you meet leon kennedy at work, the absolute last place you should be looking to date anyone. too bad you're a sucker for blue eyes and vaguely pathetic-looking men.
❖ the sound a body makes when it's still. ─ leon x doctor!reader (ongoing, smut)
You and Leon Kennedy collide like stars—over and over and over again. It is as devastating as it is inevitable, and maybe there is some comfort in knowing that you will always find your way back to each other.
A slightly canon-divergent retelling of the events of the Resident Evil series. Each chapter focuses on a different game/movie in the series with little interludes sprinkled in between.
─✴︎ a knight of the seven kingdoms.
❖ in bloom. ─ daeron x snow!fem!original character (smut)
daeron dreams of a flower among the snow, his only reprieve from the terrible nightmares of death and destruction that he drowns in his cups to forget. at ashford meadow, on the eve of the trial of seven, he meets a woman who brings new meaning to his dreams of snowdrifts and blossoms.
─✴︎ dragon age.
❖ simmer. ─ solas x f!lavellan (long fic, ongoing)
a canon-divergent re-telling of the events of dragon age: inquisition through to pre-veilguard. chapters updated weekly on saturday with sprinklings of codexes and interludes posted throughout the week.
─✴︎ superman.
❖ yes, ma'am. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)
clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.
❖ six months. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)
sequel to 'yes, ma'am.' clark and you have been dating for six months and he's acting... weird.
❖ no good, very bad day. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (request, smut)
companion to 'yes, ma'am.' and 'six months.' you have a bad day. clark makes it better.
❖ family album. ─ single dad!clark kent x photographer!reader (request, fluff)
clark doesn't want to ruin what you both have.
─✴︎ mcu.
❖ to know grief. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/comfort)
bob knew one thing - Lucy Jean was sad, and he would very much like her to not be.
❖ almost lover. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/angst)
sequel to 'to know grief.' bob and lucy jean are both idiots when it comes to feelings.
─✴︎ alien.
❖ for science. ─ kirsh x reader (smut)
you think kirsh fascinating. he reciprocates.
❖ punishment. ─ kirsh x reader (request, smut)
sequel to 'for science.' while kirsh grounds slightly and smee, he has a better punishment in mind for you.
❖ put him in rice. ─ kirsh x reader (request, ficlet)
❖ dandelion. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, ficlet)
❖ self-preservation. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, smut)
Author's Note: sorry for this one guys ahahahaha :')) i really tried to make this one happy, but it just wasn't in the cards. maybe next time LOL
Summary: You settle into a new normal after Spain, but it's harder to reconcile with seeing a life you can no longer live.
Word Count: 10.3k
Content: 18+, doctor!reader, sherry being a sweetheart, angst angst angst, death, grief, mentions of past child abuse, two idiots just doing their worst, yearning, they're both so stupid please go to therapy, they're gonna get a happy ending i swear
"Sherry, we are not going to a bar, you're not even twenty-one."
Flopping back onto your couch dramatically, the blonde groans, long and drawn-out, much more reminiscent of the twelve-year-old girl you first met than of the twenty-year-old in front of you. You roll your eyes at the Oscar-worthy performance as you sink down next to her and switch on the TV to tune out her noisy lamenting, having learned long ago that she can go on as long as it takes to make her point. Wordlessly, you pass her the bowl of popcorn you'd painstakingly stood sentry over while it cooked in the microwave, since the last time you burned it, she refused to even pick around the charred bits.
She takes the bowl without even pausing her griping, inspecting the contents with a scrutinizing eye before grabbing a handful and shoving it into her mouth. "I can't even enjoy the fun of underage drinking, and I'm running out of time," she complains, sputtering popcorn bits everywhere, and a disgusted scowl tugs at your mouth as you angle out of the splash zone. "It's a staple in any young person's life—"
"Oh, is it?" you snort as you prop your cheek against your palm, sighing heavily as you flip through the channels and find nothing that catches your attention.
"It is!" she declares with every ounce of righteousness of someone barely out of their teens. "You should know, you're not as old as you pretend to be."
When she flicks a kernel at you, hitting your cheek, you peer over at her with narrowed eyes as you start to cycle through the channels again, certain there has to be something worth watching. "What is that supposed to mean?" you ask as you pick up the offending piece of popcorn and set it on the coffee table in front of you, perhaps proving her point by not throwing it back at her.
Sherry grabs her soda from the end table next to her, noisily gulping down nearly half of it before letting out a satisfied 'ah'. "I mean, you were like, what… sixteen when you went to college—" "—fifteen—" "—you can't tell me you weren't soaking it up at those college parties."
Your brows rise as you chuckle, recalling your abysmal social life in college. "Sherry, I hate to break it to you, but my peers had little interest in hanging out with some grubby kid." Settling on a movie you and Sherry have seen too many times to count, you give up your search, tossing the remote on the couch between you. "And besides, I didn't exactly have a whole lot of time—"
"Oh my god," she gasps, interrupting you. "You were a nerd."
Ordinarily, you would consider yourself above reacting to insults—to be fair, you're a doctor, of course, you were a bit of a nerd—but the venom in her voice makes you straighten as your jaw slackens. "I—I was not a nerd!" you stammer, then, with the grumpiness of a petulant child, mumble, "I just had a really heavy course load, and pre-med isn't exactly a walk in the park."
"That sounds like something a nerd would say." She does a poor job of hiding her grin behind her soda, laughing and leaning just out of reach as you try to swat at her. Relaxing back into the seat with a satisfied smirk, you watch it shift into something contemplative as she presses her lips together. Her fingernails tap, tap, tap on the aluminum can.
You wait a moment, tension weaving through your body as you wait for her to ask whatever it is that's suddenly made her so fidgety. When she doesn't take the plunge, you do. "What is it?"
She's silent for a second, then inhales and rips off the band-aid. "Is Leon coming? He's missed the last few visits." You will yourself not to make a face, but it must be doing something, because Sherry's brows draw together and she slides across the couch cushion toward you, asking, "What?"
Truthfully, it's been a while since you last spoke to Leon—probably the longest since you two first met eight years ago.
The strain between you two has been palpable since your confrontation after your return from Spain, so much so that even Hunnigan set aside her strictly professional persona to ask you if everything was okay between you and him.
"Rough patch," is what you told her because at the time, that's what you thought it was. Your anger in the aftermath of your argument didn't last long because, true to your word, you couldn't be mad at him—the situation, maybe, but not Leon. You set aside your stubbornness and reached out, and the two of you tried to carry on as normal, but it was clear that something had fractured—something you're now sure is beyond repair.
The time between movie nights grew longer, and the check-in phone calls grew shorter, until the only time the two of you saw each other and spoke was during the monthly visits with Sherry.
The last four of which he's missed—and she's obviously noticed the trend as well. In the visits you had with her in the first few years after Raccoon City, she would get anxious as the visit was coming to an end, repeatedly ensuring she knew the next day you both would be there to visit her, as well as the contingency date in case both of you were out on assignment on the specified day. Given how her relationship with her parents was and what happened to her during the outbreak, it was no wonder that she exhibited such behavior.
By the fourth year, you insisted to Simmons, her appointed guardian, that she see a therapist. When he resisted the idea, you told him the suggestion was based on your professional opinion, not a personal one. You may also have, in not-so-many-words, said that you would voice your concerns up the chain of command until Sherry was placed in the custody of someone who cared more about her well-being and less about poking and prodding her, using the "good of humanity" as an excuse.
You were certainly bluffing, as you would've likely been told to kick rocks in the most government-official way, but Simmons, at least, seemed to think you held more sway than you actually did back then, because she was in therapy sessions within the next week.
Since then, her anxious attachment seems to have lessened, or at least gotten easier for her to cope with, but both you and Leon realize how important these visits are to her, and in the past, when one of you wouldn't be able to make it, you'd send word through your handlers to the other. You're positive he knows what day it is, given that the visitation schedule is set months in advance.
As she's gotten older, she's been afforded a few more freedoms—she's got her own phone (that is heavily monitored), she's been taking a few college courses (that are also heavily monitored), and she's been allowed to visit you at your apartment (you guessed it, heavily monitored).
But that level of security means there is an agent stationed outside your door and on every floor of the building, as well as several strategically positioned on the surrounding city blocks.
It should make you feel safe to know how well your apartment is currently protected, but it only leaves you unnerved. You're a fish trapped in a bowl, with nosy onlookers tapping on the glass, leaving their smudgy fingerprints all over the surface.
You smooth your sweaty palms over the thighs of your jeans. "No, I don't think he's coming," you answer, willing your voice to remain steady—a practiced precision you've had years to master.
Sherry still sees through it, and the worry on her face deepens. "Is he… upset with me?" she asks carefully, picking at her nails nervously.
You quickly shake your head, grabbing her hands before she can make her cuticles bleed. "No, it's nothing you did, I promise."
Worry shifts to curiosity. "Is… Are you two fighting?"
Your mouth opens to lie, a generic excuse hanging on the tip of your tongue, but you make the mistake of meeting her bewildered stare, and it evaporates. So you shrug your shoulders, unconvincingly, before averting your gaze; the movie you'd seen so many times before becomes even more interesting.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see her adjust in her seat, turning toward you with her arm hooked over the back of the couch. "Does it have to do with that woman from the Harvardville incident?" she asks.
Your head snaps to look at her with your mouth agape. "How do you even know about that?"
She has the mind to feign guilt, smiling sheepishly. "Claire."
You exhale a huff of air through your nose as you roll your eyes, regretting for a moment the part you played in the lie to the federal government that allowed Claire and Sherry to keep in frequent contact. Claire Redfield, the blabbermouth that she is, also called you about what transpired last year. A bioterror attack on an airport that you should have been deployed to in order to help with containment had you not already been on assignment in Eastern Europe.
Leon was sent instead.
From your understanding of the reports you'd read afterward, it culminated in exposing that the WP Corporation had acquired not only the t-Virus but also the G-Virus from a researcher who had escaped Umbrella prior to the Raccoon City incident, the same researcher who had assumed a new identity and was now working for the pharmaceutical company, and who was using the outbreak at the airport as a sales pitch to the leader of Barjirib—a nation in political turmoil.
What you heard off the record from Claire was that she and Leon met an officer who seemed very interested in Leon. She whispered it to you over the phone as if it were a scandal you had the right to know about.
When you sighed into the phone and said, "Claire, he's a grown man; he can do what he wants," she sputtered in response, confused.
"But, aren't you two—"
"We aren't anything."
She must have heard it in your voice, the way your throat constricted and how tears welled in your eyes, because she immediately grew quiet and then changed the subject just as hastily. She hasn't brought it up since. In fact, she hasn't mentioned Leon to you at all.
And of course, there was the rumor mill circulating around STRATCOM about the whole thing despite Hunnigan's best efforts to squash it. You pretended not to notice her sympathetic look when you walked into the break room in time to hear two of the other agents talking about the "hot special forces officer that Kennedy bagged."
To be honest, even a year later, you still don't know whether there's any truth to the gossip. Leon never mentioned it, and you never asked—a very large part of you was afraid of that confirmation and what it would mean. Jealousy was never an emotion you were particularly good at handling, so you avoided it as much as you could, which meant avoiding Leon.
You were practically a ghost around the office when he wasn't on assignment, volunteering for missions you knew would keep you away for weeks at a time. The few times he called to check in, the calls usually went to voicemail until guilt eventually won out, and you answered. Even then, you hurried through the conversation, sticking to one-word answers.
Is it childish?
Absolutely.
You're well aware this only deepened the chasm between you and Leon. Selfishly, you may have hoped he wouldn't let you slip through his fingers so easily—that you were someone he'd fight to keep. You were disappointed when he didn't.
"We're not fighting," you say truthfully, because you're not. You'd actually have to talk to fight.
"But you're upset with him," she notes, as if she herself is trying to make sense of your very confounding feelings.
"I'm—" You pause, brow pinching with thought. "I'm just upset."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherry offers with a kind smile.
A wave of adoration falls over you as you consider her. She's always been so sweet, and despite everything that's happened to her—everything she's had to endure—she's remained so compassionate. After seeing the worst that mankind has to offer, you hope that she'll always keep that kindness. It is something the world desperately needs more of.
"I'll be okay," you assure, despite the shake in your voice.
She doesn't look like she believes you, but she nods anyway before snatching the remote from the couch. "Okay, but we need to change this because I am not watching Pride and Prejudice again."
Laughing, you grab a handful of popcorn before lounging back into the plush cushions of your couch, letting Sherry pick the movie. She picks a comedy she convinces you is really good (it's not). About halfway through, you get up to grab another soda and ask her if she wants one. Her eyes don't leave the screen as she gives an affirming hum, picking the last few kernels from the popcorn bowl.
The rest of your apartment is dark, save for the glow of the TV. The sounds of the city are muffled outside—just faintly, you can hear police sirens, far enough away that your skin doesn't even prickle at the noise. You quietly sing to yourself, a song that got stuck in your head on your drive into work this morning.
You pull open the fridge door, squinting as the bright light blinds you for a moment before plucking two cans of soda off the shelf. You're debating grabbing the piece of cheesecake you have left over from the Italian place down the street when the phone rings—the shrill sound jolts you. As your heart pounds against your ears, you lose your grip on one of the cans, and it hits the floor with a sharp, metallic clank before erupting into a fizzy, uncontrollable spray all over your kitchen.
"Fuck," you hiss.
"You okay?" Sherry calls from the living room, clearly not worried enough to see what all the commotion is about.
Rrring.
Quickly, you pick up the can, still dribbling everywhere, and set it in the sink, mindful of the wet floor even in the dim light. "Yeah, the phone just scared me," you say.
Slowly, you glance over your shoulder with narrowed eyes at the offending object. As it rrrings again, dread pools in your stomach. No one calls your landline anymore, except for maybe a telemarketer or the odd crank call. It is Friday; maybe some degenerates have nothing else going on.
Rrring.
"You gonna get that?" Sherry asks as she tips her head against the back of the couch to look at where you're standing in the shadows of your kitchen.
Blinking, you stride one, two, three steps across the floor, the linoleum squeaking under your sock-covered feet. With a grimace, you think you've stepped in some soda. You set the other can of soda down on the counter before reaching for the phone. You don't know why your hand trembles as you pick up the receiver and hold it to your ear. "Hello?"
"Hey," the voice on the other end responds. "It's Chris."
You swallow the lump that forms in your throat. It doesn't sound like him—Chris Redfield talks with warmth in his voice; it's hearty and full, wrapping around you and making you feel at home. This person sounds hollow, as if you could yell into them and hear the echo all the way down.
Ice courses through your veins, frozen tendrils that snake throughout your body. Your mouth goes dry as you greet him without any enthusiasm, "Hey, Chris."
He lets out a shuddering breath, and your world tilts on its axis.
Sherry flinches at the loud thump from your kitchen. Her brows furrow as she glances back, not seeing you standing there anymore, and she calls your name. When you don't answer, fear licks up her spine. Carefully, she sets the bowl down and stands, eyes flicking to the front door of your apartment, where she knows one of her guard details, Matthew, is on the other side. He must not have heard the noise; he would have already busted through the door to sweep the apartment.
Moving cautiously toward your kitchen, only feebly lit by your slightly ajar fridge, she blindly reaches around the corner, sure the light switch is on the other side. After a few clumsy passes, she finds it and flips it on. The sight that greets her under the warm fluorescents is you, curled up on the soda-covered floor, your corded phone clutched in your hands. Your face is painfully blank, eyes staring unfocused into the space in front of you.
When she says your name again, her voice barely above a whisper, you don't even blink or look her way. Panic wells up in her like a rising tide. You've always been the lighthouse atop a jutting, sharp cliffside. Steady and unwavering, even in the most treacherous of storms.
To see you so despondent makes her feel like she's adrift at sea.
Kneeling down, she gently touches your shoulder. "What's wrong?" she asks.
You still don't so much as glance at her, but your mouth opens as if you're trying to say something, but the words have lodged in the back of your throat. Looking down at the phone in your hand, she can hear the voice of an unfamiliar man on the other end calling your name.
