Sebastian sat back in his chair, watching Anders watch Hawke. He felt, as he often did, a faint regret that the two of them had never gotten any closer. It had looked like something might happen after their little encounter in the staff room; Anders had at least become a little less confrontational around him, he'd even caught the man giving him a speculative look a time or two.
But then Hawke had arrived, and everything had changed. Varric had named her only as a refugee from events in the south when he'd warned them that he'd be bringing a guest to their next meeting. The moment she'd stepped in the door... Sebastian fought back a smile, remembering that moment. She had the same sort of eye-catching self-assurance and room-filling presence as any top-end predator. You had no question that she knew how to use the long knives strapped to each leg, half-hidden under the fall of her worn leather coat. That she had used them, when she'd had to. Her eyes were intense, clearly seeing every least detail as they swept around the room; she had what Sebastian later vaguely remembered his grandfather as once describing as situational awareness – a deep, near-instinctive grasp of everything going on in her surroundings, including what way things were likely to change or move. The sweep of her eyes as she took in their little group had only stopped once, pausing for a beat as she looked over Anders, and then had swept on.
Within days the pair of them were quite clearly A Thing, and that was that.
He sometimes wondered which of them he was more jealous of; Hawke, for having snapped up Anders before Sebastian had ever really had a chance with him, or Anders, for having Hawke. She was a very impressive woman, after all. Not traditionally beautiful, but certainly striking, with pale blue eyes standing out starkly against her dusky skin, a strong chin, and curly dark hair that she usually had caught up in a messy roll to keep it out of her face. Strong, too, her curves due more to muscles than any softer padding. It was always a surprise to realize how short she actually was; the way she carried herself, you half-expected her to loom over you, to be six feet tall, not five foot nothing. What she lacked in height she most definitely made up for in determination and personality. And skill; she had a knack for seeing the opportunities within problems, the risks within plans. Before the first month was out, she'd pretty much taken over leadership of their group, and they'd been better for it.
He realized she'd just said his name, and looked up. "Yes, Hawke?"
"I've got a new contact I'll be sending your way; you're respectable enough that he can safely be seen talking to you. See me after the meeting, and I'll tell you how to recognize him when he shows up."
Sebastian nodded, and then as she turned to speak to Varric, returned to only paying partial attention to the meeting. He found himself wondering who this new contact was, and why he required a 'respectable' connection into the underground.
It was almost a full week later before he finally found out. He'd begun to think that Hawke's new contact wasn't going to show up after all – that happened occasionally, someone getting cold feet after first contacting the underground – and then late one afternoon, he did.
Sebastian was at the little chantry he maintained in the basement of an old three-story brick office building. Built somewhere early in the previous century, its yellow brick art deco style looked dingy and dated now. He had three rooms there; a small windowless closet of an office, with a sagging old couch along one wall where he sometimes slept when he'd been working particularly late, and an even smaller and equally windowless bathroom, with the original art deco porcelain fixtures and flooring of white and black hexagonal glass tiles. The biggest room, the worship hall, had a row of tiny wire-covered windows along the top of the wall, looking out at ground level of the alleyway where the worn concrete stairs leading down to the recessed doorway was, and letting in only the faintest of light. There was just enough light coming in today that he hadn't bothered turning on the fluorescent lighting – old hanging fixtures that buzzed annoyingly, and were getting increasingly difficult to find replacement tubes for – and was instead washing the worn linoleum floor by the faint light from the windows and open door.
He heard the scuff of steps on the stairs just moments before the light was dimmed by someone coming to a stop in the opened doorway. He looked up, squinting a little but unable to make them out, back-lit by the fading sunlight outside as they were, other than that they were male, a little sorter than he, and had short, combed-back hair.
"You're Brother Sebastian?" A pleasant voice, at least.
"Yes. May I help you?" He set aside the mop, standing it up in the bucket. "Come in if you'd like; careful, the floor is wet."
The figure grunted and nodded in acknowledgement, and moved into the room. The slicked-back hair proved to be an unremarkable brownish-blond colour, the eyes – hidden behind mirrored sunglasses at first – revealed to be a shade of equally unremarkable brown. He wore a beat-up old brown leather jacket hanging open over a plain white tshirt, brown leather work boots – equally well-worn – and well-creased faded blue jeans that clung to slim hips and muscular thighs like a second skin. He dressed and had the wide-shoulders form of some sort of worker – docks, construction, something that involved heavy lifting – but there was something about him that screamed 'cop' to Sebastian. Only long practise at hiding his reactions kept him from tensing.
"I was told to come here if I needed someone to talk to; someone who'd understand my very particular problems," the man said, and now Sebastian did tense; the wording Hawke had told him to listen for.
"I help those I can, though not all problems are ones that I can address."
"And those you can't help?"
"Why, I pray to a higher power, and trust in the Maker's way."
The man's eyebrows rose slightly, and he turned to look pointedly at the other end of the room, where a small statue of Andraste stood on a cheap plaster plinth. "The Maker? I was told this was a chantry of the Cult of Andraste?"
"Ah. You follow the Maker though, do you not? We Andrastrians also follow Him. We are a sub-sect of the Church of the Maker, not a separate cult."
The man made a somewhat dubious humming sound.
"But come," Sebastian continued, and gestured to the door to his office. "You said you wished to talk. Join me in my office, if you'd like. Or we can talk out here, if you prefer."
The man visibly wavered, then shrugged. "Out here is fine."
Sebastian nodded, and walked over to where the folding chairs were stacked out of the way of his cleaning, taking two and carrying them over to where the man stood, watching. He held one out. "Please, be seated," he said, and once the man had taken one, opened the other and sat down himself. "Might I know your name?"
