howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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Life settles into a routine that's... pleasant.

Cullen is dependent on Leliana's intelligence to begin to plan any countermoves against whatever Corypheus does next. Instead he's begun the process of spreading the results of the debriefing into training, for everyone. His written plan has been faithfully copied and disseminated among every officer, and Cullen spends most of his days in the valley, now, making sure that they're putting the plan into place in a proper way.

With a second victory under them, now, their forces are confident and committed; their rest has left them ready to work.

And not a few of his more senior officers have observed that the commander appears to be in particularly good spirits. Cullen always threatens them with overnight rotations. Unfortunately, his mouth twitches when he does it.

(He's also stood the soldiers in the Herald's Rest a few rounds, here and there, before excusing himself quickly. This also has not gone unnoticed.)

Cullen's feet don't hesitate when he descends the stairs into the cells. Samson's there; Cullen doesn't have to see him (and won't). Instead, Cullen turns down the narrow passage leading to the springs.

"Brought cheese on toast," Cullen announces, once he's through the locked door.

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"Nothing," he manages, resting a hand on his forehead as he keeps laughing. (He's going pink again.) "Nothing at all. Just happy to see we have such -- polite engineers on hand."

"If they were really polite," Cullen says, leaning against his desk, folding his arms, "they would have knocked first."

"Well, yes." Still snickering. "But now they've learned their lesson?"

Very, very dry:

"Ask Bull whether people learn their lesson about knocking where he's concerned."

"I'd really rather not," splutters Alistair, the laughter redoubling. "Oh, Maker -- "

"There are some things that one cannot unsee, Alistair."

"Oh, no." With growing horror. "You -- ?"

Cullen indicates a rather immodest length with his index fingers.

Alistair makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes round.

"Cullen," he says after a moment, mournfully, "I have to train with him. Why would you do that?"

For one, to get Alistair to unclench around Bull.

But the real answer:

"Because it's funny," he says.

Alistair shakes his head. Still with the over-the-top sorrow, he says, "I wished for you to develop a sense of humor, and look where it got me. What have I done."

He holds out a hand to Cullen.

Who takes it, and lays a kiss in his palm.

Quieter: "What you deserve."

Alistair's smile warms. He swings his legs down and scoots over to give Cullen enough room to sit, if he wants.

"I didn't ask how your day went," he says. "Morrigan said there was cake at the meeting, but I suspect it was a damned dirty lie."

Beat.

"...Was there cake?"

What to say?

Answer the direct question. "A distinct lack of cake," Cullen says, and settles down next to Alistair. "Although if there had been cake, we'd never have gotten to eat any because Leliana and Josephine would have bickered over it until the day was over."

"You could have called for reinforcements to defuse the situation," says Alistair, as he drapes an arm over Cullen's shoulders. "And by 'reinforcements,' I mean me."

Another beat.

"And by 'defuse,' I mean 'steal all the cake for ourselves.'"

"That's right," Cullen says, as though freshly reminded. "Leliana likes you. You might even get away with it."

He's careful about how much he lets himself lean against Alistair (or anyone) while he's in his armor, but it's -- nice.

(The point of spending time in the chapel today was to give the weight over to Andraste, so that he wouldn't take it with him at the end of the day. It's... not as effective as he'd hoped.)

"If the Blight was good for anything," says Alistair, very solemn, "it won us imaginary free cake a decade later."

It's tempting to drum his fingers against one of Cullen's pauldrons. He refrains.

"I will take your word for it."

"Optimism." A quick kiss to Cullen's temple. "Or something like it."

Cullen laughs, soft, and leans his head against Alistair's. He'll get up and do the work he needs to do in a minute.

Any minute now.

After a minute, Alistair moves his hand to Cullen's hair.

Threads his fingers through, combing slow, gentle.

His shoulders come down from around his ears, and the small sigh he lets out is tired.

(There's every chance that every elf in Wycome was dead by the time the message arrived at Skyhold.)

Soft:

"What is it?"

Of course it was too much to hope that he wouldn't notice.

"Can I tell you after...?" Cullen waves a hand at his desk. "It's nothing pressing."

"Of course."

Still quiet: still moving his hand through Cullen's hair.

"...That means I have to let go, doesn't it."