howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Maker, it is so damn good to see everyone again.

A good chunk of the Chargers, unsurprisingly, have convened at the nearest tavern. Bull slaps Alistair on the back hard enough to send him reeling, laughing all the while; Krem pulls him aside to convey some birthday plans they have for the boss, once they've got a distraction ready; even Skinner waves hello without a knife in her hand. (I'm touched, he'd say, if he didn't think it'd immediately earn him that knife she's withholding.)

Lavellan ducks in at some point when Alistair's a few tankards in. Now! hisses Dalish, yanking him by the arm.

Three minutes later, he's blinking down at an enormous skull the Chargers dug up from Andraste-knows-where. Here we are, Krem says, having loosed the Inquisitor on an unsuspecting Bull. Ready?

...How did you even get it this far? And why can't you continue moving it how...ever you moved it this far?

Dalish snorts, elbowing him in the side. C'mon, Warden, I know you're stronger than half of us.

Rank flattery, he says, affecting a prim air, will get you nowhere. I'm only doing this out of the goodness of my heart. He grabs one of the dragon skull's horns. Right then. On the count of three.

Cullen glances down at the small table in the sitting room as he finishes unbuttoning his tunic -- and spies a sealed letter, bearing his name, in Mia's hand.

Alistair's out and about; no reason he oughtn't to take a little time for himself.

The tunic goes over a chair in their room, lying neatly as he can make it. He substitutes his old tailored jacket -- comfortable now as a second skin -- and descends to the kitchens, where he can get himself a cup of tea (with a little milk in it, even -- that much luxury he appreciates).

After that, he goes back upstairs, and out to the small balcony at the end of the hall. There he can sit, and put his feet up on the rail, and crack the seal.

Cullen,

Word has spread from Denerim about the summit the Inquisition will attend. The news is half rumors, but with the representatives they say are going, it's clearly serious -- and the details are probably not something you can put down in a letter. I will, however, look forward to more glowing descriptions about how much you love Orlesian parties.

Without realizing it, he starts laughing, softly, and takes a moment to look up at the evening sky. It's the moment of dusk where the sky is mere gradient shades of blue, minutes away from full dark, and even given the lights of Halamshiral he can see the stars.

I'm sure you and Alistair will find enough danger away from the summit. You always do. Is it worth warning either of you to be careful?

Branson's here; his son insists I add "Ello Cul" to this letter. He also insists it be "Ello" and not "Hello". Your nephew is stubborn -- how very familiar.

Love,
Mia

The postscript contains her next move in their chess game.

He has a little more tea, and puts the letter aside. With a small sigh, and a faint smile, he turns his attention back to the sky.

Maybe South Reach is possible, he thinks. That's not a letter you write to someone from duty. Maybe it will be all right.

It occurs to Cullen then that he's thinking about his sister -- his family, nephew included -- as people on whom he could rely. People who think they know him, and who... might be right. (How else would Branson's son use, or dare to insist upon, that old nickname? Meaning it's not just Mia who talks to the children about him. And he's spoken of with care, and some fondness.) If that's the case...

The credit goes to Alistair. No question in Cullen's mind about that.

When they finally shove the dragon skull over the threshold of the tavern and collapse in sweaty heaps next to it, Bull says, Awww, you guys, with a note of good-natured sweetness that clearly means I knew exactly what you were doing the whole time and I wasn't dare going to ruin your surprise. The crooked smile Lavellan tries to hide just confirms it.

Well, Alistair thinks. Bull was a spy before he left the Qun.

Another tankard to formally celebrate Bull's birthday; Alistair's whistling, and only a little unsteady on his feet, as he wanders back toward his and Cullen's quarters. En route, he passes Dorian -- excuse him, Ambassador Pavus -- enjoying the night air. Alistair stops. Backtracks a step.

Hang on, how come they didn't get you to haul in that enormous bloody birthday present? he demands.

Why would they? asks Dorian, airily. He tips his head to indicate the state of Alistair's -- everything. You all seem to have gotten along fine without me.

Alistair snorts. He's drunk enough to think it's a good idea to shove a newly-minuted Tevinter ambassador in the shoulder, albeit lightly. Go celebrate with him, he says. Maker knows how much time you'll have tomorrow.

Dorian rolls his eyes. (He's smiling, though. A little.) Oh, we'll have plenty, he assures him. Goodnight, Alistair. Give my regards to the Commander, will you?

Alistair laughs, taps a fist to his chest, and meanders on.

Some minutes later, the door of their quarters swings open.

Cullen hears footsteps approach from the balcony, and begins a process. First one boot comes down from the rail, then the other. He sits up. Tea secure in his right hand, he finds the folded letter with his left.

Then he wanders back through the door, and sticks his head into their rooms. "Alistair?"