The man sat, studying him intently for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "Cullen will do," he said, and then smiled, a very small, sardonic smile. "I'm a cop."
"So I'd guessed," Sebastian said softly, and when the man's eyebrows rose again, "Something about your stance; the way you looked around the room on entering, to see who and what was here."
Cullen frowned. "You're observant."
"I have to be. Now, you had something you wished to tell me?"
"Yeah. Let Hawke know that the Commander has heard rumours, and suspects where she'll be this weekend and what she'll be doing when she's there. It's going to be a trap."
That startled Sebastian, for two reason – 'the Commander' could only refer to one person, Commander Meredith Stannard of the Templars, the leader of the local branch of the state's not-very-secret Secret Police. For Cullen to know what he'd just said... he must be high in their organization. Very high, possibly even working directly under the Commander's orders. Small wonder Hawke had looked so self-satisfied when mentioning her new contact.
"I will pass the word on," Sebastian said quietly.
"Good," Cullen said, then settled back in his chair, arms crossing, looking Sebastian over from head to toe. "You're not what I expected," he said.
Now it was Sebastian's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Oh? And what did you expect, then?"
"Someone older, I guess. And given the address, maybe a bit more... ragged. Not..." he stop, and gestured at Sebastian.
Sebastian glanced down at what he was wearing – the grey open-front cassock traditional to the priesthood of Andraste, over matching grey slacks and a dark red shirt, with the intricately interwoven grey cummerbund that marked his priesthood around his waist, and a red and gold sash wrapped over top holding the cassock in place. Gold cord was applied to the front of the shirt and the shoulders of the cassock in the sunburst pattern that Andrastrian's felt was sacred to the Maker – the source of all light – and the hem and cuffs of the cassock all trimmed with the same cord. Having performed a particularly important chant earlier that day – it was the anniversary of Andraste's landing in the north, and a therefor a day for special celebration – he was wearing his best robes, the slacks and cassock of fine grey wool, the shirt and sashes of silk, the set of them a gift some years before from one of his more affluent parishioners, since passed on.
He smiled, amused. "I should have changed out of these before I began washing the floor," he said. "My best set. I do not always dress so finely; we are not a rich sect, and this is a very minor chantry within it, as you can see," he said, gesturing at the shabby room surrounding him.
Cullen's head tipped thoughtfully to one side. "I thought all Andrastrian priests were female."
"Most are," Sebastian agreed. "I, as you can see, am not."
Cullen blew air softly out his nose when Sebastian did not explain further, then abruptly rose to his feet. "I should be going. I'll be back when I have any further little problems to tell you about."
"Of course," Sebastian agreed, and rose as well, seeing him to the door and closing it behind him. He switched on the fluorescents, and looked around the room, then headed to his office to change. Classes at the college tonight; he'd tell Hawke then.
Cullen didn't appear again until almost two weeks later, when a mid-morning service was just starting. He took a place among Sebastian's handful of mostly-elderly parishioners as if he belonged there, even making a half-decent show of singing along with the chants. Sebastian had to rescue him from one of them afterwards, a kindly old lady who was half-deaf and loved talking to anyone who'd stand still for it. She actually had some quite interesting stories to tell, if you had the patience for it – she was from the south originally, and had fought in the resistance there in her youth, before marrying into a northern family – but unfortunately she was not very good at telling them, a situation exacerbated by the droning monotone of her voice. Sebastian often wondered if she had always spoken so flatly, or if it was a side effect of her deafness. He gently distracted her, and passed her off to one of her equally aged friends, the two already lost in reminiscences of better times before they were out of earshot.
"Thank you," Cullen said, looking amused.
Sebastian smiled thinly as he shut the door. "You're welcome. Would you like to sit?" he asked, gesturing at the scattering of chairs.
"No, I was sitting most of the morning. I'd rather be on my feet," Cullen said, and leaned against the wall, arms folding across his chest.
Sebastian nodded. "Do you mind if I clean up while we talk? I have commitments for later this afternoon..."
"At that college you teach at?" Cullen asked.
Sebastian could not help himself; he froze for a moment in straightening the chair, shocked that Cullen knew of the college. "Yes," he finally said, guardedly.
Cullen smiled crookedly. "I was curious about you. You didn't seem anything like what I expected a hardened revolutionary to be. Nor a priest, for that matter."
Sebastian glanced at him, then resumed tidying the rows of chairs, bending down to pick up a tissue someone had dropped on the floor, and carrying it over to the waste basket by the door by one corner. "So you looked into who I was, and why I am here, then."
"Yes. At least the who you were part. Not just Brother Sebastian, but Sebastian Vael, third son of the late Conrad Vael, of the Starkhaven Shipping Vaels," Cullen said, a note of distaste creeping into his voice. "Pretty high up in the plutocracy, as these things go. You should be worth millions, possibly even billions, even as a mere third son, and since the death of your father and elder siblings you should be Starkhaven Shipping, as far as I've been able to make out. And yet..." And he spread his hands, gesturing at the dingy little room around them, looking pointedly at Sebastian's robes – far from his best robes today, instead an older set, faded from washings and showing wear at the seams – eyebrows raising as if to ask why. "I fail to understand why you are here, Messere Vael."
Sebastian paused, and just looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged slightly, moving to the front of the room to carefully pinch out the thick red candles arranged in banks on a stair-stepped rack on a table beside Andraste's plinth. "A long story."
"I have time."
"But I do not. The college, as already mentioned. Did you not have a problem you wished to speak to me about?"
"Yes. But from where I stand, currently the problem is you. Hawke trusts you, clearly. I don't know if I do," Cullen said.
