A/N: Working on a better synopsis going forward, but this one will do for now. I feel like I have danced around writing a proper full length Cullen fic for 84 years now (or 12 years - in Azkaban), so now I'm finally doing it. One-shots weren't enough, I need an epic sad Templar boi saga xoxo
I do apologise if you've read my other Cullen/F!Inquisitor things because this might end up rehashing those ideas, but hopefully this one will be better, so at least there's that.
In hindsight, Cullen would argue that he was so caught off guard by the Herald of Andraste thanks to his own preconceived notions regarding her. He wouldn't call them prejudices, because they were rooted in fact. He knew her type - or at least, he'd known plenty who he thought were her type. A former noble, before she'd been thrown in the Circle, who had gone on to become an ardent and outspoken member of the Mage rebellion. He'd been sure that they were in for a time of it, having her swanning about Haven with a chip in her shoulder so deep they could start using it to store rainwater, barely able to remark upon the weather without her turning it into a debate on the plight of the mages - and pointing her finger squarely at him in the process. In fact, he was more than prepared to barely be able to be near her without her blaming every minor inconvenience on his presence. A few of the men still had a habit of calling him Knight-Commander - even if he was prone to keeping his former allegiances secret (which he was not), they wouldn't remain that way for long.
The first time he laid eyes on her did little to assuage that impression, either. Deathly pale - so much so that her face had been more grey than anything - and unconscious in the dungeons, the grime and blood on her face highlighted by the dim torchlight and occasional sickly green bursts of light from her palm. Could blood magic cause such a thing? She had the delicate features of a noblewoman beneath it all, but it only made her look all the harsher with her dark hair plastered to her face, and the tattoo dotted around one side of her brow. He'd been certain that he'd see her on an execution scaffold before long - and that she'd deserve it, having caused the destruction raining down all about them.
And he'd been wrong. She'd opened her eyes - icy grey, as cold and harsh as the rest of her appearance - and she'd helped. And Cullen no longer wanted her dead. Of course, he hadn't warmed up to her that quickly. Still certain that her presence spelled trouble, he'd braced himself for an uneasy time of it - however much time it took to straighten all of this out. Just because she was not the villain they'd thought didn't mean they'd get along. The mess they'd found themselves mired in made for strange bedfellows. Already they boasted Varric Tethras and an elven apostate (and he wasn't sure which made him the more uneasy of those two), and he knew they might make stranger alliances still before this was all over. But he was a man grown. Just because they were very different people did not mean that they could not work together with some semblance of civility, and so long as she remained dedicated to their cause, he would do the same.
Then…well. Then she continued to surprise him. She listened to them - all of them, but even him. And not even in the sort of begrudging, scoffing and sighing and eye-rolling and trying so very hard to be begrudgingly polite way, but carefully and thoughtfully, before actually taking his opinions into account. At that point he began to suspect that working together mightn't be quite the uphill battle that he first feared. Still, he hadn't realised quite how much trouble he was in until he made her smile - and he remained in denial of it until he made her laugh. A low, warm sound that left a soft smile playing on her lips even after she was done chuckling.
So he kept doing it. A dry comment here, a deadpan look there, all the while kidding himself that it was only to set her more at ease around him - because while they were certainly amicable, he still noticed how she gave his tent a wide berth when she did her rounds. It was difficult to take it personally, considering she did the same to Lysette. Still, it was something he wanted to remedy. Although he resisted considering why. After all, they were working together well, so why did he seek to remedy a problem that didn't exist? The why was something he ignored all the more when her avoidance of him stopped, but his desire to make her smile did not. Even if it earned him looks of amused knowing from Leliana and Josephine both.
When he finally acknowledged it, he called it a crush. The word felt pathetic and childish even though he left it unvoiced, but that was what it was - and it was natural, he supposed. Whether he spared the time and energy for such matters or not, he was still a man, and she was a beautiful woman, and not half so…well, anything like he'd imagined she might be. It was bound to happen. He'd noticed her qualities, and he appreciated them. He didn't need to act upon that appreciation. They were in unprecedented times, she was of noble birth, she was a mage, she was the Herald of Andraste, and she was a good five years his junior. None of these were impediments to this ridiculous little crush of his, for it would not be reasoned with even though he knew it would end in heartache, but they were all very good reasons for why she wouldn't view him in the same way. A washed up ex-Templar in the throes of lyrium withdrawal.