She pries it from your grip and holds the receiver to her ear. "Hi—Uh, yeah, she'll—she'll call you back, okay?" She reaches up, slots it back onto the hook, hanging up on the man before he can respond, then takes out her cellphone, scrolling through the sparse list of contacts, muttering to you that it'll be all right the entire time.
The spinning ceiling fan above him provides a rhythmic, hypnotic whir that slowly lulls him toward sleep. Exhaustion weighs him down, and despite how it feels like he's sinking into his mattress, there's no comfort in it, not when his body aches and his muscles feel two sizes too small against his bones.
He couldn't even find the energy to get under the covers after barely dragging himself into the shower to wash the grime from his skin. As he watches the fan's shadows stretch and pull with every turn, Leon closes his eyes, ready to teeter over the edge—the world muffling around him.
For just a split second, his brain quiets, thoughts of horrors and death fall to the wayside, disappearing in the background as another memory surfaces. It's one of tenderness and soft lips against his. If he could live in it forever, he would.
Instead, he's abruptly yanked from it as his cellphone rings, pulling him from the memory and the cusp of sleep. Groaning, he rolls to his side, glaring at the phone on his nightstand as it rings a second time, its screen lighting up his room in an eerie blue glow. He debates ignoring it, certain it's Hunnigan calling him in for the debrief he blew off, but at the third ring, he gives up on sleep. Squinting, he snatches the phone and holds it to his face, reading the name that pops up on the screen.
Incoming Call From…
Sherry
"Shit," he whispers as he sits up, his entire body protesting the sudden movement. Hastily, he accepts the call. "Hey, Sherry, I'm sorry, I just got—" She's rambling on the other end, panicked, and when he hears your name in the jumble, he stiffens. "Sherry, wait, wait. What do you mean? What happened?"
"Please, can you just come?" She sounds like a scared little girl all over again, and Leon is already on his feet, tossing on a probably clean shirt and a pair of jeans as he looks for shoes that aren't covered in blood.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
He makes it in eight.
The agent standing sentry outside the door nods to him, seemingly none the wiser about whatever is going on inside the apartment he's vigilantly protecting, and steps aside. Leon gives three firm knocks, and it's Sherry whose face peeks through as the door creaks open. She glances nervously at the agent before shuffling to the side to let Leon in.
As she shuts the door behind them, she points ahead. "She's just in the kitchen," she says. "She won't talk to me, she's just been staring into space."
When he rounds the corner, his heart falls through his chest at the sight. You're sitting on the floor, knees curled to your chest, and your face is deceptively blank. There's not even a twitch to show you notice his arrival. "What happened?" he asks.
Sherry shakes her head. "I don't know," she says. "She got a call, and I heard a thud and came in here to find her like this. I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call. Claire is in South America and—"
Lying a comforting hand on her shoulder, he assures her, "It's fine, I'm glad you did."
A tight smile tugs at her lips, and they both return their gaze to you. You haven't moved at all—Leon thinks you haven't even blinked. Slowly, he approaches, not even noticing the sticky floor as he kneels before you. His eyes take in your appearance. When was the last time he saw you—really saw you? Lately, he's more often than not caught a glimpse of the back of your head as you hurry through the office or of your side profile through a conference room window.
More tenderly than he thinks himself capable of anymore, he takes you by the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the hollow of your cheekbone. The feel of your skin beneath his fingertips is familiar—like a home that no longer belongs to him—and he stoops his head to try to catch your eye, nearly nose to nose with you.
"Hey," he murmurs and whispers your name. It's only then that your stare finally tilts up, catching his.
"Leon?" you ask, your voice laced with confusion, impossibly small. Not like you at all; you're larger than life, a force of nature beyond his comprehension. An unstoppable, unyielding storm that could lay waste to any walls he built, no matter how tall or sturdy he thought they might be.
Smoothing back your hair from your face, he nods. "Yeah," he confirms. "It's me, I'm here."
It's instant, the way your face crumples—a marble statue splintering and shattering all at once. Your brows pinch together as tears flood your eyes, your lip quivering. As you reach up to grasp his wrists, he notices you're trembling, and you inhale sharply, the breath caught somewhere in your chest, leaving you gasping.
"She's gone!" you sob. It's a broken, heart-wrenching sound. Your face contorts with pain and anguish as you hold on to him tighter, as if you're afraid he'll disappear right in front of you. "She's gone, she's gone!"
He's swiping away the tears, but they're falling faster than he can wipe them away. "Who?" he asks.
You can hardly even say her name. You heave between each letter. "Jill!" you choke. Your hands fly to your face, covering it as a ragged wail wrenches itself from you. It's more animalistic than human, like the forlorn howl of a grieving wolf—a sustained, sorrowful noise rife with misery and longing.
Your body convulses with each sob, gasping for breath as you can't seem to get enough to fill your lungs. Leon gathers you into his arms. He holds you firmly, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he lets you cry and scream, repeating Jill's name until you're hoarse. He doesn't even wince when you claw at his arms because you don't know what else to do with the pain. He endures it for you.
When he glances back at Sherry, he sees her watching the entire scene, a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes glistening with tears, as if the realization has dawned on her that you are human after all.
Two Weeks Later
Leon is out of his element. Tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket, which are just a tad too short, he glances around the church—dust motes catch in the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, and unlit candelabra chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings. It smells stale, like decay and aged wood, with a heavy dose of perfume layered on top by a few heavy-handed congregants.
The dozen or so rows of oak pews are full, or nearly so, leaving him floundering for a place to sit, heat crawling up the back of his neck the longer he stands idly at the entrance despite the cold air that still clings to his clothes from the frigid weather outside. Any open seat he sees would require him to disturb an entire row of people to squeeze into, and he's about to resign himself to watching the ceremony from the shadows under one of the balconies at the back of the church when one of the men standing near the dais catches sight of him.
Leon recognizes him instantly by the smile that spreads across his face; he sees you in the way the man's eyes crinkle at the corners and the crooked tug at his lips. He looks different from the pictures hanging on the walls of your apartment, years apart, and far better groomed and dressed than the photos of a fresh-faced college student.
As he comes within arm's reach, he holds out a hand, which Leon takes, the two men exchanging a firm but friendly handshake. "You must be Leon," he says, the smile not falling from his face. "Can't believe it's taken eight years for us to meet—" He fidgets with the boutonniere carefully pinned to his lapel. "—Although, I already feel like I know you if I'm being honest."
Leon smirks despite the slight dread at the thought of what you have told your brother about him, especially in recent years. "Your sister talks about you a lot."
"All deeply mortifying things, I'm sure," your brother jokes.
He mimes zipping his lips. "I can neither confirm nor deny."
Your brother motions for Leon to follow him as he starts walking back up the aisle. "C'mon, I'll show you to your seat."
He hesitates, pointing over his shoulder toward the wall he was just about to fasten himself to. "Oh, that's alright, I was just going to sit in the back out of the way."
He receives an incredulous look in response, the expression far too similar to one you've given him dozens of times over the years. "Don't be ridiculous, you're sitting up front with my sister—" He scans around. "—She's around here somewhere, been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all morning. Besides," he lowers his voice. "I need all the help I can filling out my side of the pew, it's looking bleak."
Leon sees exactly what he means as they reach the front of the church and spot the nearly empty first row on the groom's side, save for a severe-looking elderly man and, presumably, his wife, who gives him a sweet smile as your brother introduces him as your "good friend, Leon" and them as your grandparents. He sits next to your grandmother, with whom he makes polite conversation with until he hears hurried footsteps down the aisle.
"I'm so sorry. The bride couldn't find her veil, and there was almost a meltdown—" You lean down, pressing a kiss to each of your grandparents' cheeks. "Hi, Grandma, hi, Grandpa."
Your grandfather grunts a greeting, one you seem used to, given how you don't let it faze you, while your grandmother coos at you. "Oh, you look so lovely, dear."
Leon feels his breath catch in his throat as he watches you make small talk with your grandparents, and he can't help but agree with your grandmother. He's always thought you were pretty—he'd have to be an idiot not to.
Sometimes he found himself admiring how your eyes change in certain light, or by the way your mouth shapes words as you speak. A barely there smirk on your lips was usually enough to have his heart rattling his ribcage. He's seen you at twenty-three, twenty-six, twenty-nine, and thirty-one, and you've only grown prettier with the years. Even fresh off a twelve-hour, turned seventeen-hour shift, feeling more like a corpse hung out to dry than a person, you were still radiant to him.
Seeing you now, though, is something else entirely. The floor-length dress clings tighter than scrubs or tactical gear, and with your hair curled and pinned up, he feels like he's been struck dead center in the chest. For a moment, it's hard to breathe. From the way heat spreads up the sides of his neck, he's sure his cheeks are tinged red, but he's unable to take his eyes off of you. Instead, his gaze lingers on your lips, painted and glossed, and his mouth goes dry.
When you finally turn your attention to him, he sits a little straighter. Your smile doesn't slip so much as it softens into something less practiced, less poised, like you don't feel the need to put on a performance with him. "How was your flight?" you ask as you take a seat next to him.
"Early," he murmurs. He'd caught the first flight out of D.C. this morning after returning from a three-day assignment on the West Coast at midnight. So worried about being late, he'd changed into his suit in the airport bathroom and driven straight to the church. He smooths his palms down his pants, hoping the sweat gathering there won't leave any streaks. "You—You look nice."
Your brows rise in surprise, as if you're taken aback by the compliment. "That's—thank you," you mutter, shyly averting your gaze. "So do you."
His ears burn, and just as he opens his mouth to reply, the music begins. His mouth snaps shut as the rest of the room quiets. Beside him, you wring your hands together, and while everyone turns to watch the bridal procession march down the aisle, your gaze remains on your brother, watching him the entire time. As the wedding party gathers at the dais, the song shifts to 'Here Comes the Bride,' and your brother's smile widens almost impossibly, eager to see his future wife coming down the aisle.
When Leon chances a glance your way, he notices your eyes have welled up with tears. He can't know what you're thinking right now—but maybe he could hazard a guess. No mother, no father. Just one set of grandparents you keep at a cordial distance. It's just been you and your brother for as long as he's known you. You mentioned your dad once before, in passing, as if he were a bad memory you'd sooner forget.
You love your brother, though. It's as clear as day to anyone with half a brain, and it's never been more apparent than now, as you watch him and his soon-to-be wife exchange vows, desperately trying to keep yourself composed, the telltale wobble of your lower lip making itself known. Your breath shudders in your chest, a slight, nearly noiseless hiccup, as your brother finishes his vows with "Till death do us part."
As you slide your arm through Leon's, he readily lets you lace your fingers through his, squeezing his hand as you try to keep the tears at bay. Only when the bride and groom share their first kiss as husband and wife, with applause erupting in the church, do the tears finally fall from your eyes.
The reception is well underway back at the hotel. The wedding party receives a standing ovation as they strut into the hall to party music, and then the bride and groom enter and share their first dance. Leon doesn't even have to look at you to know that another round of crying has begun, and he slings an arm around the back of your chair, hauling you closer to him as you dab your eyes with a tissue your grandmother handed you from the arsenal she keeps in her purse—apparently it's not the elderly woman's first rodeo.
Only as your new sister-in-law dances with her father does he finally peer over at you. Melancholy paints your features, as if you're watching something that will never be yours. He rubs a thumb along your shoulder, his expression mirroring yours as he stares at you.
When the song ends, you listlessly clap along with everyone else, the corners of your lips trying to tug up into a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
"Now, we have a very special request," the DJ announces into the mic. "If the sister of the groom could make her way to the dance floor, your brother would like to share a dance with you."
Attention turns to you, and you instantly sit rod straight in your seat, looking at your brother who stands in the middle of the dance floor, gesturing at you to join him. Hastily, you get up and begin to weave your way through the tables toward him. You're already on the verge of tears while your brother smiles at you, holding a hand out for you to take. When you do, you mutter something to him that no one else can hear, his smile widens, and he drags you to him as the music begins to play.
It's something cheesy—the kind of song no doubt played at thousands of weddings, but it still causes the back of Leon's throat to tickle as his eyes sting with tears, watching you and your brother sway together.
"You're lucky I love you," you mutter, feeling the distinct prickle of embarrassment sear up your spine under all the attention, something you'd been adamant about avoiding during the entire wedding-planning process and the exact reason you'd rejected your sister-in-law's request that you be a bridesmaid for her.
"I am," your brother agrees readily. "I was going to give a full slideshow presentation, but I figured you'd strangle me Homer Simpson-style before we got to dinner."
You snort at the image conjuring in your head. "You figured right," you say.
His brows tilt thoughtfully, the grin on his face fading into something gentler—nostalgic. "I hope you know how much I appreciate you," he murmurs, loud enough for you to hear him over the music. You glance away, and he knows you're about to hand-wave him, to move past this entirely too sentimental conversation, but he cuts you off before you can. "I'm serious."
Your eyes meet his, a reflection of your own, and you see tears misted in them. Your brother doesn't cry, you remember, and guilt twists in you that you've been the one to make him cry twice now.
"Everything I am today is because of you—because you stepped up when I needed you to. You've been there for me through everything, supporting me in so many ways I can never repay you for. You didn't have to do any of that."
You cast your gaze downward, focusing on the awkward shuffle of feet between you. "Yes, I did," you mutter. "It's not like I could've just left you on your own."
"You could have," he argues. You're both quiet for a beat, the music surrounding you, though neither of you is paying any mind to it, stepping side to side in an almost, not quite dance, just slightly offbeat. "I know we don't talk about it—"
You go to interject—today is supposed to be a happy day, not one where you dredge up things better left to rot. Unfortunately, you can't stop what's already been set in motion.
"—But I hope you realize none of it was your fault."
It's a gut punch, the air sucked straight from your lungs at his words. Your grip on him tightens only a fraction as your sinuses start to sting, and just at the base of your skull, the beginnings of an itch start.
"It wasn't fair what happened to us—what he did—but we didn't…" He trails off, looking down at you with more sadness than you feel you have the right to. "You didn't do anything to deserve it, and sometimes I feel like you think you did. Like you're trying to make up for what happened to us when we were children, even though you don't hold any responsibility for it."
Smoke-filled laughter rings out amongst the crowd, distant, but still there, just like he said he would be.
"It doesn't matter," you whisper, and the itch turns into a dull throb, pulsating through your ears and straight into your teeth.
"It does," he insists. "You were a child, too, and you've done more than anyone should ask of a child. But I'm all grown up now, and you don't have to keep protecting me. Okay? I'm a big boy. I can bear the burden. You don't have to carry it all on your own."
When you finally gain the courage to meet his gaze, you, perhaps for the first time, see him as the man he is rather than the boy he was, with scraped knees and tearstained cheeks. It's hard to reconcile with the fact that that version of him is now confined to your memories, memories you often wish you could shove into the deepest corners of your mind and set ablaze.
He's the only reason you still cling to them.
Maybe he is right; maybe it's unfair to both of you that you continue to bear the weight of it all on your own. But you can't deny the fear you feel at the thought of letting go—who would you be without it?
"Tsk, tsk, tsk."
Pain radiates through your skull, and for just a moment, you think you see the shadow of someone behind your brother. As soon as you blink, they're gone, and you're left staring at your brother's hopeful face. "Okay," you reply, summoning a relenting look onto your face to mask the lack of conviction in your voice.
Your brother smiles, relief flooding his face like this is a conversation he's been meaning to have with you for a while. "I worry about you, too, y'know? For as much as I know you worry about me."
"You don't have to worry about me," you lie, feeling more guilt for how easily it slips off your tongue.
In typical little-brother fashion, he quickly changes the subject to something you most certainly do not want to discuss right now. "Leon seems nice."
You huff, pinching his arm through his suit, which only makes him laugh. "Don't start."
"What?" he says innocently. "I mean, you tell me a week before my wedding that you're bringing the guy you've been goo-goo for ga-ga over for the better part of the last decade instead of Jill—" He can feel you stiffen under his touch, losing what little focus you have on the dance and nearly stepping on his toes. "What?" he asks.
