Date Night
The tavern feels empty, still, without Bull and the Chargers. Maker, where are they? How much longer are they going to be away? They left the same day as you, so it’s been… what, nearly three weeks? They could be gone much longer, you have to admit. Months. Where had they even been sent? You have no idea.
You miss them.
But right now, you’re a bit distracted from thoughts of Bull and Krem by Fenris and the warm buzz of Skyhold’s shitty-but-effective ale. Fenris is confessing that he didn’t know how to read or write until a few years ago; you’re confessing that you already knew that because Varric is a little shit who writes that kind of crap down and then publishes it.
Varric, of course, picks that exact moment to show up, earning a glare from Fenris. You’re too busy glancing around behind him, though.
“No Hawke this time,” Varric says, correctly guessing who you were searching for. “He’s getting ready for tomorrow. We’re heading out.”
“Who’s ‘we’ this time?” you say with a scowl. “And why are you going to Crestwood, anyway?”
Varric blinks. “How do you—”
“Cassandra said the two of you were leaving for Crestwood tomorrow morning,” you interrupt. “If the two of you are going, I’m willing to bet the Inquisitor is, too. And Hawke?” This has to have something to do with why Hawke is here in the first place. At least this means his shitty dog won’t be here after tomorrow.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you why… Though Fenris knows, anyway.”
“Don’t deflect this onto me,” Fenris says with a scowl.
“He just doesn’t want to get into more trouble with Cassandra. What was that about, anyway?” you ask.
“Ugh! Someone left a shitty romance book on her nightstand. Probably the Inquisitor, honestly; that man has absolutely no idea how to woo a woman. She thought it was me.”
“I got that,” you say. “I meant about Hawke. She said ‘first Hawke.’ What did she mean?”
Varric eyes you sourly. “You’re inquisitive today, Stutter.”
“It’s the ale,” you reply dryly. “I’m a curious drunk.”
“He hid Hawke’s whereabouts from the Seeker while she was interrogating him,” Fenris explains. “Now that she’s found out, I imagine she’s less than pleased.”
“You hid his whereabouts? Why? What in the Maker’s name did Hawke have to fear from a Seeker?” you say with a disbelieving scowl. “He was Viscount! They practically made him an honorary fucking Templar after that mess in Kirkwall.”
“Yeah, why would I hide the whereabouts of my friend from the terrifying woman interrogating me so she could find him for unknown reasons?”
You pause, then nod. “Yeah, alright, fair point. You owe me for that rescue, though.”
“Alright. Fenris is really sensitive at the base of his neck and his—” Varric is fast on his feet, and short, so he ducks under the empty mug you chuck at him rather handily.
“She threw one! Take a drink!” someone shouts from another table. You scowl darkly, ears flaming and cheeks bright red from more than just the drink.
“I hope you never need me to hide you from Pentaghast, Varric, because I will sell you out so fast,” you say darkly.
“Oh, does that mean you don’t want the signed first edition Hard in Hightown omnibus I just had delivered to your room?” he says slyly, leaning an arm onto the table.
“…I… You… Fine,” you say sourly. Does he just keep these things around for bribes? Probably. You would. The barmaid puts down another mug in front of you.
“Thanks for waiting til it was empty to throw it, love,” she says dryly.
“Should I throw this one too?” you ask snidely. “Seems like I’m selling drinks for you.”
“If you’re going to, do me a favor and chuck it at that Templar there,” she say, gesturing with a tilt of her head. “I’ve got money on it.”
You simply place your head down in your hand. You have never needed to drink more in your life. Good thing you’re in a tavern.
Your drinking only increases when you finally get the news out of Varric of who is going. You had known Solas wasn’t; he would certainly have told you. That Madame de Fer and Cassandra are going is a delight; Skyhold will be much more pleasant without them. Blackwall as well, but you could hardly care less about that. No, you’re sour because the Inquisitor is taking Cole with him again.
