Note: Cullen and Anwen have a romantic picnic, and Cullen gets a little more than he bargained for...
Cullen is surrounded by colour. Irises grow in the flowerbed beside him, their blanket of cool blue interrupted with bright bursts of pink tulips and yellow daffodils. Behind him, a tall purple lilac bush is filling the air with a sweet, fresh smell that reminds him of his mother's small, meticulously tended garden in Honnleath, of springtime and home. Stretching above him, a canopy of pink blossoms obscure the high, midday sun and cast everything in a warm, rosy glow. When the wind rustles through the branches, as it's doing now, it sets loose a storm of petals, pink motes that dance in elegant loops and whorls to the ground.
It would be a pleasant spot for a picnic, he'd written in one of his letters what feels like a lifetime ago.
It turns out, he'd been right.
He's settled comfortably on a thick, rough-spun blanket, a wicker basket full of breads and cheese at his knee, a bottle of something dry and white at his elbow. A box of chocolates has spilled most of its contents across the blanket (someone had been rummaging for their favourite lavender creme) and a flat wooden tray is covered in the remains of what had been an impressive array of pastries and tiny, frilly cakes – all woefully Orlesian but, he's loath to admit, absolutely delicious.
And then of course there's Anwen, stretched on her stomach next to him, propped up on her elbows so she can read her book. Occasionally she'll read out a few sentences she thinks are particularly well-written, or she'll absentmindedly pluck something from the box of chocolates and bite into it with a pleased hum, but mostly they just sit in silence, enjoying each other's company and this rare moment of peace – no duties, no commands, just the two of them.
The last few months have been difficult for the both of them but this moment – this moment – is absolute perfection.
Cullen watches as a blossom petal winds lazily on the breeze, dipping and diving until finally coming to rest in a curl just above Anwen's ear. He leans over, lifts the petal on a fingertip, then blows – watching with an almost childlike fascination as it curls and whirls in the air before landing gently on the rug.
When he turns to look back at Anwen, she's already looking at him with a sort of bemused smile on her face, one brow arched curiously. He just shrugs, then leans forward further to broach the space between them and place a tender kiss to the tip of her nose. She giggles – and he wonders who else has had the pleasure of hearing the mighty Inquisitor giggle – then presses her lips against his, soft and tender and perfect, just like everything else this lazy afternoon.
"I love you," he murmurs against her lips, delighting in the way her whole face seems to light up at the words, eyes glassy and mouth smiling.
She opens her mouth to speak but then, unexpectedly, it's Sera's voice he hears. "What's that then?" the elf shouts across Skyhold's Garden and when his head jerks up at the sound, he can see her stalking determinedly towards him.
Oh Maker, no.
"Is there cake left?" Sera asks as she kneels down onto the blanket, skinny fingers immediately picking at the tray of treats.
"Some," Anwen replies with a chuckle; apparently amused and not absolutely horrified as Cullen is.
Sera picks up a large, round bun slathered in gaudy pink icing and takes a bite, letting out a dismayed little whinny as fat blobs of cream burst from the dough and dribble down her tunic. With sticky, pink-stained fingers, she swipes the cream from the fabric and licks it off each fingertip with an exaggerated suck and pop. Cullen cringes.
"What?!" Sera demands when she sees his expression, "I don't want to fucking waste any!"
"Quite so," Anwen says with a smirk and he can tell that she's cruelly entertained by his discomfort.
"Well I'm glad you've enjoyed the cake," Cullen lies, handing Sera another, "feel free to take as many as you want as you leave."
Sera ignores the obvious dismissal in his words and instead settles herself more fully on the blanket, crossing her legs beneath her and reaching for the box of chocolates.
Cullen sighs.
"Well doesn't this look nice," comes another voice from behind and when Cullen turns he finds Varric watching over them.
Maker preserve him, he thinks with a mild note of panic. While Sera's presence is unwanted, he's still relatively certain it's short-lived – after all, she has a notoriously short attention span – but Varric?... Varric is chatty. Once he's started with one of his stories, there's no way Cullen's going to get his blissful moment of peace and quiet back.
"Is that Rowan's Rose?" Varric asks with genuine curiosity, head nodding at the bottle standing at Cullen's elbow.
"Why yet it is," Anwen replies brightly, reaching for the bottle, "would you like a taste?"
What?! What in the void is she doing? Don't encourage him!
"Don't mind if I do!" Varric declares as he steps across the blanket and sits down across from Anwen. He picks up the empty glass that used to be Cullen's and watches as Anwen fills it for him with the pale gold liquid. Varric lifts the glass to his lips, pauses, and throws Cullen a crooked smile – the kind of smile which suggests he knows exactly how annoyed Cullen is right now but is too delighted to care.
That bastard.
Varric hums appreciatively as he sips from the wine glass, then holds the glass aloft in a sort of salute. "Very nice, Inquisitor; you have excellent taste!" he declares, earning him a beaming smile from Anwen.
"Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke stole from Knight-Commander Meredith's personal wine stash?" Varric asks after another long sip and – no! Cullen thinks, no stories, no rambling tales, no witty anecdotes! Please just go!
