A/N: I'm trying to get as many of the missions in as possible, if there's one you especially want to see and are worried I might miss, do drop me a line.
The Chargers came in to the tavern in a tight knot, voices too loud, eyes too bright, cloaks and hair wet with more than snow. Killeen recognised the look: a hard fight survived, a fight that could easily have gone the other way, nerves still jangling with adrenaline and the world gone sharp-edged and unreal. Killeen picked up her beer and her bowl of stew and moved unobtrusively away as they settled at a table near her and called for ale. Even their closest friends would be intruders right now.
Some things, you could only share with the people you shared them with.
The door opened again and Cullen came in, brushing snow from his hair. The huge shape of the Iron Bull loomed behind him and a cheer of Horns up! came from the Chargers at the sight of him.
As the Bull bellowed something about drinks for everyone, on the house, Cullen scanned the room and then came toward Killeen.
She slipped from her seat as he approached but he shook his head, shedding his cloak and taking the seat next to her. "I'll stay a minute." He eyed her half-empty bowl with the unmistakable look of a man who'd missed the mess-hall's last serving, and brightened when Killeen pushed it across to him. "If you're sure?"
"Sure," Killeen said, and sipped her beer. She indicated the Chargers with a jerk of her chin. "What happened?"
"Lyrium smuggling operation," Cullen said, making short work of her stew. "Venetori. The Inquisitor and the Chargers went out to deal with it in co-operation with some Qunari agents."
Her eyebrows went up. "The Qun are co-operating now?"
Cullen shook his head. "No. It went pear-shaped, the Chargers were over-matched. They pulled back rather than die holding their position and the Qun lost a dreadnaught. Any chance of an alliance … it's gone."
"Well, shit," Killeen said. "Those big bastards would have come in handy." She glanced at the Iron Bull, now engaged in a drinking game with the silent mercenary everyone called Grim. From what Killeen had seen of him in the Tavern, he might just be able to give the Bull a run for his money. "I guess the Bull is more sentimental than I would have guessed."
"Not his call," Cullen said, pushing the empty bowl away. "The Inquisitor gave the order. The Alliance wasn't worth losing the Chargers."
"Andraste's a—" Cullen gave her a look and Killeen paused, finished: "Arrows. Andraste's arrows. That's what comes of civilians making military decisions."
"She's the Inquisitor, she had every right to make the call."
"Oh, come on, Cullen," Killeen said. "You wouldn't have pulled them out."
He paused, not willing to criticise the Inquisitor, not wanting to lie. Killeen knew very well that in similar circumstances, Cullen would have weighed up the lives of Inquisition soldiers against the lives that would probably be lost later for lack of the support and information the Qun could provide — knew it, because that was exactly the calculation she would have made.
But he doesn't want to admit she was wrong.
Killeen knew she should let it go. There was nothing Cullen could do to recover the situation, not now, and nothing to gain by forcing him to admit what he already knew. The Inquisitor made a mistake.
Nonetheless, she found her mouth open, found herself saying: "You wouldn't have pulled me out."
Shocked, his gaze met hers. "Kill, that's …"
True.
"Not the same," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck. "And I might have."
But he couldn't meet her eyes.
"No, you wouldn't," Killeen said, wondering why she was doing this. "Look me in the eye and tell me you'd trade off the military needs of the Inquisition for the lives of a dozen soldiers. Look me in the eye and tell me that, Cullen."
He sighed, and looked up, met her gaze squarely. "I wouldn't have pulled you back, no."
Killeen felt victory and nausea in equal measure. "So." she said, and sipped her beer.
"If only," Cullen said, "because you'd never forgive me if I took you out of the action before the objective was achieved."
He surprised her in a laugh that loosened the knot in her chest. "That's true."
"Don't be too hard on her, Kill. She's doing the best she can. Better than many would."
"Yes," Killeen said, because it was what he needed to hear and because, little as she wanted to admit, it was true. "I know."
He gestured to her cup, half rose. "Get you another?"
Her eyebrows rose. "You're going to have a beer?"
"No, but I'm going to watch you drink one," he said, and went to the bar.
Killeen watched him make his way through the crowd, pausing for a word with this soldier, that builder, and let her gaze drift to the Chargers, now singing what sounded to be several different songs simultaneously. She would have been sorry if she'd heard they'd died, laid down their lives for the Inquisition; she was glad they were there, alive, drunk and loud, for all that she knew other people would later die for it.
People she didn't know, people the Inquisitor didn't know. That's the thing, isn't it? That was what separated soldiers like Cullen and herself from civilians like the Inquisitor, however talented they might be. The ability to remember that losing an objective can cost lives, just as taking one can.
And that was what separated cold-hearted, calculating soldiers like herself from women men found warm and yielding and lovable, too.
A cup was set in front of her, and Cullen's brown eyes regarded her quizzically. "Are you —"
"Thirsty," Killeen said, and picked up her beer. "Here's the Chargers. And the Inquisitor."
She tilted the cup to her lips, using it an an excuse not to meet his gaze.