You trip over your words. "Jill, um—" Your eyes flick to the ceiling, taking note of how pretty the chandeliers look glittering in the lowlight. "There was an… accident. Her funeral was last week."
His mouth drops open as his brows furrow together. "What? Why didn't you tell me? I would have—"
You shake your head, voice trying to remain steady. "It was a small affair, I mean, there wasn't even a body to bury."
"Jesus," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Are you doing okay?"
"I'm… coping," you say carefully. You weren't. Another lie to add to the pile of guilt.
He murmurs your name like a warning.
A reassuring smile tightens on your lips. "That's why Leon is here—he volunteered to come so I…"
The words die in your mouth, their implication feeling harsher than you intended, but your brother finishes your sentence, regardless, "So you wouldn't be alone?"
You nod. "Yeah."
"If it was hard for you to be here today, you didn't have to come; I would have understood," he says.
You roll your eyes, trying to ease the tension between you. "I wasn't going to miss your wedding," you retort. "You only get married once, hopefully—" "—Hey!—" "—and besides, I think Jill would haunt me if she was the reason I missed this."
"Still, I worry about you," he repeats.
"I know, but you don't have to, I'm fine," you assure.
"Keep on lying, girl," the familiar voice hisses from behind you. "We both know it's all you're good at."
You keep your face neutral as the song comes to a close and applause echoes all around. After you and your brother share a hug, you turn and make your way not back to your table, but to the bar instead. The bartender doesn't question it when you order two drinks—you'd been the one to pay for the open bar, after all. When you feel a presence at your back, you don't even have to look to see who it is. Instead, as the bartender places the two drinks in front of you, you slide one over to Leon, who takes a seat next to you.
One drink turns into three, then into you and Leon giggling together at the bar's corner. When dinner service begins, your chosen entree sits untouched at your table, an unspoken agreement that the two of you would be on a strict liquid diet for the evening. He knew immediately something was wrong when your dance with your brother ended; the stiffness in your shoulders as you retreated had him on his feet in an instant, following you to the bar.
Neither of you spoke as you nursed your first drinks, and it wasn't until halfway through your second that you glanced his way. When your eyes met, the rigidity in your body melted as you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. Conversation followed—easier than it had been in years. The more you two drank, the more it felt like old times, before he had screwed it all up.
He can smell the alcohol on your breath, given how close you are as you talk to him. His arm is wrapped securely around the back of your chair, herding you toward him and acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the reception. One of his dumb jokes, the kind you would normally roll your eyes at while pretending not to smile, makes you giggle, and your hand comes up to cover your mouth. His head swims with the sound of your laughter, his gaze fixed on the way your eyes crinkle at the corners as you look back at him like he's the only thing in the room that matters to you right now.
That's how you always made him feel.
As you take another sip of your drink, his focus turns to the lipstick marks on the rim of the glass, and thoughts of you marking him up with your painted lips boil to the surface, bringing a heat that invades his cheeks. He's grateful for the low light at the bar; he's sure you'd see how red his face has gotten.
He wants to kiss you.
His entire body is begging for him to do it, like it'll relieve the pressure that's been building in his chest cavity all night, but the fraction of his brain that's still sober warns him that it'll only make it worse.
"Have I told you how beautiful you look?" he asks suddenly, voice coming out a little louder than he intended.
Your drink hits the bartop a bit harder than you meant, tinking against the wooden surface. You don't even notice the raised brow the bartender sends you. "You might have mentioned I looked good earlier," you reply—your tone is indiscernible, as if you're trying to keep it neutral.
"Better than good," he elaborates, words slurring together in his haste to get them all out in the way he intends them to. "I mean, you always look good, but this is…" He trails off, eyes dropping to the dress's modest neckline. Even the bare hint of your cleavage has him hot under the collar, like some Catholic school virgin. "Beautiful."
It's meant as a compliment, so he doesn't know why you pull away, shifting back in your seat so your legs are no longer nestled between his. The stiffness returns tenfold as an awkward silence settles over the two of you, and you hastily down the rest of your drink to flag the bartender down for another.
It's fortunate, maybe, that your sister-in-law chooses this moment to appear behind the two of you. "You're coming with me," she declares, a mischievous grin on her face. You're drunk enough that you can't hide the grimace that immediately settles on your face at the prospect of whatever she's planning.
Just then, the music fades as the DJ comes over the speakers with an announcement. "If we can have all the single ladies make their way to the dance floor, it's time for the bouquet toss!"
You start to say her name in protest, shaking your head and subtly trying to lean away from her grabby hands, but she's quick, and you have nowhere to run. "Nope," she tuts. "You're not weaseling your way out of this." Helpless, she drags you from the chair with surprising strength and pushes you toward the dance floor, where other women have begun to gather. Then, with all the gall of a bride on her wedding day, she turns and winks conspiratorially at Leon.
Mouth agape, he watches her take her place in front of the group of women, sneaking peeks over her shoulder as the DJ begins the countdown. While the other women around excitedly yell along, looking more like they're entering an Olympic competition than a bouquet toss at a wedding, you only stand there with a pained expression, as if fighting everything in you not to slink away at the first opportunity.
It's a flurry of limbs as everyone makes a mad dash to the front when the countdown hits zero. There's undignified screeching, and Leon is sure he sees more than one person throw an elbow. He thinks he'd rather face a horde of B.O.W.s than… whatever this is.
The bride seems to have expected such a reaction, faking everyone out by waiting an extra two seconds after the countdown ends before heaving the bouquet over her head. Time slows to a crawl as it sails through the air just over their heads and out of reach, and faces morph into disbelief and disappointment. You, meanwhile, are completely unaware of the ballista heading your way, probably thinking staying in the back was a safe bet. When it hits you square in the chest, you flinch, your hands instinctively coming up to catch it.
There's a mix of cheering and goodhearted pouts from everyone else as you gaze down at the bundle of flowers in your hands, as if bewildered by how they got there, nearly dropping it as your sister wraps you up in a hug. The grin on her face tells Leon this was her desired outcome.
In a drunken haze, his mind wanders to an alternate universe where it's you dressed in white, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating the happiest day of your life. He wonders what it would be like to be standing at the end of the aisle as you walk down it and—
His throat constricts.
You murmur something to your sister-in-law, lips tugging up into a strained smile, before you start to stumble away, like the drinks you had at the bar were finally catching up to you. As you make your way toward the doors to the patio off the hotel's reception hall, your shoulders are slumped dejectedly.
He wonders whether this normalcy seems as far out of your reach as it does his, and if that's why he's caught you with such a sad look on your face so often tonight, as if you're catching glimpses of a life that has been firmly locked away behind a door you've lost the key to.
Like a well-trained dog, Leon trails after you the second you step out the door. He finds you leaning against the wall outside, staring up at the darkened sky. It's a clear night, with not a cloud in the sky, and the not-quite-full moon hangs among the twinkling stars. He isn't used to seeing so many of them, but, so far from any city, they stretch for miles like a great black velvet blanket stitched with glittering gems.
His mind searches for the names of some of the stars—a few come to the forefront: Polaris, Sirius, Betelgeuse. But he could hardly point them out if you asked. Maybe he knew them once, when he was younger, and the only monsters he worried about were the ones he thought hid under his bed. But now, after being chewed up and spit out by the worst this world has to offer, there's no awe or wonder as he gazes up at them—just a quiet acknowledgment that they are there and that, one day, when he is dead and gone, they will still be there, dotting the sky like he never even existed at all.
The cold bites at his cheeks as he rests against the wall beside you. "Congrats," he says, his breath blooming white in the chill air.
You blink, brows tilting with confusion, and he nods toward the bouquet. When you look down and realize you're still holding it, you give a half-hearted chuckle. "It felt more like a set-up than anything else." You pluck a loose petal, letting it fall to the ground. "Doesn't mean anything anyway."
"Why's that?" he asks.
"It's just some flowers," you mutter. "It's not like I'll—" Chewing the inside of your cheek, you sigh, rubbing at the exposed skin on your arm that prickles with goosebumps in the cold. "Nothing, forget it."
"You okay?" he asks, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder.
"Did you know that you have only ever called me beautiful while we were having sex?"
His brows furrow at the sudden question, and he stops in his tracks, just shy of touching you. "What?"
It's a vomit of words after that, as if you can't stop them from coming out. "Not once in the eight years that we've known each other have you ever called me beautiful just because."
His mouth hangs open, an objection beginning and dying in the same instant in the back of his throat. His drunken brain tries to sort through eight years' worth of memories but comes up with nothing, though he's sure that can't be right. "That's not true."
"It is," you argue, though your tone lacks real bite, as if you've already accepted defeat. "I don't—" You exhale—it's trembling, and he can hear your teeth chatter, like your body is finally realizing how frigid it is out here. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm bringing this up now." You draw back into yourself, cradling the bouquet now like a lifeline, your gaze dropping to the pretty arrangement, only slightly mussed by the tossing around.
"Hey," he says gently, rounding in front of you and angling his head down to catch your stare. "Talk to me."
You shake your head, eyes avoiding his as if you're embarrassed. "No, it's just me being stupid." He wants to press, but you look so small and tired, standing in the cold, that he doesn't have the heart to. Instead, he shrugs off his coat, throws it around your shoulders, and draws you to his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head.
"You're not stupid," he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, trying to warm you up. "Only one of us is allowed to have that title, and safe to say I secured it a long time ago." He hears you give a watery laugh before letting out a shuddering breath. "Wanna head up to the room?" You two have an early flight to catch back to D.C.
You nod into his hold, but don't extract yourself from him right away; instead, you stand there, allowing him to hold you for a few moments longer, before slowly—reluctantly—pulling away. He tags along as you make your rounds, saying goodbye to the other guests. He's more than a little surprised as your brother drags him into a hug, clapping him on the back, and reiterating how good it was to finally meet.
"Take care of her, okay?" he whispers to Leon.
He doesn't hesitate in his answer. "Always."
The cold did nothing to sober you up, as you wobble toward the elevator on unsteady feet, faintly humming along to the song that you can hear reverberating from the reception hall. No doubt the party would be going well into the night.
"We didn't get to dance," Leon notes almost absentmindedly as you press the call button.
"Didn't realize you wanted to," you reply, obviously not pegging him for the dancing type. The elevator dings, and the doors open.
"I want to," he says as he steps in behind you, spinning you around to face him after you push the button for your floor. A surprised noise escapes as your hands find purchase on his shoulders to keep you from faceplanting into his chest.
He keeps you upright, hands firmly on your waist beneath his suit jacket, which you're still wearing, his thumbs tracing circles into the fabric of your dress. "Leon, we're in an elevator," you chide, though the little chuckle that escapes you as he begins to sway you both suggests you're not as against the idea as you'd like to pretend.
"So?" he murmurs as your hands slide to his back, allowing yourself to lean closer into him. "It's as good a place as any."
You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging up into an amused smile. He can't resist pressing a kiss to the dimple that forms just under the apple of your cheek. Before he can pull away, you turn your head, and your lips brush against his. Neither of you moves to deepen the kiss—as if you're both content to live in the innocence of the gesture.
You stay a hair's breadth apart. The steady, unpracticed shuffle you two settle into is reminiscent of Leon's senior prom, though he imagines you would've never even given him the time of day in high school. He was too awkward, not yet used to his gangly limbs that seemed to have sprouted overnight, and though he's never seen any photos of you from that time, he imagines you were too pretty to even look his way.
Not that he would ever have been brave enough to talk to you, let alone ask you to the prom.
His nose presses into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. The smell has long since faded from his pillowcases back at home, but sometimes, when he's sitting on his couch, he'd catch a brief whiff of it before it's gone the next moment, leaving him wondering if it was only a trick of the mind.
His thoughts wanders to the future, thinking about what will happen after this, once you guys are back in D.C. and falling back into the unrelenting routine of your jobs. Will you go back to how it's been? The missed calls, plans getting pushed back until they're canceled, and brief glimpses of each other around the office.
His jaw clenches as he holds you tighter. He doesn't want that. He thinks of the last two years, of watching the chasm grow between you, and of how helpless he felt to do anything to stop it. But even in his drunken state, he can't find the courage to say it aloud. It seems so simple.
"I'm sorry, and I miss you," he wants to say.
He takes a deep breath, urging himself to take the leap, to bridge the gap between you before it's too late. Then, the elevator dings again, signaling your arrival. He feels himself deflate, like the spell is broken the moment you pull away from him.
It's warm inside the room, with traces of your chaotic morning strewn about—a makeup bag lying on the desk with all of its contents scattered across the surface, your suitcase open and splayed out across one of the queen-size beds, towels bunched up and tossed into the corner.
With a relieved sigh, you kick your heels off in a random direction, a problem for you tomorrow when you're frantically trying to pack for the 7 A.M. flight. You collapse into a heap on the rumpled sheets of the other bed, and it doesn't seem like you have any intention of undoing your hair or washing your makeup off; instead, you wrap Leon's jacket tighter around you.
He shucks off his own shoes before loosening his tie, then sits on the other side of the bed. Silence fills the room, and Leon almost thinks you've fallen asleep as your breathing steadies, until you reach out and clasp his hand in yours.
"Thanks for being here today," you say, voice tired and slurring.
He rubs his thumb over one of your knuckles, and his response is to shuffle down so he is lying on his side, facing you. Your cheek is squished into your pillow, smearing makeup across the pristine white material.
"You practically begged me to come with you," he jokes.
You look at him incredulously, nose scrunching. "You invited yourself."
He smirks. "Yeah, but if you didn't want me here, you would have said so."
With a huff, you nestle deeper into the pillow. "I would've taken Sherry, but I don't think she could've stopped herself from objecting during the ceremony."
Chuckling, he traces along the lengths of each of your fingers. "She's still got that crush on your brother?"
"She claims she's 'too mature now for childhood crushes', but that doesn't stop her from insisting I call him whenever she visits so she can talk to him." A sly, devious smile forms on your lips. "Besides, Luis was busy this weekend, so you were my only other option."
Leon balks at that, hand shooting to your side to tickle you. The reaction is instant, you curling into yourself to stop his onslaught as laughter tears from your throat. "Take that back," he demands, evading you as you try to swat at him. "I was not a second choice to Luis."
"Sorry you can't—" You squeal as he tickles right under your armpits, trying to roll away from him, but he snatches you by the waist and hauls you back toward him. "—handle the truth!"
You're gasping for breath by the time he finally stops. You can feel the warmth of his body through the suit jacket at your back as he holds you close. "You're ridiculous," he murmurs into your hair, which has mostly fallen from its styling after all your thrashing. "He still has three more years of house arrest, doesn't he?"
You hum in confirmation, picking at a loose thread on the bedsheet. "I'm just teasing," you say, cheeks hurting from how hard you laughed. "Today would have been harder without you here, and you didn't have to come, but you did, so thank you."
There's more you want to say, he can tell by the way you wrap the thread around your finger and snap it from the fabric with a quick snip. He stays quiet, hearing you inhale several times deeply, as if you're about to say something, but then stop yourself.
After a few more tries, you finally settle on the words. "It just doesn't feel real, y'know?" you murmur. "I thought that… we made it out, right? The worst thing that could have happened to us happened, but we survived it." You suck in a quick breath, sniffling as tears rapidly gather in your eyes. "It makes me wonder if you were right to always look at me like I was already dead."
Ice fills his veins; it's not a slow creep but a rush of jutting crystals that poke and prod. A lump forms in his throat at your admission—at how tired you sound. He's brought back to the aftermath of Spain, to how defeated you'd been.
"We're all just on borrowed time anyway," you say in between shuddering hiccups. "Maybe if I'd done the same, if I'd realized that sooner, then—" A cry catches in your chest. "—then maybe it wouldn't hurt this bad."
Your body trembles with each heaving sob. Words spill from your mouth, but they're an indecipherable babble. Leon can only press his lips to the back of your skull, gripping you so tightly he's sure to leave bruises. There's nothing he can say to comfort you—not when tears well in his eyes and his chest feels like it's caving in.
