Work Text:
1.
The first time they speak properly, it's a mess. Nuances of polite conversation have never been Adaar's forte, and so being dragged into the middle of a property dispute with an unfamiliar Marquis and her distractingly gorgeous ambassador was much like being thrown into a pit of live wyverns. She would have preferred the wyverns.
There is something about Cassandra and a duel and Nevarrans and honour, and the Marquis backs off with what could be a look of horror under that stupid mask of his, but Adaar is too busy trying to pay attention to the conversation to care. Josephine pauses, quill raised, a sly smirk on her face as she retreats to her desk that really shouldn't be as attractive as it is and Andraste's flaming ass Adaar is done for.
“So I have no idea what just happened,” Adaar says, hoping against hope that her ignorance is in some way charming and not completely barbaric.
Josephine laughs, and Adaar's heart feels like it's going to burst out of her chest at the sound. “Just a minor property dispute, I assure you. The Marquis has no direct claim to Haven, and I'm sure the prospect of duelling Cassandra is ample incentive against pursuing that line of inquiry any further.”
“You're kind of terrifying, Josephine,” Adaar says as she walks out the door. It is only later, as she is bedding down for the night in a too-small tent on their way to Maker-knows-where, that she realises what she said could be taken as an insult.
“Idiot.”
2.
Adaar sighs, staring at the sparse collection of clothes laid out on her bed. She should never have agreed to this meeting. Josephine handles foreign dignitaries all the time on her behalf, why change that now? But this was important, and her presence would be a real benefit, and it would be a considered a personal favour, Inquisitor.
If Adaar's feelings for her ambassador would just vanish into the next rift she closes, she would consider that a personal favour. She groans, running her hands through her braids in an effort to make them look a little less like she'd been meaning to wash her hair for the past three days. Maybe she should style it differently? Would there be time for that? Was there any point? She was a qunari among a bunch of humans as is, and no matter what she did or how she dressed, she would always be an ugly, towering, bumbling ox-woman, and nothing would ever-
“Inquisitor?”
Adaar bit back a yelp, wrenching her thoughts away from that familiar spiral of self-recrimination. Sighing, she looks over to where Josephine's head is just visible above the stairs to her quarters. “Come in,” she says, flopping down on the couch. As always, the piece of furniture feels just slightly too small, a constant reminder of her size, that she didn't belong here, that she shouldn't be leading this extraordinary group of people. Then Josephine's hand is on her shoulder, just a light touch, barely there, but enough to bring her out of her thoughts. Adaar feels her face grow warm, and she turns away, hoping Josephine doesn't notice her blush.
“Inquisitor, is something the matter? I expected you in my office some time ago, and thought I'd come and check on you,” the ambassador says softly, rubbing small circles on her shoulder.
Adaar smiles ruefully, gesturing to the array of clothes thrown on her bed. “I can't decide what to wear. Nothing seems right.”
Josephine smiles, and it is a real smile, the one she reserves for Leliana when they're chatting over tea, only this time it's directed at Adaar and she can't help but think her heart skips a beat.
“That, my dear Inquisitor, is something I can help with.”
Once she is dressed, she sweeps through the hall, head held high, conscious of her horns and her height and her grey skin, but for once not overly self-conscious, and she can't help but feel just a little bit beautiful.
3.
“Doooooriaaaaan,” Adaar calls, stumbling up the stairs to the library. It wasn't that late, surely he'd still be here. The man practically lives in the library after all, and despite appearances was a complete workaholic. Squinting into the darkness, she gropes her way towards the one island of light still flickering in her favourite mage's usual haunt.
Flopping down at the foot of his chair, she sighs, flinging her hands up in despair. “I just can't do it! I can't! I'm hopeless, useless, and no matter what I try or what I tell myself it doesn't make a difference. I just can't spit it out.”
“Is this about our lovely ambassador?” the mage drawls, one hand dropping to her head to fiddle with her braids, teasing them into disarray. “Because you already know my opinion on the whole affair.”
“You don't understand,” Adaar cries, “you're witty and charming and stupidly handsome and I'm- I'm-”
At this Dorian sighs, sliding off his chair to crouch on the ground next to her, one hand on her cheek and the other still tangled in her hair. “An intelligent, loyal, terrifyingly competent warrior who could crush half of Thedas under your heel if you so chose?” Adaar let out a wet, sad snort at this, rubbing at her treacherous eyes that refused to stay dry. “Look, I'm not good at this whole comforting thing, but I do know this; whatever you might think about yourself, you deserve to be happy, my friend. And if Josephine makes you happy, by all means pursue that.”
