Another one-shot based on a prompt/challenge on the Dragon Age Writer's Corner on the forums here:

"1500-2000 words max, choose an offbeat or unexpected hobby for any character"

Features my dwarf warden Right Brosca and Zevran from my "Right Choices" stories. As far as timeline compared to the main RC story goes, it would be a Chapter 40b, taking place during the brief rest they took between wiping out the Carta and heading off into the Deep Roads.

Leske is dead, was Right's first thought on waking. He'd been too exhausted the day before to really face that, to think about it. He'd pushed the knowledge to the back of his head as they'd left the Carta's hideout, and carefully not-thought about it the rest of that overly-long day, apart from a brief moment when the memory had ambushed him as he and Zevran were retiring for the night. But now he couldn't stop thinking about it. They'd been a team, partners, for so many years. And then, a mere half-year away from here, and they'd somehow found themselves on opposite sides. The worst part was that he could understand exactly how and why that had happened. Thanks to the intervention of Duncan, he had gotten out of here. Leske... hadn't. He could so easily picture every choice – or lack of it – after that which had led to Leske becoming Jarvia's right hand man

At least he hadn't been the one to kill him.

Soft footsteps made him raise his head, in time to see Zevran re-entering the room from the direction of the bathing room, dressed in nothing but small clothes and water droplets. It still felt odd to look at the slender man and find him... attractive.

"Didn't you already have a bath just last night?" Right asked.

Zevran flashed him an amused grin. "That merely removed the worst of the filth. A proper bath requires time. Which I have now taken," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning over to kiss Right. For Zevran it was a remarkably chaste kiss; brief, and close-mouthed, with just the least flick of tongue-tip against lips before he sat back again, smiling cheerfully.

"You smell good," Right found himself blurting. It was true; the elf was scented with some pleasant mix of citrus and spices. It made Right all the more aware that he, while not filthy – he, too, had taken a quick bath the night before, after all – was not exactly entirely clean and fresh-smelling at the moment.

Zevran smiled. "Come, let me help you to bathe," he said, smiling warmly at the dwarf. "And give you a relaxing massage."

Right groaned. "We have things to get done today," he pointed out. "There's hardly time for..."

Zevran held up a hand, silencing him. "I promise, just a bath and massage."

Right let himself be talked into it. And it was... quite pleasant, letting Zevran pamper him, with scented soap and shampoo – a different combination then the one Zevran had used for himself – even a manicure before the elf finally let him get out of the tub, the elf meticulously cleaning out every speck of grime from underneath Right's fingernails before trimming them evenly. Zevran handed him a towel, then led the way back to the bedroom. Right positioned himself face-down on the bed. Zevran gave him a sideways look as the elf dug through his bag for some of the scented oil he liked to use in massages.

"Do you need to talk about yesterday?" he asked neutrally.

Right didn't need to ask about what aspect of yesterday he meant. Leske. He bit his lip, turned his head away from his friend. His new friend who had most likely been the one who'd delivered the death-stroke to his old one. He found himself remembering again the sight of Leske's body sprawled on the floor, dead of a single precise blow to the heart, angling up from the stomach, and shuddered.

"You don't have to it you do not wish to," Zevran say quietly as he moved over to kneel on the bed beside Right. "But if you need to, I am here."

Right nodded. As Zevran oiled up his hands then leaned over and began working on Right's shoulders and neck, he found himself thinking back over all the long years of his partnership with Leske, from their first meeting at Beraht's instigation, both of them wary and bristling, to that final fateful night last year, when they'd fought their way out of the Carta's hideout together, leaving a trail of bodies culminating in a dead Beraht behind them. He remembered a particularly memorable mission they'd been on once, remembered how much they'd laughed after it ended, and suddenly felt tears filling his eyes. He turned his face into the crook of his arm, not wanting Zevran to see. Zevran didn't say anything, but his touch grew softer, gentler, somehow more soothing, fingers working in little circles across Right's upper back.