Another long, unknown period of time without your friend, wondering if he’s alive or dead. It’s as bad as if Solas was going. Worse, in some ways. With Solas gone, you could have at least enjoyed some freedom—or perhaps privacy is the better word—even if it would be lonely. You gain nothing from Cole’s absence. There is no silver lining.
Despite your intense, sudden-onset melancholy, you try to enjoy your evening with Fenris. He’s an extremely pleasant distraction, more and more so the more and more you drink. Fortunately, he’s more than keeping up with you. The man can hold his liquor, but he’s no Bull. He’s not even a Krem. He’s damn near as drunk as you are.
Which is substantially.
You’ve actually managed to avoid the subjects of slavery, magic, or war for a good half hour now. You even mention how you traveled through Kirkwall back in… was it 35 or 36? Eh, you can’t remember.
“No offense, but it smells worse than Ferelden there,” you’re saying, nose wrinkling at the memory. “It smelled worse than the boat I took to Ferelden. Maker.” Fenris is laughing, which only eggs you on. “Three different people tried to mug me, Fenris. Three! I was there for all of thirty-six hours!”
His laughter is deep and hearty and warm, and you’d like to keep hearing it, you think, but he’s giving you a look now. You’re too drunk to identify it properly, but it’s a sly look that says “got you.” You rather like it.
“Tried to mug you? All three failed?”
Yep, he got you, though not in the way you would like. You scoff it off; it’s easy to deflect, even when drunk. “They weren’t very good.”
“In other words, you were better?”
“Ass!” you laugh. “Maybe I just didn’t have to be very good; they were that shit. We can’t all stick our arms through people when they piss us off, y’know. Some of us have to just run away.” You snort, then your mind drifts back to Varric’s descriptions of the way Fenris used the powers his lyrium tattoos gave him to kill. Your eyes trace idly over his bared arms. The term ‘walk quietly and carry a big sword’ were basically made for him; he’s all lithe muscle.
“Maker, what I wouldn’t do to see that.”
…Oh, that was out loud.
“What? Why?” Fenris says, looking appropriately confused considering you’d just stated you’d like to see him stick his arm through another man’s chest.
“Well… it’s normal to be curious about something like that, innit?” you deflect, eyeing your mug. Why isn’t there more drink in it? “S’not like I’ve ever seen someone stick their arm through a solid object.”
Fenris snorts. “Well, seeing as how there’s a distinct lack of slavers around, I suppose you’ll just have to go on wondering.”
“Can you only do it on people?” you wonder. “What about like… a training dummy?”
“Are you asking for a demonstration?” he says with a laugh.
“If I was, would you do it?” you inquire.
His laughter pauses; his head tilts as he realizes you’re serious. He seems to consider for a moment, and then, “Maybe if you show me how you managed to escape three Kirkwall muggings unharmed.”
You can’t help but to laugh. It seems you get to know more men this way… Really, you should be thanking Bull for introducing you to the concept of befriending people by sparring. Who knew violence was such a good way to meet people?
You’d known the out-of-the-way training ring you and Bull used in the past would be perfect for this. But you hadn’t quite taken the weather into account. It’s fucking freezing outside. You’re chilled to the bone in about five minutes, and considering Fenris isn’t even wearing sleeves, the fact he isn’t frozen solid is astonishing to you.
You also had not predicted the effect his lyrium would have on you, once he lit it up like the sodding White Spire. If it had hummed before, now it sung like an Orlesian choir. Your aura doesn’t even struggle for freedom; if anything it lays down and rolls over like a fat dog. Oh, Maker. Oh, Maker.
He turns it off again in short order, but you’re already higher than a high dragon on the combination of alcohol and lyrium. And then he fixes his eyes on you and gives a little half-smile and says, “Your turn.”
Well.
Alright, then.
The cold clearly isn’t enough to sober you, because you’ve stripped off your tunic in record time. There’s no way you can do anything that requires any sort of athleticism within its tight confines. Besides, you’re wearing a comfortable cotton shirt underneath; your trip to Val Royeaux means that your clothes aren’t all shit anymore.
