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Sometimes, a family

Summary:

“You heard Krem and I, huh,” the Iron Bull says, and just gets a snort in reply. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still no answer, but that doesn’t mean Skinner isn’t listening.

“Unless the boss finds another dragon, obviously, in which case, fuck you guys, I’m fighting a dragon.”

Notes:

I can only ask that you forgive me for the title.

I'd also just like to say that a huge, huge influence on this has been Stonestrewn and would emphatically direct you their way if you haven't already. I hope the inspiration I've taken from their work shows in this as the enthusiastic flattery it's meant to be.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Chargers return to Skyhold just as dusk starts to settle in along the ramparts, a little bedraggled from the weather but otherwise none the worse for wear. Not that he doesn’t trust Stitches to look after them, but it’s the first thing the Iron Bull surreptitiously takes stock of as he meets them in the Herald’s Rest, slaps them cheerfully on the back, ruffles their hair, lets himself be a perfect caricature of the concerned father figure so they won’t see the real truth of it.

Krem hates the cold, it settles in his bones the same way it settles in the Iron Bull’s, a relic from another life of milder winters and balmier summers. The Iron Bull orders a round of warm drinks with this in mind, and Krem relaxes back into the chair besides him with the drawn-out groan of someone who’s been sat on a horse for far too long. There’s a fresh but neatly knitted together gash across his temple, thin and perfectly straight, and Krem catches him looking at it, but doesn't comment. It’ll heal up nicely. Stitches is efficient before he’s neat, but when he can afford to be, he’s real neat.

“So,” the Iron Bull says, pushing a steaming mug towards him. “How’d it go?”

“Pretty good, all in all. You read the report?”

“Got it from Red yesterday.” He rests his elbows on the table and grins. “Nice work with the demon.”

Krem grins too. “You should’ve seen Dalish, chief, just when I think I know what she can do, she goes and surprises me again.”

“Yeah?”

“She nearly burned my damn eyebrows off, but it was impressive. I’ve got this theory,” Krem says, and then pauses, continuing only once the Iron Bull lets out a low, curious noise. “It’s only when she’s fighting magic, isn’t it? That she really lets loose, I mean.”

He’s a smart kid, Bull thinks, warmth blooming in his chest both from the drink and his affectionate pride. In his absence he trusts Stitches to pick them up and dust them off, keep their wounds tended and their scars neat, but he trusts Krem to look after them in all the other ways, to notice their moods and their fears and their strengths, and to make all the jumbled pieces fit together somehow.

“Pretty much,” the Iron Bull says, and he can see Krem mulling that over with the kind of care and attention he knew he’d give it. He’s mulled it over a bit himself, too. He wondered if it was something worth working on for a while, if it was worth pushing Dalish out her comfort zone and drawing her attention to her own biases and insecurities, but was never really convinced by that angle. The Chargers aren’t about that.

“Good to know,” Krem says eventually, evidently coming to the same conclusion. “Much appreciated, anyway. She did good.”

“The others?”

“They’re good,” Krem says fondly, “Skinner learned a new dice game.”

“Uh oh.”

“Picked some new stuff up for Rocky, so maybe keep your distance until he washes the sulphur off. Grim’s been real quiet.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, but quiet quiet, smartass.” Krem rolls his eyes. “Demons have that effect on people.”

“They really do,” the Iron Bull says, and they fall quiet for a moment. Skinner and Rocky are bickering in the background, more lively now they’re warm and have hot food and drink in front of them. Grim is quiet, but not quiet quiet from what he parses of Krem’s analysis, which is good. Stitches just looks like he needs a good night's sleep, but what's new?

Bull’s still nursing the ale he ordered hours ago, wanting a reason to be there while he waited for them to return, though they don’t need to know that. He’d thought about travelling to join them once his business with the Inquisitor was finished, excusing himself as her party returned to Skyhold and leaving to kill demons with his company, for a change. Seriously considered it, even, got as far as planning his route and everything. He didn’t in the end, and wouldn’t have even if it’d made logistical sense, because he knew where he was really needed.

“Next job,” he says, “I’m coming with you. They can do without me for -”

“Chief,” Krem says, a little amused and a little exasperated, “don’t worry about it.”

“It’s been too long.”

“It’ll take longer than that for us to forget you, you big idiot.” Krem elbows him. “We’re doing just fine.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean you weren’t.”

“I know, it’s just - you’ve got places to be, and we’ve got places to be. Saving the world from the big, bad, magical Vint, remember? We’re all doing our part.”

The Iron Bull chuckles. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

“We’re still the Chargers,” Krem says stubbornly, “always will be.”

No, you won’t , Bull thinks softly, and is startled by the clarity of the thought as it occurs to him. He’s a smart kid, Krem, smart and capable and compassionate, and there are so many places in this world he could go that aren’t lieutenant to a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. All of them could, and now all of Orlais knows it for sure, especially the ones with deep pockets. He’s proud of them. They’ve earned it. He grasps Krem by the shoulder with a grin that is only forced by a very small fraction, but the laugh that follows is all genuine Iron Bull, happy to be reunited with his company. His Chargers.

He notices Adaar by the door just as Skinner has launched into her own telling of the demon fight, rolling a dice between her fingers the same way he’s seen others do with coins and clearly spoiling for someone to ask her how to play. The Iron Bull reckons he might just indulge her, given a few more drinks. Adaar catches his eyes and grins, but doesn’t start heading to their table until he beckons her over with a nod. She stands upright from where she'd been leaning against the doorframe and absentmindedly tapping a folded piece of paper against her chin, and pockets it. She's come straight from a meeting, then, and evidently her thoughts haven't quite left the War Room.

She looks - for lack of a better word - mutinous, despite the grin. It's an expression that looks sour on most people, but looks kinda aimable when she does it. All the stubbornness but without any of the bite.

“Nice work with the demon,” Adaar says when she reaches them, which goes down well with his guys and has him grinning too, their victories always his to delight in, even at a distance. “That was quick thinking from you especially, lieutenant.”

“Thank you, ser,” Krem says, flushing slightly but sounding pleased. That's how you can tell Krem’s been through the Tevinter military meat grinder, when he trots out those deferent little responses while the rest of them just raise their glasses and cheer. It's a good habit; the Iron Bull approves. Not that he disapproves of the others, but Krem's his second, and his professionalism has gone a long way in getting the Chargers where they are today. Folks hiring a company like theirs want some of the rough-around-the-edges charm they expect to see, but they also want the 'yes ser's and orderly efficiency that Krem is so good at projecting. It's all about hitting that sweet spot in-between the two, and the Chargers do it well.

What the Iron Bull doesn't approve of is the Tevinter instilled blush that spreads across Krem's face, the soporati modesty they wouldn't teach an altus or even a laetan. You'd never find anything like that under the Qun, everyone takes quiet pride in their own competence, knowing they're doing what they ought to be, and doing it well. It takes a long time to unlearn that sort of habit.

The Iron Bull ruffles Krem's hair again and then jerks his head towards the empty seat beside him. “Want a drink, boss?” Stitches pushes an unclaimed mug across the table as Skinner removes her feet from the bench to make room, which for Skinner is practically a gilded invitation sent by Orlesian courier. “We're just getting started.”

Adaar grins again but shakes her head. “Wish I could. Have a round on me, though, for all your hard work.” That's met with another round of boisterous cheering as she lowers her voice a little. “Bull, you got a minute? I won't drag you away from the party long.”

“Everything okay, boss?”

“Yeah.” Her brow creases slightly. Just enough that he sobers up a bit. “I’d just appreciate your input on a tactical matter.”

“Sure.” He slaps Krem on the back and pushes his drink away he stands up. “You guys get started without me.”

“They're fucking round the back again, aren't they,” Skinner says, sounding proud. “Disgusting.”

“‘ Again ’?”

“Tactical matter, Skinner,” the Iron Bull says loudly.  “I'll be back in a minute. Don't get too drunk without me, alright?”

“Very tactical,” Skinner says, her eyes glittering, “get it out the way before the ale goes to your dick.”

“Hey, you take that back. Nothing ever goes to my dick, and you know it.”

“Wait, so every time they disappear off somewhere -”

“Don't think about it too much, Stitches. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.”

“Yeah, well, Skinner's fucking ruined that for me, hasn't she? So thanks for that, by the way.”

The Iron Bull grins widely as they bicker, Adaar watching it all with an unperturbed smile. He likes that she can withstand even Skinner's brand of friendliness, because that's what this is when it comes right down to it.

“I'll have him back to you in ten minutes,” Adaar says, beautifully unruffled. “How's that sound?”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Skinner offers, and Krem drags his hands down his face with a groan.

“You can have my drink,” the Iron Bull says, and she gives him a sharp grin with too much teeth.

“Enjoy your tactics, chief,” she says, the closest to demure she gets.

“I will,” he tells her - a rookie mistake, but whatever - and follows Adaar out the door to raucous laughter.

“Just so we're clear,” he says, as they take a left turn past the training dummies to get out of earshot of the tavern’s bustle, “this is business, right?” They don’t completely round the corner, staying close enough to a hanging lamp that they have light to see each other by, the shadows throwing long, dark shapes on her face. She looks tired now, or at least weary.

“Business,” she confirms, lips twitching not like she's trying not to grin, but like she wishes she could summon a proper one but doesn't have it in her. Another hint that whatever she's brought from her meeting is actually serious.

“I figured. How can I help, boss?”

She hands him the folded piece of paper and then folds her arms and leans against the wall with a frown as he reads it. It only takes a moment to skim Red’s neat writing now he's used to the way she reports things and knows where to look for the key information.

“They've got your company,” he says, stating the obvious because it doesn't seem like she wants to. Adaar nods slowly. “Rylen’s got men nearby?”

“Ready to go when Cullen sends the word.”

“Alright,” he says, and studies her face closely as he hands the paper back to her. There it is again, that mutinous expression, though it's unhappier than before. She'd kept that under wraps in the tavern well enough, but she makes no effort to hide it now.

“It should be me,” she says fiercely, and he nods slowly.

“Rylen's men would be quicker,” he says, “but there's nothing to indicate they aren't planning on keeping them alive, especially if they've figured out that they've got a connection to you. I don't think the delay would change things, boss, if you want to do it yourself.”

She shakes her head. “The Lydes delegation arrives the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” the Iron Bull says, and then, “ah, shit.”

“Josephine says we'll really fuck it up if I'm not there.”

“She'd know,” he says, and then he softens his voice. The way she would with him. “Rylen's got a good head on his shoulders. He'll do it right.”

“They're my guys, Bull,” she says, “it's my fault they even got taken, and they're my guys .”

“Hey,” he says, “I know.”

“You'd go, if it was you.”

“But I'm not the Inquisitor,” he says, and she makes a frustrated sound through her teeth. Even when she’s angry, she’s still self possessed. If he could bottle that and take it back to the Qun, well - that's not what he does now, and they wouldn't believe it anyway.

“I don't think storming the cave is the right call,” she says, “but it's not like Rylen has an infiltration team, so what can I say?”

“There's always a risk with situations like this, however you do it.”

“Yeah?” She looks at him. “Ever had one like this?”

“Similar. Orlesian noble kidnapped another noble’s daughter, held her to ransom in the cellar until they agreed to give him some kind of trading contract or something, I forget. Some noble bullshit. The house was built into the mountainside and the cellar went right into the middle of it.” He grins. “Smashed a lot of expensive wine fighting through that.”

The corner of her mouth curls a little. “What happened?”

“We took it real easy, real quiet. Skinner’s pretty damn light on her feet when she wants to be, and they didn’t spot us until we were almost on top of them. There was barely enough room to turn around, so it was more of a civilised candlelight wrestle than a real fight. Very Orlesian. Rocky knocked him out with a bottle, in the end. He was making puns about it for weeks.”

Adaar chuckles, as he’d hoped. “Who wouldn’t?” Her laugh tapers off slowly. “Less wine in this cave, though. I’ll tell Rylen that if he - ”

“Send the Chargers.” It’s such an obvious solution, he’s surprised she hasn’t asked. “I'll take them first thing tomorrow and oversee it personally, we can be there in three days. We've dealt with plenty of anti-Qunari fanatics, trust me.”

Adaar meets his gaze with interest but shakes her head slightly. “I appreciate that, Bull, but they're only just back. I can’t ask that.”

“They can travel with a hangover,” the Iron Bull with a chuckle, but then he looks at her directly so she knows he’s serious. “Just giving you options. Say the word and we’re on it.”

“The Iron Bull and his Chargers?”

“Just for you, boss. The full package.”

“It should be me,” she says again, but with less pent-up fierceness. “I’d… feel better if you were there, actually. I hate to ask -”

The Iron Bull chuckles again. “So don’t. I’m offering, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t want to take the Chargers away from anything operationally critical.”

“You won’t. Listen; let me tell the guys, you tell Cullen, we all have a drink and a good time, and then we’ll leave first thing while you stay here for all the political crap and make nice with the clerics.”

She just looks at him for a long moment. “Are you sure?”

“It's nothing less than you would do for me,” he says quietly, and reaches out to place two fingers underneath her chin. No pressure, just a suggestion. She leans into his hand with a smile. “Nothing less than you've already done, kadan.”

“Thanks, Bull.”

“Besides,” he adds, “we're already on your payroll.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, “the monthly extortion you call a fee.”

“Yeah, but we're worth it, don’t you think?” He moves his hand to her shoulder and starts to walk her slowly back into the wall, further into the shadows.

“Overpriced,” she says with a smirk. “Orlesian inflation is giving you a big head. Now, if you’d ever done much work in the Marches -”

“We worked in the Marches.”

“For the same prices?”

“Sure.”

“I’m calling bullshit,” she says indignantly, and watches as the Iron Bull places his other hand against the wall, trapping her loosely. She raises an eyebrow. “I should probably tell Cullen not to send that message to Rylen.”

“He can wait five minutes.”

Another incredulous moment of her eyebrows. “Five?”

“Eh, fifteen.”

Bull .”

“He won’t send anything without your permission. He wouldn’t sneeze without it if he thought it counted as Inquisition business.” This is said just below her ear in a low voice as he pulls her hands slowly behind her back, and he can tell it’s getting to her. It’s designed to; that’s sort of the point.

“Right,” she says, and to her credit, if he didn't know her as well, he’d believe she was truly unaffected. “But just to be sure  -”

“Skinner got to you, didn’t she?”

“They’re just on the other side of the wall,” she says sheepishly, but makes no move to leave.

“Never bothered you before.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think they knew .”

The Iron Bull chuckles quietly. “Whatever we do, they’re not going to assume anything different now Skinner said her piece, you know.”

“I know,” Adaar says, and despite her best efforts she breathes a little quicker when he lets his breath fall warm on her neck. Always the neck with her. Her shoulders are tense, but not, he suspects, from worrying about what Skinner thinks. The news of her company has her rattled. “And we were talking tactics.”

