howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair cracks up; Geoffrey nearly slips off his shoulder with the force of it.

"Yes," he manages to intone. "You've walked right into my pun trap."

Cullen nudges Alistair. "That seems much more like my pun trap. Since I'm the one who made it."

"Perhaps," he allows, still snickering. "In which case, there's only one way for me to counter it."

He pushes open the kitchen door.

"With the delicious breakfast trap."

Cullen heaves a sigh and resigns himself to no bacon this morning.

(He does hoard the jam, though.)

As they eat, he starts absently making a list of the things that need attention. "Laundry -- armor and weapon check -- sufficient papers as necessary -- final rosters -- "

To his credit, Alistair only steals one slice of bacon off Cullen's plate. Geoffrey's fearsome gaze has finally made him behave!

"Anything I can help with?" he asks, faintly muffled by half a mouthful of eggs.

(Cullen knew the golem was a good purchase.)

"Chewing and swallowing before you speak." Still absently. "Other than that -- prepare to travel, I suppose."

He gives Alistair a sidelong look.

"Let me know when you'd like me to meet you in the cellars."

Because Cullen still doesn't want everybody and their brother knowing about the springs.

Alistair wrinkles his nose at Cullen, smiling, before he makes a show of swallowing his food.

"Around noon, I think? That ought to give me enough time to get the armor polished."

Beat.

"Unless I have to wear one of those red and blue sashed...things instead."

"Unless you're representing the Inquisition, you'll escape that fate." Cullen looks disgruntled. "Unlike some of us."

Beat.

"You could do me a favor, though, and bring something that isn't armor. Just in case."

"Of course." Innocently, then: "If nothing else, I expect trying to sleep in my armor would just lead to a lot of clanking and discomfort."

Cullen looks a little pained, but manages to keep back what he wants to say, which is:

Forgive me the notion that I could rely on you to stand with me in the drawing rooms of Halamshiral.

He's trying, very hard, not to be a bear.

Nevertheless, he puts down his fork and stands. Gathering up his crockery: "Right. I'll -- see you later, shall I?"

Right. Too far, then.

(He's gotten better at gauging that sort of thing, but...not perfect at it.)

Alistair doesn't do quite as good a job of hiding his wince. He returns Geoffrey to his perch on his shoulder; gathers up his own dishes. "Until then," he agrees.

Once their hands are free, he catches one of Cullen's, just long enough to drop a kiss on his knuckles. "I love you," he says, in the way where it also sounds a bit like I'm sorry.

One corner of his mouth turns up.

He rests his palm along Alistair's cheek for just a moment, and nods: It's all right.

Very low, he says, "I love you, too."

Alistair's expression lightens; a warm smile grows, before he leans in to kiss Cullen on the lips.

"See you soon," he whispers, and takes his leave.

One benefit of Skyhold emptying out: nobody (such as the Chargers) is around to make vomiting noises.

Cullen immediately heads to Josephine's office to make sure he isn't overlooking anything (and to try to convince her, fruitlessly, that the uniforms do none of them any favors).

Alistair didn't bother to unpack last night: getting to Cullen as quickly as possible took precedence. Emptying his bags will be the first order of business, then.

...Emptying his bags somewhere not their bedroom will be the first order of business, then, after he gets a whiff of their contents. (Swamps: excellent for ensuring no one will find you, your son, or your son's mother, but terrible for the state of your belongings.) He shoves the worst offenders outside to get a little bit of sunlight and clean air on them, in the hope the springs won't have to do quite as much work.

Armor next. Then -- well, if Dorian or Vivienne were still here, Alistair would sidle over to ask their opinions on what he should wear to Halamshiral. If the stakes weren't so high, he'd happily dress like every Dog Lord stereotype and commence the porridge-flinging. But they aren't here, and he doesn't want to embarrass Cullen in particular or the Inquisition in general, so...

Oh, hey, maybe he'll go ask Josephine!

I'm not a child, he tells the fire. I've been with the Inquisition as long as you have. I have enough respect for you and your work that I'm aware of the situation.

I appreciate that, Cullen --

So why are we pretending there's an outcome from this Council that will leave me with a place in the Inquisition? he demands.

Because nothing's been decided yet, Josephine says. He hates how patient she sounds. It is possible that Orlais and Ferelden will realize that the tensions between them are best dealt with by a standing army on their borders that would prevent incidents resulting from hasty judgment. Empress Celene and Queen Anora are inclined to peace.

