Spooning
Cole tries. He really does. The poor guy is doing his best. You’re just glaring at him every time he so much as opens his mouth in your direction. You feel bad about it, you do. It’s just that you feel bad about everything right now and you just don’t want to hear it. You also don’t want anyone to hear it. Sera is mercifully in the ahead party, but Solas and Cole are both still here, and you don’t want to talk to either or even acknowledge that either exists. You don’t want to deal with Cole and his Maker damned emotional clarity right now. You’re a mess. You know you’re a mess. He could at least let you be a mess in peace.
Fortunately, Solas—and everyone else—seems to have picked up on your radiating aura of “don’t even fucking look at me right now.” After the third time Cole makes a start towards you and then veers off after you give him a look that could probably best be described as “wounded tiger,” Solas intercepts and pulls the spirit into a confusing and meandering conversation that you’re definitely only eavesdropping on because you want a distraction.
“She’s hurt. Why is no one asking? They should help her.” Cole’s voice is quiet, but not quiet enough. You’re probably not the only one listening, though you think most of the others are too far ahead to hear clearly.
“Not everyone is as observant as you,” Solas advises him. “Sometimes these things are hard to see.”
“The neighbors heard, and they didn’t do anything!”
“People at times fear that compassion may lead them astray.”
“Does it do that?” Cole asks, sounding worried.
“…Only very rarely,” Solas says, and you feel an extra pang of guilt through the cloud of it. Is he talking about you? You do have a way of backfiring on people.
“She was never made of stone. She was forced to be that way.” Cole sounds distressed again, but Solas doesn’t say anything. “They’re wrong. She can’t fly if she’s made of stone. Why do they think she can?”
“People like to imagine that something wiser than them will right the mistakes they made in life.”
…You have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about, actually, but you know it sounds depressing. And you’re already depressed, so you try to tune out their back and forth as best as you can. Even if they wind up talking about you, you know Cole won’t tell him anything he really shouldn’t know.
It doesn’t take a spirit of compassion for your companions to be able to tell you and Sera are both in matching bad moods at dinner. She actually takes her dinner and climbs a tree on the outskirts of camp to eat and sulk, which is honestly extremely relatable. You, in turn, don’t even bother with dinner and do your own sulking with the horses on the other side of camp. You’d actually like to go for a walk, get some space, clear your head… It’s stressful, being around this many people all day. But you’re fairly certain that you’d get yelled at if you wandered off into the Dales (again). Maybe not even by Solas. Seeker Pentaghast appears to be having fits every time you’re out of sight, perhaps suspecting you’re so useless and naive that you’ll drop dead of demons in an instant.
There are worse things than a Seeker thinking you’re a complete fool, but it’s still annoying.
Everyone is still sort of leaving you alone. Solas is… hovering, but at a distance. You look over only to see him looking at you several times, but he immediately switches to gazing at the stars or someone else every time. You’re just as glad you’ve scared him away enough that he’s not immediately coming to pester you. You’re not sure what it says about what your face must look like today, however, that even your most ardent annoyers are steering clear.
Except.
There’s always the one.
Dorian Pavus, who from day one has been completely clueless about what was and was not acceptable social behavior. Dorian Pavus, who you suspect didn’t have a great number of friends in Tevinter and then had approximately zero outside of Tevinter. Dorian “Foot in Mouth” Pavus, your dear friend.
He comes right fucking over.
He doesn’t seem to notice your glare, either, or is pointedly ignoring it. Probably the latter, since he had enough sense to bring with him a peace offering.
“This,” Dorian announces, holding up a bottle by way of greeting. “Is very good alcohol.”
“There are two wildly different possible interpretations of the word ‘good’ when applied to alcohol,” you reply, eying the bluish liquid inside the bottle. It might be that the glass is colored. You rather hope that’s the case, as blue is not an ideal color for most liquids.
“Have you ever heard of aqua magus?” Before Dorian has even finished the final syllable, your hand is out-stretched, making a “here” gesture.
“Hand it over.”
“I have glasses, you absolute heathen.”
You and Dorian ‘keep watch’ at the edge of camp, backs facing the fire and tents, gazing out over the endless waves of the Dales. As always, the stars are incredible out here, stretching from horizon to horizon without end.
It’s unwise of you to be drinking alcohol quite literally laced with lyrium, but there’s honestly trace amounts in most of these beverages. You think this might actually be a Tevinter version, though, because there’s definitely more than you were expecting. It tingles against your lips and then buzzes the whole way down, filling you with a vibrating chaos that leaves you feeling both very drunk and very energetic.
Dorian doesn’t try to ask you what’s wrong, or even if something is wrong. He’s good at this, at least, good at not prying, good at keeping you drowning just enough in your despair that you don’t actually go under. Frankly, just having someone to drink with is a relief right then. Someone who doesn’t want anything from you and likely never will.
