howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

His head falls to the side, eyes closing.

"I know which one I'd rather look at," he murmurs.

"And so do I," he whispers against Cullen's neck. "Other fine specimens, maybe, but you're my favorite."

Cullen tries for grudging but doesn't quite make it.

"Suppose that can be allowed."

"Good," says Alistair with another soft laugh. He winds his arms a little more securely around Cullen's waist. "I'm quite relieved."

"Can we...?"

He lifts a hand, only long enough to motion to the bedroom.

"Not for anything -- fun. Just..."

"Of course."

One more squeeze, and he lets go of Cullen long enough to take his hand. Once they're in their bedroom, Alistair gets to work unfastening the clasps of his own jacket.

Just because nothing fun's about to happen doesn't mean Alistair can't get comfortable.

For his part, Cullen tugs his linen shirt back on: nothing fun, but Cullen doesn't want to give whatever messenger comes for him the idea that fun is happening while the Qun is doing -- something.

Something bad.

He doesn't bother pulling down the covers -- just gets out of his boots, quick as he can, and curls on his side.

Alistair takes a seat to pull off his boots, then swings alongside Cullen, draping an arm around his waist.

"I could tell absurd stories," he murmurs after a moment, "or I could stay quiet. Your pick, love."

"For once in my life."

It takes him a moment to reply; he's settling back against Alistair, just so.

"I wonder if I'm not taking this seriously enough. The Qunari finally invading the south. And all I want is to stay in here, with you."

"Taking time to rest doesn't mean you're not taking this seriously," he murmurs against Cullen's shoulder. "If this really is invasion-levels of bad, we'll all need strength for later, and we'll need to collect it where we can. Like now."

"Mm."

"I suppose... I just can't fathom it. I try to get my mind around it, and -- nothing. All the tactical reading I've done? None of it's been about the Qunari's wars with the Imperium. I don't know anything. And because of Kirkwall -- the only people possibly better informed than I am are Dorian and Bull. And I'm supposed to manage a military response?"

(He's tensing up again.)

"I can't walk away from this. You know I can't. And at the moment I want nothing more."

What can he say to that?

Alistair rests his forehead against Cullen's shoulder, exhaling quietly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers at last. "I wish you could walk away from it. Not -- because I want you to shirk your duty or anything of the sort; because I wish there was someone who knew enough about all this to step up and let you fall back. You've done so much. You thought you wouldn't have to keep doing this for much longer. Certainly nothing like this."

His mouth quirks, faintly.

"If I knew anything about the Qunari besides what Sten and Bull've told me, I'd step up for you myself."

Half a smile that he doesn't really feel. "'I shall endure.' Right?"

Beat.

"You'd be good at it." Softer.

A noncommittal noise: the verbal equivalent of a shrug. "Not as good as being a soldier," he says. "But I'd make do. At least I'd only be commanding an army and not an entire country."

Carefully, Cullen takes Alistair's hand and raises it to his lips.

"Far less diplomacy involved," he agrees. "A much better job, if you ask me."

Alistair's smile returns, more real now.

"I think I'd take any job over being king," he says, "up to and including mucking out the stalls every day. Really dodged an arrow there."

"It would certainly give us more of an excuse to hide ourselves in a convenient hayloft," Cullen agrees, straightfaced.

Alistair snorts.

"The stench might put a bit of a damper on things, though."

Edited 2018-01-04 17:29 (UTC)

"How is it that suddenly you're the one pushing realism?" Cullen muses sadly.

"I've been corrupted," says Alistair, heaving a mournful sigh. "No more flights of fancy. Just sad, sad facts all the time."

"We'll add that to my list of sins." He kisses Alistair's hand again before restoring it to its place, linking their fingers.

A soft laugh.

"It's all right. I'm sure that within a day's time, I'll be back to stories about Geoffrey and his nug friends."

If we're still here, he nearly says.

Instead:

"You could tell me one of those, if you'd like."

His smile warms. "All right."

Alistair settles his arms more comfortably around Cullen as he thinks.

"You might be surprised to hear that they weren't friends right off. Geoffrey can walk a very long distance without tiring -- that's the good part of being made of wool -- but the bad part is that he has to stay out of the rain. If he doesn't, he'll be soggy for days and hardly be able to walk at all.

"And one day on his voyage to find the other small, soft golems of Thedas, what should happen but a terrible thunderstorm. Geoffrey dashed for a cave to wait out the bad weather -- and who should be inside but a pair of nugs also taking shelter from the storm. And nugs, well, they see 'wool' and they think 'warm,' not 'golem.' One of them tried to nibble on his arm to see if she could gnaw a thread loose.

"'Hey!' said Geoffrey. 'Stop that!'

"'You can talk?' the other nug asked.

"'Of course I can talk! I'm a golem!' Geoffrey drew himself up to his full height of approximately eight inches tall, which didn't even brush the top of the nugs' ears. They looked at each other, then at Geoffrey, then back at each other, then back at Geoffrey.

"'You can't be a golem,' one said. 'You're too small.'

'And you smell like sheep,' the other nug added."

"And from this they grow to be friends," Cullen muses. "They're not off to a very good start, are they."

Alistair's stories -- well. Making substitutions in the Chant: obnoxious. Spinning wild exaggerations about Cullen: not great. Alistair's stories are superb.

Cullen may never tell him this. Or maybe for Alistair's birthday.