howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Then I'm further glad, for your sake, that the trebuchets came to pass and let you put all your hard studies to work," says Alistair. "And should I ever need to calculate the precise arc to lob a tomato from the tower onto Solas's head, I'll know who to ask."

"You should calculate it yourself. It's good for you."

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "You know I've no head for that sort of thing."

He can't even hold his own in a chess game against a ten-year-old.

Cullen rolls his eyes. "I won't believe it until you've tried to figure it out for yourself. You didn't have a head for it when the sisters were rapping your knuckles for some reason or another."

His smile goes crooked; he shrugs, glances down under the pretense of making sure he won't lose his footing on the hart trail they're following.

"I know my strengths, is all." Light.

"And you also know that strengths must be cultivated." It's mild enough.

"Mm." Just as mild; still smiling, a little.

(And still not looking up.)

"And I've got to have plausible deniability if you're planning to launch anything at anyone's head."

Alistair breaks into a laugh, and gives Cullen's shoulder a gentle nudge.

"All right," he says. "To maintain your pristine reputation, then."

"I appreciate it," he says, very dignified.

Alistair lapses back into quiet.

The trail curves, bringing them close to the shoreline again. He breathes deep, taking in the scent of mud, of clear water, of healthy vegetation -- like Skyhold's garden multiplied for miles in every direction. No wonder Cullen likes to hang out in the garden during his down time.

With some embarrassment, he realizes a tiny tense spring has uncoiled under his ribs, now that he's back under the trees. Easier here than under open sky.

"A complete lack of excitement."

Quiet. And very satisfied.

"Excellent."

Alistair laughs, softly. "Don't say it too loud," he warns, "or fate might send something crashing through the underbrush straight into us."

"The eels won't grow legs," Cullen says, "and there aren't any gurguts."

"Bears?" suggests Alistair. "Harts? An eagle mistaking one of us for a tree branch and perching on us for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Alistair, if you don't stop cultivating mayhem on the one break we get, I will be forced to take drastic action."

(He's smirking.)

With one eyebrow arched:

"Oh? Just how drastic are we talking about?"

Is it the fun kind of drastic?

"You'll regret finding out," he warns.

"Not the fun kind of drastic, then," he sighs. "Woe. Alas."

"I didn't say that." Peaceful.

Cullen stops. His hands go to Alistair's hips.

Slowly, never breaking eye contact (and never losing that smirk), he goes to his knees.

Oh. Well then.

Alistair's eyes widen slightly. His throat bobs; one hand settles on Cullen's shoulder, the other sliding to his hair, cradling the back of his head.

"All right?"

Quiet; smiling, now. Asking permission.

Alistair nods. It takes a moment to find his voice; when he does, it rasps a little.

"Yes." His fingers curl more firmly into Cullen's hair. "Please."

As he works on Alistair's trousers, he murmurs, smirking again:

"Cultivating mayhem leaves very little time for this sort of thing, Alistair. You ought to know that."

"I wasn't cultivating," Alistair protests, hoarsely. "I was preparing. Just in case."

His thumb strokes along Cullen's temple.