howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Cullen reads this late at night, seated at his desk (more out of habit than from some great pile of work to do). His fingers clench; his eyes close.

He's fiercely, selfishly glad. Things are going to change. They'll have to. There's no outcome looming where Orlais and Ferelden will tolerate a standing army straddling their border.

They need --

They need to talk.

Cullen needs Alistair in their bed at the top of the battlements, open to the air and closed off against the world all at once. If they're very lucky, they'll return from the Winter Palace and be able to maintain their quarters just so.

Cullen does not care to trust to luck.

He picks up another report on lingering Venatori activity from the Western Approach. The candle should last through the middle of the night.

On the ride back, Alistair rests only as long as his mount needs to recover. Trail rations, hastily eaten on horseback, serve as his meals -- hunting would take too much time.

The end result: some thirty-six hours after Cullen receives his letter, Alistair rides through the sally port of Skyhold, hungry enough to stuff an entire chicken in his mouth and completely ignoring that in favor of jogging straight up to their tower.

He slips inside, quietly closing the door behind him.

It's late enough that no messenger will come. Cullen works in his shirtsleeves. He didn't shave, today, and idly scratches his stubble as he reads.

-- but that's not a messenger. Cullen looks up -- and scrambles to his feet.

(There's a relatively untouched tray to the side of his desk.)

"Alistair," he breathes, and just like that he's closed the distance between them to wind his arms tightly around Alistair. "I didn't expect you so soon -- "

Alistair folds his arms around Cullen just as tight, their heads pressed temple to temple. "Would've come back sooner if I could," he mumbles. "How are you?"

Tired. Not good. All easy enough to infer; it's why Alistair came home so quickly.

"Fine," he says, near absent; it's not important, irrelevant. "Alistair, tell me you didn't leave sooner than you intended."

"Not by more than an hour or two."

He pulls back enough to meet Cullen's eyes.

"It would've been no different if I'd gone straight to Halamshiral."

Cullen searches his face for a moment.

And then nods, tired, and hides his own in the crook of Alistair's neck with a soft sigh.

Alistair draws him close, one hand cradling the back of Cullen's head, and simply holds him for a few quiet moments.

"I'm a little peckish," he says eventually. "Would you like to take dinner with me upstairs?"

"You could get something hot if we went to the kitchens," he mumbles. "Or upstairs. Either one."

"Hm."

Odds that Cullen's been inside all day: high. Odds that Cullen would prefer to stay inside: probably high as well.

A compromise, then.

"Come with me to get another tray? We can bring it upstairs after."

Cullen should pull himself together. Alistair got here too fast -- no doubt he's tired, and hungry, and ready to sleep as soon as possible.

With visible effort Cullen draws himself up, and nods. "Yes. Let's do that."

A slight smile -- only a little worried. "All right."

He takes Cullen's face in both hands and kisses him, gentle and sweet, before lacing their fingers together and leading him from the tower.

"How were they?" he asks, low, as they pass into the great hall and through the door that leads to the kitchens. "Well, I hope?"

"Well enough, yes," he says. "Kieran's still on pace to outgrow me in a year's time. Maybe two if I'm lucky. He's taken to his studies with a vengeance and wanted me to be certain I knew every single thing about dragons ever."

He lowers his voice further.

"No sign of manifesting his magic yet, though. Morrigan's not sure if that's because of the...thing...when they were here, or if he's a bit of a late bloomer. We'd both be shocked if he doesn't manifest at all."

Cullen lets out a considering breath.

"Latest I ever encountered was... sixteen, I think. There's still time." Down the stairs, past the vault.

"Yes." They reach the kitchens; Alistair pushes open the door so Cullen can enter first. "And he'll have an excellent teacher on hand whenever it happens."

Every so often, Alistair thinks of how his twenty-year-old self would react to the things he says about Morrigan nowadays. The horror! The faces! Poor twenty-year-old Alistair.

"My thoughts exactly." Cullen gives him a crooked smile.

(Cullen is right there with him.)

There's the ever-present kettle of Mystery Stew on the fire. Cullen points at it. "The path of least resistance, or we could try for something better?"

Alistair bends as close to the kettle as he dares, takes a whiff of the stew, and sighs, pleased. "I think the path of least resistance has venison today. That'll do."

There's also a basket of yesterday's bread, stale but still perfectly edible -- especially when dipped in stew. Once he's ladled out a hearty portion, he grabs a hunk of bread and an apple, then --

"Oooh, cakes!"

-- adds a fist-sized, frosted something to his tray.

Cullen looks one way. Then the other.

Then takes two. One for each hand.

(He does look rather pleased with himself.)

Alistair beams.

(Had Cullen left the cakes alone, Alistair would've snuck an extra one for him just in case.)

"Anything else you'd like before we head back?"

Cullen shakes his head. "No -- I've got a tray in the office."

Pause.

"I think." He furrows his brow. "It doesn't matter. I've got these."

That garners another flicker of concern, but all Alistair says is a cheerful, "All right."

He adds another apple and a bit more bread to his tray. (Just so there's something more substantial than cakes on hand, in the event of Cullen's tray not existing.)

"Onward to bed, then."

"I'm not carrying my tray upstairs." Cullen only thinks to say this once they're back in the office. The good news: there is a tray. It contains food a lot like Alistair's, except sad and cold.

Whatever. Still edible.

"I'll bring it up if you'd like."

Beat.

"...Unless you'd prefer we not risk spilling stew everywhere?"

"Please," Cullen says with dignity.

It is ruined by the way he promptly takes a large bite out of the frosted thing in his right hand.