Soon: another set of hands on Cullen's shoulder, unfastening one of his pauldrons. Alistair works his way down Cullen's arm, fingers trailing, cradling at every opportunity. He sets the unbuckled vambrace aside; peels off his glove as if peeling off a much more intimate layer of clothing.

Quiet, he thinks, and probably some measure of speed as well. Maker knows if they'll be interrupted by an emergency summons.

But surely they can linger over this part of it. Right?