He woke alone, dawn already broken. Bull and Sera were sat by the firepit, eating, and the Qunari slapped the ground next to him as Cullen wandered over after dressing.

"Boss said to let you sleep. She sent us breakfast, dragged Varric with her to hobnob." He handed a plate over, and Cullen picked at the food with a nod of thanks, mind still trying to process. He shouldn't have asked her to stay, he reprimanded himself. Should have dropped the matter until they were back at Skyhold, if even then. But she hadn't refused him, despite his fears, and he could still feel her curled up next to him, warm, safe and solid, real. He knew she'd been there when he fell asleep, could remember her fingers playing absentmindedly with his hair, the curve of her body against his. He wasn't surprised she hadn't stayed until morning or woken him, but it still stung. Underneath that sat his shame for what had happened, his anger at himself for letting her sully herself so, his desire to have it happen again.

"Ugh!" Sera drew his attention from his musings as she leapt to her feet, kicking at the ground. "It's so boring when Inky goes all Inquisitory." She stomped about, mumbling to herself, and he caught the odd word here and there. "Maybe bees? Nah... Oil, no, custard! ...butter... Arrows!"

Cullen glanced at Bull who just shrugged. "Best not ask, just let her run herself out. Boss'll keep her in line." The bigger man started sharpening his battle axe. "You going to ride with them? There's not much sport in Halla, thought I'd hold down the fort while the rest are off picking daisies or whatever."

"I don't think they'd approve of me sitting it out, as terrible as I am at hunting," he grumbled, happily accepting a mug of fresh tea from the other.

"Plus you'll like the view, yeah? Inky's not bad from behind, walking or riding," Sera cackled, rejoining them.

Bull laughed with her, slapping his knee. "You ever see her do a back-flip out of the saddle to avoid a projectile? She's got better moves than a Tamassran." Mirth and something else sparked in Sera's eyes as she nodded eagerly in agreement with him, oblivious to Cullen's discomfort.

"While I'm glad you're clearly having fun," Evelyn shot Bull a look as if to say really? but her tone was light, "the Comte would like to ride out soon."

She looked no different than she did any other day, not that Cullen could perceive. The same armor under the same travel cloak, the same braid swung over her shoulder warm in the sunlight, the same leather bracer wrapped tight on her left arm, the same cordovan three fingered glove on her right hand, the same easy smile and sparkling eyes. The glove he now knew covered a hand with archers calluses from where she gripped her bowstring - a grip he'd felt much more intimately than he'd ever dared hope. Hair longer than he had thought when freed, tickling his nose as she nuzzled his chest. A smile he had felt against his skin as she'd trailed fire.

No different, but he knew different, and she knew him differently too.

He watched her move about the camp gathering her bow and quiver, chatting with Sera, smiling and laughing and normal, Evelyn the Inquisitor off on another adventure, but he remembered Evelyn the woman; real and his, she'd said.

Varric broke his reverie this time. "Close your mouth, Curly. You're starting to drool."

He bit back a snarl as the man padded over, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. "Not a word, dwarf," Cullen grumbled, fetching his sword and heading to the horses with the three rogues. He couldn't wait for the hunt to be over.

Sera behaved, mostly. Varric entertained. The Comte and his cousin flanked Evelyn as they rode and true to her word she was polite and appreciative, flattering them in turn. What Halla they did see fled before anyone could take a shot, and Cullen started to bristle as the day wore on. Lady Ferhon was insistent in his participation in their conversation but he contributed little. Constantly, his thoughts roamed to his tent, to Evelyn - confident until she was shy, demanding even when she was giving. He longed to pull her aside, to pin her against a tree, any tree - they were in the woods for Maker's sake she could take her pick - to forget everything and drown in each other.

And then he felt ashamed for thinking of her like that. She was the Herald and the Inquisitor to so many. It didn't matter that she had initiated everything, part of him still scolded himself for defiling her. And he had, in all ways but one now; he had to look away from the hunting party for a moment, stare at the breach and remind himself that was why they were here. Not so she could blush and chuckle mischievously as she helped him clean up after. Not so she could drag him to the edge of oblivion with such ease.

Back and forth his mood swung. Sera chattered inanely and picked her teeth with an arrow. Varric told his sixteenth absurd tale. DeBouvier and Lady Ferhon tittered behind their masks, monopolising Evelyn's attention. Bird song blended into blue song as they rode back into the camp, bounty-less and weary.

