A/N: This drabble fic came about from a sort-of challenge regarding certain kinds of (ahem) shall we say 'discreet-wear' with a somewhat Roman/Greek flavour. Diana Amell and Knight Captain Cullen are the brain children of the fabulously talented Reyavie from her hilarious series The Laughing Wall. She graciously lent her mage and Templar for me to play with (I only broke them a little bit - see this glue here?) and I have to admit I've had a lot of fun playing dress-ups (or in this case dress-down) with her Cullen.
Alyce and Ryan are of course from some other story I've written...World is slightly AU meets AU Kirkwall and timelines have been twisted, bent and hammered into submission, along with any kind of idea that more than one Mage-Amell can exist in any known, single universe without the world around them falling into inevitable cataclysm.
A bit of a warning for the delicately minded: This one-shot contains implied naughtiness (a little bit of actual naughtiness) *and* spoilers for Remembering Aunt Mildred.
Okay, hope you enjoy!
-00-
Falling
Whispers followed him down the long hallway. The Knight Captain pursed his lips and manfully ignored them. He didn't need to know what they said; he knew the gist of them, even without the palpable air of hostility and resentment. Half of them didn't even apply. Take 'dog lord' for example. He'd never owned a dog in his entire life. He'd owned half a cat once, but he didn't think that counted as the cat never actually acknowledged him, unless you counted the deep bite it bestowed on him that left a permanent scar on the back of his right hand. 'Ferelden toff' was another which made absolutely no sense either because Cullen had no idea who his parents were, never mind whether they had been anyone of any significant status.
'Snob', well that fell into the category of 'toff', owing to the number of letters, context and the fact that it was a misunderstanding anyway. 'Up himself' had been – in his opinion – physically impossible and as for 'right unfriendly bastard'…the latter descriptor might have been accurate but Cullen considered himself quite a personable person in general. No one had made much of an attempt to befriend him, except Knight Commander Meredith and her idea of 'friendly' quite frankly gave him the colly-wobbles. It was no wonder he stayed clear…when he could, because avoiding one's Commander in Chief because you were afraid she'd play footsie with you under the 'official' desk wasn't always the practical option.
He'd remembered this sort of thing back in the Tower, long ago, far, far away across the Waking Sea when he had first taken his vows and was just a wet-behind-the ears newbie with his life ahead of him, but back then he had been given a chance to prove himself. And improve he did. He gotten better, earned respect and was actually getting somewhere when she happened and his life took a u-turn and ended up upside down, back to front and why was he thinking of her anyway when he had more important things to do?
It wasn't as though he missed her or anything. Life was so much…smoother, less eventful and he spent far, far less of his precious time playing pack animal, doorman and spell-test dummy and more time on himself.
For a change.
It was a nice change.
Change was as good as a holiday?
The end of the corridor came in sight. Cullen paused at his door, more than a simple wave of nostalgia washing over him at the thought of the Circle of Magi in Ferelden and its occupants. It was more of a king wave, with a whale carcass in it; slamming into him and then dragging him head first across a beach of razor sharp pebbles.
I don't miss her.
I don't.
Slapping his forehead in an attempt to dislodge unwanted thoughts, he stepped into his room; the one he shared with no one because he was a Knight Captain now and bunk beds and shared quarters were for recruits and those without rank…to find another trunk had been placed in the middle of the room.
He quickly ducked his head outside, listening for the inevitable snickers because even though he wore the uniform of the Kirkwall Order of Templars, it didn't mean he was one of them and razing the 'new' guy was frequently obligatory. Sometimes, obligatorily frequent.
The hall outside was quiet, save for the constant tick-tock of the large grandfather clock at the other end. Cullen had stepped back inside, scratching the top of his head when an individual wrapped only in a towel emerged from the wet room.
The two men stared at each other wordlessly. In the ensuing assessment to decide whether one: a madman had entered his room and two: a madman was staring needlessly at him, a spark of recognition flared. Something; a vague memory tickled at Cullen's brain. Where have I seen him before…? He'd been just about to ask when something or someone cannoned into him from behind. Turning, he'd gotten a flash of blonde hair and pale skin and…mage robes before sudden panic turned him rigid.
