Note: Cullen and Anwen have A LOT to talk about...
Cullen likes to think he knows Anwen better than most – not just because they're lovers, and before that, friends – but because he sees her, not the Herald or the Inquisitor, just Anwen.
She doesn't make it easy, masking her feelings with a practiced ease. Like a master painter, hiding the rough canvas below vivid, boldly coloured images. But while most people seem easily tricked by these façades, Cullen has always been rather good at seeing behind them.
After all, Cullen has always been exceptionally observant; it's the inevitable consequence of his years as a Templar, of spending every waking moment keeping an eye on the charges under his care. Cullen has spent a lot of time watching; watching Apprentices for signs of possession, watching Enchanters for warnings that they might attempt escape. And watching Anwen.
He's been watching Anwen since the very first time he caught sight of her.
At first it was because she was a stranger, and a mage at that, thrust into an unprecedented position of power. But then it was because, well, she is utterly captivating and he can't seem to take his eyes from her.
He's memorised every single one of Anwen's expressions – from the way her brows furrow when she's reading, to the way her lips twitch when she's trying not to lose her temper. He knows the exact slant of her eyes when she's sad, knows the exact curl of her smile when she's perfectly contented.
That is how Cullen knows Anwen is pissed right now – seriously pissed.
She's smiling as she walks through the Great Hall, her gait easy and casual, proffering greetings in response to those she receives. But Cullen is not fooled. There's a tightness behind her expression, a cloudiness in her eyes which betrays the lie in the lines of her smile. She's trying too hard, focusing on maintaining her mask just long enough until she can finally be alone
Cullen follows closely at her heels as she weaves through the Great Hall towards, he suspects, the privacy of her quarters. He's amazed at the steadiness of his steps, at his remarkable ability to match her pace without the slightest waiver despite fighting the strangely strong compulsion to just… run away – after what Not-Anwen said in Skyhold's prison, he can't bear the thought of trying to explain himself.
But he doesn't run. Of course he doesn't run. Because Cullen never runs. Cullen needs to resolve this; to explain his actions, explain everything that transpired between him and the Shapeshifter, and just hope and pray that Anwen will forgive him.
When she reaches the door leading to her quarters, she gestures for him to follow and they both ascend the long staircase in silence; a heavy, uncomfortable silence. When they reach her quarters, he loiters awkwardly at the top of the stairs while she walks into the centre of the room, pacing back and forth a few steps before turning suddenly to face him, raking her fingers through her hair before taking a deep, steadying breath.
"Well… that was… predictably shitty," she finally says.
Cullen doesn't respond, just waits and watches for what he thinks is her inevitable outburst. But no outburst comes; Anwen merely stands and stares at him, her eyes piercing into him as if she can see what he has seen over the last few days if only she stares at him hard enough.
There are no masks between them now – there never are when it's just the two of them alone like this – and Cullen can see now just how hurt she is. Or lost? Her lips are pulled thin, her eyes round and heavy with the burden of unwanted thoughts. He knows what images are playing behind those eyes – she's picturing what the Shapeshifter said, roving hands and panting mouths.
"Tell me you didn't—"
"I didn't," he insists, interrupting her before she has the chance to finish her sentence. Whatever she was going to say, Cullen doesn't want to hear it: tell me you didn't take her to your bed, tell me you didn't fuck some complete stranger.
Something shifts in her posture then, into something softer, less tense. And she shakes her head as if ashamed with herself for believing the Shapeshifter in the first place. He supposes he could leave things like that – just his firm denial – but then that's not entirely the whole truth. And he can't expect Anwen to be honest with him if he is not honest with her in return.
"I mean we… we kissed… a, uh, few times," he admits, his eyes falling to the ground, suddenly fascinated with the patterning on the rug below his boots. "And she – she came to my room one night."
He looks up to gauge her reaction, sees her brows leap toward her hairline and the flash of pain behind her eyes that Cullen hates all the more because he's the one who put it there.
"But nothing happened!" he adds quickly, stepping forward and reaching out with one hand imploringly. "It – she was – I… I thought it was you…" he ends rather pathetically.
