#post-game

Robert’s stomach dropped, the old familiar swoop and plummet that was part and parcel for piloting a big fucking mech with rockets attached to its back and feet. A sensation that nevertheless took some getting used to after all that time spent behind a desk, but one he wasn’t about to let slow him down.

Not now. Not after the screech and scream of feedback over his comms, coming a little too close on the heels of that last set of orders from Dispatch, fading down to panicked murmurs as the team tried to piece together the problem.

“Who’s available?” Robert barked over the line, quieting the chatter further. “Deacon? Who do we have?”

Deacon, one of the replacement dispatchers hired on after the destruction wrought by Red Ring the month prior, stammered, his voice dropping before abruptly coming back. Dropped headset? Dropped headset. Robert clenched his jaw against another snap and gave a little more juice to the thrusters.

“U-um, we should have… I mean, Phenomaman should be on his way back with —“

“No time for that,” Robert cut in. “Tell him to rendezvous at Flambae’s last known location.”

“I’m coming too! Fuck this shit.” Prism, with a chorus of agreeing murmurs.

“Negative,” Robert replied. “Stay on assignment.”

“This dipshit sent my boy to fight a rock monster!”

“It was covered in ice! I thought —“

“Well you thought fucking wrong, didn’t you!”

“Enough. Alice, stay on assignment. Deacon, I’m borrowing Phenomaman —“

“—Almost there!”

“—and…fuck, Golem, you available?”

“I am now. En route.”

“Good. Help Phenomaman the second you’re on scene. Phenomaman? Distract that fucking thing while I get Flambae out of there.”

“Affirmative, Robert Robertson.”

A flash of light cut across Robert’s field of vision and he felt some of the tension bleed out of his muscles. Thank fuck for fast response times. Golem would still be a while, but at least Phenomaman could hold his own until then.

The establishment was already fancy—as to be expected when Lucanis had free rein to choose where they stayed after a job—all plush carpets and decorative sculpture and fancy frescoes, and Saadrah supposed in her cold-addled state that the only reason she didn’t draw more stares and judgmental looks was entirely because her companion was very obviously a Crow. No one wanted to end up on the wrong end of a dagger. Saadrah wasn’t going to complain.

Besides, she was too busy shivering inside her own skin, trying not to hiss at the ache of blood flash-frozen—however temporarily—in her veins. A lucky shot, from a more-creative-than-usual Venatori. Unfortunately for him, Saadrah wasn’t alone, and while Neve had seen to cutting the worst threads of blood magic on Saadrah, the Venatori had fallen to the combined wrath of Lucanis and Spite before he could even start his next spell.

It had been Neve who’d suggested the inn in Hightown when Lucanis pressed her for suggestions.

And as Saadrah sank into the heap of cushions—what passed for comfortable seating arrangements in Minrathous—in front of the already blazing fireplace, she wasn’t about to complain, even if she knew that such a suite had cost Lucanis several andris.

Instead, she winced as everything burned. Frostbite, she’d been warned by Harding more than once when traveling through cold areas, something Saadrah had never had opportunity to encounter before joining up with Varric on his hunt for Solas, but with which Harding was well familiar from living in Ferelden. Only frostbite didn’t usually happen all over, on the inside.

Saadrah really hated the Venatori.

At least Neve had been quick with the dispelling, and had helped Saadrah drink one of the potions still in her pouch when Saadrah’s frozen fingers had refused to work properly.

They were slowly regaining feeling now—painful, prickly feeling—in front of the fireplace. Saadrah flexed them experimentally, bit her tongue on an oath when a sharp pain lanced through her dominant hand, and tucked them between her thighs. The shivers eased as warmth sank into her bones once more. She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

Behind her, Lucanis murmured something soft at the door, and it clicked shut. His quiet footfalls crossed the room, barely audible, and then something that sounded like ceramics clinked together. Leather creaked. Cloth shuffled against cloth. More soft clinking. The fire crackled. Saadrah’s breaths grew steadier.

“Here, drink,” Lucanis’s voice said near her elbow, and the aroma of peppermint hit her senses. She cracked one eye open to find him crouched beside her, his armor shed and his shirtsleeves rolled up, a fine porcelain teacup and saucer balanced in one hand, concern heavy in his warm brown eyes. The tired circles had faded since he’d started sleeping better, but they’d left a mark Saadrah wasn’t sure would disappear anytime soon, and only served to accentuate his worried look.

She drank the tea without question—he’d gotten surprisingly good at preparing it, for someone who still wrinkled his nose in disgust—letting the warmth settle into her stomach, and only protested a little when he started to remove her armor. “It’s cold,” she whined.

“You’ll be warmer soon enough,” he replied, patient and firm, and set her coat aside. She shivered in her sleeveless vest while he cleaned vitaar from her skin, and tried to dig deeper into the cushions the moment he finished, smiling when it drew a pleasant laugh out of him.

Then a thick blanket settled around her quivering shoulders, placed by his strong hands, and she sighed in contentment while he took her empty cup away. She was half asleep when he returned, but she roused long enough to let him join her under the blanket and curl around her, as much as he could manage at least with her long limbs and her horns, and she leaned into his warm chest and breathed in the smells of sweat and blade oil and leather on him.

Venatori were the worst, but this was pretty nice.