Tags: Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Making Out/Heavy Petting, things that are technically not sex by most definitions but are definitely more than a handshake, Accidents
Word count: 4,408
Explicit
[AO3]
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"Over?" Brosca whispers, the space between their mouths barely more than a breath.
"Hm?"
Brosca pushes at his shoulder lightly, nudges at his hip with his knee on the same side, tilts his head, their noses barely brushing each other's cheeks.
"My turn?"
That's more clear. And Alistair likes the idea a lot, so he nods, leans in to give a quick, firm peck to the corner of Brosca's mouth before rolling off of him, landing heavily on his back, tugging Brosca along with him by his loose shirt.
Brosca doesn't follow though. Not immediately, at least. He pauses on his knees first, grabbing the thin pillow he previously rested on from behind him, slipping it under Alistair's head instead. He runs his hand through Alistair's hair, fluffs and adjusts the pillow until he's sure that he's comfortable before finally, finally swinging his leg over and straddling him around the middle, tucking his knees in against Alistair's ribs. Holds him tight and steady between his strong legs, pins him with his weight.
And Alistair, because he's been feeling a lot braver about this whole thing lately, puts his hands on Brosca's thighs the moment he's settled. Squeezes carefully, so he can feel the give of the fabric and the flesh beneath it. The flexing muscles and the well-earned fat that protects them, thumbs pressing into the tender place where his thighs meet each other, where the fabric of his trousers are worn thin from all their walking. It's something that would have seemed impossible just two weeks ago, a liberty he never could have imagined taking, but it feels so wonderfully easy, now.
Above him, Brosca sighs.
"That's good," he says, cupping Alistair's face in his hands and bending down, "keep doing that."
Brosca's dark hair, loose for once and still wavy from the braid it spent all day held in, falls around both of their faces like a curtain as he presses his lips to Alistair's again, slips his tongue into Alistair's mouth with an unfathomable confidence, a certainty that Alistair can't help but envy.
He drags his hands down a little, towards Brosca's knees, then back up. Squeezes, strokes with his thumbs. It's all guessing. Everything he does when it's just the two of them is. A guess at what might feel good, at what's acceptable, at what Brosca will allow of him and just as often, what he'll allow of himself.
And apparently a correct guess, this time. Brosca squirms a bit over top of him, hums pleasantly into his open mouth, and Alistair feels terribly proud of himself.
He moves his hands to Brosca's hips, squeezes. Down to his knees, squeezes. Up again and kneads, firmly as he dares, into the inner middle of his thighs, and is rewarded with a low moan and the subtle widening of Brosca's stance, a shift of his hips that adds just that much more weight, presses just that much more of himself against Alistair's body. He can feel the heat of him even through all their layers of clothing, and if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, he would gasp.
Brosca breaks away after a moment, pants softly as he catches his breath. Eyes half-lidded, face warm and open and Alistair still can't believe it, can't believe any of it. That he could be so lucky, that it was even happening at all. Something bright and rare among all the darkness, and of all the things it could choose to want it chose him.
"Hi." He says. He's not really sure why, it just slips out. Hi. How ridiculous. He's being- he's being a fool.
Brosca grins, laughs. A quiet sound, always, like it gets caught somewhere in his throat on the way up, like it's something he only learned how to do very, very recently.
Alistair wishes he could bottle it.
"Hi," Brosca says in return, tender and fond, thumbs petting gently along Alistair's cheekbones.
Alistair has never, in his life, missed something nearly as much as he misses the feeling of Brosca's tongue in his mouth right now, and the worst part is he can't do anything about it. Brosca's weight and position astride his chest prevents him from surging up to kiss him again, and his own shyness prevents him from reaching up and pulling Brosca down until they meet.
He could... ask, of course, but it just feels too momentous a task, too great of a something for his body to contain. "Please kiss me again right now or I will die," he'll say, and then he will, the strain of admitting that he wants that strongly forcing his heart to give out right here on the floor of Brosca's tent, right on top of his blankets and pillow and surrounded by all of his few earthly possessions.
Focus.
Brosca runs the broad pad of his thumb over Alistair's bottom lip, and Alistair truly doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. He ducks his head, presses a firm kiss to the base of his thumb, then the palm of his hand, the thin skin of his wrist. Just to keep his mouth doing something, to keep himself busy so he doesn't start babbling and ruin everything, so he has something to do other than just lie there, to spare himself the agony of waiting, to-
He opens his eyes when he notices Brosca's sudden stillness, finds him looking down with his head tilted, lips slightly parted, face unreadable.
"What?"
Brosca blinks slowly, straightens a little, as if coming back to himself.
"It's nothing," he says, but he sounds distracted, like he's still thinking of nothing, whatever nothing is.
Slowly, he traces the seam of Alistair's mouth with his fingertips, corner to corner and then back again, lingering in the middle. Just touching for the sake of touching, as if he just wanted to see what it would feel like. His expression is thoughtful, distant.
"Doesn't seem like nothing," Alistair says, trying for funny but coming out more breathless than anything. More overcome than he expected himself to be just from a bit of kissing and Brosca's gentle fingers against his moving lips.
Brosca does something surprising then: he hesitates. Visibly, obviously. He chews at the inside of his mouth, drums his fingers gently against Alistair's lips. Tap, tap, tap.
"Can I-" he pauses, shifts, plants his hands on either side of Alistair's head and pushes himself up on them. Towering over him, boxing him in. "-um, can I try something?"
Alistair can hardly believe what he's seeing. Usually it's him who is shy, him who hesitates. Here especially, but elsewhere too. Brosca doesn't hesitate. He chooses what he's going to do and he does it, he doesn't doubt himself. He's reserved at times but he isn't- Alistair would never have described him as shy.
Maybe that should worry him, he thinks, hands flexing against Brosca's thighs, this sudden nervousness. Maybe he's about to suggest something terrible.
...but he doubts it. Brosca's suggestions are always so good. He's never once regretted following one. Choosing to trust rather than doubt.
"Sure?"
Brosca shifts nervously, reaches up to tuck his hair back on one side, revealing the silver hoops that hang from the shell of his ear, the pretty, narrow sideburn that runs in front of it.
"And if you don't like it, of course, you can-"
"I know."
He nods, calm but oddly serious, in that sweet lovely way he gets sometimes. Still bracing on one hand, he curls the fingers of the other under Alistair's chin, thumb hovering over his lips, close enough that he can feel the heat off his skin or at least, imagine that he can.
"Open?"
Alistair raises his eyebrows, but does as he's told.
Brosca stares for a moment, unreadably, then clears his throat.
"Little more?"
Obediently, Alistair parts his lips a little further, and after a last moment of hesitation, Brosca tentatively presses his thumb in-between them, past his teeth, into his mouth, lets the flat of it rest against Alistair's tongue.
He's not sure, really, what it was he was expecting to happen, but it certainly wasn't that. He tenses at first, out of surprise, then relaxes, once it's clear that is, in fact, exactly what Brosca meant to do.
It's... odd. A strange thing to do, a strange thing to have happen to you. He swallows around the digit best he can, out of reflex more than anything, notes the shape of it and the taste of his skin.
It strikes him as kind of silly, after a moment, and he almost laughs, before the look on Brosca's face stops him short.
Eyes wide and dark, lips slightly parted. He looks... utterly, almost impossibly transfixed. Focused, as if there's something terribly interesting about the sight of his thumb in Alistair's mouth. As if it's not possible for him to look anywhere else, and he wouldn't, even if he could. He looks the way Alistair felt the first time he got to see him with his shirt off, got to kiss along his collarbone and touch his stomach and his breasts and the lovely muscles of his back.
It makes Alistair want to squirm.
"This okay?" Brosca asks. Voice low and rough, as if Alistair's just finished kissing half the life out of him.
Alistair nods as much as he can, given the position he's in. He doesn't hate it, or anything. It's not uncomfortable or even particularly unpleasant. He's just not sure he really understands what the point of it is. Doesn't see the appeal.
Brosca clearly does though. Even in the low light, he can see the sudden quickness of Brosca's breath, the open wanting in his face. He cups Alistair's jaw with the free part of his hand, tilting his head back slightly, exposing his throat. He pulls his thumb back a bit, presses it back in, sweeps it slowly from side to side over the soft, wet muscle of his tongue. Like he's trying to feel as much of it as possible, map out all its curves and edges. It reminds him of the careful, exploratory touches he sneaks up under Alistair's shirt when they kiss.
Experimentally, Alistair presses back with his tongue, slides it along the pad and lets it settle in the crease under the knuckle, and Brosca's response is immediate. His middle flexes as if he's just been struck. Sharp inhale, eyes widening, a faint noise emanating from the back of his throat that he can only think to describe as a squeak.
He definitely understands the appeal of that.
"Do that again."
His voice is so hushed, a gasp more than a demand, faintly nervous and almost reverent. Alistair's never heard him sound like that, he's never heard anyone sound like that, and he likes it so much he has no idea what to do with himself, other than what's been asked of him. He runs the tip of his tongue along the outside edge of Brosca's thumb, listens to his breath catch.
They fall into a sort of rhythm, after a bit. Brosca rocks his thumb in and out of Alistair's mouth, feeling along his teeth occasionally but mostly pressing straight down the middle, and on the thrust in Alistair moves to meet him. Smoothing and wrapping his tongue along the length of the finger, feeling out the pad and the knuckle and the edge of the nail until he pulls away again.
