(( feel free to ignore me if you're not into this ship or pm me for an edit. ))
[ Stockholm isn't a city in Thedas, and psychology isn't exactly a known science, so Samson doesn't have a name for the process he's undergone during his days as a captive of the Inquisition. At first the elf's so-called mercy made him want to spit, but now, after weeks with his own shit rooms and all, he's started to appreciate getting to keep his life. The main reason for the change is Rutherford.
It's not that they're friends, and honestly he's not sure if he'd say they ever were. Rutherford sees the possibility of his own future in Samson, and Samson knows it. But the reverse is true too. Rutherford's life with the Inquisition is like a third path, one Samson had never even thought was open to him, not even when he was begging for skag in the lowest parts of Lowtown and wishing for a better life. He finds he wants Cullen to succeed in overcoming the way life drags at him, at them all.
Plus, he's started to think that Rutherford is the only one who understands him. He might have no sympathy for the way desperate need stacks Samson each day he goes without the red, no tolerance for his tantrums or crazed clawing at his own face, but he was charged with a responsibility and when he carries it out it's obvious he knows exactly what Samson is going through.
So that's probably a little how they got here, pressed close in the dark. ]
Keep breathing. Nice and easy, Commander, that's the way.
[ It's just a gruff croak, his skeletal hand locked so tight with Cullen's that the knuckles have blanched. Doesn't seem like much, but it stopped the screaming. They'd been yelling for a while, and no one came to let them out, so it's better to save their breath. Quite literally: he doesn't think the door is so sealed that they have limited air, but he doesn't know for sure. If whoever through them in here forgets to mention it, well. This oppressively small space already has them knocking up against each other, there's not much room for oxygen.
Samson presses closer, weight bodily over Cullen like an anchor. They shared a room once: he knows the sort of nightmares that live behind those cool blue eyes. ]
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[ Stockholm isn't a city in Thedas, and psychology isn't exactly a known science, so Samson doesn't have a name for the process he's undergone during his days as a captive of the Inquisition. At first the elf's so-called mercy made him want to spit, but now, after weeks with his own shit rooms and all, he's started to appreciate getting to keep his life. The main reason for the change is Rutherford.
It's not that they're friends, and honestly he's not sure if he'd say they ever were. Rutherford sees the possibility of his own future in Samson, and Samson knows it. But the reverse is true too. Rutherford's life with the Inquisition is like a third path, one Samson had never even thought was open to him, not even when he was begging for skag in the lowest parts of Lowtown and wishing for a better life. He finds he wants Cullen to succeed in overcoming the way life drags at him, at them all.
Plus, he's started to think that Rutherford is the only one who understands him. He might have no sympathy for the way desperate need stacks Samson each day he goes without the red, no tolerance for his tantrums or crazed clawing at his own face, but he was charged with a responsibility and when he carries it out it's obvious he knows exactly what Samson is going through.
So that's probably a little how they got here, pressed close in the dark. ]
Keep breathing. Nice and easy, Commander, that's the way.
[ It's just a gruff croak, his skeletal hand locked so tight with Cullen's that the knuckles have blanched. Doesn't seem like much, but it stopped the screaming. They'd been yelling for a while, and no one came to let them out, so it's better to save their breath. Quite literally: he doesn't think the door is so sealed that they have limited air, but he doesn't know for sure. If whoever through them in here forgets to mention it, well. This oppressively small space already has them knocking up against each other, there's not much room for oxygen.
Samson presses closer, weight bodily over Cullen like an anchor. They shared a room once: he knows the sort of nightmares that live behind those cool blue eyes. ]