They would get through this, Maker willing, and they would part ways. He to whatever came next, and she to whatever her cause called her to. Perhaps he'd remember her every now and then…all right, he knew he would. He was fine with that. There were thoughts that were less pleasant to have - and at least he knew that those thoughts wouldn't be soured by rejection or the inevitable awkwardness that would muddy things afterwards.
It made sense. It was fine. And it suddenly seemed a very poor argument indeed when he happened across her in the centre of Haven the night before they were set to seal the breach.
Evelyn had a dilemma. A slight, ridiculous, petty dilemma that sort of helped more than it hindered, really - because it succeeded in taking her mind off of the big, scary, world-ending, life-or-death dilemmas that she was quickly growing used to facing instead. That problem came in the form of Cullen Rutherford. Commander Cullen Rutherford. Former Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford. Really, she'd set herself up for failure with that one. Or dilemma, if not failure. She'd written him off too quickly - she'd known his type. Or she thought that she had, anyway. A pretty blonde Templar with more muscles than brains, the sort who would rather kick a door down than pick the lock...or even turn the doorknob, really. The sort that would point his finger at her if the Breach failed to close, if anybody at Haven sickened, if the crops failed, if there was a bit of light drizzle. That sort of thing.
No, she'd taken one look at him and labelled him in her mind as one to avoid. She'd just narrowly dodged one hefty accusation of wrongdoing, the last thing she needed was to be accused of becoming an abomination because she sneezed while he recited the Chant of Light. It would be fine. She'd avoid him where possible, be civil when they were forced together, and try to steer clear of his advice - which would no doubt be to muscle their way through any and every problem before them, consequences be damned so long as it solved things quickly and easily.
But then he'd done the most disturbing thing of all. He made her laugh. The kind where she was laughing with him and not at him, at that. Cullen was funny. Nobody around here would believe her had she seen fit to voice that fact, thanks to his reputation of being stern and serious, and it wasn't in the way that Varric was funny - or Sera, thank the Maker, or even Dorian. Evelyn didn't have to be at the top of her game to keep up with him, she didn't run the risk of finding it exhausting when she wasn't in the mood, nor in danger of only being able to communicate with him via clever banter. It made the war meetings bearable without stopping them from getting anything done…and it had her forgetting she was standing beside a Templar, which was something she never would have thought possible.
In the end they just…they clicked, she supposed. It tended to be the way with her and people - either they clicked and she found herself feeling like she'd known them for years and could talk to them easily, or they didn't and even basic smalltalk was almost physically painful. It wasn't a great trait in a noblewoman, and a worse one still in the Herald of Andraste, but that was how it was. She was working on remedying it or at least learning how to mask it, there wasn't much choice in that, but she was quickly becoming grateful that it wasn't a conscious effort when it came to Cullen. Even if that scared her when she thought on it for too long.
It was a pathetic little attachment. A passing crush. How many girls had fallen prey to such stupid flights of fancy because the pretty Templar had smiled at them rather than scowling? Evelyn felt guilty for that comparison the moment it crossed her mind. He wasn't like them. She'd learned that several times over already, and to pretend otherwise wouldn't be fair. But it made her feelings no less ridiculous, and she refused to make things awkward between them by being foolish enough to voice those feelings.
They made for pretty thoughts, though, as she sat by the campfire in the centre of Haven, her back firmly to the Breach. There was no need for her to be reminded of it - it was downright impossible to forget. The hour was growing late, the sky quite black above her head (well, save for the bits that were green), and she usually would've called it a night long before this. Tonight, however, that would only mean staring at her pillow for five hours, slowly growing more restless and panicked. At least the fire made for a prettier sight, and the biting night air was refreshing.