“We were.”

“Exactly, so I’d rather have the moral high ground.”

“Yeah,” he says, and lifts her suddenly so it’s his hand on her ass instead of her feet that hold her up, back against the stone wall. He hasn’t got much height on her, but she likes it when he uses what he has. “But would you really ?”

She knows the word that will stop him, and she knows that he’ll wait a moment for her to make her decision. He knows that she won’t from the way he can feel the tension bleeding out of her like a sigh at the end of a long day. He can give her this, and he can bring her the Valo-Kas. He couldn’t offer any less.

“Well?” the Iron Bull says. “You still want that moral high ground?”

Adaar grins, an answer in itself.

He’ll let Skinner beat him at that dice game of hers later, winning money always shuts her up.

 

-

 

“The thing I don’t understand is how they figure the Herald of Andraste is trying to spread the Qun,” Krem says through a mouthful of bread, “you know, through Andrastianism . Makes perfect sense.”

“They’re fanatics, Krem. They generally don’t make sense.” The Iron Bull rolls out his shoulders; it’s good to be on the road again, and it’s even better to with be with the Chargers.

“And then,” Krem continues, ignoring him, “they figure that capturing Tal-Vashoth who’ve been publicly denounced by the Qun and maybe even being hunted by Avaards -”

“Arvaarad,” The Iron Bull corrects him absently, “and it’s not - eh, nevermind.”

“ - so they’re being hunted by the Qun, and these geniuses think, why not capture them to show Par Vollen they mean business? Any part of this making sense to anyone else?”

“Nothing makes sense anymore, Krem,” the Iron Bull says, “there’s a big, ugly Vint trying to destroy the world just because he thinks he’s hot shit, so I figure it’s just something going around.”

That gets a grin. “It’s a nice break from demons, right, chief?”

“Anything’s a nice break from demons.” The Iron Bull snorts. “Even this.”

“Right,” Krem says, and grabs another chunk of bread from the cart they’re walking alongside. He’s not that much worse for wear given the night they had, but they all rolled out of bed too late for breakfast in Skyhold. “The Inquisitor’s company are all Qunari, aren’t they?”

“Tal-Vashoth, yes. Most of them.”

“You’re not a big fan of them, chief.”

“I’m one of them,” the Iron Bull says, carefully level, but Krem isn’t looking to cross-examine him, it would seem.

“That’s different,” Krem says impatiently, his surety a curious thing that speaks volumes of both his lack of knowledge and mistrust of the Qun, and of where he decides to place his regard for the Iron Bull amidst all that. It warms him, and it saddens him. It’s the same damn thing. Exactly the same. “And Adaar too, I suppose.”

“She’s Vashoth,” the Iron Bull says slowly, “which is different. Just what are you getting at exactly, Krem?”

“You never liked the mercenary bands like that, you even turned down some of the Qunari who wanted to join the Chargers.”

“They were Tal-Vashoth and I was Ben-Hassrath. I wasn’t about to take them in while I was working for the Qun, was I?”

“I’m just saying,” Krem says, and he holds his hands up and spreads his fingers wide. “Kind of a weird job for you to have volunteered for, that’s all.”

“They’re her guys,” the Iron Bull says, “and she’d do the same for me.” She already has, not that the Chargers will ever really understand that. The Storm Coast to them is just a job that didn’t go quite as planned, not the day the Qun had them carelessly labelled as collateral to Hissrad’s last chance.

“That’s sort of what I mean,” Krem says, a sly little grin spreading across his face. “The whole… matching necklace thing you’ve got going. That’s why you offered, right? Because you sure as shit aren’t doing it for the poor bastards in this cave.”

The Iron Bull turns to look at him with his one good eye, his expression deadpan. “We’re getting paid to rescue those poor bastards, remember?”

“We’d still be getting paid if we sat around Skyhold waiting for the next job from Cullen, you big softie.”

“Alright, alright,” the Iron Bull says mildly, “but this isn’t a vanity job, Krem. Red’s agents put them at easily one hundred, and we’re doing this with no friendly casualties, you got it?

“Yes ser,” Krem says promptly, “never would’ve given it anything less than our best.”

“Hey, I know. Just be ready for a tough fight.”

“Yes ser,” Krem says again, and then that shit-eating grin is back in full force. “So, what’s the necklace mean, chief?”

“You know what,” the Iron Bull says. “I’m going to walk up front with Grim for a bit. Better conversation.”

 

-

 

The wayside inn they stop at is small and neat, hedges perfectly trimmed and an efficient plume of smoke curling out the chimney from a perfectly tended fire. Even the shutters are freshly painted, and there’s a metal brush by the door for scraping your boots on. Whoever owns this place, the Iron Bull thinks, would much rather run a quiet local tavern than an isolated inn for passing travellers, but some folk are determined to keep living lives that don’t suit them. It’s the Southern way of things, and these days it amuses him more than it bothers him.

He leans one elbow on the bar and gives the man behind the bar his best, most jovial grin, on account of how very certain he is that tomorrow morning he’ll be handing over not only the fee for the rooms but an additional charge for damages incurred. The man smiles back readily, which is always a good sign, both for their upcoming bill and for the night ahead. Not that he’s planning on that kind of night, but in another time, another life, maybe. It always had the pleasant side effect of running interference when his guys were causing trouble and turning heads in a place too quiet for the Chargers. In this time, this life, he’ll just enjoy the half-intrigued look and try to charm him as best he can without taking it upstairs.

“Name’s the Iron Bull,” he says, and he still enjoys the looks that gets, even now. “Nice to meet you. I don’t suppose you’ve got any rooms going spare for me and my boys?” Boys , not two restless elves, a rowdy dwarf, three mismatched humans and the one-eyed Tal-Vashoth that leads them. Boys sounds better. Boisterous, but harmless, maybe even kind of endearing. He grins again, lopsided to complete the picture.

“We’ve only got two, I’m afraid,” the man says apologetically, sweeping his eyes over the assorted company in front of him. “One’s smaller than the other. I, er, I don’t know if you’ll all -”

“That’ll do just fine.”

“Of course, ser. We’ll have them ready in half an hour.”

“No rush,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully, and winks at him because he has a feeling he’ll blush. He does; the tips of his ears turning red as he grins sheepishly back and fumbles the glass he was drying. Behind him, Krem snorts. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Geram.”

“Nice to meet you, Geram. Don’t suppose we could get some drinks and hot food while we’re waiting?”

“Yes, ser.”

After Geram has passed out enough mugs of ale for them all and returned to the kitchen through the door at the back, the Iron Bull takes another look around at the fussy decor and his distinctly unfussy company, and figures it’s probably time he at least tries to mitigate the bill he can see himself paying the next morning.

“Hey -” he begins, but he’s beaten to the punch.

“We’re having a quiet night, alright?” Krem says firmly. “It’s a nice, quiet place, and we’re going to have some food and a couple of drinks and that’s it, got it? Skinner, put the dice away. Rocky, if you start arguing with any of the locals I’ll drag you upstairs myself and tie you to the bed.”

“And not in a sexy way,” the Iron Bull adds, unable to resist. He’s so fucking proud of him, sometimes. Proud enough that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You should be so lucky,” Krem says dryly, and then looks at the Iron Bull with a grin. “Oh, and Chief? Stop getting a kick out of flustering the bar staff.”

“Don’t know why you still bother,” Skinner says, still rolling the dice between her palms despite Krem glaring at him. “Not when you’re getting nothing out of it.”

The Iron Bull reaches over and plucks a die from between her fingers. “You know, Skins, some of us just like being nice to other people. You should try it.”

“I’m nice,” Skinner says flatly, and pulls her hand back before he can reach the other one. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Don’t I miss what?”

“All the sex.” She flicks the die up into the air with a thumb, showing off. “The redheads .”

He really should’ve seen this coming, but it’s too late to head it off now. There’s no handling Skinner when she’s in this sort of mood.

“Somehow I don’t think the chief’s hard up on that front, Skinner,” Stitches says, ever the hidden diplomat. “I’m fairly sure he’s still doing pretty well for himself.”

“Oh, yeah,” the Iron Bull says reasonably, “I’m doing just great. Don't you worry about me.”

“Just worried you're getting boring,” she shoots back.

“Uhuh,” he says, grinning at her, “you come back when you've killed a few dragons, and then we'll talk about boring.”

Skinner snorts but turns away, clearly finished with the conversation. He'll have to deal with it, though, sooner or later, and as he's filing this away he catches Krem's eye. Krem pulls a face; they'll talk later.

“Well,” Rocky says, and the Iron Bull has a feeling he's about to demonstrate his unique capacity to say precisely the opposite thing the situation requires. “I'm just happy the chief's happy.”

Dragons, Rocky.”

“I kind of meant the whole committed relationship thing, but sure.”

“Life's good,” the Iron Bull agrees, and then realises they're all watching him. “What?”

Krem leans an elbow on Dalish’s shoulder where she's beaming at the Iron Bull. “They grow up so fast, don't they?”

“They sure do,” the Iron Bull says pointedly. “One minute it's all 'yes ser’ and 'right away chief’ and before you know it they're running their mouth, giving you shit about your fashion choices -”

“‘Tits out’ isn't a fashion choice, chief, it's forgetting to get dressed in the morning.”

“We've been over this,” the Iron Bull says, warming to the familiar bickering and pleased to see Skinner smirking despite her continued silence. “It's a harness. It… harnesses.”

“It's inadequate protection,” Stitches mutters dutifully, honour bound to chip in whenever the subject comes up.

“Harnesses what, exactly?”

“My impressive physique, Krem.”

“Oh, sure.” Krem's back to that shit eating grin that means he's about to be a smartass, but the Iron Bull finds himself grinning too. “Some of us are secure enough we don't need to flaunt it, chief.”

That sets the Chargers off banging the table and laughing uproariously, Krem making a show of kissing his bicep, only to stop hurriedly and flush a little when he notices Geram standing by their table with a tray of hot food.

“We'll keep it down,” he says sheepishly, but Geram is fighting back a smirk. “Thank you,” he adds gratefully, and whether he's trying or not, Krem's hitting that sweet spot between respectable and charmingly unpolished exactly right. He's probably not trying, which just makes it all the more disarming, and Geram just smiles. No need for the Iron Bull's broad grin to smooth things over, because that's just the effect Krem has on people without even trying.

He’s a smart kid, Krem, smart and capable and kind and personable, and he's too damn good to have nearly never had a chance to show it. It was worth an eye. It was worth far more than you can measure in flesh and blood.

The bread’s stale and the stew's been sitting long enough to form an unappealing skin on the top, but the company is good. The Iron Bull is content just to sit and soak it up.

 

-

 

Geram wasn't wrong; the rooms are small, and the smallest one is barely big enough for the Iron Bull to stand up straight in. He takes it anyway, sends the rest of them to the room with more floor space and leaves them fight over the beds, Krem following after him without needing to ask.

“Cosy,” the Iron Bull says, sitting at one end of the bed and feeling it sink down beneath him. “Reckon we can both fit in?”

“If it's a choice between you or Rocky's snoring, I'll take a horn in the face anyday.”

“I told you, just roll him onto his side.” The Iron Bull kicks off his boots. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“It’s not that easy,” Krem says, shucking off his own boots and the last few pieces of his travelling armour as he flops back onto the bed. “Rocky’s pretty heavy.” Krem shoots him a grin as he props himself up on the pillows, knees bent but his feet are still touching the side of the Iron Bull’s leg. Eh, they’ve slept in worse and smaller places. Least it’s warm and dry and more or less soft.

“Hey,” the Iron Bull says, fighting through the haze of a full stomach and tired limbs. He wants to talk about a few things before they sleep. “Do we need to talk about Skinner?”

“Skinner’s fine, chief,” Krem says after a moment, gazing up at the low ceiling. “She just misses you, is all.”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull sighs. “I get it. I need to get out more with you guys, do a few jobs.”

Krem raises an eyebrow. “And miss out on killing dragons?”

“Well, not dragons ,” the Iron Bull says, and grins. “But the other boring stuff, like crazy Vint cultists.”

“We’re doing just fine,” Krem says firmly, “you do what you need to do, chief.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“Sure,” Krem says distantly, still looking at the ceiling. “When you’re done killing the biggest, craziest Vint, right?”

“Krem,” the Iron Bull says, “you know you’re doing a great job with them, don’t you?”

Another of those telling little flushes, but he looks pleased. “I’m doing my best.”

“And I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job, you know that. But you’ve got to be thinking about where this’ll take you.”

“Chief?”

“The future, Krem. Leading your own company, or -”

“Chief,” Krem repeats, but with an exasperated groan. “Stop.”

“I’m being serious.”

“See, this is the sort of shit that’s got Skinner all twitchy,” Krem says, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring at him indignantly. “Like you’re trying to - to - disband us, or -”

“Hey, that’s not it.” The Iron Bull holds his hands up and softens his expression. “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

Krem’s suspicion doesn’t fade entirely. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“I’m trying to look out for you,” the Iron Bull says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

“I appreciate it, chief, but I’m good where I am. We all are.” He prods the Iron Bull with a toe. “We’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re ready. So kill your Vint and your dragons, and we can get back to doing what we do best.”

“Just think about it, alright? There are a lot more opportunities out there than even the Inquisition can give you.”

The exasperated look is back. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

Krem sighs, but whatever explanation is about to follow is cut short by a sharp knock on the door.

The Iron Bull groans, slipping his feet back into his boots and crossing the room to open the door. “Yeah?”

It’s Skinner, whetstone in one hand. Makes a change from those damn dice. “Something you’ll want to see, chief.”

“Trouble?”

Skinner grins, but shakes her head. “Come on,” she says, and starts heading down the hallway without any further explanation. The Iron Bull shrugs at Krem and follows her, noting with a sinking feeling the flask and quiver propped up against the wall outside their rooms.

“Skins,” he says slowly, “were you keeping watch?”

She doesn’t answer, but the freshly sharpened daggers at her hip say it all. She always carries just the two; one of them he got her back when the Chargers were just starting out. She’d hoard every pay packet he gave her with a fierce and frantic intensity that made him spring for the dagger out of his own pocket, just so he’d never have to take anything from her. The other one’s a family heirloom - if such a lofty title can be applied to an old, poorly made knife held together with sheer determination - not that many people know that about her. The other thing no one else really knows about Skinner is that she’d have been a tanner by trade if she’d stayed in the family business, if her father hadn’t been killed, if the world she was born into wasn’t so fucked up, if she hadn’t learned to lash out instead of accepting her place, if, if, if. There’s a lot of ifs with Skinner, and the Iron Bull’s just glad he could give her a few more. If he hadn’t run into her when he did, who knows.

“You heard Krem and I, huh,” he says, and just gets a snort in reply. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Still no answer, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t listening.

“Unless the boss finds another dragon, obviously, in which case, fuck you guys, I’m fighting a dragon .”

