howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

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"Right. Six more, at the first available opportunity."

"I'm not complaining -- "

Through laughter.

" -- but I don't see how seven small golems will help improve my translating skills."

"By delegating your work, obviously," Cullen says, surprised.

"Ohhhh, yes, of course."

Alistair muffles another snicker against Cullen's shoulder.

"How could I not have realized? So foolish of me."

It tickles, a little. Cullen wriggles some with a huff of breath.

"You're used to working alone," he says, generously. "It's only logical."

"True, true." He tips his head enough to look up at Cullen. "Very fortunate I don't have to anymore."

A beat.

"...I'm talking about you there, not the golems, by the way."

Cullen raises his eyebrows.

"You'd get more done with the golems."

"If I were working on a particularly difficult translation, though," says Alistair, cocking an eyebrow in reply, "it would be easier to go straight to the source and ask what he meant."

"He might even tell you." Solemn.

Matching his solemnity:

"What a kind and generous man. He must love me very much."

"He's very susceptible to this," Cullen says, and squeezes Alistair's rear end.

Alistair squeaks -- why bother calling the resulting noise anything else -- and dissolves back into laughter.

"Oh," he manages. "Oh, I see. You only love me for my physical attributes, is that it."

Cullen is laughing too, albeit much more quietly. "No, they're a very pleasant bonus, Theirin."

"Second only to my wit, charm, and unending modesty?"

He lets his eyes drift closed.

The best way to troll, Cullen thinks, is to say nothing.

When it becomes obvious Cullen won't answer, Alistair huffs an amused breath.

"S'what I thought," he murmurs, cheerfully content.

Cullen beatifically pats him on the head.

A sleepy grin, as he makes himself more comfortable against Cullen.

"Still a few hours before the...thing, yes?"

"Several." Softly. "The rest of the morning. All of the afternoon."

"Which means us resting and me not talking may not be a terrible idea."

(It's only a little sheepish.)

"Why, it's almost as though the last few days haven't been restful at all."

Cullen kisses the top of Alistair's head.

"I have one very simple request."

He yawns, not even bothering to stifle it.

"No Qunari invasions on the honeymoon."

"...I have no control over that, Alistair." Amused -- despite himself.

"Damn." He heaves a sigh. "Oh well. Worth a try."

He squeezes Cullen.

"Love you anyway."

"I love you," he says into Alistair's hair. "Now shh."