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As always in this fucking city, it was raining.
And the thing was, the ever-present downpour in Minrathous never washed things fully clean. It just made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the lower districts into treacherous, muddy terrain. The kind that made you break an ankle if you weren’t paying attention. Or fall flat on your face.
Perfect conditions for an ambush. Absolutely terrible conditions for keeping one’s footing while trying to fight off Venatori zealots.
Ashur’s voice cut through the roar of the storm, smooth as velvet even in the middle of the chaos. “Lorelei, to your left!”
Tarquin drove his sword into a blood mage’s heart right as a surge of magic exploded nearby, sending a wall of fire rolling towards them. Ashur was there in an instant, throwing up a barrier of pure force that shimmered pale blue. The flames hissed against it, then dissipated.
“Clear!” Lorelei shouted.
Ashur turned back to face them. For a moment, his eyes were locked onto Tarquin with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Tarquin’s neck stand up. Then, he focused on something behind Tarquin. His head moved ever so slightly.
A signal. An enemy, close behind Tarquin.
Tarquin felt the shift in the air. Before a spell could be thrown his way, he turned, hit the Venatori bastard in the head with the pommel of his sword, then drove his shield into their chest. A single blast of Ashur’s lightning finished them off entirely.
Efficient. No wasted energy for either of them. His old teacher would be proud.
“Try not to show off too much, Your Perfection. It ruins my ability to concentrate,” Tarquin teased, wiping blood off his mouth.
Ashur’s eyes twinkled, never leaving Tarquin. “No promises.”
“Three more incoming!” Hector yelled.
A warm, soft surge of magic on Tarquin’s right hand side alerted him to where the danger was. He nodded at Ashur, who immediately merged back into the night.
As the first Venatori ran at them, Tarquin pivoted sharply, his heavy Templar boots finding purchase on the slick stone. He shoved the cultist back with a harsh shoulder check before driving his longsword into the man’s gut.
Ashur moved smoothly; far, far too fucking graceful, as always. A gesture of his hand sent a bolt of force at the second attacker, the man dropping dead mid-scream.
The third somehow got away. He immediately tried to retreat, only to find Lorelei waiting for him. Her daggers flashed silver in the dim light. She backstabbed the mage with a cruel sort of efficiency, then kicked him towards Ashur for the finishing blow.
Brutal and quick, as always.
“Little bit sloppy, Viper,” Lorelei called out, wiping blood off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her braid swung behind her like a whip. “You’re getting slow in your old age. Or is the company distracting you?”
She pointedly looked at Tarquin, a smirk on her face.
Tarquin scoffed. “Not bloody likely.”
Because Ashur knew better than to get distracted when it could literally cost him his fucking life.
Though his eyes did seem to catch on Tarquin a lot, today.
“You’re just getting better at this, Lorelei,” Ashur replied dismissively. His gaze lingered on Tarquin’s forehead for half a second longer than necessary before snapping back to the fight.
Maker, perhaps Lorelei was onto something after all.
With a grunt, Tarquin pushed his hair out of his face and uncorked a potion with his teeth, chugging it down quickly. A surge of renewed energy rushed through him; he used it to kick a nearby cultist in the shins and finish him off with a quick stab of his sword.
“Well, our resident lovebirds are distracting me,” Lorelei whinged, hamstringing an enemy.
She jerked her chin towards the alleyway where Hector and Quillon were stationed. The healer was crouched behind a crate, concentrating on a warding glyph, while the absolutely massive warrior stood over him, batting away stray arrows with his shield as if they were annoying flies.
“Careful, Quill,” Hector rumbled, his voice loud enough for Tarquin to hear even twenty paces away. He reached out to gently squeeze Quillon’s shoulder. “Don’t lean too far out. I can’t catch you if you fall while I’m too busy breaking necks.”
Quillon looked up, his face pale but his eyes bright with adoration. “I’m always perfectly safe when I’m by your side, Hector. Besides, I think you enjoy having me at your feet.”
Bloody hell, not again. They’d never learn, would they?
Hector chuckled. “I always do, love. Always.” He parried a sword strike without even turning around—the bloody idiot, too busy grinning like a fool—then winked at Quillon. “Though if you keep looking at me like that, I might forget why we’re here and just carry you off instead.”