Eight years ago, he asked you whether the two of you would be okay, and you'd been honest in your response, but now he thinks you were wrong.
He doesn't believe either of you will ever be okay.
In a hurried hand, as though the sender did not have much time to pen the letter:
Iona,
I’m reasonably certain now that you are the Herald of Andraste, or rather, the Herald of Andraste is you—although I guess it’s Inquisitor now? I was on my way to Haven when I heard about the attack, and I’m glad you made it out alive.
I’ve gotten caught up in something here in the Free Marches, but I plan to begin my trek to Skyhold once I’m finished here. I would like to see you—to talk to you.
I hope that you’d like the same.
I hope you will not turn me away.
If I receive no reply to this letter, I will take it as your blessing to make the voyage, and if you do reply and tell me not to come, well… I suppose I’ll just come anyway, and you can just have your Inquisition lock me up in your dungeons, or whatever it is you have.
Iona isn’t sure how she found herself alone in the presence of the Champion of Kirkwall, but she does feel the creep of social awkwardness being around the Fereldan woman with no Varric as a buffer. The two are sitting at the bar of the Herald’s Rest, Iona idly going over some reports that have been piling up in her absence, and Hawke seems to be enjoying the libations.
(Cabot, for some reason, deemed Hawke worthy enough of free drinks.)
“So, the bald one, huh?” Hawke drawls out, not even looking Iona’s way, as the elf sputters the mead she was sipping on all over her freshly inked papers.
Her head whips around, curls mussing up from the sudden movement. “How does everyone know about that?” she demands with a hiss.
Peals of laughter fill the air around the two women as Hawke doubles over on her stool, wheezing at the Inquisitor’s reaction. The longer she laughs, the more irate Iona becomes, and by the time the Champion regains her composure, Iona is sitting there with her arms crossed and a disgruntled look on her face. “You’re not as inconspicuous as you think you are,” Hawke grins. “Plus, Varric has loose lips when he’s had a bit of that Antivan vint.” She winks conspiratorially.
Iona groans. Varric, of course, she thinks bitterly. She grabs the reports, fanning them in the air to dry them of her spit and drink mixture, hoping Cullen won’t mind if she returns damp reports. “It is new,” Iona informs flatly, hoping to stave the Champion’s curiosity.
“Ah, young love,” Hawke sighs wistfully, and Iona’s brows come together in disbelief; she is reasonably sure Hawke is not too much older than herself, and Solas is even older than that.
(There’s a brief panic in her at the realization she does not know how old Solas is.)
“What about you and, what was it, Blondie?” Iona questions, quickly diverting the conversation away from her own love life.
Predictably, Hawke’s face devolves into a lovesick grin. “Anders,” she corrects, and then her smile fades, a forlorn frown taking its place. “It’s not like the minstrels make it out to be.” The statement comes out defensive, as if she thinks Iona is judging her. “He’s not a monster or a hero—maybe he’s both, but he was trying to change the world…” The sentence trails off as she goes somewhere else.
Iona rests her chin in the palm of her hand as she regards the Champion with understanding. “You can’t make peace with your oppressors.”
Hawke pauses as she stares at the Inquisitor, perhaps seeing her truly for the first time, but she supposes it is not surprising that a Dalish elf of all people would understand the nature of the Chantry. Even if the lands are fertilized with the corpses of her ancestors—cities built upon their bones—as a cautionary tale, Hawke imagines the very blood in her veins screams for retribution.
Then to be anointed the Herald of the Maker’s Prophet, your own gods be damned. Oh, Iona Lavellan, what a tragedy you will become, Hawke thinks ruefully.
“I left him up in the Anderfels,” Hawke admits. “I’m never really happy leaving him alone, but if the Wardens are acting strangely, I have no choice. Anders used to be a Grey Warden. I’ve seen the way Corypheus can affect Anders’s mind. I couldn’t risk that again.”
“You love him,” Iona states.
“I do,” Hawke confirms. Her eyes meet Iona’s. “The world has not always been kind to us, those who love mages. I should’ve learned that lesson from my mother—my father was an apostate, you know—but history does like to repeat itself.” Iona wants to let out a huff of bitter laughter; the world has already shown her the worst fate for someone who loves a mage once. She would hold tighter to this one, she thinks. Hawke reaches out, resting a hand on Iona’s shoulder, familiar. “I hope yours is one that endures.”
Iona blinks, surprised, and can only look on with sad eyes as the woman slugs back the rest of her drink before bidding her and Cabot a farewell. As she watches Hawke walk away, she mutters a quiet prayer to Mythal that fate will be kinder to the Champion.
In the 6 months following a disastrous mission in China, the Golden Boy of the B.S.A.A finds himself on thin ice with his agency. He's given one last chance to redeem himself - security detail for an Assistant District Attorney prosecuting a member of Derek Simmons' organization, The Family. As begrudging as it is to accept, Chris takes the job, hoping to prove to his agency that he's fine.
[bodyguard!chris redfield x attorney!reader]
warnings: slow burn, canonical violence, non-canon elements (i am just making a lot of stuff up as I go sorry not sorry?), basically a fix-it fic for resident evil 6, eventual smut but not yet <3, chris is grumpy
summary: Chris Redfield gets a new assignment: You.
word count: 5.4K
a/n: this lowkey came out of nowhere lol. this will have slow updates I apologize (chapter 2)
Chris has had a lifelong war with the tiny office chairs of the BSAA. He didn’t like to think of himself as a big guy, but felt like a giant sitting in doll furniture. He shifts, awkward as the chair groans under his weight. The shitty plastic armrests dig into the sides of his thighs, increasing his already building frustration. It was always a running joke within his squad: Captain Redfield breaks the office chairs – that's why they send him in the field so much! He used to roll his eyes in annoyance every time, but always loved how his team felt comfortable enough to joke with him like that. Well, it was a running joke in his squad.
Which brings him to the reason he’s crammed in the too-small office chair in front of some superior he’s never laid eyes on before. The fluorescent lights hum above him, bathing him and the dingy walls of the office in a sterile, harsh glow. The commanding officer has been droning on for a full 7 minutes now, and Chris has been watching the clock on the wall like a hawk, itching to get the fuck out of this tiny office and this tiny chair with this tiny man. Chris looks at the commanding officer before him, wondering the last time the older man had seen combat. It’d probably been at least a decade, maybe more. The man behind the desk peers at Chris over folded hands, with an eyebrow raised.
Chris realizes the superior is waiting for him to respond to an unheard question. Shit.
“What?”
“Did you hear a word I said, Redfield?” He asks, exasperatedly. Chris looks away, unable to respond in a way that would be remotely considered respectful. The superior huffs before continuing.
“This is exactly the problem; you’re distracted. Edonia, China…you’re lost, Chris. You’ve lost two teams of men on the last two consecutive missions. Christ, you were missing for 6 months. Your second in command found you drinking yourself to death in some shithole before sacrificing himself to finish the mission. You can't even focus for a simple conversation, and you think you’re ready to be back in the field again?” The man lays into the Captain before him, barking at him like a recruit on the training field.
Chris bristles at the mention of Piers, the heavy weight of grief threatening to swallow him whole once more. He lets out a frustrated sigh at his circumstances. The man in front of him, as dickish as he may be, is absolutely right. This year has been god-awful. But is the answer really being struck behind some desk, filing report after report forever? Chris would blow his brains out.
“So, now what? I’m just some desk jockey?” He huffed, annoyed. He could pretend all he wanted he was annoyed with the older man before him, but Chris knew that wasn’t the real culprit.
“We actually have a somewhat unorthodox mission for you, actually.” The superior officer slides a manila folder across the desk to Chris. Taking it, Chris raises his eyebrow skeptically as his eyes find the image of a young woman on the front. Shes dressed professionally in a suit, hair pulled back in an impeccable bun. Her face is concentrated, brows knitted with a thoughtful expression on her face. Her eyes are stormy, focused behind her glasses. She was beautiful, but he tried to ignore that aspect of her. For a moment, Chris wondered what she would look like relaxed, loose, carefree. He shook the thought as he returned to his main question: What mission?
“Who is she?” He asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“Assistant district attorney. She’s prosecuting the last surviving members of ‘the family’, Simmons’ organization. DSO has asked if we have anyone good we can spare to keep her safe while the trial proceeds.”
“I’m babysitting?!” Chris cried, incredulous at the thought. He felt mildly offended at the insinuation that he was ‘someone they could spare’, but the commander's words rang in his ears. You’re lost, Chris.
“We’ve been informed there's going to be an attack at the press conference today. Your job is to scope out the credibility of the threat. If there's no reason for you to be there, we’ll pull you off the assignment. We think its just a scare tactic, we don’t expect anything to happen, but the Elected Attorney is on my ass about this. You game, Redfield?” The officer before him spreads his hands, palms up, like a peace offering.
Chris sighed before nodding his head; it didn’t seem he had much of a choice to begin with.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Did you fucking do this?” Chris seethes into the phone pressed to his cheek. He’s in the empty BSAA lockeroom after a long, steaming, angry shower. The room had been long empty – not that Chris even cared. He’d been thinking, festering, as he stood under the hot water, about who in the DSO would have pushed this assignment his way.
“Hello to you too,” Leon responded coolly. He and Leon had an interesting relationship. He had heard so much about him from his sister, Claire, but the two had only recently met on his last mission to China. While the pair didn’t talk often, there was a strong bond nevertheless. That bond, however, meant shit to the captain right now.
“Cut the shit, Kennedy. Did you tell the BSAA to put me on this bullshit bodyguard assignment?” The large man begins to pace up and down the length of the humid locker room, huffing in frustration.
“Well, not personally–” Leon begins to explain, but Chris cuts him off.
“Damnit, Leon!”
“Look, DSO told me they were sending the job to BSAA. The family is a global network; it’s out of our hands. They asked if I thought you could handle this, after, y’know…” The other man trails off. Chris stops pacing at that admission.
“They asked you if I could handle a simple security detail?” He would never admit it, but Chris’ pride is hurt at that. Do they really think I can’t do this? His rage simmers at the thought, waiting as Leon takes a deep breath before responding.
“They asked If you could handle the field. At all.” The simmering anger boils over at that revelation.
“Fuck!” Chris roars, slamming his fist into the locker in front of him. The metal crumples under his knuckles. As pain flares through his arm, Chris feels absolutely fucking helpless. And he fucking hates it. He hates the way his gut drops out of his body and fear grips his throat because fuck his superiors are asking Leon if he’s okay. This is much worse than he thought.
“See its shit like that that makes people worry about you.”
“I’m fine.” He insists, a little too eagerly. He is, he has to be fine.
“Chris,” The way Leon says his name makes his heart clench. His voice is soft, delicate. Chris steadies his breathing as the younger man continues. “We both know how this work takes a toll. You and I probably know better than most. The year you’ve had, I can’t imagine.”
“So what, I’m benched?” He spits, with an anger that he knows Leon doesn’t deserve.
“Honestly? Yeah, you are. From what I heard, golden boy is on thin ice.” Leon finally drops the gentle tone, telling the older man exactly what he needs to hear. “You were reckless in China. You’ve lost two teams of men. This is your last shot to show you can still handle field work so don’t fuck it up.” Chris sighs, but doesn’t respond. What Leon’s saying makes sense. This is his chance to prove he’s fine, that nothing has changed. The large man leans his head against the dented locker door.
“Plus, I recommended you, so my ass is on the line too.” Leon jokes, lightening the mood. Chris chuckles at that, letting his shoulders drop the tension he’s been carrying.
“You’re right.” He huffs, leaning back to rub his brow.
“Wait, let me get a recording of that.” Leon fumbles with something, and Chris laughs, disconnecting the call.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” You cry out, rubbing your eyes tiredly at the news. You had just been assigned a high-profile case, prosecuting the remnants of The Family for their ties to the now-criminal Derek Simmons, and oh, just the murder of the president. Your boss has just politely informed you there's been a fucking threat at the press conference scheduled that you already don't want to attend. Justin, the elected District Attorney, shoots you a comforting look before continuing, “We’re still going to hold it, though, don’t worry.”
“I’m more worried about being bombed, Justin.” You sigh, pulling your hands from your face to listen to his plan.
“We don’t negotiate with bioterrorists, never have and never will. Called around, the BSAA is sending one of their top agents to keep you safe. You’ll be fine.” He put his hand on your shoulder in an attempt to be reassuring. It feels like a parent trying to console a child having a tantrum, patronizing and saccharine as he smiles at you.
“The BSAA? Jesus Christ, Justin.” You huff, alarmed at the rising stakes of your already high-profile case. The goddamn BSAA is sending not just an agent, a top agent, to keep you safe from whatever threat has been posed against you. This is much more serious than Justin is letting on.
“What? Its no big deal?” He shrugs, pulling his hand from your shoulder.
“No big deal? No big deal? I have the media hounding me for any snippet of info they can get about the trial, the ever-present threat of being murdered by bioterrorists so bad I have to have a professional fucking babysitter to keep me safe, and you say it's no big deal?” Your voice raises in volume, echoing in the quiet hallway the two of you stand in. You see a door crack open behind Justin, a nosy onlooker listening in. Justin's eyes narrow at your outburst, and you reel back as you realize how you’re speaking to your boss. He stares at you a moment before speaking, voice now cold and razor sharp.
“You have a job to do.” He mutters before stalking away, leaving you to scramble to calm yourself down before the press conference. Making your way through the maze of hallways and doors to reach your office, you try to steady your breathing. Maybe it's just a hoax, maybe nothing will come out of it all. Finally making it to your door, you face it as you close it, sighing as you rest your forehead against the cool wood. These next few weeks are going to fucking suck.
A sudden clearing of a throat scares you out of your misery. You turn, not expecting to find a bona fide soldier sitting before you in your office. A big body is crammed into the chair in front of your desk, and a scowl etched across his rugged face. He stands as you face him, revealing his true size. A large, hulking frame, made to look even bigger with a tactical vest strapped to it, suggests that this is your bodyguard. With short, cropped dark hair and rough stubble covering his strong jaw, you feel your heart skip a beat at his hardened stare, damnit, he’s cute.
“Christ, you scared me.” You say, laughing off the shock of the large, armed man in your office. “I assume you’re the hired muscle?” You ask, taking a step towards the large man to introduce yourself.
“Captain Redfield.” He responds in a rich, resounding timbre. You give him your name in return, extending your hand to shake his. He grips your firmly, rough, calloused hand, completely enveloping yours. Meeting his eyes, you notice one blue eye and one brown eye. He doesn’t return the smile you shoot his way. Grouch.
“Sorry you’re stuck babysitting me, Captain. I’m sure there are better things you could be doing right now.” You slide into the chair behind your desk, waking your computer up to look at the email about the threats. He doesn’t respond, and you take his silence as agreement. “So, what do we know?”
Captain Redfield leans forward at that, resting his elbows on his knees. You didn’t turn the lights on when you entered, so the room is dimly lit by one small lamp. Even with his furrowed brows and set jaw, he looks gorgeous in the low light. “You are prosecuting August Caulfield, the highest member of the family we could find. He’s a scientist for Neo-Umbrella, and he definitely knows everything about the whereabouts and movements of the remnants of the organization.”
You narrow your eyes at the man before you. Typical.
“Yes, I know, I’m familiar with my case.” You grit, annoyed at how he somehow thinks you’d know nothing of the case you’re taking to trial in a few weeks. “I meant about the threats, y’know, the reason you’re here?” You expect to see anger or annoyance at your pointed attitude, but instead, he looks embarrassed. He reaches a hand to rub the back of his neck, and you have to physically pull yourself from staring at the way the muscles in his arms flex. The tight, black shirt he wears under his vest clings to his bulging arm like the seams are about to burst. At least he’s pretty.
“Right,” he admits sheepishly before continuing. “Early this morning, the DSO intercepted radio frequencies instructing someone to attack the press conference today. DSO is unsure of where it came from or to whom it went.”
“DSO? I thought you were BSAA?” Your brows knit in confusion, too many acronyms to keep it all straight.
“I am. DSO asked for me personally.” He doesn’t explain further and you don’t want to push him.
