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“Hello, sweetling.”
“What did you just say?”
Cullen rubbed the back of his head without thinking. “Uhh... hello?"
“No, after that.” Evelyn's brow furrowed. “Sweet thing?”
He could tell by her face she wouldn't let it drop, and allowed his pride to concede defeat. “Ahh. Sweetling.” His face burned.
“Sweet...ling? What does that mean?” She looked genuinely puzzled, and Cullen felt his embarrassment abate in the face of her sincere confusion.
“You've never heard that before?” She shook her head, and he sat on the couch next to her. “I suppose it might be a Fereldan phrase. It's a term of endearment I suppose – My parents used to call each other it all the time.”
“Aww.” She shouldered him good-naturedly and then crinkled her eyes mischievously. “It sounds a bit like slang for lady bits.” He snorted, and she scooted closer to him. “They were close then? Your parents?”
“Yes,” he replied. It was true – his parents had always been what he defined love as – happy, despite their humble life and the stress of four children. His earliest memories were colored by their relationship – him at five years old, holding hands with Mia and Branson, spinning circles dizzily while his father twirled his heavily pregnant mother around the kitchen and sang about Andraste's Mabari in a deep baritone. He smiled at the memory. “They loved each other very much.”
Evelyn smiled brightly. “That sounds lovely.”
“Did yours not?” he blurted out without thinking, but she was shaking her head before he could apologize.
“No, their marriage was arranged when they were very young. Don't get me wrong, they got along all right and they loved us very much but they.... I cannot picture my parents calling each other 'sweet thing'”.
“Sweetling.” he corrected automatically, and she rolled her eyes. The conversation lulled for a moment while she pulled his arm over her shoulders and laid her head in the crook. They sat for a moment, her watching his pant legs, and him watching the bit of hair he could see from that angle.
“I'm glad that's not true for us.” he whispered finally, and hoped she couldn't feel his heart racing double time and or the feeling of reckless free-fall in his chest at the implication.
Evelyn just reached up and poked his nose. “Me too, sweet thing."
A thud on the door to his office manages to startle him out of his work, despite him being only two sentences into the reply to Rylen. It's Evelyn, of course, and she's carrying a covered plate piled high with something or other. “I made you something. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” He sleeps in her, their, quarters most of the time now, has since the second breach months ago, but he still spends most of his days behind his massive desk, still forgets to eat most days.
She sets the plate before him and removes the cloth. They might be cookies, he thinks. They look like dark brown rings filled with porridge. He looks to her for a cue on what to do with his face.
She's bouncing on her toes, but her face is as passive as ever. “Butter cookies. Mia said you liked them.” Mia's meddling is as good an explanation as any. In lieu of a trip to South Reach for the ever-busy Commander and Inquisitor, she had taken it upon herself to introduce herself to her wayward brother's partner via post, and they'd struck up a frenzied correspondence since - much to Cullen's chagrin - sending letters twice as long and twice as often as himself.
“I do like them. My mother used to make them often – I haven't had them in years.” He doesn't say that they look nothing like what he remembers. Evelyn doesn't offer more, but instead looks from him to the plate and back.
He picks one up, gingerly, doesn't make a face as the middle of the cookie sags, takes a bite, chews.
It's bad. Scratch that, it's fucking terrible. It's melted butter and mealy sugar, somehow managing to be both oily and chewy. Cullen tries his damnedest not to gag, uses every bit of willpower to keep his eyebrows raised and a straight face. Judging from the way Evelyn's face falls, it doesn't work.
“That bad?” she asks, and Cullen completely intends to lie straight to her face until he sees the hint of her laugh, her cheeks tensing. She knows, she's too apt at reading his face after all this time, and he can't keep it together, sticking out his tongue making disgusted noises. Her peals of laughter bounce off the walls, and she hands him the cloth to spit the rest out.
“Oh, oh, I'm so sorry, sweet thing.” she manages, holding onto his arms as he wipes the outside of his mouth, even though he can't taste it anymore but he likes the way it makes her laugh again.
“Did you not try them?!” he demands, feigning offended.
“I did! I thought that was maybe how it was supposed to taste.” He snorts. “I'm shit at this. I hope you're okay with being the homemaker for the rest of your life because this obviously isn't working.” She sighs, and his stomach does that funny little flip it does when she talks about forever.
All at once, his chest feels a bit too full. He wants to hug her until he can crawl into her skin, or her into his, or both into one, and merge their heartbeats into a single, thrumming line. He's suddenly wired, and he can't stand still, so he grabs her hands and pulls her to the middle of the room. The movement tickles his memory, and for a giddy moment he thinks that he understands now.
Cullen can't quite dance like his father, and he can't remember any lines except “Andraste's old mabari”, but he can still spin them together just as well as he could at 5 years old, and he can still fill the gaps of the song with offbeat humming - and judging from her bright smile that suits them both just fine.