"Hey, took you long enough," the newcomer said breezily to Towel-man. She turned to see what the unknown man was looking at and Cullen's anxiety ramped up several dozen notches. The face…those eyes…
The hair was lighter and weirdly, the same general shape and length but worn loose and with general apathy as though hair was a mere inconvenience rather than something to keep the sun off or to shoo away flies. The eyes were not green but a sort of blue that had had most of the colour washed out. They were looking at him now and they weren't particularly happy in a way that was all too familiar.
And then she pointed a finger at him. Even her finger seemed familiar, attached to expressive, elegant but ultimately, dangerous hands…Those hands had seen fireballs. Lightning storms…hexes, curses and rock-fists.
Cullen knew all about rock-fists…
"Bloody blasted Fade! Aren't you that complete nutter that Greagoir sent to Kirkwall?"
Behind her Cullen could see the towel-clad man roll his eyes but do little else. Knight Captain Cullen however, felt the ground fall abruptly from beneath his feet. He'd heard rumours about some upstart from Ferelden doing chores for smugglers and mercenaries; rumours about said individual using magic outside the circle. He'd even heard the name, but he'd been hoping against everything that his ears had been wrong.
There couldn't be more than one of them on this planet. Life could not be that cruel, could it?
"These rooms are smaller than back at the Tower."
Yes life. You are a complete and utter bastard…
She didn't even say hello, just walked straight in. Into his room. The room that only Knight Captains were granted because they didn't have to associate with other Templars and mages in his off-duty hours.
And this mage, he'd left in another country. Or so he'd thought.
"Oh…you've met the Knight Captain already?" she said, in a tone of voice that had already laid claim to the bed, the side table and all of the wardrobe. "Damn," she sighed. "Too late to organise an ambush then?"
What is she doing here? Cullen's fevered thoughts sought excuses and escape routes and came up with little more than an embarrassed, uncomfortable blush. She went to stand beside the other woman and the likeness was so…alike that he wanted to draw his sword and run himself through with it. There was a height difference and dear Maker, what is she wearing?
"Sorry 'bout this," Amell said, turning to the other two and thumbing at him over her shoulder. "Still working on his vocabulary. Was stuck on 'it' and 'I' the last time I saw him. I was hoping he'd make more progress, but alas…"
His Amell. Diana.
And…
"Oh, never introduced you. How terribly rude of me!" A snicker; no humour, Diana looped her arm through the other woman's. "This is Alyce. Alyce Amell."
There were two of them.
Two Amells…
If the Maker had a sense of humour, he was whacking Cullen over the head with The Holy Chicken Bladder of Retribution. He wondered what kind of divine vengeance he would provoke if he changed his religion. Sudden death by divine lightning strike was looking mighty attractive about now.
-oo-
Cullen clenched and unclenched his fists beneath the table. He was still waiting for the message to arrive that some kind of mistake had been made and that these people would leave his quarters. Soon. Immediately. Yesterday.
Diana Amell sat across from him, still in the set of robes that left little to the imagination and everything else to his carefully archived libido. The other mage – the other Amell – was dressed in a similar set of robes, but had placed herself on the other side of her travelling companion. And that was an intriguing idea in itself. A Templar that had resigned, but had been recalled and married to a mage…was he suicidal? The man did not look particularly stupid. In fact, he appeared wise enough to remain quietly out of the rapid fire conversation between the two Amells that left his brain dizzied and gasping for oxygen.
I wish she'd stop crossing and uncrossing her legs…
Ser Ryan…Cullen had remembered the name shortly after formal introductions had been made and not because he'd been told the name either.
Why does she keep doing that?
He was having difficulty remembering why they were here. Some kind of nobleman had done or not done something somewhere around and they had come to…this place to do or not do something or other because they were here to…legs. No! Uhh…The two of them were from the Ferelden of Circle to go about around and there and back again and up and down and cross over and…long…what? No, wait. What was the question again? Had he hit his head and not noticed? Perhaps he was bleeding? Perhaps he should seek help. How did she manage to tan her skin all the way up her…Templar thoughts. Templar thoughts. Brown…Templar thoughts. What was wrong with him? He was never like this in Ferelden. It was depressing. He'd known her for years and yet had never noticed that she'd had those legs before.
