howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"It's good to know," Cullen murmurs, kissing his neck. "But I didn't think we were talking about love."

He tips his head to the side with a soft hum.

"All right, lust then," he says, chuckling softly. "Or that simpler moment when you look at someone and realize, 'Oh no, they're quite cute.' Anyway, I could also argue that you were doing something at the time. You were thinking."

"You don't know that for certain." He does it again, taking his time. "I could have been meditating. The opposite of thinking."

Alistair breathes out, eyes slipping closed.

"I suppose you could have been," he murmurs. "Were you?"

He kisses his way up Alistair's neck again.

"Of course not." Smiling against his throat. "I was learning about integrals."

"I -- " His breath hitches, faintly. "Knew it. Mm."

Right. Focus.

"When you're meditating you close your eyes. Very obvious."

Cullen hums with amusement against his skin.

"We could just leave it with 'there's no accounting for taste.'"

Alistair starts to chuckle again. "If we must."

He insinuates himself more thoroughly against Cullen.

Softer, "So long as you keep doing that."

Cullen adjusts his hold on Alistair, pulling him more snugly to his chest.

"We'll be interrupted." No louder. "You know that."

A sigh. "I know."

He turns his head enough to shoot a small, rueful smile Cullen's way.

"We'll have time later."

Considerably later, perhaps, depending on how badly things go. But still.

Cullen kisses his cheek. Low, firm: "I'll make time."

Alistair's smile grows at the kiss.

"You treat me so well," he murmurs, slouching lower so he can tuck his face against the crook of Cullen's neck.

"You deserve it."

Cullen slips one hand into Alistair's hair.

"And more."

Alistair hums again, contented, and closes his eyes.

That uncertain feeling at the pit of his gut subsides. Cullen's good work, as usual. There will be time to nudge that again later, too; all he has to do now is wait.

Cullen rests his chin on top of Alistair's head, and does his best not to think about anything at all.

So when Josephine knocks, Cullen says, quietly, "Come in," and doesn't bother moving at all.

Josephine looks harried -- but something in her face softens at the two of them.

She says quietly, and precisely:

"Lavellan has disbanded the Inquisition. Effective immediately." Beat. "In front of the Council, so there's no taking it back."

Alistair cracks open an eye as Josephine enters -- which soon turns into him sitting up, keeping hold of one of Cullen's hands as he stares at her.

"Disbanded it?" he echoes. "Completely?"

"I'd expected something like it," Cullen murmurs, more to himself than to either Alistair or Josephine. "What next? We'll need to negotiate, I assume -- turning over Suledin Keep is one thing, but Griffon Wing will be far trickier."

"Yes." Cullen can see, now that he's looking closely, how frayed Josephine looks, and feels a sharp pang of guilt: what else could he have done to help her? "The Inquisitor -- Lavellan -- has requested we meet on the belvedere, just before sunset. Until then..."

"We will all rest," Cullen says, gentle but firm. "We have our orders. Rest, Josephine."

She tightens her mouth for a moment -- but then acquiesces with a nod. "Yes. Until then."

Alistair nods as well -- a little dumbly. Cullen may have expected it; Alistair, at best, considered the option at very brief length before dismissing it as implausible. The Inquisition ending by force, or coercion, or the wishes of the Council: likely enough, yes. Lavellan herself ending it, though?

What's left behind, after the news hits, is an odd, weightless feeling, where one could either soar or fall but has no idea which. Josephine takes her leave; the noise of the door clicking shut finally pulls Alistair back to awareness.

Back to awareness of Cullen, specifically.

He squirms around on the chaise until he's facing Cullen in full. Watches him, wordlessly, hand still linked with his.

Cullen runs his thumb over the back of Alistair's hand. Meets his eyes.

Smiles, crookedly.

"If the Inquisition was so easy to infiltrate," he says softly, "it makes no sense to preserve it when the spy network remains mostly intact, and when the armies will be of no use. And Lavellan has done enough."

He takes a breath, and lets it out. "We'll have to negotiate with Orlais to ensure places like Griffon Wing will remain occupied, lest bandits or worse take them over. But you and I will return to Skyhold. And then..." Cullen runs his other thumb over Alistair's lower lip. "And then."

Edited 2018-01-28 03:44 (UTC)

And then: an after. An end.

(A beginning.)

Alistair nods again. He exhales, breath shaking faintly -- and when the right words still don't present themselves, he surges forward to kiss Cullen, hard.

Cullen twines his arms up Alistair's back, drawing him closer.

It surprises him, a little, that Alistair should be wordless about this. (Not that he's complaining.) It's -- it's the best possible outcome. Cullen will be free to leave, in perhaps as soon as a few weeks. They can go wherever they like. Do whatever they like.

(Cullen might have to request time to allow him to sleep for a week.)

"We made it," he breathes, half-laughing, bright-eyed, when the kiss breaks -- though he doesn't stop kissing Cullen for long.

Between the kisses that follow: "It's done. We're all right. We're -- "

We're free, he almost says, but it gets caught in another delighted laugh, and silenced on another long kiss.

A difference between them: Cullen doesn't quite dare to hope.

"It's not quite done." Cautioning. "When we leave Skyhold and aren't followed -- "

That sobers Alistair, but only slightly.

"Almost done, then," he corrects himself, taking Cullen's face in both hands. "Not much longer."

And at that -- Cullen smiles, small and sweet.

"We can have whatever we can't carry sent to Denerim. Until we have a place."