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Days like this did not deserve the descriptor 'long'. A day of monotonous diplomatic meetings—broken only by military runners and dispatches that pulled him away for a precious few moments of peace— left him feeling haggard and twice his years. He hated these political dances on principle, but did he really need to be there for a property dispute over an Orlesian noble's prized cake spoon? Not even a kiss from Guinevere, hastily stolen between lunch and another meeting, eased his discontent. Josephine, fortunately, was wise enough to release him before he chipped a tooth from clenching his jaw at the sheer stupidity of the nobles around him. Unfortunately, the Inquisitor hadn't been so lucky.
"I promise I won't keep her too much longer, Commander," Josephine said. Cullen could only stare in mounting frustration as the ambassador dragged his lover back down the hall.
'Sorry!' Guinevere mouthed sympathetically just before disappearing back into the War Room.
Cullen scrubbed a hand over his face as he climbed the stairs to their room. All he'd wanted was a quiet evening with her. Her stretches in Skyhold had been short as of late, leaving them with little time for each other: a night here and there for her before heading out again for weeks on end, early mornings for them both, and paperwork that often kept him into the early hours. When added to his nightmares, particularly bad these past few nights, he'd gotten very little sleep. On top of all that, he ached, sore and short-tempered, the beginnings of a headache scratching around inside his skull. Perhaps he wouldn't have been such good company after all, he mused. He needed a bath and a good night's rest with Guinevere, in that order.
His nostrils flared when he opened the door to their room, honing in on the subtle scent of lavender and orange blossoms. At the top of the stairs, he sighed. "Maker bless you, Guinevere."
She'd had the massive tub hauled in. Already filled with steaming, scented water, it was enough to make him groan at the very thought of climbing in. There was something calming about hot water, a comfort he hadn't found in the typical barracks shower, which usually consisted of a bucket of barely melted snow and a hogs-hair brush—if that much. This, though... this bath he could sink into up to his chin, with a small slot on one end to rest one's head as they reclined against the copper sides. Runes were pressed into the floor of the tub to keep the water a perfect temperature. It was a ridiculous, extravagant luxury: one he was quietly grateful for.
Piece by piece, he removed his armor, setting it with care on the rack put aside for him. Being eager was no reason to be callous towards his gear, his training guiding him even here. Next went his tunic, folded neatly, and then his boots, trousers, and smalls. A twinge in his back as he stood made him grimace. He pushed it out of his mind as he approached the bath and plucked a note, nestled between bottles of oils and soaps, from the small table beside the tub. 'Thought you could use it. I'll fend them off and come up when I'm victorious. —G'
Cullen snorted. "You can never win against nobles," he muttered to himself. It was always one thing after another, round and round, with no end in sight to their ridiculous problems. He could only wish her the best of luck, because he certainly hadn't seen any today.
Accustomed to the cool air, he hissed when he stuck a foot in the hot water, chilled nerves sparking to life. Once the initial discomfort faded away, he lowered himself into the tub with a groan. Blessed Andraste, this is perfect. Or almost. He was still missing one thing, or rather, one person.
He dropped his head back, letting it rest on the side of the tub as heat seeped into aching muscles. He was being selfish; he could hardly expect her to abandon important Inquisitorial duties simply because he wanted her here. And yet, if he'd asked, she'd have dropped everything, been here in a heartbeat: all for one battered, tired ex-templar. He'd never understand it, but he wasn't about to question what the Maker had seen fit to give him. The best he could do was give her what little he had to offer.
His eyelids drooped and he fumbled for the soap. He was about to fall asleep here like a child, which would defeat the entire purpose. He at least needed to be in bed before he passed out. Cullen scrubbed carefully at his arms and chest, slicking away sweat and dirt, leaving his hair for last. The oils he used to tame his mess of curls left the scalp sensitive, requiring more care. Not to mention, if he waited long enough, he might—
No. She'd done enough today, her own slew of meetings and hoop-jumping. He rubbed the soap tiredly over his legs. He wasn't going to ask or expect anything from her when she already did so much for him. She needed rest; no doubt he'd kept her awake with his screaming and thrashing these past few nights, though she never said as much. But there was always a quiet part of him that suspected it even as she wrapped herself around him, soft murmurs in his ear pulling him out of that dark place in his mind.
He'd just started to run wet fingers through his hair when the door creaked open. "Cullen?" Guinevere called.
"Here, Gwen." She didn't make any noise as she padded up the stairs and across the room on quiet feet. He caught her scent before he saw her, soft notes of vanilla and hot sand. He leaned his head back just in time to accept the brief kiss she brushed across his tired brow as she passed, his eyes closing in reaction to her touch. She always seemed to have that effect on him. "I assume your mission was a success?" he asked, listening to her as she puttered around behind him.
"The villains have been beaten back for the time being, Commander. The night is ours. I might even have saved a kitten in there somewhere." When she wandered back into view, she'd changed into a loose pair of trousers and one of his old tunics, her hair still loosely braided. She leaned a hip against the edge of the tub and trailed a hand through the water, looking at him speculatively. She tilted her head. "Did you do your hair yet?"