Skinner snorts, leading him down the stairs, and finally gets to the point. “Your girlfriend showed up ten minutes ago.”

“Huh,” he says, “she’s late.”

That gets Skinner’s attention, and she turns to look at him with a sharp expression. “What?”

“I thought she’d be here an hour ago, if she set off at midday.” The Iron Bull shrugs. “I guess it took longer for her to change her mind.”

“How did you know she would?” She squints at him suspiciously. He’d be offended that she still doesn’t think all that much of his deductive skills if it was anyone else.

He ruffles Skinner’s hair, which she hates, but it’s not like she does hugs either. “Because I’d do exactly the same if it was you guys.”

She ducks away, but half-heartedly. He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near her if she really minded. “Unless there was a dragon.”

“We all have our line in the sand, Skinner. How about,” he says a little more softly, “you get some sleep before tomorrow?”

“Rocky snores.”

“I’ve told you, roll him onto his side, it works every time. Hey, Geram - “ He waves down the barkeep now they’re back in the common area, where Geram is talking to a tall, hooded figure with an apologetic expression. “She’s with us, we can squeeze her in.”

If Adaar is surprised at how not-surprised her welcoming party is, she doesn't show it. When she pushes her hood back she just looks tired; her change of heart must have come much later in the day than he’d expected, and she’s travelled hard since. Alone, as well. Hardly impressive after everything he’s seen her do, but there’s something like pride in the look he gives her, or maybe admiration, or just plain approval. He likes that she’s the Inquisitor but she’ll still take a hard day’s travel on foot, and he likes that she clearly just walked right out of Skyhold without a backwards glance, against all the advice she would’ve been given if she’d asked for it. He likes that she just left , just thought, fuck it, and did what she needed to do.

“Josephine is going to lose her shit,” the Iron Bull says conversationally, shooting Geram a grin. The removal of her hood seems to have started the slow process of realisation, and his jaw hangs slackly as he looks between them. “Come on, we've got two rooms. We'll find somewhere for you.”

The cogs keep turning behind Geram’s expression. “Wait, are you -”

“Let’s keep this between us,” the Iron Bull suggests with a wink, because the best kept secrets are always the ones people feel like they're in on. Probably doesn't hurt that Skinner's stood behind him looking as Skinner-ish as she ever does, still in her full gear and her daggers freshly sharpened. Adaar spares Geram a smile of her own in that the half-embarrassed, half-irritated way she has when people start looking at her in awe. She gets recognised more often than folk actually recognise her, given that they tend to see a female qunari and make the leap regardless. It amuses him to think they pull this routine with any Tal-Vashoth they meet, too.

It's the horns as well, now her hood is off and they're clearly visible. Adaar’s curve back over her head in pretty much the opposite to the outwards jut of the Iron Bull's, so there's at least some merit for her in wearing the hood where he’d probably stick out more trying to cover them up. The Tal-Vashoth cut theirs but Adaar never has, because she's Vashoth raised in a world of hornless bas and can see the horns for what they are, and not the way a Tal-Vashoth would. He likes that about her too.

“I’m guessing I have you to thank for the cart,” Adaar says in a low voice, following them back upstairs. So she spotted it, then. He'd been sure to leave it placed somewhere just prominently enough it looked kind of weird, just in case. It’d annoyed Krem.

“Anytime, boss,” he says, and sees Adaar shake her head with a rueful grin. “Figured you'd need it.” He'd had them stop earlier than usual too, to give her a fighting chance of catching up. By Skinner’s quiet groan, she’s figured that out, too.

“I had every intention of staying,” Adaar says, “I just…” She trails off with a sheepish shrug.

“The clerics?”

“Vivienne said she’d run damage control for me.”

“Good old Viv,” the Iron Bull says, rounding the top of the stairs and raising an eyebrow at Krem peering curiously round the doorframe. “And Josephine’s alright with that?”

“She’ll have to be,” Adaar says grimly, which gets a laugh from Skinner, though Adaar is clearly past finding it funny. “When she finds out, anyway.”

“Eh, they'll handle it.” The Iron Bull stops at the entrance to his room, Krem looking between them with the hint of a smirk. “They always do.”

“The cart,” Krem says slowly, and then shakes his head with a grin. He gives Adaar a brisk little nod. “Evening, Inquisitor. You joining in the fun on this one?”

“Looks like,” she says wryly, and then finally grins, shrugging off the guilt with her travelling cloak. Almost. “How'd you know I'd come, anyway?” She directs this at the Iron Bull. “ I didn't.”

“No one can see their own blind spots, boss,” he says fondly, and then points at his eye and adds: “I’d know.”

Krem rolls his eyes and grabs a pillow off the bed, tucks it under his arm. “Anyway,” he says, “I think that's my cue to leave.” But not without the only decent pillow, the little shit.

“Lieutenant, please,” Adaar says, sounding vaguely horrified, “I’m not here to disrupt -”

Krem just shakes his head with another grin, waving her concerns away with just the right amount of cheerful unconcern. “It was pretty cozy anyway,” he says, “the big lump’s all yours, your worship.”

She still isn't entirely comfortable with that by the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, but she chuckles and nods. “Right. Thanks, Krem. Just another thing, though -”

“Inquisitor?”

“I'm just tagging along on this one,” she says, “so… you can probably drop the titles, if you don't mind.”

Krem shoots the Iron Bull a curious glance, but gives her another nod. “Can do, ser,” he says carefully. “Sleep well, both of you, or, er - nevermind.” He clears his throat. “See you in the morning, chief.”

“Roll him over,” the Iron Bull calls after him, “the left side is best, remember.” Krem flips him off as he heads down the corridor, pillow in tow. “Skinner, you too,” he adds, as she's still stood there watching them. “Quit sharpening weapons in the corridor at least, it's kinda creepy.”

Skinner tosses off a sarcastic salute but follows suit, and that's good enough for him. He turns to Adaar where she's leaning against the door. She smiles. “Blind spots, huh?”

Hissrad didn't think he had any blind spots, and for a while, he was maybe right. When he felt the darkness creeping up on the edges of his vision he thought he could stop it, thought he could account for his weaknesses by turning himself back over to be scrubbed clean. The Iron Bull was Hissrad made over, his sense and clarity of purpose renewed. He was supposed to be, anyway.

And then he met a Ferelden refugee with a bagful of poultices that tasted like ass. A half-starved elf with a dozen warrants to her name, not one of them fair. A dwarf with more harebrained plans than he's ever known come from one person's brain. A mage without a home when she'd always thought she'd have one. An Orlesian who's not much of a conversationalist. All of them sunspots on the edge of his vision from looking at something too bright for too long.

And the final straw, a kid from Tevinter with more defiance than any dead man walking had a right to. Enough to make him look twice. Enough for the Iron Bull to put himself between a stranger and a maul. The maul took half his vision, and the kid, well. He took his fair share of something too. The loss of finer depth perception, that's easy: the Iron Bull shifts his head a lot, part mannerism and part tactical appraisal, to better get the multiple points of view that two eyes would otherwise provide. He knows he leaves himself open on his blind side, and when you know something like that, you can plan for it. He couldn't have planned for the blind spot shaped like a scrappy Vint runaway anymore than he could've planned for the rest of the Chargers, but the difference was that those ones didn't mean leaving something so big out of a report.

It was inevitable, then, but it had always been just a matter of time. They'd scrubbed him clean before and they'd have done it again starting with the misfits that followed him, but there'd been something else that blindsided both the Iron Bull and his Ben-Hassrath superiors.

Adaar was a known quantity as far as he was concerned, he might hate Vashoth mercenaries a little less than their Tal-Vashoth cousins but they're cut from the same cloth. The difference with Vashoth is that they just don't know any better, even the ones like her that grew up with the stories and the warnings, he says 'Ben-Hassrath’ and still all they see is the horns. Kinship, though they're anything but kin. She'd been some degree of comfortable with him straight away, even when he told her upfront what he was. Vashoth ignorance, predictable as the rain. All he had to do was cup his hands and catch it.

They never put it in writing, but they never had to. He was just waiting for the clouds.

Between the years of Ben-Hassrath training and whatever's leftover from Seheron, nothing really surprises him anymore. Every outcome is anticipated, every unlikely event as thoroughly considered as the likely ones. But Adaar has surprised him time after time. He's still the Iron Bull; he can read her body language as well as anyone else's, parse her complex motives and drives and desires as much as you ever can, guess at her likely responses to most situations when he chooses to. He’d been somewhere close to certain that she'd turn up tonight, but there are things he could never have guessed. Her faith in him, more than simple ignorance. The self-possession that goes against everything he was taught about himself, about his kind. The dragon's tooth that he watched her tug from the corpse himself, but didn't make the leap to what she planned on doing with it until he held half in his hand, weeks later.

The Iron Bull has a lot of blind spots.

“Look,” she says, rubbing her forehead with her fingers and looking sheepish all over again. “I really did plan on sitting this one out, you know? I don't want to get in the way of -”

“Relax, boss,” he says, opening the door of the room and gesturing for her to enter. “Me, you, and the Chargers? It'll be fun.”

“Fun,” Adaar repeats dryly, but lets him guide her into the pokey room.

“You got it.” The door clicks shut, and the Iron Bull grins and takes a step closer, dipping his head closer to hers. The way she rises to meet him and anchors him with her hands either side of his neck is familiar enough now that he doesn't even think about it. Kissing is a bas invention for sure, but one of the good ones like fancy lingerie, or brandy, and not the shit ones like overboiled vegetables and starched linen. It doesn’t really compare to the other stuff two people can do with their mouths and a bit of privacy (however minimal that privacy is; he can hear the scrape of Skinner misusing her whetstone like the wall even isn't there, though it's never bothered him before) but, well. It’s still good.

Bas can get all weird about nudity and even weirder about sex, so his working theory is that they came up with kissing to have something to do in the awkward lull where they take their clothes off. There's a certain appeal to the romantic cliche of the enamoured couple tripping over their own feet as they undress each other, mostly because it's also a pretty good excuse to knock furniture over in a variety of new and interesting ways. Nothing to do with his slightly poorer depth perception, he's more than capable of avoiding a chest of drawers no matter how distracted he is - the Iron Bull just likes ruining furniture in the pursuit of good sex. It's a shared hobby, really.

But not right now. That's not what she needs.

Hissrad spent a lot of time figuring out what people wanted, but the Iron Bull is looking for what they need. It’s harder, and he's worse at it for all the sentimental sunspots creeping in on his clarity. Nothing to be done about that, but there it is. It was all so easy when all he was offering the Chargers was good work and good pay, and they got it. Everyone got what they needed, but it's - different, now.

Skinner wants him to say he'll drop it all and things’ll go back to how they were, impossible even if he wanted to, but she needs another kind of reassurance, one he's still figuring out how to give her. Krem just wants a guaranteed place as his second as long as they're both still standing, another impossible request, and far less than he deserves. That'll take a deft touch too if he’s to get Krem to see what the Iron Bull sees when he looks at his second, the fire and potential that shouldn’t be squandered for a little sentimentality. Giving them what they want would be easy, so easy, but those days are long gone.

Adaar’s needs aren’t simple either, but he’s finding that by contrast fulfilling them comes very easily. She needed a team that she trusted to do the job the way she wanted, and he could give her that. Then she needed to be there herself, to be involved personally, and he anticipated that, too. Now all she needs is a little reassurance, and he can do that without even having to lie. Shared absolution, maybe, not that he's looking for any himself.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “I would've done the same.”

“I know.” It's not the answer he expected. She lets one hand move from his neck to rest with the palm flat on his chest, above his heart and the dragon tooth, and then she smiles. “Just following your example.”

“Mine?”

“You wouldn't leave the Chargers if they needed you, and I'm not about to do anything less.”

If the Iron Bull's grin falters where Hissrad’s never would have, it's because he finds this harder to bear than Hissrad ever did, the burden of knowing the people he cares about far better than they'll ever know him. It's what they need, though. It's what she needs to believe. 

“My example,” he says, and makes it sound smug which gets a laugh. There's something in his chest that feels hollow as he says it, then raw when her amused expression says she buys it. Of course she does. “Good thinking, boss.”

The irony is, all he's ever done is follow hers.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Adaar rises early, proof that she's got a way to go as an honorary Charger, and she's already outside and geared up before the rest of them start to trickle out at their own pace, yawning and bickering. The Iron Bull knows he won't need to hurry them along, that they'll be ready to go on time despite appearances, and so he's happy to sit inside and help himself to Krem's fruit loaf while they wait.

“Do you mind?” Krem says without much conviction. “Get your own breakfast.”

“They didn't have anything good when I asked. How come you get fruit loaf?”

Krem swats his hand away as he goes in for another piece. “Because I'm charming.”

“Hey, I'm charming.”

“Not as charming as me, apparently,” Krem says smugly, and gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Hmm. You stole my pillow.”

“You stole my bed!”

“How was Rocky’s snoring?” he asks Krem, to no response. “That bad, huh?”

Right on cue, Rocky makes an appearance from upstairs with a face like thunder and a small red mark on his forehead.

“Uh oh,” the Iron Bull says, “what was it this time? Someone throw food at you again?”

Rocky sits down heavily and take a piece of the fruit loaf without asking, but Krem wisely chooses not to object. “Boot.”

“Told you to roll him over,” the Iron Bull says, glancing reproachfully at Krem. “He's quiet as a sleeping nug if you roll him over.” That gets him a matching reproachful glance from Rocky.

“Don't look at me,” Krem says, “that's got Skinner written all over it.”

“Dalish, actually,” Rocky says glumly, and reaches to grab a second slice, which Krem looks indignant about this time, despite himself. “Skinner was the jug of water. Can't get my bloody socks dry.”

“And you slept through all this?” The Iron Bull says, shooting Krem a sceptical look. His lieutenant just shrugs, which piques his interest. The skill in reading people - or deduction, or spying, whatever you want to call it - isn't necessarily in seeing the truth right away. It's knowing when to keep poking and prodding, when something doesn't sound quite right and it's time to peel back the layers. Rocky is too preoccupied wringing himself out to add any context he can offer to Krem's sudden silence.

So, the Iron Bull pokes Krem a little more. “You never used to sleep through anything. All those fancy beds in Skyhold making you soft?”

“What, like you?” Krem shoots back. There's a slight flush high on his cheeks. “You spend a lot more time in fancy beds than I do, so it stands to reason if I'm soft, you're softer.”

The Iron Bull isn't soft.” More deflections from Krem, he notes. “Cuddly, maybe.”

Krem rolls his eyes and the Iron Bull is about to start a new line of prodding when they're interrupted by Geram, the man from last night, with fresh water and a tray of less-than-fresh pastry. It's high luxury for an inn of this size in this location, staleness notwithstanding, and judging by his expression Geram is proud of this. So he should be.