She surprises him then by stepping forward and taking his outstretched hand, lacing her fingers with his before tugging gently to pull him forward. They're standing barely a foot apart, their enjoined hands hanging in the space between them, and when she leans her head up to look at him, he's relieved to see that some of the pain behind her eyes has fled. Some of the pain – though certainly not all. There's still a strange stiffness in her features, and a small quivering at the corners of her mouth.
"It's fine – I'm fine." There's a pause; she frowns, dissatisfied with her choice of words. "No – actually – I'm not fine. This is… this – shit."
He feels his heart sink a little – uncertain what to make of her words. Is that forgiveness? Disappointment? He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, is relieved when she squeezes back.
"I hate the thought of her touching you," she explains, "I hate the thought of her coming anywhere near you." Her grip tightens; so hard it almost smarts.
"I know, Anwen, and I'm sorry – I'm so, so sorry—"
"Why are you sorry?" she interrupts, shaking her head in confusion. "She deceived you, manipulated you. I'm not mad – shit, Cullen – you think I'm mad with you?"
"I should have known it wasn't you! I should have been able to see through her illusion – I should have—"
"Shut up, Cullen," she scolds, untangling her hand from his so she can jab him in the chest with a pointed finger. "Don't you dare feel guilty for something that wasn't your fault! I've seen her, Cullen, and she's pretty fucking convincing."
"I should have figured it out."
"Why? No one else did."
"Cole did."
She flaps her hands at him exasperatedly. "Yeah but – Cole is Cole. When you miraculously develop the ability to read people's minds, then I'll hold you responsible for ferreting out shapeshifting imposters." Cullen is surprised by the huff of amusement that somehow escapes his lips, despite his tight frown, and delighted when that not-quite-a-laugh makes Anwen grin up at him.
She takes half a step forward and places her palms against his chest, and he can feel the warmth of her even through his shirt and jacket. Her grin softens into something small and tender, head tilting back to gaze up at him with a fondness he doesn't quite think he deserves. "Cassandra told me that it was you who figured out who she was. That it was you who imprisoned her. So that's – you know – pretty fucking great of you."
A smile manages to work its way onto his lips, and though he's not sure he'll ever free himself entirely of his guilt – guilt and utter mortification – Anwen's words certainly help.
He lifts one hand to where hers rest atop the placard of his jacket, strokes his fingertips across her knuckles before catching both of her hands in his. He presses them tightly against his chest, just above where his heart is pounding. He's not entirely sure how to express just how thankful he is – thank you for understanding, thank you for forgiving – but he hopes she can feel this, feel the strong, urgent beating of his heart, and that that is enough.
Her expression changes again – smile curling into a frown as curiosity falls over her features. "How did you figure it out – in the end? Was it something she said?"
He can feel a blush coming to his cheeks as he remembers that night. Not-Anwen coming to his room, her hips swaying as she'd approached his bed, the feel of her thighs pressed against his as she'd straddled him – how damn excited he'd been before that terrible moment of realisation had struck. How had he figured it out? It had been her expressions, he supposes, too sweet, too calm. Or the way she'd spoken, not enough humour, not enough swearing. But really, he knows exactly what it was that had finally tipped him off.
"Ugh… it was – um – her kiss, actually." His blush grows. "The kiss was… all wrong."
One of her brows arches sharply, and he's surprised when she starts laughing, little unladylike snorts that shake her whole frame. He'd expected her to be annoyed, upset at the thought of him kissing another woman. He doesn't know what to make of her obvious amusement.
"Oh come on, that's ridiculous!" she manages between laughs. "My kisses are that distinctive, hmm?"
He can't stop himself from laughing too, mainly from relief that Anwen doesn't seem upset with him, though he can't quite match her level of uninhibited glee. "Yes – I… I suppose they are."
"And how exactly do I kiss?" she asks, laughter turning into a purr as she leers up at him. "What makes my kisses so… distinctive?"
