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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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.)

Cullen wasn't quite expecting that.

"It's not a bad thing." Soft. "Should I ask why?"

Alistair shrugs, just a little. "Not used to being out in the field again." Low. "Yet. Is all."

A fraction of a beat.

"I'm not unfit, I swear it, I just -- " He breaks off in a small huff of breath. "Everything seems louder, I suppose. I'll get used to it."

Eventually. He hopes.

"Hey." Low. "You're not unfit. I'd be more concerned if you weren't feeling it was an -- adjustment."

"You would?"

He chances a glance back up at Cullen.

"Yes." Calm. Firm. "It would indicate carelessness. Or worse. But that's not what's happening."

Alistair breathes out. Nods.

He tucks his face against the curve of Cullen's neck; after a moment, he murmurs, wry, "So if I scream like a child and jump two feet in the air when I hear a loud noise, you won't hold it against me?"

Cullen strokes Alistair's hair, and says, no louder, "Of course not. Unless you scream in my ear. And even then I expect I'll get over it."

He huffs out a laugh against Cullen's neck. "That's a relief," he says. "I'll try to hold off on any panic until I'm three feet away from you, at least."

"I do love you for your kindness." There's laughter in his voice. "Among other things."

More soberly: "But please -- tell me, when this happens. All right? It's safer for both of us. We can even have some kind of secret handshake if that would help."

If he can talk Alistair into it, Cullen figures, it'll probably be with a secret handshake.

"...You trust me to wield the awesome power of making up a secret handshake?"

He's starting to smile.

"Absolutely not," Cullen says, cheerful. His fingers work slowly through Alistair's hair. "But I'm doing it anyway."

A small, contented sigh. "You're the best."

He closes his eyes.

Quieter: "It's not -- awful. Not like it used to be. I'm just on edge. Feel like I need to run around a lot more. That sort of thing."

He nods a little -- carefully, since he doesn't much care to disturb Alistair.

"Well," soft, "you could demonstrate to me your wyvern-wrestling techniques, without a shirt. That way we'd both be happy."

Alistair snorts, amused. "Does that mean I have to get up and find a wyvern?"

"No, it means you have to fight an imaginary wyvern."

Beat.

"Or just do calisthenics. I'm not picky."

This is a rank lie. Cullen is extremely picky, generally speaking.

"One hundred push-ups, just for you." Solemn. "So long as you hold my feet while I'm doing the one hundred sit-ups that follow."

"You have a deal." He gently ruffles Alistair's hair. "Assuming that would help, of course."