“That would be most—”
“Focus, you two!” Tarquin barked, though there was no real heat in it. He couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his lips. Even in the middle of a battle, those two managed to be fucking disgusting. It was almost enough to make a cynical bastard like him believe romance wasn’t dead.
Almost.
The hamstrung enemy was easy pickings, no match for Lorelei’s blades and Tarquin’s shield, though Tarquin did almost slip and faceplant into a wall. Fucking rain.
There were just a few last stragglers now; Lorelei ran off to the other end of the street to finish off one of the remaining cultists. Quillon and Hector walked up together, exchanging a few quick words with Ashur before running off ahead.
Ashur slipped back into the murky darkness, hidden under an overhang, stealthy as always.
Tarquin squinted, but try as he might, he couldn’t spot the Viper at all. He scanned every corner, but…
Nothing. Ashur definitely knew what he was doing.
Then, Tarquin’s gaze caught on something in the far corner of the street; a flash of red.
“Left!” he called out, his voice cutting sharply through the pattering rain.
He didn’t wait for confirmation. He never did.
He knew Ashur would be exactly where he needed to be; a constant, predictable, devastating variable in Tarquin’s equations.
What could he say? Ashur rarely let him down.
Tarquin surged forward. To his left, two blood mages—these ones looking much fancier than the rest—robes sodden and clinging to their sturdy frames, were chanting a spell. Seemed ritualistic. Something deadly. Something dangerous.
Something Tarquin would really rather interrupt before he met his end in some Dock Town ditch.
One of them locked eyes with him, and raised a staff topped with a pulsating red crystal.
Too slow. Far too damned slow.
With a smirk, Tarquin slammed his shield into the mage’s armoured chest; the impact sounded like a thunderclap, startlingly loud in the empty streets. The Venatori stumbled back, the spell dying on his lips. Before he could recover, a spear of pure, crystalline ice shot out from the darkness behind him. It impaled him straight through the heart. The man froze over instantly, then shattered into a thousand glittering shards as Tarquin roughly shoved him aside. The other mage was dispatched just as quickly, with a single fiery blast.
Ashur stepped out of the nearby alleyway, the grey and turquoise of his Viper leathers blending with the shadows until he chose to be seen. He didn’t look winded, not even a little. If anything, he looked elegant, even with blood spattered across his armour. His mask was on, but his piercing, ocean-blue eyes peered out above it, glinting in the moonlight.
And they weren’t looking for enemies.
Tarquin reached up to adjust his helmet, but froze when he saw where exactly Ashur was staring.
The bloody Divine, the man who could level entire city districts and negotiate circles around half the damn Magisterium, was looking at Tarquin’s… hair?
Mesmerized by it, in fact.
Specifically, the bun at the nape of Tarquin’s neck. During the fight, the leather strap holding it had loosened. Several long strands had escaped, plastered to Tarquin’s neck and forehead by sweat and rain, curling slightly against the cold Starmetal of his helmet.
Tarquin adjusted his hair tie, pushed his hair across his shoulder, and watched how Ashur’s eyes snapped to the way one of the loosened strands curved around his pauldron.
Yep. There it was. Tarquin couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
Smirking, he opened his mouth to remark on it, then—
Tarquin noticed a flash of quick movement behind Ashur, and the man wasn’t paying attention at all. He was staring at Tarquin instead, utterly spellbound. The bloody fool.
“Ash!” Tarquin exclaimed, pressing past Ashur to intercept the incoming arrow with a swipe of his sword, the impact of it rattling along his arm. He pushed forward, bashed the archer with his shield once, twice— three times, overpowering the man in mere moments.
It was over almost as soon as it’d started. Tarquin stared at the corpse for a moment too long, chest heaving, his eyes wide.
Ashur hadn’t even fucking noticed the archer.
Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Was he really that distracting?
Fuck.
“All clear now,” Ashur stated—sounding entirely too fucking calm about what’d just happened—his voice a low rumble that vibrated deep in Tarquin’s bones. He walked over, stepping over a body with a casual grace. The kind that gave away his damned Highborn tendencies at a single glance. The kind that was far too bloody attractive. Annoyingly so. “Lorelei has the artifact. Hector and Quillon are securing the perimeter.”
