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Cullen wasn’t immediately concerned when Dorian didn’t show up to meet him for lunch. Dorian missed meals almost as often as Cullen, himself, did.
Only… he almost never missed meals with Cullen.
So perhaps Cullen was just a bit concerned.
When Dorian didn’t appear for their chess game that afternoon, Cullen was definitely worried. The library was his first stop, but the chair in the mage’s nook was empty, and the candles were cold. He passed Solas on his way out, and the elf said he hadn’t seen Dorian all day.
He wasn’t in the tavern, or on the training grounds. Cullen frowned and headed for the last place he actually expected to find Dorian: the mage’s quarters.
There was no response to his knock, and Cullen considered whether he should try the door or look elsewhere. He raised his hand to knock again, calling Dorian’s name, and after a silent pause to wait, started to turn away. Maybe Dorian was in his office…
A faint, pained sound stopped him, and a muffled thump had him turning back. When his call of Dorian’s name was interrupted by the choked sound of retching, Cullen reached for the door latch. “Dorian?”
Another bout of retching answered him. The room was freezing, the brazier cold, the candles out, and the drapes drawn shut. Cullen hurried around the unmade bed to find Dorian hunched over the chamberpot, his whole body heaving as he emptied his stomach.
Cullen hit his knees and slid one arm across Dorian’s shoulders, wincing at the sound as he tried to offer support. Dorian leaned against him, panting, soaked with sweat and shivering.
“Easy,” Cullen murmured, keeping his voice soft. “Easy. Better out than in.” It got him a weak chuckle before Dorian hunched forward again, dry-heaving because his stomach was empty. Cullen winced again, but kept quiet and just let Dorian lean against him. He nudged the chamber pot away when Dorian slumped. “Done?” he asked, his voice still carefully soft.
Dorian tried to nod, but the movement made him gag again. Cullen brought a hand up to his brow, steadying him. “Maker’s breath, easy, don’t try to move. I’ll get you back into bed.”
That Dorian didn’t even give a token protest about being picked up spoke to how awful he was feeling. His lightweight pants and shirt were sticky with sweat. His hair, usually so carefully styled, was alternately matted to his head or mussed up in dark, damp waves. The bedding was sweat-damp, too, but there was nothing to be done about it right away. Cullen settled Dorian as gently as he could, and frowned when the other man immediately curled onto his side, clutching at his head. He crouched beside the bed, and touched one hand lightly to the back of Dorian’s neck. “Headache?” he asked softly, and Dorian made a quiet sound that Cullen took as a yes.
He kept his voice low as he spoke, knowing from intimate personal experience just how agonising a bad headache could be - bad enough to make one physically ill. After a gentle squeeze, he moved his hand to curl his fingers with Dorian’s.
“One squeeze for yes, two for no. Have you taken anything for it? Elfroot, anything?”
Two squeezes. Cullen pursed his lips. “Will you be able to keep anything down?”
Two more squeezes, and Cullen nodded. “All right, love, I’m going for a healer.”
He started to push to his feet, and Dorian’s fingers tightened around his own. The mage’s head came up, bloodshot grey eyes slitting open for just a moment before they squeezed shut again in pain. “No, don’t g - ahh, Fasta vass - nngh!”
Cullen hissed as he stood, leaning over Dorian as if he could keep him in place somehow without holding him down. “Maker’s teeth, keep still.” He curled his hand at the nape of Dorian’s neck until he stopped holding his breath and started to pant through the pain. Then he let his fingers press into muscles gone rigid with tension, trying to massage away some of the hurt.
Dorian whimpered - and Dorian did not whimper - shifting slightly closer. Cullen pursed his lips again, and then blew out a soft breath. “Easy, love,” he murmured. “You need a healer.”
Dorian exhaled a shaky sigh, and made a soft sound of agreement, carefully not nodding his head. “Hurry?” he rasped.
Cullen bent to press a kiss to his furrowed brow. “As fast as I can be, my heart. I’ll be back before you know it.