“Morning,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully, and takes a pastry as he puts the platter on the table. Yeah, it's definitely stale. Probably wasn't all that great even when it was fresh, but you don't get many Val Royeaux trained sous-chefs queueing up to work in places like this. Kid's doing his best.

“Morning,” Geram says just as brightly, seemingly a lot less flustered in their company than the night before, or maybe that's just because Adaar is outside. He's certainly more at ease with the Iron Bull, so it must be her religious significance rather than the horns. He seems pretty comfortable being in close proximity to them this morning. It's more than can be said of Krem, apparently, who nearly knocks his drink over when Geram asks: “How's the fruit loaf? I'm sorry it's not fresh.”

“It’s really good, thanks,” Krem says, which it isn't. It is fairly fresh, actually, but that’s about all it has going for it. Politeness dictates Krem can't say that, but he's just a bit too much on the side of effusive as to be notable. Krem’s always respectful, but he’s not a habitual liar, or even much inclined to undeserved flattery. The Iron Bull leans back in his chair with a grin and watches with interest.

“Glad you like it,” Geram says, and gathers the empty mugs with a faint pink flush on his cheeks. “Were your rooms alright? I'm sorry we didn't have more available -”

“They were just fine,” the Iron Bull says, “just a bit cosy. Isn't that right, Krem?” That earns him a half-hearted glare.

“Plenty room,” Rocky says through a mouthful of food, oblivious. “The four of us fit in just fine, the chief and Krem might've been a bit cramped, though.”

“Funny,” the Iron Bull says, still grinning at Krem, “I thought he was in with -”

“We appreciate you finding space for us,” Krem says loudly, “and you didn't need to go to all this trouble.”

“Above and beyond,” the Iron Bull agrees, getting another glare. “We all appreciate it. Some of us a bit more than others -”

“Rocky,” Krem says, at the same determinedly loud volume, “make sure Skinner's up, will you?”

Rocky gives Krem an indignant look before protesting, but it gives Geram the opportunity to excuse himself with the used plates.

“I don't care if she's up. She poured an entire jug of water on my head.”

“Yeah, and if she's not awake you can pour one on hers, alright?”

Rocky gives this a moment's consideration, weighing his odds. Skinner is usually an early riser, but then she'd have been down here if she was awake. The possibility of revenge clearly appeals to him, but he knows Skinner doesn't trade tit for tat. An even score for Skinner is one where she has the last word, regardless of how it started. He decides, evidently, that the momentary satisfaction outweighs whatever price Skinner will exact, and pushes his plate away decisively as he rises.

“Braver man than me,” the Iron Bull says by way of a warning, but Rocky isn't to be deterred. If he was the kind to be deterred he'd still be in Orzammar. Marrying some daughter-of-a-cousin-of-a-Shaper or whatever it was, some tenuous grab at respectability on his father's part that might've paid off if Rocky wasn't so undeterrably, inexplicably fond of risking life and limb for the satisfaction of a little destruction. That's Rocky.

If he wasn't more interested in teasing Krem, the Iron Bull might even follow him and see what happens. As it is, he just watches Rocky leave before turning his attention right back to his lieutenant.

“So,” the Iron Bull says, and clasps his hands behind his head with a grin. “Krem.” And then, again, but even more delightedly: “Krem.”

“We should get moving,” Krem says, resigned to the conversation but still trying to stubbornly side step it. That's why he's so much fun to needle. “Is the Inqui- I mean, is Adaar ready to -”

“Just how charming were you?”

Krem can't resist being a little indignant. “I'm always charming.”

“Well, you did learn from the best.” The Iron Bull can't keep a stupid grin off his face. “You sly minx.”

“Excuse me?”

“Slinking off all hard done by with my pillow when you had no intention of roughing it with the boys.” He's winding Krem up mostly. Some gentle teasing to tease out the truth. “Very devious.”

“That’s not what happened,” Krem says defensively, and then groans at finding himself having sprung the trap so neatly. “I was keeping out of Skinner's way, alright? It's good to leave her be when she's getting settled, so I went downstairs to get a drink.”

“A drink. Course you did.”

“I was thirsty!”

“I'll bet you were.”

“Chief,” Krem says, with remarkable poise, “you're making this really weird, you know that?”

The Chargers have their bawdy little ditties and their homespun manners, and they tend to tear through a place with a correspondingly rowdy charm, Krem included. He sings along and drinks along and he wins over the locals with that something about him that's just plain likeable, but Krem never forgets the flail that was meant for him. Neither does the Iron Bull. As his lieutenant, it's Krem's job to cut the Chargers off before rowdy turns to too rowdy, to hold Rocky back when he's getting riled up by some smug merchant's guild type, to take time out from singing and drinking to sit in quiet one-sided conversation with Grim. It's easy to miss the way this blurs at the edges, the way he'll stop one drink before everyone else, the way he’ll laugh along with the rest of them but his eyes are always scanning the room.

It's not that Krem never lived up to the Chargers’ debauched reputation but that everything he did was careful and calculated, a far cry from the Iron Bull's spontaneous choice of bedroom companion. He'd never have asked outright but Krem used to run it by him in some other way, waiting for his Ben Hassrath verdict on a new acquaintance by way of an offhand comment. Sometimes he'd even strike up a conversation with them after the Iron Bull had found some way of casually approving of them. Krem's effortlessly charming; it tended to go well when he chose to put himself out there. But sometimes the Iron Bull thought about marching back to Tevinter with an even bigger fucking flail. The ones swinging the biggest weapons don't always do the most damage, as the Tamassran have shown him time and time again. Bas don't have enough respect for that, least of all ‘Vints. Sometimes, in that split second where Krem's grin falters, he wants to educate them.

“Yeah,” the Iron Bull says fondly, and reaches over to ruffle his hair. Krem ducks away unsuccessfully, grumbling. “I'm proud of you.”

“Not making it any less weird.”

“You had bread sex. I'm allowed to be proud of you.”

“You really do do things different in the Qun, huh?”

The Iron Bull just grins wider. “You know what I mean. He made that fruit loaf for you this morning.”

“He made a fruit loaf this morning. For general consumption. I just got there first.”

“You put him in a good mood.”

“Shut up.”

 

-

 

Skinner’s back at it with the whetstone, with a glare that would not so much curdle milk as cause an entire herd of dairy cows to drop dead on the spot, and if she thinks that sharpening her dagger is threatening, then - yeah, it absolutely is, especially when she’s putting that kind of ferocity into it. She sheathes the dagger she’s been working on and reaches up to wring out her hair over one shoulder again, her expression growing angrier, if that’s even possible. Up ahead of them Rocky walks beside Grim, his feet making an unpleasant squelching sound with every step. It’s a tableau that tells of a very specific story.

Dalish can never stand tension between any of them and keeps darting little agitated glances across at Skinner before she finally gives in to the impulse. “I can help,” she says, “I could try to dry -”

No,” Skinner snaps, and reaches for her other dagger as Dalish deflates beside her. No point berating Skinner for unkindness when she’s in this sort of mood, but Dalish’s uncharacteristic referral to her magic deserves recognition, so he pats her on the shoulder out of Skinner’s line of sight.

“You did kind of start it,” the Iron Bull says mildly, and can feel the heat of Skinner's glare without needing to look. “You know, with the jug of water -”

“Because he can't stop making that fucking noise -”

“He can't help it, you know that.”

Skinner’s scowl only deepens. “You didn't have to sleep in the same room as him.”

“Trust me,” the Iron Bull says, mentally kicking himself for letting her bring that into it, “there's not a wall in Thedas thick enough to keep that noise out. I heard him just fine.”

“Bullshit. I bet it didn't keep you awake all night.” Yeah, here it comes. “I bet it didn't keep the Inquisitor awake.”

“Nope,” the Iron Bull says, “that was me.” The best way to deflect Skinner is just to meet her head on and then push back. “Really sets the mood, let me tell you. Next time you're looking to seduce someone, I highly recommend a drunk dwarf snoring in the background.”

Dalish laughs until Skinner elbows her in the ribs and then she presses her lips together, but she looks a little less dejected after Skinner's rebuke which is all the better.

“Bullshit,” Skinner mutters, but she sheathes her dagger. The joke about snoring dwarves is too obviously stupid for her to bother protesting, but Skinner doesn’t elaborate on what, exactly, is bullshit. Skinner thinks a lot of things are bullshit. Rich shems specifically. Orlais in general. Soup spoons. Fruit in cakes. It could be something worth knowing, and it could just be another of her stubborn idiosyncrasies.

“Tell me you at least tried rolling him over.” No answer. “Come on, Skinner. Tell me you didn’t just dunk a jug of water on him without even trying.” Nothing. “Seriously?”

“I told you,” Skinner says through gritted teeth, “it’s annoying.”

“Not a smart idea to get on the bad side of the guy with all the explosives.”

“I'm not on his bad side.” She casts a derisive look at where Rocky is walking in front of them. “He's on mine.”

The Iron Bull is inclined to agree. “Don't you go turning this into some huge feud again, alright? That whole thing with the custard got out of hand.”

Dalish laughs from behind her hand, getting a half-hearted glare from Skinner. This time it just makes her laugh harder.

“No feud,” Skinner says, “just payback.”

Skinner.”

“Fair is fair,” she says, meaning pretty much the opposite. Her eyes turn sharp. “I smell blood.”

“That's… dramatic, but as long as it's metaphorical -”

“No,” Skinner says, and throws an arm out in front of Dalish. “I smell it here.” The Iron Bull comes to a standstill too, recognising the seriousness in her voice this time and letting out a quick, loud whistle that has the rest of his company grind to a halt behind them. Not a signal Adaar is familiar with, but she's bringing up the rear with Krem and sure to catch on.

“Where?”

“Ahead.” Skinner nods, and now that he's really straining for it he can smell it too. He wouldn't identify it as such without knowing what to look for, keen as his sense of smell is, it's nothing next to Skinner. It's half an elf thing and half a Skinner thing, Dalish able to match her in theory but not in practice; years of necessity have given her the edge.

Krem and Adaar are moving up from behind the cart to join them at the front, but he doesn't look away from Skinner as they flank him quietly.

“What is it, Skinner?”

“Dead shems. Dead -” She looks to his left, where he can hear Adaar’s steady breathing, and Skinner seems to falter as their eyes meet, something he's seen only rarely in all the time he's known her. “Dead something else. I don't know.”

“Krem, Skinner, you're with me.” The rest know that means they stay with the cart and watch their backs. Adaar falls into step with the three of them as they follow Skinner a few hundred feet into the denser trees.

It's the first cooler day after a run of dry heat, so the ground is still hard beneath their feet and the smell of the dead bodies becomes unpleasantly clear as they draw closer. Some semblance of humidity clings to the close trees, and it's that and the familiar stench of death that reminds him starkly, vividly of Seheron. He lets the uneasy feeling that stirs up simply move through him, breathing slowly until it passes enough for Orlais to just look like Orlais once more. He doesn't remember learning how to do that, but it feels as practiced as ever. Those who find themselves drowning will start to struggle, however level-headed, if they haven't learned how to still their movement and let themselves float. It's the struggle that kills you, more often than not. The Tamassran didn't want him to drown when they sent him back out to sea.

He knows, suddenly, what they will find lying amongst the trees.  

The Iron Bull takes stock of the two human bodies first, noting the nondescript and basic armour he'd expect to find on bandits or similar, and the contrast between them and the well-made and maintained weapons. He notes too that they haven't been reappropriated by their companions before they left their bodies to rot without ceremony, so presumably they’re not short on decent weaponry. It could just be evidence of good budgeting but he'd put his money on noble backing. There are plenty of the rich bastards with no love for the Inquisition or what they call 'Qunari’, and their otherwise constant flow of gold for weapons always seems to mysteriously stop when it comes to outfitting their thugs with decent armour.

The dead Tal-Vashoth he leaves for Adaar, Skinner and Krem following his lead with only a short glance exchanged between them before Krem rolls one of the human bodies over with his foot. There's nothing much worth either taking or examining, but Skinner and Krem crouch down by the bodies to take a closer look regardless, stalling for time. The Iron Bull lets his gaze drift to the third dead body, and Adaar.

The Iron Bull has seen a lot of dead Tal-Vashoth, none of which he mourned and he isn't about to start now. This one’s horns are cut back and their entire body is covered extravagantly in vitaar and regular war paint alike, the kind of thing that intimidates the gentil southerners and presumably was designed to exploit just that. He was lithe, probably a fighter who relied on agility and speed but found his match in an angry mob of bas with no back up. It wasn't a quick or easy death, and he'd have known there was no escape from the beginning, even before he managed to take those two humans down with him. It's the kind of death the Qun would approve of for a traitor, and the Iron Bull's inclined to agree. There's honour in a death like that, even for deserters.

Adaar kneels by the body, studying it the same way he has. Tal-Vashoth may have turned their back on the Qun but they still hold by many of the teachings, and this Tal-Vashoth will have considered his body nothing more than a vessel now his soul has departed it. He won't have expected Adaar to treat it with any particular respect, but a Vashoth wouldn't understand that. The again, maybe she does: she doesn't reach over to close its eyes the way he's seen humans and elves do, although she does roll it onto its back in a careful movement.

“Ashaad,” she says eventually, just as the Iron Bull is thinking of finally breaking the silence himself. “One of the scouts Shokrakar sent when the caravan escort didn't return.”

“Sorry, boss,” he says quietly, and the brief but wrenching expression that flickers across her face is entirely at odds with the terse way she shakes his platitudes off. He notes that, and he notes the way Krem flinches slightly to his left. He doesn't offer anything further.

“They're keeping a wide perimeter,” she says, dispassionate to a fault. “Much wider than the initial report.”

“They've got the numbers to do it,” the Iron Bull agrees, “ and maybe Rylen’s scouts have got them twitchy.” Not only Rylen's, he thinks, but there's no need to voice that. Ashaad, qunlat for scout. Tal-Vashoth tend to keep their titles in place of names, whereas Vashoth make their own. Not like Hissrad, of course, who was neither of those. Vashoth are given names like Adaar because they fit neatly between something that their Tal-Vashoth companions will find appropriate and impressive and something that fits a bas understanding of a name. The Iron Bull was always supposed to do something else entirely.

Adaar doesn't move away from the Tal-Vashoth body, but she casts a scrutinising eye over the two dead humans. “Where’s Rylen's camp now?”

It’s Krem who answers. “They moved south of their last position once they knew we were on our way.”

“On your instructions? You have a plan?”

Krem hesitates and looks at the Iron Bull, not continuing until he nods very slightly. ”Yes, ser. We thought Rylen's men might spook them and we didn't want to provoke things further. Best just to contain the area and let them think they're falling back.”

“Spooked captors aren't good news for captives,” the Iron Bull says, not that he thinks she needs reminding, but seeing death has a way of shaking loose your priorities.

