OKAY it is twigcollins’ birthday, and NOT ONLY did she have to work overtime because of snow shenanigans early in the week, it meant our dinner plans were disrupted and postponed. SO. If you can’t write sweet fic for your friend on her birthday, WHEN CAN YOU? (Happy birthday, lovely! <3)
(This is AUish, in that I don’t know exactly how things will play out right now, but it’s still the same Rose Trevelyan/Cullen I’ve been writing about. Just… later. In a way that may or may not end up canonically happening. /bases covered)
Cullen blinked blearily awake knowing he’d in no way slept enough, and had no idea where he was or how he’d come to be there. The bed felt wrong, the air cold as if no fire had been lit, and—ahh. The room above his office. It came back to him then. He’d worked late—too late, if he was honest—and had chosen to collapse in the old loft room because navigating a single ladder had seemed infinitely less fraught than making his way across the entirety of Skyhold only to sleep in a too-large, too-soft bed regretfully devoid of the wife who made it bearable. Not that he ever slept particularly well when duty called her away from him. At least he hadn’t actually fallen asleep at his desk. Again.
Still, he regretted his choice of sleeping arrangements as he rose. His knees popped alarmingly, his neck gave an uncomfortable twinge, and he was all too aware how completely he’d adapted to the softer mattress Rose insisted on. He was mid-stretch when the sound of laughter from below made him pause. His back, stiff from too much time spent hunched at his desk and not enough time in the sparring ring, protested the sudden jolt. Forgoing his usual armor—at least he hadn’t slept in it! Rose would be proud—he wrapped his mantle close to ward off the worst of the chill and descended the ladder into chaos.
Frankly, he had no idea how he’d managed to sleep through so much of it. Every book his five-year-old daughter Olivia could reach was on the floor, set up in strange patterns he could make no sense of. Meanwhile, Cassie, the two-year-old, had somehow climbed onto the desk (for a lass of her diminutive stature, she was alarmingly good at scaling objects that ought to have been insurmountable), pushed almost everything off, and was gleefully tearing paper into pieces to make herself laugh. Evidently nothing in all Thedas was funnier than the sound of things tearing. He flinched. She’d made her way through a great deal of it. And he didn’t remember taking the time to put away all the important documents he’d been poring over the day before. His supposedly-faithful mabari watched it all placidly, and when he glowered at her, she merely shook her great head and gave her neck a lazy scratch.
Cassie noticed him at once, letting out a delighted shriek. “Da! Da! Da!” She punctuated each syllable by pounding a paperweight against his much-abused desk. “Hi! Hi!”