Work Text:
The whole retinue hasn’t returned from Orlais, so after a short conference in the war room, Eirene finds herself in the Herald’s Rest, empty at this early hour of the day.
Drinking isn’t her preferred method to unwind, and truthfully her head still buzzes over the hangover from Halamshiral, but it feels the only way to put the mess behind her for good. It makes her nostalgic for old arguments in the clan, about what best suited their needs: far more important and infinitely less complex in execution.
There is no winning in Halamshiral.
“Hey you,” Sera murmurs from behind. Despite being nearly midday, she clearly just woke up, eyes bleary and hair mussed. “What’s this? Ah, nice.”
She’s making an effort to prop her head up and flag down Cabot for her usual, which Eirene can’t help but find adorable.
“You trying to pretend that didn’t all just happen too?”
Sera mumbles, “Fuck all of them. Except don’t. Just you, Buckles.”
It’s a sweet sentiment from Sera; Eirene appreciates it, unable to suppress a grin. But that might be the alcohol helping to put her in a giddy mood.
It’s one drink after another. Eirene’s head is getting fuzzy and she feels how big and silly her grin is. She just can’t seem to stop it. Sera, on the other hand, seems to be waking up with each successive shot, eyes clearing. It baffles Eirene completely as Sera takes one and then another for each ‘arsehole’.
More and more people seem to be slowly waking up and coming in for the noon meal; Maryden begins tuning her lute, plucking out a new song.
Sera groans, “Ugh, first we had to listen to all the royal farts, now creepy bards are gonna sing about it.”
Seeing an opportunity, Eirene grabs Sera by the hand pulling her away from the bar and up the stairs.
“Come on,” Eirene half-pleads, more laughs.
“No! I was just getting started!” Sera whines.
Eirene pays no mind to Sera’s protests and her greater strength gets them to Sera’s room with little difficulty. Sera’s face can’t seem to settle on a pout or a smile.
It had been cloudy and drizzling all morning, but the sun seems to have broken through at its height. The light hitting the myriad of colors adorning Sera’s room hurts Eirene’s eyes a little, and does nothing for her spinning head, but it wouldn’t be Sera’s room otherwise.
The tune quietly drifts upwards and through the door.
“Dance with me,” Eirene whispers.
“What, didn’t get enough of that at the fancy pants party?”
“It was my favorite part,” Eirene weakly defends herself. She hadn’t a clue how to follow the Orlesian steps, clumsily moving her way through with the Grand Duchess, but after with Sera on the balcony overlooking the gardens? Divine.
“You’re weird,” Sera laughs, but puts her arm around Eirene’s waist and joins her in the light swaying.
“Says the girl who stole some of those fancy pants.”
“Not too drunk to notice, huh? Or were you just looking at my newly-shiny butt?” Sera raises a suggestive eyebrow.
Eirene laughs, content that it’s over, content that she’s here and Sera is with her. Warm with sunlight, wine, and happiness, she begins to awkwardly hum along with Maryden’s new tune though she doesn’t know the words.
“You’re cute, Buckles,” Sera breathes as they slowly spin around the room. She places a tender kiss on the broken bridge of Eirene’s nose, a favorite spot of hers.
There’s the soft din of others in the tavern and the strummed notes on the lute, but there only seems to be the sound of Eirene and Sera’s shared quiet laughter as they dance the afternoon away.
----------
Tempe must have dozed off, because when she opens her eye, the fire is near cinders and her face doesn’t feel so warm from the heat. And her arm’s asleep.
Josephine’s body’s seen to that. She also hasn’t noticed Tempe’s awake, too deeply engrossed in a well-thumbed book.
“And what would that be?” Tempe inquires of the book, rather groggily.
Josie startles slightly, “Oh! You’re up!”
“Hmm,” Tempe confirms. “What time is it?”
Josie glances out the window, “We must be near dawn, but I’m in no mood to go downstairs and begin seeing to today’s business.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Josie?” Tempe grins, looking around for the ‘real’ Josie.