“My suggestion,” Krem continues, “would be to approach them from the opposite direction. We've got everything we need, we can conceal the cart and meet up with Rylen later. No need to advertise our presence more than we have to.”

If only the Imperium could see him now, the Iron Bull thinks, the tailor-in-training whose future they outsourced, the loyal footsoldier forced to turn illegal runaway, a lowly soparati giving suggestions to a Vashoth Inquisitor.

Adaar looks back down at the Tal-Vashoth on the ground, still on her knees beside the body and one hand half raised above it. She lets that hand drop and nods briskly. “I agree. We keep off the highway and leave the cart where we camp tonight.”

Krem nods obediently but doesn't leave, still watching Adaar. She looks up at the Iron Bull for the first time, and as he meets her eyes he swallows the last of his distaste for her choice of companions. She's Vashoth. She can't know what she was never taught.

“Take his dagger,” he says quietly. “Ebost issala. The body returns to dust. His weapon is his legacy.” This was an unquestioned truth to him for so long, but he's not sure it would be enough now. A maul in place of everything Krem is, two meagre daggers instead of Skinner’s vital presence. How could that possibly be enough?

He watches as Adaar follows his instruction wordlessly and he can see that it isn't, which is why as she rises heavily to her feet he takes a step forward and lets his hand fit around the curve of her cheek and jaw. She places her own hand on top of his for a brief moment before she drops both their hands and strides past him in the direction of the cart without a backwards glance. He knows better than to take any brusqueness personally, and he knows her well enough that he doesn't follow immediately.

He turns to see Skinner watching him, Krem looking down at the bodies with an uncomfortable expression. There's a little more empathy on his face than the Iron Bull cares to see, as though Krem thinks he's looking at a fellow outcast rather than a deserter. Krem would never have run if they'd left him any other choice, but they never let him be who he was. Who he could be. Under the Qun, your potential is recognised and honoured by being put to use as fully as it can be. Tal-Vashoth have turned their back on their very nature.

Skinner’s harder to read even though she's looking right at him. He's had plenty practice and sometimes he feels like he's still only scratching the surface. He can identify the disapproval in her gaze, even track it back to the silent moment of comfort he offered Adaar, but that's where he hits a wall. Skinner hasn't got a problem with Adaar, he even thinks she rather likes her, and she's never been particularly precious about the Chargers sharing the Iron Bull’s attention, either.

“Let's mark the location,” Krem says after a long pause. “Someone should come back and make sure the bodies are burned when this is all done.”

“Good thinking.” He gestures at the weapons he'd noted before. “Expensive gear. Half of it, anyway.”

“Noble funding?”

“Seems likely.”

Krem grimaces. “Great. Instead of just idiots with swords, it's idiots with big, expensive swords. That poor bastard never stood a chance.”

“Took down two,” Skinner says approvingly. “He was one of hers?”

“Yeah.” The Iron Bull can't help but remember that expression Adaar wore in the seconds before she had it under control. “One of her guys. Can't be easy.”

Skinner just looks at him. “But she left them.”

“Come on, Skinner,” Krem mutters, “you know that isn't fair.”

“I’m just saying,” Skinner says, “if she left them -”

The Iron Bull cuts across her, mild but firm. “Hey. Listen. If you're mad at me, be mad at me. Don't take it out on Adaar.” He can head off the confrontation a little longer, or he can have it now. Neither are ideal but one has to happen, so he takes the opportunity she gives him as she squares up to his words with a derisive snort. “Cut the bullshit, Skinner. You mad at me for something?”

“You want to talk about bullshit?” She takes a step closer and draws herself up in front of him, all five wiry foot of her. She barely reaches his chest. He's mad at her and fiercely proud of her all at once, of her stubbornness and her fearlessness and her infuriating, shitty attitude. “You didn't hear Rocky snoring at all.”

“Are we seriously still talking about Rocky's fucking snoring?”

“If you could hear him, why couldn't I hear you?”

“Because I don't snore,” the Iron Bull says, and then upon catching Krem's expression, adds, “much, anyway. Skinner, you gotta let this go -”

“I should’ve heard something,” Skinner snaps, “seeing as how you're apparently fucking all night.”

“You’ve lost me here, Skinner. Are you pissed at me for not drowning Rocky out? Because somehow I don't think that would've put you in a better mood.”

“Either you didn't hear him or you weren't fucking.” She glares at him. “And you don't look tired. So all that bullshit about seducing someone to snoring dwarves -”

“What, I'm not allowed to make jokes now?”

“You didn't hear him or you weren't fucking,” she repeats, digging her heels in the way only she knows how. She continues to glare at him as if she can't decide which option is more heinous, before offering up her cutting verdict. More cutting than she knows. “Liar,” she says. He can't argue with that.

“It was just a funny story, Skins,” he says wearily, after a moment's heavy silence. “You're making this into something it isn't.”

“You're still pretending you're the same,” she says scornfully, another accusation that catches him off balance. “But you're not.”

“Nothing's changed. You're still my guys.”

“Except you're never there,” she says, and Krem grimaces and grabs her arm. She shakes him off, and then goes in for the low blows the Iron Bull has been bracing himself for. “No more redheads. No more sex. No more - ”

Time to pull rank. “Are you done?” the Iron Bull says flatly, and stares her down.

“We've got a job to do, Skinner,” Krem adds sharply, knowing the same as him that it's time to apply pressure. Krem's the only one who can come close to keeping her focused compared to the Iron Bull, and clearly he's not as good at it as he thought. He keeps his expression blank and disinterested even as Skinner bristles, because if you show her your throat she'll take the opening. She doesn't know how to do anything else.

“Whatever,” she mutters, and lowers her hackles a little. Not quite alley cat transformed to fireside tabby, but it'll do. “You're boring too,” she tells Krem irritably. “You're never any fun anymore, either.”

“Get back to the cart, Skinner,” Krem says, not unkindly, and rolls his eyes. She stalks off at his order without a backwards glance, and Krem sighs once she's out of earshot. “Ignore her, chief. She'll calm down soon enough.”

“I know.”

Krem hesitates for just a moment, short enough that he maybe doesn't even know he's doing it. “She's just tired and being an asshole about it, you know Skinner. Don't take it to heart.”

“Have I ever?” The Iron Bull says dryly, getting a chuckle. “I can handle Skinner, just don't let her take it out on Adaar. Or you,” he adds, giving Krem a pointed look.

“Who do you think gets the brunt of it when you're not around?” Krem says lightly, and then catches himself with a small grimace. “I don't mean - I'm not trying to imply -”

“I know what you meant,” the Iron Bull says, and grips him on the shoulder. “Just keep an eye on her, would you?”

“I always do, chief.”

“Hey, I know.” He pats Krem's shoulder again.

“And I'll, er.” Krem clears his throat. “I'll take personal responsibility for making sure Rocky's sleeping on his side from now on.”

The Iron Bull gives him a sidelong look. “Sure that won't cramp your style?”

Krem rolls his eyes, but laughs quietly. “Never cramped yours, chief.”

“There's a knack to it,” the Iron Bull says, “simple, though. When he's had a few drinks, it's better than him being sober, but if he gets too drunk, it gets even worse. Skinner's worse when she's just had a few, but she relaxes when she's good and wasted. You always gotta let Rocky have the best pillow, him being quieter more than makes up for everyone else having a sore neck. Sometimes having the window open seems to agree with him, don't know if it's the fresh air or the cold, but if you make sure -”

“Woah, chief,” Krem says, alarmed. “You're giving away a lot of trade secrets here.”

“Yeah, so put them to good use.” The Iron Bull ignores Krem's continuing wrong-footed expression and starts heading back to the caravan. “Dalish has a temper on her too if she doesn't get her sleep, keep her on first watch when you're stopping for the night. Rocky’s better at getting up in the middle of the night and she's less likely to set his beard on fire.”

“Not that I don't appreciate it,” Krem says cautiously, “but you keep saying you're not going anywhere and then you come out with all this crap like you're planning on leaving -”

“You’re my lieutenant, Krem. This is just good for you to know.”

Krem isn't buying it. “If this is about what Skinner said -”

“This is about you getting a good night's sleep and fresh bread in the morning,” the Iron Bull says slyly, and Krem groans. “Sex bread,” he adds helpfully, to see if Krem squirms. Not quite, but it was worth a try. It at least takes his attention away from the Iron Bull's intentions.

“You're being weird again, chief," he says, and the Iron Bull enjoys having the chance to laugh, loud and deep. He suspects there won't be a lot of that in the hours ahead. 

"Come on," he says, and ruffles Krem's hair. "We've got a job to do."

Notes:

"This will just be a two part thing," I said confidently, naively, foolishly. "Just something short and fun." Thank you for sticking with me as I once again write something much longer than expected, much slower than I hoped!

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Even back with the Bleeders, Stitches had always ended up doing most of the cooking. He complains about it, but he also complains about having to tend to their wounds which is pretty much literally what he's paid to do, so it's not much of a mark of reluctance where Stitches is concerned. He'll swat away your hand if you try to help, either with applying bandages or with stirring the stew, so despite his grousing he's very much taken the task on as his own. 

With the Bleeders, Stitches just did whatever was needed. Fisher clearly felt he was doing him a favour by taking on a Fereldan refugee with no formal training, and he made sure Stitches knew it. They didn't call him Stitches then, Fisher called him Doglord with just enough mockery in the curl of his lip to set the Iron Bull's nerves on edge. No use in nicknames that make you feel like an outsider, nicknames are about belonging. 

Stitches just gritted his teeth and got on with doing whatever it was that no one else would, so Fisher might sneer but he couldn't ever say Stitches didn't earn his keep twice over. He did whatever job was going. Sometimes that was cooking, and sometimes it was managing the armory, and sometimes it was negotiating contracts when Fisher lost his temper. Stitches practically ran the whole damn operation but no one else bothered to pay him more than a cursory amount of attention, following Fisher's lead, until one fateful occasion when the task that no one else would volunteer for was snapping Brinn's dislocated shoulder back into place. Stitches just rolled up his sleeves and got on with it, Brinn's arm expertly twisted and then strapped to his chest before he could even yelp in pain. The Iron Bull was the only one who wasn't surprised, and even Fisher's reluctant approval didn't spur him on to develop Stitches’ homespun healing talents. It wasn't long after that that the Iron Bull decided his arrangement with the Bleeders wasn't going to last the winter, and when the offer of a green but determined healer was on the table? Taking Stitches on mightn't have been part of the plan but he was never a charity case. He earned his wage within the first five minutes of employ.

He probably wouldn't hire him as a chef, though. 

“Looks good, Stitches,” the Iron Bull says, and claps him on the back. “Another Fereldan speciality?”

“It’s just a stew,” Stitches says, and reaches out automatically to slap away Skinner’s hand as she reaches for the ladle.

“That’s a yes, then,” Krem says, and shoots Stitches a grin. “You know, there are other ways to cook things except for boiling them -”

Stitches glares at him. “Not hungry today, lieutenant?”

“- but why bother when the end result is this delicious?” Krem finishes hurriedly, and the Iron Bull chuckles from behind his hand. 

“Thought so.” Stitches reaches for a wooden bowl and dips the ladle in the gently simmering pot. “Chief, you want some?”

“Two bowls for me please,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully, and then gestures over his shoulder with a thumb. “I’ll take some for Adaar, too.”

“What?” Stitches stares at him with a startled expression. “Adaar?”

“You know,” the Iron Bull says slowly, “tall, two horns, leads the Inquisition?”

“I know who she is,” Stitches mutters, and shifts his shoulders. “Well, it's nothing fancy." He starts filling the bowls nonetheless, and he’s right: it’s just stew. Stew made from a few dried ingredients they carried with them and a little bit of what Dalish could scrounge up from the nearby woodland. It’s simple, with too much salt and not enough flavour otherwise, thin almost to the point of watery and moving further towards grey than you might want from your food. Still, it smells good, and the steam rising off it is enough of a recommendation in itself. The Iron Bull makes a show of breathing it in with a satisfied sigh, but despite Stitches’ roll of the eyes, it’s entirely genuine. 

It smells like the Chargers, together on the road again. It smells like watching Rocky trip over tent-pegs and Krem struggling not to laugh and Dalish lighting the damp kindling with a surreptitious touch and Skinner pretending not to notice. Smells like everything he’s been missing. 

Adaar is sitting a little apart from where most of them have gathered near the fire, absently cleaning one of her daggers while she frowns down at a map lying on the ground in front of her. She and Krem had been hunched over it in discussion before he’d started to help Grim with the tents, and his neat annotations pepper the landscape. She’s always like this; there’s no extra due diligence on account of it being a more personal job. The Iron Bull hadn’t done either of them the disservice of sticking his nose in: he trusts Krem to take the lead on this operation and do it right, and he trusts Adaar to respect Krem‘s authority.

The dagger she's cleaning he recognises as the Tal Vashoth's that she'd taken at his suggestion earlier. It's Qunari made, fairly simple in design but with a few distinct features that he can identify immediately. She's cleaning it with a distinctly Qunari focus too, carefully but thoroughly, as if perhaps it really is an extension of her body. The image of her sitting there, horns intact, her focus on the dagger and the map in front of her, feels a little like coming home, too. To the Qun, maybe, but to something else as well. 

Adaar looks up and the Iron Bull raises a bowl of steaming stew in her direction, and takes her nod for the invitation it is. He ignores Stitches' anxious muttering and carries the bowls across to where she's sitting, takes a seat beside her and watches approvingly as she smiles at Stitches from across the camp. That'll stop him fussing for a bit.

"Smells good," she says.

"Tastes worse," he says, and he can see her trying not to grin from the corner of his eye. "Could be worse, though, we let Rocky cook once. Braised nug.”

It's her turn to look at him out the corner of her eye. "Sounds fine to me.”

"Sure, it tasted fine, but some things are too cute to eat."

He gets a laugh for that, and Adaar places the dagger carefully on a cloth beside her before reaching for the bowl in his hands.

“It’s a nice dagger,” he says, “well made.” Not that you’d get anything else under the Qun; what would be the point?

“Must be old,” she says, “he’d had it as long as I knew him.”

“We make things to last.”

“I guess so.” She pushes the stew about the bowl with her spoon. “Ebost issala, you said.”

“The body returns to dust.”

“So what’s the weapon?” She looks at him curiously, and he wonders if the Tal Vashoth she used to work with really did cast this all aside when they deserted, or if she’d just never asked. “The soul?”

“Maybe. It’s…” He shrugs through a mouthful of stew, searching for the words. “It’s what’s left behind. I don’t know if ‘soul’ is the best way to think about it, but it’s close enough.”

Adaar looks at the dagger thoughtfully, and he has the sense her next question is the crux of this particular line of questioning. “So it would be disrespectful to use it?”

“It would be disrespectful to waste good craftsmanship when it can still serve a purpose." 

