Prompt: Sanctuary
He's missed dinner again. Cullen stands from his desk at the insistent rumble of his stomach. He thinks he has an apple somewhere... His leg seizes in sudden pain, and he grips the edge of the desk with white knuckles.
He's done it again, pushed himself too far. Hadn't he promised her just last week that he would take more care? But there are always things that need done: an army to manage, incoming recruits to train, patrols to set up, and a growing network of fortresses across Orlais to maintain. The enormity of the responsibility hits him like a pommel to his head. A hitch in his breathing, a sudden swoop in his gut. Too much, too far.
Inhaling several deep breaths to quell the anxiety, Cullen deliberately sets aside the papers he was looking at only a moment before, pulls on his cloak, and limps outside. It is cold in the mountains at night, and he misses the fur paldrons at his neck. But the shock of the crisp air is needed, clearing the cobwebs of work from his mind. The evening patrol salutes as he walks past, but he spares them only a nod. His reluctance earlier to leave work is now a need pulsing through his veins.
Get away, get away.
He pauses on the stairs leading from the battlements to the tavern. Even from here he can hear uproarious laughter and a more distant hum of background chatter. Fingers grip the stone, rough against his fingertips. He doesn't think he can handle the crowd tonight. Sometimes it is a relief to sit with his men, or the Chargers, to quaff a pint and share camaraderie. But not tonight. He doesn't think he can stand that mix of awkwardness from his soldiers who don't know quite how to socialize with their commander, or the teasing about "loosening up" from Varric or Bull.
Tonight, he'd just rather be... Cullen.
He steps down the rest of the stairs, but skirts the tavern door and the warm, ale-scented light that spills out of it. Up, up, up the main staircase, another nod to the soldiers stationed at the doors, and then the main hall. He pauses in the quiet. Dinner has ended several hours before and the tables are empty, the crumbs swept away. He wonders idly just how many servants Skyhold employs. Perhaps he ought to find out one of these days just who cleans up after the buzz of activity during the day.
He rubs the back of his neck as he approaches the door that leads to the East Wing—empty but for her quarters. What excuse did he have? He's never visited her before... would she expect...? Warmth blossoms on his face. Calm, calm. He wants her; Maker, he wants her, but not like this, not to use for his own selfish comfort. If they ever... well, it would be a different time. Not when he's shaking from the lack of lyrium and wanting to claw his fingers through his brain to rip out the threads of darkness.
He blinks and finds himself at her door. He's somehow walked through the passage of the East Wing and now he's here.
He should leave.
Instead his hand raises and taps against the door. Part of him half hopes she's asleep already and won't hear, but almost immediately, he hears a cheerful "Door's open!"
Latch opening under his fingers, cool metal, wood sanded smooth. He can smell her the moment he steps through. Faint lilac overlaid with something more immediate. Indeed, he sees as he walks up the last set of stairs to her enormous open room that she is resting on the settee, a book in one hand, a cup of tea steaming on the table next to her.
"Cullen," she says, smiling, eyes bright with pleasure. She unfolds her legs from the settee and walks over him, hesitantly reaching out for his hands. This... whatever is is between them is still new, still uncertain sometimes. They have not quite reached the rhythm of couples who know where they fit into each other's lives.
But like that first moment atop the battlements, Cullen feels no hesitation in bringing his lips to hers. Not quite as desperate as that first kiss, this kiss is both reassurance and affirmation, a greeting, and she is not blushing afterwards but her eyes are warm, her smile not as shy as before. He feels a knot loosen somewhere in his chest.
"I... wanted to see you," he says lamely. She searches his face, and he has the feeling that despite the newness of their relationship, she can see straight into his soul at times.
"I'm reading a book," she says after a moment. "Do you want me to read it to you?"
He nods and they arrange themselves on the couch. She is warm against him, her hair tickling his chin.
"They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who's walked the patrol of Hightown market at midnight might disagree..."
She somehow uses one hand to hold the book, flipping the page awkwardly with her thumb. The other is twined up with his hand, not squeezing, just... safe; secure. Listening to the cadence of her words, feeling the warmth of her nearness, Cullen lets out a tiny sigh and the frantic nattering going on in the back of his head finally quiets down.
He's learning to heed his body and its new demands. Too much, too far today. Perhaps tomorrow he'll do better. But for now, there is tonight, her words a soothing litany in his ears, and that deeper knowing behind her eyes when he couldn't voice his own complaints.
His arm tightens around her for a brief moment, and he can hear the smile in her words as she continues to read.