Note: Anwen tackles her correspondence. This is a slightly longer than planned fluffy one-shot.
Cullen's office smells of leather and beeswax. It's a warm smell, mellow and rich, and Anwen finds it oddly comforting, familiar somehow. It reminds her of the tavern outside Markham where she'd worked for several months after first leaving Ostwick. The proprietress had been stern but warm, with a deep, bellowing voice that sounded out sentences with an almost melodic cadence.
Anwen sits at Cullen's desk, legs curled beneath her, elbows resting on the mahogany tabletop as she surveys the careful piles of paper surrounding her. The sheer amount of paperwork that awaited her every time she returned to Skyhold was a source of constant bewilderment. She hadn't wanted to work in her room, had claimed that it was too quiet, that the light streaming in through the full-length windows was too bright, when she'd appeared in Cullen's office with an armful of paperwork and a wry smile on her face. In truth she was just lonely. If he had suspected something (and she knew from the way his brows quirked that he did), then he hadn't said anything, just gathered his armour, an old rag and a small vial of lemon oil and settled onto a short stool in the middle of the room to give Anwen access to his desk.
Mostly they sit in silence, Cullen's methodical sweeping of cloth against breastplate filling the air with soft fwip-fwip sounds. Occasionally Anwen sighs or hums, or mutters a sudden sharp expletive under her breath (followed by a hasty apology when Cullen casts her a gently reproachful glare). Sometimes she reads aloud sections of her letters, drawing Cullen's attention to snippets of interesting intelligence or pointing out examples of particularly egregious syntax.
She pulls a new letter from the top of the nearest pile, takes a moment to admire how the thick, smooth paper feels between her fingers before popping the wax seal with her pen-knife. She'd always had a fondness for good stationary.
"Wow," she whispers as her eyes carefully scan each line of the letter, "Lord Tigh really doesn't like me."
She lifts her eyes from the page only long enough to see Cullen's head bob in absent-minded agreement, his attention never wavering from his task, before returning her gaze once more to the neat, steady calligraphy of Lord Tigh's scribe.
"I mean – just listen to this," she says, pitching her voice loud to make sure Cullen hears, "it is my estimable opinion that your Inquisition is entirely unsuitable for the crucial task at hand. You surround yourself with scoundrels and abominations, trusting the fate of Thedas to a band of rapscallions seemingly lacking both ability and moral integrity."
"That is perhaps a bit… severe," he says, head still bowed over his breastplate while his hands wipe careful circles across the metal.
"A bit?!" she cries, dismayed that Cullen is not displaying what she considers to be an appropriate degree of outrage. "Your amateurish blunderings are an embarrassment to the good people of Thedas. In addition, while you pretend to serve the Chantry and follow the teachings of Andraste, I question whether a mage is truly capable of such devotion."
"Everyone's entitled to their opinion – even Orlesian nobles."
"Next time I see that self-important, bloated, ignorant toss-pot, I'm burning his balls off."
He chuckles, a warm, earnest sound that makes Anwen's lips twitch into a smile. "You can't incinerate every Orlesian noble who disagrees with you. There'd be hardly anyone left at Court."
She gives a theatrical little huff, pulls her features into a look of exaggerated offence (though Cullen is still too preoccupied with his armour to see). "I'll have you know I'm very popular among many noble circles. You'll find I'm immensely charming."
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head in good-natured amusement. "Ah, of course. How dare I insinuate otherwise." There's a moment of easy silence while Cullen places his breastplate aside and picks up one of his vambraces. Once he's resumed his steady, meticulous work with the polishing cloth, he gives a thoughtful hum. "Well there's no point in worrying about every Lord with disagreeable opinions. There will always be people who disapprove of you."
She's about to relent, to concede that Cullen is right and file the acerbic letter away where she will swiftly forget about it, but then she reads something in Lord Tigh's letter that twists her mouth into a teasing smirk. "Interesting, the letter mentions you as well," she muses casually, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes to gauge his reaction.
His hands still at their work but Cullen's face remains impassive. He gives a small shrug, a poor attempt at nonchalance. "Really? That's… fine…"
Anwen clears her throat, deciding to draw upon the full extent of her theatrical flair to recite. "Your Commander, while possessing the coarse manners that one expects from a Ferelden, lacks both experience and skill, seemingly choosing to spend more time curling his hair than training his men. I can recommend several excellent Chevaliers should you decide to replace him with someone more appropriate."
Cullen's head suddenly snaps to attention, his armour forgotten as he stares at Anwen with the same outraged expression that she was sporting mere moments before.
"I was entirely cordial with the man for the entire duration of his visit! And the curl is natural!"
"So now you're presumably in support of my testicular incineration plans," she returns, eyes shining with unnerving enthusiasm.
"Or we could throw him off the battlements."
"Or we could push him from the undercroft."
"Or Cassandra could use him as a training dummy."
A laugh bursts from behind her lips, a loud, snorting thing entirely at odds with the ladylike persona she likes to cultivate. "You devious bastard! I always knew there was a villainous soul hidden behind that noble façade."
His laughter joins hers, deep and honest, and soon the pair has descended into uncontrollable, childish sniggering. She folds up Lord Tigh's letter with undue vigour, tosses it dismissively across Cullen's desk and watches with an odd twinge of satisfaction as it teeters over the edge of his desk and topples into oblivion. The corner of her mouth curls; if only all her problems were so easily dismissed.
"Right!" she announces as she leans forward in her chair, "I'm writing a response!"
"No!" Cullen calls with surprising force and Anwen giggles at his unexpected vehemence and the twinge of genuine fear in his eyes. "You should wait until your mood has improved before composing a reply. In fact, maybe you should just let Josephine write something."