"How practical," she says dryly, but the answer seems to satisfy her. "Does that just go for weapons?" She's looking at him now, still curious, but with that critical edge to her voice she gets sometimes when they talk about the Qun. "Or people too?"

He raises an eyebrow. "People can be weapons, Adaar. Even the ones not named after them."

"But they poisoned you."

"Yeah," he agrees, rolling a shoulder with a wry grin. "Barely, though. Told you it was a token effort."

"Why waste fine craftsmanship?" she repeats mockingly, but looks him up and down appraisingly. "Remind me to thank them sometime."

He knows she's mostly just teasing him, but he also happens to know just how appreciative she really can be, so he leans a little closer as he lowers his voice, because Skinner has hearing like a fucking bat when she feels like it. "I'm not sure the Tamassran can take all the credit. Stamina like this doesn't maintain itself, you know."

"I guess you'd better keep practicing then," she says, much too evenly for his liking, but still with that slight grin that lets him know he hasn't missed the mark entirely. He can’t help but want to keep pushing, to keep carefully peeling back the layers of her composure. Maybe it’s a little fucked up that they can pivot from grief and death to this so quickly, but it’s nothing new. He’d offered her the same thing when she brought him the report that has them here in the first place, the chance to replace worry and frustration temporarily with a little exhibitionism. It doesn’t feel like two mere evenings ago, both in the sense that so much has happened between that moment and this one, and also, well. Sex. Always feels like it’s been longer than it has, especially when you know you can’t get more.

He angles his head even further away from the direction of the fire, not about to let Skinner’s lip reading catch him out either. He should never have taught her that shit, he should’ve guessed she’d take to it with a unique and exasperating determination. “I'm not sure it counts as practicing if you've already mastered it." 

That’s the thing: they don’t do this. Not here. That was part of the arrangement from the very beginning. However much he might want to offer her a moment of peace when they’re in the field, he doesn’t. She’s the Inquisitor, and she’s the boss, and his job is to fight for her. She needs to know she has the final say and he’ll fall into line with the rest of them, no more important, no more valued. They’ve never talked about it but it works; they draw curious looks from their companions when they retire to separate tents when Adaar is sometimes even still sporting a particularly noticeable love bite - he’s not sure if leaving marks like that sort of breaches the spirit of their arrangement, but he’s not about to stop - but they don’t need to understand the specifics of their relationship. As long as he and Adaar are clear, well - 

"That's a pretty bold claim, “ she says, still playful but choosing her words carefully. So she’s noticed too. She told Krem to drop the titles back at the inn, maybe she feels this doesn't count. It certainly feels like she's testing the waters to see where he stands.

“Not if it's true,” he says, and then returns to his stew with a grin. He needs to think about this. Preferably when he doesn’t feel like Skinner’s shooting him those aggressive stares of hers every chance she gets. She’s still angry at him, for reasons he hasn’t quite untangled fully but that are bewilderingly entwined with whether or not he’s getting laid at any particular moment. He can’t very well try and explain to her the way things work between him and Adaar. Skinner’s not stupid by any means, and she’s even emotionally intelligent enough when she tries, but he has the feeling this is a little outside the things she can understand. 

They sit quietly for a few moments, before Adaar puts her bowl down, looking serious once more.

"Bull?"

"Yeah?"

"If the Qun weren't really trying to kill you," she says slowly, "does that mean they've still got plans for you?"

"You don't come back from Tal-Vashoth," he says shortly, and shrugs. He’s not hurt that she’s questioning his loyalty, however indirectly. It’s a fair question, and she’s well within her right to ask. He’d be disappointed in her if she didn’t. It just doesn’t feel good to answer it when his loyalty to her is all he’s got left. "They made that clear by sending people after me at all, doesn’t matter that they failed.”

"I don't get it." She frowns. "They don't like waste but they wasted men getting to you just to send a message.”

“Did they? It didn’t take much to stop them, so it’s not like they had promising assassination careers ahead of them. Maybe that was the best use of their abilities.”

Her voice is flat but he can hear the distaste in it. “How can death be the best use of any life?”

“You don’t play a lot of chess, huh?” He gestures at the map by their feet. “You know it’s not always like this. When you start playing with big numbers, you gotta sacrifice some of them. That’s the game.”

“I know,” she says ruefully, “I do, it’s just - sacrifices to win a battle? That’s one thing. Sacrifices to send a message?”

“It was a complicated message,” he says, and she shoots him a sharp look that makes him grin despite himself. Adaar never lets anything slide. He holds up a finger. “Formal notice that I’m Tal-Vashoth.” Another finger. “Formality aside, that they’re letting me live.” A third. “A reminder that I was never their only informant in the Inquisition.”

“The guards?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, I knew about one of them, but the other one was a surprise. I doubt they played their entire hand, so there’s probably more.” He shrugs. “I’ve got at least another two I’m watching carefully, but even if they haven’t, they’ve got me on the back foot. It’s smart.”

“So they’re checking up on you?”

“Oh, absolutely. One way or another.”

“That sort of sounds like they’re not done with you yet, Bull,” she says, almost apologetically, which just makes it worse. “Leaving you alive, and checking up on you.”

“The Chargers joined the Inquisition on the Qun’s orders, remember? The rift was a threat to them too, and so’s Corypheus. They’re pretty invested in your success, and I can help with that whether I’m writing reports to them or not. It’s not like there was all that much in them once they’d gotten past Red and Cullen, anyway.”

“And that sounds like you’re still effectively working for Qun.”

“Nah,” he says, and meets her eyes. He’s both being forthright and doing what he knows will make him seem like he’s being forthright, although really, what’s the difference? “You can’t go back from Tal-Vashoth, boss. You worked with a lot of them, you ever see any of them welcomed back?”

“No,” she says softly, still meeting his gaze directly. “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry about your guy,” he says, finally feeling like it’s the right time to bring it up. “It’s never easy.”

She sighs. “No.”

“Were you close?”

“We were all close,” she says, oddly evasive for Adaar. Interesting. “He - well, he was a difficult guy to know. But I think I did. We joined the Valo-kas at the same time.”

It’s easier than it used to be to keep the disapproval from his voice. “He deserted?”

“A while before that, but yeah. He’d worked with a couple of other mercenary bands but none of them worked out. I still hadn’t really seen much action at that point, so Shokrakar paired us up to have him show me the ropes.”

“I see.” He tries to keep his amusement out of his voice, given the otherwise sombre tone of the conversation, but finds he can’t resist. “And you saw plenty action after that, I’m guessing.”

She groans, but she’s laughing too in an embarrassed sort of way. “Funny.”

The Iron Bulls grins. “Am I wrong?”

She takes a moment to answer. “You’re not.”

“No need to be embarrassed in front of me,” he says, still grinning widely and enjoying it her embarrassment nonetheless. “Or did you think I’d be jealous?” He’s teasing her, but he absolutely is jealous, only not in the way most people understand it. It’s a good emotion, if one that he’s not all that familiar with. It’s a little bit possessive, in the same way that makes him want to leave marks on her shoulders that linger for weeks, making no actual claim to her time or her attention that she doesn’t offer first, but bringing him a strange sense of satisfaction just knowing that it’s there. Maybe it isn’t jealousy at all, but it’s the closest thing he knows to it. Maybe it’s just fucked up that he’s feeling this competitive with a dead guy.

Adaar groans again and rubs at her forehead sheepishly. “It was just… inappropriate.”

“Does the Valo-kas have rules against fraternisation?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Can you imagine?” She laughs. “Do any companies really have that rule?”

“Sure they do. I’ve been in some of them.”

She looks at him curiously from beneath her hand. “Did you stick to it?”

“Depends,” he says, and she snorts. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s a bad idea -“

“You’re not?” She raises an eyebrow. “So if the Chargers -“

“The Chargers are pretty small, so the only real rule is not to jeopardise the group by making it complicated.” He looks over towards the fire, where Skinner is helping Dalish restring her bow with a level of patience he hardly thought her capable of. “There are a lot of different ways to interpret that. It’s up to them to figure out how.” 

“I guess that was the rule I was breaking,” she says with another embarrassed half-laugh. “Making it complicated.”

“You’re telling me,” the Iron Bull says, still looking out over his company but watching her duck her head from the corner of his eye. He starts counting on his fingers again. “So that’s Ashaad, plus Katoh, you mentioned a Sataa that one time -“

She groans. “Are you seriously counting -“

“I’m just saying, I’m up to five in that one company alone.”

“We could start tallying up your score in the Inquisition, if you’d rather,” she says dryly, “if I have enough fingers.”

“You don’t,” he tells her, and the look she gives him looks a lot like the not-jealous-jealousy he finds himself settling on a lot these days. An amused possessiveness. A competitive thrill, maybe. 

“Double points for the Inquisitor?” 

“You got it, boss,” he says, and enjoys how widely she grins. “But you’re dodging the question.”

“And what question is that?”

“It’s starting to look a lot like you’ve got a Tal-Vashoth problem.”

“So you are jealous.”

“I like to know my competition,” he says, and then drops the teasing tone they’re both adopting in favour of something more serious as he starts to pry more intently. “Besides, I wasn’t Tal-Vashoth when we met, so I’m thinking maybe that isn’t it.” She holds his gaze but says nothing, so he presses her further. "No dwarves? Elves and humans don't do it for you, huh?"

"I think the problem is I don't do it for them," she says, lightly, but wryly. She looks embarrassed again, but running closer to shame than sheepishness. "They're looking for something a bit closer to home."

"You think?" he says carefully.

"It's different for you."

"Because I’m charming?" he asks smugly, and she huffs a small laugh.

"That too. But it's different." She shrugs. "No one wants an 'ox-woman', believe me. They've made that quite clear."

"Have you met Sera?"

"Sure, there's Sera, there's always the odd one or two who want the big, strong qunari to throw them about a bit." She rolls her eyes.

“And you’ve really never taken them up on it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she says, flushing slightly, "and it’s not that I'm not flattered, but..."

"But?" he presses. He knows the answer, he just wants to hear her say it.

"But," she repeats, and one corner of her mouth curves upwards. "I guess that's not what I'm looking for."

He hopes Skinner catches this part, the way Adaar looks at him like she knows exactly what she's looking for and it’s right in front of her. He knows Skinner certainly wouldn't mind being thrown about by a tall, strong qunari woman - he's pretty sure she's thoroughly tested that theory too, although he'd always half-heartedly warned the Chargers off fraternising with Tal-Vashoth, that probably just made her more determined  - and Skinner has remained stubbornly skeptical that Adaar would choose otherwise. Fuck you, Skinner, he thinks cheerfully, and leans a few inches closer to Adaar, nothing particularly intimate but enough that she has to tilt her head slightly to keep meeting his gaze. He's good at being what people want, he's good enough at it that he takes it as a given most of the time, but it rarely feels so damn satisfying. 

"I know," he says, low and amused, and places two fingers gently beneath her chin. He's not sure exactly what he's doing. They're barely twenty feet away from his entire nosy company generally and Skinner's obnoxious scrutiny specifically, and this isn't how it goes . They don't do this here. 

She grins with that hint of challenge in her eyes that goes predictably straight to his dick, but he lets his hand drop even so, willing himself back into more familiar territory.

“Here’s my question for you,” Adaar says smoothly, “given that humans and elves clearly do it for you -“

“Don’t forget dwarves.”

“ - and dwarves,” she repeats, arching an amused brow, “given that, I have to ask…”

He grins languidly. “Is there anything that doesn’t, you mean?”

“No, actually,” she says slowly, and the next look she gives him is particularly piercing. “I’m the only qunari on your considerable list since you came to Orlais, aren’t I?”

There she goes; surprising him again. He watches her face attentively before he answers, finding mostly curiosity. There might be something else in there, but curiosity is winning, which he’ll take. She'd be unlikely to see through a lie but there doesn't seem much point in it, so he settles for the truth. “You are.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he says carefully, searching for the easiest answer first while he finds his bearings again, “Tal-Vashoth were always off the table when I was still Ben-Hassrath."

“And Vashoth?”

“You’ve probably noticed, but there aren’t so many of you around.” The Iron Bull raises his eyebrows and she frowns, but nods slightly. “You know why that is?”

“Not that many leave the Qun?”

“Well, more than you’d think, but sure, there’s that. And to get Vashoth, you need Tal-Vashoth having babies.”

“And they don’t?” 

“They do,” the Iron Bull says, and looks at her pointedly. “Sometimes.” Adaar stays silent so he continues. “You know how it works back in the Qun, Tamassran hold all the information and decide who’s having babies with who. All the children born in the Qun already have a place ready for them. If the Qun asks you to provide your blood in this way, then you might never know the child, but you know they were needed.”

“Sure,” she says, but he can tell she doesn’t really get it. 

“Hard habit to break, don’t you think? Tal-Vashoth have turned their back on the Qun but that doesn’t mean they’d want to bring a child into that life. A child completely without a place.”

She says nothing but frowns again, probably thinking of her own parents, and he takes a deep breath. The harder answer, then. “The Qun don’t believe in waste, remember? A Vashoth baby doesn’t know whether it’s Vashoth or Qunari, and if you get them early enough, they never will.”

“The Qun take the Vashoth babies?”

“Nah, course not,” the Iron Bull says, watching the horrified look that’s still on her face even after his clarification. “They wouldn’t bother with most of them. It’s too much effort to find a kid and bring it all the way back when it might not even amount to anything more than bad breeding with two Tal-Vashoth parents. No offence,” he adds, and gets a wry little look in return. “But you’ve got to remember, I was one of their best agents once. If everyone could take ten years in Seheron, it’d be a different place.”

Understanding spreads across her face, but it doesn’t look all that different from the horror that had been there moments before. “Were you afraid,” she says slowly, “of - of accidentally having a child with a Vashoth and the Qun claiming them?”

“Not afraid. But it wasn’t really a worthwhile risk.”

“Doesn’t have to be that big a risk,” she says pointedly, “I mean, it’s not like we’re just leaving it to chance, exactly.”

He runs his thumb over his lip to give him a moment to decide on his response. No point telling her it’s still not impossible. She knows that already, and it’d only draw attention to the fact it’s still there somewhere, at the back of his mind. He supposes what follows next is the truth, if slightly out of context. “That requires trust, though.”

“Either way, the Qun wouldn’t have known.”

“Oh, they would.” He regards her with amusement. “You really think they’d let a detail like that slip through the net? Either way, that still doesn’t mean it’d be a good thing. Rolling the dice and seeing what you end up with? I’ve seen too many Tal-Vashoth gone savage to take that chance.”

“But you’d be fine with Tamassran sanctioned reproduction, I take it,” she says, not exactly disapproving, but definitely a little bewildered. He hasn’t had a chance to answer when her eyes widen and she half-laughs incredulously. “You were okay with it, weren’t you? You were their best agent. They must’ve set you up with all their other most promising protegees.” She shakes her head, like she can’t quite believe it’s only just occurring to her. “How many children?”

