#the subtitle for these two is just 'relearning how to be functioning people again' i think

[vultures-and-scavengers]

start.

curly, if any man needed a hobby, it's you.

he's not sulking: the commander of the inquisition doesn't pout.

but he has hobbies! he does! he spars every morning with his officers (wait, that counts, right? he enjoys it), he reads (books on tactics, but it's just lucky he finds the reading he does for his job interesting.), and he... he...

cullen has hobbies, he swears. he just can't... name one.

five minutes later, cullen thinks of one. chess! he likes chess. it's unfortunate annette-- lady trevelyan, he reminds himself-- likes to take dorian with her so much, and leliana is busy, so he can't play as much as he likes.

and sure, ann-- lady trevelyan-- has been in skyhold the past few weeks, and so has dorian, and he still hasn't played recently, but they just got back from adamant.

really, cullen doesn't have leisure time. if he had time, he's sure he'd know some way to fill it. cullen stares at the paperwork on his desk, pondering, telling himself an idea will come to him, any day now.

alright, he's got nothing.

he broods over that enough that he startles when lady trevelyan sweeps into his office, a small stack of papers in her hands. she looks unbothered, moving with a practiced grace as her skirts flow around her. she tilts her head slightly, asking if everything is alright.

oh, sure, he's fine, cullen's just contemplating the monotony of his existence. it's what everyone loves to do. he intends to tell her he's fine, really, but what he says instead is, "am i boring?"

right. he's going to resign and go live alone in the woods, now.

she doesn't react at first, her eyes unblinkingly focused on him, and then her lips purse. "what brought this on?"

that's not a no, he observes.

"ah," she answers for herself while he flails for an answer that doesn't make it look like he's obsessing over something varric said a week ago. he doesn't need to tell her that. she figures it out for herself. "is this about varric's comment?"

he chose the three most perceptive women in thedas to work with. cullen would appreciate it more if they turned that perception on him less. he nods, though.

"i think," she says, and while she always picks her words with deliberation, she seems even more cautious than normal, "that you have been put in positions where you had little time or opportunity to develop hobbies, but it does not follow that you must then be boring."

well, he can't ask her how to find a hobby he likes, so he tries a slightly different tactic. "well, what do you like to do?"

she opens her mouth, closes it, and cullen is rewarded with the rarest of visions: a flummoxed lady trevelyan.

"oh," he says. and then he laughs, because what else is there? it's a tired, disbelieving sort of laugh, because here they are, inquisitor and commander, and they can't think of a single leisure activity between them.

what a pair they make.

she flushes, but she only pushes her shoulders back and stands a little straighter in a defensive sort of defiance. "well, what did you do before joining the templars?"

at first cullen thinks to remind her he was raised on a farm, and that the work started before dawn and lasted until dusk. but he dusts off an old memory and furrows his brow, wondering why he'd let it grow so faded. his uncle had been the town carpenter, and on days cullen had been able to slip away, he'd spent hours in his uncle's workshop.

"woodcarving," he finally answers. it's a start. she escapes the conversation before he can ask what she had once enjoyed, but that's fine. he's learned by now that she's allergic to being known, but if he opens a door and gives her space, eventually she'll walk through it.

blackwall is easily convinced to part with spare bits of wood, and because cullen is still ferelden, he attempts to carve a mabari first. its terrible, but its a start.

he tries to carve a bird next. birds are much simpler. his raven hops closer, sitting on his shoulder as he sits back, summoning childhood memories to guide his hands. its much better. he locates paint, and paints it black, with a splotch of white on its chest, and he sets it next to his raven's perch.

it makes his raven seem pleased, and his raven can't tell him he's terrible at painting. its an ideal location.

as he carves a second bird one evening, lady trevelyan appears, a steaming mug of cocoa in her hands, and thick furs wrapped around her shoulders. he reminds her its summer and receives a haughty glare in response.

but he spins his chair around and she settles herself onto the couch shoved against the wall behind his desk, and slowly, shyly, lady trevelyan tells him she's fascinated by herbalism, by the histories behind how different plants are used and how the uses have changed over time.

he asks if shes tried growing her own, but she shakes her head, and tells him in a voice she can't quite erase the wistfulness from that its not lady-like.

he swallows his first instinct, which he still thinks is a quite reasonable one, to tell her to hang the nobility and what they think. but lady trevelyan has bound herself to their rules in order to play their game, and she is only more visible now. he's had (and lost) that argument.

"and?" he finally asks.

lady trevelyan-- no, annette-- looks over at him, and she has no answer. her confused expression fades, replaced by blank neutrality, but she sips at her cocoa. the silence that follows is more contemplative than tense, and when she speaks, its only to ask if he'd be willing to share more about how he learned woodcarving.

cullen lets her change the subject, the door opened. he tells her of his uncle, of the woodshop nestled up on the hill behind the baker's store, and of learning how to use his uncle's tools. later he'll savor the memory of wrapping his hands around hers, showing lady trevelyan-- annette-- how to hold the whittling knife so she won't hurt herself, her side pressed to his as she listens to him talk.

and three weeks later, a rather terribly painted mourning dove carving sits in a planter with an over-watered and drooping embrium.

its a start.