Chapter Text
“We really need to get laid.”
Evelyn nodded, throwing back the rest of the ale in her hand. She clenched her eyes shut at the foul taste of the dwarven brew. It wasn’t her first choice of alcohol, but it one of the strongest spirits Skyhold’s tavern was offering at the moment. A party Josephine had thrown two nights previously had absorbed all of the good stuff. Damn those nobles.
She conveniently forgot that she was also a noble, and quite used to frivolous parties where her key goal had often been to get as inebriated as possible, as quickly as she could.
“Men suck,” Evelyn agreed. Her voice sounded thick to her ears. Maybe she’d had too much? But no, she’d only just finished her second flagon. She motioned to the bartender, and he quickly began preparing her another.
“We do!” Dorian said, smacking a hand on the table. “We are hopeless, inarticulate, pathetic, sniveling-”
“You realize you’re describing yourself, right?”
“-cringing, whinging, flighty, unadventurous cretans!” Dorian knocked back his own glass of wine. He shot Evelyn a questioning look. “Really, my dear, why don’t you prefer women?”
She grinned, taking a sip from the new flagon Cabot sent her. “I could ask the same of you,” she replied.
He shook his head distastefully. “Oh, no, I really couldn’t,” he said, waving a hand. “I love you dearly, but you must believe me when I say that I really, truly couldn't.”
She laughed. “Behold Dorian, scion of House Pavus, dreaded mage of the Tevinter Imperium,” she crowed. She shook her head before taking another swig. “We’ll have to alert Corypheus. Forget the demon army – Dorian here is afraid of vaginas.”
He scrunched his nose distastefully at her. “Please don’t call it that,” he said. “It’s so dreadfully… clinical.”
“That’s its name!”
“And yet, given the plethora of nicknames I’ve heard it given, it seems no one uses that particular term,” he replied. He waved a hand at her. “I suggest you get with the vernacular, my dear.” Sitting up a little straighter, he added, “Besides. I’m not afraid of them. I simply have no interest in them. A rather significant difference, don’t you think?”
She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
How had it come to this? She was likely the most prized woman in Skyhold, half of Thedas even, given her status first as a member of the noble Trevelyan family and second as the famed Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste returned from the Fade. Did that count for nothing in the eyes of men? She hadn’t been able to flirt with anyone without the poor sods falling all over themselves to revere her. Revere her – like she was a fucking saint or something.
She was just a person. Didn’t they see that? A simple human woman.
Well, that wasn’t accurate. She’d never been simple. She’d been an ugly child, and so she’d played with boys, getting into far more trouble than her parents thought her worth. She’d asked far too many questions for her tutors, and rejected every attempt her mother had made at making her ladylike. She’d then had the gall to grow into a beautiful young woman, but of course she’d squandered that too by making witty, emasculating jokes about her suitors instead of dancing with them.
But still. She was far nicer here than she had been back in Ostwick, largely because she’d always gotten on better with soldiers, merchants, and well, the common people than she had with her peers. Nobles were so… stuffy. So bent on tradition and marriages and politics that they couldn’t see the real problems under their own noses.
She had friends here, something she’d not had at her family’s manor. She hadn’t gotten on well with any of the other young ladies she was supposed to have debuted into society with; they were a bunch of vapid, sniveling sycophants, and she’d hated every single one of them. She much preferred the company of men; men were simple, direct, and just more fun to be around. But Maker forbid her mother catch her alone with a dreaded boy – the horror!
“What is our problem?” she asked then, frowning intently at her tankard.
“I believe we’ve established that Corypheus is an ancient darkspawn magister,” Dorian replied.
“You don’t say,” Evelyn snapped back. “No, no, I meant our problem.” She motioned to the two of them. “We are two of the nicest looking people in Skyhold.”
“And two of the most witty,” he supplied.
