#:drabble

@whirlwindamell

by the maker, he is going to start a bloody international INCIDENT before the night is over with and there will be NO coming back from it.  he can practically FEEL josephine’s eyes narrowed on him with suspicion and concern, but this is one jab too many.  he’s sick of hearing it.  sick of seeing her shoulders SLUMP with every not-so-subtle cruel word launched her way.  he SNEERS down at the marquis, nearly a half a foot taller than the other man and far more intimidating in his full plate than the petty ORLESIAN bastard will ever be in his velvet and lace.  

‘i suggest you mind your words, marquis, lest someone walk away with the impression that you suffer a lack of respect as WELL as physique.’

the marquis regards him with a LAUGH, muffled somewhat by the golden mask covering his face.  it makes the RAGE boil in his belly, and his hand curls into a fist.  where is the ambassador when he needs her?

‘ah, yes – the fereldan DOG who commands ‘er forces,’ he sounds almost bored, the rolling of his eyes visible even as his mask conceals everything else.  ‘your loyalty is inspiring, commander.  hardly SURPRISING given the rumours circulating val royeaux that YOU are the one warming her bed at night.  a tragedy, really, considering all of the ladies at court who seemed to be VYING for your attention at halamshiral – is it a rise in station you are after? i know plenty of eligible LADIES who would fight to the death for your hand, and they are far more appealing than some fat –’

but what exactly he thinks elena is never makes it past his lips, as cullen’s fist connects with the golden mask faster than the marquis can blink.  the slighter man’s nose lets out a sickening, satisfying crunch, and cullen SNARLS as he massages his knuckles.  it’s going to leave him bruised, and one of his knuckles might have cracked on the impact, but elena can heal it later.  the SATISFACTION is well-worth it.

he turns on his heel and leaves without another WORD, the marquis’ threats falling on deaf ears. his entire body is SHAKING with poorly suppressed anger and he doesn’t make it FAR before his knees give out and he sinks to the ground against the wall in shame.  it was rash, and stupid, and a whole entire host of OTHER things that will only cause problems for ELENA.  but he cannot be expected to sit idly by while she is insulted so flippantly, with no-one coming to her defence.  he has pledged his service to her – both as a lover and as her commander.  his DUTY is to defend her against ALL manner of foes, both on the battlefield and off.  

　A golden ball rolled between his fingers and from one hand to the other, back and forth, all while he leaned lazily onto the chair; his journal lay open on his desk, half a page filled with an incomplete report on his latest exploration, completely abandoned for the sake of deep ponder.

　He was never someone to give things of the past too much thought, but his most recent acquisition had left them hanging on the particular topic of his parents, that evening.

                        “please take me back to when i was yours.”

[ original verse, rescuing from the raft and thereafter ] 

                            - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

There’s no time at first, only the way her breath leaves to see him again.

She thinks his does too, maybe, both caught in stasis to be in front of each other again. She punches the control pad, tearing out its innards until the door to his cell slides open. 

They nod as the other prisoners ask questions. She holds his eyes until it becomes too much and she goes to free the others. 

More shouted questions that Clint tries to allay, but Sif finds herself with no room for any of it.

“Come.”

She leads them out of the Raft, over her trail of incapacitated agents; she doesn’t really have a plan from here, but she has Clint and that’s enough for now. She trusts he’ll know something. She can’t trust Coulson with this, and her one Asgardian contact won’t work for long.

Clint and the Falcon find them a safehouse, talk about leaving a signal for Captain Rogers and what they need to do. She learns names and meanings and Clint touches her arm like they’ve never been apart. It sets a chill in her blood. 

Later it’s a fire. He comes to her room to ask her something, but it’s finally only them so he gets all of four words out before she’s on him. A hand at cheek and one at waist, pulling him to her lips and pushing him back against the door. It bumps closed and she locks it without looking because she has the taste of him again and it takes only two seconds before he’s returning her fervor. 

He’s older and she can see it. He’s older and it makes her want to hold on tight. He’s older and it hurts. She has always known their time together was limited, that was the way of these things, but she keeps getting chances and she’ll take them. Part of her thinks they should be talking with words about this, but they’ve always spoken better with hands. 

he can’t breathe.  two fingers dig themselves into the collar of the uniform he’s being forced to don for the evening, trying to loosen its grip around his throat.  his adam’s apple bobs nervously as he tries to swallow.  the fit veers just to the left of too tight, tailored perfectly to every inch of his body.  

he doesn’t like it.  it lacks the comforting, protective weight of his armor and makes him feel vulnerable.  too vulnerable, and he scowls at his reflection in the looking glass in his bedchamber.  he’s the commander of the inquisition’s forces.  he should be armed and armored, not trussed up in velveteen and silk.  he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, mussing the oh-so-meticulously coiffed curls that he took pride in putting in their place.  the effect is almost startling, lending his face a more boyish appearance and erasing some of the severity of his profile.  he doesn't like that either, but before he can go about putting it to rights, there’s a soft knock on the bedchamber door.  