It's nice, really, now that he's had some time with it. Like kissing. Slow, deep kissing, like they were doing earlier. Except with more fingers, of course, one fewer tongue. And he has a better look at Brosca's pretty round face, the silvery glint off of his dark eyes as he watches Alistair's mouth with rapt attention.
He closes his mouth and sucks gently, feels Brosca's hand twitch against his jaw, the fingers of the other tighten in the blanket by his head, causing the fabric to bunch. He releases the thumb, lets his jaw go lax again, loose and open and Brosca presses in once, twice, before pulling away entirely, replacing the removed digit with his mouth with barely enough time in between for Alistair to take a breath.
It's a slow kiss, tender, Brosca's mouth softly parted against his spit-slick lips while his wet thumb smears across Alistair's cheek, but it doesn't go any deeper than that. No teeth, no tongue, Alistair's mouth is left empty and open as he pulls away, breathing out as Brosca breathes in.
"That was nice," he says, dumbly, once his voice comes back to him.
"Was it?"
Alistair nods. Hums a note that turns halfway into a moan deep in his chest as Brosca's hands slip back further, fingers kneading sweetly at the base of his skull and thumbs tucking behind his ears as if they were meant to go there, as if the entire purpose of Alistair's head was that it would one day rest in Brosca's strong hands just like this.
"Can I keep going?"
He nods again, runs his tongue over his teeth before parting his lips expectantly. Brosca leaves one hand cupped warmly at the back of his skull, looks down with hungry eyes as he presses the pointer and middle fingers of the other into Alistair's mouth and- oh.
It's a lot. A lot of fingers, a lot of- just a lot. For just a moment, he worries it might even be too much. Too intimate. More than he's ready to handle.
Alistair grips Brosca's thighs to steady himself, swallows around the fingers again, almost whimpers at the way it feels, at the way he can just barely manage it. There's this ache between his legs that he's been ignoring, full and heavy and he's suddenly very aware of it, has to resist the urge to buck uselessly into the air, into nothing. Press his thighs together and-
He spreads his knees to deny himself that friction, plants his heels and wills himself to be still, a difficult enough task even under normal circumstances.
"Still good?" Brosca asks, and Alistair is nodding before he's even finished saying those two words.
He starts moving, shallow in and out thrusts of his fingers and Alistair's eyes slip closed without him meaning for them to, toes curling in his boots. It feels good. Unexpectedly so very, very good.
Brosca makes a sweet noise under his breath, and his thrusts become more daring, less shallow. Alistair tries to return to the old pattern, meet Brosca's fingers with his tongue on the press in, run his tongue along them in all the ways he's discovered feel good, but there's so much less room now. Two fingers is so much, his mouth is so full, all that he can really do is focus on keeping his jaw loose and lap lightly at Brosca's fingertips as he pulls away. Let Brosca hold him steady and still with one cupped hand and rock in and out of him with the other.
This feels like sex, he thinks, and the thought surprises him, because how would he know? More accurate, maybe, to say that this is what he always figured sex would feel like. Hoped it would feel like. He feels... held, feels safe and warm and good. Loved. It feels like Brosca loves him.
It's not sex though, he's very certain of that. They're both wearing too many of their clothes right now, for one thing. But something about that is disappointing. It's ridiculous, but some part of him wishes this was sex. That it counted.
Movement outside. Footsteps. A shift in the light, distant laughter, the panting of a mabari as it gracelessly sprints past the tent. Usually Alistair tenses at even the slightest reminder that they are not alone here in camp, but right now, frankly, he couldn't care less. Wynne could poke her head in through the tent flap and he might not even care then. He's too caught up in the look on Brosca's face, in watching him watch him. He can't imagine that there's anything more important to think about, or that anything worth caring about exists beyond the waxed canvas walls that surround them.
"You are so beautiful," Brosca whispers, dragging the pads of his fingers along the full length of Alistair's tongue in both directions in a slow, sensual motion that makes them both shiver, fingertips bumping against the inside edges of Alistair's teeth.
And that does make him whimper. Not a very dignified noise, but he can't help it, it hits him just right, hits him at exactly the right moment, he feels it in his spine and his hands and low, low in his gut.
Usually he argues a little, when Brosca says things like that to him, or deflects. He doesn't mean to really, it's just an instinct. No, you're beautiful, or you're a terrible flirt, Warden Brosca, I'll have to report you. But he can't, not right now, not with his mouth busy like it is. More interesting, even if he could, he doesn't think he'd want to. He imagines it for a moment, how he must look from Brosca's perspective, head tilted back and eyes soft and the white of his teeth against the dark ink at the base of Brosca's fingers, and finds that for once, he actually agrees with his assessment.
"I- I love the way you sound," he says, halting and earnest, "you make the prettiest noises when I touch you, you know that? You feel- I'm so lucky. I love you so much."
He sounds distant as he speaks, distracted. Like he's not even thinking about what he's saying, just saying whatever comes to mind, whatever series of words manages to make it to his half-awed mouth. It makes Alistair feel fuzzy, his thoughts growing sort of soft and quiet as he slides one hand up Brosca's thigh to instead grip at the front of his shirt. Anchor himself, keep himself from floating away.
Brosca presses in, deeper than any time previously, almost to the third knuckle, and it feels- he can't think much around the warm buzzing in his head, the only word that comes to mind is full. He feels full, filled up, and for some reason the thought makes him moan low and wantonly in a way that would probably embarrass him if he still cared.
Brosca answers with a little cut-off gasp of his own, rolls his hips against him in a way that, judging by the faltering look on his face, feels really, really good.
He presses in again, a little roughly, like he isn't paying very much attention. Presses in so deep that he can't go any deeper, that there's nowhere else to go. His palm meets Alistair's lower lip, knuckles knock against his teeth, and-
-Alistair gags, chokes on the foreign intrusion. The muscles of his throat and body flexing and working of their own accord as Brosca freezes, eyes going wide.
It's alarming, in the way that choking always is. Terrifying. But at the same moment the fear hits him there's also this heavy throb between his thighs, and his hips buck hard and desperate into the air, heels digging into the ground for better leverage. Yanks hard enough with the hand fisted in Brosca's shirt that it threatens to tear the fabric but he doesn't care. Can't care. He can feel it. The edge. Just barely, within reach, fingertips mapping it out in the dark, and he's so close. So full and so warm, held steady by the hand at the back of his neck and the weight slung over his chest and if he could just- if there was only- if there was just a little bit more he could-
"Fuck."
Brosca snatches his hand away like he's been burned, the speed leaving Alistair dizzy, coughing weakly as he struggles to catch his breath, to wrap his head around the sudden absence
"Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry." Brosca says, touching his face frantically but gently, worrying over him. "I'm so sorry, I- I didn't mean to- are you okay? I'm so sorry, Alistair. I-"
He looks horrified with himself. Guilty, like he's done something awful. It makes it very difficult for Alistair to continue taking deep, careful breaths past the spasming in his throat, like he knows he should be.
"I'm fine," he says, trying to be reassuring but realizing as he speaks that the strain and rough wheeze in his voice is probably undercutting the message somewhat, "It's alright. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
Maker, he sounds devastated. Alistair inhales deeply, swallows, nods.
"Promise." He reaches up, squeezes his wrist, "You didn't hurt me. I promise."
Brosca must believe him, because his shoulders sag a little, relief washing over his features. Alistair swallows again, the motion difficult and thick. All the warmth and sweetness from before is gone, replaced with anxiety and discomfort, a disorientation he can only compare to walking down stairs in the dark and missing one. The feeling in your gut after you've caught yourself.
"I- let me get off you."
You don't have to, he thinks, but he doesn't say it.
You could have kept going, he thinks also, but that thought scares him a little, if he's being honest. The thought of Brosca... pausing just long enough to let him catch his breath, petting at his cheek and whispering something sweet and comforting before continuing on as he had been, fingers moving in and out and rubbing tenderly along his tongue and teeth even as his throat shuddered and the heat built between his thighs and-
He coughs again, chest aching from how deep it is. It brings a firm end to the fantasy.
Brosca dismounts him carefully, like he's very delicate, easily broken. Frowns when Alistair sits up and starts coughing again, despite his best efforts not to.
"Alistair-"
Alistair waves him off, but Brosca looks doubtful still, hands stubbornly pressed into his thighs as if stopping himself from reaching out, as if he's unsure as to whether more touching would help or hurt. Alistair sighs, leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, runs the knuckles of one hand along his cheek, careful not to touch the brand and set off another wave of awful feelings for him.
He tenses for a second, then calms, presses into the two points of contact between them. Alistair can't see it, but he thinks he can feel it, somehow, the moment that Brosca's eyes slip closed.
Combing Brosca's hair back with one hand, the other resting, not gripping and not restraining, at the back of his neck, Alistair shifts to kiss between his eyebrows, right where they bunch and form lines when he's upset, then the low bridge of his nose. Left temple, right temple, velvet cheek and rounded jaw.
