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She's awake and for a moment that seems exactly the way things should be. Evie survived Haven. She's awake and she's here, her presence as mundane and necessary as the air he breathes. It takes Cullen a moment to remember that she should be sleeping and staying warm and absolutely not struggling to stand from her cot as she is now
“Lady He - ah, Evie,” Cullen rushes to intercept her. He stands in front of her with his arms out uncertainly at his sides. Evie tries walking into him instead of around, pushing against him weakly.
“Move,” she mumbles. Leans further into his chest as if determined to pass through him.
Cullen takes hold of her arms, barely indenting the fabric of her shirt. He feels warmth when he touches her, thank the Maker. All of her was icy cold when she collapsed to her knees at the edge of their camp. When Cullen hauled her out of the snow and into his arms, rushing her towards fire and food and blankets. When she went limp against him. Her body so small and so cold. Human after all.
Now Evie struggles, or seems like she wants to struggle but can't quite manage. Mostly she groans unhappily and tries to twist away before giving up and slumping against his chest. She slides lower until Cullen has to wrap his arms around her to keep her from falling. He feels the weight of her through all of his leather and armor but he only feels her warmth in the spaces that are exposed. It's been a long time since his Templar training but he thinks he remembers something like that about surviving the cold. Fewer layers. Skin to skin. Heat crawls up the back of his neck and stains his ears.
“I have to go,” Evie mumbles. The tip of her nose is icy against his neck and the warmth of her words wash over his collar.
“You shouldn’t be up just yet,” Cullen replies. “You’re not well.”
She groans again, worn, sad, and lifts her arms around his back to cling to his furs.
“I'm tired,” she says and her voice cracks.
He tightens his arms around her back, tangled even further, and her body curves against his. Coming together like she wants to be closer. Perhaps the only time she ever will. Cullen buries his head against her shoulder and thinks not just of heat but spring. Evie’s face tipped up to the sun. Kneeling in sweet smelling grass instead of snow.
He isn’t sure if it’s bravery or cowardice to let her go but he does. She is strangely compliant as he eases her back down to sit, unthinking, just moving where he places her. He kneels to bring them nearly eye to eye.
“Lay back down,” he says. “You'll feel better.”
She reaches across her body to scratch her shoulder, a loose, absent gesture. His request has no effect on her. She just keeps frowning at him, pouting, like she isn't quite sure where she knows him from.
“Evie -” Cullen starts before she reaches for him. Her hands are cold, or his skin is hot, but there's some mismatch in their temperatures that comes as a sharp shock when she holds his face, warmth surging upwards beneath her touch. Now Cullen is the one doing whatever she asks, following blindly, as she leans in closer and tilts his face up towards hers. She’s practically glowing from the nearby fire, all soft orange and gold, but Cullen still remembers the chill of her skin. Her eyes seem to actually be looking at him now. Alert. He leans into her palm and feels her pressing back, holding him up. Lets her look at him, see him. Her hands against his face. Skin to skin. Slowly, Cullen gathers her hands in his, grazes his lips over them.
“You should get some more rest.”
“You make me crazy,” Evie says.
“I know,” he answers. “I'm sorry.”
Cullen guides her back down to the cot and her eyes are already closed before her head touches the pillow, slipped away again somewhere far from here. He stands there for too long watching her sleep. The rise and fall of her breathing. Still here. Is he acting as she needs him to? Or as his maker has asked of him? Cullen isn't sure. Both of their desires seem completely beyond his grasp. This all feels like a test, like the Maker saved her life just to see what he would do with a second chance.
Cullen feels that all seeing gaze on him when he presses two fingers below her jaw to feel her pulse still beating steadily.
-
The light is dim when Evie opens her eyes. She has no idea where she is or the hour. Only knows it's good that she woke up, like maybe that wasn't guaranteed. Her throat hurts when she tries to swallow.
Turning her head, she sees Mother Giselle across from her, a small prayer book open in her hands. In Evie’s room then? No - the memories filter in slowly. That room is gone. All of Haven is gone. Buried. The seemingly endless snow must have ended here then but Evie can't remember. Just destruction, falling, and the cold.
Stringing her thoughts together is so difficult it's almost painful. Pressure against her eyes. Something feels trapped inside of her, inaccessible, but she is able to recognise the failure there. The loss. The knowledge that all of this was inevitable with her at the helm.
The blankets over her are heavy and warm. Freshly washed. Dazed, Evie draws the fabric closer around herself. Stills when she recognizes the scent clinging to them. She blinks her eyes open wider and sees the furs Cullen always wears are draped over top her blanket, the collar tucked in warmly around her neck and shoulders. She slides her hand up to touch the fur and it's soft between her fingers. Always wondered if it would be.
There seems to be no barrier between her feelings and the world, everything broken down by the loss and the frigid cold, and tears well up in her eyes when she thinks about him being here. Did he give this up willingly or was he coerced? Was he the one to lay the cloak over her? Making sure the warmest parts touched her skin? She feels then a childish, almost desperate need to see him. To turn her face into his chest and say she's tired and her head hurts and she wants to go home even though she's not sure where that would be. And for him to smooth his hand over her hair and say he knows and it's alright and he's there. Even alone in her own head it's hard to wonder about more but she thinks talking would be enough. Just hearing his voice and watching that nervous way he rubs the back of his neck.
But he won't want to just idly talk. He'll want to assess the situation, make plans, give advice. Order, decisiveness. The gentle way she thinks about him touching her and the relief she imagines just for the two of them is utterly at odds with their places in the Inquisition. He is meant to be near her, not beside her.
The thought floats away, soft snow drifting through the air. She pulls the warmth tighter around her and closes her eyes again.