Cullen (
howtoactfereldan) wrote2017-01-14 09:30 pm
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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.)
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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He doesn't say anything.
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"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."
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"That might hold water if, and only if, we manage to destroy Corypheus."
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(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.)
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"Have you anything else to impart about my nature, regardless of the facts or your awareness thereof?"
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"No." Toneless.
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He needs some air.
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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.)
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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.
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...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.
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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."
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He relaxes his hold on the dagger; doesn't set it down, though.
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Helpfully.
Cullen keeps treading water.
"You were right to put your socks back on and stay out of it."
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"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."
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"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.
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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.)
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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.
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He doesn't say I don't deserve this, because it'll just start it all over again.
(But he's thinking it.)
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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.
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Slowly, carefully, attuned for any sign of resistance, Cullen turns to bring his arms around Alistair, blanket and all. Like a damp, surly bat.
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(Damp, surly, and cold. At least Alistair's body heat can help with the last bit.)
His fist tightens in the blanket.
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"I mentioned I was difficult?"
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