Sebastian paused in the act of pinching out the tallest candle, then turned and looked thoughtfully at Cullen. "Something has frightened you. Something... other than myself."
"Perhaps," Cullen agreed, then straightened up and moved a few steps closer. He was between Sebastian and the door, Sebastian noticed, and one hand was out of sight; near or holding some weapon, he was suddenly sure. They locked eyes for a long moment, then Sebastian turned away, and pinched out the last candle.
"Very well. I will need to call in sick, or the others will fear that something untoward has happened to me."
"Untoward. Maker, the way you speak..."
Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly. "The way I speak is the way I speak. I have never seen any need to change it for my audience."
"I'll want to listen while you call."
"In case I mean to summon help to deal with you? Certainly. Come, then, though I tell you in advance that I will be using several code words in order to assure those I speak with that I am not under any duress, and not in need of any rescue."
Cullen grimaced, but nodded. "I suppose I should have expected that."
It was Merrill who answered the phone. He had to say the initial code words twice before she recognized what he'd said, and then rather than dealing with it herself she hurried off, leaving the phone off the hook, so that he heard the fading sound of her footsteps, and her distantly calling for Isabela to come take his call.
Isabela asked just the right questions, of course, and he used the right innocuous sounding phrases in return. "All right, I'll cover for you this afternoon," she said finally, sounding amused. "But I'll want the full story of what's keeping you away later. As, I'm sure, will Hawke."
"Of course," he said, and looked over at Cullen, who was standing by the door looking distinctly uneasy, having only been able to hear Sebastian's end of the conversation and unable to tell if the phrases he'd used were the promised safe codes, or rescue codes instead. He set down the handset, then smiled thinly at the man. "If you'd prefer to go elsewhere, that would be acceptable to me."
Cullen stiffened for a moment, then slowly relaxed, nodding thoughtfully. "Since you offer... yes, I'd prefer it."
"May I change first? These robes are not exactly non-descript," he pointed out.
"All right," Cullen agreed, and Sebastian opened the tiny closet in one corner of the room where he stored his robes, taking out his street clothes and vanishing into the bathroom to quickly change into them. A cream-coloured tshirt, well-worn blue jeans, a faded black hoodie and steel-toed brown work-boots not much different than the pair Cullen himself was wearing transformed him; no longer so obviously Brother Sebastian, instead just anyone you might pass on any street in this area of the city.
Cullen looked him over and nodded approval of the change before leading the way out of the building, Sebastian pausing only to properly lock the door behind them before following him up the stairs to street level. They walked several blocks, Cullen leading them on a twisting path that was clearly meant to confuse or detect any possible pursuit, though as well as Sebastian knew the neighbourhood, he himself knew perfectly well where they were when Cullen finally led the way into a noisy bar several blocks away. A bar known more for the quantity and variety of its scantily clad entertainment than for the drinks or the very limited range of foods that were served.
Sebastian stood and watched the rather amazingly flexible young woman dancing on stage while Cullen leaned over the bar, talking quietly to the owner. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flash of money changing hands, then Cullen was back at his side again. "This way," he said, and led off again, out through a door that normally only staff was allowed to use, and down a narrow cinderblock-walled hallway, then through another door into a poorly lit stairwell and up several flights of stairs.
The hallway they emerged in was only slightly fancier than the one they'd been in downstairs; still narrow, but with the floor covered in well-worn green carpeting, the walls covered in dark wood wainscoting to waist height, with yellow-painted plaster above, seamed with cracks and flaking loose to reveal older coats of paint in varying shades of also-yellow. Light fixtures were few, and either dim or missing bulbs entirely. By the way Cullen walked, he knew the place well; he led them down the corridor, around a corner where it crossed with an identical one, and to an unmarked door, opening it and gesturing for Sebastian to step inside first.
A small room, the floor covered in the same green carpet as out in the hallway, though less worn. A futon couch with a large rag rug draped over it stood under the lone window, and a pair of chairs made when the future was thought to be full of plastic curves in primary colours were arranged against the opposite wall. A short bookcase of woodgrain-patterned melamine-covered particleboard stood in one corner, with an old boom-box style radio perched on top, a collection of seemingly random books on the shelves; dog-eared paperbacks, mostly, the spines well-wrinkled and pages puffed out and curly-edged from reading, along with a few hardcovers, the covers almost falling off from wear. The room had a bit of a musty, musky odour to it.
"Charming place," Sebastian said.
Cullen smiled crookedly. "At least it's private. And very well soundproofed. Have a seat," he said, gesturing at the chairs, and walked over to where an elderly bar fridge sat in the corner opposite from the shelves. "You drink?"
"Sometimes," Sebastian said. "What's on offer?"
"Beer, beer, or beer."
"In that case, I'll have a beer. Thank you," he said, as Cullen tossed a can his direction. He sat down in one of the two chairs, cautiously opening the can and quickly sipping at the foam that bubbled out. It wasn't bad; not a particularly good brand either, but drinkable.
Cullen opened a can for himself, then walked over and dropped down to sit on the futon, slouching back with every appearance of comfort. "So... explain it to me. What is a Vael doing in the underground?"
Sebastian smiled crookedly, and took another sip of his beer before answering. "What we're all doing. Fighting against injustice. Trying to loosen the grip the plutocracy has on this country."
"Even though you're a member of the plutocracy?"
"Was a member. Being born to privilege does not make me blind to injustice, though I can understand why people might believe it does, considering how many of my peers – ex-peers – are wilfully blind."
"And you passed up on inheriting your family's fortune because...? Why? It wouldn't enable you to help enough people?"
