Work Text:
Phone clenched tightly in a fist, hard enough to make the case creak.
“Hey, Thom? Yeah, s’me. Look, I don’t wanna dump this shite on you but you got that couch goin’?”
One plaid sleeve swiped across the eyes, over and over, because she won’t let this make her cry.
--
Phone rings, gets stared at like a wild animal sizing up its prey.
“What? Oh. Bull. Look I’m not in the mood right now.”
A snarl, pacing back and forth, back and forth.
--
The sleeve stays pressed in front of her face. It’s growing damp. Fuck this. Fuck this.
“No, nah. No, I’m not okay, but I don’t wanna talk about it, yeah?”
The voice on the other end is well meaning, of course it is, but hearing it just gouges deeper into her chest.
--
Deep breaths. They come out ragged. He knows, and she knows, but she won’t admit it.
“I’m fine… What? I said I’m fine!”
Her voice cracks, betrays her. She hits the ‘cancel’ button and screws up her face, creasing the vallaslin like broken tears.
--
Slumped on the curbside, knees tucked up to the chest. It’s late. How late? Dark late. It’s cold. How cold? Cold enough to remind her of all those years squatting in any busted-down tenement she could find.
“Nothin’ like that, s’just me an’ Buckles… yeah.”
Kicked out in the street. This is familiar.
--
The punchbag thunders backward, battered. More sawdust leaks out onto the floor. Ringtone echoes out from the mattress on the floor. ‘Assan’lin lath’.
“Bull, stop calling me.”
Cancel button. Another brutal blow to the bag. More sawdust.
--
Hand in the pocket, the other chilled to the bone. The blood on the knuckles is drying, but still trickling down.
“We broke up again… No, don’t even ask. It’s all shite anyway.”
She won’t cry. Not over this. Not over stupid elfy shite.
--
‘Assan’lin lath.’
Jaw clenched tight. She pushes the ‘accept’ button so hard the screen almost cracks.
“Bull, call me one more time and I’m going to fucking come over there and ram your phone down your throat.”
Hurled back onto the mattress. This time, the punch is so hard the bag’s chain snaps. Its innards spill out like ash.
--
Sitting back on the curb. Her hands ache. Fuck. Stupid pissing wall. Why’d she punch it?
“I don’t need- all right. Yeah. Okay. Could use a lift. Thanks Thom.”
She ends the call, sniffles, hiccups. Fuck.
--
‘Assan’lin l-‘
The phone hits the wall with such force it shatters into a thousand pieces.
--
Thom steps out of the car, and it doesn’t matter she promised she wouldn’t cry.
Her face slams into his chest and she pounds on it with both fists. He clasps her tight, rocking back and forth, just taking it all in.
“She’s- such, a shit.”
--
Knock knock knocking at the apartment door. Irala stops flat dead, one bare foot stomping down on the floor.
“Fuck off, Bull!” she yells.
“I’m afraid I am not Bull. Does that make a difference?”
“Fuck off, Solas!” she amends.
--
She crashes on Thom’s couch. She’s glad of him, because where the hell else would she have gone?
Pissing fuck. Serves her right for moving into Irala’s place. Saves on rent?
Saves on getting kicked out.
--
Solas is too Creators-damned mild. Logical and cool and absolutely the last thing needed.
He understands when she swears in elven at least.
“Perhaps it’s for the best the two of you spend some time apart. Your views are … dissimilar.”
The gesture she makes with her hand isn’t elven, but it’s reasonably universal even so.
--
“So. What happened?”
He doesn’t say ‘this time’. He’s good like that. No judgements and no disapproval, just patience and massive mugs of hot chocolate.
We had a fight.
I said something stupid about something stupid.
She got all arsey and dalish about it all.
I got pissy ‘cause I hate it when she does that. Said something else stupid.
Got her upset. Angry upset, not droopy-ears upset. Started swearing at me in elf.
Had a screaming match. Ducked out roundabout when she threw a chair at the wall.
The entire story goes through Sera’s head.
“She was a bitch,” she settles on.
--
Solas straightens up some furniture. She fumes, fists clenched head down.
“I hear there was some manner of television program regarding your people last night.”
He says it like he doesn’t know. He does that. He ventures.
“If by ‘regarding’ you mean racist jokes, sure,” a snarl.
--
She sleepwalks through work that day. It seems to drift along like a lazy river.