Simple comfort and reassurance at first, but by the time he's reached the tender hollow beneath Brosca's ear it's like before, earlier in the evening, when they first started. Heat building, the pattern of Brosca's breath changing into something more exciting as Alistair kisses at his neck, nudges the neckline of his shirt aside with his fingers so he can trace his collarbone. Brosca's hands, more certain, more bold, press to his chest and waist, trace patterns with his fingers that Alistair can feel down in the marrow of his bones, pluck at his shirt like he's frustrated by it's very existence.
But then he pauses, exhales slowly, long and drawn out. The sort of thing you do when you're very worked up, need to come back down to even begin to think straight. Alistair is very familiar with the experience.
"It's late."
Alistair sighs against the faint scar that runs up the side of Brosca's throat. He sounds just as disappointed as Alistair feels, but he's right. And Alistair has his watch early in the morning, Brosca right after. He should sleep. Both of them should. Objectively, a full night's rest is much more important than a few extra minutes of kissing and rolling around in the dark with their hands up each other's shirts. Certainly, it would put a lot more towards their continued survival, their ability to focus on the potentially world-ending task at hand, not to mention their little band's very impressive three straight days without an argument over breakfast.
However.
"Just for a little bit?" he asks, leaning back to get a better look at Brosca's face, which frowns at him. "What? I don't get a kiss goodnight?"
Brosca opens his mouth, closes it, tries to give him a serious look, but fails quite miserably. Its adorable.
"For a little bit." He agrees, as if he has no choice but to relent in the face of Alistair's very compelling argument.
He leans in to kiss Alistair on the lips, a peck really, close-mouthed and soft, then pulls away for only a moment before doing it again. Then a third time. Then, despite what are clearly Brosca's best efforts otherwise, it turns into real kissing again, mouths half-parted and slotting against each other. Alistair's hands dropping back to his waist and thigh as Brosca's come up to hold his face, tilting him this way and that until the angle is perfect, thumb lingering tantalizingly close to the corner of Alistair's mouth.
Alistair pulls back after a moment, Brosca following about half the distance before finally stopping himself.
He lets his jaw drop open before Brosca can protest, raises his eyebrows in invitation, and Brosca stills, breath catching in his throat.
Up on their knees like this, the light is different than when they're laying down, low and near the earth where it's dark, and he can better see the pink flush high up in Brosca's cheeks. We match, Alistair thinks, feeling warm and just the tiniest bit nervous, jittery almost, as he waits to see if Brosca will take him up on his silent offer.
Brosca stares, hesitates only a moment longer before slipping his thumb into Alistair's mouth, black eyes darting up and down again, checking that he's sure, that what he's doing is alright, still. That it's all okay.
Alistair blinks at him slowly in confirmation, squeezes at Brosca's thigh as he shifts up on his knees for a better angle.
"I'll be more careful this time," Brosca promises, voice gentle and low.
Alistair drops his hand in his lap, considers. Brosca is not the first person he’s ever met with tattoos, but she’s the only one he could safely consider himself a friend to, that he was familiar enough with that he could ask questions, and he’s always wondered…
Well, this would be the time to ask, now wouldn’t it?
“So,” he says, leaning back on his elbows, “how does it work?”Â
“How does what work?”
That’s what one of the things Alistair likes about him, he’s easy to start a conversation with. If he just starts talking during a quiet moment, Brosca will just talk back, or listen, or tell him very directly that now isn’t a good time. His lack of subtlety also leaves little room for doubt, and Alistair appreciates that. Guessing can get tiresome, and on top of that, he often guesses wrong.
“In your eyebrow, the piercings. Do they just go straight in?”
Brosca looks puzzled, the eyebrows in question pulled in towards each other.
“Straight in. Like towards my skull?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Sorry, I’m sure it’s a stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid,” she says, quickly, frowning at him a little, “I just wanted to make sure I understood. No, that’s not how it works. They-” she pauses, thoughtful, “-well, it’s not two piercings, first of all. It’s just the one.”
“Just one?”
She nods, gestures vertically at her eyebrow with her pinky,Â
“It’s a bar. It goes in one side and out the other.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He does believe her, no reason not to. But he knew saying it with that inflection would make her laugh.
It does. A short, small noise, under her breath. He would never admit it, but he feels so proud of himself when he hears it, so thrilled.Â
“Alistair,” she says, flatly, with an air of false seriousness, “I would never lie to you.”
“Especially not about something so serious.”
“Exactly.”
(Maker, he’s funny. It drives him mad that he tries to insist that he’s not funny. He wonders who told him that, because he really can’t imagine having spent any length of time with Brosca and not coming away with the thought that he is hilarious.)
Brosca pauses for a moment, cocks his head in consideration, then turns to face Alistair straight-on, shuffling closer and then folding his legs beneath him. He leans in, eyes averted slightly so they don’t meet Alistair’s directly, balances his elbow on his knee and his chin in that same palm.
Alistair lifts an eyebrow at her.
“So you can get a better look,” she explains, tilting her head so the right side of her face is closer to him than the left.
He hesitates for a moment before pushing himself upright, leaning in a bit to get a better look. It still really looks to him like two studs, one above her eyebrow and one beneath. He reaches up without thinking and then stops, hand hovering in the air.
“Can I-”
“You can touch,” she says, “it feels pretty cool, actually, the metal under the skin and all.”
He nods, folds his legs up too, shins crossed, so he can get closer.Â
There’s barely any space between them, the distance between their bent knees couldn’t be wider than the length of his fingers. Sitting this close to her makes all his nerves light up, and touching her feels almost like bravery, like he’s doing something risky and daring.Â
He presses his one hand into the grass beneath them to steady himself as he leans in, traces her eyebrow with the pointer finger of the other, inside to outside, feels the bump of the piercing as his finger passes over it. He pulls away a little, pokes at the exposed metal, and she leans back.
“Gentle.”
He mumbles a quiet apology, then nudges the metal again, much more carefully this time, watches the way it shifts.Â
That makes more sense. He can understand the shape of it now, a silver bar, capped by a ball at each end, which is why it looked to him, from a distance, like two piercings pressed directly into the flesh.
“Huh,” he says, framing the piercing with his pointer and middle finger so he can feel and see the way it fits under her skin, “you’re right, that is cool.”
“Told you.”
“And they put that in you with a needle?”
“Big one,” she confirms, and the length she indicates with her fingers makes him sweat, “thick too.”
“Ouch?”
She shrugs.
“Wasn’t that bad. It’s over quickly.”
Alistair simply can’t imagine letting anyone get that close to his eye with a sharp object. Let alone multiple sharp objects over and over again, as she clearly has, given the tattoo beside where his fingers rest. He’s never really been able to make out the design before, her hair often partially obscures it, and her distaste for eye contact means that he’s usually making an attempt to look elsewhere (nose, forehead, between her eyebrows. Not her mouth if he can help it, but he often finds his gaze drifting there nonetheless).Â
It’s simple in shape, a stripe of dark purple ink about two fingers wide that cuts vertically through her eyebrow and ends in a pointed slant about halfway up her forehead. Solid in color except for a geometric spiral of uninked skin in the middle. It reminds him of the engraved blade of a knife that he saw at the stall of a dwarven woman last time he was in Denerim.
Alistair drops his hand in his lap, considers. Brosca is not the first person he’s ever met with tattoos, but she’s the only one he could safely consider himself a friend to, that he was familiar enough with that he could ask questions, and he’s always wondered…
Well, this would be the time to ask, now wouldn’t it?
“I have another question.”
“Anything.”
Anything. He believes her too. He could ask her anything he wanted, and she’d give a clear, direct answer. Earnest and gentle in its delivery, unmocking. She would never tease him in a way that hurts.
It catches him off guard every single time he realizes it. He’s never had someone he could ask anything to before. Someone he felt comfortable enough with, and who liked him enough that they could just talk in the way he talks with her. He still doesn’t quite know what to do with it. How to hold the feeling, it's- odd. And terrifying. And he really, really likes it.
“What does it feel like? Your tattoos, I mean.” She cocks her head, “After they heal? I imagine there’s a texture, what with ink in your skin and all, but I’ve never touched one so I don’t know and I’ve always, well I’ve always wondered and it-” he clears his throat. Too much. Too many words. He’s babbling. “-well, since we’re here I thought I’d ask.”
She looks at him confused, but like he’s said something funny, also.
“It doesn’t feel like anything. It's just skin.”
This time he really doesn’t believe her, but keeps that to himself.
“May I?”
She nods, and he reaches up again, smoothes his fingers across the ink above her eyebrow, and finds that it really doesn’t feel like much of anything. The skin is just smooth, healed and whole, there’s no difference between inked and uninked skin that he can detect. If he had his eyes closed, he wouldn’t even know.Â
Which is, admittedly, exactly what she told him, and he feels a little bad for doubting her.
“Huh.” he says, “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What did you think it would feel like?”
“Rough, I suppose? Or, slick, the way scars are sometimes.”
“Tattoos don’t usually scar, not if you’re being careful and taking care of it after. Anything else?”
He hums, thinking, traces over the shape with one finger.
“I like it,” he says, approvingly, and he swears she turns a little pink in response.
“Thank you.”
“Does it mean something?” he asks, “I’ve heard that dwarven tattoos tend to mean things.”
“It might? I’m not sure. I chose it because-” a pause, like she’s embarrassed, “-it’s the same design as Gherlen the Bloodrisen had. You can see it on his statue.”