"It was never a choice I had," Sebastian said, and look down at the can in his hand, turning it slowly around and around, his fingernail tracing the seam between top piece and body. "My father and I were often at loggerheads during my adolescence. We did not agree on anything, and he saw me as one of the great disappointments of his life. Then, later in my teens... well, he disapproved greatly of my lifestyle, and of my growing interest in the Andrastrian sect. He was a conservative sort; all for the Maker, of course, but he looked poorly upon a sect who idolized a woman who'd successfully revolted against the tyrants of her age, even if it had all been done in His name and to His glory. In the end I entered one of their seminaries, and father formally disinherited me. As far as he was concerned, I was no longer any part of the Vael family."
"And then he died."
"Was killed," Sebastian quietly corrected, looking up and across the Cullen. "Murdered, he and my mother and my brothers and, I have heard, quite a selection of near cousins as well. And now my cousin Goren Vael is the family head, and lives in the family mansion in Starkhaven, and owns all the family properties and companies, the shipping and so forth, that once were my father's. I, for whatever reason, was not killed; possibly because I was disinherited and could not inherit anyway, possibly just that I was forgotten."
Cullen sat quietly studying him, frowning slightly while sipping at his beer for several minutes before speaking again. "And you never tried to challenge your disinheritance?"
Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly. "And put myself in the sights of some assassin's gun? No, I did not. I would not, in any case; I am... content, with what I have, and satisfied by the work I do, and merely hope that some day we will manage to overturn the system that has had men like my father and cousin living fat on the work on the desperate poor for so long now. Over half our populace living in conditions of servitude that are a legal quibble away from outright slavery, and a good-sized chunk of the remainder incarcerated not for anything they have done, but for who they are; what they were born as."
Cullen made a thoughtful sound, and just sat there studying him again. Sebastian merely sipped his own beer, waiting for whatever his next question was.
"Why didn't your father like your lifestyle? Were you involved with revolutionaries even then?"
"No, or rather not at first; that came later," Sebastian said, and smiled wryly. "I was involved in even worse, as least far as a hoary old conservative like my father was concerned. I was consorting with men. And plenty of women too, sometimes both at the same time, but it was the sleeping with men part that he found particularly distasteful. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd just been fucking some pretty little elf occasionally – everyone does that, he said. But I was letting myself be fucked by other men, and that he could not tolerate in any son of his."
He took a certain pleasure in seeing how Cullen flushed with embarrassment over his blunt words. As a follower of the Maker, Cullen was likely a good part as conservative as Sebastian's father had been, at least in certain matters.
"And, err... after you entered the priesthood? He was still concerned?"
"What...? Oh, we're not celibate. Not unless we want to be, anyway," Sebastian said.
"Ah," Cullen said, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He shifted position slightly, then took another quick drink of his beer before resuming his questioning. "Tell me about some of the things that made you decide to become a revolutionary; some of the things that your privilege didn't blind you to, as you put it."
Sebastian smiled. "I'll need a second beer. As I said, it's a long story," he said, and rose to fetch a can himself. "And not a very pretty one. Another for you?"
"No, thank you," Cullen said, lifting his own can slightly. "I still have plenty."
Sebastian nodded, and resumed his seat, then cast his mind back, and began to speak.
It was dark out; had been dark for some time now, Cullen having had to switch on the overhead light an hour or two ago. At some point he'd stopped worry that the priest was a risk; the stories he'd told were too raw, his hatred of the injustices he'd been witness to too clear. Despite Sebastian's high birth, Cullen was – perhaps a little reluctantly – willing to accept that he was as much a revolutionary as the rest of them.
He finished his beer – only his second, he'd been nursing it all evening – and sat there, just looking at the man. Calm and collected despite the danger he must have known he was in, if his answers hadn't satisfied Cullen. And speaking without the least slurring or hint of mental confusion, despite the three or four beers he'd had. Not to mention studying Cullen in turn; covertly, in little repeated glances, but trained to observe details and body language as he was, Cullen couldn't miss the way he was being looked at. The way those little glances sometimes lingered.
It made Cullen feel more than a little self-conscious. It didn't help at all when Sebastian' words kept returning to his thoughts – "I was letting myself be fucked by other men, and that he could not tolerate" – and the accompanying mental images which were... disturbing. Though not distasteful; far from that.
It had been so long since he'd last dared to sleep with anyone; a lover was a danger. A lover was a weakness. He'd learned that the hard way, when a particularly bloody-minded group of so-called revolutionaries had captured him. Mages, planning to replace the plutocrats with their own magisters instead, changing one bad choice of state leadership for another. There'd been a girl, part of the group taken along with him... she hadn't even been his lover, though she'd tried to flirt with him a bit, once or twice, well before they were captured. Against the rules, of course, since she was a mage, and he'd always turned her down. But he'd liked her. Someone in their group had known; someone had told their captors. They hadn't approved; he still sometimes had nightmares of what they'd done to her, to show just how much they disapproved of a mage wanting to consort with one of the Templars. And they'd made him watch, because they could.
Rescue had, eventually, come for him, though too late for the mages that had been in his charge. At first he'd thought it had come too late for him as well; that he would have been better off dying there, unrescued. A long time in therapy, before he'd stopped thinking that. An even longer time before he had been declared fit for duty again, and then the fact that he'd ever even needed therapy had changed how others looked at him, treated him, what assignments he was trusted with.
It had been years afterwards before he could ever bring himself to sleep with anyone, and that had been a brief and unsatisfactory relationship, and ended when he'd been transferred north. Though he'd learned a lot during it; a lot about himself, mostly. A lot about what he did or didn't enjoy doing with a partner, a lot about what he didn't enjoy having done to him. Sitting here looking at Sebastian, at the way his broad shoulder and slim hips filled out his clothes, at his beautifully manicured hands, his expressive face, Cullen could think only of the words letting myself be fucked, and of everything he himself would want to do to such a fine specimen.
