Dragon Age One Shots

Dorian at McDonalds

With his thumb and forefinger pinched into the limp potato, Dorian stirred the crimson muck clockwise. Absently, he scratched at the polyester collar digging into his neck while preparing himself. Coated in the tomato goop, he raised the pallid french fry closer to his lips and shuddered.

The growling in his gut told him to stuff it in, Dorian turning his nose up even as he plunged ahead. "Maker's blighted breath," he spat, swallowing fast, "how can anyone stand this?" It was cloyingly sweet, but at least the ketchup made up for the oil practically dripping off the fries.

He reached for the second, taking far too long to finish his lunch break, when he heard the swish of the front door opening. It'd only taken him a day to get used to that sound, then another to dread it with everything in his soul. Out of habit, his gaze rolled up expecting to find a family of six on their way to shitting all over the bathroom, but crystal blue eyes cut across the cheap tiled floor and Dorian melted into the booth.

Oh Maker. Do not look over here. Do not even turn. Just walk to the counter then leave...

"Hey, Laundromat," the smoothest voice he'd heard since he recorded himself oozed through the air. Gulping and accepting his fate, Dorian turned to find Lavellan in the go-to business attire of button-up shirt and black slacks leaning against the booth.

So much of his earlier life was spent bumping into men dressed in the same uniform of the 'I'm very important' Dorian stopped looking. But on this taut man it took on a more ravishing appeal. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a glistening hint of a tanned chest below and the black pants curved tight to that ass which no doubt caused accidents on the way over. Even his shoes were top notch and polished.

What in Andraste's name was he doing walking into a fast food joint?

"Dorian," he coughed out, realizing he hadn't said anything and couldn't just melt into the plastic booth, "My name."

A blinding smile dazzled against Lavellan's face, daring Dorian to fall into that plump bottom lip. "I remember," he said, his backside easing into the seat across.

"But you prefer to categorize me by my utter humiliation," Dorian rolled out, then he winced his eyes darting down to the bright yellow name tag pinned to the cheap shirt that stank of fry oil. "Second worst humiliation."

"See you've gotten better settled," Lavellan commented, and then without so much a by-your-leave he scooped up two of Dorian's french fries and dropped both into his mouth.

Dorian's jaw plummeted, watching as he less than daintily chewed the undercooked potato apart. "How can you eat those?"

The man he hadn't seen sight of for nearing a month and a half paused in his masticating and shrugged, "Open mouth, insert, chew."

"I'm aware how eating works," Dorian sneered, and Lavellan chuckled.

"Good. You never know with the elite. Maybe it's like baby birds or something," the man was without a care in the world, swiping a hand back through his luxurious hair. Maker's sake, it was so thick, Dorian could get two full handfuls of it and have more left to grip.

"My observation was more how you can consume something so greasy. I feel my belt trying to buckle just from looking at them," Dorian sighed, still having trouble adjusting to his new poor-man's diet.

A snicker rolled up Lavellan's nose, the bridge crinkling at the top into a lace of wrinkles. Dorian wanted to press his lips to them, feel how they'd crease against his skin. This stranger who kept appearing at the worst time slipped back into the booth, one arm resting comfortably at the top.

"It can't be all bad. You got a job."

"Yes, I am a grease monkey," Dorian groaned, plucking his garnish uniform by the chest and sighing.

"I don't think that's what..." Lavellan began before falling silent.

He'd struggled for the first few weeks, trying his hand for anything he thought sounded good. Then okay. Finally, with rent breathing down his neck, Dorian settled for a job that gave him money. He thought himself above debasing his body for money, but in retrospect it would have saved his feet eight hours of torture every day.

Nimble fingers nicked off with another three fries and a nugget, Lavellan greedily chewing them to bits. "How can you hate this? Oil, salt, carbs, the big three of tasty."

"I've never had this before," Dorian admitted. He'd happily plucked in the customer's orders, often calculated their cost before the cash register did, but had no concept of what he was ferreting over on a tray. Not until he found himself having to make use of the employee discount on food. "It's...disquieting," he admitted, pinching the fry between his fingers and causing white bits of potato to ooze out.

Lavellan's blue eyes cut through him, as if trying to find the lie, but Dorian had none to give. Once again, he was wading in unknown waters feeling sharks brush against his legs. And there was that mysterious life guard swinging in out of nowhere.

"Man," Lavellan shook his head, "you must have left a solid gold yacht behind."

Dorian winced. Both because a solid gold yacht would instantly sink to the bottom of the ocean, and because Lavellan was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. "Something of that nature."

"Well, it pains me to watch you wincing as if you bit through a tooth while eating french fries. Why not cook at home? It can be tricky getting any produce but..." the streetwise man paused, his eyes drifting over Dorian, "You have no concept of how to cook."

"I can..." Maker's breath, this man was a constant hemorrhage to the ego. Dorian had skills, quite a few he'd like to ply with Lavellan, but none that seemed to apply to scrabbling in musty laundromats or serving burgers.

"Give me your phone," Lavellan ordered, his palm held out.

"What for?" Dorian asked even while doing as told. He dropped the cheap thing into the man's smooth fingers and began to drum his knuckles on the table. "I'm not afraid of the kitchen. And I have boiled water before. It's not as if cooking is beyond me."

The man head bent down into his phone smiled, "Good. We can skip the basics at least."

"We?"

Passing the phone back to Dorian's uncertain palms, Lavellan smiled, "You've got my number now. So you can text me whenever you want to get together for a little cooking lesson."

Dorian thumbed through his menial contact list, gulping at the number now entered under Laundromat.

"Not to toot my own horn," Lavellan leaned closer, Dorian splitting the difference so his lips blew a warm breath into his ear, "but I'm quite good in the kitchen." Dorian's eyes swung over, watching the man's crystal blues crinkle as he added, "Other rooms too."

Gasping in surprise at the bold move, Dorian scrabbled to think of a one-liner to both impress and dazzle the man. But Lavellan wiped off his hands of the fry salt and stood up. "Best be getting back to work. I'll see you later," he held his hand out as if they'd been having a friendly lunch, "Trainee." Dorian took it, his perspective thrown off kilter. Did he imagine all of those hungry looks? Surely he wasn't chasing after the wrong player yet again.

After stealing one more fry for the road, Lavellan drifted to the door. His eyes darted around the nearly empty seating front before landing on Dorian. "By the way, you're cute in a uniform," he smiled wide and slipped out of the glass door.

An unending grin lifted Dorian's lips, his finger scrolling through the contact list as he kept bringing up Lavellan's number. A man gave him his number, wanted him to call. Play it cool, Pavus. See how this whole cooking training goes, then make your move. He didn't realize he'd dipped a fry into the ketchup until the red sauce bounded into his mustache. With a resigned sigh, he lapped it up, while wondering what Lavellan's tongue tasted like.