Dragon Age One Shots

Man-Flu take 2, Cullen/Inquisitor

Cullen's hand plummeted to his desk, fingers flexing deep as he struggled to keep himself upright. It would have been a forgettable moment in his day if not for the woman he was in conference with. The Inquisitor caught his move instantly. She was quick to notice details, a fact that kept her safe on the battlefield and a source of contention for this meeting.

"Commander..." she began, pointing towards his fist.

"It's no matter." He tried to shake it off, his throat catching with an itch that began when he woke. This thin mountain air was wreaking havoc on him.

She put down her pile of work, her legs crossed tight from the chair she borrowed, and glared at him. "Is it the..." her lips frowned and she shook off whatever word came next. "Are you suffering a headache?"

Wonderful. Any slight dip from him would be attributed to the lyrium. Shaking his head, which was incredibly foolish as it caused the walls to swim, Cullen insisted, "No. Simply a minor ache, probably due to the cold weather."

"Are you certain?" She wouldn't give up worrying about him. Then again, he did place all his problems in her lap. Bobbing his head, he glanced at the heap of work ahead of them. But the Inquisitor wouldn't give up for anything. "Do you need to sit down? Take a rest?"

"Of course not," he thundered, releasing his steadying grip and rising to his full height. Ignoring the winnowing blackness circling his vision, Cullen insisted, "We have much to do."

Those piercing eyes wouldn't break from him, but she did shift out the next parchment in a long list of work. "You're right, first up we need to discuss the bar tab for the Chargers. While Josephine agreed to let them..."

Her normally dulcet tones pitched higher until all he could make out was a piercing whine. Cullen tried to shake his head to clear his ears, but that brought the blackness crashing down around him. He managed to make it one step, when his body gave out under him. As he collapsed to the stones, he watched the rotted ceiling slip by as his back shattered to the ground. Cullen struggled to roll up, but everything faded away.

Pain woke him, the throbbing kind nestled at the back of his head. He didn't spring from the floor where he landed, knowing well to take stock of his injuries. He did not want to startle anyone either. Nor was it wise to...

Far too much light seeped in across his reclining form; his small window never allowed this amount in. And the stone floors were squishier than he remembered. Even with his eyes closed, he pushed his flat hands against what had to be a mattress. Did someone carry him to his bed or...?

This time he bolted upright, or tried to. White swarmed his vision, and a small hand pressed to his chest. "Hold up there," a voice ordered him and he winced.

As the blinding light faded, he turned to find the Inquisitor sitting beside the bed. Not just any bed. The canopy holding crimson draperies. The stain-glassed windows offering up all the light of the sun-speckled mountaintop. This was her bed. "Where...what?" Cullen tried to leap out of the bed, but his legs were limp and...

Sweet Maker! Where were his trousers?

"You, bullhead that you are, fainted," she kept explaining even while attempting to tug him back to bed. The exhaustion and pain wracking his body demanded he obey, but his body drew rigid. He was stripped to little more than his drawers while nestled under her sheets. What in Andraste's name was going on?

"Why am I...? Where's my armor?" Cullen babbled, his throat aching as if claws ripped down it. He winced with each word, which she read correctly.

Pouring a cup of hot tea out of the kettle, she passed it to him while explaining, "You're ill, which you apparently were too busy to even notice. The healers came running when I called for help. They pulled you out of your armor. Thought you'd be more comfortable without it."

Maker's sake. His hand shook at the thought of her having to touch... No. Don't be foolish. Cullen placed the mug to his lips and took a sip. While the heat opened up his clogged throat, he grimaced at the acrid taste of burnt wood.

"Medicine," she explained before he could ask. "Which you need because you are sick. Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's simply a cold," he insisted. "Not worth fretting over." It'd been carrying on and off over a week, rarely bothering him if he portioned his energy out.

Her cool palm wafted over his forehead, Cullen's eyes closing as he bathed in the balm wicking away the heat. But she was only checking him for a fever, of course. "You passed out. Could have bashed your head in. That's far from a simple cold."

"Why am I not in my bed?" he gulped, placing the tea on the tray beside a few other tinctures and poultices. Maker, how could he let himself become this ill? And to succumb in front of the Inquisitor!

She snorted, "No way anyone was going to be able to carry you up that rickety ladder while you were unconscious."

"You could have left me in my office," Cullen explained, wishing he didn't have so much of his skin touching where hers would. A fantastical thought bubbled through his mind, wondering for the briefest of flickers if she slept in the nude. It was gone as quickly as it birthed into being, but he knew he was flushing from the guilt by the concern in her eyes.

"What? Lying on the desk?" she scoffed at such a thought, then frowned, "Do not tell me you spend nights sleeping at your desk?"

Cullen couldn't look away fast enough to hide the truth, which only made her groan. "We really need to discuss your unhealthy fixation with duty."

"It's not unhealthy...!" he began, but as she drew her hand to encompass his wracked body tucked in her bed, Cullen fell to silence.

She dipped a rag into a basin, swirling it around until it was saturated. While placing it to his forehead, she said, "You need to know when enough is enough. To step back before you injure yourself worse than a goose egg to the skull."

As the water seeped into his skin, battling the fever away, Cullen sighed in ecstasy. He reached up to press it tighter, but his fingers snagged hers instead. It was a wholesome accident, with no lecherous intent meant. Even if he'd never held her hand before. She didn't yank hers away and he didn't either.

"Corypheus..." Cullen tried to argue, but she was prepared for that.

"Is our priority, but defeating him means nothing if you work yourself to the point of death." She plucked the rag free and pulled it into the basin for another round. Staring forlornly into the ceramic pot, she whispered, "We need you."

Cullen's gut churned at the bare truth rolling in her words. He pushed himself because there didn't seem to be much use for him beyond his service. Beyond what he could give to the cause, to the Inquisitor, to her. More to her than he dare ever voice.

Her palm soothed over his forehead, trying to dab away the blush that his soul burned there. Once again, Cullen caught her hand, this time enveloping his fingers through hers. He couldn't promise that he'd step away, that he'd stop hurling himself into work. But, it touched his heart to know someone wanted him around.

"Can I ask you something?" he began, watching her nod. "Out of every option available across this fortress, especially the infirmary, why am I in your bed?"

She drew her lip in between her teeth and bit down. With a shrug, her cheeks blossoming like roses, she answered, "You haven't figured it out yet?"

A snicker drew along Cullen's lips as he sighed, "I am notoriously bullheaded."