howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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.

Alistair smothers a laugh.

"I missed you," he says, fondly, before kissing Cullen on the cheek and settling on the chaise with his own food.

Cullen leans against his desk, facing Alistair, and has another bite before he says, "Got you a present. It's upstairs."

Immediately, Alistair brightens.

"You did?"

A flash of amusement on Cullen's face: Alistair's responses are as predictable as the seasons.

"I did."

Another bite.

"A merchant came through. She had something that caught my eye."

Alistair points at Cullen with his spoon.

"I'm going to be good," he says, "and finish my dinner, but then we're going straight upstairs."

"...you mean we're going to do exactly what we'd already planned?" Cullen asks innocently.

Without missing a beat: "Yes. Exactly."

He tears off some bread to dunk in his stew.

"Though," he continues, mirroring Cullen's innocence, "I can't imagine what you had planned beyond present-giving."

Cullen's smile immediately grows a little crooked.

"We take the night for you to rest." Soft. "I didn't expect you for at least another day, which tells me something about how you traveled."

Pause.

"And then we... ought to talk."

Alistair's own smile dims a little, overshadowed by re-emerging concern. He nods.

"Of course." Not much louder.