His mouth had gone dry, just thinking about it, his palms slightly moist. He resisted the urge to wipe them dry on his jeans, and found himself really wishing for a third beer, and certain that such would be a bad idea. Though not as bad an idea as the ones currently going through his head, all centred on the oh-so-calm man seated across from him, and on how much he'd like to render him anything but calm.
"Is there anything else you'd like to ask?" Sebastian asked softly. He had a beautiful voice; deep, cultured, smooth.
Cullen gave a small shake of his head. "No," he said, though he wished he dared say yes, dared ask... But no. "All right. I'm satisfied that you are trustworthy."
Sebastian smiled. "I am pleased to hear that, of course," he said, and then looked questioningly at Cullen. "Might I know what had you so worried? It was clearly more than just knowledge of my past."
Cullen frowned, then shook his head. "No. Though do let Hawke know I need to speak with her directly, as soon as she can arrange a safe meet-up. I have news that I trust to her ears only."
"All right," Sebastian said agreeably, seeming not at all affronted at not being trusted with the news Cullen had for Hawke. "Are you done? May I go?"
"Yeah, go ahead," Cullen said, and remained seated where he was, watching the other man rise and leave, unable to quite stop himself from admiring the view as Sebastian walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He remained seated where he was for a few minutes, then muttered a curse and got up and got himself that third beer, sitting down in the plastic chair this time, still a little warm from Sebastian having sat there.
He really should ask Hawke for a different contact. Except every additional person in the underground who knew his face was a danger, and he was at least reasonably certain that Sebastian wasn't. Or at least not the same sort of danger.
He stayed where he was for half an hour, and when he left, it wasn't by the way he'd come.
Cullen appeared at intermittent intervals after that, sometimes only days apart, sometimes weeks, usually arriving at the chantry just after services, while Sebastian was still tidying up. Sebastian found himself looking forward to his brief appearances, even though they often heralded problems for their cell, or for others. Even knowing something was going to be a trap didn't mean they could always avoid it; in fact it would have been dangerous for them to do so, making it too obvious that there was a high-level leak. And so they had, more than once, to purposefully step into such traps, to trust on their planning for it to get them safely back out again. Or come up with a plausible reason for why they changed their plans, something the Templars could accept that wouldn't shout "they knew!" at them.
Occasionally, he encountered Cullen elsewhere; passing him in the aisle of the grocery store; finding him standing beside him at a crosswalk as he waited for the light to change; standing in line behind him waiting to get to the lone still-working ATM at the bank. He would wait until he was somewhere unobserved, and then check his pockets, or anything he'd been carrying. Sometimes there was a note with more news for Hawke; usually there was not. That was part of Cullen's pattern; that he didn't see Sebastian only when he had news to pass on, but sometimes, randomly, for no reason at all, so that if anyone was watching him, there would be no apparent match-up between their meetings and the rebels once more avoiding or breaking out of some planned trap.
Sebastian found himself thinking about Cullen occasionally. His swept-back hair. His eyes, which he'd now been close enough once – jammed face to face beside each other on the streetcar – to know were not just brown, but brown with lighter gold streaks around the pupil, and flecks of green. The way he smiled, on the rare occasions when he did. The way he filled out his clothes, the compact muscularity of him; he was at least half a head shorter than Sebastian, and even broader in the shoulder, with thicker thighs and calves and arms. He must work out, Sebastian had decided, and wondered if he did so because he enjoyed doing so, or did so merely in order to keep himself looking like the sort of man he was pretending to be.
Not just pretended, but sometimes was; he'd spotted Cullen once, working at a construction site, wearing jeans and workboots and a hard hat and gloves, but no shirt, pushing a wheelbarrow full of wet cement along a plank walkway across the churned dirt of the site. Sebastian's steps had faltered for a moment, as he'd stared at the other man, sweat beading on suntanned skin, and thought... really quite inappropriate things, actually, given the nature of their relationship. And realized, as he continued on his way, that he was smitten. It would have been funny – him, with a crush on a Templar! – if it wasn't so painful. Everything about the two of them together was just so impossible and wrong.
And yet...
Being as aware of Cullen as he'd now become, he could not help but notice how Cullen watched him. Not that he did it often, but sometimes, when they were talking and Cullen was actually relaxed instead of at his more usual high pitch of on-edge tension, his eyes would settle on Sebastian and stay there. Not focused on Sebastian's face, but elsewhere; his shoulders, his legs, his hands. Most often his hands, so that when Sebastian spoke, his hands unconsciously gesturing along with his words, he could see the way Cullen's eyes followed them, the way he'd lick or chew his lips as he watched them move. See, too, the faint flush that would sometimes colour his cheeks, note the way his breathing changed. The way he'd have to shift, sometimes, to ease the pressure of tight denim across his crotch.
Sebastian wasn't sure at first if the other man was even aware of his own interest. Was he as conservative as Sebastian had believed, his desires closeted and ignored, or... was he aware. Was he, perhaps, even experienced...?
He knew it was unwise, and yet he could not stop himself from beginning a very subtle testing of the waters, an almost subliminal flirtation. Careful glances, avoiding Cullen's eyes some times, meeting them at others. Studying some particularly attractive aspect of him, and then flicking a glance at his face, to see if Cullen had noticed, and how he was reacting if he had. Letting his fingers brush against Cullen's as he accepted a can of beer from his hand, then moments later, licking a spill of beer foam off the side of his thumb, eyes purposefully meeting Cullen's as he did so. Moving closer or further away; standing when Cullen was sitting, sitting when he was standing. He was not entirely surprised by what seemed to pique the Templar's interest, and against his better judgement – though when it came to Cullen, he suspected he was rapidly losing any judgement at all – tested a little further.
