howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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?"

"Yes?"

He looks up.

"Since I'll be occupied until well after sundown -- "

He gestures at his desk.

" -- would you consider going out and making some sketches of what's happening in the courtyards and in the keep? I'd like to know what's going on."

There. Plausible. And a large task.

Alistair glances to the hourglass. It's on the tip of his tongue to object -- but it's almost been four hours -- and then he pauses, and thinks back over exactly what he's been doing those last four hours: swarming up and down the ladder, walking right above Cullen's head, lingering about...

Ah.

"Of course." He smiles crookedly, tossing the book on the chaise as he gets to his feet. "Too noisy?"

Mildly -- too mildly -- he says, "Something like that."

He is trying so hard to be polite and casual he might break something.

"All right."

Still with that rueful smile, he taps a fist to his chest, briefly inclines his head.

"As you wish, Commander. Report'll be on your desk well after sundown."

He hesitates another fractional beat, considering whether to end that with a quick apology or a quicker love you. Ultimately, he does neither, and heads to the door in silence.

I fucked that up, he thinks, wincing -- it's not about orders, it can't be. And he can't -- normally he doesn't mind when Alistair uses his title, but this --

Cullen blurts, "I expect to see some nugs in there, Theirin."

Alistair pauses, one hand almost to the doorknob.

His smile's straightened out -- and warmed considerably -- as he looks over his shoulder.

"At least ten per page," he agrees. "Don't worry."

"I shan't, then," Cullen says, with a quick (and slightly doofy) grin. "Until later."