar and order our food,” they correct, already moving toward the wooden stools. “It’s a small tavern. Should we happen to hear bits and pieces of ambient conversation, in a completely public space, at that—it’s merely happenstance.”
His lips quirk as he slides onto the stool next to the Inquisitor. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re truly a terrible person?”
“It’s why we get along so well, I imagine.”
“I love it,” Dorian says, and it sounds a bit too affectionate for his tastes. He clears his throat and orders their first round of ale. He’s not particularly a fan of the flavor, as per his usual opinion of anything from the South, but just like their recent expedition to the Fallow Mire, he suffers through complete and utter shit to serve a greater purpose.
But not without complaint.
“Cole is treated to a fancy cheese platter in Val Royeaux, but it’s ale that tastes like piss for the Tevinter,” he mutters into his mug, a significant lack of genuine ire within his bitching.
“Cole didn’t even eat the fancy cheese platter,” the Inquisitor helpfully points out.
“It’s the principle.”
“I’ll—”
“So, Seeker. I’ve been wondering something.”
It’s sad, really: how quickly they hush-up. Dorian has the advantage of watching the duo under the illusion of matching gazes with the Inquisitor. Lovely.
“Have you.”
His arms sweep out in a grand gesture. “Dragon hunting.”
She quirks a brow.
“Is that something the Pentaghast family line teaches its young?”
“Ideally. Is that always the case? Rarely.”
“Did they train you?”
Cassandra shifts in her seat, momentarily guarded, before releasing a breath. “After my parents were executed, my remaining immediate family trained my older brother. I learned the most from him.”
“And here I was thinking they just dropped you Pentaghasts at the ass-end of Ferelden and had you live with Dragonlings for a year.”
“That would almost be preferable to my time spent in Nevarra.”
“It would also explain the similarities.”
The Inquisitor’s laugh seems startled into existence. Smile hidden behind the lip of their mug, they murmur, “I’m starting to see how you could think that Cassandra’s going to bow first. With charm like that, I can’t image why Varric doesn’t have suitors up the ass.”
“Such sarcasm is unbecoming, you know,” retorts Dorian before motioning for his companion to close their mouth.
Cassandra seems unbothered; what else could she have expected from Varric? “I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I know that was not your intention. I would rather resemble a dragon than a modern Pentaghast.”
“That begs the question: What’s wrong with the modern Pentaghast?”
“It would be easier to make a list of what isn’t wrong.” Still, she barrels on. “They are lazy. Unsympathetic to their surroundings. They spend more time worshipping the dead than they do acknowledging the living. Nobility is stifling enough—”
Varric leans in. “I think you’re missing their greatest offense, Seeker.”
“And I’m sure you’re going to educate me against my will.”
“Naming conventions. Cassandra, Allegra, Portia—“
“Stop.”
“—Calogera, Filomena—“
“I’m well aware of my name, Varric.”
“—Pentaghast.”
Flatly: “Thank you.”
“I figured a reminder now and then helps. Who can remember all that?”
“Apparently, you.”
Varric pauses, clearly at a loss for words. Dorian recognizes the attempt to build his defense, and when it’s complete, the excuse rolls off of his silver tongue, smooth as silk.
“Someone has to be documenting all of what’s going on, Right? That’s me. Your name stood out for adding an entire page every time I referenced you.”
She peers at him, skeptical. “Would it not save ink to use only my first and my last?”
“It would, but we don’t want to confuse you for a Cassandra Pentaghast with a different series of names between.”
“Now I know you are just being facetious.”
“Facetious? Seeker, this is a matter of integrity.”
A scoff. “Of which you have none.”
“If questioning my integrity comes from the whole hiding Hawke from you ordeal…”
“Integrity is the quality of being honest,” she recites. “You were not. I now understand why you did it, but that does not omit the fact that you lied.”
“I was being honest to Hawke,” he argues, eyes sharpening. Dorian’s eyes flit back to the Inquisitor’s, and they have a non-verbal debate to decide whether or not they should interfere before their tired old argument reopens old wounds.
But Cassandra seems to diffuse the tension with a sigh, hand carding through the back of her cropped hair. “Yes, yes. Your loyalty is inspiring, if inconvenient.”
And Varric responds in kind, seemingly content to let bygones be bygones if Cassandra follows suit. “So you do admit I have admirable traits? I never thought I’d see the day.”
“False alarm,” mutters the Inquisitor. “They’ve come so far since Haven.”
“Took them long enough,” retorts Dorian. “Although I’d say they’ve reached a plateau. At least while they fought it looked like they were about to kiss. Or jump each other’s bones.”
