howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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."

It's only a coat, he thinks. The thought is clearer, calmer, than anything he's had in quite some time.

If it's bad enough for Alistair to lose his temper, then it's very bad indeed. Cullen sits back against the headboard, draws up his knees, lets the bottle dangle in between.

He takes another pull, then lowers it again.

Quietly, he says, "I'm sorry, Alistair. I'm here. I'm yours."

Alistair looks away; wipes his fingertips across his mouth, like the anger in his words tasted foul. He presses his knuckles to his lips. Nods, eventually.

(Cullen's not drawing away, or matching his temper with invectives of his own. That's -- better than he'd hoped.)

Silent, he curls close again, leaning heavily against Cullen's shoulder.

As much as he might prefer otherwise tonight -- he should put the bottle down. Not all drinking is done to be selfish, but tonight's contours in that direction. Time to stop.

He shifts just enough to put the bottle on the floor, and resettles with his arm around Alistair. Even more quietly: "And you're mine."

Alistair closes his eyes, sagging as more of the tension leaves him. This time, his nod's a little wobblier. He wraps an arm around Cullen's middle, turning to press his face to his shoulder.

For a few more beats, he stays quiet.

Then, half-mumbled: "Didn't plan for that to come out that way."

A low rumble of a laugh; Cullen slides his fingers through Alistair's hair.

"Your bite's much worse than your bark, I'm afraid."

That draws a halfhearted smile out of him. Alistair sighs, softly, and leans into Cullen's touch.

"I didn't expect it to be that difficult," he goes on, after another short pause. "Not really having somewhere we could go, while we were in the Basin."

Not having a reprieve here and there. Not like at Skyhold.

"You did well, though."

His turn, now, to start rubbing the back of Alistair's neck.

"Lot to be proud of, there."

He chuckles: halfhearted, still, but tracking toward genuine. "Made it through my first field excursion since the Fade," he says. "Not bad. No demons, only one surprise attack, and no deaths by falling gurgut."

"No stepping in any traps, either." Amused. "You weren't quite as promised, Alistair. I might suspect you of exaggeration."

"What?" He lifts an eyebrow, tips his head enough to look up at Cullen. "Me, exaggerate? Never."

He's finally hit a full, bright grin.

"Not even once," Cullen agrees, smile warming in response. He gently tugs a tuft of Alistair's hair. "Liars eat nothing but porridge, you know."

Alistair wrinkles his nose.

"Good thing someone had the foresight to bring some wine and pie up here, then."

"A stroke of brilliance, really."

"Now I'll just have to ration it very carefully." He snags Cullen's free hand, twining their fingers together. "Delay my sad, porridgy fate as long as possible."

"I see you're trying another strategy."

He strokes Alistair's hand with his thumb.

"Turn yourself into a limpet to leech off my breakfast. Clever."

Alistair puts on the most innocent expression he can muster.

"Is it going to work?"