Chapter Text
Day One...
What a mess.
“Fucking Hossberg.” Rook muttered to herself. She was on autopilot as she pulled items from the Lighthouse’s infirmary cabinet and methodically arranged them in the well-worn medical trug that she occasionally shared with Emmrich. “Go and collect some Blight samples! Oui, oui, it should be easy. No danger in it at all!” She absolutely butchered Antoine’s accent as she made light the situation.
You see, it really had been something so mundane and routine that it shouldn’t have been even the slightest bit trying. And, for the most part, it truly had been fine! They had scooped up the disgustingly sloppy samples with remarkable ease. They had even made it almost the entire way back to the fort the Grey Wardens now called home without incident. Not a single Darkspawn in sight (which had been odd in hindsight). But, just before they reached those gods forsaken Blight tunnels, something had happened. Something horrendously dramatic.
Neve had been startled by a giant lizard.
Not only that, but she had fallen backwards down a flight of stairs because of it.
Of all of the despicable things that now occupied the Wetlands, Rook had never considered, even for a single second, that one of the aforementioned lizards would have presented a danger to anyone at all, besides the bountiful local insect population there, of course.
Particularly not to the good detective.
Rook’s face pulled into a toothy grin, dimples and all, as she sealed the cabinet. Poised, collected, ever-calm Neve Gallus, knocked arse over heel by a solitary, docile reptile. She knew she ought not to laugh. Neve had taken a solid bash to the head on her way down. She had even picked up a worryingly deep laceration for her troubles. Yet, all things considered, she was doing okay. Delirious but healthy. There were worse conditions for one to find themself in, after all.
Part of her could also not wait to tell Davrin. He would certainly appreciate the humour there, once Neve had started to heal, of course. Neve wouldn’t hear the end of it from him for weeks. Months, even.
Was it sick that Rook got a little kick out of that? Riling the ice mage up was her favourite pastime, after all…
With a reserved sigh, Rook turned towards the beds - to face the infirmary’s newest ward. She offered Varric a theatrical shrug as she passed him by, which he reciprocated whilst on his way out to give them some space.
Bel had been kind enough to donate a set of pyjamas to their latest patient, which Neve obviously looked chic and glamorous in, consciously or unconsciously. Bright pink embroidered Halla covered the otherwise plain, off-white linen sleeping shirt and shorts. Harding had enthusiastically offered her own pjs up as well, but Rook suspected there might be an ever so slight issue regarding sizing, more specifically: the lengths of the garments. Finding a polite way to say that had been a rough ride, but they had figured it all out eventually, no harm, no foul.
Rook popped her trug down on the side table and perched herself upon the stool at Neve’s bedside. The woman had a comically large bandage wrapped around her head, and she was sporting a rather gnarly black eye. Besides those things, Rook enthusiastically noted that she looked as pretty as ever.
Not now, Ingellvar…
“Okay, butterfeet. I’m back.” Neve winced and groaned at the sudden intrusion. She reached out to palm Rook’s face and shove her away. The death mage released a quiet, muffled chuckle against the offending mitt.
Are her hands always so cold? It’s nice.
Not now, Ingellvar…
“Glad to see you’re still alive and kicking,” Rook reached forward to start gently peeling the bandages away from her face. “I thought that monster was going to have you for breakfast for an entire nanosecond back there.”
Surprisingly, a dopey smile appeared upon Neve’s black and blue face. “Dragons, eh…?”
“Yes... dragons. Right. They’ll get you every time.” Rook murmured distractedly as she carefully continued to beaver away. Emmrich was their de facto physician at The Lighthouse, but, since he was busy gallivanting around bug filled, bat encrusted caves with Strife, the other resident Mourn Watcher had stepped forth to take up the mantle.
When the last piece of gauze fell away, Neve slowly blinked. Those deep, cocoa eyes fell to her would be healer. Neve reached up again, clumsily booping Rook’s nose with a single, chilly fingertip. “Hey you.”