“Good,” Tarquin grunted, wiping his blade on the dead archer’s robe before sheathing it. “But what was that just n—”
“You’re bleeding, Quin,” Ashur interrupted, his voice dropping lower, losing its commanding tone and turning into something private, something almost… hungry. Eager.
“It’s not mine,” Tarquin replied, though he wasn’t fully sure if that was actually true or not. He lifted his hand to wipe his cheek, but Ashur caught his wrist.
“Let me,” Ashur offered. He stepped closer, invading Tarquin’s personal space with a familiarity that would have gotten any other person killed. Or decked, depending on what kind of mood Tarquin was in that day.
But Ashur wasn’t just anyone, was he? He was… Well, everything, really. Though Tarquin would be loath to admit it, if asked.
But he was. And most of all, he was allowed. So, Tarquin let him do exactly as he damn well pleased.
Ashur’s gloved fingers traced the line of Tarquin’s jaw, along his beard. He brushed the blood on Tarquin’s cheek away with the back of his hand, staining his armour further.
“Gonna be hell to wash out, that,” Tarquin remarked dryly. But Ashur didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.
He definitely didn’t get all the blood; he seemed far too fucking distracted. Again. His eyes drifted downwards, once more lingering on the messy knot at the base of Tarquin’s skull—the helmet concealed a lot of his hair, but not the bun gathered low against his neck.
Apparently almost getting shot hadn’t cured Ashur of his desire, then. The loose tie was quickly becoming a fucking tactical hazard. An actual risk.
Despite that, the weight of Ashur’s attention instantly made heat curl in Tarquin’s gut.
“Your hair,” Ashur started, his eyes darkening. His fingers, usually so precise when weaving complex spells, trembled slightly as they brushed the damp locks away from Tarquin’s skin. “It’s come undone. I could swear you do this sort of thing on purpose, Quin.”
“What, me? Never,” Tarquin said, aiming for innocent, but it didn’t sound very convincing even to his own ears.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
“Does it distract you, Your Holiness?” Tarquin teased, his voice impish, sly. He tilted his head, giving Ashur better access, a small, cheeky smirk playing on his lips. “Is our vigilante hero losing his edge because he can’t stop thinking about how good my hair looks in the moonlight?”
Ashur let out a shaky breath, all but confirming Tarquin’s words.
One of the most talented mages in Tevinter. Maybe even Thedas. Brought low by a few strands of hair.
And Tarquin? Well.
He would be lying if he said he didn’t love this. Love that for all of Ashur’s power, for all the titles and the secrets and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Tarquin could apparently reduce him to this with nothing more than a loose hair tie and a bit of sweat.
‘This’ being a man with a one track mind, hell-bent on fucking Tarquin at his earliest convenience. The sooner, the better, or so it seemed.
Not that Tarquin was complaining, of course. He smirked wider, knowing that, too, would only light the fuse that was Ashur’s desire even further.
“You’re… you’re insufferable,” Ashur gasped out, but there was no bite in it. Only devotion. “You know exactly what effect you have on me. Walking around in that armour... gleaming, untouchable, deadly. And then you look at me with those eyes, and I want nothing more than to rip it o—”
“Come now, Ash,” Tarquin cut in, his smirk turning lopsided. “Can’t be talking like that. What would the Clerics say? The Divine brought to his knees by a messy bun?”
To Tarquin’s complete and utter delight, Ashur scoffed loudly.
“Right now, the Clerics and the Chantry can kiss my damn ass,” he muttered, his hand sliding up to tangle firmly in the loose strands, gripping tight. “And so can anyone else who tries to take you from me right now.”
Tarquin couldn’t help but laugh at that.
The Divine. Talking like that. Yeah, Tarquin was having a much bigger effect on him than he’d ever accounted for.
He couldn’t hold himself back from brushing his fingers against the Viper’s mask and tugging it down to expose the rest of his face.
Sure enough, beneath it, Ashur was smiling softly. Tarquin swallowed hard, his eyes lingering on Ashur’s mouth.
Ashur pressed closer. “Indulge me, Quin. Let me show you what you mean to me.”
