howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

For Cullen, it's either sleep or get up and do laundry.

And it was a long day. A long ride, a long meeting, and -- much as he doesn't like to admit it -- a long evening. He could have used the time to get settled, to get ready for what's to come tomorrow.

If he sleeps now, he can get up early and do those things, and Alistair won't have grounds to complain.

Cullen makes himself slow down his breathing. That's the first step.

"Love you," Alistair whispers, before he sinks too far. "Welcome home."

And with a yawn, he settles into sleep.

"Love you too," Cullen mumbles. He's not too far behind.

Alistair sleeps like a rock the whole night. Solid walls don't let much sound out, and they don't let a lot in, either: no more jolting awake every few hours, like he did in the Basin, because of something he heard outside their tent.

(And while there were plenty of people with pointy weapons in the Basin...knowing there's extra reinforcement should those pointy weapons fail is a big help.)

He doesn't stir until well after sunrise.

By which point Cullen's at his desk in his shirtsleeves: Harritt's giving his armor a once-over and his coat's gone to the laundry. There's a neglected mug of tea and a sandwich with three bites gone on his desk; a sheaf of paper threatens their existence. Cullen is oblivious to all of this, of course.

(Within Alistair's line of sight, on his dresser, are two sweet rolls, a sausage roll, and a pot of tea on a warmer.)

Oooh.

Alistair brightens, sleepily. Scrubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes, he shuffles out of bed to retrieve the food -- and, as an afterthought, his trousers, though he doesn't don them right away. Food first. Trousers second.

One sweet roll later -- and a mug of tea poured, and the sausage roll split in half -- he makes himself presentable enough to descend the ladder: a somewhat precarious operation, owing to the mug in one hand. (The half-a-roll's stuffed in his mouth.) Upon seeing that Cullen's still here, albeit buried in work, he brightens further.

"Mrphng," he says, eloquently.

There's a delay of several seconds.

"Hm?"

Absently, without looking up.

A soft thump as Alistair's stocking feet hit the floor. He bites through the roll; chews industriously for a moment as he crosses to Cullen's side.

"Morning," he tries again, far less muffled this time, before planting a quick kiss on Cullen's hair. "Thank you for breakfast."

Cullen glances up, smile brief but warm. "Thought it might be welcome."

"Always."

He takes a swig of tea, then nods to the chaise.

"I'll finish it very quietly over there? And keep my interruptions to once every four hours?"

Cullen shuffles through his papers briefly, discovers what he's looking for, and holds it up for Alistair to take: an hourglass.

"We have an accord."

Laughing, Alistair balances the roll atop his mug so he can accept the hourglass.

"Good luck, Commander," he says, before settling in at his post on the chaise.

"See you on the other side," Cullen says, dry, before returning his attention to the matter in front of him.

(It's long enough before he takes another gulp of tea that the contents of the mug have to be cold. Cullen doesn't appear to notice.)

Alistair's nearly finished his own tea by then. He eyes Cullen's mug with resigned amusement. Then he puts his drink aside and wanders back to the ladder.

When he returns -- even more precariously than before -- it's with the teapot gingerly balanced on its warmer. The farthest corner of the desk has yet to be completely eaten by paperwork; he sets both pot and warmer there, before moving on to the bookshelf in search of something to read.

(He puts the odds of Cullen noticing at somewhere around negative one thousand, but hey, at least the nice warm tea's within easy reach if he wants more.)

Briony's done a good job of sorting things in his absence by order of priority. He'll need to go spend some time at the war table to familiarize himself with where everyone stands -- there have been movements, of course, after a few weeks -- which means that the bulk of what Cullen has to do is read and internalize information.

After a few hours he can't sit still any more; without looking up, he gets up and starts to pace, without diverting his attention from the report in front of him.

Alistair's own restlessness takes a different path; he's been up and down the ladder several times by now. Whereas Cullen's focused, Alistair's distractible: I should shave, he thinks as he rubs his chin, and up to the basin he goes. Maybe I should put on more than my shirtsleeves, he considers, and wanders upstairs yet again.

...And a scarf, he realizes as he brushes one of the more tender marks on his neck, ears reddening slightly.

(He can't put name to the weird mix of contentment and faint embarrassment as he studies the marks. Like he should be more flustered at being claimed so boldly, but can't bring himself to be anything but pleased by it.)

So despite the hours passing, he's not more than fifty pages into his book by the time Cullen starts pacing. He looks up; looks to the hourglass; traps one finger between the book's pages to mark his place.

Quietly: "Need a break?"

"Mm? -- no." A quick glance up, then back down. "Just stretching my legs."

Is Alistair -- hovering? Cullen ought to say something. Shouldn't he? Maybe after the initial four hours is complete.

"All right," he says, no louder, and cracks open the book again.

Maybe he should go stretch his own legs -- go to the library to find something else to read (because clearly this book isn't holding his attention too well), or go to Herald's Rest to say hello to Bull. But the initial four hours will be up soon. If he were going to leave, he should've done it a while ago.

Oh well.

After another minute or so of pacing, Cullen drops the report on his desk and leans over it on both hands, brow furrowed.

Another moment's thought: he picks up a pen and starts to write in the margins.

(He should say something. This isn't -- can't be -- the new normal. Alistair wanted last night; Cullen did his best to give it to him.

There's no reason to feel like the walls are closing in.)

Hey, there's still half a sausage roll upstairs, isn't there.

Alistair shuts the book -- having made it a grand total of four more pages -- and heads back to the ladder. Muted footsteps echo back and forth above Cullen's head.

Cullen presses the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment.

Then he remembers that he's still got tea and most of a sandwich. A few bites of one, a gulp of another, and he's good to go, settling back down at his desk.

And there's still an entire sweet roll left upstairs, too. Nice.

Alistair takes the time to savor both rolls, but that only kills another twenty minutes. The closer they get to the four-hour mark, the antsier he gets. Maybe he should just -- stay up here to remove the temptation to start poking Cullen on the shoulder or something.

Except his book's downstairs. Damn.

The footsteps above Cullen's head resume as Alistair starts pacing.

Between reports, Cullen glances up.

He stifles a sigh, and reaches for his sandwich again. He can ride this out. Then he'll say something. It'll be fine. It'll be fine.

The hourglass is downstairs, too, which means he can't actually tell how much time has truly passed since he came upstairs. Ugh. This is ridiculous. He feels like he's back at the Chantry, squirming in his seat during lessons.

(A pretty apt comparison, considering Cullen never had a problem focusing while the sisters prattled on.)

Giving up, he slides back down the ladder and retrieves his book.

The last straw.

Cullen looks up.

And says, casually, "Alistair, might I ask a favor?"