“I just- Whenever I try to flirt or anything like that, I get so tongue tied and embarrassed, and I don't know what to do about it,” Adaar exclaims, hands waving. “Besides which, she's so cultured and elegant and beautiful and I'm so- so-” at this she gestures to herself, sighing, before flinging a hand in the air. “What am I going to do, Dorian?”
The mage smiles, clapping a hand on Adaar's shoulder. “I think this is a problem that requires alcohol, my dear Herald.”
So they stand, weaving their way through the shelves to the staircase leading down, the promise of drowning her sorrows all the motivation Adaar needs to get moving.
From the rafters, a nightingale watches.
4.
“I've noticed you spending a lot of time with Josephine,” Leliana says as she ties a message to the leg of a bird, and Adaar's stomach churns at her carefully casual tone. She knows they're close, knows Leliana would probably kill her in an instant if it meant keeping Josephine safe, knows that if Leliana disapproves of Adaar trying to court her she has no chance in all of Thedas.
“I enjoy her company,” she replies slowly, trying to keep her voice from betraying her fear. If she's perfectly honest, the spymaster still scares her just a little bit. There's something about the fact that the redhead is perfectly ruthless in her job that is, quite frankly, unnerving.
Leliana laughs, then, a short stilted thing that seems to take them both by surprise. The bird takes flight in a rush of wind, and a feather drifts slowly to the ground. With a slight smile, Leliana stoops to pick it up, twirling it between nimble fingers as she turns to face Adaar.
“Listen, Inquisitor. While your fumbling attemps at courtship may have been humorous to watch at first, now it is just painful. I would consider it a personal favour to both myself and Josephine if you would just tell her how you feel already.” She pauses then, turning to gaze out the window, Adaar staring at her with an expression reminiscent of a gaping fish. The qunari's heart is beating a tattoo against her ribs, scarcely believing what she's hearing.
“I don't even know if she's interested,” she stammers, and Leliana chuckles.
“Believe me, Inquisitor, I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think you had a chance.” The spymaster turns to face her, smile in place but expression unreadable, and Adaar gulps. “I want Josephine to be happy, and I think you would be good to her. However, despite her experiences in court and with the Game, Josie is an innocent in love, and I urge you to be careful.”
Adaar nods, backing away from the spymaster and turning towards the stairs.
“Inquisitor?” Leliana calls, and Adaar turns, pausing. “I love my friends dearly, and while I don't think you would ever do it on purpose, if you hurt Josie in any way, just remember that I have agents all across Thedas.”
Adaar couldn't leave fast enough, practically hurtling down the stairs, nearly bowling Dorian over in her need to retreat to her quarters.
Heart still racing from Leliana's friendly chat, she winds her way down to the library and through the great hall, scaling the tower to her quarters. She flops down on the sofa with a huff, ignoring the creak of protest the furniture gives. Her head is pounding, and her heart feels like it's going to burst from the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside. All she wants to do at this point is collapse on her bed and sleep for the next week, but everything is clouded and stuffed full and bursting at the seams and the next thing she knows she is at the balcony rail, letting loose her frustration and anger into the bitter mountain air.
Throat sore and shaking from the cold, Adaar slinks back into her room, gravity reasserting itself as she takes a seat on the sofa once more. Just as she reaches for a book – Maker knows she needs a distraction – the door creaks open, and she peers curiously into the stairwell.
Josephine is climbing the stairs, hands twisting together as she makes her anxious way into the Inquisitor's quarters. Adaar smiles, placing the book back down. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Montilyet?” she asks, grin creeping wider as the other woman sees her sitting there, a smile blooming in return.
“Inquisitor Adaar, I-,” she pauses, searching for words, and Adaar pats the seat next to her. Josephine shakes her head, wringing her hands again, nose scrunched up like she couldn't believe that she of all people was at a loss for what to say. “I heard of your conversation with Leliana,” she says slowly, “and I want to apologise. She had no right to talk to you that way, nor entangle herself in your- my- our personal affairs.”
“It's quite alright, Josephine,” Adaar smiles, reaching out to still her hands. “I understand wanting the best for a close friend.”
