howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair yelps in mock-surprise, before immediately winding his arm around Cullen's shoulders.

"Well, hello there." Laughing a little.

"Surely you expected something of the kind." Amused, as he curls himself around Alistair.

"Yes," he says, before kissing Cullen's forehead. "I welcomed it, even."

"Yelling isn't very welcoming," Cullen informs him, and closes his eyes. "So you know."

With great dignity: "I was startled, is all."

Beat.

"...Despite both expecting and welcoming it, yes, I know, it's early and I've no sense of logic anyway."

"How dare you, ser," he mumbles, pleased.

"I know. It's awful. I don't know how I live with myself. Here, let me hang my head in shame."

Alistair does so.

Which, of course, means he ends up bumping foreheads with Cullen.

"This space is occupied, Theirin."

"Huh. So it is."

He moves his head an inch away.

"Better?"

"It will suffice, I suppose."

Cullen settles his head more comfortably and closes his eyes.

He should bring it up. Put them on a schedule. They don't have much time.

He can't quite bring himself to do it.

A soft laugh. "All right, then. Back to the quiet with me."

His free hand seeks out one of Cullen's; he folds his fingers around it.

That's one way to make Cullen's throat go tight.

He makes himself let out a slow breath, and does his damndest to nestle even closer.

"All right?" asks Alistair, softly.

There it is.

"We -- " Another breath. "Oughtn't let too much of the day get away from us. A little more, perhaps, but..."

Alistair sighs, no louder. "I suppose."

Cullen gets another kiss on the forehead before Alistair loosens his hold.

"If only the laundry could do itself."

Alistair loosens his hold; Cullen tightens his.

"It's not the laundry I'm worried about," he mumbles.

Alistair pauses; draws his arm more snugly around Cullen again.

Gently: "What is it?"

"An Inquisition without forces has no need for a commander."

Alistair breathes out. He nods, once, before tucking his head against Cullen's.

"I know," he whispers.

"Even presuming they're merely reduced in size... Alistair, I don't -- "

He makes himself stop. Take a breath. Let it out.

More carefully:

"They won't need me any more."

Which is... devastating. In a way he can't fathom trying to account for.

"So we ought to talk. About the future."

What they have of one.

"Yes."

He traces his hand up Cullen's back, slow, and down again.

(It may have been Alistair's choice to leave the Wardens, but after ten years of shaping his identity around their jobs and their oaths, the hole left by their departure still isn't entirely filled. He hears the care in Cullen's voice; he understands why.)

"There are...ways to do good works outside the Inquisition. We wouldn't have to spend all our lives in idleness."

"I should hope not." His exasperation is aimed only at himself. "You know what happens if I go more than a day without work."

"Precisely." He cracks a smile. "I promise, no matter what happens, we'll have no cause to stare up at the ceiling and whine, 'I'm boooooored.'"

Utterly deadpan:

"Yes, that sounds like me."

Alistair snorts, and gives Cullen another squeeze.

Quieter, then, and more serious: "And you'll always be needed. By me, if no one else, but -- by others as well, when we find those who might need help."