(( 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. ]
[ His personal feelings about Samson and his choices notwithstanding, the Inquisitor had seen to making the man’s continued well-being, such as it can be, Cullen’s responsibility, and while it isn’t his fault that they’re trapped in here, there’s still a healthy dose of guilt over it preying on his mind. It’s going to be a failure if they die down here. His failure. And considering what happened to Samson back in Kirkwall, he thinks he’s failed him enough to last a lifetime. But it’s not just the guilt. Might be easier to handle if it were.
There’s a strange, contradictory cocktail of emotions churning in Cullen's gut. Irrational fear, certainly, and anxiety, even though he knows this isn't Kinloch and there's still air in the small space. He can feel it with every shaky, irregular breath he takes, though there's the very real concern that he might be using up what little supply they have with his reaction to the oppressive sense of panic that's currently trying to strangle him. But there's a bizarre sense of relief too, that it's Samson here to witness the weakness and not anyone else. Even if it burns at him to have it in the first place, Samson knows this, has had to listen to him fight and scream his way through one nightmare-ridden night after another. And confusion too, mixed with gratitude, that he's not mocking him for it. ]
I'm trying. [ It comes out a little breathless, a faint bit forced through clenched teeth as Cullen tries to get himself under control. He turns his head, feels his nose bump warm skin and doesn’t flinch away from it. ] Though I wonder if we shouldn’t be wasting it.
[ The weight of him pressed against him like this probably ought to be stifling, making it worse, but it's not. Samson's familiar, an anchor against the old horrors he cannot seem to banish from his mind. Cullen wonders, in a distant, distracted way, if the grip he's got on his hand is hurting him, though he doesn't let go. Isn't entirely certain he could pry his fingers open if he wanted to. His other hand fists in the cloth covering Samson's shoulder, hanging onto him, keeping him there. ]
Can—Is it... [ ...just me who can't breathe or are you struggling too? He can't get the words out of his throat, doesn't want to make it that real. Something safer, then. Debatably. ] Are you all right?
[ Is Samson's somewhat philosophical view of the available air. Either they've got more coming in somewhere, or they won't have enough, and there's not much they can do either way. His dry tone seems to indicate he's not interested in arguing about taking shallower breaths, isn't panicked about it. He's faced down worse things. So has Cullen.
Probably it's easier for the man to look death in the eye if he's got a sword in his hand, though. He's not going to judge the man for his fears, not going to laugh at them, not when he knows exactly where they came from. ]
I'm all right.
[ Echoing it back low, a little dismissive, more of his own wellbeing than Cullen inquiring about it. He pulls in a slow breath like an example, hisses it out between his teeth. ]
Besides the obvious. No man likes being trapped. It'd be worse if I was by meself.
[ Alone in the dark. Keeping Cullen calm is a welcome distraction, as is the knowledge that they're far more likely to come looking for him than if it were just Samson alone. ]
[ It would be infinitely easier to face death in battle. Cullen’s long since made peace with the likelihood of that being how it finds him. It makes sense, gives it meaning where otherwise it might not have any. Certainly there is none to be found here in the dark, suffocated and forgotten.
He hears that breath and though he doesn’t say as much, he’s grateful for the sound of it. As long as one of them continues to breathe without difficulty, he knows that it’s all in his head. It doesn’t necessarily make the panic go away, but knowing it’s without cause gives him leave to ignore the worst of it. Or try to, anyway. He isn’t entirely successful.
The conversation is a welcome distraction, one that perhaps he should not encourage, given the potentially limited quantity of their air supply. But it gives Cullen something else to concentrate on. Possibly, it does the same for Samson. ]
Worse than being trapped with me? [ He tries to make it a joke, but his sense of humor’s a little too strained and the lightness he wants to inject into his voice just isn’t there. ] There are other places I would rather be with you right now, if I’m being honest, but I would not want you to be in here alone either.
[ He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then slowly lets it out. It doesn’t quite calm his racing heart, but it doesn’t hurt, either. This time, when he tries for levity, he’s a little closer to the mark. ]
Let’s try not to make a habit of this in the future though.
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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. ]
no subject
There’s a strange, contradictory cocktail of emotions churning in Cullen's gut. Irrational fear, certainly, and anxiety, even though he knows this isn't Kinloch and there's still air in the small space. He can feel it with every shaky, irregular breath he takes, though there's the very real concern that he might be using up what little supply they have with his reaction to the oppressive sense of panic that's currently trying to strangle him. But there's a bizarre sense of relief too, that it's Samson here to witness the weakness and not anyone else. Even if it burns at him to have it in the first place, Samson knows this, has had to listen to him fight and scream his way through one nightmare-ridden night after another. And confusion too, mixed with gratitude, that he's not mocking him for it. ]
I'm trying. [ It comes out a little breathless, a faint bit forced through clenched teeth as Cullen tries to get himself under control. He turns his head, feels his nose bump warm skin and doesn’t flinch away from it. ] Though I wonder if we shouldn’t be wasting it.
[ The weight of him pressed against him like this probably ought to be stifling, making it worse, but it's not. Samson's familiar, an anchor against the old horrors he cannot seem to banish from his mind. Cullen wonders, in a distant, distracted way, if the grip he's got on his hand is hurting him, though he doesn't let go. Isn't entirely certain he could pry his fingers open if he wanted to. His other hand fists in the cloth covering Samson's shoulder, hanging onto him, keeping him there. ]
Can—Is it... [ ...just me who can't breathe or are you struggling too? He can't get the words out of his throat, doesn't want to make it that real. Something safer, then. Debatably. ] Are you all right?
no subject
[ Is Samson's somewhat philosophical view of the available air. Either they've got more coming in somewhere, or they won't have enough, and there's not much they can do either way. His dry tone seems to indicate he's not interested in arguing about taking shallower breaths, isn't panicked about it. He's faced down worse things. So has Cullen.
Probably it's easier for the man to look death in the eye if he's got a sword in his hand, though. He's not going to judge the man for his fears, not going to laugh at them, not when he knows exactly where they came from. ]
I'm all right.
[ Echoing it back low, a little dismissive, more of his own wellbeing than Cullen inquiring about it. He pulls in a slow breath like an example, hisses it out between his teeth. ]
Besides the obvious. No man likes being trapped. It'd be worse if I was by meself.
[ Alone in the dark. Keeping Cullen calm is a welcome distraction, as is the knowledge that they're far more likely to come looking for him than if it were just Samson alone. ]
no subject
He hears that breath and though he doesn’t say as much, he’s grateful for the sound of it. As long as one of them continues to breathe without difficulty, he knows that it’s all in his head. It doesn’t necessarily make the panic go away, but knowing it’s without cause gives him leave to ignore the worst of it. Or try to, anyway. He isn’t entirely successful.
The conversation is a welcome distraction, one that perhaps he should not encourage, given the potentially limited quantity of their air supply. But it gives Cullen something else to concentrate on. Possibly, it does the same for Samson. ]
Worse than being trapped with me? [ He tries to make it a joke, but his sense of humor’s a little too strained and the lightness he wants to inject into his voice just isn’t there. ] There are other places I would rather be with you right now, if I’m being honest, but I would not want you to be in here alone either.
[ He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then slowly lets it out. It doesn’t quite calm his racing heart, but it doesn’t hurt, either. This time, when he tries for levity, he’s a little closer to the mark. ]
Let’s try not to make a habit of this in the future though.