Nice legs.
Damn nice legs. Must be handy. Those legs. To…um, support her and stuff.
Templar thoughts.
"Knight Captain," Ser Ryan said suddenly.
"That's me!" Cullen said, his voice unnaturally loud and enthusiastic.
"Weirdo…" he heard Diana mutter under his breath and look pointedly at the wall. Why is she still here? To torture him? To make some kind of point? He thought she had already done that with the trunk incident…When was she going to go away?
I don't really want that either…
"Would you be so kind as to show me where the sparring area is located?"
Cullen shot to his feet. "Yes Ser!" He may have been Knight Captain for months, but complying with a voice of that timbre was instinctual. Not to mention the fact that in the Ferelden Circle of Magi, Ser Ryan had been a senior Templar and someone to be obeyed without question. Old habits died hard, it seemed. He was also immensely grateful because Diana had begun idly swinging her leg, causing the fabric of her 'robe' to slide higher.
Not that he was looking. Oh no.
Holy Maker, she has thighs as well…
Templar thoughts!
There were buckets of water to be had in the sparring room.
Cold water.
"I-I-It's this way, Ser," Cullen told Ser Ryan. "Outside. Outside of this room. E-Elsewhere." And what was wrong with his brain all of a sudden? He was an officer dammit! He commanded men and women every day and fair enough they didn't like him very much and called him a Dog Lord Carrot Top when they thought he wasn't listening, but he had been carving a nice, stable, sane reputation for himself here. A new start. The old leg up. Away from Ferelden, he was Knight Captain Cullen. Someone to be respected and trusted.
Not…Diana Amell's odd-jobs boy slowly going insane.
"Shall we proceed, Knight Captain?"
Ser Ryan waved politely for him to leave the room first. Cullen did not argue. He was grateful. It was bad enough that the old stutter had returned.
He thought he'd left that in Ferelden too.
-oo-
It was strange. When Cullen walked with Ser Ryan through the halls of the Gallows compound, there were no hushed whispers, snickers or even any raspberries. In fact it was quite the opposite. Mages stepped to the side to let them pass. Templars young and old paused and saluted. Sliding a surreptitious, sidelong look towards Ser Ryan, Cullen frowned slightly. What was the man doing to cause such a reaction? It can't have been the look of him. He was pleasant-faced enough, though unusually dark skinned for a native Fereldan, pointing towards some exotic ancestry. If Cullen had been female and of a mind for tall, dark, chisel-jawed men; he might call him handsome. What was that ridiculous name the apprentices had for him?
It was certainly better than the one the apprentices had had for him.
The Free Marches was a melting pot of cultures and races. Rivainis, Nevarrans, Orlesians and Anders intermingled with dwarves and elves amongst others. The mages here in Kirkwall were a little more secretive than in Ferelden true, but folk here in general were more sophisticated and accepting. Unless you were tarred with the unfriendly brush by your colleagues and judged unfairly to be unapproachable because you weren't someone that could talk the hind leg of a donkey clean off and knew when to keep your mouth shut.
Ser Ryan did not look out of place here. Or perhaps that was it. The man looked like he belonged, even in the heavy plate metal that no one in their right mind would wear in this steamy weather for fear of expiring from heat exhaustion. Just looking at the man made Cullen feel…well exposed actually. Especially with Diana Amell in the vicinity.
"In here, uh…Ser Captain Ryan…"
"Ryan is fine," the older man informed him kindly. "And I apologise for the intrusion, Knight Captain."
"C-Cullen is fine," Cullen felt compelled to say. "Too," he added awkwardly.
"Thank you, Cullen. I'm sure we'll have the situation sorted to the satisfaction of all very soon."
He even sounded like a Templar and while Cullen didn't want to admit it out loud, the sound of a Ferelden accent was rain to his parched ears. Ryan chuckled. "That sounded like a sigh of relief," the man commented. Cullen hadn't even been aware that he'd been breathing much less loudly enough to hear. "I don't blame you," Ryan continued. "My request to be shown the training area was as much of an excuse to escape as it was to rescue you. The Amells can be rather…daunting in numbers."
