A/N: Here's my first multi-chapter work, another Cullen/Trevelyan fic. As Dido said, "I will go down with this ship," by which I mean I plan to release several mid-line albums and then disappear. Dedicated to PrincessTverski / QueenofProcrastination.
Rating is T for chapters 1 through 3, but chapter 4 will be a -hard- M, with consensual BDSM elements.
I hope you enjoy!
Dancing with Fire
"Chapter One"
When they make it back to Skyhold after the defeat of Corypheus, all Inquisitor Trevelyan really wants, more than to sleep for a full eight hours for the first time in a long time, more than to share a pint with her friends, more than even to climb into bed with Cullen and not leave for a week (which is really saying something), is a bath.
A single pot of water warmed over a campfire three days' after their most recent sojourn to the Temple of Sacred Ashes seems to have made only the barest dent in the layers of grime she feels like she's been collecting for more than a year, and she is still finding bits of blood and grit in her hair. Her nails are ragged, black with soot and dirt and she is certain she stinks of ashes and sweat and horse…
Cullen doesn't seem to mind, though, when he presses her to his chest, murmurs, "Thank the Maker," and his lips just whisper over her brow. Her sword arm, which is stiff as a board despite Dorian and Vivienne's best efforts, hurts a little less now.
And Leliana's spies have found neither hide nor hair of Solas, and there are rifts yet to close and plenty of bandits and brigands to fell, but she manages a short speech to the assembled crowd before she designates Iron Bull as the commander of tonight's revelry – Sera whoops in joy and Bull says "damn right" and most of the rabble and half her companions, too, make off for the tavern, but Josephine and Vivienne look positively scandalized.
"Inquisitor, is that really wise? We need -"
She manages a smile in response. "A real party, a party worthy of the occasion, will take a few weeks to prepare. For tonight, let them get properly pissed. Josephine, I'm placing you in charge, with whatever you need at your disposal. Madame de Fer, I would appreciate it if you would help me find proper attire for the occasion. Now that the threat is vanquished, we find ourselves in a somewhat precarious position: powerful, but without direct application. We'll need to prove our worth in a world without Corypheus, and this offers the perfect occasion to at least display that we're better for more than hitting demons with large and pointy objects."
They both look positively gobsmacked, and she quirks her lips as she points to her chest. "Trevelyan, remember? Minor noble, but noble nonetheless, and I've learned the value of appearances from you two. But now if you'll please excuse me, I will positively murder something if I don't get a bath."
And Josephine is beaming as she begins furiously scribbling a to-do list, and Vivienne nods approvingly, calling out "most excellenttaste, dear" as the Inquisitor finally makes it to the stairs leading to her chambers.
It is only after the door closes behind her with an audible click that she exhales deeply and wonders, what have I gotten myself into?
When Cullen pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the courtyard, a week or so after the Inquisitor's return, he spies Sera furiously scribbling something on the notice board. He's running late (damn Inquisitors and the frankly adorable way they stretch in the morning which necessitates pulling them back into bed), but he stops on his way to meet up with the Requisitions officer to see what the Dalish woman has done. It takes only a moment, however, for him to see that Sera is hardly the only person who has found it necessary to 'edit' the document pinned to the wood.
Written in Josephine's immaculate hand is the following:
Rules for the Victory Ball
1. Proper attire will be required (Varric has written below this "is chest hair appropriate?" and in Vivienne's silver ink is a large "NO.")
2. Certain topics of conversation are off limits- no politics, religion, lewd jokes. (Iron Bull's block print this time, "what can we talk about? Weather?!" and in Dorian's square, tidy letters "the weather has improved since the Rift closed…")
3. No weapons, either magical or mundane, including but not limited to crossbows, daggers, staffs, bows, greatswords, axes. (To the side Sera has drawn a picture of a jar labeled "bees", and in Leliana's flowing script, "no poison listed? For shame, Josie.")
4. No excessive drunkenness (Iron Bull's hand: "define 'excessive.'")
5. No fighting (Iron Bull again, "then what do we do?" and Cassandra has written neatly, "Sit. Eat. Drink. Dance. Then go to the tavern." And Varric, probably just to annoy Cassandra, has squeezed in "Dance? Dwarves don't dance, and neither does Curly." Sera has drawn a figure that Cullen thinks is supposed to be him if the hair is any indication, with an arrow pointing to each foot labeled "left.")