“I could say the same for you – running off and starting duels, honestly.” Josie’s voice is torn between tart and exasperated, but there’s no hiding the smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
Tempe does feel a little guilty at diving headfirst into the duel with Lord Andorno. The impulsiveness of it was very her, but at the reward of shared declarations of love, Tempe can’t say she feels terribly bad at the result.
Bending her arm back to life and untucking and retucking her legs, Tempe rests her head on Josie’s shoulder. They’d be far more comfortable, no, better rested if they moved the few feet to her bed, but the sofa is far too cozy.
Tempe’s vision is blurring over but then something catches at the corner of her eyes.
Moving in to get a better look, “Is that – one of Varric’s?
Josie blushes, as if caught in something obscene. It’s adorable.
“An older one. The Dasher’s Men. My father used to read mysteries to my brothers and I when were younger. He sent me this with his last letter. I’d forgotten all about it.”
“No romances for you then?”
Josie’s laugh is short and quick. “No, those were always more Yvette’s province.”
Leading her on, “So you won’t be joining Cassandra and Dorian’s little book club.”
Josie raises her eyes to the heavens, “Cassandra is still in deep denial we all know of her little guilty pleasure and Dorian was rather vocally protesting the quality of Swords and Shields when you last ventured out with Varric to everyone who would listen. I assume there will be an exchange of words on the subject soon and I will have to smooth it over.”
Tempe shrugs, “So no sneak peek at Swords and Shields. I thought it was kind of funny.”
Josie looks smug for a fleeting moment, “I had my taste of Hard in Hightown 2.”
“I never read the first,” Tempe confesses. Beyond seeing what had Cassandra Pentaghast in a tizzy, she’d never much bothered with reading, much less the internationally-renowned dwarf.
Josie’s mouth makes an ‘o’. Clapping her hands together, “Then you simply must start; I’ll go get my copy of –”
Tempe catches Josie’s wrist before she rises, “Stay. Just read me this one.”
Josie wrinkles her nose, “Really? It’s not his best effort.”
Teasingly, “Would you rather I recount what I remember from Swords and Shields?”
“I have all the romance I’m looking for right here.” There is no artifice to her words, only genuine warmth.
With that, Josie closes the page she is on and returns to the first. Still resting comfortably on her, Tempe slowly drifts off again to the sound of her voice.
----------
All in all, not a day to sleep in. Roslin cracks an eye open and although it is overcast, it is clear it isn’t night anymore.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, rolling over to see, rather remarkably, Cullen still asleep.
“Wake up, we’re expected downstairs any minute now, I’m sure.”
At her hand on his shoulder, Cullen stirs with something of a jolt, but doesn’t waste any time getting up. Roslin follows suit, heading straight for the washstand.
It’s a pity there won’t be time to call for a bath, something Roslin desperately wants, no needs after the long road back from the Western Approach. It’s her own fault for oversleeping.
She pulls on a fresh shirt and with washstand in view, begins furiously brushing her hair with the nearest comb.
“That’s mine,” Cullen informs her rather sheepishly from behind, awake enough to at least notice.
Normally Roslin would gently rib him for his hair obsession on account of hating Varric’s nickname, but there’s no time. Not with her own comb to locate.
“Coming through,” she warns, ducking speedily under his arm, raised with a shaving blade.
Her comb was left on her desk of all places, and by the time she’s returned to the washstand, Cullen’s fully occupied the mirror with shaving. Roslin edges in slightly, finally brushing her hair in their mutual silence.
When she’s moved on to washing her face, she can bear it no longer. “What do you anticipate Hawke’s position will be at the strategy meeting?”
Roslin has already formed her opinion on Warden Alistair: dedicated, if indecisive in some particulars. Likely Leliana will lead him by the nose.
Like the rest of the Maker-fearing world, she’s read Tale of the Champion, but she still cannot predict what the man will say or do. There is too much riding on this next action.