"I... no, not yet. I was about t—"
"Can I?" Guinevere was eyeing the bottles on the table. Her fascination with his hair was a never-ending source of confusion—and great pleasure—for him. He ignored the stirring of want in his chest. It wasn't lust, though her fingers in his hair had led them down that path a great many times, but rather a simple desire for the touch of someone who cared for him. Cullen contemplated her request with a frown as she splashed her fingers in the water. They were both too tired for anything more physical, and she knew it. She was also more than aware of how much he enjoyed it when she did this, and she seemed to take pleasure in it as well. Her grin when he leaned back helped to assuage some of his guilt.
It had initially taken some trial-and-error but they had it down to an art now. Wood scraped across stone as she settled a stool behind him, bottles clinking as Guinevere selected her soaps. The warm water came next and he closed his eyes as she rinsed his hair, tilting his head obligingly so she could reach every last inch. The next part was his favorite, the part he loved most. He held his breath, but it was still a shock when soap-slickened fingers slid through his hair.
His toes curled under the water and he groaned as she set to work, fingers scratching and kneading gently across his sensitive scalp. Never too firm, the circles she drew through his hair had knots in his muscles unraveling as if she were massaging his entire body. She started at the very base of his skull, gradually climbing towards the top of his head, making sure to work out all the stiffening oils and clean every curl. Once she reached her goal, she twisted her hands, letting some of her fingers work his temples while her thumbs scrubbed towards his forehead. He moaned, low and deep, a sound pulled straight from his chest. Stress floated away through his fingers, his toes, on each breath from his parted lips.
His head lolled against the tub, pliant and unresisting under her hands, letting her maneuver him whichever way she needed. Maker's breath, he'd let her do anything at this point, as long as she kept her fingers in his hair. His body sagged further into the water, though he let out a hiss when she lit upon a sore spot, the tiniest spark of pain. Guinevere hummed apologetically behind him, her fingers working their way back in more slowly. This time the touch was gentle and his back arched, fingers clenching where they gripped the side of the tub. Arousal stirred between his legs briefly, expectedly at the pleasure, but he was too tired for anything more than that. Any other day, he might have hauled her into the tub with him and taken her against the side.
"Another go through, I think," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Please," he said breathlessly. And then she started all over again.
He drifted along on the sensation. Soft, uninhibited sounds spilled from him at her every touch: careful, rhythmic scratches of her nails, the lightest tugs at his hair, the pressure of her thumbs when she pressed and sent warmth flowing under his skin. The lyrium withdrawal had made his skin more sensitive, and all the torment he put his hair through to look presentable left his scalp particularly so. Except that, while that was a rather large contributor to his response, it was also her.
She'd taken the time to learn him and his reactions: what hurt and what didn't, what felt good and what set him on edge. He cared for her, loved her, would happily gut himself with his own blade if he thought it would help her cause. And she accepted his affections, loved him in return for a reason that still escaped him. Her touch was a reminder of that love, something that drew him back from the edge and grounded him. He was vulnerable here, naked and without his sword, no protection against the demons that haunted him.
Her touch told him he was safe.
Cullen sprawled, barely aware, arms dangling limply over the sides of the tub as Guinevere pressed a hand to his forehead, protecting his eyes as she rinsed the last of the oil from his hair. When she was done, she continued to run her fingers in his hair for no reason more than it felt good to him. Again, again, and again she swept her fingers through, applying pressure here and there to press the water out, stray curls already beginning to hook around her fingers.
He stirred when her arms draped around his shoulders and she leaned down to nuzzle his temple, her fingers dabbling in the water. He lifted one hand clumsily, feeling as if the bones in his limbs had turned to jelly, to press to her cheek. He only hazily remembered at the last minute that he was wet, leaving his hand to flop against her shoulder instead. She chuckled, turning to brush a kiss to his knuckles.
"Love you," he mumbled.
"I love you, too. Feeling better?" she asked.
"Hm... much." He buried his face against her neck, inhaled slowly, close to dozing. "I'm getting you wet," he muttered, tone distantly apologetic.
"I won't melt." She rubbed her cheek against his hair fondly. Her next kiss fell along his jaw before he twisted to catch her mouth sleepily with his, sighing happily. Languid, warm, he barely had the energy to taste her on his tongue before his head dropped to her shoulder again with a grunt, making her laugh. "Let's get you into bed, my lion."
The air was pleasantly cool when he stepped out of the tub, a breeze stirring the curtains, and the towel she patted him with was soft on his skin. His chin drooped towards his chest, the fade tugging at his mind as Guinevere kissed his chin and nudged him towards the bed. He wasn't going to last much longer, just enough presence of mind left to climb under the sheets without assistance. He rumbled a displeased sound when she didn't immediately join him, his eyes already closed, long past actual words.
Guinevere chuckled. Clothing rustled and then she was sliding into bed with him, skin to skin. He tugged her into place against him, where she should be. He draped himself over her and buried his face in her hair, legs tangling with hers as his arm settled around her waist. He was asleep before he'd taken another breath, confident that no nightmares would disturb him that night.