It figures, Dorian thinks, that he has to be proven wrong so soon. While distracted, neither he or the Inquisitor caught the last bits and pieces of Cassandra and Varric’s conversation, but it’s clear now that Cassandra is dismissing herself for the night.
“Now that I know my limit, I’d prefer to stay under it.”
Cheeky, Varric says, “That’s no way to build tolerance.”
“Is that not what I’ve been doing with you? I think I know what I’m doing.” And there it is, as clear as day: a smirk, self-satisfied and triumphant.
Varric appears to have a retort on his lips, but all he says is, “Goodnight, Seeker.”
It’s fond, disgustingly so, and the hand that fleetingly rests upon Varric’s shoulder is of the same nature. As she departs, looking loose and happy and just the right amount of tipsy, Varric begins to hum, dropping a few silvers on the table and wandering off to pester the Chargers, ever the social butterfly.
“Well, now I just feel voyeuristic,” Dorian comments.
“And I feel fifty gold pieces richer.”
“Excuse me? That was hardly a declaration of love. Unless that’s all it takes for you,” he adds, slyly drawing his own hand to the Inquisitor’s shoulder. Playfully, they shove his arm away and snort into their drink. “That’s what I thought.”
“Oh, lovely. Redcliffe. So many fond memories of this place, such as traveling through time toward a dark and corrupt future, or meeting with my father only to confirm that his charming sense of hatred and warped compassion hasn’t changed in the least.”
“Careful, Sparkler. You’re talking again.”
He barrels on, unfazed. “What exactly are we doing here?”
“There’s a smuggler among the Sisters. If we play our cards right, she could become a significant asset to the Inquisition,” says the Inquisitor, steps faltering as the party reaches the fountain. “Am I missing something? What’s this?”
“A fair?” presumes Cassandra.
“A merchant’s fair,” specifies Varric, evidently interested. There had always been a few stands stocked with wares at various points of the village, but it would seem that merchants and non-merchants alike have gathered at the square to sell anything of value.
“Alright. I’ll deal with the imposter. Don’t wander off, and please don’t break anything.”
Dorian and Varric bestow the Inquisitor with matching smiles, undeniably charming, and the exasperation in their eyes is clouded by the blatant affection.
Merely moments later, an awed voice rings through the square. “Is that Varric Tethras?”
Not one, nor two—but several men and women of all ages direct their attention toward the dwarf, who looks momentarily surprised before his mask of composure falls into place. Perhaps he was not aware he had such a large following in Redcliffe.
Either way, amused, Dorian casts a glance along the square, spotting Cassandra at a bookseller’s booth. “Cassandra, you should really come and see this,” he calls.
“Cassandra?” echoes a girl, no older than fifteen. “Like Sandra, the protagonist of To Seek and Have Sought?”
Attention now focused on the Seeker, a discussion emerges.
“She even looks like her! The hair length and color—down to the braid, even!”
“I can see why she’d be described as frighteningly beautiful.”
Dorian looks to Cassandra, whose face has begun to show signs of her embarrassment and confusion. There’s an unmistakable “Well, shit,” from Varric’s direction that confirms for both he and his flustered companion what they’ve started to suspect.
Cassandra’s eyes narrow and, wordlessly determined, she turns back to the stand full of books.
Varric swipes his autograph along one last fan’s copy of his book before jogging after her, doing a terrible job of masking his vague panic. Dorian trails behind the both of them, entertained and unconcerned. Varric has once said that he bases a lot of his characters off of his companions; it was only a matter of time, no?
“A copy of To Seek and Have Sought, please,” says Cassandra. It sounds like a demand.
“Hold that thought.” Varric raises a hand to Cassandra’s elbow, and then seems to think better of manhandling an angry woman. “Why buy when you know the author? I can give you a copy of my own, back at Skyhold.”
“I refuse to give you time to edit.” She places a palm out, expectantly, toward the shopkeeper.
Varric gestures to wait. “It’s really not worth the gold.”
“I’ll decide that for myself, thank you.”
The poor merchant clearly is unsure of whom to obey. The terrifying, clearly capable woman with a big sword and a gaze like fire, or the author of the book.
“Um… I—”
Cassandra takes a breath, straightening her posture and hardening her voice. “By order of the Inquisiton—”
“Andraste’s ass, Cassandra!” Varric intercepts. “Alright, alright; just let her buy the book.”
She completes the transaction, satisfied, and tucks the book within the single pouch she keeps at her belt. Varric grimaces as she does it.
Dorian feels like tormenting him further.
“I’d like one too, please.”
The merchant looks toward Varric, checking for his approval, but as soon as Dorian had stepped forward, he’d groaned and made his way back toward the Inquisitor, knowing he’s lost the battle.
