howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

"Until then." Warm. "Love you."

And out the door he goes.

Sweet silence.

Cullen sits, pours himself some more tea, and sets about finishing his sandwich. In peace. That'll be enough break for him.

Alistair's halfway down the battlements before he realizes he forgot to take his journal with him.

...Nope! Nope. Not going back to their quarters and interrupting Cullen again. He'll just have to soldier on.

"Soldiering on" looks a lot like taking a detour to the library in search of a blank ledger or similar. There's a Tranquil woman there who conducts research on all the beasties Lavellan finds in her travels; Alistair swallows down his discomfort long enough to ask her for some paper and a quill.

(Fiona's there, too. Their eyes inadvertently meet when he glances over; he looks away, swiftly, and tries to ignore the itch on his neck that means she's still watching him.)

Soon after, he's settled in the courtyard to sketch a highly accurate rendition of all its comings and goings -- if by "highly accurate," you mean "everyone who passes through his line of sight gets drawn as a stick-figure nug."

In time, that includes a pair of soldiers who were part of his and Cullen's retinue as they returned to Skyhold.

My hand to the Maker, says one of them. Heard it from that Kenric lad himself. A mage! And an elf too!

The other one snorts. Like we haven't been servin' an elf Inquisitor for months, he says. That's not the interestin' bit. A mage? The Chantry'll shit when they hear that.

Alistair frowns, quill hovering above the page.

No reason they can't shit over both, remarks the first, dryly. Not sure Kenric'll...

They're out of earshot before Alistair can make out exactly what they're not sure about, vis a vis Kenric.

He'd ordered that he's to be left alone but for reports at noon, at midafternoon, and before dusk. He almost -- almost -- gets as much cleared off of his desk as went onto it by noon.

At which point, everything from the morning that couldn't wait until tonight lands.

And to think I'd hoped to spend more time in the springs, Cullen thinks, a little despairing. Or visit the chantry. Or meet with Leliana.

The midafternoon messenger brings him another sandwich, along with more work. Cullen scarfs it with a report in his other hand.

Alistair works a loop around Skyhold at a steady pace. From the courtyard, it's on to the stables; to the kitchens; to the garden; to the great hall and the undercroft.

(Also to the springs, because, look, it's very important he be thorough about this survey. That particular sketch has a single nug luxuriating in a steamy pool of water, a look of total bliss on its face, and the caption, THE DOUBLE COMMANDER SAYS: THE SPRINGS PASS INSPECTION!)

He wanders to Herald's Rest just before midafternoon. Bull's quite pleased to see him in one piece, and demands the full details of his time in the Basin over a drink or two; that draws things out another hour or so (and gets a sketch of an oversized nug with an eyepatch and a very impressive set of ears). After that...

Well. He's at a bit of a loss after that.

To the library once more, then. Alistair has every intention of returning the quill and maybe going back to the springs, or saying hello to Leliana, or seeing if Varric's got any new stories in the works, or -- something that will squash the impulse to find Cullen. Anything. But as he circles the rotunda, idly skimming the book titles, he finds his steps slowing. His mind wandering.

A mage and an elf, the soldiers said. An elf Inquisitor. Kenric.

Didn't Cullen have a book about Inquisitor Ameridan once upon a time?

He drifts into one of the alcoves, and begins to skim the titles with far more intent.

The good thing about doing research? If it's not the boring sort, it can keep you occupied for hours before you realize it.

Well after sundown, Alistair's still hunched over a pair of books in one of the library alcoves.

Cullen hasn't noticed the sun's gone down.

He's making calculations, adding to a piece of scratch paper covered with other such calculations: timetables for travel, comparing arrivals to averages, cross-checking supply chain contracts with the specified times.

Angles of calibration, for the proposed extra battery of siege engines to replace those destroyed in the Arbor Wilds. They can and should do better on those specifications, Cullen writes in a sharp hand to Josephine. Engines coming out of Val Royeaux two years ago could exceed those parameters with ease. They're trying to get something past us.

Damned if he can figure out what. Or why.

We should meet to discuss this at your earliest convenience.

Cullen feels like he's been writing that phrase a lot today. And every time he does, a little more life is sucked out of him.

At some point, Alistair grimaces, pulls at his neck to get rid of a crick, looks up -- and swears under his breath as he sees it's full dark.

Is Cullen still working? ...Who is he kidding. He's positive Cullen's still working.

Still: he scoops up the books, plus all his sketches, and dashes from the library. If Cullen shoos him out again, he'll just run a few laps around Skyhold.

Cullen is still working.

A pause point is within sight, though it's a dot on the distant horizon. When Alistair comes in, Cullen won't lift his head; his hair will be rumpled from running his fingers through it; the room will be cold from the brazier he never bothered to relight.

Alistair takes all of this in.

With a nearly-silent sigh, he pads over to the chaise, depositing his things alongside the book he couldn't finish that morning. Don't interrupt, he tells himself. There are things he can do that don't involve interrupting.

First among them being the brazier, which he relights from a torch off the wall. Gradually, the chill in the room dissipates; Alistair warms his hands over the small grate.

Food probably ought to be next, but that involves asking the dreaded have you eaten recently? question that always makes Cullen pull a face. Interruption and annoyance. Best Alistair wait on that.

Soon he'll have his coat back, maybe. In the morning. But -- shouldn't it be colder -- ?

Cullen looks up, and realizes there's a dull throb at the front of his skull.

"Oh," he says, sounding surprised. And exhausted. "Hello."