howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Well, it's not like you were using it," says Alistair, blandly, as he keeps scrubbing his cheek.

"True. And you've also lost all right to complain whenever I do it."

Satisfied.

"Forever."

Alistair groans, slinging the cloth back into the basin to wring out the ink.

"That is the only time I've ever done it," he points out, "while I've damn well lost track of how many times you've done it."

"Meaning you have no proof."

Alistair scowls, and attacks the ink smudge with renewed vigor without deigning to reply.

Cullen watches this process for a moment.

"You're all right."

It might be a question. It might not.

A rough shrug. "Yes. I'm fine."

Another dunk of the cloth. The water's turning an unappealing grey color; he wrings out the cloth and gets back to work anyway.

"How are you feeling?"

Cullen rolls his eyes.

You can't play a player, Alistair.

"Warm," he says. "And better than you, I'd wager."

"Because you slept in a bed rather than at your desk, I'm sure."

The line of his back remains taut, but Alistair throws a glance over his shoulder, eyebrows quirked, before returning to the task at hand.

"Now I understand why you're so grumpy all the time."

"Do you have any idea," Cullen announces, "how difficult it's been to not act like a bear since the moment I left the war room."

Alistair pauses midway through wringing out the cloth, then resumes, slower.

"I've some idea, yes." Quiet. "You've done admirably there."

Cullen snorts.

"Come lie down. Or go to bed somewhere else. You'll feel better."

I'm fine, he wants to say again, but -- that's not going to get him anywhere, is it. And he's got a crick in his neck from sleeping at Cullen's desk, anyway. Maybe somewhere soft, with an actual pillow instead of a stack of paper, really will help.

He sighs, nearly inaudible, and peers into the glass next to the basin to judge how the process is coming along. Answer: well enough for now, though it looks a bit like Bull decked him in the jaw.

Alistair tosses the cloth aside and moves to join Cullen.

Two furs is a little excessive; Cullen tugs one in Alistair's direction.

...and rescues the report, which crinkles a little.

"You're all right," he says again, softer. He's occupied trying to securely shove the report under his pillow.

Alistair nods. He busies himself with the fur for a moment, ensuring he's properly cocooned.

"So are you, I'd hope?"

He lets out a soft sigh.

Wry: "I'll be going down to the springs later. But yes."

Half a smile that quickly turns rueful: "I'm fine."

"All right."

He'll...do his best to take Cullen at his word. For now, at least.

"Hang on, there are springs? That anyone can reach?"

How has he not found them in all his pacing around Skyhold? THIS IS GREAT.

Cullen laughs a little.

"We've done our best to keep them quiet. But yes. Below the cells. Good for soaking."

"That," reverently, "is very good to know."

(And that explains why Alistair never found them: whenever he's gone to the cellars, he hasn't ventured beyond the abandoned library.)

"Especially when it's this cold out."

"At least it's warm enough to snow," he murmurs, eyes closing. "Feels like home."

"You could lead a snowball fight in the yard." Innocent. "If you're looking for something to do after you've finished soaking."

"Inquisitor says nothing more strenuous than reports." Absent. "Can't very well defy her in public."

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "I suppose she's got a point," he says, doleful, and burrows deeper into the fur. "And I should encourage anything that ends with you taking a break."

Beat.

"When I build tiny snowmen of everyone at Skyhold, I'll be sure yours is reading a report so the Inquisitor knows you've been following her orders."

And whether Alistair likes it or not --

That's why. That's exactly why he ordered Alistair to stay at Skyhold. Because on the off chance the intelligence was wrong, he'd be an asset in defending their home; because if the intelligence was correct, taking him to the Arbor Wilds was as good as a death sentence.

And here he is, making stupid cracks about stupid snowmen and stupid jokes at Cullen's expense. He's all right. He's safe.

He doesn't reply right away. Frog in his throat. Perhaps it's the dry environment.

"I doubt your artistic prowess," he says, after clearing his throat. "But I wish you luck."

His smile gentles. "Always appreciated, Commander."

Alistair rolls onto his back, watching the leaves shift above them.

"I know you've had a very long few days, so I won't mess your hair." Beat. "...Also, you're right, this is very warm and now I don't want to move."