“Girls are the worst,” you say, after a while. You’re explicitly including yourself in that.
“I wouldn’t know,” Dorian says dryly, and you choke out a bark of laughter that would be very unseemly if you were actually on watch in anything more than name only. You can see the Seeker and the Inquisitor actually making rounds, now and then. Everyone else has gone to sleep.
“We’re difficult ‘n’ finicky and capable of fuckin’ up and stickin’ our dicks in somethin’ important. No advantages, don’t listen to what the Chantry says.”
“That’s skill, unless I’ve been horribly mistaken about an important part of your anatomy.”
You give Dorian a shove, snorting. “Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t have all these idiots actin’ like I’m somehow not the worst idea in all of fuckin’ Thedas.”
Dorian wraps an affectionate arm around your shoulders. It’s a good indicator of how drunk you are that you let him. “You would probably have all the exact same idiots and then a few more,” he advises you, and you shift your face to let out a groan of protest into his side.
“I don’t understan’ how people who only like one or th’ other work anyway,” you complain, still directly into the side of his chest.
“Pardon, you don’t understand what?“
You poke him in the side. He lets out a noise of protest, but doesn’t shove you away, so you just sort of shift to leaning against him more comfortably. “People who only like one. Like, you like dicks, right? Just dicks!”
“You know it’s significantly more complicated then that, right?” Dorian asks, sounding deeply amused.
“I super don’t!” you say, throwing one of your arms up in the air in frustration. You think that maybe if you threw both of them up you’d fall over completely. “I jus’ said!”
“That is one of the funniest problems I’ve ever heard of.”
“Don’t help by explainin’, or anythin’.”
“I’m not sure how one explains,” Dorian says with a laugh. “I run into the ‘how can you like men’ problem, not the ‘how can you ONLY like men’ problem.”
“But what if like, someone you thought was a boy, and liked, turns out to be a girl?” you ask, frowning. “Does the like go away?”
“Romantic or sexual interest might, I suppose.” Dorian still sounds very amused. You can tell this hasn’t particularly been an issue for him, and you’re glad, but it’s definitely a problem you yourself have run into.
“And it’s not the…?” You gesture in a circular motion vaguely around your crotch, and Dorian laughs again. You shove him this time, which only half works since you’re still leaning against him.
“For some people, maybe,” he allows. “But it’s more… nebulous than that, what makes someone a man or a woman.”
“Or a Cole,” you add drowsily.
“Yes, or a Cole,” he agrees, chuckling and nodding.
“How do you tell?”
“As with all great things in life, my increasingly drunk friend, if you’re not sure, you can always ask.“
“How do you tell if they’re man enough to be attractive to you?” you insist, trying to close in on the core of what’s confusing you, especially since Krem blew your presumed categories out of the water.
“For that,” Dorian says grandly. “I mostly just ask myself.”
You squint up at him. “You are absolutely no help at all.”
“I get that a lot. Maker, have you finished the rest of the bottle ?”
“Yes. It tastes like boysenberries and electricity.”
“Oh dear.”
You lean heavily on Dorian as he helps you back to your tent. Or like, a tent, anyway. How the hell could you tell the difference? It’s got a bedroll in it, that’s good enough for you. Dorian’s damn near as drunk as you are, or at least you think he is, since neither of you are really doing the “walking” thing very well. Between your four legs, though, you manage not to fall over. You’re not really sure what happens after that; probably, you clung onto Dorian like a leech. Or maybe he was just too drunk to be arsed to figure out which tent had Solas in it and was therefore his.
Either way, you wake up after a dreamless blackout with a splitting headache, spooning a full grown man. You’re the big spoon, which makes the situation much more palatable but no less confusing.
Alright. You’re fully clothed. You seem to remember having an entire conversation about how Dorian was only into dicks, or men, or whatever, so there’s a close-to-zero percent chance that anything happened. You don’t actually remember getting back to a tent, at all, wait, no, there’s some blurry… somethings, that might be stumbling back to a tent. Stumbling somewhere, definitely. Your aura is a peaceful slumbering beast just beneath your stomach, fat and happy and quite possibly hibernating, if that were even possible.
Right, you drank a lot of lyrium-infused alcohol. Nothing like chugging a potion would be, but enough that you feel like you could probably perform magical feats of heroism, were you so inclined. Mm. Between that and your regular sleep schedule, that’ll need something done about it within a week or so. Once you’re in the desert, though, there will probably be far more opportunities for safely sneaking away from everyone else. For one, Seeker Pentaghast will have other things to do. So you’ll just have to make it until then.
As for Dorian… you shift to try and unravel yourself from him, but seems like Solas wasn’t kidding about him being a clinger. He has your arm but good. You’ll probably have to wake him to get it out… which you will, shortly, but since you’re sure nothing happened and nothing will once he’s awake, you let yourself lay there for a moment and take further stock of your body.
