howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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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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A soft, inquisitive noise. "How so?"

He'd look up at Cullen, but that'd involve moving.

Cullen shakes his head a little.

"I don't know," he says again. "Just... thinking about what it means to be unrecognizable to the people who care what happens to you."

"Mm."

Alistair's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"I don't think you're ever truly unrecognizable," he says eventually. "There's always a part of you that's -- you. That core bit that sticks around even when everything else about you changes. And the people who care about you can see it."

"Do you think Leliana would agree with that?"

Cullen doesn't.

"I don't know."

Quiet.

"Lel was a bard before she joined the Chantry. It's a part of her I saw in battle, but...not as often as I see it now. Maybe that's the core of her. I wouldn't have thought it was, but I also didn't know her as anything but a lay sister."

Cullen doesn't respond right away.

(His heart rate picks up, though.)

Even:

"Was I recognizable at Kinloch?"

Alistair draws a careful breath. Everything feels very cold, and very clear, all of a sudden: like the moment's crystallized, suspended. If he says the wrong thing, it'll shatter.

Problem is, he has no idea what the right thing to say would be, either.

The truth, then. It's all he has. (Maker, let it be enough.)

"The parts of you I always recognize," he says, no louder, "are the one that wants to keep people safe, and the one that wants to serve something greater. At Kinloch...we all knew what could happen if a Circle fell and sent abominations out into the world. I recognized you. You thought there was no hope for the people inside, so the best you could do was protect the people outside."

Cullen lets out a very long breath.

His arms tighten around Alistair. He buries his face in Alistair's hair. After a moment, he nods a little.

(If that's always been true -- then maybe -- )

Seems like that was the right thing to say.

Relief washes over Alistair; he runs his hand up and down Cullen's back, slow and gentle, before pressing a small kiss to his shoulder.

He doesn't trust himself to speak quite yet.

Not everything is different. He's not quite unrecognizable. Not everything has to seem like it happened to someone else.

Cullen rests his cheek against Alistair's hair and tries to ignore the lump in his throat.

Even Alistair can recognize when it's time to shut up and give Cullen a moment.

(Besides: if he's said the right thing, better not to say anything else, lest he accidentally ruin it.)

His hand keeps moving in silent comfort.

Finally, a little hoarse:

"I'll give you a chance to take that back before I accept it."

Alistair shakes his head, just enough to get the point across.

"It's yours," he whispers. "Freely given."

Cullen shuts his eyes tight.

Then, plaintive:

"I miss the paperwork. It keeps me from thinking about all this."

Alistair breathes out.

"I know." His hand settles on the back of Cullen's neck and begins to knead, gently. "I'm sorry. I could -- make up paperwork for you, if it'd help."

"'How many differences are there in these drawings of your lieutenants as nugs?'

Amused, despite himself.

"That doesn't count as paperwork, Alistair."

He huffs out a laugh.

"It's strategically vital," he says, "in case they suddenly turn into nugs mid-battle. How else will you be able to recognize them?"

"Chain of command, Theirin." He lets his eyes close. "It's the responsibility of their captains first."

"Right, yes, of course. My mistake."

Still kneading the back of Cullen's neck.

"I'll pass them along to the captains, then. And write up a nice long report describing their faces when I handed over the sketches."

"On my desk in a week, Theirin."

It's mumbled, as he bends his head to give Alistair better access.

"Yes, ser, Commander." Near to laughter.

He works his fingers along the spots that always seem to knot up the most; moves down to where Cullen's neck meets his shoulder.

A small sigh. He leans his head on Alistair's shoulder, boneless.

Eventually, Alistair smooths his hand along the back of Cullen's neck. Touches his lips to Cullen's hair.

"Get some sleep," he whispers. "I'll keep watch."

"Wake me up," he mumbles. "When it's my turn."

"I will."

A soft squeeze.

"Love you, Cullen."