Bloody hell. He wasn’t being subtle at all. Not even a little bit.
“Promises, promises,” Tarquin drawled, leaning in until their foreheads touched, allowing himself this one moment. His hair fell forward, cascading across his shoulder, and Ashur looked fucking delighted, because of course he did. “Maybe later. Right now, we have a job to finish. Unless you’d prefer to explain to Mae that we left the evidence intact because you were too busy staring at my bun?”
Ashur kissed his nose. “I’ll do more than that, Amatus.”
From across the street, a little ways away from the entrance to the Catacombs they’d just cleared, a loud, exaggerated gagging sound echoed. Tarquin stiffened, head whipping around to look at the source of it.
“Maker’s soggy balls,” Lorelei called out, leaning against a wall. She was twirling her dagger, her platinum braid gleaming from the nearby magelight. “If you two are quite finished having foreplay while standing over a pile of corpses, perhaps we could move, yeah? I don’t much fancy explaining to any patrolling Templars why there’s a frozen blood mage lying in pieces in the middle of the street. Or why one of their own is involved.”
Tarquin groaned, absolutely, completely refusing to budge even an inch.
Hector rounded the corner, laughing, an arm slung around Quillon’s shoulders. “Oh, give them a break, Lorelei.”
“It’s sweet,” Quillon agreed, smiling softly. “And, as it turns out, a bit of a health risk.”
“Young love is blind. And deaf to tactical advice, clearly,” Hector remarked.
Maker, they’d seen that, had they? They must’ve.
“Shut it, you two,” Tarquin shot back, though he still didn’t move away from Ashur. In fact, he leaned more heavily into his touch, letting the weight of his armour press against Ashur. He didn’t miss the way it made Ashur’s breath hitch sharply, exactly as he’d expected it would.
Maker, but there was such a stark difference between the brutality of the fight and this— this fierce, soft intimacy. The man who could level entire fucking cities, looking at Tarquin like he was the only source of light in the whole damn world.
It made him want to push Ashur into an alleyway and have his way with him, consequences be damned. And Ashur didn’t seem like he’d have many complaints if he did—
“Anyway, we got rid of the evidence,” Hector said, interrupting Tarquin’s musings. Gesturing to Quillon’s satchel, he pressed a quick kiss to the healer’s forehead, as if he couldn’t help himself. It made Quillon chuckle softly, eyes never leaving Hector.
Tarquin would normally comment on it, but, well.
Pot. Kettle. And such.
“Then we have all played our parts,” Ashur said, resolutely ignoring all the jibes. His fingers stroked the rim of Tarquin’s helmet, tracing the curve of the metal near his ear. “Rather successfully, I might add.”
“We’re done? Already?” Tarquin asked, his voice softening.
“We’re done,” Ashur confirmed. He glanced around the street, his expression hardening for a fraction of a second as he assessed the carnage they had wrought together.
They’d figured it out pretty early on, just how much damage the two of them could do together. Of course, Hector and Quillon worked together flawlessly as well, and Lorelei was getting more skilled every day.
But something about Tarquin’s shield paired with Ashur’s magic was especially lethal. They didn’t really need to speak to coordinate: a shift in weight, a glance, or the subtle flare of a spell was often enough. And when that wouldn’t do, a single word usually did the trick.
Truly, they fit together as well in battle just as they did in the quiet hours of the night.
For Tarquin, who’d never had the easiest time connecting to others, the ease of it felt remarkable, still. Even a month after they started this… thing, between them.
Words to define it weren’t really necessary when both of them just knew. Had known, for a very long time.
It was better than Tarquin could’ve ever wished for. It made him comfortable. Confident, safe.
And apparently, very fucking cheeky. Even in the middle of a battlefield that they should perhaps vacate.
“Time to go, yeah?” Hector suggested, echoing Tarquin’s thoughts.
“As I’ve been saying,” Lorelei agreed.
Hector, Lorelei and Quillon started walking towards the Catacombs.
But Ashur stayed. Lingered. He pressed in closer.
His hand slid from Tarquin’s shoulder up to his neck, fingers tangling in the loose, wet strands of hair that had escaped the helmet. He tugged gently, tilting Tarquin’s head back.
