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Varric is sitting in his office (small as it is, at least he has one. The English department takes care of its own) grading papers when he hears the sound of a very distinctive clearing of the throat. He looks up and is not surprised when he sees Cassandra standing in front of him.
She’s frowning, which isn’t a surprise either, but it’s the self-consciousness so clear in her posture that’s out of place. Cassandra is a lot of things—single-minded and deliberate in all her actions for one thing—but she is not self-conscious. She also takes no decision lightly, so whatever has brought her to Varric’s office, regardless of how she’s feeling about it, is clearly something she’s resolved to do.
Varric, for his part, is always happy to see Cassandra. He loves a lot of things about her; how easy it is to rile her up, how pleasantly shocked they always are when they find themselves in agreement, the fact that she secretly adores his novels—but he’s not stupid enough to think it would ever go farther between them. Once Cassandra knows she wants something, she goes for it, and Varric would know if she wanted him. He grins and pushes the essays aside; he’s just read a particularly disappointing one by a student he knows can do better, and he also knows he’ll end up writing an email to her that will most likely go ignored.
“How can I help you, Cass?”
Cassandra bristles at the diminutive. “I…require your assistance.”
Varric grins even wider. “What could I possibly help you with?”
“Tch,” she clicks her tongue distastefully, one of her most common responses to Varric’s—well, pretty much anything Varric has to say, ever. “You know that I’m fond of your novels—“
Varric interrupts her, feigning shock. “What? I’d never have guessed, not with the way you keep them hidden and refuse to acknowledge you’ve read ever them.”
Cassandra sighs, annoyed. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
“No, no, I’m sorry!” Varric laughs, half getting out of his chair to stop her. “I’ll be good, I promise. What’s up?”
“First of all, if you speak of this to anyone, Varric, our friendship will be over.”
Varric doesn’t doubt that. “Cross my heart, Cass.”
Cassandra shifts and Varric realizes she’s carrying a folder in her hands.
“These are poems.” She says, dropping the folder on the desk in front of him. “That I wrote.”
Varric doesn’t say anything for fear of spooking her.
“It’s not a secret that I’m rather a romantic when it comes to literature. And that extends to poetry. And writing it. And I wondered if you wouldn’t mind…looking them over for me. With an editing hand.” She finishes, looking away.
Varric feels something go a little funny in his chest. He takes the folder and opens it, skimming the first one. He mouths along as he reads, but Cassandra interrupts him.
“God, please, wait until I’ve left.” She says, turning to leave.
“Wait,” Varric says. “I can’t speak for all of it, but this first one anyway, well, it looks good.”
Varric thinks he sees the ghost of a smile on her face.
“I trust you, Varric.” She says, and Varric nods, understanding what it means to hear that from her. “And don’t you dare be kind.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Cassandra is almost out the door before Varric speaks again.
“Cass?” He says, and she turns around, and her face looks a little vulnerable. “Drinks later?”
She nods sharply. “I’ll see you at the usual place.”
She leaves then, and Varric rubs a hand over his chin, smiling. Just when he thinks he might have Cassandra Pentaghast figured out, quirks and all, she always manages to surprise him. That woman will be the death of him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.