More than just a crush, he eventually decided. An obsession. And not a safe one.
Sebastian was washing the floor when Cullen entered the room. Not with a mop, as he usually did, but on his hands and knees, with a scrub brush, wearing jeans and a tshirt that had once been white but was now the borderline beigey-grey of something that had been through too many wash cycles with colours, and far too long since it had last been in the vicinity of bleach. He had, at some point, gotten water on it, a large patch of the front clinging in tight translucent wrinkles to his stomach as he sat up. He did not rise to his feet, but remained there on his knees, looking up and smiling welcomingly.
A smile Cullen had come to look forward to seeing. He could not stop himself from staring for a moment, taking in the way the tshirt – shrunken, or bought when Sebastian was a size or two smaller - clung to the muscled form underneath. Or the way Sebastian's hair was mussed, having fallen forward around his face from working bent over. Or the flush in his face from said work; perhaps even from something more, Cullen thought, and took a half-step closer before he could quite stop himself, standing looking down at the man and liking the view.
"Further news for Hawke?" Sebastian asked, sounding entirely innocent, though the way his eyes flicked downwards from Cullen's face to a much lower point and lingered, before slowly rising back up, was anything but innocent.
"No," Cullen said. "Not today."
Sebastian nodded. "Then I'll continue, if you don't mind," he said, and picked back up the scrub brush, leaning back down with his weight balanced on one hand, attacking the narrow joins between the linoleum tiles as if the faint darker line of dirt caught between them personally offended him. Cullen moved out of his way, picking up one of the folding chairs from the stack in the corner and opening it to sit down. He had, he couldn't help noticing, a particularly fine view of Sebastian's ass from where he was sitting, and found himself staring at it for a long moment before forcing his eyes elsewhere, thankfully before Sebastian twisted around to look back over his shoulder at Cullen.
"There's beer in the cupboard in my office if you want one. Warm, but given this heat..."
"Thanks, maybe later," he said. Sebastian nodded and turned back to his work, using a cloth to wipe dry the section of floor he'd just cleaned, then moving to one side and beginning to scrub at a new section. "You're very meticulous," Cullen said, watching him. "Cleaning the cracks between the tiles? Most people wouldn't bother."
Sebastian shrugged, which made the damp material still clinging to his stomach finally pull loose and hang free. Cullen found himself wanting to slide his hand into the gap it made, touch the skin there, wondering what it felt like; warm, from all the work, or a little cool, from the dampness evaporating?
"I like to do a job properly. I am not this thorough with every cleansing, but I do like to do it occasionally," Sebastian said as he continued work, and fell silent briefly. "It is a good feeling, when it is done, even if it does take extra work. The Maker is in the details, they say."
Cullen found himself grinning. "I doubt that when they say that they're referring to dirty floors."
"Perhaps not," Sebastian agreed, and sat up for a moment, pushing his hair back from his face with one hand before turning to look at Cullen again. "And yet if we ignore the small messes, the minor faults, can they not in time become bigger problems? Perhaps not this little line of dirt," he said, stroking one fingertip along a dark seam by his leg. "But as a more general rule."
Cullen grunted. "True," he admitted, only a little reluctantly.
Sebastian smiled, that same warm smile with which he'd greeted Cullen. "Then I think it is wise to pay attention, at least occasionally, to such minor details, whether or not they seem to require it."
Cullen snorted, then fell silent, just watching Sebastian work. Sebastian did not seem bothered by his silence, glancing Cullen's direction occasionally but saying nothing himself.
"I'll go put a couple of those beers to cool," Cullen said when Sebastian was nearing the end of the work, and rose to his feet.
"A good idea," Sebastian said, smiling at him from behind a fall of sweat-soaked hair in a way that gave Cullen gooseflesh.
The beer was easy to find, an open case in the bottom of the closet full of Sebastian's robes. He kept more than one change of street clothing there was well, Cullen noticed, and fingered the sleeve of a very nice suit in charcoal grey wool before bending down to take a couple of bottles out of the case. A good beer, he noticed, from a local micro-brewery, not the mass-produced canned stuff that Cullen himself usually bought and drank. He carried them into the little bathroom, filling the sink with cold water and then carefully standing the bottles in it.
He snuck a peek in the little mirrored-door medicine cabinet above the sink; one of his instructors had always said you could learn a lot about a person by what they kept in one. Perhaps the one wherever Sebastian lived was more informative; this one said very little, holding only an unopened box of assorted sized bandages, a toothbrush, a half-used tube of wintergreen toothpaste, a razor, a small can of unscented shaving cream, a bottle of aspirin, and a black plastic comb.
He glanced around the little room, taking note of the shower stall in one corner, the thread-bare bright yellow towel hanging on a railing beside it, a well-used bar of soap in the holder inside. Noticing too that Sebastian had obviously done some cleaning in here recently as well; the elderly grout between the ceramic tiles on the wall and the glass tiles on the floor was almost white, and there was a faint hint of bleach underlying the scents of soap and toothpaste and bathroom.
Cullen returned to the office to find Sebastian just walking in the door from the main room, stripping off his damp tshirt over his head as he did so. Sebastian smiled at him again, tossing the shirt over the back of his desk chair as he walked over to the closet. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to take a quick shower and change," he said. "That was sweaty work."
Cullen nodded. "That's fine," he agreed, and moved aside out of the bathroom door. "I'll just wait here."
