Chapter Text
i. the time in the kitchen
Cassandra had been pushing herself since Haven had been lost when Corypheus had attacked. The causalities the Inquisition had sustained had shook the cause to the core, reminded those of the severity of the task that they carried out. A small part of Cassandra—the one that she buried beneath the guilt and fear—was still reeling from the near loss of Adaar, a woman she had come to look up to. That part of her had been wound tighter than a bowstring as soon as the survivors of the attack moved out to search for Skyhold on the instruction of Solas—without her. She was not easy to miss, with her being almost seven feet tall and almost obnoxiously loud, a commanding presence behind which they rallied their cause; Josephine had assured her if anyone could make it through both Corypheus and the mountains it would be the Herald of Andraste herself, and though it did alleviate some of her fears, she did not fully relax until Adaar had come stumbling through the blizzard to their camp.
Since then, she had started to practice longer, sharpening her reflexes and mind to that of the edge of her sword and polishing her armour until her hands stung, callouses thickening and roughening her hands. Those around Skyhold had taken to whispering when she walked by; commenting on how stiffly she held her aching body, or how deep set the bags beneath her eyes were. Infuriatingly enough even Josephine had taken to shooting her furtive glances when they were gathered around the war table while Adaar was nearly bent double as she pushed around small figures and snapping whenever Cullen attempted to correct her on her choices.
Suffice to say, the long hours of practicing and insomnia that had developed from the nightmares that flashed beneath her lids as she slept led her to wandering Skyhold at odd hours and pilfering the storage cupboards of the kitchens after long hours of training. As such, Cassandra was traversing through the winding halls of Skyhold, mind racing as she moved automatically, her feet rubbed raw and aching in the confines of her leather boots.
The stillness that the night draped over Skyhold was broken when she reached the heavy wooden door that led to the kitchen; the sound of metal clanging onto wood and an almost pained grunt broke her reverie, and her already vigilant senses were lurched into high gear as the memories of the night at Haven washed over her again. Her body moved of its own accord as she carefully opened the door, chest tightening and eyes cramming shut in fear of what she would see when the door opened (she could almost taste the heavy, cloying iron blood in the air as she did that night)—
“Oh, fuck,” a voice moaned, a mix of embarrassment and arousal colouring the words.
“That is the plan, darling, but you said you’d let me have a reward for not yelling at Cullen this week and I intend to fully follow through.” Someone quipped back, the rough baritone tinged with fondness.
Those voices, she knew; Cassandra wrenched open her eyes at that, blinking back the spots that danced in her vision in the dim candlelight, chest unknotting as her mind repeated ‘safe, alive, here’ like she was sending a prayer to the Maker before knotting for entirely different reasons. Before her very eyes, pressed against the wall, was a sweat-slicked and flushed Josephine, skirts hiked up around her waist and hands gripping the horns of the Inquisitor who was kneeled between her parted legs, head situated at the apex of Josephine’s thighs and large hands holding Josephine’s quivering thighs.
“Adaar,” exasperation creeping into Josie’s voice and she tugged none-too-kindly on Adaar’s horns, “Maker, if you stop now I will never order those Orlesian biscuits you enjoy to tide you through banquets.”
“You wouldn’t dare, I would never show up to any banquet or ball ever again and we both know that,” Adaar scoffed, before affixing her lips to what Cassandra assumed was Josie’s clit, causing the ambassador to moan low and long.
Cassandra’s lips parted, an aborted sound escaping her constricted throat causing Josie’s head to snap up and her (beautiful, sparkling) hazel eyes to widen in fear.
“Maker, Cassandra! This isn’t—I mean this is what it looks like.” Josie fumbled with her skirts, uncaring that they effectively caught themselves on Adaar’s horns in her haste to cover herself.
Adaar squawked at this, cursing as she maneuvered out from underneath the swell of fabric to rise to her full height. Cassandra’s stony stare shifted to Adaar, whose lips glistened with—she bodily shook herself and averted her gaze, cheeks heating and stomach swooping at the mere thought of it.
“Cassandra, what a surprise to see you here in the kitchen in the dead of night.” Adaar deadpanned, none too subtly drawing the sleeve of her overcoat over her lips.
“The same could be said for you two,” Cassandra snapped back, biting down the apology that attempted to bubble up to soothe the ice in her tone. She was not in the wrong here, especially since they were doing such acts in a public location, let alone in the kitchen of all places. “I am sorry to have interrupted,” she waved a gloved hand at the two of them, “this. Good night Josephine and Inquisitor Adaar.”
With a stiff turn, she ignored the look of shame on Josie’s face and irritation pinching Adaar’s features and trudged out into the hallway, slamming the door behind her as if it personally offended her.
“Well, that went about as well as I expected.” Came the muffled voice of Adaar through the door.
Cassandra tamped down her desire to run, calmly walking the stone halls of Skyhold back to the courtyard. After all the tight, liquid feeling in the pit of her stomach and the rabbit-like beating of her heart was just irritation and not some other dangerous, unnamed emotion.