“It’s not as bad as Swords & Shields,” concedes Dorian.
“I’ll take your word for it,” says the Inquisitor. “I’ve no intention of reading it.”
“A wise choice, my friend. That’s time I’ll never get back.”
“At least this is—well. I’m not quite sure how to put it. Entertaining? Knowing he modeled the main character after Cassandra is essentially a method of learning how he truly perceives her, is it not?”
Dorian flips the page. Her eyes, glinting like the steel of her blade, latch onto her target. She moves with practiced ease—a fluidity that overcomes the harshness of her actions.
“Mm. I can see why he didn’t want her to read it. Although I’m not sure how he ever could have believed that she wouldn’t stumble upon it somewhere. Published is far from private.”
“And he’s not very forthcoming with any comments on the matter,” the Inquisitor muses. “He’s being notably avoidant.” Suddenly, their lips coil into a smirk, seen within Dorian’s peripheral. “Perhaps this was meant to be his grand confession.”
Dorian scoffs. “Please. If that was the case, wouldn’t he have done it already? Before the book went out on shelves?”
“Maybe he got nervous.”
“There are plenty of adjectives to describe our Varric, but nervous is not one of them.”
“Love can make one do foolish things.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
The Inquisitor decides to ignore him, tilting the novel to the side so that they’re able to skim the open pages. “Sandra’s love interest is an archer. Named Derrick.”
“Embarrassing,” Dorian reiterates. “And somewhat sweet, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Which Cassandra is.”
“Yet again, I question her taste.”
With a breathy laugh, the Inquisitor pushes up from their seat. “I think it’s cute. Her passion is really quite commendable.” With one last look at To Seek and Have Sought, they say, “Well, as much as I’d love to continue our literary analysis of Varric’s feelings, there’s something that Commander Cullen wishes to discuss with me.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days? Discussing?”
“Good bye, Dorian.”
He hums, fingertips smoothing over the next page. A few hours pass without him realizing it; when dusk falls, he’s contemplating the idea of lighting a few extra candles so that he’s able to finish the book.
Looking up, he spots Varric, approaching Dorian’s nook with a look of disdain toward the mage’s choice of reading.
“You know, that was supposed to be a gift. For the Seeker,” Varric clarifies, as if Dorian could ever be unsure of whom he means. Unfortunately, his words do confirm the Inquisitor’s assumption—for what else could the gift mean, other than a gesture of admiration and attraction?
So, he failed. Dorian doesn’t feel as sympathetic as he possibly should, because if Varric’s attempt did not succeed, it only leaves more room for Cassandra to make her move and for Dorian to collect his winnings.
“You’ve been close with her, lately. Any ideas?”
“Ideas?” Dorian echoes.
“For a gift.”
Damn it.
Smoothing the grimace before it has a chance to appear, he says, “Are you sure you want a Tevinter opinion? Next thing you know, the both of you will be naked and covered in wine and blood. Likely unable to distinguish between the two.”
“I’m just brainstorming, Sparkler.”
Damn it. He wasn’t planning on weighing his morality just before dinnertime, but it would seem unavoidable. And Varric, although on display as his typical self, can’t hide the stress lines beneath his eyes.
Dorian releases an inward sigh. Having a conscious is such a pain.
“Alright. I’ve got something in mind. And if you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it right.”
“I’m guessing now’s when you betray me? Admit that you’re Corypheus’ pawn and strike me down where I stand?”
“Your worship, please. It’s much too dark for villainous theatrics. Lighting treats me best at dawn.”
“A shame you’re usually asleep till midday, then.”
Dorian waves the Inquisitor’s words away. Owing an explanation, he says, “I believe that tonight’s going to be the night. For Cassandra and Varric.”
“What makes you say that?”
Instead of replying, he continues to lead the Inquisitor toward Skyhold’s garden. A gasp, surprised and awed, falls from their lips. Dorian and Varric had taken the time to decorate the area with arrangements of flowers and herbs; in the middle of it all is a bench, with two delicate pillows borrowed from Josephine on either side. A bucket filled with a bottle of wine and two glasses rests in the grass. The expanse is littered with candles, kept aflame with Dorian’s magic as they emit a golden glow.
Quite frankly, it looks ethereal. Dorian’s rather proud of the results.
“Cassandra’s going to love this,” the Inquisitor remarks. “If it’s sincere, anyway. I hope she doesn’t misinterpret this as Varric making fun of her.”
“It’s sincere,” Dorian can say with confidence. “Varric may not be the type for overtly romantic gestures, but Cassandra is. He’ll do it for her.”