She ordered him to rest as Bull tended the horses, Sera slipping away in the forest to vent her frustrations. Evelyn took Varric with her again to the main camp for dinner, leaving him, sparing him. He knew she could tell that the blue was rising, but instead of feeling thankful for the respite, his anger grew.

Sera and Iron Bull left him alone in the small camp to join the festivities that the Comte provided, and he could hear the music drift in and out, winding around with the song in his head.

Eventually, he tried to sleep, and it was restless, broken, demons slipping through the cracks to scratch at him, whispering. She's using you, his inner demons raged. Just take what you want, the blue hissed.

Cullen jerked up, fully awake, some time later. The blue still coiled around his head and a sheen of sweat coated his body. The air felt clammy, humid, cloying. He needed the stars above him.

Evelyn watched him stumble into the fresh air, saw him heave dryly as he fell to his knees. Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course she'd be awake to witness his weakness again. He grimaced as she padded over to his side, urging him back to his tent, voice soft and low. He couldn't hear the words but fought vainly against her as she lay him back on his bedroll, tucking his blanket back around him, using his mantle as extra padding under his head. She hushed his mutterings of dissent, tying back the flaps of his tent to let the cool night air in and he relaxed finally at the spill of the firelight, the faint twinkle of the stars overhead.

She continued to talk to him as she moved about, fetching cloth and water, wringing the fabric out and laying it cool upon his forehead. She took another piece and slipped it behind his neck, gentle and patient. She slipped back to the fireside, pouring him a mug of tea and aided him in drinking it a few sips at a time once she returned to his side. It pooled, warm and drowsy in his stomach, calling for sleep. All the while she was telling him to hush, to relax. "I'm here," she promised. "You'll get through this."

He heard the footsteps approach, saw the way shadows obscured the firelight for a moment, but Evelyn didn't falter, replacing the cloth on his forehead for a fresh, cooler one. He heard her talking, calm and assured, telling the stranger not to worry. That he'd been sick but didn't want to disappoint the Comte. That it was just a fever and he'd be fine by morning. She lied with a smile on her face and it wrenched something in his stomach. "No," she insisted. "There's no need to concern anyone in your camp. The fever is almost broken, and we'll tend to him. Please don't let the Comte worry."

She squeezed his hand reassuringly once the shadow left, shaking her head. "Varric is going to stay with you," she murmured, bending close as she changed the cloth behind his neck again. "We'll find a reason to cut the hunt short." Fingers ghosted through his hair affectionately and he heard her conversing in low tones just outside the tent.

He faded in and out for a while, lulled by the rhythmic rustle of parchment as pages were turned, by the firewood crackling and popping. Eventually sleep abandoned its tenuous hold on him and his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the shifting light cast by the campfire. He brought a hand up to pinch his nose against the building headache and wound up swatting away the still damp cloth resting on his forehead.

Varric chuckled, rough and low. "Little Fox wants you to drink that, when you're ready." He indicated the ale skin next to him where he sat in the tent's opening, paging through a book. "Heard her say you had a fever," he shrugged, "she's a very good liar when she wants to be."

Confusion registered for a moment before he grumbled, pulling himself up right. When he made no further moves, Varric tossed him the skin with a grunt.

"You gonna be okay, Curly?"

He took a swig, a little surprised to find it was in fact ale, and spluttered for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. "Fine, Varric," he eventually growled out, taking another gulp. It burned his throat, but chased the last of the blue away.

"She went to bed, but she's worried about you." The dwarf turned his brown eyes on the man, questions evident in his gaze.

Cullen ignored them, playing with the ale skin for a moment before voicing his own. "Why do you call her Little Fox?"

He shut his book slowly, a smile taking over his face. "Because she's crafty. Not like those Fennecs, the cute little buggers. She's a real fox, sly and calculating and she's slow to trust, hard to catch. But once you earn it she's affectionate and loyal. I was thinking Vixen, but it doesn't do her justice. She's got the confidence, sure, but there's a vulnerability too. So she's the Little Fox. Makes as much sense as anything else about this crazy shit."

They sunk into silence as Cullen mulled over the description. The ale was settling well, dulling the headache and bringing the option of sleep back to him as he watched the fire dying down. Varric returned to his book with a shrug, nonplussed by the quiet.