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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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."

"Love you," he echoes. It doesn't take him very long at all after that to drop off.

The sun finishes making its way below the horizon. Outside the tent, red melts away to purple, then blue, then black.

Alistair still feels antsy. With the songbirds asleep, insects and owls and frogs have awoken to replace them; it's no more quiet than it was hours ago. Cullen's here, though. He knows the terrain.

And Alistair knows he'll keep him safe.

He'll give Cullen as many hours as possible before nudging him awake. One advantage of being wound tighter than usual: Alistair can take much longer watch shifts.

When it's his turn, Cullen stirs, first giving Alistair a sleepy-sweet smile before sitting up, rubbing at his eyes.

"All right?" Soft.

That smile stirs up a fierce protectiveness in Alistair's chest; he smiles, touching the small of Cullen's back for a moment.

"Mm-hm." A badly stifled yawn. "You?"

Cullen nods, reaching for Alistair's hand. "Good. Go to sleep."

"M'gonna try."

He weaves his fingers through Cullen's. Closes his eyes.

"That owl and I have an accord, so you know. If it hoots again it'll be breakfast. Don't go easy on it."

"Never." He squeezes Alistair's hand.

"Though I thought you'd know predators aren't good game meats."

"Desperate times, Commander." Solemn. "We're living rough."

"Eel's better than owl," he murmurs, and smooths Alistair's hair with his other hand. "I've got it taken care of. Rest."