howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

Cullen is fine in the field. He can set up a tent, build a fire, find water safe to drink, make something edible. But he hasn't traveled enough to get the knack of what's wise to bring.

These days it makes little difference, given his status: he helps to set up camp, but there are runners and adjutants to find and fetch things. And there are few enough of them, this time -- not the massed force of the Inquisition, but a patrol's worth of soldiers and scouts and accompanying support -- that in the evenings, Cullen finds himself... restless.

It's akin to the reason he doesn't frequent the Herald's Rest, but there's no office to hide in, and no paperwork to justify staying in the tent.

At least tomorrow he and Alistair will peel off to where Honnleath used to be, to spend the night and rejoin the rest again late the following day.

(This may also contribute to his fidgeting.)

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Alistair heaves a long, doleful sigh.

"No fun either, apparently."

Cullen shrugs a little, smile going crooked, gaze sliding away.

"I know I've not got a lot to recommend me." Wry. "A reliable schedule, perhaps?"

"I was teasing, Cullen."

Softer, as he smooths a hand over Cullen's hair.

"You've plenty to recommend you."

"...including a reliable schedule."

"Yes," he says, dissolving back into laughter. "Including that."

Cullen pats his back. "You know how to make a man feel wanted."

"It's a gift," he agrees, before sneaking another kiss.

And then another, just to be certain.

Only when Alistair is satisfied does Cullen tap him on the shoulder.

"Budge up," he tells Alistair. "You got heavy."

"...Right, yes. Sorry."

Sheepishly, he rolls off Cullen. Twisting just enough to reach the blanket, Alistair snags it to drape over both of them.

"Don't apologize." Mild. "It's a -- notice, not a complaint."

"Still," says Alistair. With a lopsided smile, he works his arm around Cullen's shoulders. "I'd be very sad if I accidentally smothered you. No telling how I'd explain it to the Inquisitor, either."

He turns in toward Alistair with a contented sigh.

"Make up something suitably graphic and you wouldn't have to provide a full explanation."

"That could be a fun challenge," he muses. "Think up something so horrifying that even Lavellan would recoil and beg off two sentences in."

He smooths his hand over Alistair's chest: complete hedonism. "Has to be in bed. Remember that. Something you could say with a straight face."

"Mm."

It's possible he meant that to be a thoughtful sort of hum. Cullen's hand feels very nice, though; the hum sounds a bit closer to the noises Alistair was making earlier.

"Not laughing at my own terrible jokes may be difficult."

Grave indeed: "I believe in you."

"I could practice." He smirks. "Rattle off the worst of my joke arsenal as seriously as I can. Right now."

His hand stops.

One finger pokes Alistair in the chest.

"That's a choice you could make." Ominous. "All choices have consequences."

"And let me guess."

He sounds like he's holding back laughter again.

"This particular choice will end with you throwing me in the lake."

"Or worse."

Alistair gives an over-exaggerated shiver.

"I dread contemplating it," he says. "All right. I'll behave myself."

"Very wise."

Cullen kisses Alistair's bare shoulder.

Another quiet, pleased hum.

Alistair turns onto his side, keeping his arm around Cullen. His free hand goes to the back of Cullen's neck; presses, gently, to urge him closer for a kiss.

Cullen doesn't take much urging.

"You don't feel like being still, do you." Murmured, with a small, warm smile.

"I -- "

Alistair's ears redden. Not in a good way; more like he just got caught nicking extra food from the kitchens. He drops his gaze.

Rueful: "That obvious?"

(If they were back at Skyhold, he would've been running laps around the fortress by now. Of course, if they were back at Skyhold, his nerves wouldn't be jangling at every hour of the day, either.)