****
Cullen came back, healer in tow, to find the bed empty, the blankets trailing off the far side, and Dorian bent over the chamber pot again, dry-heaving. The healer made a sound of dismay and hurried around the bed, her fingers already alight. Cullen winced and stepped over to light the fire, having to use the only lit candle in the room to get the flames going.
The retching stopped and Dorian gave a ragged, pained groan. Cullen crouched on his other side, sliding an arm around him for support. “Come on,” he said, lifting slowly. “Up you go, back into bed.”
****
The room was just settling into warm by the time the healer left. The bed linens had been changed, Dorian’s clothes had been changed, and the chamber pot had been emptied. The healer had set a small pot of sage to smoulder on the mantel, and the room was pleasantly cozy and comfortably dim, lit only by a pair of candles on either side of the sage pot.
Dorian was finally sleeping, the lines of pain gone from his brow and around his eyes. Cullen pulled a chair over to the window and sat, reading by the light of the late afternoon setting sun. Word had already been sent to Cassandra and Leliana, and Trevelyan had come by to check on Dorian just as the healer was leaving, giving Cullen a look and telling him to take the rest of the day, never mind that Dorian would likely sleep for several hours.
By the time Dorian did finally stir, the sun had long since set. He came awake with a groan that instantly woke Cullen, too, from his doze in the chair. Cullen stood, leaving the book behind, and leaned over the bed. “Dori?”
Another groan was his first answer, and then grey eyes opened slowly to blink at, and focus on, him. “Wh - ugh. Someone gave me elfroot.”
Cullen chuckled softly and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. “Yes, someone did. The healer assumed you would rather not have the headache that was bad enough to make you sick up.
Dorian made a face and turned a little, to rest against Cullen’s hip. “It tastes like nug shit.”
“Are you sure that isn’t just from revisiting your breakfast?”
Dorian made a sound of disagreement. “Nn. Not breakfast. Didn’t eat any.”
Cullen settled his hand at Dorian’s nape again, gently massaging the still-sore muscles there. “Woke up with it, hm?”
“It woke me,” Dorian corrected. “Before dawn. Miserable luck. Mmm, that feels truly divine, Amatus.”
Cullen maneuvered Dorian around so that he was resting more comfortably. “Settle, I’ll work on your shoulders,” he said. “And when you’re feeling better, we’ll have a talk about who’s the works-for-days-straight-with-no-sleep half of this relationship.”
Dorian turned to his stomach and slid his arms out to either side with a groan. “It was important,” he protested, and then groaned as Cullen’s strong fingers dug into his tense shoulder muscles. “I’ve done this sort of thing before with no - oh. Sst, ahh, that’s…”
Cullen hissed softly and gentled his touch, working on a stubborn knot. “…tender, yeah, sorry, love. You’re still recovering,” he pointed out - half of Skyhold had been miserable with a late-winter cold for the past month. “And you were already exhausted when you started. I’m supposed to be the one with delusions of invulnerability, you know.”
Dorian huffed a soft laugh, and fell silent - a rarity - save for his soft groans or occasional yips when Cullen found a particularly sore spot. He was hungry, but the desire to not move won out over the desire to eat something, and as his back and shoulders unknotted and relaxed, he drifted back to sleep.
Cullen kept at it until his fingers started to cramp, but by then the job was pretty well done, anyway. He built the fire up and snuffed the candles, made sure his nearly-empty dinner tray was covered, and then undressed and slipped into the bed to curl on his side behind his sleeping mage. Dorian turned to spoon back against him without waking, and sighed as he resettled in Cullen’s arms.
“Rest easy, my heart,” Cullen murmured against Dorian’s hair with a small smile. It wasn’t often that he had the opportunity to take care of him - much more often, Dorian was nursing him through lyrium-withdrawal fevers or headaches or nausea. Before Dorian, had he been asked, he probably would have thought it a chore, but now he knew that it wasn’t. Closing his eyes, he let himself relax, sleep pulling him down into a thankfully dreamless slumber.