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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 long beat goes by before Alistair nods, just a little. His shoulders slump.

"If I fall asleep in a strange place," he says, "like...hanging upside down from a tree branch. Just wake me and move me back to bed."

It's a weak joke, but at least it's a joke. (Sort of.)

Culllen laughs quietly.

"I'll carry you myself."

At last, the corners of Alistair's mouth lift. He lets himself close his eyes.

"Slung over your shoulder like a sack of grain?"

Still warm, still gentle:

"Nothing so undignified, I assure you."

"Good." Half-mumbled. "Got a reputation to maintain, Rutherford."

"Reputation-conscious as always."

He kisses the top of Alistair's head.

"One of us has to be."

The wan smile grows.

"You've been with the Inquisition longer," he points out. "You already have a sterling reputation. Means you never have to worry."

"I'm very good at worrying about other things," he points out, squeezing Alistair's hand.

"True. Better all around if you leave this worry to me."

He falls silent, feeling Cullen's shoulder rise and fall beneath his cheek. If you want to go back to sleep, he almost says, I'll be awake a while yet. But he knows Cullen will just demure.

So instead, quieter: "Is any of the brandy left?"

Maybe if he has a medicinal amount, it'll put him back to sleep.

"Mm." He disentangles himself briefly to go rifling through his pack. When he finds the flask, and presents it, he puts his free arm around Alistair.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and nestles closer as he uncaps the flask.

After a pull or two, he recaps it; sets it on his knee, fingers loosely curled around the metal.

Cullen tightens his hold on Alistair for just a moment.

"Would you like a story?"

Alistair's eyebrows lift. He tilts his head just enough to look up at Cullen, starting to smile again.

"Please," he says.

You're the best, it sounds like.

There's something self-deprecating in Cullen's smile; he ducks his head. (He's been thinking about this one for a while.)

"Once upon a time," he says, "there were two men who lived on a farm about half a day's ride from the nearest town. There was a village halfway along the road, but the villagers all knew who the two men were, and whenever anyone passed through on the road, saying they were looking for the two men -- because they used to be quite famous for their bravery, ferocity, and their good looks, so of course the curious nosy people wanted to intrude -- the villagers, to a one, all said, oh, you didn't hear? they moved to Orlais. This is because they'd grown quite fond of the funny one, who was inevitably followed by a pack of at least thirty perfectly trained mabari at all times, and they were quite handy at routing pests from the local granary."

"Quite an impressive feat, training so many mabari," says Alistair.

His smile's found its footing, and it doesn't look like it will budge for a while.

"And so well," Cullen agrees. "Anyhow -- the result of the villagers' discretion was that nobody intruded on their farm who wasn't already expressly welcome. So the people who did visit were friends, and the funny one was very glad to see them. So was the other one, to be sure, but he was often quite cross. It was just his nature, and he and everyone else were quite mystified as to why the funny one put up with him. Eventually they surmised it was because the cross one did most of the labor in the fields and would come in every night too exhausted to be cross in the funny one's direction. No, he saved his ire for very sensible things. Like the weather.

"And as time went on, the funny one finally wore down the cross one until he stopped being quite so cross all the time, and they both worked the fields and the funny one got very good at it, and the mabari chased away all the birds who wanted to steal their grain. And except for minor domestic fusses, like the time the cross one caught a cold due entirely to his own foolish stubborn behavior and was so pathetic the funny one couldn't do anything but laugh at him, they had very nice and quiet lives, and they were both very happy. The end."

Alistair sighs out a long, contented breath. He catches Cullen's free hand with his own.

"A lovely story." Warm. "Thank you for sharing it, Commander."

"The one I heard it from tells it much better." He squeezes Alistair's hand. "But I'm glad you liked it."

Alistair lifts his head long enough to kiss Cullen's cheek, then settles back against his shoulder.

"I hope the funny one did eventually manage to get the cross one some tea while he was sick," he says. "And a nice soup. And blankets."

"Between spasms of laughter, yes." Cullen says this very straightforwardly.

"Oh, good, so he's not completely terrorizing the cross one. I might have to have some stern words with him otherwise."

"They're the funny one and the cross one because they're both nice. So it doesn't work to try and differentiate them by niceness."

"I see." Gravely. "I'm relieved to hear it."

He uncaps the flask to take another pull, then offers it to Cullen.

He shakes his head a little.

An hour or so until first light, Cullen figures. As long as they're on the road by mid-morning, they'll make the rendezvous without any problems. But he also doesn't want to risk a headache.

"You don't think it's a little unbelievable?"

"That they're both nice? Of course not."

He nudges Cullen in the side, gently, before recapping the flask. The brandy's helped: his shoulders don't feel nearly as taut anymore.