“Gherlen the Bloodrisen?”
“One of our Paragons. He was born casteless, but he was also a great warrior, the Assembly recognized that and named him a living Paragon, then after that, he became king,” she smiles lopsidedly, “Rica used to tell me stories about that. They were my favorite, growing up. I always really admired him.”
She’s definitely blushing now, but he can’t imagine why. It’s such a charming story. And it’s clearly very, big. Very important to her. It makes him a little sad that she would find telling him about it so embarrassing.
“Cool.”
Brosca smiles bigger then, with his teeth, and Alistair’s stomach flips. He rarely shows his teeth, unless he’s very happy, and very unguarded. Comfortable. He’s honored.
He passes his fingertips over the tattoo again and- okay, he really is just touching her for no reason now. But she doesn’t seem to mind (he’s confident that if she minded she would have said something, she always does) and he- well, he doesn’t really want to stop. Her eyes close for a moment as he brushes his thumb over her brow, or else she just blinks very slowly. It’s hard to know for sure.
He shifts his fingers to her temple, resting there for a moment before continuing down to her cheek, following the narrow line of soft hair that grows down past her ear. She once privately lamented to him about her inability to grow a full beard, and he thinks it’s too bad that this would be a place of disappointment for her. He likes her little sideburns, neat and angular and well-maintained, thinks they make her look terribly handsome.
Alistair wishes he was brave enough to tell her that.
He traces over her cheekbone. The tattoo below her eye is very different than the one above it. Rough edges, unevenly dark ink, slightly raised, textured to the touch. It feels more like he expected the other one to, like a scar.Â
A thick, deep, nasty scar.Â
Brosca tenses almost the moment he touches it, but he only realizes that after several seconds have passed, and he feels absolutely horrible for it.
“Sorry-”
“Oh, no it’s fine, I just wasn’t expecting you to-” she pauses, shakes her head, “You just surprised me,” she says, “You can touch it. It’s fine.”
The way she says “it” strikes him as odd. Different than the way she talks about her piercings and other tattoos, almost as if the marking on her cheek isn’t really part of her, not in the same way everything else is. Like it's a wound.Â
He puts his fingers back where they were, hesitantly, and traces the shape. A rectangle with a sort of sideways “s” in the center. Simple and large, imprecise.Â
“This one’s different.”
“It was done with a knife,” she explains, and his fingers stop, linger in place, “Casteless are branded when we’re young, so we can’t hide it. You get taken to a servant-caste who does it as a job, they make the mark, work ink in, then a bandage, some elfroot if you’re lucky, and send you home.”
Alistair’s stomach twists into a tight knot. The only thing worse than what she’s describing is the completely calm way that she describes it. Branded. Casually, as if the word has no weight. As if it’s nothing, to be a child and have a grown man with a knife scar you. It’s normal. It happens every day.
He imagines her small and scared, bloodied, and feels sick. He knew that she’s casteless, knew a little bit about what that meant, but only because she told him. He’s wondered before how it is that other people, dwarves especially, can always seem to tell that she’s casteless just by looking at her. He supposes that now he has his answer.
 She leans in a little, cheek pressing into his fingertips.
“I don’t remember it,” she says, as if to reassure him, as if that makes it better, “I was too little.”
“How old were you?”
“Two or three. That’s about the age it happens for everyone. Old enough that it’s clear you’re going to make it, but not too old that the guards think your parents are trying to get out of having it done. You get in trouble if you wait too long.”
“Brosca, that’s terrible.”
She gets very quiet for a moment, then shrugs. Looks away.
“Nothing to be done about it now.”
Alistair feels awful for her, he can’t imagine- but he doesn’t know how to say that. Not without risking sounding condescending, or pitying. He doesn’t want to do that to her, he knows what it feels like, how awful it is. Being pitied, being talked down to like you aren’t already aware of what you are. He knows that she’s likely experienced more than enough of that in her life as it is.
He reaches down, taps the back of her right hand where it rests in her lap. There are bands of black ink, about as wide as a pinky nail, positioned like rings between the first and second knuckles of each of her fingers. These markings he knows for sure are something she chose for herself, something she continues to choose. The long nights she spends by the fire letting Zevran put needles in her are proof of that.
“And what’s all this about?”
She blinks, then smiles a little, pleased, proud in the same soft way she was when they were talking about her piercings, her other ink, and Alistair feels himself relax. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it's changing the subject to something lighter.
“It doesn’t have a specific name or anything but, if you work with your hands, you get ink on them. Warriors, smiths, tailors, pleasure workers… mostly the first two, though. I’m hoping to have all my fingers done eventually, but that takes time.”
He hums, lifts her left hand carefully so he can get a closer look. Every finger on her right is tattooed, and her left looks almost naked in comparison. It was just her thumb and pointer finger when they first met, but now there’s a band on the middle finger as well, and two lines on her ring finger, an outline waiting to be filled in later.Â
Unlike the first two, the mark on her middle finger is not solid black. Instead, uninked skin makes the shape of several four-pointed stars around the circumference.
“Zev’s idea,” she says, “said he just wanted to try it, and he’d fill it in if I didn’t like it.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
Brosca’s hand twitches subtly when Alistair’s thumb passes over his knuckles, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem like he wants to, either. In fact, he doesn’t really seem to have realized it happened. An involuntary motion, then. Like a shiver.
WIthout meaning to, he imagines running his hands up and down Brosca’s arms, dragging his fingertips down over the soft insides of his wrists, just to see if he’ll shiver then, too. Goosebumps rising on his forearms, a sharp intake of breath, dark eyes looking up at him as if to ask-
Stop, Alistair tells himself, stop it.
“He’d probably do something for you too, if you were interested.”
“Who, Zevran?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Oh, trust me, he’s offered.”
Brosca raises her eyebrow. He considers elaborating but- it still makes him blush a little to think about it. For some reason. It’s stupid.
“He pierces too.”
“Yeah, not interested in that either.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who isn’t interested.”
“I’m not interested for me.”
“You were just interested in mine.”
“Right.”
Something about it feels like giving away a secret. He regrets saying it as soon as it comes out of his mouth.
He’s holding her hand still. Well, not, not holding her hand, really. He’s not- her hand is resting in his, his thumb slightly overlapping her knuckles, not gripping. Just resting there, relaxed, like she has no intention of moving any time soon. Heavy and warm.
“That’s too bad,” she says, “you’d look nice with a few earrings.”
“Would I now?”
“You would,” she replies, very earnestly, “high up especially. It would really compliment the shape of your ears.”
His guts clench instinctively when she says it. He tries not to let his face match the feeling, but clearly doesn’t succeed.
“What?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” A pause. “I’m sure you’re right, I’m just generally trying not to call attention to the shape of my ears, is all.”
Brosca blinks, then gives him a sympathetic look. It makes him feel terrible, even though he knows it shouldn’t. It feels like he’s called too much attention to himself, more than he deserves.
“That didn’t occur to me.”
“Ah. Well.” He shrugs, too exaggerated, too silly, voice a little too fast, “It’s not a big deal really, I shouldn’t have-”
She squeezes his fingers once, very briefly. Lightly. He almost jumps. It’s the unexpectedness of it, more than anything, that makes him fall silent.
“You don’t have to do all of that. I understand.”
Alistair swallows. He never knows how to respond when she says things like that. You don’t have to do all that. As if she knew exactly what he was going to say, the stream of deflecting words that were about to bubble out of him, drowning everything in their path. It’s so odd, to be known well enough that you can be predicted.
“I know this isn’t the point,” she says, words a little stilted, as if she was reading aloud, “and I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but for the record, I always thought they were very pret- handsome. That they’re handsome.”
“What, my ears?”
“Yes.”
Brosca’s voice often takes on a sort of roughness when she’s uncomfortable, a low undercurrent of gravel. He’s heard it enough times now to be familiar with it. Her eyes dart away for a moment before coming back, and he would apologize except he has the strangest feeling that her discomfort doesn’t really have anything to do with him.
“I mean you are- very handsome in general, it’s not just that. Part of it, though, definitely. They’re attractive.”
Alistair feels the ears in question heat up a little, which is embarrassing. He hates how easy it is for him to blush.Â
He struggles for a moment, with what to say in response. It doesn’t help that he can’t really tell how she means it. The hopeful, and probably very stupid, part of him can’t help but think that maybe she’s- but probably she’s just being polite.Â
Well, not polite, that’s the wrong word. Nice. Sweet, even. Because he was self-deprecating. Because she’s one of the best people he’s ever known and that’s exactly something she’d do.
But if it’s the other thing then, well, he has no idea what to say next. How to proceed without making an even bigger fool of himself. He’s imagined a moment like that in his head a hundred times, but the set up was never quite like this, and he feels stuck.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He really needs to stop holding her hand. He should- this is too much. Too fast? Especially since he’s still not sure. About her feelings. About his. About what it means about him if he- About anything, really.
And he should be sure, shouldn’t he? Before he does anything? Wouldn’t it be unfair not to be?
“And thank you for answering all my silly questions,” he says, again too fast, patting her hand once before releasing it altogether, “I do appreciate it.”
Brosca’s hand sort of floats for a moment after he lets go, hovers in the air like she isn’t sure what to do with it.
