howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Careful, tentative, Cullen presses his palm to Alistair's chest. He's not sure what to say; he's very sure anything he'd try to say would come out wrong.

Alistair breathes out, shakily, his body curving over Cullen's hand like it's holding him upright.

He unwinds one arm from around Cullen; covers his hand where it rests on his chest.

But not to move it away.

He's not alone for now. Alistair won't leave him -- for now. He'll have to think about what that means for him, once Alistair goes -- if it's something he can stand. But it's something that'll happen more than five minutes into the future.

So Cullen can let it go. He relaxes against Alistair, finally, and lets his eyes close.

All right. That's -- good. That's a start.

Alistair sighs again, quieter, as he draws Cullen close. I love you, he whispers against his hair.

Lavellan isn't dead yet. There's still a chance. It might be a foolish hope, but Alistair's always been good at playing the fool. And like he said, all they can do is work with what they have until they know more.

What they have: their love. Each other. A room of their own that, for now, remains quiet.

He repeats the words over and over in his head. I love you. I love you.

Cullen drifts. It's not something he gets to do often, but -- as happens -- Alistair is keeping watch.

So Cullen drifts.

"You're handsome." Nearly slurred with sleep. "'N what Josephine chose."

Alistair exhales a startled laugh, more breath than sound.

"Definitely all Josephine's doing," he murmurs. He smooths his hand along Cullen's back. "But thank you, love."

A beat.

"Would you like to sleep in an actual bed?"

Silence.

"Couldn't hurt." Mumbled.

"All right." Still with that thread of laughter: fond, loving. "I'll carry you if you're too comfortable to move."

Or too concerned with looking dignified.

"'M not an invalid," he grouses, pushing himself off of Alistair and onto his feet, taking the blanket with him. "'N you'd never let me hear the end of it."

Called it. Alistair stifles another laugh.

"No cheesy songs about carrying you across the whole of Thedas, then," he says as he ambles after Cullen. "Understood."

That gets the disgusted noise it so roundly deserves. Cullen yanks back the blankets and shoves himself in them, burrowing under them (and under the couch blanket, tossed on top) like a bear ready for hibernation.

Alistair flops alongside and pulls back a corner of the blanket pile.

"Room for another under here?"

"Try it and find out," Cullen mutters. Ominously.

Well, with an offer like that!

Another soft laugh, and Alistair squirms his way under the blankets, immediately hooking an arm around Cullen's waist once he's settled.

Cullen responds in kind, resting his head against Alistair's chest with a sigh.

When they knock, he'll answer. He'll be ready. But he doesn't have to be ready yet.

Alistair drops a light kiss onto the top of Cullen's head.

"Get some rest," he whispers. "I'll be here."

Cullen slips his hand up to finger a stray lock of Alistair's hair.

Mumbled: "What about you?"

"I promise I'll get some rest as well." He quirks a tiny smile. "Won't keep watch for longer than we need."

Cullen shakes his head a little.

"Have to be ready to run." Even softer. "Promise me you'll rest enough."

The smile fades.

"I promise." No louder.

The anxieties of years feel like they're weighing on him, all at once. And they'll all be brought to light in the morning.

The thought is exhausting.

Cullen sleeps. Fitfully, but he sleeps.

So does Alistair, in time. He wakes every time Cullen stirs; waits until his husband has settled back into sleep before joining him there. If they have to move quickly, Alistair knows he can do it on limited sleep. Look at those months in the Fade.

...All right, that's a terrible comparison, but the point stands: he can safely stay awake a little longer than strictly necessary and still be ready to run.

(They will not chain him. Alistair will fight back the combined forces of Ferelden and Orlais all on his own, if it keeps Cullen free.)

The knock comes just as the sky begins to go gray.

"Commander!" The voice is urgent, the knocking loud. "The Inquisitor's returned! They need you downstairs immediately!"

Cullen's eyes spring open.

Alistair's awake by the first knock. He lifts his head; when the person on the other side of the door speaks, he stops breathing for a beat.

They wouldn't say the Inquisitor's back if it were just a body. They'd say the Inquisitor's party is back. Or list them by name. Or any number of things that didn't imply --

Already pulling away from Cullen, already sitting up, he breathes almost too soft to be heard: "She's alive?"

Cullen hears it.

He shoves a hand through his hair, turns away from Alistair, and picks up his boots. He doesn't bother putting them on before going to the door. It's not Charter on the other side -- it's Fletcher, and there's a hard gleam in her eyes.

"She lives?" he asks her, low and urgent.

No louder: "Yes, Commander. Qunari threat's ended as well. They've got more for you downstairs."

Cullen leans against the door frame and starts pulling on his boots. He chances a look at Alistair -- and there: something that's not quite a smile, but could lead to one, given enough time to grow.

"Be ready, Theirin." Softly, as he straightens. "Don't forget Geoffrey."