At the request of my seriously lovely readers, including @kmandergirl, I wrote an extra one-shot for my story, Equivocating.
Its got it all: a cringey love-triangle, jealous men sparring, poorly-described action and muscles, unresolved sexual tension AND MORE.
Unedited too, so forgive me for that.
Katria was in the sparring ring when she spotted Cullen across the courtyard—she’d almost missed him, honestly, because he was out of his armor. He passed as a mere blonde-headed soldier who was distracting not because of the mangled bear fur on his shoulders but because of his handsomeness.
She stood, cradling her wrist, and watched him cross the grass growing high past his shins. When he stopped and looked over at her, she quickly averted her gaze–she did not need to be seen ogling like that. She trotted to her collection of daggers while he approached her.
“Inquisitor,” he said, then he gestured to her wrist. “Are you hurt?”
Katria looked up. He was slightly sweaty—along his temples, with errant blonde strands of hair sticking to his skin. She knew he sometimes sparred with his soldiers in the barracks, but she’d never seen him do it. Probably better for her sanity.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Landed hard on my wrist earlier.”
Cullen proffered his hand, and she begrudgingly offered hers in turn. She trapped the wince in her throat caused by the pressure he put on the growing bruise along her arm. His calloused fingers pressed into the flesh of her forearm, and she ignored that her heartrate skyrocketed.
“It’s swollen,” he remarked, examining closely. “You should see a healer.”
Katria snorted. “Maker, you sound like Cassandra.”
He raised an eyebrow and released her. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Depends who you ask,” she replied.
Cullen put his hands on his hips. “You’ll be fighting at the Winter Palace I’m sure. If you’re impaired-,”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, raising a hand. “I’ve got—one more meeting and then I’ll go.”
“Meeting?” he began. “You mean sparring? You shouldn’t do that if you’re injured.”
Katria shifted awkwardly. “I promised Hawke. I’ll be fine.”
“Right,” he replied, then cleared his throat.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned in time to see Hawke approach. She wondered if either man could see the flush running up her neck. Cullen’s reception of her had been icy at best after he discovered her…continued liaison with Hawke.
“Inquisitor, sorry I’m late,” he said. He reached one hand out to hop over the fence—decently lithely for how muscular he was. He pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it aside, probably removing it because it was the only clean one he had. “You ready to get that flat ass of your kicked?”
Cullen immediately frowned. “The Inquisitor is in no shape to spar with you.”
“Oh don’t be so mean, Knight-Captain, she’s got a great shape,” he replied.
“I meant injured,” Cullen snapped.
Hawke smirked—because he’d successfully grated Cullen’s nerves within ten seconds—and then turned to her. “Is he right?”
Katria sighed and lifted her wrist. “Yeah.”
Hawke tapped Cullen on the back of the shoulder with his staff. “So your Commander is going to take your place?”
“No,” Katria said immediately, while Cullen also interjected: “I have work to do.”
Hawke shrugged. “If you’re scared to lose, it’s no problem.”
“It may come as a surprise to you, but some members of the Inquisition actually get things done rather than slink around the tavern,” Cullen said.
Hawke looked over at Katria. “He’s insulting both of us, I think.”
“No,” Cullen replied acridly. “Just you.”
The tension was rising between them, in their darkened eyes, making Katria incredibly uncomfortable, so she did the only thing she knew how to: laugh awkwardly and change the subject.
“Hawke, we’ll spar,” she said. “Cullen really does have to work.”
“That’s hardly prudent,” Cullen said, frown now directed towards her.
Hawke chuckled. “If you’re so concerned for your Inquisitor, then fight this battle for her, Commander.”
“I don’t need that,” Katria replied with a huff.
“Fine.”
Katria spun on her heel to fully face Cullen, who was clenching one fist and glaring at Hawke. She made an exasperated sound. “Cullen, don’t-,”
He pushed past her and grabbed a blunted sword. His hand was wrapped tight around it, knuckles white, the cords of muscle in his forearms tensed.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
Hawke walked to the other side of the ring. “You know, I saw the Knight-Captain fight in Kirkwall,” he said, looking at Katria while she glared back at him. “He wouldn’t have stopped Meredith without my help.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Cullen replied. “Though I do remember you doing a poor job stopping your friend Anders.”