Some still drank in the tavern behind her - the revelry occasionally growing louder for a second or two as somebody slipped in or out - but she had no desire to join them. The only thing that could make her feel more uneasy about the oncoming morning would be the knowledge that it might bring a hangover with it. Pulling her cloak tighter about her, she stared into the flames. Back in the Circle, there'd been a girl who swore up and down that if one stared hard enough into a fire, be it hearth or candle, they'd see what their future held amidst the flames. But there was a difference between being a mage and being a witch, and while Evelyn was the former, she didn't seem to be the latter. Unless, she supposed, her future was fire. Hopefully not.
The crunch of snow under boot drew nearer and Evelyn waited patiently for it to pass - a soldier on patrol, no doubt. But then it drew nearer still, and then it stopped, and she grew still. Please don't let it be another lost soul seeking Andraste's blessing. While she didn't begrudge giving it, mostly because she wasn't in much of a position to refuse - and doing so actually seemed to help them feel better - it still didn't feel like it was hers to give. It wasn't hers to give. And the last thing she needed was to piss the Maker off on this night by doing so anyway.
When the footfalls didn't retreat, she finally sighed, put on her Herald mask and lifted her head to look towards the stone steps that led up to this level…and found Cullen standing there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as though he hadn't made up his mind over whether to approach or retreat just yet.
"Commander," she greeted quietly "You're up late."
"As are you, Herald," he replied, finally approaching.
Evelyn budged over on the log she sat on, a silent invitation for him to join her. He did so, his armor rattling slightly with the movement.
"Between the two of us, I'm the less seasoned warrior. Don't I have more of an excuse for not being able to sleep before the big day?"
"I would argue that even I have never seen a day quite like the one we're about to embark on," he gave a tired chuckle.
"I'd be worried if you had," she replied "Maybe a bit impressed."
"Alas, I remain unimpressive," he replied drily.
"Not at all," she snorted, and then flushed scarlet before continuing quickly "I was never going to find any sort of rest tonight. So I could be stuck awake and worried in my cabin, or out here."
"And so you chose the cold over the warm?" His question was curious, not judging.
"I chose the open over the enclosed," she corrected.
"Of course you did," he sighed "Forgive me, I…I did not mean…"
"No, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to bring down the mood," she interrupted "It's just…this damn waiting…"
"The mood," he echoed "Pay no mind to it. I am much the same - that is, my preferences are. Some find the open unsettling, but I prefer it when my mind is ill at ease."
"Well, I'm glad to have found a kindred spirit," she replied.
That coaxed a smile from him, at least "What are you drinking?"
The flagon was empty in her hand, which she demonstrated by turning it upside down.
"It was tea. Solas recommended it - it supposedly has soothing qualities. It did precious sod all, though, and I haven't got it in me to wade through all that to get something else," she jerked her head back towards the tavern to illustrate her point.
"The Breach pales in comparison," he deadpanned before shifting to retrieve the skein from his belt "I've no tea to boast, but I do have some water. It makes for a poor toast, though."
Smiling and murmuring her thanks, she offered her flagon for him to fill.
"What are we toasting?"
"Would victory be too on-the-nose?"
"More premature than on the nose, I think," she replied "But given everything, I think we can be forgiven for it."
Tapping the skein against the rim of her flagon, they both took a sip. Evelyn paused upon the second sip, letting the water run over her tongue. There was something to it - a note of something grassy. Elfroot? It eased the tension headache that had been doing its best to stake out territory in her temples…but what was he drinking it for?
"Suffering from headaches, Commander?"
"What? I…Why would you- oh," his grip tightened on the skein and he sighed "Is it any wonder?"
"Given our circumstances, or my company?" She teased, mostly out of hope to ease whatever sore spot she'd accidentally agitated.
"The former," he said ruefully.
"Good," she smiled "Then maybe we can do this again - to toast our victory once we've actually secured it."
It felt bold - too bold. The second she suggested it she regretted it, wondering if she hadn't just made a fool of herself. But then she chanced a glance towards him and found him watching her strangely, yes, but not with distaste. And so she raised her eyebrows as though this was something she casually did all of the time…the effect of which only being slightly ruined when her cheeks began to heat up at his warm response.
"I'd like that," he murmured.
