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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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.

"Good." A crooked smile. "I'm not a very good storyteller. But I'd like to think it meets a standard of basic logic."

"You're a perfectly capable storyteller, ser."

His hand finds Cullen's again.

Soft: "And I'm very much looking forward to when we can make that story a reality."

He lifts their hands, kisses Alistair's knuckles, murmurs:

"You just want me to get a cold so you can laugh at me."

"And dote on you in between the laughing," Alistair reminds him.

"You mean fuss."

Alistair opens his mouth, as if to protest.

In a grudging admission of defeat: "Maybe."

Cullen laughs.

"Don't tell anyone," he says, hushed, "but that might be all right."

Alistair breaks into a delighted grin.

"Your secret's safe with me," he says, before planting a quick kiss on Cullen's lips.

He brushes Alistair's cheek with his free hand. No louder: "I know."

His grin softens back to a fond smile.

Alistair rests his forehead against Cullen's; after a moment, he kisses him again, slow and sweet.

Cullen sinks his fingers into Alistair's hair, hand contouring to his head. He doesn't press for more -- Alistair's still too freshly awake for that, he thinks -- but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy this.

The kiss doesn't end so much as drift to a halt. Alistair doesn't open his eyes.

(It would be nice. It would certainly be a good way to stay awake, if Cullen's willing. But there's just enough uncertainty flickering in his gut to make Alistair think, Later.)

For now:

"I think I ought to try sleeping again," he murmurs, with reluctance.