Hawke snorted at that, but Katria knew it bothered him—in the same way seeing the Wardens, and not Stroud, bothered him. A reminder of his failings and how he’d never really be the hero people thought he was.
Katria crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you two going to fight or chat?” she asked, then realized she would prefer if neither happened.
“Fight, then win,” Hawke said. “Maybe have a drink in the tavern later where I brag about my victory.”
Cullen brought his sword higher and said nothing. After dealing with Katria for so long, he could not be easily baited.
Katria stepped out of the sparring ring and considered continuing her retreat all the way to the clinic. She had seen enough idiotic fights between stubborn men to know they always ended poorly. But never before had she been a sliver of the cause for the conflict.
Cullen had been resentful of Hawke the minute Varric asked him to Skyhold. And in turn it was Hawke’s sole purpose in life to be as obnoxious and irreverent as possible to annoy Cassandra, Cullen—anyone serious enough to not take a joke.
And yet…Katria knew it did not help that she’d decided to start a relationship Hawke. And now that Cullen knew about it, he was clearly disturbed: he had not called her Katria since then. Just Inquisitor.
She didn’t know if this icy treatment was because of Cullen’s opinion of Hawke, or his opinion of her. A—romantic opinion perhaps, given the emotional conversations they’d had of late. That was a wild, and easily deniable guess, because none of their interactions had ever risen beyond a degree of platonic friendship.
She heard the clack of Cullen’s sword and Hawke’s staff—her back was to them after she’d exited, though she turned in time to see Cullen swing hard but miss after Hawke ducked.
After a few moments of watching them Katria realized the two men could not be any different. Hawke was shorter than Cullen, with dark hair, strong and stocky despite being a mage. He had impressive clusters of muscles along his shoulders and back, ones that rippled out as he tried to push Cullen’s sword away from him. His arms were most impressive of all—ones that could scoop even her tall sturdy frame up without any effort at all.
But Hawke was old news, and he knew it. She’d seen that chest and those shoulders more times than Cullen would probably like to know. No, her Commander was far more interesting. So much taller than Hawke, clean shaven, golden hair—his frame, too, was more slender. That of course was hard to discern when Cullen lumbered around in his armor all the time, completely obscured by heavy metal and fur.
For some reason that was mildly disappointing, he elected to keep his tunic on while sparring. Still, his sleeves were pushed up high to give him more flexibility, and his clothes were tailored better than hers.
His shoulders were broad, muscles long and mostly hidden except when he tensed, revealing well-formed chords pressing against the fabric of his shirt. He worked hard to be a good warrior, not quite like Hawke who built muscle to show-off. Or to feel more like the protector he wasn’t in Kirkwall.
The two of them had worked up a sweat while Katria rested her elbows on the fence, one hand cradling her wrist. She tried to remain expressionless, but could not deny she wasn’t hating watching them. For some stupid reason, the muscles in Cullen’s forearms were doing more for her than everything else about Hawke.
Hawke had not cast any spells with his staff. Katria knew just why: he wanted to prove he could beat Cullen without it. That even with just a stick he was better than the Knight-Captain who trained his whole life for that.
Hawke swung up with the blade on his staff while Cullen spun away.
“So Knight-Captain,” he said. “What do I get when I win?”
“Win what?” Cullen asked, jabbing straight at him. Hawke barely missed the swipe by leaping backwards on his toes.
“Can I have the coat for a week?” Hawke began. “Wear it around to scare off the ladies?”
He frowned and adjusted his stance. “Is that what you think it’s for?”
Hawke held his staff horizontal, wiggling the end that was closest to Katria. “It scared her off, right?”
Katria straightened upon hearing that, wanting to speak, but she would not be heard over the furious clanging of their weapons that Cullen had initiated.
His blade and Hawke’s staff were crossed, both pushing inward, until they staggered in opposite direction and then backwards. Cullen wiped his face with his sleeve.
“What do I get when I win then?” he asked. “Will I no longer be Knight-Captain?”
“I thought you’d want to be,” Hawke replied. “You were so proud of the title in Kirkwall, after all.”
