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He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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"Being a bear."

He amends, "To you."

Right.

Alistair shrugs. Matter-of-fact: "That makes you someone who's got other things on his mind besides entertaining me," he says. "And higher priorities."

Not today he doesn't. Inquisitor's orders.

Cullen looks away.

For all Alistair's insistence that there's more to him than his role in the Inquisition --

"Right," he says.

"I forgot."

He resettles, looking at the far wall.

Alistair breathes in. Breathes out.

(This isn't about him. Cullen's carrying more than usual, and can't do anything about it.)

"I don't want to make this worse," he says, eventually. "That's all."

"And you think your presence would be worse than your absence."

That's a little flat.

Alistair cracks a halfhearted smile.

"Have you met me?"

Annoying Bastard, party of one, your table's ready.

Stiffly, without moving:

"I apologize for anything I might have said or done that would convey that impression."

The smile fades; Alistair sighs.

"You haven't," he says, quieter. "Look, I know I'm an obnoxious ass. Grass is green, the sun rises in the east, and Alistair makes terrible ill-timed jokes all the time. It's not news."

There's nothing self-pitying about his tone. It's as matter-of-fact as before.

Edited 2016-10-19 17:35 (UTC)

Like a dog poked at one too many times, Cullen snarls:

"And I feel better when you're around regardless!"

Are you sure you didn't get kicked in the head too many times in the Wilds? Alistair nearly asks.

"Really?" he says, more dumbfounded than he means.

(Like they didn't just have this conversation this morning. But -- it's different, saying don't leave in the context of Alistair joining the Inquisition.)

"Yes, really," Cullen snaps. "I realize I'm frequently incapable of saying precisely what I mean, but I don't know how I can make it any clearer!"

Alistair draws another long breath.

"All right."

He's hunched in, a little, completely unconsciously. One hand cradles his elbow; the other hands loose.

What else can he say to that?

"Either shut up and get over here, or go away, but it's your decision."

Scowling.

"I just told you my preference. And if it ever changes, which I doubt, very much -- I'll tell you then, too."

All's quiet, for a beat or two. Then: footsteps.

The bed sinks again.

From much nearer than before, wry and self-deprecating (and still, under it all, a touch baffled): "Maybe tomorrow will be the mythic day I'm not an idiot. Seems like today is a wash in that regard."

Alistair unlaces his boots.

Cullen is silent.

(He's never sure whether it's the yelling or the general upset that brings on the headache, but one's looming now, waiting to settle in.

Just what he needed.

It definitely doesn't have anything to do with the poor life choices he's made over the last several days.)

So's Alistair. (For now.)

Boots off. He swings into bed, stretches out next to Cullen; turns his attention up to the tree branches.

...Is that a bird's nest up there? Maker.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead again. Sometimes it helps.

A long sigh. He'll come up with something to say in... a minute. Or two.

He didn't used to worry this much about being an obnoxious ass, did he? He's not sure. Alistair folds his arms behind his head, trying to suss out if that tangle of twigs really is a nest.

(He also rarely has people who say don't leave. And if Alistair did have to venture out on his own nowadays, in the state his mind's in -- well. Who knows how far he'd make it.)

One. Two. He counts his breaths, trying to stay still.

Cullen turns over, moves closer, settles his head on Alistair's shoulder.

"Sorry." Barely audible.

Alistair doesn't hesitate: he untucks one arm and settles it around Cullen.

"It's all right," he murmurs.

Cullen shakes his head a little.

(He doesn't like yelling. Not like this.)

"You went through something awful." Quiet. "A special kind of very personal awful. You came back hurt. You don't have anything to keep you busy. And when everyone comes back, some of that awful's going to come back with them."

He tightens his hold a little.

"I'd be a bear, too."

"Not to you." Still barely audible. "You don't -- have to be around for this. I understand."

Alistair smiles, faintly.

"I've made it this far," he says, gently teasing. "What's another twelve hours?"

Cullen stiffens.

"A great deal."