“enter,” he calls out, perhaps a bit too gruffly, and he hears the rustle of what can only be maker-knows how many layers of fabric before the door clicks shut again. assuming it’s a page or a servant of gaspard’s, he turns, comb in hand to tell them he’ll be but just one more moment.

and then he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason than the damnable collar nearly cutting off his circulation.

“i thought i’d come and fetch you myself,” elena tells him, a broad grin on those plush lips of hers.  

he can only gape at her, words forgotten as he takes in the sight of the inquisitor in her regalia for halamshiral.  unlike the rest of them, she’s been permitted a ball gown, marking her as the leader of the inquisition.  it’s the same rich red as his own jacket.  the top is all lace overlaid over the corset she is wearing that puts her magnificent figure on full display, coming up to rest in a high collar on her throat with sheer lace sleeves that slip around her finger and rest at a point on the back of her hands.  the bottom is a full skirt in the orlesian style, a rich, red satin that flares out from her waist down to the floor, accentuated by a deep blue sash tied at her waist.  her hair has been swept back by deft fingers, a few loose waves left to frame her face.

he’s used to seeing her in armor, or simple riding clothes that she wears around skyhold.  she’s always been beautiful, even after weeks on the road or covered in flour from her latest kitchen experiments.  but he’s never seen her like this, and, maker help him, he can’t stop staring.  his mouth is dry and he realizes he’s holding the comb in a death grip and that he hasn’t spoken in a solid five minutes at least, but his mind has completely stopped working.  

at least she’s staring at him in much the same way as he’s staring at her.  maker preserve me, he thinks, as a hot hunger begins to pool in his belly at the way those kohl-rimmed eyes are drinking him in.

“you look handsome,” she tells him, but he only half hears it.  “your hair is —” but what his hair is, he doesn’t know, because he’s across the room and at her in three strides as the comb falls from his fingers, knotting his hand in her thick hair and taking her lips with his own.  she lets out a bit of a squeal against his lips, her arms coming to twine around his neck.  the lace rubs against the skin unprotected by his jacket, and he sighs into her mouth as she rises onto her toes to better reach him.  

after a moment, loathe as he is to part from her, he breaks the kiss.  she elicits a pained whine as he pulls away, his brow furrowed and his breathing labored.  there’s no time for it now, not before they’re expected to leave.  he nuzzles her nose before resting his forehead against hers, moving his arms to wrap around her waist.

“maker’s breath, but you are the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he breathes.  her fingers toy with some of the loose curls at the base of his neck and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to go to the palace with its intrigues and prying eyes.  he only wants this moment, here, with her, in gaspard’s obscenely lavish mansion, with her smeared lipstick and those eyes of hers boring into his.  

“we’ve…we’ve got to go,” she reminds him, but she sounds about enthused about the fact as he is.

it’s only after they’re in the carriages with the other members of the inquisition and sera is wearing a shit-eating grin that he realizes that he’s got her lipstick all over his face, and he never fixed his hair.

the air outside on the balcony is cool and crisp, and he welcomes it.  it still smells wrong, all the stenches of the city mingling in his nostrils and making him want to gag, but it’s still cold enough that it reminds him of skyhold.  of home.  she’s leaning against the balcony, hands gripping her elbows.  even after the whirlwind of an evening she’s had, that dress is still in impeccable condition.  but she looks tired.  maker knows he is, after hours spent at the mercy of the court, forced into a corner that felt all too much like what he’d been through kinloch.  whispered promises, unwanted hands.  no room to breathe.  he forces himself back into the present with a grimace, stepping up beside her and standing at rest at her side.  

“are you alright?” his voice is soft, concerned.  she turns to look at him with exhausted eyes, uncertainty pulling her mouth into a frown.

“i just want to go home,” she tells him, her voice a half-whisper in an attempt to keep any prying ears from hearing.  he nods his assent.

“as do i.  i am afraid the intrigues of orlesian court are…not to my tastes whatsoever.”  

she smiles slightly.  “i saw the courtiers surrounding you.  are you alright?” her small hand reaches over to take one of his and he lets her, his thumb brushing briefly over the back of her hand.

