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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Cullen doesn't. He said his goodbyes a long time ago.

He swings into the saddle. Looks at Alistair. "Ready?"

(His mouth is set. There's nothing in his expression suggesting a desire to linger.)

He looks up at Cullen -- and away, quickly, as if he's been caught doing something embarrassing.

His voice stays light, though: "Ready," he says, and pulls himself up onto his horse.

Cullen's brow furrows, a little, but he turns his horse away.

And he doesn't speak until they're well on their way south.

"We're making good time."

"Good." A slight smile. "Eager to get back to work?"

Unusually for Alistair, there's no teasing lilt to that question.

"Ready, at the very least." Mild. "And you?"

His smile goes crooked. "Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

A beat's hesitation.

"The break helped, certainly."

Cullen breaks into a smile. "Good." Sincere. "Be thinking about how best to kidnap me back at Skyhold, then."

Oh, good. Alistair relaxes into an answering smile.

Thoughtful, "I've considered hooking myself up to the winch, slowly lowering myself down to your desk while you're unawares, then grabbing you and hauling you away. What do you think?"

Through laughter:

"Yes. Do that."

"And shall I hum some dramatic music while I'm at it?"

Grinning, now.

"If it would improve your experience."

"It might." Satisfied. "All right, I'll be sure to craft a dramatically appropriate tune before I strap myself into the winch."

Beat.

"...You'll free me if I get stuck, won't you?"

"I might send Sera to do it." Smirking.

Alistair's jaw drops.

"But she'd spend six hours laughing at me!" he protests. "And probably stick a sign with a rude word on it to my backside before leaving me there!"

"Bribe her with jam," Cullen advises. "Josephine says that works."

He quirks an eyebrow.

"Any particular sort of jam?"

"Josephine didn't specify. Try her on strawberry."

Beat.

"Or don't. Give the strawberry to me."

"That will be your first hint something's amiss."

Solemn.

"Strawberries raining down on your from seemingly nowhere."

"...I have bad news," he says. "That's the opposite of amiss."

Alistair heaves a sigh.

"And so I'll be doomed to forever hang from a broken winch, pelting the love of my life with fruit. I see how it is."

A sudden, crooked, bashful smile.

"The love of your life, is it?"

"Yes."

He steers his horse a little closer to Cullen's.

"Ever and always."

Cullen ducks his head, still with that smile.

(And blushing, now.)

"Suppose that's all right," he mumbles.

"Good."

Soft. Warm.

"Remind me to kiss you when we're not on horseback."

"You need reminding?" It's a crooked grin, now, even if he's still pink.