He gets the distinct impression that she's teasing him, eyebrows waggling theatrically, and it's clear that she's expecting him to respond with something dismissive or sarcastic. Instead he fixes her with a heated stare, fierce enough that her laughter turns a little breathless, and when he starts speaking, he lets his voice drop into something a little deeper and huskier. "Weeeell," he draws the word out, "they're intense and… dizzying. And – and when you kiss me, it's like everything in the world fades away. It's just you and me… and more love than I ever thought possible."
His answer clearly surprises her, and Anwen does what she always does when Cullen says something painfully sentimental – ducks her head and studiously avoids eye contact. He half expects her to make some jest, something about stealing lines from the most trite of Orlesian romance novels (a favourite line when Cullen says something too earnest for her to handle), but instead she lets out a fluttering sigh, tremulous and fond.
He raises one hand to her chin, lifts her head up so she can't help but look at him, then dips down for a kiss, lips pressed chastely, reverently, against hers. His other hand remains on top of hers, pinning them against his chest so she can feel how his heartbeat stutters every time he kisses her. He wants her to feel how she affects him – her, and only her – something that no copycat could emulate.
There's a contented hum at the back of her throat, and her fingers start to curl into his jacket, tugging him closer as she tilts her head back, angling her mouth against his just so to deepen the kiss. Cullen is happy to oblige, his tongue dipping out to taste her, sweeping across her bottom lip then into her mouth.
Her hum turns into a low groan, the kiss becoming powerful and consuming as her lips move eagerly against his. His hand that was on her chin moves up, stroking along her jaw before tangling in the dark curls behind her head.
He was right – her kisses really are dizzying.
When she finally pulls away she presses a quick kiss to his chin, then the fluttering pulse point at his throat, and all the stress and worry Cullen felt when he'd first entered her quarters is now thoroughly forgotten. Anwen's absence, the Shapeshifter in Skyhold's prisons, his own inadequacy in failing to spot the deception sooner – none of that seems to matter now that he has the real Anwen back in his arms, safe and sound.
She rests her head against his chest, her chin just above the point where their hands are still resting atop his heartbeat. "So are you going to stop being so fucking weird now?"
He scoffs. "I haven't been weird!"
She jerks her head back to glare at him reproachfully before gently letting it fall back to its position against his chest. "You've been weird since Maida Vallee – all stuffy and severe. And you've barely looked at me, let alone touched me. Maker's balls, Cullen, I've been desperate to see you for nearly two weeks and then when I finally do, you treat me like I've got the Blight."
His body stiffens at her words, suddenly realising that – yes, fair enough – he probably has been a little strange around her. "I'm sorry, Anni, I really am. I guess…" He sighs, brings the arm not pinned between them around her shoulders to hold her closely against him. "I was embarrassed, ashamed really, that I'd been so thoroughly duped by your doppelgänger."
"Yes, well, I've already told you that's stupid," she admonishes, her words muffled against his jacket.
"Maybe it was stupid but – but it was still hard to look at you when I knew what had happened between me and… her." He pauses for a long while, just enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the tickling of her breath as it puffs beneath his chin. There's more he wants to say – needs to say – but he hasn't quite figured out the words.
He's glad when Anwen stays silent – either because she can tell that he has more to say or she's just contentedly enjoying the moment – because it gives him time to think everything through. When he starts talking again, his voice is small, almost painfully fragile. "I thought you might be dead. When weeks passed and we'd still had no word of you, I – I thought you might be dead." He tightens his hold on her, as if trying to remind himself that she is very much still alive. "And it hurt – it hurt so fucking much. And even when I saw you again – I was scared. Because you were hurt and you were… trembling and… and all I could think about was how close I came to losing you."
Anwen lifts her head just long enough to press another kiss to the base of his throat. "You didn't lose me."
"I know."
"You won't lose me."
He shakes his head at that. And though he knows she can't see his face from where she's nestled beneath his chin, he frowns. "You can't promise me that."
"No I… I suppose I can't."
She pushes back against his chest until there's enough room to snake her arms free and reach up, tangling both hands into the curls at the nape of his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.