You’ll later justify to yourself that you started things out perfectly tame. You demonstrated on a training dummy, like a good little Andrastian woman who just so happened to be standing scantily clad with a similarly scantily clad man. Particularly one she’d like to be even less clad with, somewhere more private.That just didn’t hold out for very long, however.
The next day, you’ll probably have a hard time explaining to yourself how the evening went from “drinking in the nice warm tavern with Fenris” to “outside in the freezing cold, trying to recreationally punch Fenris.” But honestly, it seems like the natural sort of progression for you these days.
You’re too drunk to be much good. Fortunately, Fenris is drunk too, so it’s not like he’s doing much better. You actually have a nice little time of it. Fenris plays the part of the mugger, threatening with a nonexistent knife, and you demonstrate a few basic moves that you’re certain he already knows, ones that you explain away by telling him a bit of your times as a petulant street rat in Antiva City.
“It’s no surprise I fell into a bad crowd after escaping slavery,” you explain with a grunt as you twist his arm, causing his hand to flex open. A knife would be dropped, if he had one.
“No,” he agrees. “There aren’t a great many opportunities for gainful employment, particularly when one is in hiding.”
“I hid for years. Must have changed my name six times by the time I started going by Alix in Orlais.”
“Is Emma your birth name, then? Or just another title taken for yourself?”
This throws you off balance; you pause momentarily, and Fenis thuds his closed fist into your side, as if stabbing you with a knife. “Your money or your life,” he says jokingly, and you chuckle as well.
“It’s not like Fenris is your birth name,” you point out. “Sometimes names are what we make of them.”
“I agree. Fenris was a title given to a pet, but I’ve made it a name to be feared by Tevinter slavers and magisters alike.” He swings a little harder then, and your arm jars slightly when you block. You give back a little harder in return, and the two of you begin sparring a bit more in earnest, your chatting voices becoming slightly breathless as more and more effort goes into it.
You’re panting quite heavily by the time you stop, one hand on a knee, and one up to indicate a pause. You’re drunk, and it’s hard for you to keep this sort of activity up and talk at the same time. When you turn your back, however, Fenris must decide to trip you up one last time. It would be cute, under most circumstances. He would poke you in the side and you’d jump and then have a good laugh.
But this is you. When you feel an unexpected hand on your side, beginning a grip, your mind goes blank. Whether you’re thinking of Seheron, or Orlais, or Iron Bull’s training, or simply working on automatic, you don’t know. But you grab his arm and yank, spinning Fenris off balance—and flipping him clean over your shoulder. You’re used to using a lot more force when attempting to yank someone off balance, thanks to over a month spent wrestling a Qunari every single morning. Fenris is taller than you by a few inches and solid, lithe muscle… but he’s sure as hell no Qunari.
Of course, he has instincts of his own, as evidenced by the fact that he doesn’t let go of your arm when you let go of his, and instead drags you tumbling into the dirt with him. The two of you roll a few feet together before thudding to a stop. You sit up with a groan, your head spinning heavily. Rolling plus alcohol. Not a good combination. You might be slightly ill.
“Maker, sorry,” you groan out, holding your head to make it stop spinning. “I’ve got a fuckin’ Qunari training me here, I’m used to having to be a lot more forceful. You alright?”
“Fine,” he replies, but his voice sounds a bit strained. You crack open an eye to make sure he isn’t injured or bleeding.
The nausea fades away as if it never was when you look down and realize that you’re sitting on top of Fenris. Straddling his torso, as a matter of fact. You freeze for a moment, just sort of… taking the sight in. Fenris is flushed despite the cold night air, panting from the exertion, and—Maker’s balls, one of his hands is on your leg! Then you ricochet off of him, sending yourself sprawling into the grass.