“Take your helmet off, Quin,” Ashur all but pleaded. “I need– I want to see you.”
Tarquin hesitated for only a moment before reaching up and undoing his chin strap, heart pounding in his chest. The heavy steel clattered softly as he set the helmet on a nearby crate. His hair tumbled down, heavy and wet, sticking to his forehead and neck. He shook his head, sending droplets of rain flying, and watched Ashur’s pupils dilate.
“There,” Tarquin said, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “Better now?”
“Very much so,” Ashur growled.
He surged forward, capturing Tarquin’s mouth in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was desperate, heated, and tasted of iron and rain. Tarquin groaned, wrapping his arms around Ashur’s waist, pulling him flush against the cold metal of his cuirass. He didn’t care about more blood smearing onto Ashur’s fine leathers. Didn’t care about Lorelei’s whinging and the way it undoubtedly made her roll her eyes, or Quillon whispering something affectionate to Hector somewhere ahead.
Ashur’s hands tangled in Tarquin’s hair, gripped the back of his neck, held him in place as if he feared Tarquin might vanish if he let go. The kiss was fierce, a silent conversation of relief, fading adrenaline and…
Love.
Impossible, improbable, but true all the same.
Earlier, Ashur hadn’t been wrong, exactly. Maybe Tarquin was doing it on purpose. A little bit. Cause… how could he resist trying, resist figuring out if his theory was correct? He was but a man. A bloody fool in love, regardless of how much he would’ve scoffed at the notion even just five years ago.
So yes, perhaps he’d tied his bun a bit too loosely earlier today. Perhaps.
It’d worked, hadn’t it? Though perhaps a bit too effectively. But how was he to fucking know it’d literally cause Ashur to lose his wits entirely?
Yeah, in hindsight, perhaps weaponizing his own hair had been a tad irresponsible.
Maybe. Probably.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. A streak of bright red blood from Tarquin’s upper lip had smeared across Ashur’s, staining them crimson. Ashur looked flushed, his hat askew, his eyes burning with a fire that had absolutely nothing to do with his magic.
“You’re a menace,” Ashur whispered, tracing the bloody smear on his lip with his tongue, never breaking eye contact. “A gorgeous, attractive, armoured menace.”
“And you,” Tarquin replied, reaching up to straighten Ashur’s tricorn, “Are completely fucking obsessed with me.”
“Guilty as charged,” Ashur admitted, leaning in to press one last, softer kiss to the corner of Tarquin’s mouth. “Absolutely guilty.”
Tarquin rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed him, betrayed just how pleased he really was.
Lorelei cleared her throat loudly, snapping them back to reality. She was leaning against the Catacomb entrance, impatiently gesturing at them to hurry up. “As much as I love seeing the Divine reduced to a simpering fool, we really should go before the Templars decide to investigate the noise. Unless you were planning to arrest yourself, Tarquin?”
Tarquin sighed, sliding his helmet back on. Then he interlaced his fingers with Ashur’s, reluctant to part fully. Ashur’s other hand immediately found itself back to his cheek, brushing his hair.
Fucking incorrigible.
“Lead the way, Lorelei,” Tarquin said, squeezing Ashur’s hand. “But if anyone asks, I was stopping the Viper from doing something reckless.”
“Reckless?” Ashur laughed, the sound warm and bright in the dreary alley. “I was merely appreciating the view.”
“The view is currently covered in blood and rainwater,” Tarquin pointed out dryly.
“The best kind of view,” Ashur countered. Finally, reluctantly, he withdrew, letting go of the lock of hair he was twirling around his finger, though his hand lingered, stroking Tarquin’s cheek for a heartbeat longer.
The utter sap.
“And the view is damn well gonna kill us if we don’t move,” Tarquin retorted with a smile.
“You’re right,” Ashur said, though his expression was mournful.
Was he fucking pouting?
Tarquin chuckled, ignoring Ashur’s pointed look. Maker, someone ought to tell the man he had a lifetime of being able to touch Tarquin waiting for him. There was no need to look so bloody disappointed. About any of this.
It was, however, incredibly endearing.