Cullen rubs his face. He doesn't mean to sound so tired when he says, All right, Ambassador. That might forestall more lecturing. If Anora Mac Tir -- because he can't ever think of her as Anora Theirin; that's Alistair's name -- wants peace with Orlais, Cullen will eat his surcoat, fur and all. And Cullen is just as sure that if he said this to Josephine, it would result in another lecture, with a light scolding about how bloodthirsty he seems.

Even though the teasing was worse when Leliana was there, it didn't grate on Cullen as much as it does when it's just Josephine. While Leliana had her interests, she was never quite so... fussy.

It's not Josephine's fault that he's redundant, anyhow. Cullen squares his shoulders and does his job, just like always: he thanks her for her time and goes to his office to sort out his attire. The laundry he carries to the lower courtyard himself; even though he's confident in his armor, he takes it to the undercroft for Harritt to give it a once-over anyhow.

Then it's back to his office to review his papers -- only while he was out, a letter arrived, addressed to him, from his sister.

For a moment Cullen can't quite identify the feeling; he decides it's something close to homesickness, which is ridiculous. He snorts, thinks something very rude about himself, and cracks open the seal.

It's not that I'm incapable of dressing myself, says Alistair, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. It's that I'm fairly sure I'm incapable of dressing myself in a way that doesn't scream "you're all terrible and I want to run screaming from this entire charade."

Josephine lifts an eyebrow.

Inquisition company excluded, that goes without saying, he adds hastily. And...look, this is important to Cullen. And the rest of you, I know, but --

Alistair, I understand. There's something underneath Josephine's smile that Alistair can't quite put his finger on. It's entirely possible he's imagining it. We'll find you some options.

He exhales a sigh of relief. You're the best. Thank you. I'll -- be over there. Somewhere not here so you can keep up your work. Right. Yes.

Fortunately, he's able to make his exit before the babbling gets too much worse. Retrieving his laundry, he heads for the springs.

Even before the salutation comes Mia's chess move; Cullen rises and goes straight to the shelf where the miniature chess board lives. The pieces have pegs in the bottom, so it's hard to knock them over. Cullen isn't anybody's fool.

He makes Mia's move, considers the board, blows out a breath. He'll have to think about it. In the meantime, he retreats to his desk to finish reading.

Would Alistair even want to go to South Reach? He'd certainly encourage Cullen to do it -- but would he want to?

Does Cullen want to?

There's a significant part of him that believes he wouldn't find a welcome there. Or worse -- that he would, but once they realize he's not what they expect, they turn their backs on him.

Meaning that when the time arrives, and Alistair's gone, Cullen will be completely alone, with no kind of anchor.

He can't breathe. He folds the letter, tucks it under the chess board, and storms out onto the battlements toward the lower courtyard. He'll stay there until the world stops spinning.

Alistair hums under his breath as he washes his laundry -- though once he realizes he's humming a Warden marching cadence, he trails off, rueful. He slings the damp (and considerably less smelly, thank the Maker) clothes over one of the benches. The clothes he's wearing join them in short order.

...Oh, that hot water feels nice.

Alistair sinks in up to his neck and closes his eyes.

He'd made straight for the broken tower, where he paced, breathed, and finally -- when that didn't do the trick -- found something to punch. Wood, not stone. That helped.

Exiting the tower, Cullen looks up at the sky. It's after noon.

With a curse, he strides toward the cellars.

"Sorry," he announces, and then immediately regrets it; if there was peace and quiet, he's broken it. More quietly, steps slower: "Got held up."

Alistair opens his eyes, pushing himself up an extra inch or so to get a better look at Cullen.

"It's all right." He smiles, warm, and holds out a hand. "Come here."

Edited 2017-11-07 00:19 (UTC)

It takes him a moment to orient himself: the vision in front of him is so clearly the opposite of what drove him to stalk the battlements that it can't be real.

If you doubt, Cullen reminds himself.

"Here as in the edge, or here as in the water?" Either way, he's already tugging off his gloves.

"The water," he says.

Cullen looks -- a little off. A long morning, Alistair decides. The stress of what's to come. It's no surprise; it also means Cullen would do well to soak for a bit.

"We ought to be equally wrinkly, and you've got some catching up to do."

Gloves off, boots next. Cullen sits down for that. The knuckles of his right hand, if Alistair is looking, are red, with a scrape or two.

"You're older, and therefore wrinklier," he shoots back, shucking the rest of his clothes off. "It's not my fault you're jealous."

"It's an ugly emotion, I admit." Deadpan, but still smiling. "Just like my wrinkly, ugly face that's existed for an entire year longer than yours."

His eyes land on Cullen's knuckles; the barest crease forms along his forehead before he draws his attention away.