“Huh. Threat must be pretty serious,” Chris grunts in agreement. “You think it's credible?”
“Its possible. You’re going against some bad guys, so it makes sense they’d want to send a message by silencing you. On the other hand, you’re not the top priority. You’re a lower-level assistant district attorney; you pose no real threat besides Caulfield's looming trial.” He sounds so casual, discussing your impending murder like some minor inconvenience.
“Great!” You say sardonically chipper. “So, you’re here to keep me safe?” You ask as you scroll through the email, scanning for highlights. It looks like your name wasn’t mentioned directly in the transmission, but that didn’t make you feel any better.
“Looks like it.” He doesn’t sound happy about it. That makes two of us, you think to yourself. He was a looker, sure. But his looming, grumpy presence was sure to become unwelcome very quickly. You turn towards him as he continues. “Best case scenario, nothing happens today, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of your trial.” You don’t like how offended you are by his best-case scenario, but you press on, ignoring it.
“You gonna follow me around? Rough up anyone who gets in my face?” You ask, trying ot lighten the mood. His eyes darken, face hardening as he answers.
“Let's hope it doesnt come to that.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Captain Redfield left a half hour ago to scope out the site of the event and coordinate with the additional security the higher-ups had sequestered for the event. After reviewing your notes for what seems like the hundredth time, you finally muster the courage to go down and face the crowd. There are what feels like hundreds of people in the room, all clamouring for every detail they can rip from you. Every face looks toward the small stage at the front of the room. The chatter dies down a bit as your boss steps behind the center-stage podium, flashing that election-winning smile as he begins.
You tune out Justin's greeting and introduction to the case. You know it all by heart now. August Caulfield was found, trapped within the rubble of the Tall Oaks church by agents Kennedy and Harper. He hasn’t been forthcoming, but there was plenty of information in the basement of the church identifying who he was and what he’s done. He was instrumental in the blackmail of Agent Harper and experimented on her sister and countless others. Sick bastard. When Justin gestures to you, you know it's your turn to step up to the podium and face the masses. Heart pounding in your ears, you take your place and take a deep breath. The cameras flashing quickens your pulse, and you feel sweat pooling under your palms.
You begin your prepared material, explaining your intentions in putting this monster behind bars. As you scan the room, you find Captain Redfield's mismatched eyes in the back of the room, locked on you. Normally, a look like that would make you nervous, vulnerable. But something about his gaze makes you feel safe, like nothing bad could happen to you while he was here, watching.
You finish your prepared speech, and now open up the floor to questions. A flurry of hands shoot up, and you struggle to pick just one to answer. You knock the first few out of the park. What do you have to say to the victims of bioterrorism? Is it true that the defendant is connected to the former National Security Advisor? Did the defendant have anything to do with The Presidents death? Are we sure The Family is gone?
You call on another reporter, on a roll from your previous answers to the others. You flash him a dazzling smile, ready for whatever he throws at you. The man you called on does not smile back. He stands, tense and awkward. This reporter, unlike the previous, does not introduce himself or what paper he’s from before asking you his question.
“You’re prosecuting a very dangerous organization. Are you scared?” It catches you off guard, the eerie tone of his voice, like he’s lecturing a naughty child. Your smile falters momentarily at his question. Your grip on the wooden podium tightens, uneasy at his stare. Regaining your bearings, you clear your throat before answering.
“No. No, I am not scared of the family. I am bringing a dangerous man to justice; I have nothing to fear.” You answer plainly, watching the strange man before you. His face breaks open into a creepy, wide smile as he reaches his hand down to his hip. Your eyes flick up to Captain Redfield, stationed in the back of the room. He’s already moving forward, trained on the stranger. The room feels deathly silent as he cocks his head to the side before responding.
“You should be.” The room breaks open into chaos. In a flash, he’s drawn a hidden gun from his hip and aimed it directly at you. The last thing you see is Captain Redfield pushing his way towards the attacker. Acting on pure instinct, you drop to a crouch behind the podium as a resounding CRACK fills the air. Screams of other reporters echo around you as you peek from the side of your shelter to see what's happening.
There’s a flurry of bodies running for the exits, away from the man with the gun. Captain Redfield is already on top of the attacker, pinning him to the ground. The room has pretty much cleared out, save for the police surrounding the gunman. Once the other officers intervene, the Captain starts looking around frantically. Once his eyes lock on yours, he bolts straight for you. He leaps onto the stage in one fluid motion, landing in a crouched positon near you. His hands fly to your face, cradling it gently as he scans for signs of injury. For a moment, he looks dazed, His eyes are glossy, faraway. He mumbles something under his breath before he shakes his head, coming to his senses.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, obviously distressed.
“No, m’fine, he missed…” You mumble, dazed from the attack and not from the proximity or the way your bodyguard is looking at you right now. His lumbering frame is so close that you can smell him. Cigarretes, cologne and pine – its your turn to shake your head clear. Shifting, you look at the wall behind you. There's a hole in the drywall, just above where your head would’ve been.
“Can you stand?” You nod your head, letting Captain Redfield help you up and escort you away from the fray. He hands pull you to a standing position, and you grab onto him for support. Your fingers dig into his forearm as he leads you. You don’t realize until you're sitting that he’s brought you to an ambulance outside of your office. He mutters something about making sure and tells you to stay put. Before you can even think to respond, he’s turned his back on you and is gone, back into the heart of the chaos.
The EMTs check you over for any wounds, shine a light in your eyes to check for a possible concussion, and then give you a nice shiny foil blanket for the shock. You sit, hunched over in the open back doors of the ambulance, numbly. Justin had played down the threats, made you feel crazy, all for a crazy gunman to try to kill you today. The threats were credible.
You shudder at the thought, watching the guards carry your attacker from the building and shove him into the waiting police car. You can see Captain Redfield from where you sit, talking to another man in a tactical vest. The other mans back is to you, but your new body guard towers over him, giving you the perfect view of his features. You can’t get the look of worry on his face out of your head. As if he feels you staring, his eyes meet yours across the way. He finishes up his conversation, and makes his way to you. You sigh, unable to break his intense gaze.
As he stands before you, neither of you speak. He starts.
“Looks like he pretended to be additional security, dropped the costume in a bathroom to pose as a reporter. He’s not talking, but it’s pretty clear who he’s affiliated with.” He reports, like a soldier. Looking up, you’re once again struck by how handsome he is. Sweat beads at his temples, his short hair sticking up at odd angles from the small scuffle. His arms are crossed across his broad chest, the muscles defined in the flashing red and blue of the emergency vehicles around the two of you. Your heart flutters at the sight. Realizing you’ve been staring at his arms, your eyes flick back up to meet his. You find a, ever-so slight smirk gracing his full lips. Fuck,this is going to end badly.
“Guess you’re stuck with me, Captain Redfield.” You mutter, sheepishly. He definitely caught you staring. He lets out a chuckle at that, looking down. When he responds, his Captains voice is gone, replaced with a softer tone.
“You can just call me Chris.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You spend the night and your subsequent day off researching everything you can find about your newly assigned companion. You tell yourself that its just a distraction – just your brain trying desperately to forget the violence and fear of the evening prior. Its not helping your quick-developing crush. Thanks to years of stalking friends' exes and working on cases, you find him pretty easily. There’s not much about him to find, however. Makes sense for a man who probably spends most of his time in the field, fighting bioterrorism. Ex-Air Force, Ex-cop, and now a very high-ranking captain for the BSAA, what on earth is he doing playing bodyguard for some assistant district attorney? That explains his grouchy attitude in your office yesterday; he must hate you.
It feels nearly impossible to get him out of your head. Cleaning the house? You’re thinking about his big arms. Reading through case files? You’re hearing his soft but gruff voice, checking on you. It’s making your bed that causes your mind to imagine his big body, taking up space in it that breaks you. You’re going crazy inside your apartment; you have to get out.
Dressing in leggings and a small, cropped tank, you step outside into the fresh air. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You could’ve died yesterday. Today, however, is a beautiful day. The sun feels good against your skin. You set off down the sidewalk with your music blaring in your headphones. You only make it a few steps before the hair on the back of your neck stands. You look around the quiet, empty street, looking for the reason you feel so uneasy. Fuck, another attack? Fear grips the back of your neck, making your breath catch. Thankfully, you quickly find the source of your unease, sitting behind the wheel of a beat-up black truck.
Making your way to the passenger seat, Chris rolls down the window as you approach.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, surprised to see the man stuck in your mind sitting in a car on your block. You rest your arms on the door, leaning down to see him. He's dressed down, jeans and a tee. He looks tired, more tired than yesterday.
“My job?” He quips back, a slight smile on his lips. You frown at his obvious answer, realizing in real time that this security detail would now be full-time.
“It’s not just at work?” You know the shock is plain on your face, but you don’t care.
“Probably would have been, if someone hadn’t tried to kill you yesterday.” The playfulness of his tone is still there, but his eyes show the serious nature of his words.
“So what? You’re just…watching me?” You try your hardest not to make it sound like you like the idea. You’re not so sure you’ve succeeded when Chris’ smirk turns to a full smile.
“Don’t make it sound so creepy.”
“Sorry, never had a bodyguard before. I’m going on a walk, are you gonna… follow?” Your voice trails off as your mind catches up to what this is going to look like. Has he been here all day? Can he see through your windows? Does he want to see through your windows?
“That’s the plan.” He shrugs his shoulders as he responds, almost as if he’s conceding this isn’t his ideal situation either. An awkward silence falls over the pair of you as both of you appreciate the situation thrust upon you. An idea pops into your head and out of your mouth before you can think twice.
“Why don’t you just join me?” Chris mulls it over for a moment before shutting off the car and getting out. His head peeks over the roof of the car, those mismatched eyes meeting yours, briefly. A quiet thrill spreads through you as you watch him make his way around the car. He falls in step next to you, silent and observing your surroundings. You walk the first block in silence before you break, needing something to fill the void.
“Are you strapped?” You turn to watch his reaction to your question.
“What?” he laughs as he responds, brows shooting up as he looks down at you.
“Like – are you armed? I noticed you don’t have your vest.”
“Yeah. I’m armed.” He twists, showing off the bulge on his waistband at the small of his back. You completely ignore the gun, eyes instead latching on to Chris’ pert ass. As he turns back, you force yourself, yet again, to rip your eyes off of him before he catches you staring. He doesn’t continue, and the silence falls once more, only broken by the sound of your breathing. Again, it becomes too much.
“I looked you up.” You don’t look at him this time, afraid he’ll see right into your soul at that confession.
“Yeah? What’d you find?” His tone is clipped, and the playfulness has seeped out.
“You’ve been across the world, haven’t you? I found reports from Africa, Edonia – a video of you shoving a reporter in China –” Chris smiles sheepishly at the last comment, obviously regretting that instance. You laugh before continuing, “You’re a real hero, Chris.”
His smile drops at that and he grunts instead of responding. His eyes take on that faraway look he had last night, distant and stormy. The rest of the walk is made in silence. When the two of you return to your stoop, he watches you walk to your door before returning to his position in the old truck.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Why did she have to call me that? Chris wonders miserably to himself as he chain smokes Marlboro Reds in the dark. The man had spent the better portion of the afternoon seesawing between wallowing in self-pity and thinking about how warm your smile made him feel. The second he saw you step out onto your stoop, he knew he was fucked. You looked ethereal, basking in the sunshine. He could feel himself starting to like you and it scared him. You should be the asset he’s protecting and nothing more. But, he had felt himself softening around you today, relaxing. And then you had called him a fucking hero.
Chris had never liked being called a hero before. Coming back from Africa, everyone had celebrated the win. Wesker dead, Jill home safe and sound, and everything had worked out. It didn’t feel good, though. He felt wrong. Chris couldn’t celebrate Wesker's death the way everyone else could. He couldn’t properly celebrate Jill coming home either, not when he felt responsible for her being captured. She had told him, countless times since coming home, that she didn’t blame him. It didn’t change anything in Chris’ mind. He thought if only he could get back in the field, it would fix everything. He would feel like himself, fuck being a hero.
And then Edonia. Ada, Carla, whatever her fucking name was, murdered his whole squad right before his very eyes simply because she could. Everything after that was blurry – he could see a hazy memory of a dimly lit hospital room, being let loose on the streets with no memory, no money, nothing. Chris shakes himself from his memories of those lost 6 months. If Piers hadn’t–
Piers. The now-familiar wave of guilt and grief overtakes Chris’ whole body instantly. In the dark cab of the car, Chris finally lets himself feel. It’s been 6 months since China, since Piers became a martyr to stop HAOS from escaping and destroying the world. Letting his eyes slip from your apartment, Chris holds his head in his hands and silently lets the tears fall for the young soldier he left at the bottom of the ocean. He still has his bloodied BSAA patch, tucked in the drawer of his nightstand back home. When he can’t sleep at night, he pulls it out and holds it in his hand while picturing his face, forever 26. He sees his infected face in his nightmares, the last moments before Piers shoved him in the escape pod, dooming himself to that watery grave.
Chris pulls his hands from his face, running them through his hair and drawing himself out of his grief-stricken spiral. You have a job to do, soldier. Roughly wiping his face, Chris reaches for another cigarette. As he lights it, he let his thoughts wander back to you. How you looked when answering the shooter, No, I’m not afraid. He thought about the fear that overtook him when he saw the man drop his hands. Chris was moving before he had registered what was happening. Exhaling the smoke, he thinks about the absolute panic when he saw you on the ground behind the podium. For a moment, it was Jill, Piers, Rebecca, Sheva; he had seen the faces of everyone he had let down in a flash. But you were fine. The shooter had missed, he was caught, and everything was fine.
So, then, why was he so worried that something bad was going to happen? His eyes inadvertently flicked to a light turning on in a window. Your bedroom window. He could see you, flitting around through the thin lace curtains, oblivious to Chris’ watchful eyes. You disappeared for a moment, reappearing in a tank and underwear.
Your bodyguard has to force himself to look away, flush creeping up his neck, turning his ears pink. This is definitely going to end badly.
Summary: The Inquisition forces take Adamant Fortress.
Word Count: 5.5k
Content: death, the fade, iona hating every second of it
To Read on AO3
Masterlist - Simmer Masterlist
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Three days before Iona is meant to leave for the Western Approach, a raven arrives from Scout Harding, moving up their timeline. She departs that very night, leaving in the cover of darkness with only a small retinue.
When she comes back to Skyhold a month and a half later, it is with grave news that she delivers with haunted eyes. The sight of the Wardens sacrificing one another to unknowingly build a demon army for Corypheus has etched itself into the deepest recesses of her mind, latching on with an unrelenting hold. She keeps replaying it in her head: the way their bodies twisted and contorted, the sound of their bones cracking and breaking to accommodate the demonic form that grew from them as they screamed until their voices became hoarse, so scared right until the very second when who they were was wiped from this plane.
It is something that no doubt would worm its way into her dreams, winding tendrils that would infest and infect them until they warped into horrific, plaguing nightmares of demons calling out, “In Death, Sacrifice.”
Iona is thankful for Solas’s lessons now more than ever. The proficiency with which she’s able to shape her dreams means that hopefully this nightmare may never take root—or at least, may not be one she must endure frequently.
Additionally, Magister Livius Erimond confirmed what the Inquisition already suspected: that Corypheus produced a false Calling in the heads of the Wardens to force their desperation to turn to Tevinter for help. Erimond managed to escape, but Hawke and Stroud set out to scout a nearby Warden fortress, Adamant, where he no doubt fled to, but if they are to face the entirety of the southern Wardens’ forces, they would need the Inquisition’s army with them.
Word of their findings reaches Skyhold just as Iona returns.
She walks into the War Room right after arriving, still wearing her riding clothes, and the discussion begins immediately. Cullen is already planning the siege, with Josephine securing trebuchets from a patron, Lady Seryl of Jader, whom Iona has no doubt she will need to send a thank-you letter to once this is over with. After looking over the structural plans Leliana procured of the fortress, it is decided that the Inquisition forces will use choke points to narrow the battlefield and carve a path to Warden-Commander Clarel for the Inquisitor.
