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Cullen is asleep when she finally returns to their quarters. She’d told him not to wait up, that she’d be up late preparing for tomorrow’s council session with Josephine, but it is rare for him to listen to her in such matters. He’s left a candle burning for her in the corner of the room, and she undresses in the dim, golden light. She tries not to notice the hollowness in her chest as she removes her uniform. She’d refused to take it off, even after the end of the council’s emotionally exhausting, but wholly uneventful first day. She couldn’t.
Posturing. Leliana had called it.
Betrayal, was more accurate. The wholesale dismantling of the life she’d rebuilt for herself when the anchor had burned away whatever it was she’d been before. Inquisitor. Herald. Nobody.
Nothing.
Him. She closes her eyes, picturing a lifetime of crooked smiles, and tea without sugar, and losing at chess, and nightmares, and laughter, and more love than she can bear. Of being somewhere small, and doing something unimportant. And she feels the dread that she hadn’t even realized was wrapped around her heart, unwind, bit by bit.
She goes to the bed, kisses his temple, softly, not meaning to wake him, but he stirs and blinks at her. Eyes soft and unfocused.
“It’s late.”
She kisses him again -- on his lips this time -- and urges, “Go back to sleep.”
He sort-of nods, and pats at her, rolling over, disturbing the creature laying next to him. It rises. A smudge of a shadow in the darkness, all sleekness and muscle and dark, dark grey fur. Powerful shoulders flex as it stretches lazily, and farts at her.
It’s an almost delicate sound.
“Cullen, there’s a dog in the bed.”
“Mmmm? Not...dog.” He makes no move to look. He’s still half-asleep. “Mabari.”
“Why is it in the bed?” Her rising voice sounds a bit shrill, even to her own ears.
His rambles something into the pillow. It’s practically coherent, muffled and broken as he drifts sharply off to sleep. She can make out only one word.
Partner.
--
They’d suspended the council temporarily due to a Qunari corpse that had been found. As much as she wanted to get this over with and get back home, she was relieved at the delay. She’d already heard every variation possible of ‘thanks, but no thanks’ , and was a little tired of the veiled -- and not so veiled -- concerns that she might be a power-hungry dictator on the verge of world domination.
Irrefutable proof against that was the fact that the Winter Palace was still standing, she’d thought. And also, may have muttered.
Loudly.
Josephine had not been pleased.
There would be fall out from the dead Qunari, too. Leliana’s agents were investigating. It wouldn't be long before she was sent off to deal with whatever they discovered. The anchor crackled almost eagerly in her hand, the sensation edging on pain. It hadn’t gotten much use lately -- she’d closed nearly every damn rift in Thedas, and the preparation for the Exalted Council had kept her from her real work.
But for now, there is little to do, and she finds herself enjoying an unexpectedly quiet moment with Varric. They stand in the sun on the upper balconies of the great hall, watching Cullen and his dog play in the courtyard below.
The pair are enchanting, really. A spot of lightheartedness at the center of the great political game. Cullen is in his shirtsleeves, half-rolling in the dirt as he demonstrates the proper technique for dodging a mage’s fireball. To his dog. Who, follows his instructions with dubious results, managing to dodge, but sweeps Cullen’s legs out from under him in the process.
In honor of this unexpected victory, the dog, in turn, demonstrates how to pin a foe to the ground and lick his face off. Even this far away she can hear the famously stoic Commander of the Inquisition laughing as he tries to fend off the dog’s massive tongue.
Cullen.
Laughing.
At the Winter Palace.
Even Varric seems surprised.
And to top it all off, Cullen has named the dog, Recruit.
Recruit.
“Maybe we should have gotten him a dog earlier.” She observes.
“ Dog? No wonder Ferelden want the Inquisition gone.” Varric tuts. “Mabari. And that’s not just any a Mabari. They’ve bonded.” He chuckles in response to her blank expression. “How much do you know about Ferelden's and their Mabari?”
“Not as much as I should, apparently.”
“Hawke had a Mabari. Big, brown, shoulders as wide as a keg of ale. Named it Carver -- I’m still not sure if that was a compliment to his brother, or not. He was a much better Diamondback player than the original, though. Terrible at Wicked Grace.” Varric’s face has the same soft smile it always carries with he thinks about Hawke.
“You’re witnessing what’s known as a bond.” He continues. “They regard it as something sacred. Man meets Mabari, mabari meets man. And if they’re right for each other, they imprint.” He claps his hands together to demonstrate the suddenness and simplicity of it all. “It’s a bit like falling in love, only… without all the sex and heartbreak. Ferelden's say that kind of connection is only possible to experience once in your life.”
