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In her experience, hope is a fleeting, fickle thing.
Sometimes it’s hardy and strong, letting those who cling to it dig in with white knuckled dying grips and hold tight. And sometimes it slips through their fingers like smoke and sand, leaving people — leaving her — wondering if there was any to begin with, and feeling foolish for trying.
She didn’t even consider reaching for it when it came to Neve. Because the idea of coming away empty-handed…
But she’s not empty handed, is she?
The safehouse smells of blood and blight and bitter smoke. They haven’t lost as many as she expected. Hope peeks around the corner like a shy child around a doorframe, the idea of winning against Elgar’nan, against Solas not feeling quite so far-fetched.
And she has Neve.
“Rook.”
She hears Davrin’s voice beside her. But louder than that she hears the heartbreakingly familiar sound of Neve’s prosthetic on stone floor as the other mage walks to speak with Emmrich. Vic glances over to see Emmrich reaching out to take Neve’s hands in his, his lips moving. She can’t hear him, but she can imagine something warm, something reassuring and beautiful and more eloquent than anything she can possibly manage, especially right now.
Even in the dim light where Emmrich is standing, Vic can see the dark veins on Neve's cheeks, crawling down her neck...
“She’s still standing,” Davrin promises. “She’s still alive.”
“She’s blighted,” Vic whispers. “I didn’t—”
Davrin’s hand wraps around her wrist, the touch of his sword-calloused fingers warm and grounding. “She’s here,” the Warden says, firmer.
Vic tries to take a breath. It feels like her lungs are filled with sharp shards of the ice she commands. She watches Neve nod at Emmrich, and then move back to where Bellara is standing. Bellara reaches for her, and Vic’s heart skips as Neve takes the other woman’s hand and holds tight. There are no words spoken, Bellara uncharacteristically quiet, but Vic feels like she’s watching a dozen conversations happen at once through their eye contact alone. She watches Bellara’s hands squeeze Neve’s even tighter before letting go.
And then Neve steps away, retreating to a corner, leaning against some boxes as she stares out at the rest of the safehouse, the rest of their companions.
“If you don’t go to her,” Davrin warns.
Vic feels a nudge at her thigh, and doesn’t need to look down to know that Assan had headbumped her. She should laugh, she should look down at him and reach for his head and ruffle his feathers and smile and pretend to be okay but it's not okay nothing is okay how can things be okay when Neve-
“Go,” Davrin orders.
“I’m the one who gives the orders,” Vic says. It’s supposed to be a tease, but it comes out sounding warped and broken and wrong, her voice twisted and tearful. She’s still staring at Neve.
She knew the risks. Neve knew the risks. But she didn’t even consider—
It’s the push of Davrin’s hand on the small of her back that guides her forward. She can feel Bellara’s eyes on her as she walks towards the corner, and looks over at the elven woman. Bellara’s stronger than she is — the other woman gives her a smile, a sweet one, a reassuring one before she steps away. Vic watches her approach Emmrich, the older man glancing towards Vic and nodding in encouragement.
“Trouble.”
Even her voice sounds wrong. Too broken, too soft. She’s heard Neve’s voice like that before, during their discussion of after.
It hurts more than any blow any Venatori or Antaam or darkspawn or blighted elven god could land.
“Neve,” Vic breathes, finally looking right at her, just a step or two away.
She is horrifying. The cheeks she’s kissed, laughed against, felt pressed to her bare thigh after feeling Neve's mouth between her legs, felt pressed against her chest as Neve finally, finally let herself sleep — dark veins mar once smooth brown skin, as black as the ink the detective uses that stains her fingertips, that Vic’s had streaked on her own skin when they were a little too eager to touch and didn’t want to stop for Neve to wash her hands. She looks paler, too, and exhausted, like she hasn’t slept in days. She probably hasn’t, Vic thinks.
Neve smiles sadly, and Vic stares into eyes that were once warm brown and soft and kind and—
Now they are red and black and blighted and Vic can’t read them the same way she could before and something in her chest feels like it shatters. “Neve…”
“The others told me what happened after I was… taken. I’ve seen reports from the city,” Neve explains. “The lost…” She takes a shaky breath, and Vic watches her pull herself together like she always does, with shoulders back and chin raised and head high. She is blighted, she is bruised, she is barely standing, but she is Neve Gallus. “But more are still standing than I might have bet on. Every person who gets through this is a win.”
