#johnathan lavellan

He’s tall, for a change. Not impossibly so and not the first he’s seen - Solas’s an example - but he catches the eye. Almost human-y, too, in the width of his shoulders and the muscles he’s seen on him a few times while bathing, provided he’s certain it’d be an offence to say that.

And maybe he’s seen shit that wasn’t there, but he could swear he’s caught glimpse of a dash of unconnected stubble on a particularly long mission, one that’s disappeared by the end of the day.

But there’s no mistaking what he is. He’s got those long, expressive ears pointing up that get flat when he’s about to shot an arrow to his target. Like now, in the training area, the longbow in his hands a curious change from the daggers he’s always seen him with. Makes his arms and shoulder look ridiculously attractive too, with the strength needed to draw it and how tiny his waist looks compared to them.

And the freaky eyes. A very big pair, too. Glad he naturally keeps them half-closed with the frowny resting bitch face he has, brows knotted in tension. It’s a shame, though - they’re a pretty green, one that’s scattered with gold and brown in the middle, a color that makes sense only on his kind’s face. And-

Dalish laughs and as he turns to face her, he feels a ghost of shame. Instinctively, he knows what she’s about to suggest. Instead, Rocky’s voice comes from his blind side, bored in his remark as if talking to the idiot friend that’s still to understand what the rest has got like a century ago.

«Keep at it, chief, and he’ll be naked by the end of his training. ‘member eating elves is racist.»

«But swallowing them isn’t.» - Stitches adds, joining them with the same untouched expression. By the way Dalish’s grin widens and they all chuckle, it must be hilarious.

«If by ten seconds you aren’t training yourselves, I’ll eat pieces of shit for dinner instead.»

They laugh, proving his point, scattering to the winds like crappy teenagers that have made the joke of their lives. The sound, however, has the Inquisitor turning, his head tilted in curiosity as he flutters those stupidly long eyelashes, fair blonde as his hair, glistening with sweat in the sunlight.

He raises a hand and greats him, to avoid looking like an ass that was talking shit about him with his men. The smile he gives him in response, however, makes him feel warm in the stomach.

Two colleagues acting as perfect colleagues. Nothing to see here.

AKA how stupidly obvious can you become in your pining before becoming ridiculous. A game Bull and Johnathan seem to be losing.

Despite his former name, for certain things he’s not a liar. He’s told Johnathan from the first moment that, as a Ben-Hassrath, his job is to get close to the people in charge.

The knowledge doesn’t make him feel any less guilty as he watches the Inquisitor laughing, cheeks flushed red and a fuming pipe in his hand. He thinks he’d like to put that loose lock of blonde hair behind his ear, where it originally belonged, perhaps dwell a moment against his harsh cheekbone. Would his vallaslin feel any different under his touch, as they twist and dance with his chuckles?

It doesn’t make him feel any better when he knocks at his door, big green eyes peeking inside before his stupid little grin appears, only one corner of the mouth curled up in mischief, sharp canines and gum showing. He’s holding a little sealed jar of horn balm, one he throws at him playfully, leaving shortly after having said he had thought of him, seeing the merchant. That’s not true. Saw him mixing something the previous day, that little pot waiting on his work table. He’s prepared it for him.

He doesn’t feel any less tortured as he watches Johnathan curse and bite his lips as Solas takes an arrow out of his arm, jaw clenches and sweat collecting on his brow, smearing the dust of green eyeshadow he wears. The Inquisitor doesn’t cry out, pain forced down like he’s seen so many other times, like he does too, and yet he’d like to hold and soothe him, telling to resist a moment longer, that it’s going to be alright and that he’ll protect him more carefully next time.

Johnathan watching Bull while he drinks with his Chargers, laughing so loudly the air vibrates around him, as much as Krem gets shook by the force of the slap on his back. It looks like a family, and he wonders if he’d ever be able to be part of it. Could or would, he doesn’t wanna ask himself.

Johnathan watching Bull while resting at the camp as he cleans his weapon, one he’s aided Harritt in crafting. It’s dawnstone just as he likes, slightly brittle, perhaps, but pink looks nice against the grey of his hands.  He gets lost for a moment, and the thread of his dagger stings his pads. Maybe he knows he made some of it for him.

Johnathan is a man of action. He finds solace in the lack of stillness, every movement of his hands as powerful as a chant for the uneasiness of his soul.

He visits the forge, taking an inventory of the materials at his disposal, watching as the hot metal pours to sit and work with it, long heavy gloves that reach up to his elbows. He likes shaping it to his will, creating exactly what he needs. He’s hardly good enough to do more than decorate daggers or small pieces of armor, but he enjoys the process nonetheless, despite those who say the Inquisitor shouldn’t be mistaken for a blacksmith. His vallaslin were for this.

He checks his lock-picking instruments, making sure they’re sharp and ready for the next mission. Sitting on the carpet in front of the fire, its warmth lessened by the cold air breezing into the room from the big open windows, he moves them inside a few locks he’s gathered on his missions. They’re different each time, some easier, some less, but he wants to know how to open each one. Click, twist, turn. Repeat.

He mixes the potions required by his fighting style, alchemy contained in a bottle, a touch of the power of the mages caged in a little prism of crystal. They’re dangerous, just now stable enough he can prepare them without supervision, but they glow in a comforting way in the dim light of the evening.

What people often don’t see is the skin underneath the gloves he almost always wears, leather tight and worn out. They don’t see the bruises and the burns, the little cuts caused by the acid elements he splashed mistakenly on his fingers, a web of minuscule scars covering his knuckles, when he punched without proper protection, when the lock hasn’t opened and only despair has remained with him. One digit is missing half of its nail, the pain sharp and stinging each time he bumps against it. His right pinky is bent outwards in the middle, badly healed fracture that will never look normal again. But that’s okay. It’s for his people. For his family. He does it all with no fatigue, content to sigh in relief when he lays in bed and the soft pillows welcome his aching hands.