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Paperwork. There was always more paperwork. Cullen itched to be in the training ring, just now. Or perhaps in the war room working out strategy. Or even in a meeting. But he was stuck behind the veritable mountain of reports from the Hinterlands, from the Mire, from the Wastes--
Wait, where were the reports from the Wastes? Maker's breath, he hadn't stuck them in with the surveys of the Oasis, had he? He sat on his heels, digging through the pile on the floor.
Hooves on stone brought his gaze to the window out of habit. There weren't so many pilgrims as there had once been. He could, and did, keep an eye on the traffic in and out of Skyhold. Anyone crossing the approach was likely to be his business. And likely to be bringing another stack of reports, come to it.
It was a small party--four, with a staff and a bow and a shield picking out a mage, an archer, a warrior. But it was the fourth, the one at the front with the wickedly curved daggers on her back, who held his attention. She rode easily, back straight though the slump of her shoulders betrayed her weariness. The green and black of her prowler's coat had been half-obscured with spattered mud and road dust. As he watched, a mountain breeze ruffled her short auburn hair. She turned her face to it, visibly shaking off some small portion of her fatigue.
Cullen realized abruptly that he had left off from his search. He returned to it with better humor, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
He had just found the reports from the Wastes when a runner brought him the expected papers from the Inquisitor's newly-returned expedition. There was a smaller slip tucked in with them, an unsigned note written in Aryana's hand.
Home safe. Exhausted. I'm going to have a bath and a proper sleep. Find me when you're ready for my debrief. I'll be in my room.
He looked at the reports he'd been reviewing, but they stubbornly refused to disappear. With a sigh he picked up the next. At least he could look forward to the end of the day.
It was hours before Cullen had cleared his desk enough to leave it. The sky was a brilliant orange, fading to pink just beyond distant peaks, and the first bold stars were beginning to appear. He glanced up automatically as he crossed the bridge that led to the inner tower. Only a dim flicker of firelight showed through the colored glass of the windows. A warm room was her second favorite thing about returning from the field, she'd told him once.
He found her still asleep. No wonder, given the account she'd written of events in the Emprise. The information about Samson had not come easily. And yet, somehow, none of it showed when she slept. She looked perfectly relaxed, blissfully unaware of the war in which she had become a major player.
A few of the worry-lines on her brow faded into view, and he knew that he'd woken her. Plate and leather were not quiet to move about in, and he knew from experience that she would still be sleeping lightly. It was a habit one got into.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to-- That is, I'll come back later. You should get some rest."
Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him blearily.
"Cullen?" she mumbled. "'S it morning?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "No. It's only just evening."
She made a sleepy sound of acknowledgment. Her eyes drifted shut again, but before he could go, she murmured, "...Stay?"
He hesitated.
"Mmmmplease?" she added.
He bent and kissed her forehead lightly. "Of course."
Getting out of his armor quietly was no easier than moving around in it quietly--but he did his best. Shirt and trousers followed, and then he was able to slip under the warm blanket with her. She curled around him, still murmuring soft phrases that he couldn't quite make out. He pressed his lips to hers, briefly, and she quieted. They drifted off to sleep together, comfortable and content in the still night.