howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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."

Alistair' turn to sigh. He drains a little more of his wine bottle, then sets it, and the half-eaten pie, aside.

It's so he can swing himself onto Cullen's lap, straddling his thighs. There's...not a lot of playfulness in his expression this time; he rests his hands on Cullen's sides, but absently, like he'd rest them on a railing for support.

Quieter: "Can it wait?"

Cullen's jaw is set.

There are fights to pick. This isn't one of them. And he oughtn't to be surly in Alistair's direction; it's not his fault Cullen came home tired and filthy.

Maybe if he can't sleep tonight, he thinks, he'll start on the mountain of work on his desk.

Cullen turns his head to the side. Drinks again. Nods.

Yet when every other part of Cullen's body language is saying no --

Well.

Alistair closes his eyes, just for a moment, before sliding off Cullen and returning to the spot at his side. He doesn't retrieve his food or drink; though he stays close, the quiet, from his end, has a different quality than before.

(It's just --

This is the first truly private time they've had together in weeks. Why can't it be enough?

The corollary: why can't I be enough?)

His eyes follow Alistair. What -- ?

"What did I do?" he demands, mostly alarmed, a little frustrated. "What did I do wrong?"

Still quiet, and calmer than he feels, Alistair says, "Do you want to be here?"

As much as I ever want to be anywhere.

He doesn't say that. Instead:

"Yes?" Puzzled and frustrated, now. "What did I do?"

He truly doesn't understand, does he.

Alistair's own frustration ignites; sharper than he intends, he snaps, "Then be here, Cullen. I don't want half of you here and half of you off -- off doing laundry. Doing your damn laundry, Andraste's ass -- "

Roughly, he drags a hand through his hair, fingers digging in.

"I've had one private night with you in weeks, I know you have to work, I know I can't be a priority, but I have missed you so damn much and I -- " His voice snags; he stops, trying to pull himself together. "Please just give me this. This is what I need from you. If all we have is a few hours, I need you here."