"Nonsense, I am perfectly capable of reining in my passions for the sake of composing a cordial letter," she smiles with forced sweetness. "I have impeccable manners."
She picks up her quill with an exaggerated flourish and starts to pen her response, reciting aloud to Cullen as she writes.
"Dear… Arsehole…"
"Annie!"
"Fine, fine – Dear Lord Tigh… Thank you very much for your recent letter… I am sorry to hear that your visit was not an enjoyable one. However, I am more sorry that you are such an insufferable windbag… The people of the Inquisition are loyal, skilled, dedicated individuals and your inability to recognise this demonstrates your ignorance and pig-headed refusal to appreciate the value of those outside your limited worldview… Since you apparently found my company so disagreeable, you will be happy to know that I never want to see your smug, self-satisfied, repellent face ever again… yours sincerely…"
Cullen laughs, soft at first but then growing louder as her letter becomes increasingly hyperbolic, and he looks at Anwen with such open affection that she feels something quiver pleasantly in her chest. But behind the affection there's also a shadow of concern, of reproach, and Anwen doesn't know whether she should be amused or offended that Cullen thinks she might actually send the letter.
"You cannot send that," he says when she's finished, quelling his laughter to give Anwen a firm, mildly reproving look.
"I know that!" she cries, pouting at Cullen's apparent lack of faith. Anwen liked to tease and joke but it was always far more important to her that she was seen to be composed at all times. Causing a diplomatic stir just because some uptight Orlesian noble had wounded her pride was not something she was genuinely considering.
"No, but – you really cannot send that letter. Quick," he orders, rising from his stool and taking a few, long steps toward the desk, "tear it up before you send it by accident."
She crinkles her nose. "What?! Tear up this absolutely masterful piece of prose?! Don't be absurd."
She carefully folds her letter, brows knit with concentration as she fashions it into a slightly lob-sided lotus blossom shape. "We'll put it right here," she says, opening the top drawer of Cullen's desk and placing her letter inside. "Just in case we need it."
She's just about to shut the drawer when something catches her eye. A neat stack of letters sits at the front of the drawer, tied together with a yellow ribbon, and Anwen immediately recognises the slanting, curling script on the top letter as her own.
When she carefully lifts the letters from the drawer, she notices Cullen stiffen on the other side of the desk. Raising her face to his, his expression is guarded, his eyes a little too wide, and Anwen's not entirely sure why he looks so nervous.
"Letters? From… from me?" she asks, feeling like she wants to ask more but not entirely certain as to the question.
There's a pause, Cullen's eyes scanning his office, the cramped bookshelves, the paper-strewn desk, as if he could find an appropriate response to Anwen's question hidden among the room's clutter. "I've kept every letter you've sent me," he finally answers, watching her face closely for how she'll respond. Their relationship is such a young, tentative thing, and Anwen always so guarded with her feelings, that Cullen is not sure whether she will find his sentimental hoarding of her letters endearing or overbearing.
She flicks through the letters like a dealer with a pack of cards, watching the weathered paper blur in front of her eyes and trying to judge just how many letters Cullen has kept. Anwen has been a dedicated correspondent from her very first trip to the Hinterlands, sending letters to each of her advisors to update them on her progress. At first her letters to Cullen had been perfunctory, telling him of her journey, describing the size and skill of the hostiles encountered. But over time, the letters had become more personal, detailing her random musings or relaying jokes told by her companions.
As she pulls the yellow ribbon loose, sorts through the crinkled letters in her hands, she can see that Cullen is not exaggerating. He really has kept every letter, even those very early letters outlining the most dull, tedious details of her travels.
"Some of these are from before Haven," she states, feeling that this is important to note although she's not entirely certain why.
"Yes."
"So you… saved them?"
"Yes."
"Corypheus was besieging the village and you took a moment to… save my letters?"
Cullen thinks for a moment then, "yes."
Her brows furrow in confusion and she can feel something tingling along her spine that she can't quite identify, something warm, something thrilling. But all she can muster to express how she feels is a strangled, "why?"
He raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck, a familiar gesture betraying how foolish, how vulnerable he feels in the face of Anwen's questioning. "Because they came from you."
"That's – I don't – why would you?" Her words are lost to a low hum as Anwen is left uncharacteristically speechless (and it's funny how often Cullen manages to have this effect on her). She is confused, overwhelmed even, by the prospect that Cullen values her letters, her pointless ramblings and trite observations, so much that he would keep them all this time.
Cullen is still standing in silent waiting, his face twisted in worry, and Anwen knows she needs to say something, something to allay his fears, something to express just how touched she is by his gesture. Failing to find the proper words, instead she leans across his desk, wraps her hands around the collar of his shirt, and pulls him into a bruising kiss.
Cullen's soft oh of surprise is swallowed between her lips and though the angle is awkward, her back arched painfully as she leans across his wide desk, the feel of his mouth pressed eagerly against hers is enough to leave her light-headed, enough to make her toes curl and her heart skip furiously behind her ribcage. She wishes she had mustered the eloquence to tell him how she felt, the courage to explain just how much she depended on his unyielding support. Instead she has to hope that this kiss can convey everything that she's failed to say.
She doesn't pull back when she breaks the kiss, remains precariously poised across Cullen's desk with her hands anchored in his shirt to keep her upright. "You wonderful fool," she whispers against his lips, and she can feel his smile on her skin.
The careful piles of paper are still waiting for her attention atop Cullen's desk, a hundred tasks left undone and a hundred words left unsaid, and it would be easy to drown under the weight of her responsibility, to let the burden pull her down below the waves. But Cullen is sturdy beneath her hands, steady and strong, and somehow, when she's with him, the burden doesn't feel as heavy.