Cullen stared at Ser Ryan, understanding the implication all too – scarily - well. "There's more than two?"
Ser Ryan's lopsided grin widened. "I'm afraid so."
"Holy Maker…"
"And they live incredibly long and healthy lives," Ser Ryan added, a devilish glint in his dark eyes that the younger man appeared to miss.
Cullen passed a hand over his eyes. "In that case I hope to die very young."
Ser Ryan laughed again. "Be careful what you wish for Knight Captain. You are surrounded by mages every day." There was a small, thoughtful pause. The older man appeared to assess him rather too keenly for Cullen's current peace of mind. Perhaps this one is in thrall with his mage…but Cullen could detect no traces of magic lingering around Ser Ryan. Only the air of perpetual, unshakeable calm.
"Would you be…offended if I offered some advice, Cullen?" Ser Ryan began cautiously.
"Er…"
"In relation to Amells…" Ryan elaborated slightly, lowering his voice. "You may choose to ignore me. I'm fairly sure being older than twelve that you're quite capable of handling things yourself."
Cullen stared again. For some reason, he felt as though he were standing on a great precipice with a very, very long fall imminent…and with only a stretched cheesecloth to catch him…When Ser Ryan smiled, Cullen felt himself teeter precariously.
"Something you should know about the Amell women…" Ryan told him. "And their one, near-unyielding weakness…"
"Really, Ser?"
"Really."
Cullen. Fell.
And he didn't scream on the way down.
-oo-
Ser Ryan paused pulling off his last boot to watch his wife bustle about the room, picking up things and looking busy but not actually doing anything important. Or anything at all really, but fidgeting; straightening the wash basin and jug, tugging at the very frilly doily beneath it, picking up clothing randomly, taking it for a walk around the room and then returning them to the place she had found them. Continuing to watch her in snatches quietly, Ser Ryan completed his own task, removing socks and wriggling his toes in amusement.
"Well, this is a lot better," he commented. "Our own space rather than having to share the young Knight Captain's quarters."
Alyce turned. Hands braced on her hips, she gave him a solid nod. "Yes. Isn't it? Can you even believe that guy is a Knight Captain?"
"Yes, actually I can," Ryan told her with confidence. "Ser Cullen was always a very dedicated and talented Templar. Man has a good head on his shoulders."
"Well, his hair's improved, certainly." She looked far too thoughtful. "He's taller than I remember," she said. "Do you think he's taller?"
"Mm." Ryan stood. He loosened the ties on his undershirt, tugging the garment over his head while he strolled to the washbasin and jug. Both were now aligned perfectly with the corner of the washstand.
"So, are we going to see the two of you spar some time?" Alyce asked, oh-so-casually, turning her obsessive straightening and tidying to the bed, smoothing non-existent creases and folding down the top sheet into two tidy triangles.
"And why would you wish to see a pair of grown men fight with swords?" Ser Ryan asked, voice slightly muffled by the washcloth over his face. "I can't imagine a martial training session would be of any particular interest to anyone with no prior training themselves."
"Diana can use a sword," Alyce informed him. "She's a berserker."
"I can imagine."
"And you know…why not?" She was fiddling, he noted, knitting her fingers together, unravelling them and weaving them together again. "Might be…interesting, watching two manly men in the prime of their manhood…manfully locked in heated combat, the sweat of their exertions glistening on the well-defined planes and…curves of th…th…jiarghh…guh…swords thrusting…and…herrh…cutting…stuff. Or you know. Poking."
Ser Ryan turned around. Slowly. The bedspread was a lightish red. If Alyce did not have such pale coloured hair, she would have been indistinguishable from the bed clothes. "Poking?" he enquired, one eyebrow cocking inquisitively upwards. "Men do not poke their swords at each other in 'heated combat'," he corrected her solicitously. "You appear to have a very strange idea of sword play in general."
"Looks like poking to me," Alyce sniffed in her defence, some of the colour leaving her face.
"Mm."
"Are you coming to bed or not?" she snapped finally.
