Planned Attacks
A Word: Request for Cullen being bad at flirting.
.
.
"Nice work," Cullen says eventually after they've put a mile or so between them and the bloodied remains of bandits who had clearly mistaken the Inquisition for an easy target. The sun beats down on them all, and Cullen's suffering in his heavy armor more than usual. It's why he finds his mouth running on with what he had meant as an honest compliment. "I wouldn't have thought pike twirling to be taught to mages before, but you are an expert at it."
Sand makes the most interesting sound when tread upon. A sound that can't really be appreciated until everything else has gone so utterly silent. Cullen appreciates the sound even as he feels a groan build up in his chest at the words that had come out without thought. A half-practiced line he'd decided against using last week, but had been just practiced enough to slip out without his leave when given a chance.
"Wait. I didn't-" Cullen draws in a deep breath and doesn't try to delude himself into thinking the heat he can feel suffusing his face has anything to do with the heat of the desert around them. "Maker, can I claim the sun has addled my mind?"
"Dear Commander, you can say whatever you wish," Dorian drawls in a way that Cullen knows is nothing but trouble. He doesn't even have to turn to look at the other man to know exactly how wide and wicked his grin is right now. In fact it's probably best he doesn't. Who knows what seeing the handsome man looking like that will do to him on top of all this heat. "Just as I can say you actually meant that the way it sounded. Oh, I'll be the envy of the whole keep when I get back! Until you accidentally flirt with someone else that is. Again."
Cullen smiles and knows it to probably look as painful as it feels, but allows Dorian to think what he will regardless. Having the man think Cullen spoke without thought is much more preferable to him knowing Cullen had meant the poor line as it sounded after all.
.
.
"Allergic?" Cullen repeats dumbly as Madame de Fer continues to closely watch the bubbling potion she's holding over a green flame.
"Oh yes, Commander. It's shocking, and I was quite surprised myself," she doesn't look surprised at all as she gently begins to shake the glass beaker in a circular motion. The blue liquid inside is lightening slowly. "I have never heard of an elf having allergies either. Especially not to such an innocuous plant. Given how much time Solas spends in the wilds I am rather surprised he did not know of this before hand."
"Ah," Cullen shifts and is glad that the woman's attention seems to be fully on her potion making as he discretely tucks away the single sprig of Andraste's Grace into the back of his belt. Under his coat so it can't be seen. "It's common in parts of Ferelden, but I hear it is rather hard to find elsewhere. Perhaps he's just never come across it before."
"Hm," Vivienne hums thoughtfully and there's a flash in the beaker. When she pulls it out of the flame the liquid is clear and void of all color. Her eyes are amused and all too knowing when she turns to look at him even as she's reaching for a cork stopper. "Then perhaps it would be best to make sure the flowers stay scarce in Skyhold."
"Yes," Cullen agrees as she walks away and he follows with what has to be a noticeable slump in his shoulders. "I think that can be arranged."
There's any number of fireplaces between the undercroft and the infirmary after all, but Cullen rather thinks he should just throw the damn flowers over the ramparts and be done with the whole mess.
.
.
"Has it been a while?" Blackwall asks as Cullen shakes out his left arm. The numbness tingling up from the powerful overhand strike he'd, rather stupidly, decided to block with his shield. "I imagine you're rather busy to take to the practice ring."
There's a note of disapproval there that Cullen doesn't think he's imagining as they square off again, and normally that would be more than enough to get his back up. Sadly, he can't even get angry over the implication because it is true. He spends far too much time stuck with papers and maps and it's showing despite his best efforts. "There is also the fact that there are few enough men capable of making this worth my time."
The Warden spins his sword and nods after a moment of quiet thoughtfulness. An acceptance of the explanation as he widens his stance and settles into position. "Very true, Commander. Feel free to call on me at any time if you have need of another to test your blade with."
"Oh? I can count on your aid when I need it?" Cullen asks and immediately regrets it. No, immediately regrets the twist he puts on the words that goes over the line of any man's ability to laugh off as a joke.
"Well, I can't say you won't get a boot thrown at your head if you try to wake me," Blackwall lunges. Deceptively fast for his size and the weight of his broadsword, and Cullen doesn't have time to be embarrassed that his flirtation has been ignored entirely. A small mercy.
.
.
The Iron Bull is not given to subtlety or prudishness. An assumption based entirely off his appearance and usually solidified within minutes of talking to him. Cullen can see the qunari across the tavern floor as the bartender gets him a mug of something. Cullen doesn't quite care what so long as it's wet and doesn't burn his tongue too much. He sees the broad form of Varric near Bull, and the hunched form of Cole is nearly hidden between them. He doesn't hear what the man's actually saying until he gets closer though.
"-who'd turn down the chance to have the ride of their life?" Bull finishes with a broad and very lewd gesture that's unmistakable as Cullen pulls out one of the stools to sit. "How bout it Commander, what would you say to riding The Bull?"
"Yes," Cullen answers without thought and the looks he gets from the others is enough to make him start to back track fast out of habit. "Wait, what did I agree to?"
Bull laughs. Loud and pealing as he reaches out to slap him on the shoulder hard. "Now this is what makes you good at your job. Bit of humor never hurt. And now," the laughter stops quickly as he gives them all a leer, "I've got a red-headed serving wench to see."
"Curly," Varric says with a sad shake of his head and an all too brightly amused grin over the rim of his ale, "you are one of the saddest pieces of work I've ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on, and I knew a particularly bad poet who frequented the Hanged Man. How do you do it?"
"I don't, and that seems to be the problem," Cullen picks up his tankard and stares into it with consideration. There's not as much as he'd like but he's not entirely sure he wants to be drunk tonight anyway. "I'm either jesting or I get it wrong."
"They're nice and pleasing to look at. It'd be nicer and more pleasing to be with. It should be easy but it's not," Cole utters without looking up. Seemingly fascinated with the grain of wood on the table and Cullen wonders if the boy has even drunk from the tankard someone always inevitably gets him. "Why is it not so easy anymore? It shouldn't be this hard to talk."
"You think about it too much, and thinking about these things just isn't your strong suit," Varric answers as if Cullen was the one to say something and not Cole. It's disconcerting, but not as much as it used to be. He's gotten too used to it. "Leave the planning and strategies for the war table. Give being bluntly honest a whirl. If you don't think about it before hand you're less likely to trip yourself up talking. Might even surprise yourself into bedding someone."
Cullen lowers his tankard to stare at the dwarf who shrugs. "Hey, stranger things have happened around here. You can't deny that."
He can't, and that shouldn't be as comforting as it is.
.
.