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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"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.

"I agree." Soft. "I'll be here."

Alistair nods. He brushes one more kiss over Cullen's forehead, then eases down onto the bedroll.

"Love you," he whispers.

(It's important, as always, that that's the last thing Cullen hears before either of them fall asleep. Maker knows what might happen while they're in the Fade.)

"The cross one loves you too."

Cullen rests a hand on Alistair's head for a moment, then begins stroking his hair, slow.

Alistair smiles, small and sweet. He leans into the touch.

There's hardly any fidgeting this time: within fifteen minutes, he's dozed off, the last of the tension giving way to boneless sleep.

Good. With any luck, he'll stay that way.

Cullen tilts his head back for a moment and closes his eyes.

Then, silently -- he doesn't want to wake Alistair -- he begins reciting the Chant.

A couple hours past sunrise, Alistair stirs.

No violent jolt to wakefulness this time: he draws breath, opens his eyes, blinks a few time as he finishes surfacing from the Fade. Yawning, he scrubs the heel of his palm into one eye to clear away the sleep dust.

Cullen has been busy.

As much has been packed as can be without bringing the tent down around Alistair's ears. Tea brewed. Breakfast (last night's trout) prepared. He's even polished his greaves and vambraces, which glint obnoxiously in the morning sun by what's left of the campfire.

When Alistair stirs, Cullen, who's returned to his place beside Alistair, goes back to stroking his hair.

The tent seems bigger than when he fell asleep. Huh. Cullen's here, though, so -- that's all right.

"Morning," he mumbles. "I miss anything?"

"Not a thing." Small, warm smile. "There's breakfast. With tea."