He smirked at his wife. "Why? So you can engage me in 'heated combat'?"
She threw the pillow at him. He caught it midair and threw it back. "Diana likes him okay?" she said. Finally! He thought. Now we've come to it. "Really likes him but something…happened between them at the Tower and now they're both being id…well Cullen's being an idiot anyway."
"Seemed bright enough to me."
"Stop pretending to be thick," she growled, which made his grin only more mischievous. "It's so frustrating watching them! Like a couple of blow flies fighting for the same bit of rotting meat…it's…it's…"
"An incredibly bad and offensive simile?" he suggested, slipping under the covers beside her.
"Buzzt!" Alyce waved her fist at him.
"Very adult," he told her. "And so, relationship expert that you are, you intend to employ the benefit of your vast experience to bring these two drifting ships in the night together into safe harbour."
She stared at him in disbelief. "You know, my blow fly thing was so much better…and what are you implying? That I have no idea how to sort…people…stuff out?"
"When you put it so eloquently, how can I possibly argue?"
"Rat."
"They're adults Alyce," he said in his annoyingly reasonable tone of voice. "I'm sure knowing their own minds, they can work things out for themselves."
"With a little help…" she began cautiously.
Ryan rolled onto his side, the better to scrutinise her expression. It did look sneakier than usual. "Alyce…" he began, "what are you up to?"
"Nothing!"
"Alyce…"
"Much.
"Alyce…"
"Was that your Holy Smiting voice?" she asked anxiously.
"No. This is. What have you done?"
"Just some…ad…ti…information about…Tem…men," Alyce tried to curb the wince in time, but it slipped out before she could.
"'Temmen'?" he enquired with narrowed eyes. "Have we been introduced? Doesn't seem to be someone I recall meeting."
"Yeah, well Ser Smarty-trews. You can't know everything." She cleared her throat self-consciously. "Just…almost everything."
"Huh…" Ryan continued to scrutinise her keenly. "And if we wake to the ruin of Kirkwall and the Gallows turned to nothing more than splinters and ashes, you'll expect me not to tell you 'I told you so'?"
"Hey!" She slapped at his shoulder. "Diana's an Amell. We're responsible people!"
Ser Ryan settled onto his back and closed his eyes. Responsible eh? It wasn't exactly how he would have put it. Terrifying, yes. Exasperating, certainly. Adorable, addictive, irrepressibly, unwittingly loveable. Even when they were setting your pants alight or causing several, previously amicable countries to declare war on each other. Amells were like that. All in all, he was quite happy he'd been able to pass on his words of well-earned wisdom to the young Knight Captain.
Smart man that Ser Cullen. He could see him made Knight Commander someday…
By the sudden lack of light in the room, Ryan could tell she had snuffed the lamps. The bed wobbled and a few very silent moments passed. He didn't need Templar instincts to know that she was thinking. When Alyce thought hard, the entire world could hear it happening. It was rather cute, actually...and then a warm chin wiggled across his shoulder. Her nose touched his ear a second before her tongue traced the outline of his earlobe.
"Really…?" her breath tickled the hairs at the base of his neck. "No poking?" she asked hopefully. "At all?"
Ryan chuckled. Oh, so that was what she'd been thinking…Rolling over again, he claimed her nearest leg with one of his own, running an appreciative hand along her side, creeping upwards. Fingers threaded through her hair. His lips touched hers briefly; feather-light and insubstantial.
In that case…"En garde…" he murmured, smiling. "But," he added as a suggestion, "re-light the lamp. I'd hate for you to be at a disadvantage. You should have a small fighting chance at the least…"
"Arrogant prat," she told him.
She lit the lamps anyway.
-oo-
The Knight Captain was not as nervous as he thought he would be. Not that 'nervous' had been recommended. Mages, he knew from experience, could smell anxious Templars kilometres away. It was pure instinct, bred into every mage without exception along with their affinity for the Fade. But Templars…Templars had to be trained for control, discipline. A good Templar…well, now a good Templar eliminated the word 'nervous', 'anxious' or 'afraid' from their vocabularies completely.
Ser Ryan was such a Templar. The sort of Templar for which the term 'brown trousers' was completely unknown and little explored because it was un-arable land.