As they fell into step beside each other with the easy rhythm of partners who had fought a hundred battles and would fight a hundred more, Tarquin felt a surge of contentment.
The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from the stones, but it couldn’t wash away the warmth blooming in his chest.
In many ways, they were a mess, the two of them. A Templar and the Divine; a former soldier and a vigilante, bound by secrets and steel and fierce belief that defied the very empire they sought to dismantle.
But as Ashur brushed his thumb against Tarquin’s wrist, stealing one more quick, copper-tinged kiss as they turned the corner, Tarquin knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Of bloody course he wouldn’t.
coda
They made their way into the Catacombs, finally safe from the Templars.
“You fought well,” Ashur said softly, sounding entirely sincere. “That bash was impeccably timed.”
“Learned from the best,” Tarquin replied, glancing sideways. “And, well… someone had to save your arse and step in while you were too busy leering at me.”
Ashur grimaced, nodding slowly.
“But other than that, you did good,” Tarquin continued, “Though I seem to recall a certain mage freezing a target mid-cast just as I stepped out onto the street. Bit flashy, if you ask me.”
“Effective,” Ashur corrected. He squeezed Tarquin’s hand. His touch was gentle, contrasting sharply with the lethal efficiency he’d displayed only minutes ago. “You know, every time I see you in that armour, I am reminded of how contradictory you are as a person.”
Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “What d’you mean, ‘contradictory’?”
“You are fiercely protective,” Ashur explained, his eyes tracing the lines of Tarquin’s breastplate, the scuffs on his pauldrons, the stubborn set of his jaw. “Unyielding. Attentive. Calculating. A wall of steel. And yet...”
He let out a shaky breath, his expression shifting into something raw, tender. Ashur pressed a quick kiss to Tarquin’s hand. “Then you are also… this. Vulnerable. Playful. So alive. It terrifies me, knowing I could lose you at any moment.”
Tarquin stopped walking. The others paused a few paces ahead, sensing the shift in mood. Hector shielded Quillon’s eyes playfully to give them privacy, while Lorelei scoffed loudly, though she kept watch still.
Lose him. Tarquin swallowed hard.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ashur,” Tarquin said, his voice rough with emotion. He reached up, cupping Ashur’s face with his gauntleted hand. The metal was hard, but his touch was gentle. “Not while you’re still breathing. That was the deal, yeah? You keep the world from burning, and I’ll keep you safe while you do it. And you best believe I’m stubborn enough not to die on the job.”
Ashur leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “A fair deal,” he stated. “Though I fear I need far too much protecting.”
“Bullshit,” Tarquin insisted. “You’re much more powerful than you give yourself credit for. And...” He leaned in, his forehead resting against Ashur’s. “You’re stuck with me anyway. My hair, my armour, my sunny disposition. All of it.”
With a pleased hum, Ashur opened his eyes, and the love in them was so intense it nearly knocked the wind out of Tarquin. “Whatever shall I do,” Ashur teased. “A true life sentence.”
Tarquin rolled his eyes. “Complaining, are we?”
“Never, Quin.”
Tarquin grinned, pressing a quick kiss to Ashur’s lips. “Thought so.”
He eyed Ashur, brushing his fingers across the Viper’s ridiculous getup. “I mean it, though. I’m staying.”
“I know.” Ashur leaned into his touch. “I know, Tarquin.”
Someone ought to tell the man he had a lifetime of being able to touch Tarquin, indeed. And of course that person had to be Tarquin himself. Even if it was in the most roundabout fucking way.
But Ashur liked him that way, anyway.
Tarquin’s grin widened. He looked at the others, waiting patiently. “Well then. Ready to go home, Your Holiness?”
Ashur smiled back, a genuine, radiant expression that transformed his face completely. “Lead the way, Ser Knight-Divine.”
They turned to follow their team into the depths of the Catacombs.
The battle was far from over. The Imperium was still a beast of corruption and cruelty. But as long as he had his armour, his sword, and Ashur’s hand in his, Tarquin knew they could handle whatever the hell the future had in store for them, easy or not.
Even if it meant dealing with Lorelei’s scathing commentary and Quillon and Hector’s awful fucking flirting every step of the way. Maybe especially then.
Yeah, they’d be just fine.
The End.