“That too,” she agreed. “We are fantastic catches. Half the noblemen of Orlais have sent me personalized marriage contracts, and you have that whole ‘rebel with a cause’ thing working in your favor.”
Dorian smirked at that. “I suppose I do, don’t I?”
“So why has it been months since either of us got any action?” she demanded.
He frowned, deflating a bit at the question. He took several long minutes to consider this, his expression changing from confusion, to contemplation, and then to disbelief. “I don’t know what’s more appalling,” he said finally, looking back at her, “your assumption that it has been months, or that is has actually been months.”
She tipped her head at him and took a long drink. “Honestly, you’d think I could find at least one man here who wanted to sleep with me,” she snapped.
Dorian chuckled. “They’re probably afraid to,” he said. “Being the Herald of Andraste and all, I suppose they think the Maker will smite them if they sully you.”
“Sully me,” she muttered darkly.
“Yes, someone seems to have given them the impression that you’re as virginal as untouched snow,” Dorian smirked, popping open another bottle of wine.
Evelyn rolled her eyes. Josephine had been working hard to make her reputation as sterling as could be. The fantastic part was that she was actually succeeding. Evelyn had to give credit where credit was due; it had seemed an impossible task to her. But none of the marriage contracts she’d been offered thus far had made any mention of her past… romantic experiments in Ostwick.
“You’re no snowflake yourself,” she shot back at him.
“Of course not,” he allowed. “But I wear my accomplishments on my sleeves. I can afford to. People have such low expectations of me to begin with; it’s fun to actually give them what they want.”
“Well, I want a good, solid fuck,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve nowhere to find one.”
“You and me both, my dear,” Dorian sighed. “I’ve tried.”
Evelyn blinked. “You have?” she asked.
“What do you suppose I do all day?” he demanded. “Sit in the library and read your pathetic collection of badly written prose?”
“Mostly, I picture you drinking wine,” she admitted. “Lots of wine. And flirting with poor girls who don’t have a chance.” She grinned. “Maybe that’s the problem – you’re spending too much time with the girls, and not enough with the boys.”
“You may be right,” he said, leaning forward. He had a contemplative expression on his face, lost in thought.
She watched him for several moments, the wheels turning behind his eyes. In the meantime, she finished her tankard of ale. She wanted another, but it would have to wait for another time; she had to meet with a group of Antivan diplomats in the morning, and she would be damned if they got to see her hungover. Now there was a punishment no one deserved.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Evelyn smirked. “Why, Dorian, you must know I’m not your type,” she said teasingly.
“You’re adorable,” he shot back.
“Alright then,” she said, leaning forward. “What’s your idea?”
“To be fair, we haven’t tried our hardest to find a partner,” he said quietly. She made to protest, and he held up a hand. “No, no, let me finish! I flirt with women, as you’ve so kindly pointed out, despite the fact that they have entirely too much bosom for my taste. And you expect men to approach you. But you’re the Inquisitor! You’re practically a demigod!
“No, no, my dear,” he continued, patting her hand consolingly. “We have been going about this entirely the wrong way.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Perhaps it’s time we took our game to the next level,” he suggested. “Be bolder, take risks – all for the sake of our naughty bits!”
Evelyn considered this. It made sense. She supposed she was a bit guilty of waiting for the men to come to her. It’s what she had done her entire life. But before, she had merely been a pretty nobleman’s daughter. It was far easier to approach Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick than the leader of the Inquisition, the Herald of Andraste. Perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands.
“For the sake of our vaginas,” she agreed.
Dorian cringed. “You really must stop that if this friendship is to continue,” he said flatly.
She laughed. “For the sake our naughty bits then,” she continued, “what do you suggest we do? Is there a plan brewing in that thick skull of yours, or are you just suggesting we go out and try harder?”
“Thick skull,” he snorted. “I think that alcohol is beginning to affect you. You just called me thick-skulled, instead of Bull.”
“Get on with it, Dorian.”
