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The thing about having nothing is you tend to pick up whatever you can, wherever you can. When he left he ran, taking basically nothing save the clothes on his back. Even his sword, usually strapped to his hip, had been abandoned, left with his armor and coin and every other fucking thing he had been given by the army before they had found out the truth of the matter.
"Time to go before more show up. Can you stand?"
"Y-yeah." He took the hand offered to him. The qunari reached for the man he just took down–just intercepted a for him, a total stranger–and passed over a blade with the hand not pressed at his bleeding eye socket. "Cremisius. You asked what you could call me."
"Kinda long," the qunari replied as Cremisius took the hilt of the blade. "C'mon Krem. Hope you know how to use that thing. We might need it."
***
After several days of being shuffled between Stitches and the Inquisition medics, Krem's finally released enough to survey the damage. He never liked the infirmary, always leaving him feeling a bit more on display than he's comfortable. Stitches is okay. Stitches is familiar. The inquisition medics though–they might know more, but they're familiar too, in a different way. Reminds him too much of the army. Makes him wonder if the only reason he's still here are the Inquisitor's good graces and the threat of Bull's axe.
His body itches as he makes his way back to his own tent, a scratch that's not quite tangible and has nothing to do with the gash still healing in his chest and stomach. Krem longs for a familiar safe weight of his cuirass and pauldrons. It's a stupid and he knows it. Trying to wear his armor right now, body still healing and not ready for the strain on his muscles? But it felt right. Grounding. Something he needed after so long being openly on display as he was. Besides, it was a stupid ass decision to try and fight that dragon that started all this too, and he'd let the boss talk him into that one. At least this time he'd be making that stupid ass decision for himself.
His armor doesn't sit by his bedroll where he usually keeps it, nor is it anywhere else in the small tent. It's odd. Disorienting, the loss of this simple yet comforting form of destruction. Like climbing on uneven ground, it leaves him untethered, struggling to regain his balance as the rocks clatter away beneath his steps. Krem sighs, running hand through his hair, wincing at the slight pull of his stitches at the stretch. When he turns to leave he almost runs face first into a wall of muscle.
"Fuck's sake chief. Trying to smother me with your tits."
The Iron Bull grins down at him and Krem takes a step back. His smile is easy, relaxed. It doesn't betray the underlying worry, nor does his tone, but Krem can sense it. The damned qunari spy training had done a lot to hide the truth of Bull's thoughts, but Krem had spent years as his second, until he’s almost an extension of the man himself. He likes to think he can read the boss more than normal.
"Alright there, Krem-puff? Hate to have to go find myself a new lieutenant. Though 'm sure I'd get a lot less lip if I appointed Grim."
"If you want rid of me you're going to have to try a bit harder." Krem crosses his arms over his chest. It's an action that he does a lot, but this time it comes off just a touch less casual. Just a little more anxious. Bull had seen all of him, known him for what he was since the beginning, but the familiar itch still pulls at the front of Krem's chest. Even in front of him, he still feels exposed now. "You know where they put my chestplate?"
"Look." The Bull sighs. "Take it easy for a few more days. We'll have you back in the mix soon, but I'm not having you pull those stitches they just put in."
A small lump lodges itself in Krem's throat. The worst part of it all is, if it were anybody else, Krem would be telling them the same thing. Better to sit things out for a bit than go into a fight unprepared and not pull your own. Watching each other's backs is a part of what they do, but go in injured and foolhardy and it can cost not just you but your friend covering your ass. This isn't about the fight, though. His armor is familiar. His armor is safe. His armor hides the parts of him he'd rather shove down and ignore. He thinks, in some ways, Bull gets that last part. Krem's never been big on the Qun, but he understands the comfort of a role. He thinks, in the more immediate, more tangible ways, Bull doesn't understand at all.
Krem huffs. "Won't go out and pick another fight with a dragon, if that's what you're worried about. At least some of us have a sense of self preservation. My armor, chief. I should at least have it."
"Look," Bull starts with a heavy sigh, "you don't get hurt like that and have your armor make it out in one piece." He waved vaguely at Krem's chest.