Cullen gives the same non-committal shrug she got from Varric when she posed the question, but his answer is different. “I haven’t the faintest idea what Hawke will say, though it will no doubt be somewhat vulgar. In action, one can assume he’ll go for a more aggressive strategy.”
Roslin gets the distinct impression Cullen cannot decide if he’s impressed or irritated. She steps back into her main chamber to resume suiting up in armor, but continues the conversation.
With a wry tone, “Vulgar?”
Following her in and toweling his face dry, “Recruits would hear him and felt it gave the license to talk in a similar manner. It was very tiresome after a while.”
Roslin chuckles. In her experience, templars never needed an excuse to mouth off, but then Cullen’s always been a little particular.
He also must be feeling the time restraint on them both, for he moves to put on his own more complicated plate at the same rate Roslin dresses. In his haste, he misses straps. Roslin steps forward to catch the missing buckles. As if automatically, Cullen reaches out, straightening the mail coat on Roslin’s shoulders.
Roslin raises an eyebrow, “Am I presentable now?”
“Of course. You always are.”
With the slightest rise of color in his cheeks, Roslin takes notice of an unshaved area.
Rising slightly on her toes, she plants a quick kiss on the spot. “Good. And you missed a bit. See you down in the war room.”
She makes her way down the stairs while Cullen grumbles his way back to the washbasin.
----------
The Herald’s Rest clears out and though there wasn’t the usual buzz of chatter and song, the silence sounds like the dull roar of a dragon to Nephthys. Adamant wasn’t technically a loss, but it doesn’t feel like much of a victory either.
Despite how hard Cassandra and Nephthys landed the blows, Bull remains wary of the shadows, constantly glancing inconspicuously over his shoulders. Well, as inconspicuously as Bull can do anything.
Nephthys cradles her flagon in her palms, only faintly hearing the quiet talk among the Chargers. She isn’t quite sure if she catches Krem mentioning a return journey to the fortress.
“Think we’re gonna turn in Chief.”
Bull grunts in acknowledgment, the Chargers file out one by one. Nephthys is keenly aware of Bull staring at her intently; her old habit of hunching over kicks in.
She did this, dragged them all into the Maker-forsaken Fade. If only they had caught the warden threat sooner.
The chair Bull sits in creaks, “Come on, kadan, you look like you could use something to eat.”
Nephthys doesn’t disagree with the idea and follows him over to the small kitchen behind the bar. They are the only two left in the tavern and there are no objections to their invasion of Cabot’s domain. Never much of a cook, Nephthys throws some chicken likely meant for tomorrow’s stew on the skillet and watches it fry.
Perhaps it is their recent run-in with demons, but Bull remains uncharacteristically quiet. Nephthys readies her tongue with an apology, but there is a wordless intervention.
At first she believes she is imagining it, the faintest of shivers; tracing down the faded scar left by the lightning strike.
It is Bull running his fingers gently up and down her spine. It is so soothing, she begins to involuntarily straighten her back and it feels remarkably natural and right. A comfort as much to him as to her, Nephthys realizes, for he’s stopped looking behind him.
She rests her free hand on the small of his back and with little effort, he places a kiss on the top of her head.
It is finally a comfortable silence, no longer screaming with the sounds of demons and dragons and whatever else they’ve fought in this seemingly endless war. She hopes his mind quiets as well.
Bull moves closer to the stovetop, “Let me take over for a bit, kadan.”
Nephthys chuckles, near cracking a smile, “I don’t think so.”
Bull feigns mock offense, “I can cook. Besides, I know how I like my meat and you’re about to overdo it.”
“You’re lucky Krem isn’t here to pick on you for that.”
Bull shrugs, “Eh, he’s heard it before.”
Too exhausted to argue, even in jest, Nephthys cedes the cooking to Bull. He grins; she smiles back.
There is nothing to say in the wake of it all; only mutual silence and the knowledge they will both face tomorrow together in renewed vigor. And the screams won’t be too loud.