“Anytime,” she says, but she sounds sort of… distant. Confused. A little lost. She flexes her fingers, returns her hand to her lap.
“Careful, I might take you up on that.”
“You should,” she says, plainly, “I meant it.”
He’ll find it eventually, the tipping point where her indulgence becomes irritation, where he stops being charming and starts being annoying, the bottom of the well of her patience. He always does. But in the meantime, he appreciates just how deep it is.
“So here is where you both disappeared to. I had almost begun to worry,” Morrigan stops at the edge of the trees, head tilted, a terrible glint in her sickly yellow eyes, “My apologies, I’m not interrupting anything, I hope?”
Morrigan’s voice is smooth and dark as always, unaffected and distant as the ocean. And as always, hearing even a single word spoken by it gets his hackles up instantly. Truly, a single note hummed by her and heard from half a mile away would be enough to ruin his entire day.
She casts him a look out of the corner of her eye, subtle and pointed. Alistair straightens his spine and shoulders, returns the glare.
Brosca seems blissfully unaware of the dark and terrible energy that’s settled over the grassy little clearing they’ve been sitting and talking in. In fact, she seems rather happy to see her,
What Brosca sees in that woman, he will never understand.
“Not at all, we were just chatting.” Brosca smiles. Close-mouthed, but unfortunately very genuine. It covers his whole face, creases the corners of his eyes in a way that would be deeply charming if it was directed at literally anyone else. “Do you need something, salroka?”
Morrigan’s eyes linger on Alistair for a moment before pulling away. Her pointed and ferret-like face softens into something almost human the moment her eyes land on Brosca, her posture shifting ever so subtly into something more open, less predatory. He might even call it friendly
“Leliana was looking for you,” she says, “I’m not sure for what, she was terribly secretive on the matter.”
Brosca looks confused, and for a few brilliant moments Alistair nearly convinces himself that Morrigan is about to be caught in a hilariously petty and embarrassing lie before he suddenly straightens up, as if having just remembered something.
“Sand, I completely forgot.” He stands (and quite gracefully too, Alistair must add. Didn’t even use his hands.), tugs at his shirt a little to settle it, “is she still by the campfire?”
“Last I spoke to her, yes she was.”
Brosca turns to him.
“This is going to take a bit. See you at dinner, yeah?”
“Very well,” he says, pulling back his shoulders back and addressing her as he would a superior officer, “I will make a list of new inane questions to present to you at that time.”
Brosca laughs, and maybe this is just wishful thinking on his part, but he swears that Morrigan scowls because of it.
“I look forward to it, salroka” she says, patting him affectionately on the shoulder as she hurries past.
Even despite the briefness of the contact, the place where her hand landed stays warm even after she’s left. He feels it under his shirt and under his skin, in his bones almost.Â
He flexes his hand, feels her there too. A ghost of her square, strong fingers and wide palms, heat and weight and shape all wrapped up in the same memory.
 He imagines, if he were braver, less prone to panic at her mere proximity, he might have taken the opportunity to kiss the ink on her fingers there, or the pale white scars on her knuckles. The inside of her wrist. Cup her face in his hands and kiss the tattoo over her eye, and the terrible scar underneath it, and-
A chill creeps up his neck as he realizes that Morrigan is still present. Lurking at the treeline. Creepily.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.”
There is a knowing look in her eyes, a smugness in her words. She always acts like she’s winning somehow. Beating him in some competition that exists only in the depths of her twisted mind, a competition he never willingly entered, and isn’t even sure the goal or parameters of.
(He thinks of Brosca napping in camp, propped up against the broad side of a massive bear, his face pressed comfortably into its brown fur. He thinks of the day it rained, and Brosca turned to him and under his hood, tucked up against his neck, was a small black bird with beady yellow eyes. His eye twitches.)
The worst part was, sometimes he thinks she might be right.
Alistair goes to stand, but his ankle is tucked too awkwardly beneath him and he falters, has to brace his palms against the ground in order to get his feet under him. All while Morrigan watches.
Because of course he does.
“Do you require assistance?”
He scowls at her.
“Why don’t you-” Deep breath, a pause as he finally hefts himself up, “-go crawl under a bush and die.”
Morrigan snorts.
“How very mature of you,” she says, turning her back to him without another word and heading back to camp.
Alistair brushes off the front of his trousers, waits for enough distance to build between them that they are unlikely to cross paths on the way, and then heads in that direction himself.
“No. No. Nuh uh.”
“Stop interrupting.”
“What happened to leaving me out of this?”
Word count: 1,163
[AO3]
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Leske throws his hands out to the sides when Brosca comes into view, eyebrows raised. Davedna’s bag dangles from his left hand, weaving lazily in the air.
“The fuck was that?”
He feels embarrassed, all of the sudden. He realizes that he really doesn’t want to explain any of it. What he was thinking, what he was feeling, what he did.Â
He loves Leske, but they’re different in a lot of ways, and he knows he won’t understand. Brosca’s tried to make him understand before, but it’s like pulling teeth. He really has no interest in trying again, at least not now, and decides to try and dismiss the topic entirely.
“It’s fine.”Â
It doesn't work.
“Not what I fucking asked! Hey, hey, hey-” Leske puts his hand on Brosca’s shoulder, spins him so they’re facing each other, “-not so fast. What’s going on?”
No luck there, then. Brosca focuses on the spot just between Leske’s eyebrows, as close to eyes as he’s ever managed to get, takes a deep breath.
“I couldn’t-”Â
He stops himself. It’s not true, he absolutely could have.Â
“Fuck kid, nobody ever wants to-” He pauses. “Okay, that’s not- some people definitely- and that’s fucked up! But for normal people it’s just work and I know you get particularly soft and up in your feelings about it but that doesn’t mean that you can just-”
“I know, Leske, I know,” he growls, frustrated, “I don’t know what else to tell you. I didn’t want to do it so I didn’t. I figured something else out and now it’s dealt with. It’s over. Okay?”
Leske gives him a familiar despairing look, like he’s a hopeless and misbehaving child, and it makes Brosca mad in a way that’s hard for him to swallow.
“Look, I left you out of it-”
 “Oh,” Leske laughs, “did you now?”
“Yes,” he says, “You were watching the street, you didn’t see or hear anything and as far as you’re concerned I did what I was supposed to do and then dumped him in a lava vent. You can play dumb, throw me under the wagon, I’ll back you up you know I will. This’ll only come down on me.”
Leske presses his palms into the middle of his forehead, like he has a headache. Closes his eyes.Â
Despite what he was thinking earlier, Brosca is gripped with the sudden, frantic desire to explain himself.
“It wasn’t right, Leske. And I know that I- I do a lot of bad things but that doesn’t mean I can only do bad things. It wasn’t the warrior’s way, and I-” ”
“Can you shut the fuck up for a second?”
Brosca bites his tongue immediately, an instinct. He almost hates that he’s done it, hates that he’s been trained so well.
Eventually, Leske sighs.
“Did you tell him to run?”
Brosca nods, then realizes he can’t see him.
“Yeah.”
“Put the fear of the Void into him first?”
“Obviously.”
Leske sighs again, much louder than before. It sounds like his lungs are giving up for good.
“Okay, okay fine let’s just- let’s just get this over with.”Â
“You don’t get to be mad at me for this,” he says, immediately regretting it, flinching at the whiny softness in his voice.
Leske mumbles something that sounds a lot like a repeat of killing me.
“I’m not mad at you.”
Brosca really doesn’t think that’s true, but it seems like he’s dropping it for now, which is good enough.
“We should get this to Beraht,” he says, gesturing with the bag, “we can uh- everything else can wait.”
Brosca shifts from foot to foot. He considers just letting it drop, not telling Leske what plan he’d thought of for the contents of that bag. He’s pushing his luck already, and luck is like a rope. You never actually know for sure how much it can take until the day it snaps.
 That’s what Leske always says, at least. Or something like that. He doesn’t remember the exact words, Leske said it much better.
But twenty-five sovereigns.
“Or…”
“Or what?”
He shrugs leadingly. He hopes it seems casual.
“Use your words.”
“We could always keep it,” he says, “I mean, Beraht probably doesn’t even know it exists, and it’s not very much, I don’t think anyone will miss i-”
“Did you hit your head on a door frame while I wasn’t looking or something?”Â
Brosca blinks.
“Excuse me?
“Start eating mushrooms out of broken jars? Breathing smoke? You stare at the lava for too long?”
“I’m not going crazy, Leske.”
He scoffs.
“Could’ve fooled me!” he says, “I mean your little-” he gestures widely with his hands, “-noble and merciful warrior moment back there is one thing, but this? Besides getting gutted by Beraht for having it, what the fuck are you going to do with a cup and a half of raw lyrium?”
“Sell it, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Shush. That’s what I need you for. I know you know people but I don’t know anybody. If you can point me out to someone who’s in the market to buy-”
“No. No. Nuh uh.”
“Stop interrupting.”
“What happened to leaving me out of this?”
“I need the money, Leske,” he says, heart jumping into his throat as saying it aloud once again makes it real.
“Yeah. Yeah you do. And I sympathize. But I’m not sticking my neck out so you can make a quick silver. I like you a lot, kid, but I don’t like you that much.”
“You would get paid too.”
“I would?”
Brosca frowns.
“Of course?”