Plus this novel he'd been loaned by said Templar was too difficult to put down. Who knew dwarf culture was so fraught with such complicated and interweaving social rules and expectations? Take this Deshyr Borgish for example, whom, having won his fortune and fame in the Deep Roads and a place in the Assembly, purchases an estate in the rustic Mhary Thaig, setting the locals into aflutter believing he is there supposedly in pursuit of a wife. Hilarity ensues when…
"Can you turn the page? I want to find out what happens next."
Cullen was quite pleased that he did not startle or jump at Diana Amell's voice behind him. He had been too enthralled by the tale of the five lower smith-caste sisters who vied for the Deshyr's attentions to hear her approach and now focussed on their story instead of the overactive frog that appeared to have replaced his heart.
In a show of good manners, Cullen stood to offer the novel to Amell. "Would you like it…?" he asked.
Ser Ryan was right. Amells were quite easily surprised and yes, they could be shocked into silence.
"Be careful though," Cullen warned her. "I doubt this appears on the Grand Cleric's annual list of appropriate reading material."
Diana snorted her opinion of the Grand Cleric. "This, written by a dwarf?" she asked, perusing the novel's cover. "Janke Aeducan? If the Grand Cleric would ever bother visiting Orzammar, she might find that the dwarves don't give a brass nug for her opinion on anything."
Ah…quick recovery. Well done!
Her hand was on the novel, but her eyes were…elsewhere. He could see her mind start to drift.
Well done, me!
"So…" he began. "How do you like Kirkwall so far?"
"I like the view – city I mean – just fine," she told him. "Just…fine. Dandy."
"I know you dislike holy things," Cullen continued in the same, tour-guide voice, "but I'd recommend visiting the Cathedral. For architecture alone, it's worth it. Not to mention the pastry merchant in the Lower Square." He paused thoughtfully. "You like pastries."
"Pastries," she murmured. "Tastry pastries…Why are you wearing this ridiculous outfit?"
Damn. The jig is up!
And then he realised she had said 'tastry', not 'tasty' and smiled – internally only because it paid to be cautious around Diana. Cautious and well-armoured. In this case, all that separated him and instant death was a three-foot long piece of thin linen, tied casually around his hips.
Nothing else.
He tried not to remind himself that he'd never been particularly good at knots.
"I'm in my room," he explained with the barest of pauses. "I'm off duty. I'm entitled to relax."
"You've never relaxed before!" she accused him, glaring resentfully at his bellybutton. "Why start now?"
"Do you want to borrow the novel or not?" he asked.
"No!" she snapped. "What makes you think I want your stupid navel?"
"You were looking at it," he reminded her. Of course, he'd meant the book.
Her eyes flew to his. Finally. "I was not!" Hah! Is that a blush I see? It could also have been a flush of anger. Better to treat it as both. "I was interested in your – seeing what interested you," she corrected herself so quickly a sharp-eared person had had to be listening very closely. Her gaze drifted downwards, stopping somewhere above his middle this time. Good. Because he was getting tired of flexing his pectoral muscles with little to no notice from her. Recognition for hard work done was so rewarding.
He walked away.
He heard a sigh.
In the mirror opposite, he saw her tilt her head slightly, a slow grin spreading across her face. He thought he rather liked the tan she'd gained. It made the highlights she'd acquired into sunbeams in her hair and her eyes even more deeply green.
And then she scowled; their gazes locking in their shared reflection.
"You're doing this on purpose," she stated in a flat, unimpressed voice.
Cullen turned, perching on the edge of the bedside table.
"Yes," he told her bluntly.
The scowl collapsed a little; deflating. There was disappointment and hurt there. Just a little more, I promise…
"Why?"
"Making…sure." It was difficult; even after all this time to say those words. She had after all; kissed him first and that had been difficult too. For the both of them. He had known then how truly terrifying she could be. She had that power over him. To reduce him into nothing more than a mere man. And he had run away.
"Making sure of what?" she spat at him.
Feet first…Ser Ryan had told him. Always feet first…Better chance of a safer landing.
