howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Your ideas of privacy -- "

He pauses long enough to snag Alistair's fingers and kiss them.

" -- appear to be incompatible with peace and quiet."

"Well."

Serenely.

"You keep giving me ideas."

"True."

A loud sigh.

"I suppose I should go to sleep, then, lest I give you any more. Good night. Stay on your side of the bed, would you?"

Laughing, "Oh, no you don't -- "

Alistair grabs him by the waist and rolls over to pull Cullen atop him.

Cullen lets out an obliging squawk.

"What's that supposed to achieve?"

"I can't get to my side of the bed now," says Alistair, cheerful once more. "Tragic, really. I'll just have to stay put."

"And I'm stuck," Cullen says, plaintive. "What about peace and quiet?"

"You've seen me be quiet!" he protests. "...Sometimes."

A beat.

"We could be quiet while eating pie."

Cullen thinks about this.

"Only," he says, solemn, "because I'm in an excellent position to get crumbs all over you."

Alistair snorts. "It's a burden I'll have to bear, I suppose," he says. "All right. Basket's -- "

He waves a vague hand toward the foot of the bed.

" -- over there...somewhere. Ish."

Cullen rolls over and peers at the floor, brightening quickly.

The basket as a whole comes up, but he immediately seizes upon a bottle of wine. "This one's mine."

"Ah, yes," intones Alistair, with as much snootiness as he can muster. "I see you've selected our best murder juice vintage."

He grabs another bottle, plus one of the pies.

"Cabot foisted some wine glasses on me as well," he adds with another laugh. "He's more optimistic than he lets on."

"Perhaps another time." Cullen settles back against the headboard; he's got a pie in one hand and the bottle in the other. "I intend to make efficient use of these last few hours."

"Agreed."

Alistair nestles close; taps his bottle against Cullen's, gently. "To a few hours of peace, quiet, and no wine glasses."

"And no stairs," he says with satisfaction, and drinks deeply.

(It's true that Cullen doesn't care to drink too much. But they're back in Skyhold, and tomorrow -- )

Fortunately, Cullen says that before Alistair takes a gulp of his own wine. He snorts, loudly, and lifts his bottle a few inches in agreement.

The drink's excellent -- thank you, Cabot, as always -- and sets to warming Alistair's belly in short order. The pie's even better, flaky and flavorful and filled with meat that hasn't been salted to the Anderfels and back. Maker, he's missed real food.

(He could get a little -- inebriated. A little.)

Between bites:

"How's Kieran?"

"He's well." Alistair grins. "Think I'll have to fetch him some decent books on the Avvar next. He's read a few, but he wanted to know how they stacked up to the real thing."

"I take it Skyhold's library is lacking?"

"A little, from the sound of it."

A swallow of wine; a bite of pie.

"Lacking from the perspective of a ten-year-old, anyway, no matter how precocious that ten-year-old may be." A thoughtful beat. "Though he might be more interested in that book on hold-beasts after our chat."

He's so cheerful. So cheerful.

Cullen takes another deep dive into his bottle.

But it's with something approaching good grace that he says, "Good. Storvacker is with us to strengthen bonds between allies."

And there's no way it's not all over the Inquisition by now.

Color Alistair impressed!

His hands are full; the best he can do, in lieu of patting Cullen's shoulder, is give it a nudge. "If it helps," he says -- less humor and more sincerity now -- "I didn't say that Storvacker was under your command. Just that we'd...sort of come into the care and feeding of a hold-beast. And I certainly didn't mention the criticisms she had of your coat."

Cullen heaves a sigh, and gives the ladder a sour look.

"I suppose it would make the most sense to wash it in the springs," he mutters. "Maybe I should do that tonight. So it can dry."

"Cullen."

Very seriously.

"That involves putting on trousers. Ask yourself: do you want to subject your person to such a cruel punishment as trousers?"

Another deep drink. His head's beginning to feel loose: good.

"More than I want to pass it off to the laundry."