The air feels changed, suddenly. Leske’s body language shifts. He looks at the bag in his hand, then at Brosca, eyebrow raised.
“How much are we talking here?” he tilts his head, “I get thirty, you get seventy? What?”
“No?” Brosca says, frown deepening, “Fifty-fifty, like always.”
Leske looks up and to the right for a moment, like he does whenever he's doing math in his head. He's much faster at it than Brosca is, which he's always envied. And more accurate. Even with practice, Brosca still usually ends up needing to use his fingers.
“Well, that's different,” Leske says, finally. His whole demeanor changes, and Brosca actually starts to believe that maybe he isn’t mad, “have I ever mentioned how much I like you?”
“I thought you didn't like me that much.”
Leske laughs, claps him on the shoulder. Brosca eases into the familiar feeling of having no clue whatsoever what is happening or what he's talking about. With Leske, he never knows.
“Don't be dumb, killer, you're my best friend, you know that.” He slings the bag over his shoulder. “I ever introduce you to Olinda?”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“You’ll love her. Well, she’ll love you. She’s a softy. Come on. Let's make some money.”
But how ugly it feels, to show someone a way out and then snatch it away at the last moment. How dishonorable. How un-warriorlike. How disgusting.
Word count: 1,733
[AO3]
[Previous chapter] - [Next chapter] - [Chapter 1]
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Davedna is compliant as she leads him back through the bar, the knife she has pressed against his ribs through his clothes helps ensure that.
Leske follows a few feet behind.
She’s taken care to make sure her knife isn’t visible to any of Tapster’s other patrons, but no doubt more than a few of them still understand what’s happening. It’s not a hard thing to guess.
A few people glance at them as they pass, but they look away just as quickly. They don’t stare. They know better than that.
(Brosca can’t shake the feeling that one pair of eyes followed her all the way from the back of the room to the door, but chalks it up to her own nervousness. She’s too intimidating to be looked at like that. It’s too unlikely to be true.)
“See ya,” Leske says behind them, as Brosca yanks open the door and ushers Davedna through it.
“Yeah,” Budimir replies, voice pitying, “see you around.”
Given how it’s going, Brosca doubts that’s true.
The air outside the bar is just as warm, but not nearly as wet. It smells like dirt and coal and faintly of bronto shit, which is quite a relief. Brosca relaxes into it almost instantly.
She releases Davedna’s arm for a moment so that she can signal Leske, and he tenses. It's the kind of high-keyed tension you see in animals right before they bolt, and she doesn’t like that at all. She presses her knife more harshly against his ribs with the other hand to remind him why that’s a bad idea.
(She imagines it, briefly. The aftermath of him trying to run, her digging in with the knife as he does so, him dragging his own body against the blade, cutting himself open on it and then stumbling, clutching at himself. How far would he get? How much blood would there be, how-
She shakes her head harshly, the thought dissipates.)
Middle, pointer, and thumb extended, she lifts her left hand so it can be seen over shoulder and shakes it three times. Leske grunts in acknowledgment as he shoves the door closed behind them. She chooses not to read too much into his tone.
It occurs to her that she might be making a mistake, but she grabs Davedna’s arm again and leads him down the street.
“Where-”
Another press of the knife. He goes quiet.
They go past the first alley, then the second. When they get to the third she makes a sudden right, throwing Davedna off balance briefly before she rights him, starts dragging him deeper into the soot-black shadows that fall between the buildings. Deep enough that they won’t be seen easily from the street. Deep enough that if something goes badly, they may not even be heard.
She doesn’t check over her shoulder to see if Leske’s doing as she asked. There’s no reason to expect he wouldn’t.
The air in Davedna’s chest rushes out sharply when she shoves him back against the wall. He winces, sounding genuinely pained, and she barely supresses the instinct to apologize, turning the noise into a throaty growl instead.
It brings up an odd memory, something she doesn’t think about often. Years ago, Rica chastising Leske when she thought Brosca couldn’t hear them. I hate that you encourage him to do that, she said, my brother is not an animal.
She fists one hand in his shirt, puts the knife to his throat with the other, sharp edge close to his skin, denting it without cutting, but too sudden or sharp of a movement from him will change that very quickly. And then she waits. Stands still and quiet until his eyes are on her and she can be sure he’s listening.
Once she has his attention, she pulls down her scarf so her lips are visible, speaks slowly and clearly. She doesn’t want to repeat herself.
“What are you going to do if I let you go?”
“Leave,” he says, quickly, “I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. I’ll run back to my room to get my things and-”
Brosca jostles him threateningly, snarls.
“Wrong.”
“I’ll… head straight for the door?”
She nods.
“You’re going to head for the surface straight from here,” she confirms, “you’re not going to stop, you’re not going to talk to anyone. Understand?”
“I understand. Fully. I fully understand.”
“Good. Get your hand off me.”
“What?”
She tenses her jaw. His hand is looped loosely around her wrist. It seems like it was an unconscious movement on his part, something meant to balance himself, and not an attempt to break her hold on him. Still, she doesn’t like it.
“Get your hand off my fucking wrist,” she growls out, and he jerks away from her like her skin has burned him.
He holds his hand out to the side, palm showing, smiles at her weakly. White, straight teeth on full display once again.
“Sorry,” he says, “so sorry.”
“Now pay attention.”
“I will ser, I will. One hundred percent.”
Ser rattles around in her head for a moment, like a misshapen pebble in a beggar’s cup. She keeps going.
“I was going to kill you quickly,” she tells him, “it wasn’t going to hurt. But if Beraht finds out you’re still alive, he’ll be angry, and he’ll tell the next person he sends to make it as painful and as slow as possible. Understand?”
Davedna nods. He looks a little pale, which is the proper response.
“I’ll be angry also. If Beraht doesn’t get to me before you, I’m going to be the one hurting you. Understand that?”
“Crystal clear,” he squeaks, “it-it won’t come to that. I promise. No one’s going to find out I’ll-I’ll disappear. Good as dead, you’ll never see me in Orzammar again. I’ll- you know I’ve been thinking about moving to the surface permanently anyways? Start a dry goods shop, settle down finally. Get out of the nug race once and for all. I’m not getting any younger, you know, and honestly the stress is-”
“Stop talking.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t care.”
“Sorry.”
“Why would I care about any of that?”
“I-I don’t know,” he says, bared teeth as bright as the shine in his eyes, “Sorry, I’m- sorry.”
In all honesty, she does care, to a degree. The fact that he has any plans at all suggests he’s more likely to actually do what he’s promising he’ll do. That he’ll just disappear.
Caring isn’t very threatening, though. It doesn’t encourage compliance.
Deep breath. It’s not too late, she can still go back. Kill him, end this, it would be like it never even happened.
But how ugly it feels, to show someone a way out and then snatch it away at the last moment. How dishonorable. How un-warriorlike. How disgusting. She doesn’t like what it would make her. Something that toys with its prey before it kills it.
My brother is not an animal.
Brosca untangles her hand from his shirt, takes a step back.
He seems lost at first, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that there isn’t a knife to him. A bronto belatedly realizing that it’s lost its tether, a nug finding itself, unexpectedly, for the first time in its life, outside of the pen.
“Follow the alley this way,” she says, pointing with the knife, “before it starts veering left, there’s a right turn, take it. You’ll be on a road with rounded tiles, follow it until you’re behind the baths and then go right again. There’s a vein of mountain glass beneath the street, follow it and it will spit you out right by the door. Be fast, don’t stop until you’re out.” She tilts her head at his blank look. “Do you need me to repeat that?”
That seems to snap him out of it. He shakes his head, pushes off the wall.
“No. No no! I’ve got it. Understood. Thank you, I- thank you.” He gapes at her for a moment, his eyes seem wet, “You're- you’re as kind as you are beautiful.”
She stares at him, baffled.
“Handsome?” he tries again, “is that closer? Handsome and merciful? Sorry. I don’t spend enough time down here and on the surface they don’t have- I mean, they do but its not quite the same as-”
“Shut up.”
“Right.”
“Why are you still talking?”
“That’s- right. That’s completely fair.”
He hurries past her, talking the whole time.
“May the Ancestors bless your steps, m-may your nephews be lords and kings!” He pauses in front of her briefly, then seems to think better of it. “Atrast nal tunsha, brother, atrast nal tunsha.”
Brosca watches his back as he scrambles away, to make sure he turns where she told him to.
He checks over his shoulder, just once, looks directly at her. The silver light of his eyes two pinpricks in the distant dark. And then he disappears around the corner. She listens as his footsteps grow fainter.
Atrast nal tunsha, she thinks, still a little bit shocked. May the Ancestors bless your steps.
Neither are common phrases in Dust Town. The latter for obvious reasons, most casteless believe as the castes above them do, that they have no Ancestors to bless them. The former is not so clear, maybe just so few of them speak the old language that it fell out of favor. Rica certainly seems to believe that the phrase’s popularity in the noble caste is simply a result of, what was the word she used, pretension? An expression of superiority, one-upmanship. Diamond Quarter residents showing off their fine breeding and education, how much closer to their Ancestors they are than you are to yours, close enough that they can speak in the same tongue, while you chatter in Trade with the surfacers.
Brosca’s always liked it though. It rolls off the tongue like good water, sweet and clean. Atrast nal tunsha. May you find your way in the dark. It’s a nice thing to wish for someone.
