“Hey..”

“Hey…”

“You got me so worried, love.”

Headcanon: comforts

Sometimes when the Inquisitor comes back to Skyhold after long days toiling in the Hinterlands or the Hissing Wastes, she goes first to Cullen instead of to the healer. He has no special healing skill, no templar training suited to her scratches and superficial wounds, and yet she comes to him first. After the first time she came back to his room still limping, he’s spent time in the healing tents, trying to learn how to care for basic wounds. He’s gentle with her, hands laid softly on her cheeks, her arms, her back, tenderly applying poultices or haphazard bandages. He’s a little clumsy with them, but for the small wounds she would rather his hands dress her than anyone else’s. What’s more, he places a kiss over every bruise and laceration. She swears they heal the faster for it, a proclamation that brings a bashful smile to his face. They both know it’s silly, but neither would change it at all.

Sometimes when Cullen is in his study, the craving for lyrium hits and his fingers curl around the edge of his desk, gripping it hard through his gloves. His head pounds and he feels faint, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He has to close his eyes and ride it out, but it makes him sick and dizzy, that weakness washing over him. When she finds him like this, she does not flinch from the way he grimaces. She simply sits down on the desk beside him and takes his hands into hers, letting him grip as hard as he needs to to withstand the waves of chills and nausea. She’s quiet, not urging him to talk, not giving him false assurances; they both know that this path is difficult, and they both know these spells will affect him again. But her wordless support means the world to him, and he knows that for her, for both of them, he can endure anything.

I find the idea of Hawke putting face paint on LI’s noses to be quite endearing. Especially if said LI is my favorite mage.