Cold is the last thing you’re feeling at that moment. Fenris sits up with a bit of a groan, one hand on his neck. “I think I feel sorry for those lowtown muggers,” he says, twisting his neck as if to un-kink it.
“Sorry!” you exclaim. “I learned that from a Qunari, and well, he’s a lot… heavier.”
“You can throw a Qunari over your shoulder?”
You snort, loudly enough that it actually hurts your nose. It’s when you go to rub it that you realize how freezing cold you are. You’re damn near completely numb! Whose idea was it to wrestle in the middle of the night in Kingsway in the mountains? Oh, right. Yours. “No way,” you reply. “He’d crush me. But he’s the one who taught me, and even the guy I practice on is heavier than you, if not much taller.”
“And you train with Qunari… why?” he asks, but his voice is devoid of the accusation that normally carries with that question. Normally, people speak as if it’s something you shouldn’t be doing—it is—and something you need to justify—you do. But you appreciate what appears to be genuine curiosity on his part.
“It’s an odd story,” you admit. “It started almost as a dare, or a bet… But I found that I worked better with exercise first thing in the morning, so I just kept it up.”
“And now you can throw men over your shoulder,” Fenris says with a chuckle. “As good a reason as any for a hobby.”
You laugh. “I suppose so. Still, I’m sorry. …Only so sorry, though, since you never stuck your arm through anything. Tease.”
“Perhaps next time,” he says with a small smile.
You’re in your room preparing for bed before you fully process that means he intends for a “next time.”
You have, fortunately, finished with the inevitable necessary reaction to straddling a panting, flushed Fenris by the time Cole pops into your room the next morning. Though he could have given you more time and more warning; you were literally cleaning your hand off, and his presence makes you jump.
“Cole! You’re up?” you ask, before realizing you have no idea if he sleeps. He probably doesn’t, actually. Spirits don’t sleep, do they? That’s just silly, and he doesn’t actually have a human body to need such things. He doesn’t seem to eat or drink, either.
“I wanted to tell you before I left, but you were busy yesterday. And then last night. And then until right now.”
Thank the Maker no one else is in the room right now, but you still flush slight pink.
“Varric told you; I’m glad,” he continues.
“He did,” you say, recovering from your embarrassment with a sad sigh. “Do you have to go?” you ask, even though you know it’s stupid.
“I do,” he replies. “I’ll be helping people; don’t worry.”
“I’ll worry anyway,” you grumble. “Thanks for coming to see me before you left, though. Are you all heading out at dawn?”
Cole nods, and you finish standing out of bed, stretching slightly. It’s almost dawn now. “Let me dress, and I’ll accompany you out. I’d like to see you off, at the very least.”
It’s effortless to strip in front of Cole. It’s like changing in front of a cat. He just squats and starts fiddling idly with the lock on your chest. “You keep secrets in here,” he comments as you yank on fresh underwear. “You keep them everywhere, but you keep a lot in here. Important ones.”
“Sure do, Cole,” you say distractedly as you fumble your way into a breast band. “That’s why there’s a lock on it.”
“My precious Dirth’len, no one can ever know. I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you warm.”
You freeze with one leg into your trousers.
“One day you’ll know, but not today, not today, I’ll—”
“Don’t poke around in there, Cole,” you say, your voice dark. He stops for a moment, and then…
“She loved you more than anything.”
“I know.” You finish yanking on your trousers. “There’s no hurt there for you to fix, Cole.”
“That’s not true,” he protests. “You wondered, when she left you again and again, if—”
“It was for both of our safety,” you snap. “Cole. Enough. My mother is no one’s business. Not even yours.”
He falls silent, but keeps fiddling with the lock on your chest as you yank on a shirt and tunic, pull your hair back into a bun, and then, as an afterthought, pull on a hat you’d picked up in Val Royeaux. It’s knit, and a dark, dull green that will no doubt fade with washing, but it’s somewhat stylish and, more importantly, warm and bulky enough to contain both your hair and your ears without awkward bulging. It’s getting cold out there, and everyone already knows you’re an elf. Your pride won’t matter if your damn ears fall off from frostbite.