Cullen swung low at him, but Hawke jumped high to dodge the blow before ducking when Cullen came at him again. “At least I had a title,” he said. “I don’t see how your defense of Kirkwall makes you a champion.”
“The horde of Qunari might have had something to do with it,” Hawke replied, though his comment was punctuated by a heavy breath. He was definitely losing momentum.
Cullen darted in—much quicker than Katria gave him credit for—and Hawke barely blocked him, his staff angled in front of his neck, Cullen’s sword inches from him. He pushed in harder, jaw clenched hard.
“The beard,” Cullen said, just as Hawke shoved him away. “If I win, you have to shave that hideous thing.”
Hawke grunted as Cullen swooped in again. “It’s not hideous.”
“Oh, it is,” Cullen insisted.
Hawke ducked low and staggered out of the way—a defensive move, which he probably hated. His chest was heaving, and he scowled.
“Your Inquisitor doesn’t seem to mind it so much when it’s between her legs.”
Katria’s brow rose high, and she lifted her shoulders up, ready to pummel Hawke herself, when Cullen rushed forward. He slammed his sword into Hawke—the mage tried to push his staff blade into him, but Cullen grabbed it with his free hand.
Hawke yanked his staff back, and Cullen attacked again in a flurry of moves that culminated in him slamming the butt of his sword into Hawke’s nose as Hawke tried to dart behind him.
Katria heard a sickening crack—not the good kind—and watched as Hawke fumbled and hit the ground hard, sending dirt flying. She jumped up when she saw blood spurt between his fingers.
“Maker, Hawke-,”
She hurried into the ring and knelt beside him. He had already pushed himself up onto one hand, holding his nose with the other. Cullen was still standing over him with his sword, panting.
Katria carefully peeled back Hawke’s fingers from his nose. “Oh—oh yep. That’s broken,” she said, then looked at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hawke muttered.
Katria heard a loud clatter as Cullen threw his blunted sword back into the pile. He glared at Hawke. “I’ll be sure to send a razor to your room later,” he said.
Hawke sat up straighter. “I am not-,” He stopped because Cullen had already stormed off across the courtyard, shoulders up near his ears.
Katria leaned back on her heels. “You ass,” she hissed to Hawke.
“Worth it,” he muttered.
Katria stood. “Go to the clinic,” she ordered, then she stepped back into the courtyard and began jogging after Cullen.
He was long gone, up by the barracks, disappearing into his office, she knew. Katria followed his same path and opened the door.
Cullen was by his desk, wiping his face with a towel. He frowned when he saw her.
“I’m very busy, Inquisitor. I don’t have time to talk.”
Katria walked over to him. “Are you kidding?” she began. “You don’t want to talk about what just happened out there?”
“I beat Hawke,” he said. “Is that too hard for you to believe?”
She made an exasperated sound. “You broke his nose.”
“It happens,” he snapped, then spun to her. “I’m sorry that I have an ounce of concern about how that man treats someone who is-,” He broke off with a frustrated sound.
Katria rubbed her brow—Maker, she would have stayed behind with Hawke if she knew their conversation would move in this direction. She shook her head.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You’ve been treating me so weirdly ever since…”
“What?” he asked bitterly. “Ever since I found out about you and Hawke?”
Katria flushed red and looked down. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“I do not care what it looks like,” he shot back. “Hawke is-,” He trailed off again, throwing his towel on his desk. “Never mind.”
Katria pursed her lips tight, one hand rested on her hip. She hated how this had spiraled so far out of her control; all because of her damn emotions. A heavy breath left her.
“Are you jealous?” she asked eventually. “A-Are you saying…”
Cullen did not respond immediately. He wiped his hands on his shirt and then picked up a few reports. Her heartrate ticked up as he walked over to her, with some sweat still on his forehead, across his chest where his tunic was open at the front.
“Would it make a difference?” he asked, staring at her straight and unflinching. Not hopeful at all, which saddened her.
She quivered under his gaze, and she felt so small next to him, despite her height. She blinked and looked down—Maker, she wanted to give him the right answer, whatever that was, but…
“I-I don’t know, Cullen. I-,”
His frowned deepened. “That’s what I thought,” he said coldly.
And then he shouldered past her out the door.
