Work Text:
Short piece inspired by RabidTanuki's rare ships collection.
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Cold. Too cold. Skyhold was always too cold and Imogen was rather tired of being cold. Sometimes she could remember what being warm was like: going outdoors without being wrapped head to toe in wool, lying naked in the sun, swimming in the nearby river. And the snow! At first it was pretty, the world covered in a soft, white blanket, but now she’s so sick of it.
A twinge of homesickness bubbled in the pit of her stomach: a longing for the harbor, the smell of salt in the air, waves lapping against the docks. She sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly, re-burying that bubble of homesickness in the back of her mind where it belonged. Dwelling on things she missed and could never go back to only made her feel worse.
Besides, Skyhold had Cullen.
He was the only thing that made this frigid hole in the mountains bearable. She pushed the needle up through the skirt of the Inquisitor’s dress. Cullen would often tease her that she only loved him for the warmth of his body. Of course that wasn’t true! She’d always reassure him--the sex was fantastic as well. By this point she was thoroughly distracted with visions of Cullen naked in bed and ended up pushing the needle into her finger, sending prickles of pain and gooseflesh throughout her body.
“Fuck!” She stuck her finger into her mouth hoping she hadn’t bled all over the fabric.
The Ball at the Winter Palace was only six weeks away and she couldn’t afford to destroy the Inquisitor’s ball gown. The ball gown she fought so hard for the Inquisitor to be able to wear--instead the Inquisition uniform like everyone else. The ball gown she’d spent months designing, gathering materials and taking measurements for, and finally putting together. She couldn’t fuck this up all because she was distracted.
Imogen frantically checked every inch of the fabric spread across her lap. No spots of blood anywhere--she sighed with relief.
Okay, no more getting distracted.
She adjusted her cloak, hoping to get a bit more warmth out of it, found a more comfortable sitting position on her sewing table, flexed her stiffened hand, and threaded black, shimmering thread into the eye of her needle. Only the flowers remained.
The Inquisitor’s ball gown, the Inquisition’s formal uniforms had to be perfect. They’d better be after Imogen flat out refused to create the red velvet monstrosities wrapped in blue satin sashes Josephine had drawn up by a seamstress in Val Royeaux (she still wondered if Josephine was drunk when she approved those designs).
Imogen kept the original design of the uniforms--though the women’s were more figure flattering--but the fabrics and color palette were vastly different. They were now a dark charcoal grey, wrapped in a red sash, adorned with silver buttons and embroidery, and made from the finest Nevarran wool (velvet should only ever be used for upholstery or drapes).
Josephine and Leliana protested against the Inquisitor showing up at the ball in anything other than the Inquisition uniform. They had to be a cohesive unit that displayed the Inquisition as a force of power. But Imogen saw the small sparkle in the Inquisitor’s eyes when Imogen revealed the sketch of the ball gown. Thankfully Vivienne interceded, agreeing that the Inquisitor should absolutely wear a gown to the ball. Apparently, having the Inquisitor in a ball gown would somehow give them an edge in The Game.
Imogen just wanted the Inquisitor in a pretty dress.
Now, she was so close to being done--only a few more dark flowers on the skirt. So close she was willing to tolerate the numbing cold, being tired, and being very hungry.
Hungry … Imogen stopped mid-stitch. Oh no! She completely forgot about her dinner plans with Cullen. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She got busy and completely forgot. He might not understand, or like, the importance of what the Inquisition is wearing to the Winter Palace, but he had to understand that it was important to her, right?
“And here people complain about my late work schedule.”
She looked over her shoulder, her stomach fluttered at the sight of him: leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, mouth turned up into a half smirk. She gave him her best flirtatious smile.
“Yes, well, the work of a seamstress is never done. The Inquisition can’t save the world from ancient darkspawn magisters while looking shabby. I simply won’t have it.” She said with an over-dramatic flair.
Cullen chuckled. He crossed the room, standing behind her and slipping his arms around her waist.
“What are you working on?” His breath against her neck sent shivers down the length of her spine.
“The Inquisitor’s ball gown.” Imogen leaned into him, savoring the warmth of his body against her cold one. She’s thankful he left his cold, hard armor back in his room. With him pressed so warmly against her, her determination to finish said gown was waning.
Cullen groaned like he did every time the subject of the ball came up--always to her amusement.
For several long minutes he watched her work from over her shoulder. It used to bother her when he watched her sew--afraid he was mocking her mundane skill. As it turned out, he was actually interested in what she did. He’d ask questions when she’d switch needle sizes, or embroidery stitches, and he was very interested in how she created animals and flowers that looked so lifelike. He even compared watching her embroider to watching an artist paint.
Cullen pressed his lips against her neck, drawing a hum of pleasure from her.
“I missed you at dinner.” He said quietly with his lips still against her skin.
Imogen stopped mid-stitch and sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned her head against his. “I lost track of time. With the Ball so close, I need to finish up the Inquisitor’s dress, make final alterations on Vivienne’s uniform, and finish up designs for Lady what’s-her-name’s daughter’s dress. I-it slipped my mind.”
His only reply was to nip at the tender place his lips had been.
She turned to look at him. “Are you upset with me?” She whispered, her lips fluttering against his cheek.
It was his turn to close his eyes and sigh. “A bit, yes. It’s the second time this week. And with you leaving for Halamshiral next week ...”
“But … I didn’t mean to. And … and I didn’t even realize how late it was and that I’d missed dinner until just before you came in.” She protested, tears clouding her vision. She turned back to her work to hide the pooling wetness around her eyes. He was always so good to her. She wasn’t used to being treated like this and it caught her off guard sometimes--like now-- and she hated that she had disappointed him.
She didn’t answer when he tenderly said her name. She sniffled and wiped her eyes on the edge of her cloak before carefully folding the Inquisitor’s dress. She wasn’t going to finish that tonight.
“Im …” When she didn’t answer he hooked a finger under her chin, turning her head to look at him. “What’s this?” His thumb brushed away a tear that had fallen down her cheek.
Imogen buried her head into his chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” she sniffled. “I was looking forward to it all day. I’ve missed you.”
He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Im, I know well how work can get away from you. You don’t need to be sorry. From now on, we’ll have our dinner dates here. That way I can distract you long enough to feed you. Besides, I like watching you create. It’s a nice change from the violence I’m faced with every day.”
He lifted her chin then dried her eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. “Though, I can’t let this little transgression slide.” He said seriously.
She eyed him questioningly. “Oh?”
Cullen leaned in close to her ear, “I’m afraid you’ll need to be punished later.”
She gave him a slow, mischievous smile before biting her lower lip. “If you think that’s for the best …”
For the first time that night, he kissed her lips--a scorching kiss that left her breathless, a promise of what was to come later?
“Now, my little artist, shall we go raid the kitchen for leftovers? Maybe the cook made your favorite cookies again.”
Imogen scrunched her nose, “I am not little!” She said defiantly.
Cullen laughed and lifted her from the table. “Of course not, love.”