Of Ruffled Feathers

Title: Of Ruffled Feathers
Author: FyreQueen89
Game: Dragon Age
Characters/Pairings: M!Cousland/F!Amell
Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age and all related peoples/lore/places/etc. These two are OTP babies I can't stop indulging. 
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Looking back, neither Harvey nor Trinne remembered the entire chain of events that led to them walking up the front steps into Marquis Du Rellion's ball. She remembered it involving two--or three, maybe--scaredy cat messengers who couldn't take a joke any better than their master could take no for an answer. He remembered talking her into accepting because the marquis owned one of the areas they wanted to investigate, and just once could they ask permission rather than forgiveness? They both remembered viewing the ball as an annoying interruption to an otherwise pleasant trip.

"Remind me again how you talked me into this?" Trinne whispered as she slipped her arm through Harvey's, trying to ignore how tight her dress was laced.
    
"Logic and sound reasoning," he replied, smiling slightly as he squeezed her hand.

"Funny, I don't recall either," she teased. "I recall the 'for me' card and big green puppy eyes."

"There were no puppy eyes," Harvey protested mildly, resisting the urge to tug at his shirt collar.

Trinne laughed, the small snort at the end drawing a disapproving look from a nearby comtesse, which she ignored. "Darling, take it from the woman who was looking at your face while you were using your 'logic'. There were most certainly puppy eyes."

"Ah, so now you acknowledge the logic."

She rolled her eyes at him. "There may have been something vaguely logic-ish in there... I was paying too much attention to the puppy eyes."

Harvey opened his mouth to insist on the lack of puppy eyes, but just shook his head. "You're in a mood tonight."

"I don't like fancy dresses," Trinne muttered as they entered the foyer. "Or fancy parties. Or schmoozing. And I never mastered the art of kissing up." She paused, glanced around at the Orlesian nobility, and then looked back in him. "Harvey, what am I doing here? You're the... the diplomat, the negotiator, the people person. All I'm gonna do is ruffle feathers. So why am I here?"

He pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered wryly, "Suffering with me."

Trinne glared at him. "Yeah, I'm gonna make you pay for that, Cousland. Somehow."

"I don't doubt it," he said mildly, already trying to anticipate what form her revenge would take. "For now, though, maybe try to enjoy yourself?" He tipped her chin up and kissed her in silent apology.

A small contented noise hummed in her throat. "Mmm. All methods of revenge involving itching powder and insects are now off the table." She left off the fact those had never been serious options.

Harvey stole another kiss.

"The marquis woulda prob'ly wanted both of us here anyway..."

He chuckled softly and pressed a final kiss to her hair. "Like I said, try to have fun."

"I'll try," Trinne replied with an exaggerated sigh, placing the back of one hand to her forehead dramatically. "Ooh, is that a cheese tray?"

She darted off toward one of the side halls, and Harvey smiled as he watched her disappear into the press of nobility before he went in search of their host.

>>X<<

As the evening wore on, it went exactly the way they should have expected. Nobles from every strata of Orlesian society wanted to meet the legendary heroes of Ferelden. Almost every single conversation, it took thirty seconds--a minute, tops--for Trinne to be too blunt, too honest, or both. Years of politics had done nothing to blunt her habit of speaking her mind, which won her no favors in the Orlesian court.

After the seventh or eighth duchess walked away rigid and bristling with indignation, the mage shot her husband an apologetic smile. "See why I wondered what I'm doin' here? I do better in situations where I can improve things with copious application of lightning. You're the one who's good at talking pretty. Smoothing ruffled feathers."

I've had lots of practice. He knew she'd take that the wrong way, so instead replied, "It's one of the first things my tutors drummed into my head."

"Yeah, but I bet it only took 'em like a week or two. You're just good at it. And I'm not." She stared at the floor as she scuffed one foot against the marble surface. "Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut..."

Harvey hesitated a beat before answering," Orlesians aren't... accustomed to Fereldan honesty. Everything here is all subtlety and half-truths and whispers in the shadows. I'm sure they don't know what to do with you."

