howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Rather be on the run with you than anyone else," he mumbles, eyes closing, nestling closer. "You're good at it."

"Comes with the Warden territory."

He works his fingers a little deeper into Cullen's hair. Keeps moving his hand.

"Right after the Joining we all get little guidebooks. 'How to Survive on the Run.' Quite handy."

(It's either a weak joke, or trying to make light of the truth: that's one good thing about no home and no family.)

Cullen sighs softly. For a moment his smile is there, faint.

"Can I borrow it?"

A soft chuckle. "Of course," he says. "What's mine is yours, husband."

"Mm."

It's a good thought. Cullen lifts his head just long enough to press a kiss to the underside of Alistair's jaw.

Alistair's faint smile grows. He resettles his arms more securely around Cullen; presses another kiss to his brow.

"Can't imagine anyone I'd rather be on the run with, either." Soft.

He's still cold. It's a little better, but --

It's why he doesn't say something like Geoffrey has more experience.

Instead he slips a hand inside Alistair's shirt, smoothing his fingers idly, without intent, over Alistair's chest -- an anchor that allows him to be absentminded, to rest. Like he used to do with the coin.

The coin's still there, just above Cullen's fingertips, resting on its chain as it has for two years now. Not a day goes by where Alistair doesn't wear it.

Despite the lack of intent, he has to take a careful breath at Cullen's touch. His heart drums steady beneath Cullen's palm.

It's enough to make Cullen withdraw his hand. "Sorry," he whispers, curling in on himself.

Alistair shakes his head.

He seeks out Cullen's hand; guides it back to where it was, smoothing his fingers across Cullen's knuckles as he settles it in place.

He doesn't protest, but he's still tense. Careful.

"I can move." After a long moment. "If it's too much. I'm sorry."

"It's not," he whispers. "You're fine, love. Don't apologize."

Cullen shakes his head a little and pulls away, retreating to the corner of the chaise. "You should -- sleep. While you can."

"Cullen -- "

He straightens up. Alistair doesn't move closer to Cullen, but he does hold out a hand, entreating, as concern wrinkles his brow.

"What is it?"

He ignores Alistair's hand in favor of rubbing his own forehead. "I don't know." Softly. "I don't want to be -- trouble."

(He nearly said noticed.)

"You're not." Still soft; still bewildered. He lets his hand drop to the chaise. "You never are. It's all right."

Oh, he thinks, distant. I never am. So that's what this is.

"I'm frightened again." Soft, soft. "The kind that just -- comes. Don't worry."

Alistair nods, silent for a moment.

No louder, then: "Will it help if I stay?"

He glances up then, swiftly. (He can't quite hide the fear.) "If you have something you need to do -- "

"I don't."

Carefully, he scoots an inch closer, ready to retreat to his side of the chaise if Cullen flinches.

"Nothing but staying here with you."

It's rare that Cullen's atavistic fear of abandonment in the face of peril kicks in quite like this, but when it does --

(Well. When it does, it's strategically inadvisable to do anything that might make someone abandon you. It's strategically inadvisable to be any trouble at all.)

"You're sure?"

"Very."

He chances a small smile, and moves another inch closer.

Cullen looks away. Does his best to repress a shiver. "It's cold," he mumbles. "It's fine."

That -- does not do much to alleviate Alistair's worry. With effort, he pushes away the frown threatening to form.

Instead: closer, by a few more inches, so he can reach to touch Cullen's elbow. "I can fetch us a blanket off the bed," he murmurs. "It's no trouble."

He doesn't quite meet Alistair's eyes. "If -- if it isn't. If you're sure."