This one burns hotter than the last. It doesn't start chaste and gentle before building and building – it's like a brand, a bright burst of heat from the moment her mouth touches his. Her lips press firmly against him, caressing urgently, nipping gently at his bottom lip before soothing the spot with a swipe of her tongue.
It feels almost like an apology – an apology for all those days he'd spent without her, all those days spent thinking she was dead. But it's more than that – it's an apology for all those days still to come, the time spent apart as she tries with all her might to bring some peace to Thedas, to bring down Corypheus once and for all.
Most terrifying of all – it's an apology for that day which Cullen hopes will never come, that day when she fails, and he really does lose her for good.
It's remarkable, really, how much mess one woman can create in just a few days.
Not-Anwen had not lasted long in Skyhold, certainly not as long as she'd expected before Cullen had revealed her true identity – but it was apparently enough to piss off almost every inhabitant in Skyhold, and now Anwen was faced with the unfortunate task of having to placate everyone.
She'd had to apologise to the kitchen staff for some astonishingly specific culinary demands she'd made at some preposterous hour in the morning. She'd had to grovel to some visiting Orlesian dignitaries whose hats she'd apparently mocked. And she'd had to buy so many rounds at the Herald's Rest – for Scout Harding, for most of Bull's Chargers, even to Sutherland's would-be mercenary troupe (though she can't for the life of her figure out why Not-Anwen would even bother taking the time to insult them).
It helps that Josephine had quickly invented some rare disease with rather spectacular symptoms to explain Anwen's peculiar behaviour – and Anwen had managed to blame most things on vivid, fever-induced hallucinations. The downside of the ruse being that Anwen then had to reassure everyone that she was not about to keel over from sickness and, more importantly, that she certainly wasn't contagious.
Josephine had been a pretty urgent priority for an apology as well – although Josephine insisted, of course, that no apology was needed. Still – Cullen had told her about the War Council and how astonishingly rude Not-Anwen had been in her place and Anwen just didn't feel right about the whole thing until she'd baked a batch of Josephine's favourite pastries and written a rather marvellously touching letter about how much she appreciated Josephine's hard-work and friendship.
She'd even had to spend an afternoon trying to calm down Cole, even though her doppelgänger had apparently never even spoken to him. But he was agitated and twitchy and, in truth, Anwen felt a great deal of sympathy for him. Because he had known – had tried to warn several people that the Inquisitor traipsing around Skyhold didn't have the right thoughts – but no one had listened. Everyone was so used to Cole's peculiar ramblings that no one paid attention when he started saying something important.
She'd gained a new respect for Cole then – realised with great humility and shame that she'd never appreciated just how hard it must be for Cole, to be gifted with such wisdom but cursed with the inability to share it.
It's after a long meeting with Bann Friden, many hours spent apologising for supposedly implying that Fereldens did unnatural things with farm animals, that Anwen finds herself in Skyhold's library, desperately seeking the company of someone to whom she does not owe an apology.
"Well that was grim," she moans as she clambers into Dorian's favourite chair, their hips bumping and legs tangling as she squeezes herself into a chair only barely able to accommodate the two of them. Dorian mumbles something about personal space under his breath but makes no attempt to dislodge her, instead lifting one arm to make space for her and then curling it around her shoulders to keep her from falling.
Dorian flicks his eyes toward her for a moment before returning his attention to his book. "Oh dear, has Sera been baking again?"
Anwen snorts. "I wish – I would gladly accept food poisoning right now if it meant I didn't have to go grovelling after any more uptight nobles."
"Surely you must be done by now – I don't even understand how one woman can upset so many people in such a short period of time."
"I know, right?!" Anwen exclaims with an exasperated flourish of her hands. In the tight confines of the chair she manages to thwack Dorian's nose and he casts her a reproachful glare – which turns into an indulgent smile when she gives his nose a gentle, apologetic boop with her fingertips.
Anwen is quiet then, thoughtful and still, and though he pretends to carry on reading his book, Dorian can't help but watch the unexpected fall in her features from the corner of his eyes. "You know I actually kind of envy her," Anwen finally continues, her voice a little softer, as if afraid that someone other than Dorian might hear her confession.
