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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"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."

Sleepy as he may be, Alistair brightens.

"And here I am lounging about when I could be eating." He snags Cullen's hand, lays a kiss on his palm, then pushes himself to sitting.

-- Oh, that's why the tent looks bigger. Maker, just how late did Alistair sleep?

Cullen's smile goes crooked.

"And as soon as you're done, we should get moving."

Well, that answers his question.

"Really?" He crawls forward to get a look at the sky; when he sees how high the sun's risen, his expression shifts toward rueful. "Damn."

...And then he has to rub his eyes again, because ow, too bright, too early even though it's almost midmorning.

"You needed the sleep," Cullen says, hoping that will forestall guilt. "We're still on time."

"Yes, I know, but..."

He sounds wistful.

"Wish we could stay longer."

A slightly crooked smile -- he doesn't agree, but saying so won't help -- and he says, "They'll send an entire squad after us if we do. Come on, Theirin. Up."

Alistair grumbles dramatically. "Taskmaster," he says, with all due fondness, and heaves himself in the direction of his pack to locate a shirt.

All of his plate will keep until after that tea, thank you.

Fortunately, by the time breakfast is done, he looks considerably more awake. Alistair hauls some water from the lake to douse the last of the coals.

Cullen, meanwhile, is packing the canvas tent as tight as he can before tying it on the horse.

It's been -- fine. Good. But if he lingers, he won't be able to help wanting to explore, and --

He needs paperwork. Or to stab something. Or to travel. Traveling is the easiest option at this point.