(On the off chance it's not Alistair, he figures, he could always try to regain the element of surprise by smashing the teacup in the intruder's face.)

"There you are!"

Alistair looks up, beaming, from where he's trying to wrestle off his boots. "Yes, hello. Just me. I'm back."

Well. That's quite a picture.

"I can see that," Cullen says, mouth twitching. He steps inside and closes the door. "It appears you've had a pleasant evening?"

"Mm-hm." Cheerful. His left boot pops off; he moves on to the right. "Did you know it was Bull's birthday? The Chargers got him a dragon skull. Very heavy. Very impressive. -- Oh, and Dorian says hello by the way."

There we go! The right boot joins the left.

Alistair, Cullen is guessing, has been enjoying himself with the Chargers.

So he elects not to point out that he's pretty sure there's no allowance in the Qun for birthdays. Instead, leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, Cullen says, "Dorian's here? I thought he was still in Minrathous."

"Nope, he's here," says Alistair. "Must've just arrived."

He ambles over to Cullen, the better to sling an arm around his shoulders. "How's your night been?"

"...drier than yours, I'm sure," he says, laughing a little.

(Still -- there's something easier around his eyes, the way he holds himself, than there's been since they left Skyhold.)

"And quieter. Tea and correspondence, that's all."

Alistair breaks into snickers. "And then here I come crashing in like a damp druffalo to take away all your quiet."

He plants a kiss on Cullen's cheek.

"Fun correspondence? Serious correspondence? 'No thank you, mysterious stranger, I will not be investing twenty-five gold in the promise you'll send me fifty in return someday' correspondence?"

In response -- a little pink -- Cullen holds up Mia's letter, and holds it out to Alistair.

"I had some nice quiet before you got in. And I'm glad you had a pleasant evening."

Any more serious discussion should probably... wait a few minutes. Or hours.

"I did." Earnestly: "And I'm glad you had a nice evening too."

He leans his cheek against Cullen's shoulder as he reads the letter. He snorts a sizeable laugh at the mention of Orlesian parties; when he reaches the salutation from Cullen's nephew, he lets out a completely involuntary aww.

"That's lovely," he says. Then, as if he could speak to Mia through the paper itself, he adds, "Yes, Mia, I promise we'll be careful."

This is, Cullen reflects, much nicer than when Alistair drinks and complains about stairs.

As he reads, Cullen slips an arm around his waist. Murmured (and fondly): "Don't be fooled, Theirin. She's casting aspersions on our honor."

"I did notice she's making a lot of assumptions about our ability to get into trouble." Thoughtfully. "I'm afraid if I say anything about that, though, I might curse us."

"It's safe to point out that she neglected to mention that we've both spent our adult lives working to keep trouble away, and that any trouble we might encounter isn't our doing."

Except for Kirkwall, but Cullen is approaching the place where he no longer feels the need to self-flagellate aloud, or otherwise visibly.

"True, true," he allows, and gives Cullen's shoulders a squeeze. "Honestly I'm feeling quite virtuous about our lack of trouble now. Not our fault trouble follows us around like a pesky...troublemaking thing."

Cullen laughs, low, and tucks his forehead against Alistair's temple. "Your eloquence never fails to impress, my love."

He snickers. "And it only gets better the more I drink, I know."

Alistair exhales a contented sigh.

"Want to go to bed? Or sit outside a while? It's a nice night."

"Let's sit outside? It's a little early, yet."

He's not wearing anyone's uniform. Alistair is with him, and well. His sister writes as though he's a part of his family's life. If this is what life after the Inquisition could be like --

Maker forgive him, but Cullen doesn't want to turn away from this glimpse just yet.

"Excellent."

Cullen gets another kiss on the cheek before Alistair grabs his hand, leading him (with the slightly exaggerated care of the inebriated) back toward the balcony. He flops into one of the available chairs; promptly, he scoots it as close to the other one as he can.

"Maker forbid," Cullen says, laughing a little as he takes a seat, "that you move that chair before you sit in it."

"No, no, Cullen," he says, starting to laugh again as well, "that's far too logical."

He wastes no time in leaning his head on Cullen's shoulder, and kicks his feet up to rest them on the balcony rail.

He threads his arm through Alistair's, and takes Alistair's hand in both of his.

Feet up.

This is all I need, he thinks. Right here.

Maybe, Alistair thinks, Orlais isn't a terrible Void-pit all the time. The company goes a long way toward making it better. Good, even.

Cullen goes a long way toward making it good.

He breathes in the cool night air; the faint green smells of all the decorative plants and vines Halamshiral likes to scatter about. Closing his eyes makes everything sway a little harder than he'd prefer. He regards the darkening sky instead.

"Or should I start calling you 'Cul,' too?" he murmurs eventually, fondly amused.