"How so?" Dorian asks, brows peaking in interest over the cover of his book.
"Because Comte d'Iserre's hats really are silly, and Bann Friden really does seem weirdly fond of sheep – and she was able to just… say what she thinks. I often feel like I'm just… playing a part. All smiles and curtsies and yes please, Bann Whats-yer-name, please tell me about the fascinating world of crop rotation."
Dorian gives a quick snort of laughter, finally putting his book down in his lap so he can shift his attention more fully to Anwen.
"I wish I could… tell more people to fuck off," she says, head dipping to look at her fingers where they tug absentmindedly at the beading on the edge of her jacket.
"You tell people to fuck off all the time," Dorian counters.
"I tell Venatori and Red Templars to fuck off – which they never do, I should add. But I never say it around here."
Dorian goes thoughtful for a moment, his expression strangely analytical before it shifts into something far fonder. "You know, I have always been astounded by your ability to slip seamlessly between roles – religious figurehead, woman-of-the-people, warrior mage, daughter of nobility – you play them all with remarkable ease."
"Yeah, yeah," Anwen grouses, "I'm a good liar."
"Yes, that's part of it," he agrees with a dismissive wave of his hand, "but you don't just lie, you empathise with people – it's how you always know the right thing to say. It's how you've managed to acquire so many allies so quickly. It's why they made you Inquisitor, and not Cassandra." He pauses, pulling her hands away from her jacket before her nervous fiddling ruins its delicate embellishments. "I know these last few days have been pretty painful for you – and I appreciate that you're frustrated with having to smile and curtsy and apologise for things that you haven't even done – but… I am proud of you."
"You're proud of me?" Anwen asks, at first with wide-eyed astonishment and then with a growing smirk. "Maker, Dorian, you're such a sap."
He rolls his eyes at her. "Yes well – I'm reconsidering my words now that I remember what an insufferable brat you are."
She laughs then, and he soon follows, and their bodies are pressed so close in the chair that she can feel the rumble from his chest. It's an oddly comforting sensation.
"Although – having said that – should you decide to tell more people to fuck off, I will fully support you in that endeavour."
"Thank you, Dorian, I appreciate your unflinching support in these trying times."
"Anything to help the mighty Inquisitor."
There's a quick bark of laughter, though this time it's not from Dorian, and when Anwen looks up she sees Cullen leaning casually against a nearby bookcase. "The mighty Inquisitor probably shouldn't say fuck any more than she already does – for Josephine's sake, if nothing else."
Anwen smirks. "Oh piss off, Cullen."
He laughs again, meeting her smirk with one of his own. "I think you're spending too much time with Sera; I don't remember you being this foul-mouthed in Haven."
"I was restraining myself before – I wanted you to think I was sweet and ladylike."
"Ah – so I have been deceived."
"I'm afraid so. And now you're stuck with me."
His smirk fades into something small and achingly sweet. "I can think of worse fates."
"Ugh," Dorian groans, aggressively rolling his eyes at the both of them, "you two are truly obnoxious sometimes."
Anwen and Cullen just smile at each other like idiots, happily ignoring Dorian's grumbling.
Cullen straightens from leaning against the bookcase and takes a few steps closer, eyeing Anwen and Dorian with interest, bodies pressed close and legs intertwined in the tight space. "Should I be jealous?"
Dorian tsks. "Don't be ridiculous; you know I only have eyes for you."
Cullen laughs again, loud and bright enough that the noise carries and a few of Leliana's ravens seem to squawk in response.
Anwen laughs too, elbowing Dorian gently in the ribs. "I suppose someone should break that to Bull then."
Dorian sputters then, face flushed as he attempts to stutter out a denial, "I-I have no idea what you're talking about—"
"Don't even try it," Anwen snaps with a roll of her eyes and a stern jab of her fingers against his chest, "I'm the master liar, remember."