Josephine approaches the board, picking her way delicately around the puddles on the ground. Coming to stand beside him, she glances at the board and sighs heavily, pulling the parchment off the wall.
"Why do I even try?"
The evening of the party arrives, and the Inquisitor makes a last pass through the Great Hall to check on the preparations; it isn't strictly necessary, she knows, since Josephine has thrown herself into the ball with her usual aplomb, and Vivienne and Leliana have been offering advice as well. Varric wasn't particularly pleased with being evicted in order to allow for the myriad of deliveries, but she's promised him an interview for his next book and instructed the bartender at Herald's Rest to put whatever he orders on her tab to soothe the dwarf's bruised pride.
Hundreds of tiny candles are strewn across the tables and flickering in the wall sconces, and the cooks bustle between the kitchen and the hall with trays of food and drink. The air is redolent with spices and flowers, and the Inquisitor truly believes that if her mother had been able to make it here from Ostwick in time, she would be proud.
"Inquisitor!"
Josephine stands near the throne, watching as workers set up chairs and tables. Clipboard in hand, she waves Trevelyan over.
"I'm so glad you're here! Tell me, should we have the flowers as centerpieces, or place them on the buffet tables instead?"
The Inquisitor smiles and replies, "I cede to your impeccable taste in this matter, Lady Montilyet."
The Antivan woman's eyes crinkle in mirth when she says, "what a diplomatic way of saying you don't care!"
"I learned diplomacy from the best."
"Indeed you did." And then she is off in a rush of golden silk to berate the musicians who are setting up their stands, because that is where the drink selection is going, and they are supposed to set up above the dance floor and what were the Fereldan caterers thinking, not doubling the cheese order, don't they know the King is attending?
The Inquisitor, satisfied that things are proceeding as well as possible and fully aware that the longer she stays here, the more likely she is to get roped in to something she has no real interest in doing, starts towards the library to pester Dorian. On the way she passes Vivienne leading a courier towards her chambers, the latter bearing the Inquisitor's gown, and Maker she hopes he doesn't step on the garment bag, or she is fairly confident she will end up with a frozen Orlesian delivery boy as a centerpiece instead of flowers.
But before she reaches the door to the rotunda, Cullen enters the hall, and Maker help her she can't stop the way her heart lurches in her chest at just the sight of him. His eyes meet hers and he smiles as she makes her way towards him, Dorian forgotten for the moment.
"Are things going well, my love?"
"As well as can be expected, I suppose. Josephine is terrifying when she's planning a party."
He chuckles and replies, "I can imagine. The King and Queen have arrived; Leliana is showing them to their rooms."
"Wonderful. And Sera?"
"Won't be a problem, at least for now. I slipped Iron Bull a few sovereigns to take her out to clear some caves, keep her out of trouble."
"You are so brilliant. Mia?"
The way his eyes go soft and warm when she asks about his sister makes her feel tingly; he is a good man, and he is her man, and she is so very lucky.
"They arrived about an hour ago. She and the children were in the stables when I left to check on you. Blackwall carved Thomas a whistle, and Dennett's leading them on pony rides around the courtyard. I don't think they will ever want to leave."
"Perfect," she replies, and he smiles tenderly in response.
"They can't wait to meet you. Mia will pry, I'm sure, but the boys just want to hear about killing dragons. Cassandra's already exhausted her store of tales."
He reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and she leans into his palm, warm even through the leather of his gloves, pressing closer to him, lips parted for a kiss and-
"Inquisitor, darling, you need to come upstairs. As dashing as the commander is, the ball is swiftly approaching, and we need to get started on your hair."
She sighs, and settles for pecking him quickly on the cheek.
"Remind me again why I proposed this?"
He grins. "From what I recall, we are attempting to prove that the Inquisition remains useful in a world without Corypheus, and to further cement your role."
"I hate politics."
Laughing he says, "I know, dearest," and she can't help the shiver that runs up her spine when his lips brush against her knuckles and he whispers, "Until tonight."