She feels no small, but irrational stab of jealousy over Cullen’s sacred love-bond with his dog.
Obviously.
That would be ridiculous.
In the courtyard below, Cullen’s back on his feet, Recruit takes the opportunity to leap into his arms. Cullen staggers, but manages to sling the huge dog over his shoulder. Recruit’s oversized paws hang down the back of Cullen’s back as the two embrace, oblivious to the stares of the Orlesians surrounding them. The massive, grey head turns towards the golden one and they rest for a moment, foreheads touching.
The dog says something. Says something. A low and querulous sound, but she gets the distinct impression that it’s just spoken, and that Cullen, unbelievably, has understood.
The dog gives a high little yip -- a small sound of joy.
At the sight of Cullen’s answering smile she feels her heart ease a little. No matter the cause, Cullen is happier. And he’s had so little happiness in his life.
--
Days later, she returns to their quarters one night, to take dinner with Cullen, and finds him still at his bath. This discovery is usually the precursor to her promptly stripping and climbing in with him. Tonight though, he already has a companion. Cullen sits in his usual small wooden tub, knees drawn up to his chest, scrubbing vigorously at the mabari wedged between his thighs. She feels a tiny smile pull at her lips at the sight.
“You smell like wet mabari.” She mummers. “Might not be the most effective way to get clean.”
Cullen nods, “We may have to get a bigger tub.”
She takes a bit of soap and moves behind him. The expanse of his back is broad and golden, shoulders slightly freckled. She washes his back for a while, in complete silence. She doesn’t use the aid of a cloth, preferring to feel the slippery warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. There’s tension in his back, lingering from a life spent with sword and shield. She digs her thumbs into the muscles at the base of his neck and along the length of his spine. Her hands are small, but strong, from a life spent with her own sword and her own shield. He groans under her touch, a satisfied rumble Recruit mimics softly, and leans his head back against her breasts.
Gently, she smoothes the damp hair off his brow, fingers tracing along a tiny streak of silver hidden amongst the gold. She finds it desperately comforting that, despite life’s attempts to batter him, Cullen has survived. Not just his body, his soul.
The anchor flares suddenly, red hot pain lancing through the peace of the moment.
She manages, just barely, not to cry out.
Between Cullen’s knees, Recruit growls. A long, low sound, ominous as thunder. Cullen moves his hand to the top of Recruit’s head, and the mabari falls silent, but its eyes lock with hers and she gets the uncanniest feeling it’s trying to decide if she’s a danger to Cullen or not.
Whatever it’s looking for it seems to find, or not find. It turns, resting its head against Cullen’s chest, and sighs. There’s a happy quality to it.
The warm peacefulness returns and she notices that Cullen’s taken ahold of her right hand and is kissing his way from her wrist to her fingertips. There’s nothing lascivious in the gesture. It’s almost… worshipful, and hesitant, and…
“Marry me.” He whispers, voice rough.
Recruit barks sharply, once.
"Us.” Cullen amends. “Marry us?”
His voice hitches a the end, a little uncertainly. It’s heartbreakingly vulnerable. She goes to move around him, but he misunderstand the way she pulls back a little and his grip tightens around her hand.
"Wait.” He insists. There’s just the slightest edge of panic in his voice. “I know this isn’t… Maker, I should have waited, made it better… but, I love you, and I imagine… or, rather can’t imagine…”
He’s rambling. He’s rambling the way he does when he’s truly moved, or upset. She should say something, but she can’t. He’s stolen the breath right out of her, and her throat is tight with a fierce and sudden joy. Instead, she slips her hand gently up to his face, hoping to soothe with her touch alone. She thinks there are tears on his cheeks, but his hair is wet, so she can’t really be sure.
She circles carefully around him, her touch never leaving him, and cups his face in both her hands. There are tears in his eyes. And he wears a wounded expression, like a man resigned to the death blow. It absolutely staggers her that he could think she would ever decline. But she remembers, almost belatedly, that Cullen is a man who does not believe he deserves any happiness.
“Cullen,” She says, gently enough that his expression smooths out, a little.
Recruit uses the space between their breaths as an opportunity to poke his head in between her arms. She’s sort of awkwardly clutching the both of them. He whines a little, low and piteous.
“Not now.” Cullen flushes brightly, and with some difficulty, manages to push the mabari back down. “Maker, why does this always happen?” He mutters.
“Perhaps you should have have named him, Jim?” She suggests.