Brother, she thinks. What a stupid thing to call someone who nearly killed you.
She hopes he makes it.
She watches the shadows that he slipped away into for a long few moments, thinking about nothing in particular while she taps her fingers against her thigh, then turns around and heads back for the street.
Thankfully, Beraht didn’t ask for a mess or a message today, just for it to be done. She is a honorable man, when she can choose to be, and today she has a choice. She will make it fast. She will make it painless. Her opponent will not needlessly suffer.
Word count: 3,558
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[AO3]
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She realizes very quickly that she’s underestimated the building’s ability to muffle sound. The noise hits her like a wall as soon as the door is open, and makes her flinch.
She forces herself to cross the threshold anyway.
There’s about two dozen people inside Tapster’s, none in groups any larger than three, all scattered about to various places in the room. Nowhere near the building’s capacity, a fraction of the number of people that the bar handles nightly, but unfortunately for Brosca they are all talking at exactly the same time.Â
And one of them is singing. No, two of them. Two people, singing different songs on opposite ends of the building. And the owner is loudly telling off a barmaid. And somewhere unseen, a mug hits the ground and rings metallic through the whole room, which leads to more telling-off. And and and.
Brosca steps inside fully, door closing behind her, and then the smell hits.
The air is warm, and it reeks of moss wine and ale and the stale pooling of both on the floor, growing new life in the corners no one sees and, therefore, no one cleans. There’s frying nug-skin, hot mushrooms, the scent of many sweating bodies. Various perfumes. The strange dirts that surfacers track in on their boots. A trace of vomit that wasn’t mopped up as well as it should have been.Â
She wrinkles her nose at it involuntarily. It’s a lot. It’s too much. But as much as she’s not happy that she’s only two steps in the door and already overwhelmed and irritated, there is some cold comfort in the fact that she is definitely, definitely, no longer hungry.
“Must’ve been busy last night,” Leske says.
“What makes you say that?”
“It fucking stinks in here.” He claps her on the shoulder, hard enough it makes her jolt, then squeezes. “Put your mean face on, kid, I gotta talk to the barman.”
Brosca pulls the loose square scarf around her neck up over her nose and mouth, careful to leave her brand mostly visible. It’s meant more for keeping out soot and miasma than scents, but it smells like herself, like the soap Rica washes their clothes in, like her house, and that cuts through it somewhat. It’s better than nothing.
Eyebrows pulled together, she ducks her head and follows him to the bar.
The big guy who runs Tapster’s has a name, but Brosca always manages to forget it. She knows him by sight though, short brown hair, beard cut close everywhere but his upper lip. He’s more soft meat than muscle, and wears copper in his ears and discreet silver around his neck. Some money, but not much, and what he does have he keeps careful track off. Not worth pickpocketing unless you’re desperate.
He’s just finished his dressing down of the barmaid when they step up to the counter, and scowls at the sight of their brands.
“We don’t serve the gangue here. Get out before I call the guard.”
Leske puts his palms on the counter anyways, rocks foreward and puts his weight on them so he’s in the other man’s face. Brosca takes her usual place next to but slightly behind him, body angled outwards toward the rest of the room just enough so that she can see both it and whoever Leske is talking to, hand resting on the hilt of her knife. It’s clear, without being so obvious as to attract undue attention, that she’s the muscle. That she’s watching his back, that she’s ready.
“Are you deaf? I said we don’t serve brands. Out.”
Brosca frowns behind her scarf. It isn’t even true. Lots of casteless drink at Tapster’s. Everyone in her neighborhood knows it. She’s had drinks in Tapster’s, and she doesn’t even drink. He’s just making a show for his caste customers. If they’d come in less obviously, or when it was busier and with their brands harder to spot, he would’ve sold to them without blinking.Â
Like so many places, Tapster’s was more than willing to take casteless coin, so long as no one had to deal with the humiliation of actually being seen with one.
“Don’t act like you don’t know who we are,” Leske says.
The barman looks at him for a long moment, then looks at Brosca.
It’s not hard for her to put on her mean face, all the movement and sounds and scents in the room around her already have her feeling like she wants to kill something, so she doesn’t have to pretend. She squares her shoulders a little to seem bigger, glares at him over her scarf, rubs her thumb over the pommel of her knife meaningfully.
He looks away.
“I already paid Beraht for this month.”
“We aren’t here to collect, Budimir, we’re looking for someone.”
(Budimir. Budimir Budimir Budimir. She doesn’t know how she always forgets that one.)
Budimir makes a frustrated noise, looks around uncomfortably.
“Hurry up and tell me who so I can get you out of here.”
Leske leans in so that his elbows rest on the counter. Arms crossed, stomach overlapping the edge. Putting as much of his Ancestor-forsaken body on Budimir’s nice stone countertop as possible, making it clear he intends to be there for a while.
Budimir seems unhappy, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
“Name’s Oskias. Me and my friend heard that he’s camped out here.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Brosca?”
She turns and takes a heavy, purposeful step towards the counter. Pulls her shoulder back and unsheathes her knife just enough that a glint of metal is visible.Â
Budimir backs away in a hurry. Hands up in front of his chest, palms out.
“Oh for fuck’s- fine, fine.”
Leske gestures at her, and she backs off. Releases the hilt of her knife so it slips back into its sheath.
Budimir goes back to his spot, mumbling something that sounds a lot like “fucking animals” under his breath as he brushes off the front of his shirt in an attempt to appear composed.
“He’s in the back, near the smaller fireplace. Merchant caste, red hair, no beard. He’s dressed all… surfacer-like, the fucking idiot. Sticks out like a sore thumb, ya can’t miss him.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Leske pushes himself up to standing, “tell your girl not to bother with his table. We don’t want to be disturbed.”
Budimir nods, hesitates.
“Hey, how-” he clears his throat, lowers his voice a little, “how mad is he at this guy, exactly? Beraht, that is.”
“Oh, extremely.”
Budimir makes a face. If pressed, Brosca would have to call it a wince.
“Try not to make too much of a mess?”
Leske laughs.Â
“No promises.” He nods to her, a signal to follow. “Brosca.”
I can promise, she thinks, but says nothing as she falls into step behind Leske, follows the path he’s cutting through the bar’s many tables. She’s not a sadist, she doesn’t like dragging things out or making a mess.Â
Thankfully, Beraht didn’t ask for either today, just for it to be done. She is a honorable man, when she can choose to be, and today she has a choice. She will make it fast. She will make it painless. Her opponent will not needlessly suffer. She can promise.
Leske’s sheathed sword catches on a chair as he passes, jolting it. The chair’s occupant turns, half-rises, but sits back down after she growls at him, the warning clearly enough.Â
Dark brown hair, blue eyes, thick beard, thick silver jewelry. He seems familiar, but she can’t place him. She keeps moving.
As promised, they find Davedna sitting in an odd little corner near the back, a place where you’re out of the way, but still visible. Seen but ignored, unless you do something specific to call attention to yourself. Brosca thinks it was clever of him. A good choice.
He does look odd, though. Surfacers always look odd, you can tell what they are, usually, just by looking at them. Brosca does think he could have been a bit smarter with that. Made himself smaller.Â
Leske makes a gesture near his hip, a flick downwards with two fingers, and Brosca nods, even though he can’t see her.
The table is empty, Davedna is alone, running the tip of his finger around the rim of his cup as he looks at the fire. They split apart a few feet away from the table, Leske going to stand beside him on the right while Brosca curves around the table to stand by his left.
He startles, when he finally notices them, but by then its too late. The already have him boxed in.
“What’s going on?”
“You’re a hard man to find, Oskias,” Leske says, bracing his hand against the back of his chair and leaning in, looming over him, “it’s tiring, looking for you.”
A quick look-over reveals that he’s unarmed, so she wastes no time getting up in his space. Her boot bumps up against a bag half-hidden beneath the chair as she’s getting into position, and she bends down to pick it up. It’s nice, albeit a little worn. Good leather and heavy fabric, strong seams. It seems mostly empty, and Brosca feels a little spark of hope. Maybe he isn’t stealing. Maybe she doesn’t have to kill him.
“That’s mine.”
Brosca ignores him. He tries to stand, but Leske pushes him back down.Â
“Hey you can’t just- this is a public place, that’s my property, you can’t-”
She tosses the bag in a short arc over the top of him. Leske catches it, and Davedna squawks in protest as he starts searching it.
“I know people! I’ll have you know that I am under the personal protection of Anor Beraht-”
Leske laughs. It’s mean, but genuine.
“Personal protection, huh?”
“Yes!”
“And what’s he going to do when he finds out you’re cheating him?”
Davedna pales. He turns to Brosca, and she stares him down silently. She’s big and scary, especially with her face covered, arms crossed over her chest to make herself seem even bigger, the knife in her belt is right at his eye level. She sees it in his face the moment he realizes that this isn’t something he can brush off, that it’s real. She sees it also, the moment he realizes that they have him boxed in. That her wedging her leg in-between his knee and the table has effectively pinned him. That he can’t move without moving her first.
He smiles at her with all his nice, white teeth, body language changing completely. A cornered animal, rolling over to show you its stomach. It makes her stomach twist up.Â
She narrows her eyes at him, and he turns back to Leske in a real hurry.
