howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Alistair grumbles under his breath, expression deepening to a scowl.

"You'd think they'd be just a bit more concerned about their timing, considering a good backstab's all about the timing." Then, with acid brightness: "I have an idea. We can relay it to Josephine. Has Orlais ever considered not being completely awful in every way all the damn time?"

"I suggested that once and got a scolding," he mutters.

Ugh. Josephine.

"We need more Fereldans in this fortress," he grumbles.

"I agree. And that's why we're not in charge of dealing with the more insufferable Orlesians."

"Less of a burden for you to shoulder, at least?" Wry. "And maybe we can put some fancy hats and masks on the training dummies for Lavellan later."

Cullen almost laughs.

"I can't do that. You know that."

Beat.

"I might be able to leave a few hats and masks lying around, however. Should you decide to do anything with them."

Solemn, Alistair says, "I'm sure I'll come up with something. And then disavow any hat- and mask-related knowledge when the time is right."

"I suspect Lavellan would be a willing accomplice in that."

"Maybe I'll ask her tomorrow," he muses. "In heavily-coded phrases so no one else knows. 'The lion's mane is in the barnyard.' 'The druffalo tramples the obnoxious nobles at' wait no that one won't work."

His thoughtful tone doesn't change one iota at the last.

Cullen lets out a breath in what's close to a laugh, and eases himself flat again.

"Might need some work, Theirin."

As if it's just dawned on him, "Oh, is that why Leliana never recruited me?"

He stretches out alongside Cullen, hooking an arm around his middle.

"I thought it was because I couldn't sing."

"There can be more than one reason," he says peacefully, and slowly turns over on his side, fitting his back along Alistair's front.

A small, contented hum; he wraps his arm more snugly around Cullen.

"At least I'm not stepping in traps as often."

"Improvement with age." Threading his fingers through Alistair's.

"Does that apply to other things, too?" he asks. "In another decade, will I be able to sing?"

"You'll care less about it?" he offers after a moment.