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Interlocking

Chapter Eighteenth: New

"She likes that much is unspoken between them."- Krem and Harding find each other in a world torn apart. A story told in brief glimpses.

Harding laces her fingers through Krem's, watches the warm and enthralling link of their hands between them. "I don't know how long we'll be in Crestwood."

Krem holds tight to her fingers, ignores the sounds and smells of the Skyhold courtyard around them. "I'll be here when you get back," he says, smiling.

She looks up at him. "Wish you could come with."

Krem's eyes crinkle as his smile widens. "Same here, short stuff."

She narrows her eyes at him, but does not unlink her fingers from his.

He chuckles, and then leans down to place a soft, short-lived kiss on her lips.

She is breathless already, her cheeks warm and pink-tinged. She still doesn't know how he can look at her so. Like she matters. Like she is all that matters. It makes the words tight in her throat, makes her fingers clench his instinctually in their hold.

Krem looks over to where her scouts are gathering close to the Skyhold gate. "Make me proud," he offers, looking back to her.

She sighs, pulls her hand from his to adjust the bow over her shoulder. He moves his hand to his side, missing her touch already. Harding pulls a deep breath in, offering one last smile as a goodbye. "Always," she answers. She turns and joins her scouts.

Krem watches her for a long time past the gate.

Harding informs the Inquisitor and their party about the undead attacking the townspeople of Crestwood Village. She suddenly remembers her first encounter with Cremisius Aclassi. The dark and rain-soaked plains of the Fallow Mire. The respect and admiration of watching him control the battlefield. The unexplainable pull of him when he spoke. The way she naturally looked for him after that.

The way she finds herself missing him already.

Maker, she had it bad.

Krem is sitting at their small informally claimed table at the tavern when she arrives back at Skyhold. His eyes find her instantly, as though he recognizes the moment she steps into the building. As though he feels her when she is close.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't excited by the idea.

He raises his glass to her in greeting, and shortly after receiving her own mug of ale from the bartender, she makes her way to him. She seats herself across from him and smiles blindingly.

"Welcome home," he greets, his own smile wide and inclined toward her.

Home. The thought makes her breathe in a subtle, welcomed release.

"Good to be back," she answers. She resists the urge to rush around the table and into his arms. She still doesn't quite know how to navigate this new and unfamiliar feeling. She isn't sure what is appropriate and what is expected and what is normal. Nothing about the world they are living in and striving in seems to be 'normal' exactly. Even their tentative hand-holding a couple days ago, when she was readying for departure to Crestwood, was instinctive and unplanned. But when she thinks back to it, she is still nervous. Still flustered. Still unsure what this means. What his eyes and his touch and his lips really mean. She likes that much is unspoken between them. And she wants this so badly, and needs this so intrinsically, that she resists even putting it to words. As though that will break this unknowable dream, this elusive contentment. As though speaking it aloud will make it tangible, make it easy for the grasping, and thus easy for the shattering.

"Anything of import?" he asks. His fingers flex over the handle of his mug while he watches her.

She shrugs. "The Inquisitor and Hawke met with the Warden contact. I hear we're heading to the Western Approach by next week. But after stocking up, my platoon and I are supposed to head back out to Crestwood. Apparently there's a keep there the Inquisition wants bad."

"Right back out there, then?"

"Yep," she sighs. She watches him hesitantly for a minute. "And your orders?"

He lets her stew in quiet unease for several moments while a smirk breaks its way across his features. "Crestwood by nightfall tomorrow."

She is unaware of the blinding smile that spreads across her face. "Then we'll be working together again?"

Krem nods, taking a sip of ale, his eyes never leaving hers. "Looks like."

Harding leans back in her chair and sighs contentedly as she cradles her tankard in her hands. "Good," she whispers, her gaze falling to the table between them. She purses her lips in thought a moment before continuing, her eyes still not reaching his. "I've missed you."

She hears him chuckle across from her. "Don't get too distracted tomorrow," he says smugly.

Harding reaches across the table and smacks his shoulder. "You're insufferable," she huffs.

Krem laughs and holds his shoulder in mock hurt. "You wound me, dear lady."

"I'll do more than that," she teases warningly, taking a sip of her ale to hide her smile.

"I look forward to it."

She blinks at him. Wonders how he can still make her flush after all this time. Wonders how he can still light this fire of excitement in her. Like she is fifteen and dazzled by naïve affection. Like she is a first-time lover. Like he can still silence her into breathless anticipation.

And he does.

And she loves it.