“Let’s see you off then, tesoro,” you say with a heavy sigh. “Do you know how long you’ll be gone?”
“They don’t know. Days, or weeks. The trip won’t be long, but what will be waiting for him?” Cole replies, and you sigh again. Not even a time frame. Just like with Bull and the Chargers, you’ll be left metaphorically standing on a widow’s peak, fluttering your scarf dramatically into the wind and wondering when your friends will come home. If they’ll come home.
“We’ll be okay,” Cole attempts to reassure you. “And so will you. Solas will be here.”
“I’d rather have you,” you grumble, slipping your hand into his as the two of you exit the somewhat-warm building into the freezing pre-dawn air. But you are relieved that Solas isn’t leaving as well. You won’t even deny it. You would be extra frantic if Solas was going. You know, logically, that he can take care of himself, but the man is still flesh and blood, something Cole has an advantage on. As a spirit, he can still be destroyed, but he’s a bit more resilient to death than most. Solas, like all mortals, is always just one well-placed blade away from death.
The progression out of Skyhold is already preparing when you and Cole arrive. You see the Inquisitor towards the front, adjusting the saddle on his horse. Cassandra notices you damn near immediately, her eyes latching onto the figure you and Cole must cut, standing in the cold winter air side-by-side, hands naturally latched together. She immediately frowns darkly, but then seems to catch herself. Her eyes flick to yours, and you keep your expression carefully neutral. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, almost like a nervous habit, then glances away. She returns to her work with her blade.
You wonder if Cole is in any danger from her. Immediate danger probably not, but… it’s possible she’s just looking for an excuse to murder him. She is a Seeker. You know little of the order, but none of it is good.
“Cassandra won’t kill me unless I need to be killed,” Cole assures you, but it does little for your nerves.
“I don’t like to think about what she considers ‘needing it,’” you grumble under your breath, not wanting anyone to overhear. “Be careful, tesoro.”
“Stutter! I should be surprised!” comes Varric’s cheerful voice. “Here to see your little spirit boyfriend off? I thought Mabel might have kept you away.”
“Mabel?” you begin to ask, but your voice is cut off by a loud barking.
FUCK.
You duck behind Cole as “Mabel,” apparently the name of Hawke’s wretched Mabari, comes bounding over. She butts her head into his stomach—that’s how unnaturally huge they are—and he playfully ruffles her ears.
“She likes you,” Cole comments, but you note that he blocks her with a hand when she tries to duck around him to get at you. “Be good,” he says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking to the dog and not you. She sits down and tilts her head, whining slightly. You clutch to the back of Cole’s shirt, shaking like a leaf, but Cole seems to have more control over the dog than fucking Hawke had, at least.
“Oh good, are you two making nice?”
Goddamnit. Speak of a demon and one will appear…
Hawke.
“She doesn’t bite unless I tell her to! Go on, you can pet her.”
You try not to glare from where you hide behind Cole’s shoulder. Fortunately, Cole answers for you. “She’s allergic.” Maker’s breath, he’s capable of lying?
Hawke blinks, no doubt taking in the fact you’re actively hiding behind Cole, moving around behind him so that the spirit is always between you and the dog as she bounds around cheerfully from person to person.
“Must be one serious allergy,” he comments, then directs his focus to you again. “You and Fenris play nice, hmm? He breaks easy,” he says with a lascivious grin that you wish you could smack off his face… if only that wouldn’t result in serious injury on your part. Fortunately, he turns and mounts up, and it seems like most of the party is, so you’re spared from replying.
Unfortunately, that means it’s time for brief goodbyes to Varric and Cole. Cole, you note, doesn’t seem to be intending to ride a horse, though there is a dark colored horse with no rider, you note. You help Varric up onto his almost-a-pony and make sure not to let yourself cry until the portcullis is closed behind them.