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Her bones ache.
A stupid thing—no heroic battle, no deserving adversary. Bandits. Bloody bandits had beaten her so black and blue. No one told her, when she set out to save the world, that it would be such a thankless task—not at all like the stories. When she finally closes the door to her quarters, she lists back against it with a groan.
There's a chuckle from upstairs.
She brightens immediately. Her fingers work to loosen her belt as she climbs—a little more slowly than usual, perhaps, but still with determination. She'd forgotten that she and Bull have plans tonight.
It isn't often that she leaves Skyhold without him. He's been her constant companion on the battlefield for a long time—almost since the very beginning of this mess. But business with the Chargers left him elsewhere when she last set off a fortnight ago, and she hasn't seen him since.
Her guts—traitors that they are—wriggle with pleasure to see him. She takes stock from the top of the stairs, belt dangling from her fingers: his harness already off, the slightest of smiles curving his mouth, his hand—
His hand laying casually at the edge of an enormous, steaming bath.
"Where did that come from?" she asks, dropping the belt.
He smirks at her now. "Josephine."
"She shouldn't have gone to the trouble," she begins, but takes an automatic step toward the bath, anyway.
"I helped. Heard you had company on the road home."
It's stupid, the way her heart flutters when he says home. Like Skyhold is home. Like it's her home, and his, at the same time. She doesn't remember having a home—not really. Just a tower. Friends, yes, but walls, too.
"I'd rather not think about it," she mutters, shucking off her overcoat. He crosses the room to help.
It smells like roses, she realizes, and peers around him to see the bath. The surface of the water is scattered with flower petals; steam rises into the chill mountain air. Her muscles are already beginning to melt.
"Roses?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow up at him.
Her teasing doesn’t embarrass him in the slightest. "Cassandra gave me the idea."
She snorts. She remembers that overheard conversation, so many months ago in the freezing rain of the Storm Coast. That he remembered her fervent agreement is...well. Ben-Hassrath, she tells herself. That's all.
She doesn’t think about Bull, standing in her quarters, plucking petals from roses. She doesn’t.
He hooks a finger into the collar of her shirt, slipping the first clasp apart.
"Wait," she says.
He pauses, his eye meeting hers. The undivided attention, as always, makes her chest a little tight. She's not used to anyone looking at her for a good reason—still. No matter that they've been doing this for weeks—months? She can't quite remember.
"The bath is nice, and all, but we had plans," she continues.
"Plans change." His voice has gone gentle, softer, the one he uses when it's just them. "You're tired. That wound in your ribs is bothering you. Your muscles hurt from the ride. Our original plans are not what you need."
She wants to protest, but he flicks apart the next clasp and the words die in her throat. She's already aching; she can't imagine kneeling, not even on a pillow, and having her hands tied? Out of the question, while the scarred flesh on her ribs itches away.
"You don't have to stay," she offers. She's disappointed, yes, but she can accept logic when he lays it out for her.
He pauses again. "Do you want me to go?"
"No!" The word tears, too harsh, in her throat. She scrubs her hands over her face, frustrated. "I only meant—"
He cups her cheek in one enormous hand—asking her to look at him. She does.
"I am exactly where I want to be," he tells her.
She swallows. "Of course."
He returns to the task of undressing her, and she lets him, sighing with relief when her shirt stops scratching away at her healing flesh. He narrows his eye at the wound.
"It wasn't serious," she says, lifting a hand to touch his chest. She thinks she knows him well enough, by now, to know that he was worried. She does not think about him, standing in her quarters, plucking petals from roses, worrying. "They just caught us by surprise."
He bends and scoops her up in his arms. She squeaks, holding on to his neck for dear life.
"That isn't hard to do," he points out—smugly, the bastard.
"If it’s just me, yes, but try taking Cassandra by surprise," she argues. "She'd have to be reading, and I can assure you, she wasn't reading."
She gets a laugh for her trouble. He takes two steps and lowers her into the bath. Hot water envelopes her, going to work on her pained muscles, and she sinks against the edge with a blissful exhale.
"Bull," she says, "you're the best."
I love you is what she means, and she knows it. Maybe he knows it, too. Maybe they don't need to ever say it.
Maybe that's a lie, but one she can go along with a little while longer.
He pulls the tie from her hair, unwinding the bun with care. “I know,” he says—not quite smug anymore.