“No idea,” he says truthfully, “that’s not something they tell you.”

“That is so fucking weird,” she says apologetically after a long pause, and he can’t help but snort. “Come on, isn’t it? That you might have kids running about somewhere -“

“Might be none. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” 

He doesn’t answer. This isn’t a conversation he knows how to have.

“Bull,” she says quietly, “do you think the Tamassran made a mistake?”

“They did make a mistake,” he points out, “Tal-Vashoth, remember? Not the kind of inclination you want to be breeding into your spies. Or your soldiers. Or your anything, really.”

“Bull,” she says again, so gently he doesn’t know what to do with it. He shrugs.

“To answer your original question,” he says, and to his surprise, she doesn't protest when he diverts the conversation back to more familiar waters. “I’ve never met a Vashoth quite like you, boss."

She just looks at him for a long, unreadable moment, but he’s not at all surprised when she says: “That’s not really an answer.” 

Only Adaar could deliver something quite so bluntly without any real recrimination. Liar , Skinner had snapped. Adaar’s saying much the same thing, but without any of the barbs Skinner sent his way that have made their way somewhere beneath his skin, Ben-Hassrath training be damned. The Tamassran got a lot of things wrong, they let his leash grow longer and longer and then they cut him loose, but he isn’t as wild and untethered as he thought. It all comes back to her, and the truth is, he can’t bear to hurt her with the facts. There’s truth and there’s truth , and Hissrad was a devotee of the former but the Iron Bull has widened his perspective.

“It’s all I’ve got, boss,” he says, and he holds her gaze again, but this time he isn't trying to convince her of anything. The truth is: he joined the Inquisition on their orders, and he made himself invaluable on their orders, and he maybe even charmed her with his easy affability on their orders too, though there isn't a paper trail for that one. He hasn't got any orders now. The truth is: everything he has left is right here in this camp. 

The half-smile Adaar gives him prompts an unfamiliar sense of being understood that brings a rising sense of alarm even as it brings a strange rush of relief, but then she reaches out with the hand closest to him and touches him lightly on the knee, a small point of contact that grounds everything raw and uncertain inside him. “Hey,” she says, and suddenly he’s back in himself in a way that the re-educators got nothing on, “it’ll do.”

 

-

 

They let the fire die to gently glowing embers as dark falls on the camp, aiming not to be invisible but inconspicuous. There are enough merchants travelling this way that a small caravan isn’t particularly noteworthy, and a group like the Chargers doesn’t project the sort of military appearance that other Inquisition troops might. It’s still a fairly somber night for them, though, and there’s a part of the Iron Bull that wishes Adaar could’ve seen them on a lighter job with a lot more laughter and drinking and general raucous charm. Another time, he thinks absently, and then catches himself halfway through the thought with wry amusement. He’s getting ahead of himself. 

Krem yawns widely through an entire round of Wicked Grace before excusing himself, followed closely by Rocky who casts Skinner a particularly dirty look, and Stitches makes his and Grim’s goodbyes before they turn in too. Dalish is starting to nod off onto Skinner’s shoulder, who’s clearly annoyed by this turn of events but apparently reluctant to intervene. The Iron Bull settles back and enjoys watching her fidget irritably for a few moments, trying not to move her shoulder but unable to put her restlessness aside. He figures this is Skinner’s version of lying down in a puddle so someone can walk over her rather than get their feet wet. It’s kind of sweet.

“She’ll be no good for first watch if she falls asleep there,” he tells Skinner eventually.

“Looks like she’ll be no good for it anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He nudges Skinner, who’s sitting so stiffly she barely moves at all even with his elbow in her ribs. “I’ll take first, then. Let’s get her inside.”

“If she’s grumpy, I’m blaming you,” Skinner says darkly, but when she tentatively shakes Dalish awake all she gets is a sleepy yawn.

“What?” Dalish says blearily, but leans her head back onto Skinner’s shoulder, looping her arm through Skinner’s and closing her eyes. Skinner’s expression is difficult to read but she’s sitting more stiffly even than before. Dalish must pick up on this, even half-asleep as she is, and her eyes open with a start as she pulls her arm back and scoots away from Skinner. “Oh… Sorry.” Skinner just grunts.

“Go to bed, Dalish,” the Iron Bull says, “before you drool on Skinner and she murders you. I’d have to kick her out for that and I’m not losing two good people in one night.”

“Don’t drool,” Dalish mumbles, but she stumbles to her feet and yawns as she makes her way over to the tents.

“She drools,” Skinner mutters, allergic as ever to not getting the last word. She scuffs her feet in the dirt and if things weren’t already kind of tense between them, the Iron Bull wouldn’t be able to resist needling her about it. Skinner goes in for the kill with any soft spot she finds, and you have to do the same if you ever want to land a hit.

He’s about to start teasing her anyway despite his better judgement, when Adaar speaks up from across the fire.

“I think I’ve got something for you,” Adaar says, and he can tell it takes Skinner a moment to register that she’s talking to her. 

“For me?”

“Sure,” Adaar says, and she leans over with something in her hand which she passes to Skinner, who takes it almost suspiciously. “If you want, anyway.”

Skinner holds up the thing she took from Adaar to the firelight, and the Iron Bull can see the glint of metal. He recognises it as one of Adaar’s daggers. They’d pulled it off a dead body, if he’s remembering right, in some underground cave or cavern where the gemstone in the hilt had sparkled invitingly in the darkness. She’d had to snap the bones of the long-dead hand still clutching it, and the sound had made Sera burst into disgusted laughter. Adaar took a shine to it and has been using it ever since.

“Really?” Skinner is still incredulous. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking heartbreaking, knowing what he knows. 

“It’s all yours, if you want it.”

Skinner gives the dagger a little spin between her fingers, because she’s incapable of not showing off even in front of the Inquisitor, and runs a finger along the length of the blade lightly. “Very nice,” she says appreciatively, and then looks back at Adaar with an expression that’s still a little suspicious. “Thank you,” she adds stiffly, and the Iron Bull wants to ruffle her hair.

“Thought you might like it.”

“You sure you don’t need it?”

“I’m good,” Adaar says, and pats at her newly acquired dagger where it lies on her thigh, freshly cleaned and sharpened. “I think this’ll suit me better.”

Skinner is by no means a connoisseur of fine weaponry, but she has a professional and practical interest that’s pretty impressive once you forget about the stuck-up standards of nobles. “The Qunari one?” She sounds approving. “I can’t work with the grips, but they’re good blades.”

“Fine craftsmanship, I’m told,” Adaar says, and grins at him. 

“Made to last,” he says, and gives Skinner a look. “Not like that Orlesian crap.” She rolls her eyes.

“I like Qunari weapons,” Adaar continues thoughtfully, holding her own dagger up to the firelight. “They tend to have a bit more length, which works for me.”

“I bet it does,” the Iron Bull says, and meets Adaar’s eyes with a grin that matches the one she gives him in return.

"They make nice daggers, too," Adaar says, and he nearly chokes on his drink. To his side, Skinner looks briefly stunned before thumping him somewhat unhelpfully on the back and muttering something scornful but amused under her breath. “Anyway,” Adaar says, and sheathes her dagger in a fluid movement - shit, it’s not like he needs an extra reason to find that hot normally, but under the circumstances, it’s devastating - before getting to her feet with a small roll of her shoulders. “I’m turning in.” The look she gives him then is beyond devastating. He’d had some uncertainly when it came to what Adaar thinks about their ‘no sex in the field’ rule, but whatever that answer was before, he’s crystal clear now. 

“Night boss,” he says, sounding slightly strangled, and Adaar lets herself into the still empty tent the Chargers have clearly been avoiding. Presumably they feel it’s only proper that the Inquisitor get a tent of her own, even if she’s not along on this trip in her official capacity. She doesn’t fasten the ties that windproof the entrance, and the heavy canvas flaps fold lazily across each other. Invitingly, almost. Fuck. He just needs a moment. He’s waiting for that point of clarity when what he wants and what he knows he should do find the right place to intersect. His first impulses can’t always be trusted, however strongly he feels them. They have an agreement for all the right reasons. Delineating their relationships makes sense, and it works. If he’s going to throw that all away, he needs to -

“Are you stupid?” Skinner hisses, and he turns to give her his best placid expression. It irritates her more. “You going to follow her, or what?”

“I said I’ll take first watch.”

“So you are stupid.”

“I’m taking first watch,” he repeats, “and we need to talk.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? She says that, you’re just gonna sit there -“

“Skinner, can you focus please?” The Iron Bull sometimes even impresses himself, and this is one of those times. He sounds impeccably unflustered. “This is important.” Skinner starts to scoff but he cuts across her. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or are you mad because you thought I hadn’t figured it out?”

She goes very still, and fixes him with a cool gaze. Not unhappy, he notes. Not even all that defensive. “Figured what out?” 

“Or did you think I’d disapprove?” 

She sticks to her guns, eyes glinting defiantly in the firelight. “Disapprove of what?”

“Does Krem know?” He’s certain Krem doesn’t, because he would’ve mentioned it, but he’s happy to let her sweat. “When did it start?”

She lifts her chin with an obstinate expression. “You’ll need to be more specific, chief.”

“That’s fair,” he says, and shrugs as he takes another drink, just to make her wait. “I guess I could’ve been referring to a few things.”

She grins; she thinks she’s winning. She never learns. “Like?”

“Like when did you start sleeping with Dalish, for one,” he says, “why you asked her to keep it secret, for another. I’m also kind of curious if you’ve realised how much it means to her -”

“Oh, bull shit .”

“So that’s a no,” he continues smoothly, but with just an edge of sharpness to it that shuts her up. “This is the big one, Skins: are you serious about it?”

“Since when have you cared if I’m serious about who I’m sleeping with?”

“Since it was Dalish.” He looks at her shrewdly. “Since it was two members of my company I’ve got a vested interest in not ending up hating each other.”

“I didn’t know we had rules .”

“Course we have fucking rules, Skinner, you know that. Also, eavesdropping on a private conversation is generally considered pretty rude, by the way.”

“Like you wouldn’t.”

“Not the point,” he says firmly and resists the urge to rub at his temples as he watches her bristle. He’s got her in a corner, so now it’s time to coax her out. His next words are softer, almost gentle. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

She ducks her head with a disgruntled noise, scuffing at the ground with her boots again. “You were gone.”

"Still saw plenty of you back at Skyhold."

"You weren't on any of the jobs."

“Give me some credit,” he says, “I was considered a pretty good spy in some circles, you know.” 

“Whatever.”

“She’s always liked you.” Skinner groans and drops her head onto her hunched knees, but he’s not letting her theatrics deter him. “She never thought you’d give her the time of day.”

“She was annoying.”

He grins. “And now?”

“...Less annoying.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“I don’t know,” Skinner says irritably, picking at the skin around her fingernails but not raising her head. “Maybe so no one would ask me these stupid fucking questions.”

“Here’s something to think about,” he says, and lowers his voice even though he’s certain Dalish is sleeping like the dead and their voices won’t carry into the tents anyway. “Dalish hasn’t got a whole lot of honesty in her life. She’s got to haul that stupid bow around and pretend like it’s what it seems to be, and she’ll never get to stop doing that. She’ll have to keep lying about it until the day she dies unless the world changes a whole lot, which we both know it won’t. And even if we all appreciate her talents and she always has a place in the Chargers, that’s still a big fucking lie, Skinner. She has to hide something she can’t change and doesn’t matter what anyone says, she’s always going to be ashamed of that. That’s what lying means to her. That she isn’t worth being honest about.”

“I don’t care that she’s a mage.”

“Right, but you saying she can’t tell anyone about the two of you? She’s going to hear that you’re ashamed of her, that she isn’t important enough to tell the truth about.”

“I’m not ashamed -“

“So why the secrecy?”

Skinner digs the heels of her hands into her eyes with another drawn out groan. “Shit, I don't know. You think too much.”

“And you’re not thinking enough,” he says, but reaches out and pats her on the knee. “Are you serious about it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, figure it the fuck out,” he says, but not unkindly. “And either stop lying about it, or find someone else you can get off on sneaking around with, okay?”

“Fuck you.” She at least sounds fairly half-hearted.

“And if you are serious, you have to tell Krem.” He raises an eyebrow. “Or I will.”

“You’ve made your point,” she mutters, jabbing at the dirt by her feet with a finger. “Just didn’t think you’d be such a killjoy. Thought you were all about fucking whoever and having fun.”

“Oh yeah,” the Iron Bull says, “that what this is?”

Skinner presses her lips together. “Could be.” He resists the urge to sigh.

“Tell Krem,” he says firmly, “and don’t treat her like shit because you’re afraid of your own feelings.”

"I'm not afraid ."

"Just emotionally constipated, then."

“Fuck you,” Skinner says again, sullen to a fault, but the Iron Bull can feel the strange energy she’d had about her starting to fizzle away. She’s hard work, Skinner, she’s a lot of fucking work, but she’s got a heart of gold beneath the piss and vinegar. Or, well. Burnished copper at least. Something surprisingly shiny that deserves gentleness beneath it all. “You don't know as much as you think you do.”

“Probably,” he agrees cheerfully, and she lifts her head to look disparagingly at him, disappointed that her jab fell so flat.

"And you're still an idiot."

“Good talk," he says with a grin, "so… are we good?" They're good. He can tell they're good by the way she rolls her eyes, even if she won't give the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Hm."

“Come on, Skinner.” He punches her lightly on the arm. “Just want to know if I should bother asking for a favour.”

Skinner narrows her eyes. “Depends.”

He glances back towards Adaar’s tent, the opening still unsecured. He’s an idiot. Skinner’s an idiot. They’re both holding up walls because they’re creatures of habit. “You, er. You fancy taking first watch?”

“What’s it worth to you?” she says with a lazy, shit-eating grin. 

“I’m going to level with you, Skinner,” he says, “whatever you’re asking for, I’m game. Just put me out my misery.”

“Hmm,” she says, but just leans back with her elbows hooked around her knees, wearing that same, sharp grin. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, chief.”

“You’re the best,” he tells her fondly, and pulls her closer to plant a loud, exaggerated kiss on the top of her head before she can protest too much. “I owe you.”

“Just fuck off already.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He sticks his head through the tent opening in a careful motion, left horn then right horn, sees Adaar still awake sitting on her bedroll and ducks the rest of the way in. Her armor is off and she’s adjusting something on one of her gloves when she looks up at him with a smile. Her undershirt hangs low and loose across her chest and he remembers having a stupid argument with Skinner once about whether Adaar’s ass was better than her tits. It was a win-win argument for him, really, so he didn’t mind losing, but he still maintains that Skinner has her priorities all wrong.

“Thought you were taking first watch,” she says, putting the glove to one side. She sounds pleased rather than annoyed, though. 