Eventually he calmed again, and sat up, scrubbing at his face. Zevran touched him lightly on the shoulder as the elf rose to his feet and dug out some clean clothes from Right's pack, silently handing them over. Right was thankful for that silence. Someday, maybe, he'd be able to talk about Leske. Not now though, not any time soon, but – someday.

By the time he was fully dressed, he was feeling calm again, and ready to deal with all the thousand and one things that needed doing before they headed off to the Deep Roads.

"All right," he said. "Let's go see about restocking our supplies."

After a long day of trudging around Orzammar, it was good to get back to their room that evening. They settled down, both quietly working on making sure their gear was in the best condition possible before they departed on what looked likely to be a lengthy expedition. Right sat cross-legged on the floor, his lap filled with his armour, and worked on cleaning it of all the grime, dirt, and dried blood it had recently acquired, then began working conditioning oil into the supple leather.

Zevran had started out doing the same, but finished sooner then Right had – he'd given his armour a partial cleaning that morning while Right was still asleep, and had less to do. He went and dug in his backpack, then settled down on the bed, back propped up against the headboard, working on something. Right assumed he was repairing a tear or hole in some item of gear, at least until he got up to fetch his own sewing kit to mend a split seam, and got a better look at what the elf had in his hands. A square of dark brown fabric a couple of hands wide on each side, most of the surface covered in an intricate mass of stitches in varied shades of green. Right paused in surprise, then walked over for a closer look.

"What is that!" he asked.

Zevran gave him a look that was somewhere between enigmatic and sheepish. "Embroidery. It... relaxes me."

Right sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning over to take a closer look at the square of linen. Zevran paused in his work, and obligingly spread out the fabric across his lap. He didn't seem to be following any particular pattern, or making the end result be representative of anything. Instead, the stitches were spread across the surface in curling lines, abstract shapes, tight coils, fan-like groupings, and random clusters, the end result a deeply textural overlay of ornate stitching over the plain cloth. It made Right's fingers itch to touch it, to explore the feel of the different areas.

"That's beautiful," Right said quietly. "What's it going to be when it's done?"

Zevran shrugged. "Garbage, most likely. Or perhaps a pillow cover."

"Don't throw it away," Right ordered sternly. "That's not garbage."

"All right," Zevran said agreeably, looking pleased.

Right resumed his interrupted trip to his own backpack, and a few minutes later, the seam neatly repaired, was folding his cleaned and repaired armour and putting it aside for the next day. He put the rest of the things back away in his backpack, hesitated, then dug down to the very bottom, excavating some stuff he'd picked up when they were in Denerim, and then been too self-conscious to make much use of since. He carried it all over to the bed, sitting down against the headboard beside Zevran, sorted things out, and set to work.

It was Zevran's turn to look curiously at what he was doing. "What is that?" he asked, pausing his own work to watch in fascination.

"Crochet," Right said, his large hands effortlessly working the tiny metal hook with surprising delicacy, a length of fine white lace coiling down from his fingers. He smiled, then echoed Zevran's earlier words. "It relaxes me."

Zevran laughed. "And where did you learn to make such lovely lace, my astonishing friend?"

Right grinned. "My mother taught me. It was cheaper for us to make lace for my sister Rica's clothing then to buy it. And if we made extra, she knew a merchant she could sell it to. How about you, where'd you learn embroidery?"

"I spent some time with the Dalish. I was recovering from illness at the time, and could do little in the way of camp chores to pay them back for my care; sewing was something I could easily do while sitting still. Some of the women taught me the fancy stitches, once I showed them that I was truly interested in learning more then just how to sew straight seams and baste hems."

Right grunted, then found himself grinning

"What?" Zevran asked.

"I was just wondering what our companions would think or say, if they saw us sitting here, indulging in our hobbies like this."

Zevran grinned as well. "They would be jealous of our skill," he firmly declared. They worked in companionable silence for a while. Eventually he gave Right a sidelong look. "I do so like a man with nimble fingers."

Right snorted. "Apparently, so do I," he said, winning a grin from the elf.

All told, it was a very pleasant way to pass the evening.