howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Don't be."

I will do whatever it takes, he thinks. Whatever solution Cousland finds. If there's a solution to be found.

He returns to combing his fingers through Cullen's hair. "I don't regret any of this either. I won't ever."

Cullen leans his head into Alistair's hand with a soft sigh.

"I regret your stealing my breakfast."

Thoughtful. (Rallying.)

"But that's it."

Alistair chuckles. (Weakly, but...he's rallying, too.)

"There's but one solution," he says. "Sometime while we're in Halamshiral, I cook an entire pan of bacon just for you."

"I sense an ulterior motive, Theirin." He takes Alistair's hand, fingers curling around his palm. "If the uniform pops open, the velocity of the buttons will put an Orlesian's eye out."

"But," serenely, "then you wouldn't have to wear the uniform anymore."

Beat.

"Also, I'd get a nice view, but that's all secondary to making up for my grievous bacon crimes."

"A motive doesn't have to be primary to be ulterior." Cullen lifts Alistair's fingertips to his lips.

A soft hum. "Fair enough. Maybe I'll make you two pans of bacon and put two Orlesians' eyes out."

"You underestimate the number of buttons on this thing. Aim higher."

"This is going to require some careful timing," says Alistair, starting to laugh anew. "We'll only have a small window after we feed you to get you into as big a crowd of Orlesians as possible."

"We'd be better served by hiding from them without bacon." He squeezes Alistair's hand. "Can't we just do that?"

"We can," he allows. "Or hiding from them with a moderate amount of bacon. And if any buttons pop off, we'll just throw them out the window."

He returns the squeeze.

"And no more laughing."

He curls up tighter.

"I don't care for pillows that move."

"Oh, well then. My deepest apologies, ser."

He makes a show of clearing his throat.

"Nothing but somber and solemn contemplation in this room for the rest of the day."

Cullen lifts his head.

Lifts his eyebrows at Alistair.

"Glad to hear it," he says, and shifts up to his usual place, where he promptly curls up even tighter and makes a great show of turning his back to Alistair.

Alistair snorts, then immediately scoots closer to drape his arm around Cullen.

He draws the blankets over them both and kisses the back of Cullen's neck.

Cullen allows himself a smile. After a moment, he leans into Alistair.

Murmured: "What happened to sober and solemn contemplation?"

"I can soberly and solemnly contemplate things while also burrowing under the covers with you." He rests his forehead against the back of Cullen's head. "What about you?"

Cullen sighs, content.

Then he remembers Alistair asked him a question. "I'm always doing that."

Warm: "I suppose you are."

He lets his eyes drift closed. (Part of the solemn contemplation, naturally.)

Cullen does the same.

He also hooks a foot around Alistair's ankle.

Soft: "All right?"

"Mm-hm."

The things he's not feeling all right about -- they're things he can't change. Not right now; probably not ever, save that slim hope of Cousland's. Best to leave them be.

"Feeling any better?"

Cullen is silent for a moment.

"Some," he says finally. "As long as I don't think beyond the next five minutes."

Alistair nods a little. Tightens his embrace.

"...Whenever we decide to un-burrow ourselves, I'm fairly sure Josephine left me several fancy and utterly absurd outfits to wear on the trip. I could try them all on to distract you?"

It's on the tip of Cullen's tongue to refuse; he doesn't want Alistair actually making himself uncomfortable.

But then the words register.

"You... talked to Josephine?" Curious.

"I did." A crooked grin. "Figured if anyone can offer suggestions on how to dress for minimal embarrassment at fancy parties -- if maximum discomfort -- it's her."