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Cullen sets a brisk pace on their way back to Skyhold. He's been away long enough; he's ready to relieve Briony; he's ready to go about receiving full intelligence reports from Leliana instead of the truncated, heavily coded ones he receives in the field.

He is also ready to personally see to the laundering of his coat.

And Cullen is also ready to take at least half a day, and preferably more, to revel in solid walls and doors that lock.

As they ride through the sally port, Cullen glances over at Alistair. "I'll need to see Briony, and then I'll likely be called to the war room -- you're going to see Kieran?"

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"If nothing else," Cullen says, lightly sardonic, "it would have kept you out of the Chantry."

Alistair snorts a half-hearted laugh.

"Yes, but then I wouldn't've met you for twenty years," he says, finally turning his gaze away from the books. "If at all."

"No, but you'd be running your kennel and cheesemongery." Drier. "An entirely worthy trade."

"And one day a very handsome commander would walk in, looking for enough cheese to feed an entire Inquisition, and hire me on?"

Innocent.

"Don't be absurd, Alistair. That's the quartermaster's job."

"Then hopefully I'd make a good impression on Ser Morris and meet the handsome commander a few weeks later when I arrive with my cheese delivery."

"And if the commander takes no interest in cheese?"

Serene:

"That's where the dogs come in. I'm bringing them along too."

Cullen huffs an amused breath and eases down onto his back. He can't quite stop a wince, but he also isn't trying too hard to hide it.

He leans his head against Alistair's leg.

(No prayers, tonight. A pointless rebellion, but...)

Alistair notices the wince. He settles a hand on Cullen's hair; starts smoothing it, gently, as if to undo some of the abuse it suffered over the course of Cullen's day.

"All right?" he murmurs.

"A headache, is all." No louder. "I'm fine."

"All right."

Not abnormal, he supposes, considering how long a day Cullen had. But still.

His hand keeps moving, fingers threading slowly through Cullen's hair.

A soft sigh. Cullen leans into Alistair's hand.

"Could have also been a mage," he murmurs.

That spurs another chuckle out of him, wry and soft.

"Maker, can you imagine?" he says. "Probably would've set my trousers on fire every time I tried to cast a frost spell."

"Or been very good at creating little shows of colored lights for the children." Fond. "Or both."

"Yes." Decisive, as he grins. "I would've had a grand new world of pranking possibilities at my disposal, too. No need for buckets over doors when you can conjure up the water yourself."

That's enough to wipe the fledgling smile off Cullen's face.

It takes a fair amount of will not to say anything, or to turn away.

(And he doesn't say, You wouldn't have survived Kirkwall.)

Which is enough to make Alistair sober, too. He draws his fingers through Cullen's hair; does it again.

Soft, and apologetic: "Bad joke?"

"Not your fault," Cullen says, quickly. "It's all right."

Alistair nods. Essays another lopsided smile, after a moment.

"There might be some better ones in the report," he offers.

He can't very well say it's not as though I deserve to laugh.

(Something like that might cross his face, though.)

What he can do is say, very carefully, "I'd -- like to be in a state of mind to appreciate your work properly."

"All right," he whispers. "It'll keep."

Alistair shifts, a little: just enough to bend over and press a soft kiss to Cullen's forehead.

Cullen winces anyway.

"I'm sorry. I can -- I don't want to disappoint you."

Alistair shakes his head.

"You're not," he says. "You had a long day. You've already entertained my nonsense about all the...elf business. If you want to rest, we can rest."

"...that's the farthest thing from nonsense." Confused, now. "It's -- in a very real way it's Inquisition business. Part of it, anyway. I need perspectives on it. There's a particularly insufferable Orlesian noble house that claims to be descended -- "

Cullen sits up, rubbing his forehead.

"The D'Amerides. As in Ameridan. If Kenric makes his work public -- and that's what I'm intending to encourage -- he'll do so under the auspices of the University of Starkhaven and the University of Orlais, which will give the D'Amerides incentive to be -- "

Momentarily he struggles for words. Then Cullen throws both hands in the air.

"Right shits about the whole thing. Because what we really need are more Orlesians kicking up a fuss in the middle of the end of the world."