She manages to get a singular night of decent sleep in her bed before they are off once more, but this time marching with the Inquisition’s army. It is a different experience to travel with the entire force. Slower, Iona notes sourly.
Having the Inquisitor among their ranks proves inspiring for the troops, however, who perhaps see her as an actual person for the first time, rather than just a mythical figure haunting Skyhold when she’s not out in the field for months. Iona tries not to dwell on who among them will make it home and who will call Adamant their final resting place.
Her own party is with the army as well, the first time they’ve all journeyed together; she only wishes it wasn’t heading off to war.
When they finally arrive at Adamant, Iona is amazed by how efficient the troops are—a testament to her commander's skill—the legendary walls fall within an hour. She takes a small team with her: Stroud, Solas, Iron Bull, and Cassandra. Cullen sends them off with his blessing and his promise to try to keep the main demon horde busy as long as possible, but there are far more demons than they expected.
The battle through the fortress is horrific, something Iona wouldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares. They follow a trail of bodies, and she can taste the blood all the way in the back of her throat, bitter and metallic. When they finally meet Hawke at one of the siege points, she’s almost out of arrows, frantically pulling some from the corpses of both Warden and Inquisition soldiers, muttering a quiet prayer to Falon’din with each arrow she takes.
They find Clarel in the central courtyard of the fortress with a body at her feet, surrounded by numerous Wardens ready to make the ultimate sacrifice—one they believe will end the Blight forever, not knowing that what they’ve been promised is a lie. Above, a rift tears through the darkened sky, with something monstrous peering through the other side, and her stomach curls. Erimond is there, whispering falsehoods and lies into the Warden-Commander’s ear.
They almost look shocked to see the Inquisitor and her party move toward them. The heavy smell of death hangs in the air, and the sounds of combat echo all around, no matter which way one turns. Iona is beyond reasoning, anger swelling in her throat. “Enough,” she commands, arrow aimed at Clarel. “No more rituals, no more demons, this ends now.”
“Then the Blight will rise with no Wardens left to stop it, and the whole world dies! Is that what you want?” Erimond hisses like the snake he is. “And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty.”
Iona decides in that moment that she will carve his eyes out, and she will not deny herself the pleasure of it.
“We make the sacrifices no one else will,” Clarel declares solemnly. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.”
Stroud steps up beside Iona, brow furrowed as he regards the Warden-Commander. “And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!”
Clarel’s eyes snap to Stroud, confusion. “Corypheus? But he’s dead.”
“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel,” Erimond assures, glaring at Stroud.
The Warden-Commander hesitates, as if unsure whom to trust, pausing before nodding at the Warden mages, who begin channeling their magic into the expanding rift. Iona feels the mark itching at her palm as magic from the Fade starts to seep out, like thick ozone threatening to suffocate. The rest of the Wardens move toward the group, and Stroud begs them to stop, but they are unwilling to listen, even to one of their own.
Iona grits her teeth and aims her arrow. “Please do not make me do this,” she implores. There already was so much death today, and she hoped the Warden-Commander would see reason, but that hope begins to wane.
Erimond raises his hands as if presenting a gift. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor. He sent me this to welcome you!” he announces with a miserable glee.
Above, a familiar dragon blazes through the sky, screeching as it swoops down. The Wardens, including Clarel, gasp, backing away, and she turns her gaze to Erimond, betrayal clearly written across her face that quickly morphs into fury. She begins to launch spells at him as he tries to assuage her after realizing his mistake. His own ego is his downfall, and like the coward he is, he runs.
“Help the Inquisitor!” Clarel orders the other Wardens as she begins her pursuit of Erimond while a Pride demon crawls through the rift, its sinister laugh reverberating through the air.
With the help of the Wardens, the Inquisitor and her party make quick work of the Pride demon before following after Clarel and Erimond. They race across the battlements, dodging through demons, then turn a corner to find the Warden-Commander and Magister on a massive overhanging bridge between towers.
Iona can hear her yell at him as a frost spell hits him square in the chest, and he falls to the ground in a heap, scrambling backward away from the Warden-Commander and her rage.
“I will never serve the Blight,” Clarel asserts, going to strike again just as the dragon lands behind her, its great maw opening up and catching her in its jaws, the sickening crack of her rib cage breaking under the weight of its bite echoing through the air, before it tosses her away like a rag doll. The sunken reptilian eyes then set their sights on Iona, flickering with familiarity, as if they remembered her. “In war, victory,” Clarel grunts as she crawls along the ground, wheezing with each struggling effort. The dragon steps over her. “In peace, vigilance…”
As the dragon lunges at the Inquisitor, Clarel casts a massive spell that explodes out beneath the dragon, causing the beast to recoil with a screech, and below them, the bridge starts to collapse. “Run,” Iona whispers as panic rises inside her, spinning on her heel and trying to outrun the floor crumbling below them, but they can’t move fast enough. She feels the ground beneath her give way to air, and suddenly she’s a child exploring the forests again, falling down an embankment that would surely kill her, hand outstretched for a sister who is no longer here.
But still, something reaches back.
She scrunches her eyes tight, arms up to shield her face as she braces for impact, but when it doesn’t come, she hesitantly peeks one eye open. She’s upside down, suspended in the air, just an arm’s length from the ground. Heart hammering in her chest, just as she’s about to let curiosity take over and try to prod the earth below her, it’s like gravity rights itself, and she lands in a heap with a grunt. Disoriented, she looks around, eyes widening when she notices Hawke standing sideways on a massive rock protruding up.
“Where are we?” Stroud asks from nearby, upright, thankfully.
“We… we were falling,” Hawke recalls. “If this is the afterlife, the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker’s bosom.”
Iona thinks she would have laughed at that joke if she weren't so alarmed by their surroundings now; dark rocks and raw lyrium veins jut out from the ground, while pillars and small islands made of the same material float around, as if the normal laws of physics don’t apply here. Her vision blurs, and everything around her takes on a sickly green tint. The air feels heavy; the smell of rot and sulfur tingles against her tongue, making her want to gag.
And yet, there’s a familiarity to this place, as if she’s been here before, and that thought terrifies her—her heart racing frantically in her ribcage, and she can feel the thrum in her veins.
Behind her, hands appear, carefully lifting her off the ground. They’re firm on her waist, the person whispering a tender ‘Vhenan’ that would normally soothe her, but in this place, there is only the slow creep of cold spreading through her where there should be warmth.
Solas.
“No, this is the Fade,” he answers Hawke. “The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came through... and survived.” The apostate, usually soft-spoken, seems excited by this new development. “I never thought I would ever find myself here physically... Look.” He points into the distance, at a suspended island, where a skyline protrudes against the green sky. “The Black City, almost close enough to touch.”
Iona tries to pretend that the information doesn’t chill her to her core as she swallows the bile that rises in her throat. She realizes she's sweating. Her leathers suddenly feel too tight, too heavy against her skin. “Great,” she shudders as she shakes her limbs out. “Yeah, that’s great.”
“What spirit commands this place? I have never seen anywhere like it.” She wants Solas to stop talking, and an itch begins at the base of her spine, spreading all through her body. It leaves an ice-cold trail in its wake.
“It’s not how I remember the Fade, either,” Hawke confirms, somehow the right way up now. Iona doesn’t know when that happened, and for some reason, that makes her groan in frustration. Hawke turns to her, brow cocked. “The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this?”
“I don’t know,” she says through gritted teeth. She doesn’t want to answer questions right now; she just wants to find a way out of this place. Her mind is buzzing as her eyes dart around, searching for a path or… something that could lead to an exit.
“What was it like last time?”
The rubber band inside of her draws taut and snaps all in the same instance—there’s no wind-up or chance to brace for impact. A wicked heat stretches up her face as she whirls around to face Hawke, eyes blazing and a snarl on her face. “I don’t remember last time!” she screams.
“Remember, remember, remember…” Her own voice, distorted and taunting, echoes back in the empty air.
Silence envelopes the group. Beside her, Solas attempts to lay a calming hand on her shoulder, but she steps away before he can. She needs this anger—it is better than the blinding panic she wishes to settle into, the spiral one she’s not sure she’d be able to claw out of. Hawke huffs in an awkward chuckle after a moment too long. “Well, whatever happened at Haven, we can’t assume we’re safe now,” she decides.
Hawke perhaps recognizes something in Iona, giving the Inquisitor a brief sympathetic look. Not taking her words to heart. “That huge demon was right on the other side of the rift Erimond was using, and there could be others,” she recalls.
“Oh, this is shitty,” Bull, who was silent until now, mutters. The Qunari looks ready to crawl out of his own skin, all that Ben-Hassrath training flying out the window in the face of the Fade. “I’ll fight whatever you give me, Boss, but nobody said nothing about getting dragged through the ass end of demon town.”
Iona grimaces at him, her own discontent at the situation blatantly written across her face. “Yeah, I’m not happy about it either, Bull,” she grumbles.
“In our world, the rift the demons came through was nearby. In the main hall. Can we escape the same way?” Stroud poses the question, and Iona feels relief that at least one other person is trying to think about a way to get the hell out of this place.
The group is quiet; no one can answer Stroud.
“I’m not hearing a better idea,” Iona declares, spinning around until she spots the rift in the distance, pointing at it. “There. Let’s go.”
She walks ahead of the group, pointedly trying to ignore the way Solas waxes poetic about their current situation to no avail. “This is fascinating. It is not the area I would have chosen, of course. But to physically walk within the Fade…” He sighs with elation, wistful as he observes every detail he can.
“Oh yeah, this must be a dream come true for your crazy ass,” Bull scoffs.
Solas isn’t even phased by the insult thrown his way, readily agreeing, “Yes. Literally.”
Cassandra speaks for the first time, her eyes fixed on the back of the Inquisitor, keenly watching how Iona’s shoulders bunch up at her ears. “Concentrate on the task at hand, mage. There is nothing more dangerous than this place.” She casts a cautious look at the apostate.
Solas pauses his reverie for a moment to consider the Seeker’s words, following her gaze, a frown forming on his face. “Thank you for the warning.” He picks up his pace, falling in step beside Iona, who does not even flick her eyes his way to acknowledge his presence. “Are you alright, Vhenan?”
“I will be once we get out of here,” she answers gruffly, keeping her eyes forward, and then, after a moment, “Anything helpful you’d like to impart upon us?”
“The Fade is shaped by intent and emotion. Remain focused, and it will guide you to where you want to go.” He looks into the distance as if trying to figure something out. “The demon that controls this area is extremely powerful. Some kind of fear, I would guess. I advise you to stay alert to its manipulation and get ready for what is sure to be an interesting experience.”
“We have very different definitions of interesting, Solas,” she says flatly. She’s not unaware that she’s being unnecessarily cold, but even when she tries to curb her tongue, the words distort and twist in her mouth. Like a tempestuous child throwing a tantrum.
As they continue, the shock begins to lessen for some in the group, as if they are finally growing used to their new situation. “To walk in the Fade and survive...” Cassandra muses quietly to herself.
And for others, it remains. “We haven’t survived yet,” Bull reminds with a scowl and begins what, in Iona’s opinion, is the worst impression of Krem she could ever imagine. “’Hey, chief. Let’s join the Inquisition! Good fights for a good cause!’ I don’t know, Krem. I hear there are demons. ‘Ah, don’t worry about those demons, chief! I’m sure we won’t see many!’” Bull grumbles. “Asshole. I can’t believe I listened…” His attention turns to the rest of the group. “Everyone, if I get possessed, feint on my blind side, then go low. Cullen says I leave myself open.”
Iona directs a half-hearted thumbs up over her shoulder at him. “Got it.”
“I suggest we avoid being possessed in the first place,” Cassandra interjects.
Iona goes to retort that she doesn’t think most people seek out being possessed, but the sharp words die in her throat when she spots a figure dressed in white along the path they’ve been walking. “What’s that?” she questions aloud.
Everyone looks forward. “By the Maker, could that be…?” Stroud doesn’t finish his sentence.
As they approach, it becomes clear who the person is. “I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion.” The old, wizened woman says with a smile—it is calm and knowing, unfitting in a wretched place such as this.
“Divine Justinia?” Cassandra is breathless. “Most Holy?”
“Cassandra.”
“Is that really her, Cass?” Iona asks quietly, eyeing the woman with distrust, not knowing what tricks the Fade might be trying to play on them.
“I… I don’t know. It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but… We know the spirits lie. Be wary, Inquisitor,” Cassandra determines.
“I fear the Divine is indeed dead,” Stroud informs resolutely. “It is likely we face a spirit… or a demon.”
“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have,” Divine Justinia says.
“Really? How hard is it to answer one question?” Hawke asks sarcastically, one hand on her hip as she gestures to herself. “I’m a human, and you are…”
“I am here to help you.” The Divine turns her gaze for the first time to Iona, and the elf curls backward like a frightened animal. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”
Iona’s brows furrow, confused. “How do you know I was made Inquisitor?”
“I know because I examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus,” she explains. “It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds on the memories of fear and darkness, growing fat on terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? It's work.”
“Great,” Iona repeats from earlier. She feels her patience waning. “How do we get home?”
“That is why I found you. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you.” Iona blinks. Spiders, she remembers, hunting her. “Before you do anything else, you must recover it. These are your memories, Inquisitor.”
As if summoned by her, wraiths rise from the muck of the ground, converging on the group, and with each one defeated, a memory echoes around them, until the last one falls and the puzzle pieces fit together.
The Divine is held by Wardens and magic—Corypheus. A curly-haired elf appears, and the Divine knocks the orb from the ancient Magister’s hands. Iona reaches out as if drawn to it, foolishly picking it up, and then an explosion.
Iona’s head pounds as the recollection projects itself into her mind, situating itself back into the confines of her memories where there was once nothing but darkness. Rubbing at her head, she looks around, seeing a similar look of confusion gracing the faces of her companions, and she realizes they must have seen it as well.
“So your mark did not come from Andraste. It came from the orb Corypheus used in his ritual,” Stroud says.
She wants to grab him by the collar of his armor and scream that this is what she’s been trying to say the entire time, but they were so quick to believe it was the doing of their prophet that they refused to see any other explanation. Instead, she only sets her jaw and stews in silence.
“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for the Old Gods, but for himself. When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead. It sought out what was familiar to it.”
This information, of course, does not help Iona. It is something she already knew. The Divine warns her that the Nightmare now knows where they are and that they are not yet done recovering what was taken from Iona before disappearing. Iona curses the place she was just standing.
“Could that truly have been the Most Holy?” Cassandra questions.
“We have survived in the Fade physically. Perhaps she did as well. Or, if it is a spirit that identifies so strongly with Justinia that it believes it is her, how can we say it is not?” Solas ruminates, perhaps in an attempt to be of comfort to Cassandra.
“That’s great and all, but the Nightmare is the thing currently scaring the shit outta me,” Bull interrupts, trying to get them to focus on the real problem at hand.
“It is a fear demon, as I suspected, likely drawing on terrors related to the blight. Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, pride, compassion… every emotion save perhaps desire. Be wary. The Nightmare will do anything in its power to weaken our resolve,” Solas explains.
They travel further, and then a deep voice emanates from everywhere around them. “Ah, we have a visitor.” Iona doesn’t know where to turn her glare, so she settles for a rock on the ground instead as it continues. “Some silly little girl comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her shoulder. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten.” She seethes. “You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is me. But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”
If this whole situation couldn’t get any worse, Iona practically jumps out of her skin when a horde of large spiders comes scurrying out. “Spiders,” she croaks, ducking behind Bull.
“Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,” the voice taunts.
Bull shoots her a confused look, but only for a moment before he starts to hammer through the spiders, growling as the Nightmare says, “The Qunari will make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or maybe I will ride his body myself.”
Cassandra blocks a spider that tries to creep up behind Iona, who is too busy trying to swat away another one that is in front of her with her bow. “Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that your faith has been for naught.”
Cassandra huffs in disgust as she skewers a spider. “Die in the Void, demon.”
