howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"There are several dozen dead mages who would disagree with you."

The corners of his mouth tighten.

He doesn't say anything.

"At least a few of them had families. That doesn't even start to touch the innocents after the Chantry explosion. Alistair, you always want to make me out as something better than I am, but you need to realize that I'm a much better judge of my own behavior. Especially when it's about things that you weren't there to witness."

"It doesn't occur to you," says Alistair, very quiet, "that I'm not ignoring what you did in Kirkwall, just choosing to forgive you for it?"

He rubs a hand over his hair. Doesn't look up.

"I'm not some lovesick -- well, I am," he amends, a touch rueful, "but I'm not blind for it. I'm well aware you did terrible things in Kirkwall, even if I don't know all the details. I just happen to think that in the years since, you've proven yourself better than who you were in Kirkwall."

Flat:

"That might hold water if, and only if, we manage to destroy Corypheus."

Silence, again.

(Alistair is so tired. There's nothing he can say that Cullen will bother listening to. Just the same old arguments that've never worked before.

If you could see yourself the way I see you --

And Cullen clearly thinks that only an idiot would see him with any kind of grace.)

With a flash of latent temper, like a cat lashing its tail:

"Have you anything else to impart about my nature, regardless of the facts or your awareness thereof?"

He closes his eyes.

"No." Toneless.

"Excellent," he says, acerbic. Then, in a single, fluid movement, he launches himself forward and out of the tent, leaving his boots behind.

He needs some air.

Alistair doesn't bother to pursue.

He leans his forehead into his palm, throat working. Well done, remarks a sour voice. You ruined it again. The one night you'll have alone in weeks, too.

By virtue of -- what? Being too kind? Fuck that. This isn't his fault. Not this time.

(Not that that makes Alistair feel any less sick.)

What he needs, he thinks as he storms along the shore, is some -- sudden shock. Something to slap him into feeling less raw. Into acting right. A walk isn't going to get it. Not when every place he looks conjures a memory of Before. But how?

Should Alistair stick his head out of the tent at the sound of the large splash and ensuing cursing, he will spy Cullen's clothes on the dock -- crumpled, not folded.

The splash jolts Alistair out of his thoughts. He's out of the tent, dagger in hand, before the cursing registers.

...At least something didn't sneak up behind Cullen and shove him in, if the clothes are any indication? He thinks?

(Cullen, what the hell.)

Tensed, uncertain, he creeps toward the dock.

He surfaces, water dripping into his eyes, and shoves his hair back.

When Cullen spies Alistair, he looks a little sheepish.

Gasping a little -- it's cold! -- he manages, "Needed a distraction. To calm down. This -- seemed like it'd do."

Unwillingly, one corner of Alistair's mouth twitches. "Ah."

He relaxes his hold on the dagger; doesn't set it down, though.

"It's cold," he says.

Helpfully.

Cullen keeps treading water.

"You were right to put your socks back on and stay out of it."

"And exactly how long to you plan to stay in there freezing your bits off?"

Rueful:

"Until I'm reasonably certain I won't take whatever this is out on you."

He gestures up at his hair. "It'll dry awfully, and then you can make fun of me."

Alistair tries for a smile. It's wan, at best, and doesn't stick around very long.

"Well, since nothing's trying to eat you -- " He holds up the dagger. "I'll go put this away."

He doesn't wait for a reply before turning back toward their tent.

Right.

He tried to tell Alistair, once, that the reason he leaves when he gets upset is so he doesn't lose control and hurt someone who doesn't deserve it.

An example, he thinks, sourly.

Cullen hauls himself out of the water -- no eels or leeches, thank you very much -- and uses his shirt to dry himself off. Trousers on only, he wraps his arms around himself. Shivers. Drips, some.

(It is better, though. His mind's clearer.)

Inside the tent, it's just possible to make out Alistair rummaging through their packs, rather more than one might expect for something as simple as putting a dagger away.

When he re-emerges, he has a blanket slung over one arm: the thickest one they brought along.

Wordlessly -- and with a half-smile that's a bit more solid than before -- he unfolds it, holds it wide, and tips his head inquiringly.

"Thank you." Quietly, as it settles around his shoulders.

He doesn't say I don't deserve this, because it'll just start it all over again.

(But he's thinking it.)

Alistair hesitates a moment, unsure if he wants to leave his arm around Cullen as well. In the end, he does.

He doesn't do more than that though. No attempts to guide Cullen back to the tent; no drawing him closer, or pushing him further away.

No words.

Slowly, carefully, attuned for any sign of resistance, Cullen turns to bring his arms around Alistair, blanket and all. Like a damp, surly bat.

Alistair exhales. He shuts his eyes, and offers no resistance as Cullen draws him in.

(Damp, surly, and cold. At least Alistair's body heat can help with the last bit.)

His fist tightens in the blanket.

Murmured into Alistair's neck:

"I mentioned I was difficult?"