Cullen chuckles, a little. The moment is far too awkward and charged for real humor. But the warmth hasn’t disappeared entirely, so she takes a deep breath, leans forward, and kisses him instead. It isn’t their most romantic kiss. He’s still wedged in the tub, she’s oddly hunched over, and there is about two hundred pounds of wet, mabari inconveniently between them.
Still, she tries to fill it with as much love as she can. It must work, because when she pulls away his face is soft and hopeful.
“Is that a yes?” He asks.
She nods and presses her forehead against his. “Yes.” She breathes.
Recruit (Jim) reacts first, baying loudly and leaping from the tub with exuberance. Unbalanced, it tips over, spilling Cullen, completely nude -- and gallons of water -- onto the floor. The fire in the hearth promptly extinguishes.
“Are you alright?” She grins. Recruit is still barking and shaking himself in the background, flinging water everywhere that wasn’t already wet.
Cullen grins back, the scar at his mouth wrinkles. “I’ve never been happier.”
--
They make love in the dark like they’re discovering each other for the first time, all lips and fingers and hesitant touches. At the end, Cullen holds her, his hand lightly tracing up and down her arm.
“There’s a Chantry mother from Honnleath here at the palace. She’s leaving tomorrow on a pilgrimage.” He says, voice heavy with sleep. “She could marry us… or,” He sits up suddenly looking at her. “We could could do it properly. The grand cathedral. Silk. Flowers. Whatever you wish. Josephine would be beside herself to plan such a thing.” His lips lift in a smile, but she can hear the strain in his voice.
He would do it, she knew. For her.
“Tomorrow.” She chooses, and smiles, feeling him relax back against her. “I don’t need anyone there else. Just you and me...”
A sharp, reprimanding bark.
“...and Recruit.” She smiles.
The mabari collapses back to the floor, satisfied. Its large and damp presence in front of the door, is surprisingly comforting.
--
Liliana wakes them, just before dawn. The stray eluvian is active, for how much longer, she cannot say, but the scouts she has sent through have either disappeared, or are reporting a terrible clash between Qunari assassins, and strange Elven spirits.
“You are needed, Inquisitor.” Leliana says with an arch of her brow, already halfway out the door. “With the greatest possible urgency.”
“Of course.” She turns to Cullen, speechless. Cullen doesn’t waste time, or words. He pulls her to him, kisses her deeply for a long, long moment. They’ve parted like this so often before. She to danger, he to a long, terrifying vigil. Usually they do not waste tears on goodbye; not even when she went to confront Corypheus. Cullen is a creature of duty, she is the Inquisitor. But today… today was supposed to be…
Tears sting her eyes, she turns her head to hide them against his shoulder. Cullen wraps his arms around her, but she can feel him shake, and after a moment she’s not sure who’s comforting who.
Recruit is being decidedly unJim-like, and is noticeable entirely due to his absence. Instead of offering any sort of comfort while she and Cullen fall quietly fall apart, he’s in the corner, worrying on a pair of Cullen’s trousers. After a moment, Recruit seems to give up and instead, sits on them, barking in short insistent yips.
Cullen straightens, a smile tightens his mouth. “Well done, Recruit.”
The mabari beams as Cullen retrieves something from the pocket of his trousers. And when he holds it out to her she sees, it’s a small silver ring. “I intend to keep my promise. I will marry you today.”
“Don’t we need, a chantry sister, or a cleric, or something?”
“We make this vow to the Maker alone. I dare anyone to suggest that is not sufficient.”
His eyes are red, and raw, but his jaw is set in a stubborn line. He’s in his threadbare smalls, and she in his over-sized shirt, and the room is a wreck, the rug beneath them still soggy. But there’s him, and there’s her, and lifetime of crooked smiles, and tea without sugar, and losing at chess, and nightmares, and laughter, and more love than she can bear.
The tears fall then, and she can barely see, but she feels him push the ring onto her finger.
“I swear unto the Maker, and the holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days.” His voice is ragged, barely louder than a whisper.
She repeats the vow, their hands linked. And he weeps as she says the words.
Mine. Her heart sings. Yours. His answers.
He helps her dress for battle, her hands shake too much to manage the toggles on her coat.
“Take Cassandra with you.” He says with a final, tender kiss. “And… and, come back.”
She’s almost out the door before she turns, drops to her knees and hugs Recruit, fiercely.
A lifetime of crooked smiles, and tea without sugar, and losing at chess, and nightmares, and laughter, and more love than she can bear.
And a mabari.