Chapter Text
(or, a chance meeting at camp where Cullen gets an unintended eyeful)
They reach camp, and her back smarts like all hell, enough to make her stagger the last few steps into the tent. The Hinterlands are bigger than she’d ever imagined, and it’s been long hours trekking across uneven terrain and uprooting what feels like half the herbs in Ferelden before they finally reach the camp at the outskirts. A Circle mage most of her life, she’s a scholar more than an adventurer, but she’s embraced her new role with gusto and won’t complain just because the entire sole of her foot is a blister and she’s got pine sap stuck in her hair.
Bull makes a passing comment – something about taking harder hits while sparring, but Bree can feel the tugging sensation of cloth-stuck-to-skin and doesn’t make a comment, for fear she might actually scream something. Swearing softly between steps, the bunk is a sorely welcome sight, and with the tent-flap secure and blessed privacy at hand, sets about trying to get her robe off.
Wolves, Maker take them. Massive beasts, and one moment of inattention had seen one sink its claws into her shoulder-blade.
“Blast this never-ending wilderness.” The mutter turns to a hiss as hesitant fingers skim the edges of her shoulder, finding the tear in the cloth and the wound that sits beneath. The poultice had done little but stem the flow of blood, and her whole shoulder stings like a bast–
“Hoookay,” she breathes, before she gives another tug, and the cloth comes away with an oath. The tattered vest follows, as does the shirt, both discarded in a heap on the ground. The tent is chilly, and the water that’s been provided colder still.
“Half-naked in the wilderness. What a treat.” The cloth turns red as she presses it to the wound, and she wonders idly if she might need stitches. “Someone better have a clean shirt.” Figures she’s travelling with Bull and Varric, who couldn’t procure a decent shirt between them if their lives depended on it. She doesn’t need full modesty, but she’d like to make the journey back to Haven mostly covered. The local Chantry sisters throw her enough sidelong glances as it is.
“–this tent?” she hears then, the voice muffled. Then the tent-flap stirs, and she’s barely had the chance to recognize the identity of the speaker before light spills across the bunk.
She may have yelled – or he may have, she’s not entirely certain, but someone’s yelling – and she’s quick to throw an arm over her chest, although who’s the quicker is debatable, as the Commander is already getting himself tangled in the tent in his effort to get back out. A scuffle ensues, before the flap falls back and she’s left in the dark.
“I– I apologize! Varric said–” There’s an interruption, and then Varric’s voice, professing his innocence,
“I said she was in there, I said nothing about whether or not she’d be decent.”
Cullen makes an incredulous noise, and Bree wants to dive behind the bunk, though there’s no one to see her now. There’s been – something between them, in smiles exchanged across the War Table, and conversations while watching the recruits train, hands brushing gently, eyes averted. She can’t put it into words yet, but her lion is a rabbit, fast in flight if she doesn’t play her cards right, and he just might flee, right now, and she–
She’s without a shirt, and sense, it would seem, and before she can stop herself,
“Commander!” she calls, and nearly slaps herself because that hadn’t been her intention. Thinking on her feet is not a strong suit, and she might as well have put her entire foot in her mouth.
There’s a pause, and a shuffle of feet. She thinks she can hear Bull laughing across the camp. Then, “Yes?” followed by a familiar cough.
Bree nearly smiles. The question is on the tip of her tongue, and she allows it a moment to simmer before she asks, “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare shirt on you?”
Silence greets her question. Then there’s a noise and – and she quite wishes she could see his expression, to be honest – before the tent-flap is drawn open, but with a care this time, before a piece of cloth lands on the ground by the bunk. The whole exchange is made in silence, but when she reaches for it, the cloth is warm to the touch.
The wound still stings, but the shirt is a small pleasure and she tries not to think about the sap in her hair as she tugs it over her head. Small joys, she reminds herself, and the thought is laden. This side of the Frostbacks there’s blessed few to find.
.
.
.
“Not a word,” Cullen warns, pulling at the straps of his breastplate. The metal is cold against bare skin, but he’s known worse pains and he’ll find a new shirt before making for Haven. The climate of the Hinterlands is bearable; the Frostbacks will be less kind.
The dwarf merely smiles, and Cullen has the distinct feeling word will precede him on his arrival. If Josephine doesn’t know by midday, the Nightingale surely will. It’s a lesson well learned – ask before entering, and take anything Varric says with a grain of salt. It’s arguable that he should have already learned the latter; the dwarf is honest enough about the questionable nature of his own habits.
The tent stirs then, and the Herald exists, fastening the shirt-strings of the over-large piece of cloth and steadily avoiding his eyes. Her movements are stiff, and he spots a bandage peeking out from beneath the wide collar. He’d only caught sight of the wound, and…other things, and the question about her health fails him when she finally raises her gaze.
“Commander,” she greets. A laden pause, then in a hardened tone, “Varric.”
Cullen clears his throat, and finds he has too many hands and not enough places to put them. Varric appears to have no intention of leaving, and the whole thing’s appropriately awkward.
"Shoulder okay?" the dwarf finally asks, and Trevelyan grimaces.
"I’m off to hunt down a potion, but it’s stopped bleeding, so I guess that’s something." She rolls the shoulder experimentally, and flinches. "Damn."
”I could–” Cullen starts, but he’s already stopped himself, not entirely sure what services he’s about to offer.
She meets his eyes, then, and he notes the slight flush to her cheeks. An image leaps towards him, a wide expanse of freckled skin, and Cullen instinctively drops his gaze.
“Thank you,” she says, and he starts, and then – and then he promptly forgets about the dwarf. There’s tree sap in her hair and her eyes speak of an exhaustion she’s not willing to show, but she’s smiling and Cullen can’t find his words.
“For the shirt,” she adds, smile widening to a grin that disappears as she turns smoothly on her heel, and she’s off across the camp. The requisitions officer hails her down before she’s made it past the tents, and she’s whisked away for a report.
Cullen lingers, shirtless for all intents and purposes, and he can already see the wheels turning in Varric’s mind.
"No."
"Already got the first chapter written, Curly."