Dorian opens his mouth, probably hoping for some scathing retort, but instead he's left speechless, his mouth opening and shutting uselessly as an appropriate defence escapes him. It's Cullen who comes to his rescue, pointedly clearing his throat before taking another few steps forward. When he starts speaking again, it's far quieter than before, voice pitched low enough that it won't carry across the library. "Anni, I was wondering whether you wanted to, um, finish our last chest match. It has been some time since we last played."
She can't stop the groan that escapes her lips. "Do we have to? After the day I've been having so far I'm not sure I can bear the indignity of losing to you again." Her nose crinkles disdainfully and she rubs it with the back of her hand. "How about we do something that I'm good at?"
"Drinking and electrocuting things?" Dorian suggests and Anwen nudges him sharply with her elbow in return.
"Har, har, Dorian," she growls sarcastically, "how terribly droll you are." She gives him a glare, then softens when a thought strikes, "although – now that you mention it – a drink or two sounds like a good idea. How about it, Cullen? The three of us at the Herald's Rest? Maybe we can persuade Sera and Bull to join us?"
Cullen coughs, lifting one arm to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. Anwen is intrigued to notice a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. "Actually, I… ugh… I was hoping we could have some time together – alone."
It takes a few moments for Anwen to realise what Cullen is saying and then – oh. Her eyes go a little wide, an eager smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and she's already trying to find her footing, pushing away from Dorian, when she says, "right, of course, I too have the sudden and irrepressible urge to play a rousing game of chess."
Cullen smiles as he extends a hand toward Anwen, helping her balance as she tries to extricate herself from Dorian's chair as quickly as possible. There are a few muttered curses as Anwen's flailing limbs smack into Dorian a few times and when she finally yanks herself free, she topples forward with a bit more force than expected and falls against Cullen's chest.
He blushes – which is ridiculous considering that he's basically just propositioned her in Skyhold's library. But the gesture is so achingly Cullen-like that Anwen feels something warm and pattering spread through her chest.
"You two have fun," Dorian says with a dismissive wave as he picks up his book from his lap. "Remember it's less fun if you go straight to check mate."
Cullen gasps and Anwen only grins, grabbing Cullen's hand as she practically drags him out of the library.
"You're frowning, Cullen," Anwen notes as they walk across the Great Hall, both trying to appear as casual as possible so as to not draw attention to themselves as they slip away. "Dorian's only teasing."
"I like to keep our private lives… private."
Anwen snorts a laugh. "I would avoid talking to Bull then."
Cullen looks at her with confusion. "Bull?"
"He's seen us kissing on the battlements – he has… uh… suggestions."
Cullen's blush darkens. "I thought we were being discreet!"
She laughs again, remembering too well her own mortification when Bull had confronted her with the truth about her not-so-secret affair.
But she can feel nervous energy coming off Cullen – clearly more than a little uncomfortable at the realisation that their dalliances around Skyhold have been more open to public scrutiny than he originally realised. Anwen knows how much Cullen hates the idea of being the subject of barracks gossip – though she knows he's smart enough to realise that's all but inevitable given that she's the Inquisitor and he's her Commander.
She gives his hand a squeeze where it rests in hers – hopes he finds the gesture as comforting as she'd intended it to be.
Who cares about idle gossip? Let them talk.
Anwen's practically buzzing with anticipation by the time she reaches the door to her quarters; after the busy last few days, she can think of nothing better than just being alone with Cullen. Sure they've tried to find time for each other since Anwen's escape from the Venatori, but they've been interrupted every single time (and one time Anwen had fallen asleep just as things were getting interesting – which was embarrassing but perhaps not surprising considering what a shitshow the last few days had been)
But just as her hand presses against the door, she hears someone call Inquisitor and it is with almost palpable reluctance that she turns to face the approaching messenger, a mask of calm acceptance slipping in place as she greets him.
At first Anwen thinks nothing of it – it's not unusual for a messenger to interrupt her – but Cullen's grip turns fierce as the messenger jogs closer, squeezing her hand almost painfully, and she can feel his entire body tense beside her.
"There's been an incident in the holding cells," the messenger says, leaning close and speaking quietly to avoid being overhead. Anwen feels her heart drop in her chest, already anticipating what the man will say next.
"The prisoner's escaped."