Trinne crossed her arms and pretended outrage. "You sayin' I'm not subtle, Cousland?"

"Trinne, that's hardly news. You are many things, m'lady, but subtle is not one of them."

She sniffed, fighting a grin. "Fine, fine. So if I'm not talking, what am I supposed to do? Stand here and look pretty?"

He brushed a loose, curling lock of hair back behind her ear. "You're very good at looking pretty." 

"Flatterer," she grumped, one side of her mouth curling upward.

"Wouldn't say it if it wasn't true." Harvey linked his hand with hers as they moseyed in the direction of the main ballroom. They could hear strains of music drifting between the big, gilded doors, and the words were out before he even realized he was saying them. "We could always dance."

Trinne looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was. They didn't exactly teach Orlesian dances among Fereldan nobility. But he was in it now...

"No one can talk to us if we're dancing," he pointed out as she rubbed her arms.

"I don't know any of the steps, Harv," she protested, eyes darting between him and the couples on the dance floor. Still sounds tempting...

"Neither do I," he whispered.

"Ooh, are you being spontaneous for me?" Trinne giggled. "Won't they be scandalized we don't know what we're doing?"

"At this point, I don't care if we ruffle a few feathers just a little." He took a step back and held out one hand, palm up. "May I have this dance, Lady Cousland?"

"Hmm, I don't know, Lord Cousland," she smirked, trying to sound coy. "Wouldn't that hurt whatever deal you made with our fancypants host?"

Harvey shook his head. "He just said we had to stay until midnight. There were no guidelines regarding conduct. He gains influence and reputation whether we behave ourselves or not."

"Well, in that case..." the mage grinned, placing her hand in his. "I'll follow your lead."

Hand in hand they walked to the dance floor, Harvey's eyes on the other dancers' feet, picking out steps and putting them together well enough to manage.

Trinne raised an eyebrow in surprise when they actually kept in step just fine at the start. "I thought you didn't know the steps."

"I don't. Didn't," Harvey corrected himself. "But this one's fairly simple. Very easy to pick up."

The mage's eyes widened as she caught his meaning. "Harvey Cousland, are you seriously telling me you picked up the steps to this dance between the hallway and here?!"

His hand pressed the small of her back, guiding her into a turn. "...Yes?"

"I'm impressed," she grinned.

"Trinne, it's  not like I memorized it to perfection," Harvey protested. As if on cue, they narrowly missed colliding with another couple.

"Still, even picking up what you did..." she shrugged. "Like I said, impressed." She leaned in closer, whispering through an impish grin. "And just a little turned on."

"You are ridiculous," he chuckled. "And crazy."

Her grin widened. "You knew that before you married me. And you love me anyway."

"Who says I don't love you more because you're crazy?" he teased.

"Cousland, there's no need to seduce a girl you already got."

A shrug. "I like making you smile."

Trinne shot him a Look. "Seriously, Harv. Stop sweet talking, or I'm gonna be forced to drag you into a closet and have my way with you."

He snorted. "That would ruffle feathers. Probably not a good idea."

"Well, then, how long 'til midnight?" She waggled her eyebrows.

"Behave yourself." He kissed her forehead as the dance ended.

"Where's the fun in that?" She grinned at his expression.

"Trinne..."

"Just kidding. I'll be good. Ish. For you."

>>X<<

She really did try. But by the time they left--exactly at the stroke of midnight--Trinne had inadvertently started three rumors, reignited a decades old feud between two dukes, and kicked the yapping rat Lady Evangeline called a dog clear across the room. She apologized profusely for the first two--"Anything that small is not a real dog"--as they left the ball, and would have kept apologizing for the record-setting migraine she gave her husband if Harvey hadn't kissed her soundly and whispered, "We'll just call it even," as she regained her wits.

Trinne accepted that deal with alacrity and a kiss of her own. Besides, if she didn't have to plot revenge, there were much more fun things she could do with the man next to her. Things that involved her wearing his shirt, if anything at all. And she liked the idea of that.

A lot.