“Each of us makes a list of people we find suitable. People with whom we would be willing to have a romantic tryst. Then we rank the list from the most desirable to the least. You can start at either end, but you keep going until you find a match.”
“A match?”
“Someone to fuck us senseless,” he rephrased, smiling devilishly at her.
“Then we stop once we’ve found a partner?” she guessed.
“Unless you want to continue on, see how many you can get,” he suggested.
She thought about it. “But what if the person on the list isn’t one for flings?” she asked. He cocked his head at her questioningly. “Say, for instance, they take longer to convince. Or perhaps they refuse to have flings at all, and desire more of a relationship. Do we put in the effort, or just move on to the next candidate?”
He shrugged. “Personal preference, I suppose,” he said.
“And what does the winner get?”
He blinked. “Winner?” he asked. “I don’t recall saying anything about a winner.”
“So this isn’t a game, or a bet?” she asked. She had to make sure – Dorian was famous for his bets around Skyhold, and she wasn’t going to be roped into one without knowing.
“Not at all,” he said. “As long as we’re successful, it’s winners all around, wouldn’t you say?”
She nodded. “It appears we need to be making our lists, then,” she said.
“How long will yours take? Three days?”
“Three days?” she repeated, surprised. “That long?”
“This isn’t a children’s game, Evelyn,” Dorian said sternly. “I intend to treat this quite seriously. In fact, my naughty bits demand it.”
She snorted. “Three days it is.”
* * * * *
Evelyn sat at her desk, impatiently tapping her foot against the side. Where was Dorian? They’d agreed to meet that night to discuss their lists. Nightfall, the mage had said. But the sun had long since sunk beneath the surrounding mountain peaks, and he was still nowhere to be seen. Had he forgotten? She found that unlikely, and wondered if something was detaining him.
She looked down at her list for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few days. She’d not been strict on whom she’d chosen – there were men that she found incredibly sexy as well as men she found only passingly attractive. There were men that were the highest quality marriage material and men she’d only fuck for the experience. She hoped Dorian’s list was equally exhaustive, or else they’d spend most of the evening discussing her potential partners. She was honestly more interested in discovering whom he desired. Who made Dorian Pavus weak in the knees?
The door to her private quarters opened, and she laid her list down. Dorian quickly hopped up the staircase, a touch out of breath. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, adjusting his rumpled clothing. “I was accosted by that Revered Mother you found in the Hinterlands.” He scrunched his nose. “Prying hen.”
“Be nice,” she admonished, smirking. “Mother Giselle did wonders for us in our Chantry relations.”
“Must I?” he asked plaintively, moving to sit across from her. "I don't like being nice." He held up a bottle of wine and two glasses. “I brought libations for the evening.”
“Only one bottle?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“The night is young,” he said mischievously. He uncorked the bottle with ease, pouring them two glasses of ruby-red wine. Evelyn accepted hers quite happily, taking a light sip. She made a pleased noise in the back of her throat – this was a good vintage. Dorian didn’t stint.
“So then,” the mage said, setting down his glass. “Down to business.”
“How do you want to go about this?”
“Well, I believe we should start by revealing our lists to each other,” he suggested. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Sounds practical,” she said, reaching for her list again. Dorian pulled a sheet of parchment out of a pocket, smoothing the rumples out of it.
“Should we take turns?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, taking another sip. By the Maker, but that was good stuff! Where had he found it? He must’ve raided the cellars again, for she’d never been served this.
“You’re right,” he allowed. “Let’s get straight to our top picks, shall we?”
They each sat there, waiting for the other to make an announcement. After a few moments of silence, Evelyn snorted. “That went well,” she said flatly.
“Let’s just say the names at the same time,” he suggested. “That way, it won’t feel so awkward.”
“Alright,” she agreed. “On three?”
“On three,” he nodded. “One, two, three-”
“Cullen.”
“The Commander.”
Well. This complicated things a bit.