The Inquisitor nudges Dorian, smug. “It sounds like someone’s changing his tune. Would you prefer to spare the humiliation and pay up now?”
“Shh.” He guides the Inquisitor underneath the battlements. “They’re coming.”
“Now?” rings Cassandra’s voice, impatient.
The tone of Varric’s reply is calm, soothing. “Not yet, Seeker.”
He leads her toward the garden, hand at the small of her back. Taking a deep breath, he releases her, and steps toward the bench.
Finally, he says, “Alright. You can open your eyes.”
Unfortunately, neither Dorian nor the Inquisitor are positioned to see her expression. But her hands, splayed with frozen surprise at her sides, and the barely audible noise she releases, give plenty of indication.
“Happy birthday,” Varric says, and—what?
“What?” whispers Dorian, simultaneous with the Inquisitor’s baffled, “Um.”
And that’s when Cassandra reaches for Varric’s face, a hand on either side of his jaw, and bends just enough to press a smooth kiss to the dwarf’s lips.
“What?” Dorian repeats, an octave higher than before.
With mild distaste, the Inquisitor asks, “Does that mean you win? She kissed him first, but it was brought on by all of this, wasn’t it? We really should have set some ground rules.”
Cassandra takes Varric’s hand, easy and familiar, and draws them both toward the bench. “It’s beautiful,” she remarks, honest.
“I had a little help. Thank Sparkler.”
She scoffs. “I suppose our gratitude is overdue. He knew from the start.”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s intuitive. —But not bright enough to realize we know that he and the Inquisitor are about forty feet to the left of us.”
Dorian blanches. They step onto the grass.
Refusing to feel sheepish, he demands, “Have you two been together this whole time?”
“Probably,” says Varric.
“And you didn’t say anything because…?” asks the Inquisitor.
Cassandra crosses her arms. “It’s none of your business.”
“She means to say that we were trying to avoid the shit you two would’ve given us after we so vehemently denied any chance of us getting together.”
And it’s useless to deny that Dorian would’ve done just that. Even the Inquisitor seems to understand.
“What about To Seek and Have Sought?”
“I told you it was meant to be a gift, Sparkler.”
“For her birthday,” he concludes flatly, “and not as a confession.”
Cassandra makes a noise that sounds like a choked laugh. “Him? Confess? I had to pry it out of him.”
“Some things never change.” And there it is again: the same fondness that Dorian had heard before, at the tavern—coupled with the adoration he’d seen while Varric taught Cassandra Wicked Grace.
And here Dorian thought they were the oblivious ones.
Cassandra and Varric, situated comfortably on the bench, watch Dorian and the Inquisitor as they make their way back to the main hall.
“She implied that she’d made the first move, but I feel awful for not knowing that today was her birthday. Maybe we should call it a truce; pool the gold together and buy her a nice gift.”
“A thoughtful idea, if it weren’t born from the loss of a bet.”
“Jewelry. Of the subtle kind. Something she can keep under her armor without fear of damaging it!”
Dorian hums noncommittally. Cassandra, amused, allows her lips to quirk.
“Well,” says Varric, reaching for the wine and their glasses. “All things considered, that went well.”
“Dorian’s pride will be bruised for weeks.”
“It’ll be good for him.”
He passes Cassandra a glass, half-full, and taps his to hers. Her features soften as their gazes meet; she feels momentarily short of breath, charmed beyond anything she could have imagined or fathomed in the months prior.
“Careful, Seeker. I could write a novel about the look you’re giving me.”
“No need. There are already millions of books about love.”
His lips part into a pleasantly surprised grin. Leaning toward her, mouth brushing the skin of her jaw, he says, “Maybe I’m biased.”
“I’d certainly hope so.”
He laughs, breath fanning against her neck. She responds with a huff, gently shoving him back.
“Do not laugh at me. Drink your wine.”
“So bossy,” he laments.
“I have it on good authority that you like that sort of thing,” she remarks dryly.
“Whose authority?”
“Mine.” And when he laughs, she takes a sip of her wine to hide her smile. Abruptly, she shifts gears and blurts: “Varric, will you read To Seek and Have Sought to me?”
He doesn’t seem surprised by the request. “How’d you know I brought it with me?”
She blinks. “I didn’t. I assumed it would have to be at a later date. Does that mean…?”
“Can’t turn down the birthday girl’s request, can I?” He moves glass to the ground and shifts to retrieve the novel, spurred by Cassandra’s poorly-concealed delight.
She leans against him, warmth bleeding from shoulder-to-shoulder. He draws his hand along the surface of the first page, smoothing out the binding, and begins to vocalize the admiration he harbors through the written word.