howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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

"Of course." Not much louder.

"But not tonight." Rallying. "Hurry up. Present's waiting."

Forcing himself back to lightness: "Right. Yes."

Fortunately, he's hungry enough that wolfing down the rest of his meal becomes an easy enough task. He drops the core of one apple into the empty bowl; picks up the remaining apple as he rises.

He holds it out to Cullen with an inquiring noise.

Cullen shakes his head, getting to his feet. "Leave all that on the desk -- I'll get it in the morning."

"All right."

A morning snack it is! Alistair tucks the apple away and shuttles the dishes to Cullen's desk. As he passes Cullen on the way to the ladder, he catches his hand for a quick squeeze.

(He always misses Cullen during those visits. Every time Alistair returns, it's as if he's trying to make up for all the little moments of touch he couldn't get while he was away.)

(For Cullen's part, he's inclined toward being a little clingy himself -- but he wouldn't admit it. That might appear that he resented Alistair's leaving... and that's the last thing he wants.)

The present has no wrapping. It sits on top of Alistair's dresser, a construction of what appears to be brown scraps of fabric with details sewn on in rough black yarn.

It is, in fact, a small golem doll, whose yarn eyes keep a sharp watch on anyone coming up the ladder.

...that's.

That is the best thing Alistair's ever seen.

(Plus or minus a bit of hyperbole, but even so.)

He scrambles the rest of the way up the ladder, eyes alight like a child on Satinalia morning. Laughing, he scoops up the doll. "Cullen, this is perfect."

Cullen is laughing quietly; the lines around his eyes and mouth have eased.

(He doesn't quite feel like a -- like a person, when Alistair's gone. Like Alistair takes the best parts with him.)

"I thought you might like it."

"I love it." He's beaming again. "Thank you, love."

Alistair slings an arm around Cullen to pull him into a kiss.

He settles both arms around Alistair, joining his fingers at the small of Alistair's back.

When the kiss breaks, Cullen touches his forehead to Alistair's and murmurs, "Is this one satisfactory? We don't need nine hundred and ninety-nine more?"

Laughing again, softly, "No, I think I'll be content with just the one."

He drops another light kiss on the tip of Cullen's nose.

"It's a very fearsome guardman. ...Guard-golem. Whichever."

"I wasn't afraid of it." Smug.

"Of course you weren't." Practical. "It knows you're not an intruder, so it wasn't bothering to put on its most fearsome face. And also you're very brave."

"...yes, thank you for that last part," Cullen says, and starts laughing all over again.

"You're welcome," he says, serene. "Never let it be said I don't know how to flatter properly."

Cullen settles his chin on Alistair's shoulder with a sigh of contentment. "Never."

After a long moment, he stirs himself to ask, "Anything else before we retire?"

Like. Not like Cullen minds, but, you know. Road dust.

"Mm...no," Alistair decides. He squeezes Cullen. "Give me a moment to clean up and I'll join you?"

Cullen nods, letting go with only a little reluctance.

As he turns to his own dresser:

"No meetings tomorrow."

None at all.

"We can have a good lie-in."

No meetings at all.

"Enough time to see to laundry and the like."

"...I timed my return even better than I thought."

With care, Alistair sets the golem doll back on his dresser, its face turned toward the ladder. He sets to work stripping down so he can wash.

"Maybe I'll soak in the springs while my clothes are soaking in the washbasin tomorrow. Want to join me?"

"Obviously," Cullen says to the contents of the top drawer. "Of course."

"Oh, good."

He ambles to the basin, sleeping trousers in hand.

"I thought it polite to ask, is all."

"I appreciate it."

These grave words are a little muffled as his shirt comes over his head.

While Cullen might be tempted to steal all the blankets, he does not. He does watch the leaves rustle in the wind, though.

A quick scrubdown commences; enough to get the worst of the grime off him. Alistair dampens his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. Anything more can wait until the springs.

He slides into bed with a quiet sigh of relief. Familiar blankets, familiar smell, his familiar person next to him: all of it combines to scrub away the psychic grime of the road. He hooks his arm around Cullen's chest without delay and nestles close.

Cullen sinks one hand into Alistair's hair. His other traces idly along Alistair's arm.

There, he thinks. Everything's right.

He's more tired than he realized. Alistair blinks, sleepily; lets his eyes drift closed soon enough.

(He's safe, is what he is. Whole. Tomorrow they'll talk, but tonight -- he's home.)

"Love you," he mumbles, as is customary, just before he succumbs to sleep.