“Look,” he says, almost pleasantly, “I-I’ve always been loyal to Beraht. He’s been good to my family, I know how much I owe him.”
Leske upends the bag’s contents onto the table. Various small personal items scatter over the stone surface. A comb, a brush for teeth, a small bottle of liquid, a near-empty coin purse, a stray two coppers, a pebble, dust. She looks over the pile for evidence of close family. A wife, children, nephews, even. She finds none, and is sickeningly relieved for it.
Leske drags his fingers through the dust, rubs it between the pads of his thumb and pointer fingers together, holds them more to the light. There’s something almost shiny about it. A fine rock dust mixed in with the gray dirt that glitters when you look at it from the right angle.
Davedna shifts in his seat.
“If you’re so thankful then why are you holding out on him?”
“I haven’t.” He looks up at Brosca. “I wouldn’t.”
It’s not very convincing. She arches her eyebrow at him, and he shrinks back.
“Really, I-I wouldn’t. It’s not in my nature.”
Leske picks the bag back up, starts feeling around the inside of it.
“You won’t find anything.”
“What’s this?” Leske says, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Got a little extra pocket hidden in the lining here? Bit lumpy. Where’s the opening…”
“Okay, fine. I have- I do have some lyrium ore.” He says, very quickly. “I have a little deal with one of the mining families and- if it worked out I was going to bring Beraht his cut I swear. I-I’d be crazy not to.”
“Suicidal, one might say.”
Leske is clearly struggling with the bag, feeling around blindly, practically turning it inside out trying to find where the lining opens up. She would offer to help, but he’d probably get mad at her for it. She addresses Davedna instead.
“How much did you take?”
“Not much,” he assures her, “just twenty-five sovereigns, that’s all.”
She thinks she misheard him, at first, and when it finally settles the amount makes her feel dizzy.
Leske’s clearly grown impatient with the bag, here’s a sound of fabric ripping, and Davedna flinches. Twenty-five sovereigns. You could gather all her neighbors together and they wouldn’t have a quarter of that between them. It’s baffling to hear him talk about it so casually, or to imagine a sum like that belonging to just one person, or even just being in just one place all at once, for any length of time.
She could do so much, if she had twenty-five sovereigns in her pocket. She imagines nice bedding, good blades, meat for dinner every night of her life. Gold jewelry for Rica’s wrists and shiny pins for her hair.
“This doesn’t seem like twenty-five sovereigns to me.” Leske says, pulling two lumpy, purple stones out of Davedna’s bag and placing them on the table by his other things.
She’s never seen raw lyrium in person before, she realizes. Too low down to be involved in that part of the business, even tangentially. She sat near a crate of the stuff once, while waiting for Jarvia to come shout at her, but she never saw the inside of it. Could feel it, though, through the wood. It made the hair on her neck stand up on end.
She leans across Davedna to pick one of the lumps up, rolls it between her fingers. Blueish-purple. Mishapen, with a smooth suface like glass. She sort of wants to put it in her mouth, imagines it would feel good against her teeth and tongue. Knowing it’ll make her sick comes at a great disappointment.Â
It’s very beautiful, but it doesn’t seem like enough to justify all the trouble people go through for it. All the money, all the killing, all for this. And they don’t even keep it whole. It gets ground up, put it in a bottle where you can’t even see it.
Twenty-five sovereigns.
“No, no most of it is with my buyers on the surface. I just picked up a few pieces down here.”
“Who do you sell it to?” she asks, more to satisfy her own curiosity than anything else.
“All sorts,” Davedna babbles, “Surface-surfacers use it all the time. Mages for their spells, smiths in their weapons, templars who aren’t- it’s always a sure thing, if you know who to offer it to. Folks’ll pay good coin not to have to go through the Chantry, you know?”
Brosca doesn’t know, but she pretends she does.
“Anyways I just, I sold it all off and I took the money and ran.” He catches himself, eyes wide. “B-back to Beraht, that is. To share the profits.”
“Hm.”
“Sure,” Leske says, rolling his eyes so only Brosca can see, “Right. And how long has this been going on?”
“Not long! I mean- I’m not-I’m not a cheat,” he turns to Brosca again. She wonders why he seems to think that she’s in charge. “I’m not cheating him.”Â
She stares at him. He falters.Â
“What I mean is… this is my first time?”
“Is that a question?” Leske asks
Davedna shows his teeth again. It feels a lot like watching a man dig a hole, worrying all the while about how deep it’s getting. She feels bad for him. She can’t help it.
He looks at Leske, just as stone-faced as she is, and then back at her. His shoulders slump.
“Okay. Okay I know I fucked up. I just-” He swallows. “Please don’t kill me.”
It’s hard to look at him. His wet, doomed eyes. His desperate expression. She keeps her face flat, looks at Leske instead.
“Sounds like a confession to me,” he says, “Brosca?”
She growls under her breath quitely, shifts her stance, hand on the hilt of her knife.
“Hold him still.”
“No! No wait-”
Leske puts his left hand against Davedna’s chest and leans in with his whole weight, pressing him back while using his other hand to pin his wrist against the arm of the chair. Brosca does the same to the wrist on her side, and bends her knee so it presses into his in a way that may or may not hurt, but definitely keeps him from moving it.
It happens fast. He struggles, but fruitlessly, and too late. They have him pinned.
Brosca goes for her knife.
“I’ll give it back!” Davedna says, half-shouting, “I-I’ll find more! I’ll get Beraht double what he makes in a year. You don’t-triple. I’ll get him triple! Just, just don’t-”
They lose their grip on him for a second, she shifts her grip more towards his elbow, growls in frustration. Why does he have to make this so hard.
“Stop squirming,” she tells him, “it will hurt less.”
If she does it right, she’ll cut the big artery in his neck and his windpipe clean through on the first shot, and he’ll twitch and struggle for a moment and then-and then stop. She’s done it before, and from her perspective, it doesn’t even seem to hurt that much, it’s just scary, but not for very long.Â
Her knife slides smoothly from it’s sheath. Clean through the neck, one side to the other. Cut the artery, cut the windpipe, if you can. It’s barely even killing, when you think about it, it’s butchering. Same thing you do to nugs. It’s awful, really, how close it is. How similar the task.
(Except nugs don’t beg. They’re never nearly as scared. They’re small, easier to hold still. And she’s never cried herself to sleep over a nug.)
He squirms again, tries to pull his chin in towards his chest. Leske makes a frustrated noise and shifts enough to get his hand free, puts it heavily on top of Davedna’s head and pulls it back and to the side, exposing his neck. Giving her a clean shot.
“It was a mistake, it was one mistake. It’s-it’s just a bunch of rocks,” his voice breaks, reedy and desperate, on the verge of tears, “you’d kill me for that?”
She doesn’t usually talk to them, during. But then again, they rarely ask such direct questions.
“I’m sorry,” she says, gently as she can manage, bringing the blade up near his throat, “I wish there was another way.”
“There is! There is, you can- you can let me go. I’ll give you the lyrium, you can sell it, do whatever you want with it and I won’t tell anyone. You’ll never see me again.”
Twenty-five sovereigns, she thinks, but dismisses it quickly, shakes her head.
“If I help you Beraht will come after me next.” She adjusts her grip, “I have people at home, ser, I can’t risk it.”
Leske shoots her a look, and she hears his voice in her head along with it. Stop talking to the mushroom food, kid, we don’t have all day.Â
She’s just doing what she has to do, and it’s just for right now. It won’t always be like this.Â
Deep breath, preparation for the movement. It’s just like nugs, she tells herself, it’s just like killing nugs. It won’t always be like this, it won’t-
Davedna grabs her arm, digs his fingers in-between the gaps in her leathers the way a scared child would fist their hands in their mother’s skirts. It startles her, delays her from making the killing motion.
“What would you want if it was you?”
She stills.
A moment passes, another. The bar seems quiet, suddenly, she can feel Leske’s eyes on her. The skin of Davedna’s throat is pale, smooth and unblemished, so very close to the edge of her blade. She thinks about the flesh parting under the metal, thinks about cleaning his blood off of it later. Scrubbing it out of the creases in her hands, scraping it out from her fingernails and cuticles. She thinks about doing the guilt, again, the trying to forget, again. She thinks about the lyrium on the table.Â
“You good, kid?”
Brosca exhales.
Beraht’s going to kill her anyways.
“I’m good,” she says, “can you follow my lead for a moment?”
“Uh, sure?”
He sounds really confused. Brosca doesn’t blame him.
“We’re taking this outside,” she tells Davedna, “this is the only chance you have at getting out of this, so do what I say and don’t try anything smart, got it?”
Davedna swallows, the stone in his throat bobbing. He nods.
“Got it.”
“Because it won’t work. I’m faster than you.”
“Right.”
“And much stronger.”Â
“I believe you.”
“Good. Leske, let him go.”
Hesitantly, Leske does what she says.Â
Davedna looks relieved for a moment, she cuts it short by baring her teeth, yanking him to standing as roughly as she can. It seems to do the trick.
Sorry for being such a slow writer, it's because I [remembers that self-deprecating jokes are harmful to my mental health and make everyone else uncomfortable] was attacked by dark spirits and washed up on the shore of a mysterious island with no recollection of who I was
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