Apparently no one else can hear Cullen's internal monologue screaming in dissension and Varric happily embarks on his story – regaling his small audience with another ridiculous tale of Hawke's escapades. And if Cullen laughs at the end, it's because he's being polite and not because he's genuinely entertained by the mental image of Hawke trying to act casual while walking out of the Gallows with half a dozen bottles of wine stashed inside her coat.
He hopes that one story will be enough – and then Varric will leave – but then Sera starts with her own story of pilfering alcoholic beverages and what had started as a mere interruption was quickly spiralling into a full-blown conversation.
What had happened to his quiet, lazy afternoon?!
He's still formulating some sort of cunning plan to get Varric and Sera to go away when he suddenly spies Dorian and Bull on the other side of the garden and – oh maker – Bull points and Dorian waves and then they're both coming over to join them as well.
Will every member of the Inquisition soon be crowded into Skyhold's Garden?!
"Here you are, Cullen!" Dorian cries by way of a greeting, "I went to your office but you weren't there!"
"Did you need me for something?" Cullen asks with knitted brows, uncertain as to what Dorian could possibly want from him.
"We were supposed to be playing chess?" Dorian reminds him, hands rising to his hips so he can look down on him imperiously.
Oh shit. "I'm so sorry, Dorian, I completely forgot, I-"
"No worries," Dorian says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I didn't realise you were having a little party." And then, to Cullen's utter dismay, both Dorian and Bull start stepping onto the blanket and searching for spots to sit down. Anwen has to sit up from her comfortable sprawl, kneeling primly to take up as little space as possible as Dorian and Bull settle on either side of her.
No – no! This isn't how it's supposed to be! Cullen is supposed to be nibbling on bread and cheese, and sipping on wine that Anwen has purloined from Skyhold's stores just for him! He's supposed to be lying on his belly with a beautiful woman curled up at his sides and the twitter of songbirds overhead! He's supposed be having a bloody peaceful afternoon – alone!
"Right!" Cullen snaps a little testily, "of course you two should join us – why don't we see if Josephine wants to join us, huh? Or Cassandra? Why not invite the whole damned Inquisition for a picnic!"
All eyes snap to him at his little outburst – wide with shock and confusion – and while he's embarrassed to have lost his composure, he also hopes that everyone will at least take a hint and leave him alone. Unfortunately the Maker has a cruel sense of humour, and when Varric announces, "what a good idea! I'll be right back!" Cullen is just about ready to curl up into a ball and wait for Corypheus to just end it all.
Varric fetches Josephine from her office, and Cassandra from Maker-knows-where and apparently they 'just happened' to bump into Harding, and the picnic blanket is certainly not big enough for everyone anymore but no one seems to mind. Some are on the blanket, others happily lounging across the grass, everyone leaning against each other in a messy tangle of limbs. People are smiling as everyone jostles for some space to sit, and then Varric cracks a joke and everyone laughs.
Everyone except Cullen – who sits stoic among the mess and wonders how on earth everything went so spectacularly wrong. All he wanted was an afternoon with Anwen – to talk, to read, to watch her smile and-
He notices then the look of utter delight across Anwen's face, squashed between Dorian and Bull while Sera's legs tangle inelegantly in the skirts of her dress. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes crinkled with joy, her curls bouncing every time she throws her head back to laugh, which is often. He can't remember whether he's ever seen her like this – unkempt, unhurried; just enjoying the company of her friends.
Varric had brought more wine back when he'd gone to retrieve Josephine and, lacking glasses for all of them, the bottles are simply passed between them. Conversation breaks out, loud and lively – Harding talking of adventure, Dorian of mystery, Varric tells jokes and Josephine gossips. What remains of the picnic is split between them, cheese and chocolates and pastries carefully torn apart and shared.
There is noise and laughter and crumbs everywhere – and everything is a mess, and everything is too loud, and yet-
Everything is perfect.
Cullen notices Bull lean over and murmur something into Anwen's ear, watching with interest as her expression goes from interest to shock to... something else. He doesn't catch the words but Anwen blushes fiercely, sneaking Cullen a surreptitious glance, and he gets the distinct impression they're talking about him. When Bull's finished, she elbows him sharply in the ribs, shooting him a baleful glare that would be more intimidating where she not snorting in fits of laughter.
She pushes away from Bull then, crawling with great difficulty across the crowded blanket until she reaches Cullen. She smiles at him, kisses him on the tip of his nose, then sits herself down, her back against his chest. His arms rise instinctively, wrapping around her, holding her close, her head tucked beneath his chin. He can feel the rumble of her laughter, hear the smile in her voice when she tells her own stories. The wine keeps coming, and the stories never cease, laughter filling each pause, and Anwen is loose and languid in his arms.
He was wrong before but now – now, everything is perfect.
End note: this is the end! I always like a happy and super soppy ending.
It has taken me far too long to finish this fic - largely due to an eight month hiatus when I just couldn't bring myself to write anything (which I hated!) Ah well... I feel all right with my writing again now so I guess this means I should get on with the millions of WIPs I have floating around my laptop.