Sebastian nodded, and vanished into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Cullen, after only a brief hesitation, took a seat. He was tempted to search Sebastian's desk, more out of curiosity than of any belief that he might find anything that would change his mind about how trustworthy the man was. More out of habit, come to that, years in the Templars having inculcated in him the habit of checking such things whenever opportunity presented. But he forced himself to remain seated, tipping his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the shower running in the other room, and, inevitably, picturing Sebastian in said shower, wearing nothing but streams of water and maybe a little strategically placed foam. He smiled when he realized he could hear another sound over that of the running water; the sound of Sebastian singing quietly in the shower. Not the Chant, which he might have expected, but a currently popular song instead.
He must have dozed off briefly, or at least zoned out for a while. The impact of someone sitting down on the couch beside him jolted him back to awareness, startling him upright, hand reaching for his belt even before he realized that it was only Sebastian.
Sebastian smiled at his reaction. "Here," he said, and offered Cullen an already-opened bottle of beer, drops of water still clinging to the outside of it, drops of water also dripping off the ends of Sebastian's still-damp hair to soak into the shoulders of the clean tshirt he was wearing now.
"Thanks," Cullen said, taking it, and took a swig, then settled back down in his seat again.
"No problem," Sebastian said, and sighed, slouching down in his seat, knees spreading wide as he did so, so that one pressed, seemingly accidentally, against Cullen's knee.
Though Cullen had become certain some time ago that around Sebastian, such things weren't accidents. The looks, the rare touches, even the way he'd position himself in relation to Cullen. As now, his slouch having placed him so that his head was lower than Cullen's, the curve it forced on his spine and the spread of his legs having put him in a position that Cullen could only think of as inviting. He should, perhaps, have moved his knee away, broken the contact, refused that silent invitation... but he did not, instead sitting just a little more upright, letting his own knee press back just the slightest bit.
Sebastian smiled, a knowing smile, then lifted a hand, peering at his own fingertips. "My fingers think I've been trying to turn them into prunes," he said, and wiggled the fingers slightly. "I'd best remember to moisturize them in a bit, or they'll turn all dry and rough from the soap and the scrubbing."
Cullen made a brief sound of agreement as he sipped from his beer again, the statement not really needing any verbal response. Sebastian let the hand drop again, rubbing it absently down his thigh as he, too, sipped at his beer. "You seem tired," he said.
"Rough few last days," Cullen said, and grimaced. "I don't know if you'll have heard... there was an assassination of one of the senior Templars the other night. A very quiet one; no one knew it had even happened until someone went to wake him in the morning, and found him with his head nailed to his pillow by an arrow through his throat. We think it was fired from a roof across the street, right through an opened window so that there wasn't even the sound of breaking glass to give it away. Anyway, that meant the assassin was hours gone before we ever even knew to start looking for him," Cullen said, sounding annoyed. "He could be on the far side of the country for now, for all we know. Though I think it's someone fairly local; we've seen this MO before. We call him the Archer, though there's evidence that it may be two separate people."
Sebastian grunted, and took another swig of his beer before speaking. "How can you tell?"
Cullen smiled crookedly. "We've found both crossbow bolts and arrows. Which implies two different weapons, which implies two different shooters, since usually a sniper will have a gun that he prefers using and uses for everything, and I can't imagine it being much different just because the shooter is an archer instead. We can't tell much beyond that, except that judging by the arrows he uses, it must be a compound bow. Probably a very small and powerful one; easier to conceal that way, though it likely wouldn't have the same range as a larger bow."
Sebastian eyebrows rose slightly. "Impressive."
"Very," Cullen agreed, then sighed and took another drink. "It's rather confusing at times, working for both sides; part of me is quite cheerful at having seen the last of Alrik, and part of me can't help thinking about how easily the other side took him out, and worrying that it might be me next."
"I doubt you have anything to fear," Sebastian said.
"How can I not fear, when only you and Hawke know that I'm on your side?" Cullen pointed out.
Sebastian smiled, looking amused. "Have you done any of the sorts of things this Alrik has? Enough to have gained the attention and hatred of revolutionaries?"
Cullen opened his mouth, then closed it, and thought. After a while, he sighed. "I cannot claim that there are not things I have done that I regret. I have done many ugly things in my years in the Templars. As to whether I've done anything to earn any special enmity... no, I think not. I hope not. Though I might be wrong, and find an arrow with my name on it winging at me out of the darkness one of these nights."
Sebastian smiled again. "Are there things you have not done that you regret?" And increased the pressure of his leg against Cullen's, making it rather transparently clear what he was asking. And then, before Cullen could even answer, he spoke again, in a much softer voice. "Perhaps something you and I might remedy right here and now?"
Cullen drew a breath and held it, studying the man. For all the casualness of his sprawl, there was a tension in him as he waited Cullen's answer. "Perhaps," he finally said, equally softly, meeting Sebastian's eyes, very aware of the slow smile that crossed Sebastian's face.
He sat still a moment, uncertain of what would happen next, and then slowly realized that Sebastian was waiting for him to make the next move, to take the lead. A little shock of pleasure went through him at the realization. He'd feared... and yet... He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, cock hardening rapidly. "We should talk first, I think," he said. "About... boundaries."
"Yes," Sebastian said, his smile broadening, his voice very hushed. "Tell me what you'd like to do to me," he said, and now his voice was not quiet, but intense, the look in his eyes a smouldering one.
His hands clenched into fists at the words. Maker, so much he wanted to do... The simplest things first. The least frightening, at least frightening to him; he suspected they would be much less so to the far more experienced Sebastian.
"Kiss you. Hold you down and kiss you. Touch you, be touched by you a little, but mostly just touching you. Play with you, tease you,until you're begging for release. Have my cock as far down your throat as you can take it. Hike up your robes and bend you over your desk and fuck you hard..." He broke off, biting his lip for a moment, flushing with a mix of arousal at his own words, and shame at having admitted what he wanted, and mostly feeling hope, hope that Sebastian wanted those things too...