“i have…survived worse.” he doesn’t say anything else.  his stomach is still in an uncomfortable knot, his throat still somewhat tight and his mouth dry, but from fear this time, not lust.  she simply nods, then moves so that she is holding his hand in both of hers, arms wrapped around his left arm, leaning her body against his.  it does more to ground him than anything else in the world ever could.  it’s then that it hits him — touch-adverse as he is, he never wants to be without hers.  

they stay that way for a moment, watching the night sky begin to pinken with dawn’s first rays.  it’s been a long night, for all of them.  but it isn’t over yet.

soft light filters through the window, illuminating her in the faint glow of dawn.  she is BEAUTIFUL, curled up in his arms, her small hand splayed on his bare chest.  it’s RARE that they get these QUIET mornings -- ones where nightmares do not force one of them into waking before the sun.  rare that their sleep be so undisturbed.  he studies her, honey-brown gaze drinking in the sight of her.  she’s so SOFT, compared to him -- her round face, gently sloping nose, and plush body a stark contrast to all of the hard, jutting angles that make up every part of his body and soul.  

it never fails to strike a blow to his chest that steals his breath every time he thinks about just how BEAUTIFUL she is.  he swallows the lump in his throat, and instead focuses on tracing gentle pathways on her bare skin with his calloused fingers, his touch LINGERING on the two dimples at the base of her spine; the wide flare of her hips; the freckles all over her back and sides, that he knows are there from sheer MEMORY, hidden as they are by the sheets.  here, she is not the inquisitor and he is not the commander of the inquisition.

he doesn’t remember his fingers ever being so thin.  perhaps they always have been, but he’s just been BLINDED -- blinded by his desire to do what’s RIGHT, even if he knows it’s wrong, blinded by SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS, by PREJUDICE and PERFECT LIES, whispered into his ears to keep him from SEEING. but he sees them NOW, colorless and pale as a corpse, with cracked cuticles and beginning to turn blue from cold and lack of circulation, the fingers of an addict.  of a slave.  he yanks his gloves on, and they’re back to being the hands of a soldier. of a commander.  but only he knows the TRUTH beneath the supple leather.  only he can see the way his hand trembles when he holds his sword, the way his grip is TOO tight. he’s ALWAYS been a soldier, been a FIGHTER.  he doesn’t know how to be ANYTHING else.

he can’t stop the THIRST.  he wants to, MAKER, but does he want to.  all it would take is one taste, just a small taste.  it SINGS to him, calls to him, even through the thick oaken cabinet he’s locked it in.  he grips is forearms until his nails dig into his flesh, but he doesn’t FEEL it.  all he can FEEL is the thirst and all he can HEAR is the song.  his fingers press in deeper until he’s drawn blood but he doesn’t notice.  just a drop.  just one swallow.  he collapses off of the bed onto the wooden floor, sweat sticking to his skin despite the cold air wafting in from the hole in his roof as he SOBS.   this is no less than he DESERVES.  

the small shrine they’ve built to andraste is modest, and absolutely FREEZING, but he goes there the next morning despite the pounding in his head, a small cutting of Andraste’s Grace clutched in his TREMBLING hands.  he lays it at her feet and kneels in the privacy of the small chamber after closing the door behind himself, encasing himself in cool darkness punctuated softly by the flickering of candles that have all but burnt out.  

‘please,’ is all he says, voice cracking on the word, and he sits there in silence for an Age, before the door creaks open behind him and another joins his silent vigil.  

“You’re going down, then? With the troops?”

Thrawn narrowed his glowing eyes at the woman as he slid the white armour over his tunic, gloved fingers locking the pieces closed. He mentally gave her some credit for not flinching at the intensity of his gaze, but he didn’t falter in his cold scrutiny.

"I command these warriors,” he replied coolly, holstering his charric. “Part of my duty is to share in their danger.”

Governor Pryce didn’t hear the nostalgia in his voice. If she did, she didn’t recognise it. Thrawn wouldn’t have cared if she did. It wasn’t hers to know, and was from a time that the Empire had no part of.

“I should accompany you, Admiral,” she said. “You know I have experience in ground based combat.”

Thrawn’s eyes narrowed considerably. Her stance was adamant, muscles tight beneath her tunic, her throat constricted, and there was a definite intensifying of the heat in her chest. He didn’t like it. 

“I know, Governor Pryce, and that is why you are staying here.”