She makes like nothing’s wrong, even when she snaps at an old lady asking about a hat stand. Cause it’s none of her fucking business if Sera looks like she’s been crying.
Dorian tries to talk to her after the woman leaves, and she stomps out, takes her break. The cigarette tumbles through jittery fingers.
--
“What manner of content-“
There he goes again. Venturing.
“Does it matter?” she snaps. Her tone dares him to say it does. Silence, she pushes on. “She decided to be cute, okay?”
“Cute?” his brow furrows. She wants to punch him. How is he so bad at slang?
“Playing dumb, Solas,” she breathes out heavily. The red mist cloaking her apartment won’t shift.
--
“Care to explain that little scene, Sera?”
“Buzz off, Dorian.”
An immaculate eyebrow arches. “Ah. I know that look. Girl troubles?”
Shoulders square, teeth grit. He’s being casual on purpose, but for all the wrong reasons. Play it down, and she won’t get upset. Play it down, and he can say that it doesn’t matter.
But it does. That’s the entire point. If Irala didn’t matter, if Sera didn’t care so Makers-damned much, then it wouldn’t hurt like this.
“Shove it up your arse, Dorian.”
--
Solas likes to get anthropologist. He speaks about the differences between the dalish and other elves. He drones until the droning begins to drill into her skull and it’s all she can do not to slam a fist on the table.
“Solas. I don’t care.”
She’s not in the mood for this. Never is, really. But especially not today. Today, she really, really can’t be bothered to hear about her people’s ‘oral tradition’, nor ‘cultural reclamation’.
“My apologies. It’s difficult not to take a scholarly interest.”
“We’re not a fucking case study, Solas!” on her feet – when did she stand? – yelling down at him, because dread wolf take his creators-cursed interest.
He stiffens. Careful lack of expression on his face. “I can leave, if you wish.”
--
Sera makes it halfway home before she remembers that ‘home’ is currently the opposite side of town.
She swears and gets a dirty look from the human lady taking her mabari for a walk.
--
Irala caves first.
Two days. Facebook message.
‘I’m still angry but’- Deleted.
‘We were both stu-‘ Deleted.
‘Ir abelas. Ar lath ma-’ Right meaning. Wrong Language. Deleted.
‘Hey. Can we talk?’
--
‘Piss off.’
--
“Dorian. Can I get a favour?”
Folded arms and a look over the top of his glasses.
That hurts. He’s a friend-via-Sera and that disapproval speaks volumes. “Just tell her I’m sorry. Please?”
Permafrost in a single glance. “Perhaps I will.”
She holds the anger down and just nods. “Thanks.”
--
Sera’s maybe an inch away from punching another wall.
She breathes, grabs her phone.
Sorry, this number is not in service!
“Fuck’s sake!”
--
“Shit, phone, sorry.”
Irala waves a hand Bull’s way. Back on speaking terms now that he’s stopped trying to speak about her.
He comes back a few seconds later. “Uh… it’s for you.”
She nearly falls off the treadmill. What.
Takes the phone, hopes it’s Krem.
“Hi, you.”
Fenedhis!
--
The conversation’s awkward, stilted, and barely lasts two minutes before they both hang up.
Sera’s left staring at the phone wondering why she even bothered.
--
They both forget that they’re both friends with Varric, and both show up for drinks at the Hanged Man.
Irala’s out of the door again so fast she trips over the entryway.
--
Sera maybe gets very drunk.
Sera maybe starts crying in Varric’s lap.
Sera maybe tells at least four people that she misses her stupid idiot elfy Buckles.
Maybe.
--
Irala gets very well acquainted with the repaired punching bag.
Doesn’t stay repaired for long.
--
Seven different embarrassing texts bounced back last night.
She’s not sure if they would have made things easier or harder.
--
Knock knock.
Thom opens the door.
Thom glowers.
Thom shuts the door.
--
“Who was that?”
“Nobody. Salesman.”
He doesn’t meet her eyes. Sera double takes.
“…Thom. Don't fuck me about.”
--
She’s halfway back up the driveway when the door bursts open again.
“Buckles!” Halfway between excited and furious.
Irala turns. There she is. Her breath goes. Her heart goes.
Somewhere in it all, they’re in one another’s arms. Tears and curses and promises and perhaps a stolen kiss or two.
‘Till next time.