Archive of Our Own ^beta

It happened so rarely that she was awake before him. Dawn light streamed in and the deep green leaves on the tree growing over the hole in his roof dappled her skin, the bedspread, the room with soft shadows and twinkles of brightness. She could hear birdsong, and wind rustling, and the distant crack of ice as the sunlight found the frozen skin of the lake in the valley. But otherwise, Skyhold was silent; a patient thing in between the stillness of night and the bustle of day, full of potential but happy to wait.

Cullen shifted toward her onto his side, still asleep. His head moved onto her pillow and he tucked his chin in the little space between her pointed ear and shoulder; hiding from the light, maybe. His breath was slow, deep, and even. She could feel the long, warm puffs over her neck and the slight tickle of his nose skirting the shell of her ear as his hand slid across her waist, searching for hers. She lifted her arm, intercepting him at her belly, interlacing their fingers, and moving their entwined hands to rest in a comfortable spot over her heart.

She smiled as she felt the brush of his thumb over her breastbone, a self-soothing habit of his that cropped up most frequently when they were asleep in his bed. He always seemed to cuddle closer here, and at first she chalked it up to his being the smaller bed. Until the first time the nightmares came while she laid next to him. That night, she had woken to his murmured refrain in her ear—

leave me, leave me

and he’d pulled her close, squeezing her to his chest gently— and sometimes less than gently, though never painfully— and releasing his hold with a heavy sigh.

When they were lucky, a squeeze or two and a few minutes of his thumb brushing her breastbone or the dip between her collarbones was enough to resettle him. She hoped her presence lessened the intensity of his nightmares when they came. It seemed like it did. Cullen had told her of times others had tried to help him, to wake him from his terrors, and he had reacted violently without being fully aware of what he was doing. He had been very nervous about sharing a bed with her and had made her promise to get away if he started thrashing in his sleep.

Here and now, though, there were no nightmares. No demons, remembered or figurative, to haunt him in his sleep. There was just the deep, even breathing; the slow rise and fall of his chest; and the gentle brush of his fingers on her skin.

His hands were a revelation.

She studied his hand on her chest through her fingers, watched the way it stilled as Cullen fell deeper into sleep and restarted the moment his awareness rose back up again. She had expected human hands to feel coarse and rough the first time he touched her, particularly as his were the hands of a soldier. Who would have guessed that fingers that spent so much time grasping a sword pommel could be so gentle and dextrous?

But they were also hands that spent many hours with ink and quill, and calming spooked horses, reading histories. Drawing tactical lines on maps. Playing chess.

Just the memory of his curled finger tilting her chin up to gaze into her eyes made her weak in the knees. She hoped it never changed.

Cullen shifted again; she felt the brush of his eyelashes on her cheek and the lengthening of his body as he stretched and yawned in truly leonine fashion. Lavellan turned her head to take in the view, admiring his mussed waves, his gold-flecked amber eyes, the way his crooked smile made his scarred lip stand out. He leaned in close, curling his finger under her chin and pushing it up before pressing his lips to hers in a relaxed, unhurried kiss. She opened her mouth to him and shivered in delight as his tongue skimmed over her teeth, searching, dancing with hers.

After a moment that seemed to stretch for ages, he broke away; his breath coming a little faster than before. He rested his head next to her ear on the pillow.

“Good morning, sweetling,” he whispered.

And it was. Creators, it was!