howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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Cullen doesn't care for Morrigan, and it's wholly mutual. Fortunately he has little enough reason to venture into the Skyhold garden, with the exception of prearranged chess matches with Dorian.

He's seen the child before, watching wide-eyed as people move around the garden on business, or just to rest. The child doesn't talk to anyone -- doesn't want to be a bother, Cullen guesses. He speaks respectfully to Morrigan, as far as Cullen can tell, and it's clear that Morrigan loves her son.

Still. It must be lonely.

***

Dorian went to the Hissing Wastes with some of the Chargers, to take out a nest of Venatori. Cullen forgot.

The chessboard is already set. Morrigan's boy is watching by the well. Cullen beckons him over, introduces himself.

"I know," the boy says. "The collar marks you. My name is Kieran."

Cullen laughs, quiet. "Well, Kieran -- do you play?" At the boy's headshake, he asks, "Would you like to learn?"

He's a quick study. Maybe not today, but soon -- Cullen will start throwing games.

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Alistair goes quiet. Looks at Cullen for a moment.

"True," he murmurs at last, and slumps lower in the chaise. It makes it easier to rest his head on Cullen's shoulder that way; he angles himself just enough to keep watch on the stars.

His arm tightens around Alistair's shoulders in reflex.

It's late enough that any runners coming in would do so in an actual emergency. Which means... it's quiet. Maker willing, it'll stay quiet.

Alistair's had a hard day. Cullen doesn't know, and oughtn't to speculate, whether Alistair has had a bad day. Either way, it's just... a lot.

Everything's a lot.

(Even now, his mind turns to the unfinished work: if he puts his head down when he's alone, and sifts through the reports, piecing together information to make his best guess at the enemy's movements -- the enormity of what they face, and the weight of all those lives, won't crush him back into that terrified nineteen-year-old. All those lives.

But here's one, who's safe. Who seems to trust him.)

"If you'd like me to keep watch whenever you want to sleep," Alistair ventures, quietly, "I can."

Keep watch for what, he isn't sure. It just -- needs to be done, he thinks. Someone keeps watch. That's how it works.

(He has no idea what Cullen's nightmares might be like nowadays, but that, too, ought to be watched for. No one should spend more time in the worst parts of the Fade than necessary.)

That -- wasn't quite what he'd expected to hear, from Alistair, but it only startles him for a moment.

"I can't promise to always be available to do the same," Cullen says to the ceiling. "Given what we're facing. But if -- if it's not any trouble for you..."

It's a nice thought. Entirely more in the manner of a child's security blanket than a grown man ought to appreciate, but a nice thought nonetheless.

"I'd like that."

"It's no trouble." A small smile. "And there's no need for you to do the same, if you can't. Don't worry."

Seeing as Alistair's sleeping hours are...very sporadic, when they exist at all.

Bull might be a reasonable substitute in Cullen's absence, what with his thing about demons, and what with how his experience in Seheron ended. Krem, too; Cullen's been impressed with his fiercely even temper.

He should think about it. Think about how to suggest it. Add both things to his to-do list.

"Impossible." Cullen stifles a yawn. "And if I'm in Skyhold, and I can help... let me help. All right?"

He nearly brushes it aside with an instinctive, light, If you insist. Stops himself. Cullen wants to help, just as Alistair does, and -- it's not like Alistair doesn't want the help he's offering. Far from it.

He just misses the time when he didn't have to ask for quite so much help. That's all.

"All right," he agrees, still soft. More peaceable: "Also, should you ever make it a full hour without worrying, I'll pay you five sovereigns. So you know."

"...the Inquisition is responsible for my room and board, and a modest stipend I've no use for at the moment," Cullen says, amused. "Being as I've little enough spare time, and even fewer needs. Buy yourself cheese without guilt."

And then, just to be obnoxious, he gently ruffles Alistair's hair.

"Wh -- hey."

He tries to swat Cullen's hand away.

"Not the hair! You'll make it go all spiky again."

Laughing, Cullen resettles his arm around Alistair. "Perish the thought."

Alistiar pokes him in the ribs. "I thought you agreed it looked terrible when I used to make it all -- "

A gesture several inches above his head, to indicate the hair indiscretions of his youth.

Cullen jumps.

And scowls. Not that Alistair's got a good angle to see. Maybe some comes through in his tone. "I've mellowed in my old age."

...Right. That was a stronger reaction than expected. Note to self: no more jabs to the ribs.

Alistair subsides, folding his arms. The humor to his tone has gentled as he says, "Yes. So I've noticed."

Cullen huffs a sharp breath -- but after a long moment, he relaxes. (Makes himself relax.)

After a longer moment, he rests his hand comfortably on Alistair's head. Absent: "The problem was that it was well maintained until you got to the front, and then it stood up. And front-combing is ridiculous. If the whole thing had stood on end, it would have -- "

Beat.

"Well. It would have still been awful. But less awful."

Alistair wrinkles his nose, but holds still this time when Cullen touches his hair.

"When did you become such an expert on all this?" Amused.

"It comes with the title." The words come out on a sigh. "Ceremony and everything. You didn't miss much."

"Shame."

He tries to glance up at Cullen without moving his head too much.

"You'll have to let me borrow whatever you're using for yours. Since I doubt Double Commander involves such a ceremony and imparting of wisdom."

Cullen's eyes stay closed; his hand drops, heavy, down over Alistair's shoulder again.

"It's up there on top of whatever barrel holds that business."

Along with the razor he uses too infrequently, and the dim, scratched glass he uses to make sure he doesn't miss with the razor.

"Or in the chest. One or the other."

"Wonderful. I'll investigate later."

When he's not keeping watch. If Alistair had to place a bet, he'd wager Cullen will be asleep within the next ten minutes. Which probably means he ought to stop talking quite so much, too.

(How long has he been sitting here? By now, his chest has usually started to tighten, and the idle fidgeting -- which seems to be a constant -- has crescendoed to a need to run. But...there's none of that. He's not even tapping his fingers anymore, or jostling his leg around.

He's repeated that refrain, you're safe, as often as he can. This might be the first time since the Fade spat him out that he actually, truly feels it.)

"Don't use it all," he adds as an afterthought. "Or... else."

What, he's not sure.

"Ah, yes." By some miracle, Alistair manages to keep a straight face. "The dreaded or else. I'm terrified."

Cullen gets a (very gentle) nudge to the side. "I won't take it all. Promise."

Cullen snorts -- and ruffles Alistair's hair again, this time with great malice aforethought. (Spikiness aforethought?) "Do, and there's more where that came from."

"Agh -- "

Alistair tries to duck away from the assault. When that doesn't come anywhere close to working, he gives Cullen's hand another smack.

With over-the-top mournfulness, "I thought we were friends, Rutherford."

Laughing, he pats Alistair on the head.

"You were the one who said I act like an obnoxious older sibling. I'd hate to disappoint."

He heaves a melodramatic sigh, doing his best to smooth his hair back into place. "And to think I was sad about effectively being an only child, once upon a time."