“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar sola sena mar din.” If Iona were not solely operating on survival instincts now, she might have sent a look of bewilderment to Solas, and the elven apostate is silently thankful for her distraction.
“Banal nadas,” he grits out, and the Nightmare laughs.
“Lest we forget our dear Inquisitor, a woman befoul of her own rage, so afraid of the destruction it can cause and yet terrified to let it go.” The Nightmare prods. “Because what would you be without it?” It questions. “Nothing.” It answers.
She kicks at a spider, sending it into the air for Bull to chop through with his axe, just like the little game she’d seen children in the cities play with sticks and a rock. When there are no spiders left, Iona stands among her party, nostrils flared. “Why did it have to be spiders?” she whispers, distraught and exasperated.
“Those weren’t spiders, Boss,” Bull comments, and she whirls around with perplexity in her eyes.
“You saw spiders?” Solas asks. “Ah, then these must be products of the Fear demon.”
“I see maggots, crawling in filth,” Cassandra confirms.
“I saw a horde of hurlocks,” Stroud adds.
Iona shoves her face in her hands. “I hate this,” she laments.
Solas places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Remember, we walk in the Fade. Demons of fear alter their appearance to unsettle each of us.”
“Well, now I feel better,” Bull mutters.
They do not let themselves idle for long, and as they follow the path, it isn’t long before they find Justinia again. “The Nightmare is closer now. It knows you seek escape. With each moment, it grows stronger.”
More wraiths, more memory fragments.
Iona and Justinia—climbing, trying to reach the Breach, demons pursuing them. Behind her, Justinia screams. “Go.” She tells Iona and is dragged deeper into the Fade.
Iona inhales deeply at the sharp pain prodding her skull as this memory stitches with the previous. “Oh,” she breathes out. “It was you… They thought it was Andraste sending me from the Fade, but it was the Divine, and then you—she died.”
“Yes.” The form of Justinia rises and reveals itself to be a spirit, the same wispy tendril form Iona remembers from Solas’s spirit friend. The glow it emits is soothing, warm—so out of place in such a dreary landscape.
“Are you… a memory?” Iona asks. “A reflection?”
“If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one,” the spirit says.
Behind her, tension starts to build between the Champion and the Warden—verbal shots are exchanged. The blame is being passed back and forth in rapid succession, with Hawke trying to accuse the Wardens of causing the events at the Conclave, but Stroud won’t let her, tossing Kirkwall into her face in a way that makes the woman’s face contort with indignant fury.
They edge closer together, almost certainly going to come to physical blows if no one intervenes.
“Enough,” Iona hisses, and with her anger comes more demons.
“The Nightmare has found us,” the spirit informs.
They move through the Fade guided by the spirit, the Nightmare goading them all the while, but it’s more desperate now, as if he realizes the control he holds over them is waning. “Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life! I am the Veiled Hand of Corypheus himself! The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!”
“Ah,” the spirit acknowledges. “So, if we banish you, we banish the demons? Thank you, every fear come to life.”
The Nightmare roars.
The scenery gradually shifts into a bog, scattered with demons, they fight through. Iona has long since run out of arrows; she resorts to holding enemies so that Cassandra or Bull can strike them. When they come across a graveyard, she pretends not to notice her name carved on one of the gravestones, or the word ‘Grief’ etched below it, as if acknowledging it would tighten the noose around her neck even more. Pointedly, she moves along quickly, as if looking at the headstones that bear her friends’ names would be an intrusion. She doesn’t see the concerned look her companions send her.
They follow the spirit into a tunnel, fighting their way through more hordes of little fearlings. “You must get through the rift, Inquisitor. Get through and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons… and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.”
A light appears at the other end, a familiar green glow. “The rift!” Hawke exclaims. “We’re almost there!”
“Don’t say it like that! That guarantees another demon is gonna show up!” Bull complains.
On the other side, they see the gargantuan demon, the Nightmare, with a humanoid aspect in front of it as if it is waiting for them. Before they advance, the spirit makes a request, “If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too’.”
Iona’s brows crinkle together, but even so, she nods at the spirit, and then, it is gone, leaving them to fight their way through to the rift.
When the aspect falls, she feels exhausted, and as the larger form of the Nightmare begins to stir, she thinks she might cry; instead, she pushes Cassandra and Solas toward the rift. Bull is already a step ahead, determined to get out of Demon Town. “Move!” she commands as her companions run ahead of her. Just as she is about to follow, a massive arachnid leg crashes into the ground in front of her, cutting her, Stroud, and Hawke off from the rift, blocking their path. She stumbles back, heart clenching at how close they had been to escape.
“We need to clear a path!” Stroud declares, sword at the ready.
“Go,” Hawke orders, brandishing her daggers. “I’ll cover you.”
“Hawke, no,” Iona protests, voice cracking. She’s so tired.
Stroud shakes his head. “No, you were right. The Wardens caused this. A Warden must—”
“—A Warden must help them rebuild! That’s your job! Corypheus is mine,” Hawke insists.
There’s no time; someone must stay behind, and when the two of them look to her, Iona realizes that this decision is one she will have to take ownership of.
Let fate be kinder to her.
“Stroud,” Iona looks to the Warden, who nods solemnly. The duty of the Wardens is one he bears with readiness.
“Inquisitor, it has been an honor,” he says as he charges at the beast, his sword slicing through the leg blocking their path. Iona and Hawke duck underneath, feet pounding against the ground as they dash toward the rift. When they reach it, it’s like wading through quicksand, the energy of the rift determined to keep them right where they are. Hawke stumbles, the force too strong, but Iona is there, grabbing her, pulling them both through. She would not lose anyone else, not today.
They emerge from the other side, and Iona reaches out, grasping the invisible string that ties the Anchor on her hand to the Fade, and she yanks. With a snap, the rift closes, and all around them, the demons that were engaged in battle with the Wardens and Inquisition forces collapse into dust.
“She was right,” Hawke breathes, confirming what the spirit said about the Nightmare to be true. “Though, as far as they’re all concerned, the Inquisitor broke the spell with the blessing of the Maker.”
“I…” Iona glances around. Everyone starts to look her way; they’re all covered in grime and blood, weariness heavy on their faces. “…Let them believe what they want.”
An Inquisition scout and a Warden rush up to them. “Inquisitor, the Archdemon flew away as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might want to handle him yourself.” Cullen would be right, she thinks bitterly. “As for the Wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.”
“We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s… tragic mistake,” the Warden says.
Iona wants to laugh, and she does, though it is watery and tired. “Get the fuck out of Orlais,” she orders with venom in her voice. The safety of having her two feet back in the real world does not help her ignore how the stench of the Fade still lingers in her nose, but the panic gives way to an insurmountable rage—she feels it in her face. The Wardens are a liability she will not be foolish enough to provide a second chance to. “By the authority of the Inquisition, you are banished from southern Thedas.” There’s a shocked silence, but Iona doesn’t let it deter her decision as she turns her attention to Hawke. “Hawke will oversee your return to the Warden fortress at Weisshaupt.”
The Warden, in front of her, looks heartbroken but resigned. “Yes, Your Worship.”
“Good luck with your Inquisition. Try not to start an Exalted March on anything,” Hawke says and starts to walk away before pausing, glancing over her shoulder. “And take care of Varric for me.”
Iona does not acknowledge anyone else. She marches straight out of Adamant, feet trudging through the gritty sands of the Western Approach until she feels her legs might give out from under her, and only then does she let out a guttural scream that rings through the dunes.
My medieval Robin Hood-inspired Pavellan brainrot keeps getting more and more real, thanks to the amazingly talented and golden-hearted @curioushappenstance. Thank you so much as always. Medieval Ferelden is so alive and colorful because of YOU.
Until Lambs Become Lions on AO3->
Cullen's vgen->
“Your fist was as soft as your mettle, Brother,” Loghain said to him, as if goading him to respond. He was goading him to respond. He wanted to hear him say it. He’d sanction magic if it could bring Maric back for one final admission.
You were right, Loghain.
The corpse was cold. Frozen. Void of life and voice.
Maric was feasting on clover wine and gilded swan with the Maker, and Loghain was tasked with salvaging what he could of this ramshackle nation.
He would give him a proper funeral, for he was still a King.
After that, he would write Maric the Lionheart out of history. He would burn the dossiers and strip the color yellow from every castle vane and crossbar. Ferelden would be reborn and reformed into a kingdom that foes would fear, and her people would respect.
Loghain the Wolf. The Honest King. The Proud King.
Summary: Cassandra pens a letter to the Inquisition's spymaster.
Word Count: 113
Content: N/A
To Read on AO3
Masterlist - Simmer Masterlist
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A folded letter handed over to the Nightingale with discretion by one of her agents in the Rookery of Skyhold, it bears the seal of the Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast:
Leliana,
I trust in your ability to keep this quiet, but I would like your assistance in tracking down three Templars. They would have likely been assigned to the Circle in Ansburg sometime around 9:27 Dragon. I have only the first name of one and physical descriptions. I hope that will suffice.
I will speak to you more about the subject once I’ve returned to Skyhold.
Cassandra
The rest of the note contains a description of three men and a name listed: Josen
Sitting atop the desk in the rotunda of Skyhold, amid ancient tomes and melting candles, is a sketchbook filled with drawings and paintings, with loose pieces of paper stuffed between the sheets. Notes and diagrams of various magical artifacts, lost to the relentless passage of time, but not to the torpor of the Fade. Pages upon pages, covered in the smudging dust of charcoal and bright pigments of paint, each piece masterful in its own way, but one in particular stands out among the rest.
A portrait of an elven woman; the spirals of her halo of curls are carefully crafted, perfectly capturing a wildness in the coils. The straight slope of her nose is drawn so delicately, as if the artist were afraid of making a mistake—a smattering of freckles is purposefully scattered across her face, as if the artist took great care in memorizing each and every one of them. Large eyes beneath thick brows gaze off into the distance, as though the drawing was done while the subject was distracted. Lips are pulled into a soft frown, but it does nothing to diminish the beauty of the woman.
To the side of the portrait, written in twisting ancient Elvhen:
It has been so long since I’ve wanted. There is a terrible guilt eating away at me for these feelings, a guilt which I have chosen time and time again to ignore—a guilt I will continue to foolishly ignore, even knowing the tragedy this will end in.
She isn't what I expected her to be. I, perhaps naively, thought of her as a simple creature—a creature of indifference. There was a coldness about her when we first met, like she’d built an impenetrable shield around herself, and now, I have no doubt it stems from the nightmares that keep her awake at night.
A woman haunted? Surely, but there is so much more to her. I have learned as much and hope to still learn more. She is the sunlight not yet turned to shadow—a bright light guiding wayward souls toward her. I can feel her light illuminating me from within, vein by vein.
And yet, just as easily as she guides, she can burn. I’ve seen a temper within her that cannot be stifled, fury that lingers in the air even after she leaves, suffocating and choking. But what is rage but grief?
What could drive us to such anger but love?
She is the rage to my pride, the love to my wisdom.
fun fact but irl i’m a tattoo artist and i made some cutie lil re flash, just thought I’d share for funsies since this is my re fan account after all 😂
She’s warm, wrapped in soft quilts and steady arms that draw Iona closer by the waist. A nose buries itself into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. She sighs, content. “Good morning,” a voice, heavy with sleep murmurs, huskily into her ear, and it sends a thrill straight to her core.
“Morning,” she responds as she peeks her eyes open, squinting at the sunlight that streams through the balcony doors. She half-expects it to be still early in the morning, but from the sun’s position in the sky, it is nearly afternoon. There’s nothing more she wants than to stay in bed, but she knows eventually someone will come knocking—they always do.
Groggily, she sits up, laughing at the way the arms around her waist only tighten, trying to pull her back down. “It’s mid-morning,” she informs, staring down at Solas, whose eyes remain closed. The tips of her fingers gently trace over the slope of his cheek, and he leans into her touch, eyes fluttering open to gaze up at her. His violet-tinted eyes, half-lidded with sleep, have her recalling a particular scene from Cassandra’s book.
Her cheeks flush, and she pulls her hand back.
Even half asleep, he is as observant as ever, and he perks up. “What is wrong?” he asks, his own hand reaching out to hold the hand Iona retracted, pressing the top of it to his lips.
“Nothing,” she assures. “You look… very handsome in the morning light.”
The corners of his lips tilt up into a bashful smile, as though he’s not received a compliment like that before. “I—well, thank you,” he replies when all other words fail him. He sits up, hand trailing to smooth her curls that have frizzed and mussed with sleep. “You, regrettably, look beautiful in any light.”
Even as her flush deepens, she snorts at his words. “Regrettably?” she asks incredulously.
“It is very distracting,” he admits, voice now smooth and silken, wrapping around her just like the Orlesian pajamas Vivienne got for her—the ones she’s wearing now—and she realizes almost immediately that they are quite revealing.
Her Dalish lack of sensibility quickly shifts to a nearly Andrastian piety as she subtly adjusts the blankets to cover her exposed skin. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything as he guides her to sit against him.
Even in the quiet of the room, she can feel him thinking. “What were you like, before the Anchor?” Solas questions.
Iona frowns, craning her neck to look back up at him. “You knew me before the Anchor,” she reminds him as if he could forget.
He shakes his head, thumb tracing up and down her upper arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Not really, not in the way that matters,” he tells her. “You were closed off, you didn’t trust me.”
“I trusted you enough to follow you,” she says quietly.
This gives him pause. “Yes, I suppose you did.”
“I imagine I wasn’t that much different from how I am now,” she responds to his initial question, plucking at a loose string on the blanket.
He continues his questioning, “Do you feel as if the anchor might have affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”
She blinks, leaning away from his hold to look at him fully, brows pinched together. “What’s this about?” she asks, directly to the point he seems to be trying to dance around with the clumsiest of feet.
He looks unsure—nervous, she realizes. “You show a spirit that I have not seen since… since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade,” he explains, not able to fight the urge to reach out for her once more, to have her skin pressed against his as he threads their fingers together. “You are not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“Not… not you,” he breathes out. “You are… wise and enduring. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?”
Iona is aware of the apostate’s feelings toward the Dalish—an opinion that often causes tension between them, but hearing him possibly admit his own ignorance makes her heart swell. There is a range of complicated feelings she contains toward her people, but they are still her people, even if sometimes she feels like the worst Dalish elf to exist.
“I am an… odd case among the Dalish,” she admits. He did not know of her… estrangement from her clan, nor actually of much that transpired following it. “Perhaps too spirited in the opinion of some.”
“Still, the Dalish, in their fashion, may have guided you,” he insists as though he’s thinking aloud. “Perhaps that is it. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world, but not you.”
Her lips purse together with confusion. “What does that mean?” she questions.
“It means I have not forgotten the kiss,” he confesses.
Her heart beats a symphony against her ribcage as she leans in so close she can feel his breath on her lips, with the sunlight shining through the mountains outside casting a halo around them. “Good,” she murmurs.
He stares at her like he’s at war with himself, and just as he’s about to press his lips to hers, he pulls away, shaking his head. Iona blinks, white-hot rejection flooding through her as he moves to stand from the bed, but before he can, she grabs his arm.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
He turns, gaze meeting hers. “It would be kinder in the long run,” he tries to convince her—tries to convince himself, but he can’t help but be drawn into her orbit once more. His eyes stray down to her lips, the feeling of them against his own a thought that plagued him relentlessly. Then he’s cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand, grabbing her by the waist with his other. “But losing you would…”
The moment their lips meet, the world quiets. Worries melt away into nothing more than afterthoughts, the only thing that matters is the press of his lips against hers, the way he swipes his tongue against her lower lip, asking—begging—for her to open up to him. Fingertips dig into the silk against her hip before trailing further up, thumb tracing the underside of her breast through the sleek fabric.
She leans into him, and he gasps as she settles her hand on his upper thigh to steady herself, to touch. Practically melding herself against him, she doesn’t think she could ever get close enough, but she will certainly try. It seems he has the same thought as he hauls her on top of him with a strength that surprises her, and she breathes out an ‘oh’ into his mouth as he slots a thigh between hers.