Your head is pounding with the agony of someone who drank way too much hard liquor. You’re not looking forward to riding Vhas—you’ve been putting him first just so that when you’re really sore in the afternoon, you can just ride Revas, who’s much easier on your… whole body, really. You briefly wonder how Dorian manages to ride hungover. Just the thought of Vhas’s rocking gallop is making you feel like puking up anything you have left in your stomach.
Speaking of stomach, it rumbles loudly when the smell of breakfast hits your nose, letting you know on no uncertain terms that no, you will not be staying here spooning with a sleeping Dorian any longer, no matter how nice he smells. Hm. Actually, that cologne might smell nice, but it’s bringing up some less than pleasant memories, so yes, perhaps now is the time to get up. You file away ‘approach the concept of spooning to Cole, but make sure it’s not weird first’ for a later day.
You’re strong enough at this point to admit that you might be slightly touch-starved at this stage in your life, and if you want to avoid any more unfortunate situations like Sera, you should probably do something about it. Spooning with a gay Tevinter who will definitely never want to kiss you is not something you can repeat regularly.
The thought of Sera spurs you to movement, and so with a quiet groan, you sit up enough to wiggle your arm out of Dorian’s surprisingly strong grip. This does, as you suspected, disturb his sleep. He shifts a bit, then groans, reaching for his head. You can relate. He opens his eyes slowly, then blinks, confused, up at you.
You grin down at him and wave, not really sure what the protocol for this is… and then two of you both burst into laughter.
You’re still laughing as you come out of the tent… which, you realize, is definitely his despite the fact you’d somehow managed to drag your bag into it. Maybe Solas was up on guard when the two of you stumbled in? It would explain a lot.
The two of you emerging together, giggling wildly, does draw eyes, particularly those of the Inquisitor, who looks slightly shocked, and Solas, who looks extremely put-out, probably because you’d been drunkenly spooning his tent-mate. You stumble over to the fire, but just grab some bread and shove it into your mouth before half-tripping, half-walking over to the horses to get them ready for the day. You don’t want to deal with Sera, who is actively glaring at you and then turning to pointedly look away every time you glance over. Or Solas, who probably has a very interesting story about events that transpired last night that you in no way remember.
You’re half-assing your way through horse care when Blackwall comes over to give you a hand, which you appreciate on many levels.
“You and Dorian share a few drinks last night?” he asks, just casually enough that it’s obvious he’s actually really curious.
“If by ‘a few’ you mean ‘an entire bottle of aqua magus,’ yes.”
“How’d that work out for you?” he asks, sounding amused.
“I woke up with a piercing headache, spooning a Tevinter mage.”
“Were you the—”
“I was the big spoon.”
“He’s half a foot taller than you!”
“I never claimed I was a good fit for the position.”
“I’ll say. I thought he was…” Blackwall waves his hand in a gesture that’s not particularly evocative, but you know what he’s getting at.
“We slept in the same tent, not together,” you say with a scowl. “I thought you got over thinking I was fucking the whole castle.”
Blackwall has the manners to at least turn bright red and look pointedly away at that. “I, uh…”
You wave your hand, as if brushing the thought away. “I’m not cross.” That’s a lie, but you’re always cross. You’re not any more cross than your default. “I just mean you should know better by now.”
“Are you, ah… like him?” Blackwall asks after a bit of awkward silence, clearly not easily discouraged from making small talk.
“An alcoholic mage from the north? No, can’t say I am.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I can’t imagine what else you could possibly have meant,” you say, and that effectively kills the conversation.
The morning dawns grey and dreary and honestly slightly chill, autumn wind nipping towards winter. You had hoped you’d left the cold weather behind you, but honestly, it’s not too unbearable. You just pull on Skinner’s thick leather coat over your piecemeal armor, and the layers serve to keep pretty much everything but your face and hands warm. Your thin leather gloves don’t do much for warmth, but you don’t have any others and wouldn’t want to sacrifice dexterity anyway.
Solas is in the ahead party, as is the Inquisitor and the Seeker. You mentally give him a little prayer… Maker knows he’ll need it to get through the day. Of course, that leaves you with Blackwall, Cole, Dorian, and Sera… so, no one who fucking gets along at all. Just a minefield of potential bullshit, especially with you there.
Fortunately for you, Sera and Blackwall separate off pretty cleanly almost immediately, pulling forward quite a ways away from you and Dorian. That’s… fair. She’s probably complaining about you. She deserves to. You stay behind with Dorian and, intermittently, Cole. He seems significantly less hungover than you, which really makes you wonder exactly how much of that aqua magus you’d had. Or maybe he’s just more used to dealing with it, it’s not like you’ve ever regularly sipped on lyrium. To you, it’s a sort of sinful luxury; the only time you’d been close to any real amount of it had been when you were with your old Master.
