howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair winces, rueful. "Probably best I don't," he admits. "I'd rather have a clear head when I say my vows anyway."

Cullen can't quite quash a dopey grin as he rubs the back of his neck.

"Which reminds me." He clears his throat. "I said I'd ask again. Is this something you want?"

Even through the hangover malaise, Alistair's whole face lights up in a bright smile.

"Yes." He holds out a hand to Cullen. "I want to marry you. I will."

Cullen takes his hand. He's pinked, some; he has to clear his throat again before he says, "All right.

He lifts Alistair's hand to his lips.

"All right," he echoes, soft and warm.

He slips his hand to the back of Cullen's neck, drawing him down for a proper kiss.

When it breaks, he leans his forehead against Alistair's.

"You're killing me, Theirin." Low. Content. "You know I can't stay."

"I know." He tips his head back to kiss Cullen's forehead. "More of this after. We'll get an early start on the honeymoon."

Beat.

"Also," cheerful, "I know you hate the outfit, but you do look quite dashing all dressed up like this."

"Ugh." Cullen straightens, scowling. "You were doing so well."

"Sorry." Laughing a little, creakily. "Sorry, love. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

He snags a bit of the bread.

That earns Alistair a small smirk. "Really. I'd like to hear your best idea, then."

"I'm not sure I need to share."

Another bite of bread; he mirrors Cullen's smirk.

"You seemed to have quite a lot of good ones last night."

"Those were my ideas," Cullen says placidly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Now I'd like to hear yours."

"Mm."

As casual as he can, punctuated by a sip of tea.

"Well. You did mention coming to me in private to ask for more correction, yes? I wonder what I might have on hand to help with that, aside from my...hands."

Cullen does his best to cover his reaction with a cough.

Unfortunately, his face matches his jacket.

When he recovers: "Such as...? A warhammer, perhaps?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that."

So serene, as he watches Cullen over the rim of his cup.

"I was thinking smaller. Lighter. Might throw in some ropes as well."

Too bad for Alistair: Cullen's had a chance to recover something resembling composure.

"So that's it? Too long hanging around Bull?"

Alistair snorts, amused.

"Look, Rutherford, out of the kindness of my heart I'm trying not to get you too hot and bothered before you have to go sit in front of the Divine for Maker knows how many hours." Beat; without changing his tone, "Also, I'm hungover and you're lucky I strung together several mildly sexy words at all."

Cullen laughs. "Yes. There it is."

He ruffles Alistair's hair. "When you've returned to the living, wait for me by the tavern. I'll come as soon as I can."

Alistair scowls playfully, but makes no attempt to fend off the hair-ruffling.

"Yes, ser," he says. "And good luck, all right? I love you."

"It won't be that bad," Cullen says, with wry confidence. "Hadn't you noticed by now? My job is to stand there and look pretty."

One final kiss, and Cullen slips out of the room.

The first one he sees upon exiting the house is Varric -- tailed, of course, by Seneschal Bran, who appears to want to ignore Cullen as much as possible.

Varric observes that Curly is looking very relaxed, if not well-rested, and appears to be making an attempt to waggle his chest hair.

Cullen can't even bring himself to roll his eyes.

Once his mug is half drained, Alistair makes a tentative foray into the cheese, tucking a small hunk into the remainder of the bread. Verdict: palatable. The remainder of his tea later, he upgrades that to "delicious."

Excellent. He'll be in fine shape by the time Cullen's done with the Council. The Orlesian ale has suffered defeat twice over!

Still, he lounges a bit longer before shuffling out of bed to wash up, find one of the outfits Josephine gave him, and return his dishes to the kitchen. Only then does he wander toward the tavern.

Cullen is there during the opening session -- the one with all the ceremonial business, where formal introductions are made, parameters set, schedule established. He steps forward when Josephine introduces him, bows deeply to Leliana as though the two of them never met before, and steps back to keep his expression stern and blank the rest of the time.

Teagan Guerrin has an expression on his face that indicates someone slipped a rotting animal under his chair. Cullen makes note to ask Alistair about that later.

(And thinks, privately, that it's an argument in favor of Orlesian masks. Guerrin is giving too much away.)

He escapes as quickly as he can, and makes a beeline for the tavern.

Alistair's leaning against the tavern, arms folded as he engages in some idle people-watching. His gaze lands on Cullen; he brightens, immediately straightening up.

The outfit Josephine inflicted on him isn't too hideous: no frills, only a little bit of overly-ornate stitching at the edges. While it'd mark him as Fereldan to any Orlesian nobility, it's more of a polite cough and a gesture in that direction rather than YES, HELLO, I AM A DOG LORD, FIGHT ME yelled at top volume.

"You survived?"

"Apparently so." Alistair gets a crooked smile. "You look... very nice."

Alistair rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, too. "All Josephine's doing. But thank you."

He holds out an arm.

"Shall we? Or do you want to sit a while first?"