"I was," he says, and takes a seat on the bedroll across from her, shucking his boots. Adaar watches him curiously. “Change of plans.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and looks across to her once his boots are off. She’s still smiling. He thinks about the way she looked at him when she asked him if the Tamassran made a mistake. It’s like it’s opened something raw. Not painful, exactly, but raw. Something new. “Skinner took pity on me.”

“Right, because ‘pitiful’ is the first word that comes to mind when I look at you.”

He grins, flexes a bit. Starts to unbuckle his harness but doesn’t take the bait. “We were having a heart to heart.”

“Sounds… intense."

“That’s Skinner,” he says fondly, and rests his elbows on his knees when he’s done so he can look at her squarely. “Relationship advice, you know.”

“Her or you?” Adaar asks archly, mirroring his posture by leaning forward on her own knees. They’re only a foot or so apart now, and her shirt hangs even lower and she raises her eyebrows when his gaze drifts to follow it. He has some trouble dragging his eyes back up to meet hers and he doesn’t mind letting her know. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Her, obviously,” he says with mock offence. “I’ve imparted my great wisdom and experience, don’t worry.”

Adaar snorts. “Now I can sleep easy.”

“You want to sleep? I thought maybe…” He trails off just to watch the way her cheeks flush. “... we could talk a bit more about Qunari weaponry, seeing as how you’re seen keen on it.”

The flush stays but her face breaks into a grin. “Sounds fun.”

“What was it you said you liked about it, the length?”

“Regrettably, something like that.”

“How about the girth?”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” she says, but she’s looking at him from beneath her eyelashes, gone completely still with anticipation. He loves when you could practically cut the air it’s so thick between them, loves how all-consuming it is, loves that doesn’t allow room for anything else. Loves breaking it most of it.

“Come here,” he says softly, and she leans forward as he reaches out to pull her half onto his lap and kisses her. She melts into him obediently, both her lips on his and her body in his hands, breasts brushing against his chest through her shirt in that way that drives him crazy. Skinner’s wrong. She’s so fucking wrong. He kisses her harder and pulls her closer with one hand on the back of her neck, the other on her ass. Well, Skinner’s right, as well. Whatever. He mouths at her neck and pushes her undershirt off her shoulders, because fuck it, he can have both: his hand on her ass and her bare tits pressed against his skin. They don’t call it getting lucky for nothing.

Adaar’s taller than most and she’s lean but solid, wiry muscle across her shoulders and arms and something sturdier in her legs. He gets it; seeing her fight and move fluidly and lethally is hot as fuck. It makes sense that folk like Skinner or Sera look at her and might want her to throw them around a bit, but they don’t know the half of what they’re missing. With him, Adaar’s soft and pliant, all that power and strength put to one side. Now that - that is devastating. They really don’t know the half of it.

“All right,” he murmurs in her ear, and he feels the shiver that runs down her neck. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

“And what’s that?” Her voice is still steady. He’ll see about that.

He nips at her neck. “On your back.”

She crawls backwards and he follows, never fully letting go of her or letting any real space grow between them. He pins her down with his knees either side of her legs, and she frames his face with her hands again, a small smile playing on her mouth.

“I need you to be quiet,” he says, and kisses her again, circling his fingers around her wrists as they kiss. He pulls back an inch, holding her wrists but letting her hands stay where they are for now. “Can you do that for me?” She nods, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. “And I mean really quiet,” he continues, pulling her hands firmly but slowly above her head, where he pins them against the floor.

She breathes in sharply but doesn’t make a sound, just looking up at him with a look that is at once beautifully compliant but still with that hint of challenge. “Yes,” she breathes, and if he wasn’t hard enough before he’s certainly there now. The way her arms pulled above her head make the soft curves of her body even softer. The way he can see her tits rising and falling with her breath, soft and perfect. 

“It occurs to me, kadan,” he says in a low voice, “that when we were talking before, I might have forgotten something.” He dips his head down to kiss between her breasts. “Talked a lot about what does it for me. Dwarves. Humans. Elves. Talked about how you’re the first Vashoth I’ve been with.” Kisses her collarbone with a hint of teeth, which makes her arch her back. “Not sure I mentioned that you do it for me, though.” She swallows a noise as he nips at her ear. “Because you really do.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” she says, definitely breathless this time, and she gets another nip at her ear as a gentle reprimand. 

“So long as we’re clear.” He shifts his weight slightly, moving one leg between hers and using only one hand now to pin both her wrists. He lets his other hand make its careful way down her body, grazing her nipple with his thumb and feeling her arch up into his thigh with a small, soft noise. It’s hot as hell, but that’s beside the point. “Really quiet, remember?” She closes her eyes briefly and nods again. “I got you,” he says softly, kissing her neck and her jaw and the corner of her mouth as she goes wonderfully pliant beneath him once more, lips pressed together firmly.

Her newfound resolve is tested when his fingers reach her pants and start pushing them over her hips, which rise to meet his palm and get shoved gently back on the floor. “Stay still for me, kadan,” he says, and she does, more or less, enough that he murmurs praise into her ear as he pushes her thighs apart and skims his finger up the soft skin to softly, softly spread her open. She breathes out, hard. 

“You’re doing so good,” he says, and: “I’ve got you,” and when he dips a finger lazily inside her, she doesn’t make a sound though she bites her lip hard enough the skin turns white where she’s biting down. That image alone is enough to keep him going for years.

He’s an idiot. They could’ve been doing this for months. He suddenly can’t remember a single reason why they weren’t. He will later, probably, when the tunnel-vision of sex lifts a little, but now, now

He adds another finger without much preamble, tells her: “You can take it.” She just looks up at him with trust and arousal in equal measures, believing she can because he tells her she can. He feels drunk on it, almost. Her trust for him and the fullness in his chest when he sees it in action. 

He likes it when it’s just his fingers, and he can pull back a little and watch the way she alternately screws her eyes shut as she stays determinedly still, then arches her back and chases his hand with her hips. It’s maybe not as physically satisfying for him feeling her wet and warm around his fingers as it is around his cock, but the sharper control he has over himself brings another kind of satisfaction. Sure, the sight of her like this makes his blood pump faster either way, but it’s easier to be measured and draw it out teasingly. Especially now that he’s hovering above her with one hand pinning hers down, he has a pretty spectacular view.

She’s especially wound up tonight. He could make a few guesses why. It just makes every little shudder and swallowed sigh he can wring from her all the more important. To coax out every last measure of worry and grief, at least for as long as this lasts. 

“I want you to come for me,” he says, firm and tender, “just like this, nice and quiet.” He curls his fingers inside her as his thumb and the heel of his palm provide the friction she needs as he moves his hand. It’s murder on the wrists, but worth every ache and pain. “And then, if you’re quiet enough…”

She whisper-babbles something that might be I am, I am , but he shushes her and bites down on her collarbone again with a carefully-calculated pressure, and he knows he’s judged it just right by the way her hips shudder. “I got you,” he says again, “I have you,” and then she gasps audibly and he stops moving abruptly, pulling his hand back. Her eyes fly open, indignant. “Quiet,” he reminds her wryly, and she takes a moment to breathe in deeply and collect herself before she looks at him again. This look is pure challenge. He grins.

It’s easy to get her back to where she was, breathing hard and shaking, and this time she stays quiet as she clenches round his fingers and he drinks in the sight of her screwing her eyes shut and coming in determined silence, her arms putting up the first real resistance to their restraint as her spine curves. Fuck, he really owes Skinner. She should be cashing in on this for months. “You’re doing so good,” he murmurs over and over, until Adaar opens her eyes with a smile a little on the side of sheepish. 

He counts her breaths as he holds her thigh, thumb rubbing circles into the soft skin, waiting til they even out. Kisses the crook of her neck. Kissing is a bas invention, but he doesn’t know how he survived without it. Rolls her bottom lip between her teeth gently. She just waits, obediently, patiently. Trusting him. He feels at once that he can’t possibly have earned this but also that he is completely and totally committed to making that true, again and again.

“Don’t move,” he rumbles, and lets go of her wrists to remove the rest of his clothes distractedly. He wishes he had some rope that wasn’t in Krem’s pack, a naked dash and a lot of relentless teasing between him and it. Nevermind. He’s making do, and Adaar is lying still and quiet, arms dutifully above her head. It’s somehow even hotter when she doesn’t physically have to. “Don’t move your hands,” he says warningly, “if you do…” She grabs the bedroll with her fingers determinedly in response. He doesn’t catch her wrists again, kneeling between her thighs and placing his hands instead on her hips.

There’s always a thrill about this, about getting his cock inside her, and not just because it’s sex, and sex is really fucking good . Not just because it’s Adaar either, although there’s something delicious about her being the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor, that he can watch pretty much one of the most powerful people in Thedas doing the rounds with nobles or making inspirational speeches and think yeah, we’re screwing. That never fails to amuse him. There’s a thrill that’s a bit more fucked up than that, the thrill that comes from knowing the Ben-Hassrath wouldn’t quite approve. That even if they’d wanted him to seduce her they wouldn’t have liked that he took it this far. Wouldn’t have approved of the risk that this specific act brings.

She hisses a little through her teeth as he pushes into her, but he’s too busy focusing on controlling his own reactions to do more than give her a stern look, and lets it slide. Her hands are still above her head though, even when she arches her back with a jerk. “Quiet,” he says again, and, “just like that,” and her fingernails are white.

They aren’t particularly quiet, then, although they’re betrayed more by the rustling of the bedroll and the crinkled canvas cover beneath it than anything else. Adaar’s already wrung out and responds beautifully to every move he makes in her, and he fucks her deep and steady in just the way he knows will make her shake. It’s always a pleasure to coax an orgasm out of her before they get started, it doesn’t usually take much to push her over the edge again, which is what he’s counting on. He’ll take the ego boost, too. Sometimes, he only has to say it for her to oblige, so he does.

“Come on, kadan,” he says hoarsely, “come for me. Just like that -“

And then, again: “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” and he catches her hands and holds them down again as she’s too caught up to remember not to move them. She’s starting to come close to disobeying his order of silence, shaking beneath him with her bottom lip raw from where she’s caught it in her teeth. In Skyhold, maybe, he’d make her work for it. Or maybe on a day where she’s been doing nothing but mindlessly giving orders and making decisions. Today, after what she’s been through, he figures she needs this.

He leaves one hand holding her wrists but presses the other one against her mouth, and that does it: she bites down on the heel of his thumb as she shudders, and it’s that deadly combination of all three that drive him crazy: the pain in his palm from her teeth, the feeling of her clenching around him, and the sheer concentration on her face as she tries her best not to obey, even as his hand is smothering the noises she’s trying and failing not to make. 

The Iron Bull’s priority is always, always what she needs, but he’s not entirely selfless. He doesn’t have to get off every time, but this is most certainly not one of those times.

He keeps moving through her aftershocks, whispering quiet praise in her ear as she shakes from the oversensitivity, telling her she can take it, and she does. He releases her hands so she digs her nails into the back of his neck, urging him on, not that it takes much - and then he buries his face in her shoulder to bite off his own groan, trying to be relatively gentle, but not at all concerned about leaving a mark.

After a moment he feels Adaar start to laugh quietly beneath him by the way her throat rumbles pleasantly against his cheek, and the way she tightens around his still oversensitive cock as she shakes, uncomfortable enough that he finds himself caught between pleasure and discomfort. He doesn't mind; that's always kind of worked for him.

"What?" he says lazily, still not inclined to move.

"Is Skinner just - outside -"

"Yep."

"We owe her a fruit basket or something," Adaar says, grinning up at him. "Or maybe, like -"

"You just gave her a fancy knife," he says, and rocks again inside her just ever so slightly, enough to keep that too-much feeling going for him and make Adaar squirm beneath him. It's absolutely not happening, much as he might like, even if they weren't worn out and in need of some decent sleep before whatever tomorrow brings.

"It was going spare, so I'm not sure that counts."

"Skinner likes knives a whole lot more than fruit, trust me," he says, and props himself up on an elbow to take a good look at her. 

"Basket of knives, then." She's still grinning crookedly. 

"Should've never introduced you," he mutters, and cups her face in his hand. "Hey. You good?"

"I'm good," she says softly, and fits her hand in turn to the curve of his jaw where they stay for a moment, a very private moment of tenderness. That slightly raw feeling is back, catching somewhere in his throat but not threatening to overwhelm him. Everything he has left, right here. Beneath him and around him, snoring soundly or watching the fire or soft under his palm. 

 "All right," she says eventually, and leans up to press a quick kiss to his mouth before swatting at his shoulder. "Now get off, you're heavy."

"The words you're looking for are 'solid muscle', by the way," he says with a grin, but extricates himself and rolls onto his back with the kind of big, happy sigh that Krem calls goofy. Maybe he is when he feels like this.

"Cute," she says, tucking herself into his side, head on his shoulder and one arm draped across him. He's too comfortable to bother suggesting they get dressed, and hopes his guys have the good sense not to barge in without prior warning. Wouldn't be the first time they've seen more than they bargained for of the Iron Bull, but he's got Adaar to think about.

She sounds like she's half asleep already, too. "Tent sex," she says absently, stifling a yawn. "That's new."

"Yep."

"I could get used to it, though."

"Could you," he rumbles with amusement. "I'll bear that in mind."

She chuckles quietly, and is silent for long enough before her next words he starts to think she might have fallen asleep. "Thanks, Bull."

"Pleasure's all mine, I assure you."

"Didn't mean that," she says, flicking playfully at his chest with her fingers. "Although, sure. That too."

"Then what for?"

"You know," she says with a wry smile, "for everything else. And about tomorrow," she says, and then hesitates briefly. "I know it's a high risk situation -"

He cuts her off before she can finish the thought. "Which is presumably why you hired Orlais' most well regarded mercenary company."

"Most expensive, you mean," she says lightly, but he can still see the worried creases on her forehead. She's flexing her fingers where they lie on his stomach, something he recognises as an anxious habit, like she's itching to hold a dagger. He catches her hand and holds it steady.

"We're worth it," he says firmly, and feels her smile against his side.

"Mm. I hear their leader comes highly recommended too, if you know what I mean."

He grins. "You jealous, boss?"

"Smug, more like," she says, and he chuckles. 

"You know what," he says, "maybe I should look into that knife basket."

Adaar falls asleep with the echoes of her laughter still in the lines of her face, but the Iron Bull lies awake for a long time after.

 

Notes:

So! It’s been a while! Even long than I realised, oops. It was like a big warm hug coming back to this. I didn’t think it’d get so spicy but hey, if you’re going to suddenly update a fic after a literal year of radio silence why not just go all out?

Anyway, I definitely won’t be leaving it as long for the final part! Thanks for sticking around <3

Notes:

I really hoped to finish this all at once and post it as a complete piece, but it's taking on a life of its own and I'm far too impatient (and, er, in need of external validation) to make it to the end just in my own weird writing cocoon. Will I ever be free of Dragon Age: Inquisition (2014)? Probably not