I love you.
It’s all she wants to say, over and over and over again until Neve actually listens. She should have said it before, she should have told her —
“Neve, if we hadn’t found you… I don’t…” Vic starts.
Neve’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Or maybe it does and Vic just can’t see it beyond blood red and pitch black and she hates this she hates this she hates him she is going to kill Elgar’nan and make Emmrich bring him back and she is going to kill him again and again and again until it feels like enough but it will never, ever be enough. “You really missed me.”
“Every moment,” Vic confesses, trying to conceal the rage simmering in her veins as her gaze traces Neve’s darkened ones.
“I’m half scared this is a dream. That I’m still trapped.” Neve takes another shaky breath and Vic hates it, hates how unsure and scared the other woman sounds. “Tell me you’re really here, Trouble… you’re not just something I’m wishing for.”
Her voice wavers, and cracks, and Vic steps forward, only for Neve to step back. Boxes and equipment rattle as Neve stumbles. Vic reaches out to steady her, her hands on Neve’s waist as Neve clings onto Vic’s forearms for balance before letting go violently, like touching the other mage burned her somehow.
“You can’t, Trouble,” Neve breathes, shaking her head and trying to side-step away from Vic’s touch. “I don’t know if it spreads—”
“I don’t care,” Vic insists. She reaches up to cup Neve’s cheeks, the black-veined skin feeling too hot against her palms. Neve gasps, blackened eyes widening, and she hates hates hates how familiar the expression is but at the same time it’s all wrong.
And yet it’s still Neve.
“I don’t care,” Vic says again, determined, angry as she leans in.
As soon as her lips are on Neve’s, she feels the other woman’s hands at her waist, clinging as best as she can, fingers tugging at the straps and buckles of Vic’s armor to pull her as close as she can be. Neve sighs against her mouth, and just hearing the woman breathe, feeling it against her lips is the sweetest sensation.
The safehouse, their allies, their companions — it all fades away and Vic doesn’t care who sees as she kisses Neve like it’s the last time.
Because it very well may be.
She keeps one hand on Neve’s cheek but slides the other to her jaw, adjusting her hold so that she can feel Neve’s pulse against her thumb. It’s too rapid, too uneven — the blight in her veins skips and pulses with the blight surrounding the safehouse. But if she focuses, she can feel the steadfast beat she’s felt dozens of times in the past months.
“I’m not letting you go again,” Vic promises, whispered and warm against Neve’s lips. “Not without telling you I love you.”
The choked sob Neve lets out makes Vic’s heart twist painfully before she kisses the other mage again. It’s desperate, a little messy, too eager. Neve tastes wrong, of metallic blood and something incredibly bitter. But her lips feel the same, her soft sighs against Vic’s mouth feel the same, her fingers clutching at Vic’s shoulders feel the same—
“I’m right here,” Vic breathes as Neve pulls away, resting her blighted brow against Vic’s. “I promise.”
“I love you, too,” Neve whispers. “I should have said it before, but I couldn’t, I—”
“You’re saying it now,” Vic reassures. She can feel Neve’s fingers clench against the leather collar of her armor. “And you can say it a dozen times after, if you want.”
“After,” Neve repeats, her laugh a broken and bitter thing. “All right, Trouble. You’re stuck with me. Until whatever end finds me.”
Vic smiles, brushing her lips against Neve’s again in a tease of a kiss before she well and truly kisses her again. Softer, this time, slower. A last taste, last touch, last confession, last promise.
“I’ll bet ten gold that we read about a kiss like this in Bellara’s book,” she whispers in the barely a hairs-width space between them.
Neve’s laugh is lighter this time, warm against Vic’s lips. “Really?”
“C’mon,” Vic teases as she pulls away slightly, still holding onto Neve, unwilling to let her go. “A desperate kiss after a daring and dangerous rescue? It’s right up her alley.”
“Then I’ll insist on a credit,” Neve croons. She takes a deep, shaky breath, hands pressed to the embossed and stitched snakes on Vic’s leather collar before she's letting them slide off, and she steps back. Vic doesn't reach for her. She knows the moment is over. “C’mon, Trouble. Let’s finish this damn job.”