"You want, in short, to dominate me," Sebastian said, and if his eyes had been smouldering before, the heat in them was an inferno now.
Yes. That word. "Yes," aloud and hoarsely, and wanting wanting wanting.
"Then do it," Sebastian said.
Cullen moved, pouncing on the other man, straddling his outspread legs, tangling fingers in still-damp hair to hold his head motionless, kissing him with days, weeks, months of pent-up need. Sebastian's mouth opened under his so easily, so compliantly. He had not just showered while he was in the bathroom, Cullen dimly recognized, noting how smooth his cheeks were, the faint taste of wintergreen mixed in with the less pleasant flavour of beer within the hot moistness of his mouth. He'd showered, shaved, brushed, made himself clean and fresh all over, just for Cullen's benefit. It made him feel dizzy, elation and desire and excitement all tangling up together.
He freed one hand from Sebastian's hair, the grip of the other tightening to compensate as he reached down and slid his hand up under Sebastian shirt, touching the hard stomach he'd wanted to earlier; damp and warm from the shower now, not from sweat and soapy washwater. He pulled Sebastian's head back, baring his throat, and kissed his way down it, feeling the other man's strong pulse under his lips, feeling how he gasped and arched as Cullen's fingers moved higher, finding and lightly pinching a nipple. His movement made Cullen moan against the skin of his throat, aware of how tightly confined his cock felt, swollen with excitement already within the unyielding denim of his jeans.
Torture, to back off for a moment, to stand up and begin stripping off his own clothes, fingers shaking as he undid his jeans, pushed them and his underwear down just far enough to free himself. Sebastian said nothing, did nothing, simply lying there on the couch, watching, eyes raking up and down Cullen's body, though little of it was exposed.
"On your knees," Cullen said, and Sebastian smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek as he gracefully slid to the floor, long legs folding under him so that he knelt, feet tucked neatly together and hands lying folded in his lap, face looking down, waiting. So perfect a movement, from position to position, so practised a submission. Cullen's fingers trembled a little as he set them to Sebastian's chin and tilted his face upwards, just staring at him for a long moment, feeling more intoxicated than a few mouthfuls of beer could explain. It was the flush in Sebastian's cheeks that was doing it to him, he thought. The fearful knowledge that Sebastian was willing to allow him to have his way with him; welcomed it, in fact.
"Open," Cullen said hoarsely, touching his thumb lightly to Sebastian's lips, and he did, mouth falling easily open, tongue taking a single disobedient lick at Cullen's thumb, making him gasp from just the brief hot wet touch of it, imagining how it would feel on other, more sensitive flesh. "Oh, yes," Cullen said softly, and then laced his fingers into Sebastian's hair again, liking the feel of it sliding between his fingers, liking the feeling of control it gave him.
He took his time, trying to go slow and be gentle, though as easily as Sebastian took in his length, he suspected he was being overly cautious. But he hadn't done this often before, and never with a truly experienced partner, and he really didn't want to actually hurt the other man. But the sheer ease with which Sebastian swallowed him down, no hesitation, no choking, no distress at all, seemed almost unreal, dreamlike, nothing he had imagined as even possible, certainly not like anything out of his own past experiences.
The dreamlike feeling continued, as he watched Sebastian's eyelids fluttering half-closed, felt the muscles of his throat tightening around his length. He would have to move, he realized after a long moment, or Sebastian wasn't going to be able to breath. He withdrew again, carefully, waiting until Sebastian had taken in a little gasp of air around the thickness of him, then slowly thrust back in. And out again, and in, setting at first a slow and undemanding pace, feeling almost hypnotized by the ease with which Sebastian took the length of him. No resistance, just heat, and tight wetness, and the feeling of muscles tightening around him, tongue pressing against him.
After a while he was recalled to himself as his legs began shaking. He should, he realized, have sat down, on the couch or the edge of the desk, but standing here with Sebastian's head clenched in his hands while his hips slowly flexed just felt so blighted right. He studied the man's face, fascinated by how moist and swollen and reddened his lips were, by the way they fit around Cullen's girth, the soft feel of them dragging against his skin as he moved. Watched the sliver of bright blue visible between Sebastian's lids, the slight tremble of them, the curve of his lashes. The curve of his cheekbones, too, looking so different from this angle, especially when his cheeks hollowed as he sucked in whenever Cullen pulled back.
Cullen came with a low cry, pulsing wetly into Sebastian's mouth, vision greying out a little and filling with darting silver sparkles. His legs started to really give out as he withdrew, but strong hands caught him, pushed and guided him, so that he sat down hard in a guided fall onto the couch rather than onto the floor or over top of Sebastian. When his vision cleared he struggled to sit upright, aware of his underwear and jeans caught around his thighs and impeding his movement, able to think only of what a ridiculous sight he must be. He quickly hauled them up, tucking himself away and fastening his jeans before looking self-consciously over to where Sebastian was, having sat down again on the other end of the couch.
He was drinking from his beer again, holding it briefly in his mouth and swishing it around before swallowing. To remove the taste, Cullen thought, and blushed darkly. Sebastian grinned at him, and shifted position, his spread-legged position calling attention to the bulge in his own jeans. "You'll have to decide what else you want to try, once you're sufficiently recovered," Sebastian said, sounding almost ridiculously smug.
Cullen could only stare at him at first. And then laughed, feeling relived and happy and suddenly not the least bit self-conscious at all. "It may take us some time to work through them all."
Sebastian nodded. "Then I look forward to working under you," was all he said, before grinning and taking another drink.