The death mage smiled bashfully. Chose to divert her attention instead to fishing out the Royal Elfroot ointment from her caddy. “Hey yourself. How are you feeling?”
Neve’s unfocused, glassy peepers glanced up towards the ceiling. She gulped, or tried to, at least. “Thirsty.”
“Here,” Rook whipped out a water skin, carefully propping Neve’s head up so that she could take a sip. Neve’s head was warm against her hand, and her hair was so silky and soft-
Last warning, Ingellvar…
“Better?”
“Mmm.” She looked back to Rook. “You’re sweet, you know?” Neve settled back amongst the pillows and hummed contentedly, her eyes fluttering shut. “Sweet and handsome.”
Rook fumbled the water skin, almost dropping it to the ground. The very tips of her pointed ears flushed a delightful shade of red. She gave an awkward, breathy half-laugh. Is she…? She’s flirting with me? “You really did hit your head hard, huh?” Neve shook her head in vehement disagreement. Before she could worsen her headache, Rook gently took hold of her jaw to cease her movements. Her strong fingers brokered no argument. “None of that today, Gallus. Let’s try to keep your brain as still as possible for a while.”
Neve grinned again, cracking one eye open. “Ooh, bossy.” She cocked a bruised eyebrow, which made her wince. “Sexy when you’re assertive.” The woman slurred, giggling to herself like a school girl.
“Well, I… uhm.” Rook cleared her throat, sneaking a glug of water herself. Was it always this warm in here? “Let’s get you better and discuss this later, okay?”
“Neve Gallus has a big old crush on Rook whatever-her-real-name-is.” The detective sing-songed, waggling her fingers to the beat of her own tune. She threw the other woman a conspiratorial look, her hand rising to cup over the corner of her mouth. “But you didn’t hear it from me, got it?” She spoke in hushed tones. Rook really hoped that, for the first time in his entire life, Varric wasn’t stood behind the door eavesdropping.
She needed Emmrich. Cursed his adorable, blossoming romance with Strife. Neve was clearly concussed and out of her damn mind. It would take more than bandages, water, and Elfroot to fix this particular brilliant, broken brain.
I am exceptionally flattered, though. Who wouldn’t be?
“It’s our little secret, I promise.” Rook slipped on a clean pair of gloves and focused instead on dabbing ointment around the other woman’s fresh stitches. “This might sting a little, so please tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”
“Never too much. I’m all yours.”
Gods a-fucking-bove.
She knew the boundaries. Knew that Neve was not in the correct headspace for these shenanigans. Rook also knew never to take advantage or abuse that, especially whilst in her current position of power. She never ever would. That was simply not in her nature.
Still, she was only a woman. She allowed herself to feel good about the positively unhinged, barely conscious flirting.
“Feels so good.” Neve moaned as the cold balm soothed her aching skull. Rook swallowed hard. Blushed even harder. She felt her body respond to the sounds the detective was making of its own accord. Cursed that, too.
She was also just a woman with eyes, ears, and the youthful surge of hormones. Neve was breathtakingly beautiful, with a voice as sweet as hot honey, and as delicious as dark chocolate. Even still, none of those things adequately described her. Is this some kind of divine test?
Always be professional.
Always be gracious, to the living and to the deceased.
Always articulate correctly.
Always keep your back straight. Proper posture is of vital importance to all Mourn Watchers.
Myrna’s infamous mantra rang through her head as clearly as The Sunken Star Bell.
Always be professional.
Then again, when have I ever abided by that? Truthfully?
You start now.
Yes, Myrna. Thank you, Myrna. It will not happen again, Myrna.
“Don’t stop.” Neve gave another breathless moan, writhing a little beneath her ministrations. She clasped The Mourn Watcher’s wrist, holding her hand in place.
Rook’s entire body pounded. She cleared her throat again. “Yes, ma’am.” It was meek. She felt weak.
Gods, this woman will truly be the death of me…