"Making sure you knew what you were getting…Into," he added the last word, because the little Templar in him was still afraid of the mage. It hadn't been part of the plan but he knew his mage almost as well as he knew himself. Huh…'my mage', like some kind of pet. In reality it was the other way around. She'd always made sure that that was quite clear.
"Dumbass…" He heard her mutter under her breath. More loudly, she began to say, "How stupid do…" and unusually, she stopped, clamping her lips together in a self-forced attempt to cease speaking. Crossing her arms across her chest, she leant backwards slightly, purposely placing a few more centimetres between them, as though that should make all the difference. "I'm supposed to be impressed?" she asked; the hint of a fireball lurking behind her eyes. She gave him a deliberate, well, I'm not that impressed, quite frankly look and added, "I've seen better."
"I'm sure you have," Cullen agreed with a nod. "So, how would you suggest I improve?"
She blinked at him, surprised. Surprise was good but the frown returned quickly. She was beginning to learn this new game. "You have to train more, obviously," Diana told him. "This…" she reached out, attempting to point out fat, but found absolutely none. Only hard muscle and smooth, warm skin. "…this is…not good enough…" she scolded, looking disappointed, pleased and rather smug at the same time. "You call yourself a Templar? You'd run out of puff before you were within smiting range." Tossing her chin at him mockingly, she scoffed. "You'd certainly never keep up with me."
"But I'd still chase," he told her. He reached out, closing the space between them, brushing her hair over an ear; tracing a lazy, indulgent path along her hairline. "I don't know how long I'll be in Kirkwall, Diana," he murmured, savouring the sound of her name on his tongue and sincerely hoping for more tasting…later. "But…"
"But…"
He shrugged. "I'm…" Ah, just kiss her fool, the Diana-sounding voice in his head told him.
Templars are obedient. A good Templar would obey without discussion or argument, trusting in his faith and his duty. Knight Captain Cullen was obedient. He listened to the voice, obeyed and was helpful enough to make sure she didn't fall when her knees buckled, bringing her up against him; soft curves on angles and too much fabric in between. He was barely aware of her hands making feeble plucking motions at him; trying to make him stop? And then the badly tied knot of his makeshift loin cloth gave way. Diana caught it and tossed it over her shoulder, not even stopping to draw breath.
They fell, without disconnecting. I think I'm getting better at this…Cullen thought, wracking his brain for the rest of Ser Ryan's advice and horrified to find he couldn't remember any of it. Something about feet and falling and cats. Or had it been birds? No that was in relation to…
"Stop it."
She'd stopped kissing him. He realised part of the breathless feeling in his chest was because she was there, on top of him; her weight constricting and yet comfortable at the same time.
"Stop what?" he asked.
She looked at him, as though he was the stupidest person on the planet. "Thinking, fool."
"Ah," he said. "I can do that."
And it worked. Because she let him kiss her again and again and there were sheets involved and buckles and straps and a couple of unwary buttons which would need to be sewn on again later but when Cullen fell for whatever number it was (a count he'd lost in the last twenty-four hours), he had company.
Diana – his Diana – fell with him.
-oo-
"So really. Tell me. What did you do?"
Bastard looks far too smug and pleased with himself, Alyce thought, kicking him under the breakfast table. An eyebrow rose. He cast an enquiring look under the table at the foot-shaped culprit. He straightened and with a direct, obstinately cheeky look told her; "Not telling."
"You're impossible!"
"Not impossible, cariad," Ser Ryan corrected his wife gently. "Only nearly impossible."
"Gah!"
"And you love me for it," he added, eyes sparkling at her. He was rewarded by a bloom of colour in her cheeks and knew that he would probably pay for this later. With interest.
He liked it best when she was interested.
"Maybe," she sniffed, pretending to be offended. "Maybe I just do it for the challenge. Maker knows no one else will have you."
"No cariad," Ryan said in an agreeable tone of voice that suggested pretzel and bending over backwards and tying himself in knots. Just for her. Always for her. "Only you," he said the last thought out loud.
"And don't you forget that!" she waggled her finger at him.
Ser Ryan smiled and returned to his toast. He was quite sure the Knight Captain wouldn't either.
-oo END oo-