Or around Fenris, you suppose. The memory of the way the lyrium on his skin made your aura sing with the briefest contact makes you shiver.
“If I was going to fuck up anyway,” you mutter sourly to yourself. “I should have fucked up with him.” At least he would be gone, he didn’t literally live at Skyhold full time—or, well, you suppose he might if he decides to stay on with the Inquisition after whatever happens with Hawke happens. You’d just sort of assumed the two of them would be moving on swiftly. Which you’d been right about, it was just that now you were going in the same direction as Hawke.
“Deception,” Cole comments from nearby. “Disgrace. Evil—”
“Yes, right, I know Cole, but it’s not like I made any better decisions in the long run.”
“Singing sweetly, flower between fingers, she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me,”
“Alright, that’s quite enough of that, Cole,” you say irritably.
You’d been riding for at least an hour, through woods thick enough to break up the frigid wind. And you’d just assumed, with the ahead team that took care of things last time… You hadn’t been paying attention. Cole, however, freezes mid-sentence.
“Incoming!” he shouts, and before you have a second to realize what he means, he’s gone. You duck down in your saddle without thinking, plastering yourself against Vhas, a fear of more arrows like before. A second later, you feel a familiar yet unfamiliar tingle against your skin—a barrier… from Dorian. It feels different from Solas’s, a little alien. Solas’s aura fits you like a shifting second skin, but Dorian’s is more stiff and shield-like. But a barrier is a barrier, and you’re grateful for it.
You’re just wondering where the ‘incoming’ is when you hear a roar and the sound of iron striking flesh from ahead.
Sera.
You spin to stare ahead, you can see Sera backflipping off of Zephyr as Daine, who Blackwall is riding, joins the fight with flailing hooves. There are demons, they have to be demons, they couldn’t possibly be anything else, and Sera is an archer and they’re all over—
You kick Vhas into instant action, barely managing to stay onto him as he leaps straight into a bound, kicking off the ground before smashing down with all four hoofs, and kicking off again. This is not a sustainable gait for you, but it doesn’t need to be. You see, in the distance, Sera fall to the ground, a many-armed monstrosity towering over her. It can’t have taken you more than a handful of powerful bounds to catch up, but it feels like an eternity. The fact that you’re charging towards demons doesn’t seem to really register to you; the next thing you know you’ve steered Vhas straight into them. He gores straight into some horrifying, floating, icy cold thing, catching it on his antlers and sending it flying through the air.
You count on him to be able to take care of himself, praying he doesn’t get hurt like Revas did, as you launch yourself clean off his back and right onto the thing that had been mauling the fallen Sera. You hit it clean in the chest, a little elven projectile, hadn’t this worked on Bull? But unlike with him, all you can see is red, and there’s a dagger in your hands.
You don’t particularly know how to kill a demon with knives.
You wrap your legs around its narrow waist and just stab wildly into its chest, plunging your dagger in and then in again and again. You can feel wild tearing at your back, the demon clawing at you in an attempt to get you off of its chest. But you just keep stabbing, bloody focus on nothing but its body and your knives, tearing at the same wounds again and again and again.
It stumbles backwards and you grab a second knife, your knees’ grip around it now quite firm. You methodically carve it open, tearing through its thick, spiny hide with sheer determination; a knife gets stuck in its armored flesh and you just grab another off your belt and continue your grim task. The creature falls backwards and you just keep going, tearing cuts into it long slashes, carving chunks of flesh out, ignoring the insane greenish liquid spewing out of it in sickly, thick globs, not blood and it burns a little when it gets on your bare skin, but you don’t care. All that matters it that you take it apart, you peel it open until you can be sure that it’s dead, all its insides on the outside because you don’t have any way to take its limbs off—
It dissipates suddenly and abruptly. Only mist is underneath you now, a thin green fog, raw energy of the Fade that slips away into the sky. You thud down onto the ground on your knees, having been straddling the creature on the ground as you focused on your macabre work. You still have two throwing daggers gripped in your hand, half a dozen others clattering to the grass as the creature they were lodged in vanishes.
Panting, you look up. Vhas and Revas are aggressively trampling… something, and Blackwall is running his sword through that floating thing, shield up protecting him from a frosty blast of icy wind that solidifies on the metal. Just past him, you can see the Inquisitor and the Seeker galloping full-tilt into the frey, Solas a bit further back. You can see the shimmer of his barrier on both of them.
The battle, you realize, is all but over. Which is good, because your heart is racing and your limbs have begun to shake with the realization of what you’d done. You see Sera on the ground nearby, staring at you with wide eyes.
“…Blimey,” she says, weakly, one hand pressing at a injury on her side, and for some reason, this makes you laugh. Which makes her laugh, and the two of you are giggling semi-hysterically on the ground, bleeding and staring at each other and alive.