Archive of Our Own ^beta

The green flash of the rift opening is burned into Krem's brain, painting itself across his vision every time his attention isn't completely absorbed in something else. It overlays the bodies littering Adamant's courtyards and hallways, and the distinctive hiss and thrum nearly drowns out the moans and sobs of the injured who haven't yet been tended.

It does not, however, drown out the Chief's complaining. "I don't need a nursemaid or the surgeons."

He's said it about a hundred times since he fell out of the rift. Krem continues to ignore him, using his grip on Bull's arm to steer him toward the surgeons' tents.

"I'm fine," Bull insists.

In memory, the rift snaps open again, malignant and almost alive, green tendrils of lightning snaking down to stab the ground and drag Fade creatures into the waking world. Once again, the wall is collapsing, and all Krem can do is watch in horror as bodies tumble into the rift and don't come out the other side.

He shivers and takes a better grip on Bull's arm, needing the physical reminder of skin and heavy muscle. All his usual humor is gone, sucked away by the rift and the cold dread that he hasn't yet shaken, even though Bull is walking beside him now.

"There's lots of other people the surgeons need to deal with," Bull says. "I don't need to waste their time."

Krem's composure cracks the tiniest bit. "You ever think maybe I need you to waste their time?"

Bull is silent for so long that they're ducking into one of the surgeons' tents before he says quietly, "Sorry. Didn't think about what that must have been like from your side."

"Forget it." As if either of them is going to forget this any time soon.

The arrival of a surgeon spares them both from having to stumble through that conversation, and the woman's brisk efficiency leaves no room for more protests from Bull. She helps him remove his armor and gets him seated on a cot, her orders as crisp and precise as any battlefield commander. Once he's down where she can actually look him in the eye, the surgeon examines him as thoroughly as Stitches might have, and Krem begins to relax.

Bull sits meekly though it, and submits to having elfroot dabbed on his swollen knee without a word, though he usually insists it never bothers him. He nods through her instructions, even the part where she tells him to rest for the next three days.

"No practice," she tells him firmly, and he nods obediently again. Her eyes narrow in suspicion, and she adds, "That means no practice of any kind. No sparring, no slow work, no picking up any kind of weapon at all."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Krem promises, amused despite himself. "We'll hide his sword if we have to."

A glimmer of humor peeks through the surgeon's professional facade, her mouth twitching in a brief smile. "See that you do." She turns another narrow-eyed gaze on Bull. "I know your kind," she says, "and I can see you haven't been treating your knee properly. Stop breaking things after we put you back together."

There's a definite implication in her voice that she'll personally track him down to tell him off if he doesn't obey, and Bull says, "Yes, ma'am," like he can hear it too.

She nods, provisionally satisfied, and lets them go with a last meaningful look at Krem. He grins back and salutes her smartly, earning himself an amused roll of her eyes in return.

When she's escorted them back out of the tent, Krem elbows Bull gently in the ribs and asks, "Like being back with one of your tamassrans, huh?"

Bull snorts. "She'd fit right in."

Weak as it is, the joke pushes back against the memory of the rift swallowing Bull up, and the tight knot in Krem's chest eases a bit. "Let's get you to bed, Chief. Before your tamassran decides we're ignoring her orders."

It's a long walk back to the Chargers' camp, and while Bull doesn't limp, his stride isn't as long and easy as usual. There's nothing Krem can do about the distance--or rather, nothing Bull would allow him to do--but he can keep them moving when Bull tries to stop to talk to the soldiers at the Inquisition camp's perimeter.

"Tama," Krem says from the corner of his mouth.

Bull laughs and offers the soldiers a wave instead of whatever words he'd planned to say. As they continue through the camp, he slants a look down at Krem. "Now who's being a mother?"

"Just following orders, Chief," Krem says piously.

"Not my orders," Bull mutters.

"You've got to be scarier than that surgeon," Krem says, pushing gently on Bull's shoulder to direct him toward his tent and away from the fire where a couple of the Chargers are nursing mugs. "And you're not there yet."

"Gotta work on that."

"Sure, Chief," Krem says, smiling reluctantly. "But tomorrow, all right?"

"Tomorrow," Bull agrees, letting himself be guided into his tent.

"Something to keep you out of trouble while you follow the surgeon's orders."

Bull makes a skeptical noise. "Sounds boring."

"Sacrifices for the cause," Krem says.

The tent flap falls closed behind them, and Krem stands for a moment, blinking around as if he's never seen the inside of Bull's tent before. He spent too long tonight thinking he'd never stand here with Bull ever again, and now that he is, his mind is struggling to catch up. They're here. Now what?

"Sit," Krem says, because that seems like a good place to start.

"Yes, Mother," Bull says, mimicking the tone Krem uses on him all the time. Since he also sits gingerly on the edge of his cot, Krem calls it a victory.

He's quiet after that, and it doesn't take long to get him cleaned up and lying down. Krem ignores a last murmured protest and pulls the blankets up, pulls over a stool so he can sit beside the bed. No smiles now, no joking, just the sound of Bull breathing beside him in the darkness, each breath drowning out the memory of the rift closing until at last, Krem can sleep.