Krem, to his credit, resists the instinct to curl back into himself. The realization drops in his stomach, heavy like a lead weight on a fishing net, dragging him down to the bottom. It makes sense. Of course it does. The dragon ripped through flesh and skin. His cuirass is meant to protect all that. It's armor after all. Of course it hadn't made it through unscathed.
"If you want, I can have one of the guys drop it off and you can take a look at it. But a hit like that...not sure if that's quite something Harritt can fix."
***
It's stupid to get so sentimental about, Krem thinks as he runs his fingers against the split in the fragmented metal. It's just a chest plate. He's not even from Kirkwall, for fuck's sake. It's just something he picked up. They had tracked down a couple of bandits causing some problems in the Free Marches, including a rogue city guard. It wasn't even a particularly interesting job. But he had it—what? Seven, eight years now? Almost since he and Bull met. Something to mark the life he had now, as opposed to the one he'd left in Tevinter. And now it was gone.
"You know, I could help you get new armor. If you'd like."
Krem glances across the flicker of the flame at the familiar face of the Inquisitor sitting on a stump across from him.
"Yeah, probably should," he says, tone unconvincingly flat even to himself. The jagged splinter tore clear through, metal curling inward. It had been bad luck, the dragon had tossed him backwards and claws cut through the metal. A dent would have been easy to fix, just hammered back to shape. A split was different. Splits were not so easily reformed.
"I'm sure our troops have some extra, but if you'd prefer I could talk with Blackwall and see if he has anything different lying around. Unless you'd rather look in the shop."
"I appreciate it, Your Worship. I'll consider the offer. It just—" He cuts off, unsure how to finish the sentence. It just was what? That it fit him in a way that was comfortable, right, even without binding his tits? Or that it was so familiar that it had become an extension of himself?
"I'll leave you to think on it," the Inquisitor replies with a pat on Krem's shoulder as he goes. Krem watches him go, finger catching on the jagged metal as he thumbs over it. He continues to press absentmindedly, the slight sting just enough pressure to focus him.
***
"You almost done here, Krem-puff?" Bull asks, slinging an arm over Krem's shoulder as he sits next to him, nodding at the drink in Krem's hand.
"Just started. Don't tell me you're going to pull me away already. I'm still sore about those casks you made us close up on the coast." He takes a sip, swallowing down the dry bitter tang of it. Bull motions for a tankard of his own before downing a long gulp. When he finishes he pauses before nodding toward the door.
"Bring it with. Got something I want you to look at."
With a sigh and another swig Krem rises, bringing his cup with him. He had done some exploring—wandered the tower past the library and up to where Leliana received her reports, snuck the occasional snack from the kitchen while chatted with the cooks—but Bull leads him to an area of the fortress he hadn't much looked at, a door to the side of the Inquisitor's throne.
"Got it ready?" He calls instead of a greeting as they enter. Harritt grins.
"Dagna finished it up last night. You're lucky the Inquisitor asked that dwarf on. Knows what she's doing, that one. Here."
Harritt gestures at one of the workbenches with supplies strewn about and Bull nods for Krem to take a look. He walks forward, the sun filtering in catching the glint of polished metal.
It's smooth. He runs his hand along it, fingertips ghosting up as he passes over each ridge. There’s a slight color distortion where the metal had been heated and reformed, but otherwise it has no signs of the damage from the battle, no ugly raised groove or scar marking the gash he had taken. It was perfect. It was his.
"She said something about reinforcing it too, wanted to use some of those scales you brought back. You'd have to ask her about that one."
"I thought it was too far gone to fix," Krem says, finally finding his voice.
"Took a bit of careful work. We were lucky you kept it in such good shape. Helps with the heating and reforming."
Bull slings an arm around Krem's shoulder and takes a sip from his tankard before speaking. "Could tell you were worked up about getting something new. Thought it was worth a shot to see what an expert said. Apparently, they like a challenge."
Krem presses his hand flat against it, feeling the familiar ridges of the stupid Kirkwall symbol under his palm. A piece of himself slots back into place, leaving him with a wave of calm like a deep exhale. Easy and natural.
"I—It's good. Thanks, chief.”