“Yes, but she clearly has no idea of the situation! I am quite capable of understanding our association, and I never thought your intentions overly romantic, Inquisitor, I assure you,” Josephine exclaims, frustration adding a sharp edge to her usually soft voice.
Adaar freezes, then, heart racing, looking up at the vision of grace and beauty before her, and in that moment knows she will never be enough for the amazing woman. Josephine deserves so much better than a Tal-Vashoth ex-mercenary, and despite all her efforts to steel her heart, Adaar's eyes itch and burn with unshed tears.
“Oh,” she says flatly, stomach churning, wishing a rift would open and swallow her up. A tear slides down her cheek, and she makes no move to wipe it away. She can't look at Josephine, can't know what she's thinking, can't face that shame.
“Adaar?” She feels a hand on her shoulder, then on her cheek, wiping away the tears that fall, then another taking her hand, stroking gentle circles on her palm. “Herah?”
Adaar feels the sofa dip beside her, a weight settling, and then the hand on her cheek – Josephine's hand – is guiding her face up, and she can't open her eyes, can't face whatever kind-hearted rejection she knows is coming.
Then she feels lips on her own, chaste, soft, and the sweetest thing she has ever known, and her eyes fly open in disbelief. Josephine is kissing her. Kissing her. Kissing her. And she is smiling so softly and tenderly and Adaar can't quite believe her eyes.
“I do believe I will have to thank Leliana after all,” Josephine murmurs, before kissing her again.
5.
Halamshiral is a nightmare. The politicking, the backstabbing, the masks both figurative and literal. Nothing can prepare her for this. Adaar is drowning, and the Orlesians are happily keeping her under the waves, one hand extended as if to help her out.
Josephine is so at ease, mingling and laughing and twisting words in knots that Adaar hasn't the faintest hope of understanding. She admires her for that, for her intelligence in conversation and the ease with which she flows through the crowd, seeming to know exactly what to say and when to say it. Adaar manages not to mortally offend anyone, and considers that a grand success.
Josephine and Leliana have done their level best to prepare her for this night, but there is only so much even they can do. Adaar can feel their gazes from the edges of the sweeping room, heavy with expectations and trepidation, waiting for the inevitable moment when she will trip and fall and everything will shatter to pieces.
But the moment doesn't come. She is constantly on the edge, stumbling over words and titles and forms of address, how low to bow and the correct way to greet this particular noble, but she manages. Adaar catches Josephine's eye from across the room, quirks an eyebrow at the chatty young lady who seems to have latched on to her poor ambassador (lover, partner) and receives a charming smile in return.
Adaar's heart clenches as the young woman takes Josephine by the arm, leading her to a spot away from the press of the crowd, leaning into her in a way that seems far too familiar. They must know each other then. A friend, a former lover maybe? Things between them are still so new, so tentative, surely Josephine will see that Adaar could never be the sophisticated courtier she must surely want-
Then Josephine catches her eye, and Adaar makes her slow way through the crowd to where the pair are standing, and the young lady is Josie's sister, sister, and her heart slows and she takes a deep breath, and she hates herself just that bit more for ever doubting Josephine in the first place.
+1.
The cool breeze on her face is bliss after the heated battle against Florianne, and while the party seems to be in full swing behind her, Adaar cannot bring herself to go back inside. She is exhausted, in body and in mind, and the balcony is an island of solitude that she has sorely needed all night. She sighs, propping a hand under her chin as she gazes into the distance, not even noticing the sound of soft footsteps behind her.
“Are you alright?” Josephine asks, one hand coming to rest on Adaar's where it lies on the railing. “You look troubled.”
“Just a bit worn out,” Adaar smirks, “uncovering conspiracies and overthrowing empresses can really take it out of a girl.”
Josephine giggles, “I can imagine so. Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”
She's fiddling with her hands in a way that Adaar has come to recognise as anxiousness, and it hits her all of a sudden; for all that Adaar has no idea how to move in political circles and play the Game, Josephine hasn't the first clue of what Adaar might need after a battle.
A smile slips on to her face, genuine and charming and just a little bit roguish, and Josephine's cheeks darken. “Would my lady care for a dance?” Adaar asks with a flourish, buoyed by a sudden surge of confidence.
“I would love to,” Josephine says, taking her hand. As she draws the other woman close, moving slowly to the music with grace drawn from a lifetime of battle, Adaar can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, she might deserve this incredible woman after all.