The edges of her nightdress ride up, and Solas takes this opportunity to explore the expanse of her skin, his touch leaving trails of heat as he smooths his hands up, rucking the dress even higher so he can settle his palms on her hipbones.
And still, she can’t get enough, nipping at his bottom lip, thoroughly enjoying the sharp gasps and panting she draws from him. An ache is building in her, one she thinks might be staved off if she just cants her hips forward, and just as she’s about to do that, to feel him against her, a knock from her door stills them both.
“Your Worship,” a voice rings out. “Your advisors are waiting in the War Room for you.”
Iona sighs, leaning her forehead against his, and he chuckles, hand reaching up to trace her jawline affectionately. “Yes, I’ll be there in a moment,” she calls back, and she can hear shuffling footsteps as the messenger departs down the hall.
Regrettably, she extracts herself from Solas’s hold, and he does not stop her, even if his hands itch to keep her on top of him. She disappears into her closet, emerging rather quickly dressed in her Dalish garb, an ornately embroidered shawl thrown over her shoulders as she looks in the mirror to fix the mess of her hair, and it’s only then that Solas rises from the bed.
(If he spends the time she is getting changed, performing some deep breathing exercises, that is his own business.)
He slides up behind her, hands on her hips to spin her around to face him, earning a girlish giggle from her—a sound he should very much like to hear again. “I will leave you to it,” he informs, pressing a final kiss to her lips, much less desperate in fear of them not leaving this room for the foreseeable future. “Ar lath ma, Vhenan.”
He doesn’t let her respond as he spins on his heel and makes to leave. She’s left standing in her room with swollen lips, a flushed face, and a heart that can’t seem to calm as she replays the confession over and over again.
She is late to her meeting—well, she supposes the meeting can’t convene without her, so, if one were to spin it that way, she’s right on time. Hawke and Warden Stroud are also waiting, having gotten to Skyhold only a few days before Iona herself returned, and it seems they have filled her advisors in on what Stroud revealed to her in Crestwood, as there is a new marker on the map, placed on the Western Approach.
The meeting, thankfully, is short, though there is pushback when it is decided that Iona will venture to the Western Approach in two weeks, Stroud and Hawke insisting that they should leave right away. It is Leliana who assures them that her scouts haven’t seen any activity in the area yet, but they’ve been warned to be on the lookout for any Wardens.
“The Inquisitor needs to rest,” Cullen says when there were still looks of contentiousness on the Warden and Champion’s faces. It is said with finality, and Iona is quietly grateful for the Commander in that moment, sending him an appreciative look from across the war table that causes him to cough in his hand, a flush creeping up his neck. She’s not had any reprieve; this is the first time in almost four months she would be back at Skyhold for any significant period of time.
When the meeting is adjourned, Iona is eager to leave and make her rounds, thoughts floating to having a drink with Bull to check in with him after the Storm Coast, and as everyone bids her farewell, it is Leliana who gives her a sly look. Iona scowls, trust the Spymaster to know she had a guest in her quarters last night.
Iona sets a path in her head, making her way up to Vivienne to thank the First Enchanter for the night clothes, to which the woman waved her off, though not without an air of proud haughtiness. “Think nothing of it, my dear. You are the Inquisitor after all, allow yourself a luxury once in a while.”
The library was her next stop. She’d exchanged a few letters with Dorian while she was away from Skyhold, mostly to check on him and ensure he was still doing well after meeting with his father. Not one to let anything get him down, even family trauma, he proceeded to regale Iona with an extremely detailed description of how he saw Bull parading around the barracks naked as a jaybird.
Extremely detailed.
That letter went straight into the campfire lest Cassandra or, worse yet, Vivienne, catch sight of the contents of it.
Iona would not even dare ask Dorian what he was doing in the barracks to have witnessed such a thing.
As if sensing her thoughts, the mage perks up in his little corner of the library, eyes immediately meeting hers. “Your Worship.” The words drip with sarcasm and mockery, though in good nature. “You didn’t answer my last letter.”
Iona blanches, his flourishing handwriting scorched into her mind, the description of Bull’s bits and bobs like a plague to her memories. “I didn’t realize you were expecting one.”
Dorian gives a scoff. “Honestly, what good is a friend if you can’t bond over sexual exploits?” he laments dramatically. Then, his lips curl into something devious, looking every bit the picture of a sinister blood magic-loving Tevinter mage. “Speaking of…”
She should have stayed in bed, she realizes. As she goes to spin on her heel to walk away from Dorian, he snatches her up by the shoulders, directing her to that plush chair of his with a ‘oh no you don’t’.
“Dorian…” she breathes out his name, a mixture between a whine and a warning.
He tsks at her, pressing a finger to her lips, effectively silencing her as she stares cross-eyed at the offending appendage. “Darling, the only thing I want to hear from that pretty mouth of yours is what you and that apostate hobo got up to in the intimate setting of your quarters so late in the evening,” he says expectantly before adding on. “…in excruciating detail.”
Only when he believes they have reached a quiet agreement does he withdraw his hand. “Doria—”
“Ah, ah!” His finger presses back up against her mouth, and she’s tempted to bite it. “Do not play coy with me.”
Green eyes narrow at the mage, her face shifting into something that is definitely not a pout as she slumps in her seat, defeated. “What do you want to know?”
He grins as he pulls up a seat. “Everything.”
Dorian sits with a smug grin on his face the entire time, enraptured by Iona’s recollection of last night’s events that she explains, in detail, through hushed whispers in fear of said apostate hobo overhearing her.
Benevolently, he allows her to leave, having been thoroughly satisfied with her recounting, sending her off with a kiss blown her way and a wink. She’s red in the face and pointedly does not exit the library through the rotunda, instead going out of her way to cross to the battlements, not wanting to face Solas after she described, in detail, the way his tongue felt brushing against hers.
She’s pleased to find Cole in his usual spot above the tavern—or at least, she remembers that was his usual spot once she spots him. Guilt threads through her when she realizes that she had forgotten he’d left her and Cassandra in the Exalted Plains.
“You remember when it’s important,” Cole assures, as if he senses—or, rather, hears her distress. Iona is not entirely comfortable with Cole, unsure how to respond when the boy starts muttering cryptic words that she’s not sure are nonsense or prophetic. But he wants to help, has proven that, so she would push through her discomfort.
She doesn’t linger long with Cole, only giving him a vial of the poison she’s been coating her arrow tips with lately, thinking it might suit him well during battle. He regards the vial as though she’d handed over ashes of Andraste herself.
The tavern calls her name after that, and she drags Bull to a corner table away from his usual lounging spot to talk about his new status as Tal-Vashoth in relative privacy. When she apologizes, he reaches across the small table, clasping a large hand on her shoulder. “Boss… let me have this one, all right? This one needs to be mine.”
As she takes a long sip of her mead, she studies the Qunari over the rim of her tankard, perhaps recognizing the need to take ownership of a decision of this magnitude, and she nods in acceptance. They fall into an easy conversation after that, Bull asking her how everything went in Crestwood, grimacing when she talks about the swath of undead they encountered.
Before long, Sera’s sitting cross-legged in the chair beside Iona, coming down to discuss the archer turret battle formation they’ve been mulling over the last few months. However, they haven’t quite yet ascertained how both Iona and Sera can position themselves atop Bull to make it work, but they are determined to figure it out.
Varric joins next, the small table getting crowded, and by the time Blackwall saunters into the tavern, they relegate themselves to a larger table. Iona begrudgingly slides some gold to Cabot as she buys herself and her companions a round, the bartender smiling cheekily at her as he hands her the drinks. The night is spent in good conversation and even better company.
It is rather late into the evening when Iona finally calls it a night. As she bids everyone goodbye with a call over her shoulder as she exits the Herald’s Rest, she chances a glance up on the battlements and sees Cassandra standing beneath the moonlight, staring out into the Frostbacks.
“Cass?” she yells out to the Seeker, startling the woman who holds a hand to her chest as though her heart is about to burst from it due to the fright.
“Oh, Inquisitor,” Cassandra breathes out as she watches Iona stumble up the steps—her two, or three, maybe four meads having made coordination a little bit of an undertaking. As she makes it to the top, it is Cassandra’s hand that steadies her, ensuring the beloved Herald of Andraste doesn’t drunkenly fall ass over tea kettle from the battlements.
“What are you doing up here?” Iona asks as she breathes in the cool night air.
“It is a nice place to think,” Cassandra admits. “The view is quite nice, too.”
It is, Iona silently agrees as she turns her gaze to the darkened mountains—the snowy tips reflecting the light of the moon above, glittering in the dark of the night. “Cass, have you ever been in love before?”
The Seeker sputters. “Where is this coming from?” she exclaims.
Iona laughs at her reaction before the wide grin softens into something more intimate. “You seem like an easy woman to love,” she says. “It would be a shame if you did not allow that of yourself.”
“I—” Cassandra’s face morphs into one of melancholy, her normally stern brow growing gentler. “Yes, once.”
Iona smiles. “Was it wonderful?”
Cassandra pauses, considering her answer, before nodding, her own bashful smile growing. “Yes… Yes, it was.”
The Dalish woman lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah, mine was, too.”
The two women sit in their silence together, memories of past loves tingling in their minds, and it is Cassandra who breaks the quiet. “I think that…” she begins, carefully choosing her words. “I think that we are lucky to have found one love in this lifetime. If the—if your gods have blessed you with two, you are most fortunate.”
Iona blinks, staring at Cassandra with such vulnerability on her face, and the Seeker can only smile reassuringly at the Inquisitor. It should not come as a surprise to Iona that Cassandra can so easily see through her.
Being so effortlessly deciphered by the woman might have pricked at Iona in the past, but now, the act of being known only brings warmth to her. She and Cassandra part ways not long after, and her walk back to the keep is quiet and contemplative. As she walks through the vestibule, she stops just at the threshold of the rotunda. Solas stands before one of the frescoes, a project he began when they first arrived at Skyhold. He tilts his head, considerate of whatever detail he seems transfixed on, palette knife poised in the air as though the next stroke could mean life or death.
She doesn’t cross through the doorway, just taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Ar lath ma,” she whispers into the quiet of the rotunda. She thinks for a moment he might not have heard her, but his ears twitch, and Solas glances over his shoulder at her, a smitten smile spreading on his face at the sight of her.
Iona is surprised to find that traveling with the Seeker is actually quite enjoyable. The Nevarran woman never feels the need to fill silence with unnecessary chatter, and they spend much of their journey back from the Exalted Plains in peaceful silence. However, when they do find themselves deep in conversation, it serves as a reminder that the two women are not too dissimilar despite the perceived differences between them.
They both turn their noses up when the vast plains of the Dales begin to shift to the snow-covered lowlands at the base of the Frostbacks. They speak about the places they’ve traveled, waxing poetic about the night markets in Antiva and the sandy coasts of Rivain.
And when Cassandra finally tells her about Anthony, Iona responds in kind. Hours are spent reminiscing about fond childhood memories with Mahari at their core. It is almost cathartic, perhaps for both of them, to talk about those who are no longer with them but remain deeply embedded in their hearts.
They share the difficult memories, too. Iona learns what happened to Cassandra’s brother and why Cassandra joined the Seekers of Truth, and Cassandra listens carefully as Iona recalls the day the Dalish woman lost her sister, her mouth set in a firm line, and the fury of righteousness digs well into the Seeker’s bones. A decision is being made that wouldn’t come to fruition until much later.
Of course, there are moments of levity as well. Cassandra doesn't always get Iona’s dry sense of humor, but when the jokes do land, and the Seeker doesn’t miss them, she tries to hide the snorts of laughter with her hands, though unsuccessfully.
Iona preens at making the usually calm and steady woman lose her composure like that.
The two women settled into an easy rhythm during their travels. Ride for as long as they could endure, Iona would hunt for their dinner while Cassandra set up camp. They would then share a meal, either in complete silence or in relaxed conversation, depending on how the day of travel went.
Tonight, the pair sits in shared silence. Their day was tough as they started the arduous climb through the Frostbacks, and neither is in a great mood. Iona managed to gather some materials while hunting to make a few more arrows, so she was carefully carving the shafts from the pine branches she’d collected. At the same time, Cassandra shoves her nose into a book that Iona’s seen her reading once or twice before.
Iona hears the Seeker make a squeaking noise, high-pitched and coming from the back of her throat, and she looks up in surprise, watching as the Seeker brings the book closer to her face as a healthy flush creeps up her neck.
“Good book?” Iona asks, genuinely.
Cassandra jolts, her head snapping up to look at Iona with wide eyes. “What?” Her voice cracks.
The elf gestures with the tip of her carving knife toward the book in Cassandra’s hands. “Is it a good book? You’ve read it a few times, haven’t you?” The blush on Cassandra’s face deepens, and Iona thinks that the Seeker might be turning purple as she stammers, trying to explain herself. Iona’s brows draw together in confusion, and she gets up to take a closer look at the book that evidently is causing the normally stern woman to panic.
As Iona approaches, Cassandra snaps the book shut with force, tucking it behind her back. “I don’t know what you are talking about; it is just reports from… Commander Cullen.” The Seeker is a horrible liar, Iona notes, and the blatancy of her lie only makes Iona all the more curious.
She steps closer, craning her neck to look around the Seeker’s back. The Nevarran woman twists and contorts on the log she's sitting on, trying not to let the Inquisitor see her shame. “It certainly does not look like a report from Cullen, c’mon, what is it, Cass?” She reaches for the book, and a struggle ensues, like trying to keep a cat out of a bowl of cream. Cassandra desperately tries to keep the book out of Iona’s hands, but Iona bears no qualms about wrapping herself around the other woman more than is appropriate to get it.
Grunting and ‘Inquisitor, please!’ fill the air.
“Aha!” Iona exclaims as she at last snatches the book from Cassandra’s grasp, the woman letting out a pitiful ‘no!’. “Swords & Shields?” Iona stands up, leaning just out of Cassandra’s reach as she flips through the pages of the book, which is definitely not any report Cullen would send. “Is this—”
“It is smutty literature!” Cassandra proclaims as she juts forward, yanking the book from Iona’s hold before she can read any further.
The dots begin to connect. “Smutty… so—”
“Yes!” Cassandra cries out, looking very much like she would like nothing more than for the ground to swallow her whole in this moment. “They are… copulating!”
The two women stand in an awkward silence, a silence they have not endured for many months. Cassandra coughs nervously, but it is Iona who finally breaks it. “… can I read it?”
Cassandra looks scandalized. “What?! No!” she denies.
Iona frowns. “Why not?”
“Because you are the Inquisitor!”
Iona chews her lip, contemplating her next words. “What if… the Inquisitor wishes to read smutty literature?”
Cassandra’s mouth opens and closes, then opens again as her cheeks turn redder, until finally she wordlessly and almost painfully extends the book to Iona.
The next hour features Iona hunched over, reading through the book at a pace she never thought herself capable of before, captivated by the words on the page as Cassandra paces nervously behind her, occasionally glancing over the elf’s shoulders to see what part of the book she’s at.
And then, a sharp gasp, and Iona snaps the book shut, face sizzling with an identical blush to Cassandra’s. She holds it closely to her chest, staring pointedly down at the ground, almost too embarrassed to even look Cassandra in the eye after what she just read.
“What did you think?!” Cassandra questions, immediately sliding onto the log next to Iona, eyes wide with expectation.
“I did not realize it would be so graphic,” Iona confesses, hesitantly glancing up at Cassandra to see the Seeker staring at her eagerly.
“But did you enjoy it?”
Iona considers the book in her hands for a moment. “Very much so,” she settles on.
Cassandra’s face lights up with pure joy. “I will lend you the rest of the series when we get back to Skyhold. Oh, you’re going to love the plotline with the smuggler.”
The rest of the night is spent with the two of them huddled together by the fire, re-reading Swords & Shields and giggling like a pair of Chantry Sisters as they talk about the very relevant plot points of the novel.
Only when they finally decide it is time to sleep for the night does Iona notice the author’s name, and she nearly drops it accidentally into the fire, “Wait, Varric wrote this?!”
