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Celene is alive, the ridiculousness at Halamshiral is over, and Mira Lavellan has demanded her travelling party stop in a shitty tavern for the night. Cullen watches her from the bar. She’s loud and expressive and takes up the entire center of the room, telling some story to the Orlesians that had formed a crowd around her. It’s a run-down tavern with barely enough rooms for half of them - these aren’t rich folk. Farmers, fishermen, simple merchants. She’s speaking Orlesian, of all things, so he can’t understand a word of it, but she looks happy. He can’t tell if she’s slurring or if that’s just how it’s supposed to sound.
He doesn’t notice Blackwall sit next to him, or hear him order two more tankards of beer for the two of them. When the drinks are served, Blackwall swivels his barstool to face her like Cullen had. “She’s making something up about dragons, if you were curious.”
Cullen snorts a laugh. “I was, thank you.”
They watch her move about the room, inspiring awe and laughter from the other patrons of the bar. At some point, she throws her head back in what Cullen assumes is supposed to be a mighty dragon roar, and The Iron Bull claps a hand on her shoulder and interrupts her, really roaring like a dragon. The two of them burst into laughter at the bewildered faces of the Orlesians around them.
Maker’s breath, he is in love with this woman. It’s something he thinks often, whenever that shit-eating grin is directed at him or whenever she rides back into Skyhold like some fairytale hero. He thinks of it when she sleeps next to him, while he’s too wracked with fear or pain from the loss of lyrium to sleep so he just listens to her breathe next to him. He thinks of it when she carries Rose into his office with a welcome distraction from his endless work.
He sighs wistfully into his tankard as he takes a long drink, watching her banter with one of the men in the crowd. Then, his brows furrow as he realizes she isn’t bantering, she’s arguing. Her arms flail wildly as her pitch increases, and she straightens her back to try and bow up to the man. It’s pointless, she’s nearly two heads shorter than him.
Blackwall puts an arm out to stop Cullen from leaving his seat when the man swings at Mira. His first instinct is to protect, not only as Mira’s partner, but as Commander of the Inquisition. That is also pointless, as she forgoes any shred of diplomacy still available to her and slugs him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him.
“You’ll only get in her way.” Blackwall downs the rest of his beer while the crowd gets denser around Mira. All Cullen can hear over the commotion is her laughter, booming and echoing off the walls of the bar. He can’t see the brawl, and it worries him. If it weren’t for Blackwall keeping him in his seat, it would be a simple task to part the crowd and get to her.
Moments pass before Bull hoists her onto his shoulders, fists in the air like he’s announcing her victory. Upon further inspection, he was. The offending drunkard was out cold on the floor, drooling a puddle into the wood. A small trickle of blood was making its way from Mira’s nose, but it was nothing compared to the states Cullen had seen her in the past. Mira notices his eyes on her and grins, a thumbs up and a wink sent his way before she continues her story from Bull’s shoulders.
“I am in love with that woman.”
Beside him, Blackwall laughs and hands him a new tankard.