Chapter Text
It takes Cullen six months to talk to the librarian. Alright, technically it takes nine but Cullen likes to count from when he decided he would talk to her. It took him three months to get that far. When he finally does, it’s with shaky and sweaty palms and note cards that his daughter had helped him write ahead of time. He gives her a critical analysis on the latest Junie B. Jones book she’d read during story time ( Junie B. Jones is a Party Animal , if you’d like to know). She read it five weeks ago.
Unfortunately, Cullen can only actually read about half of the note cards since he overestimated six-year-old handwriting. He approaches her and nearly backs out the moment they make eye contact because her eyes are big and green and pretty and she has freckles that you can only pick out against her brown skin up close.
“I uh-” He envisions the twelve pack of Coke his daughter will let him have if he actually does this. “I wanted to talk to you about a book you read recently.” Her shoulders tense up as if she thinks Cullen is about to yell at her so he decides to just plunge in. “The Junie B Jones one. I really enjoyed it, I thought it was a rather childish book. But, y’know. In a good way. It was a funny, foolish book to read that brings comedy to the reader.” He flips note cards, hands shaking.
Unfortunately, he thinks his face might be sweating so he can’t actually look at her and figure out how she feels about this. “My favorite part, and my daughter’s actually,” Was it bad form to bring up his daughter? “Was when Junie and her friends all jumped on the bed.” His voice cracks slightly and he prays that she doesn’t notice. “It was a really good moment of problem solving for all of them, I felt. Unfortunately, Rosie wanted to jump on the bed when we got home and it felt like a really bad idea but it was all fine.” Saying it out loud, now, he realizes he gave his child an old lady name. He vaguely wonders if it’s too late to change it.
“The book had a really good theme and message too.” He flips notecards. This one has six-year-old handwriting scrawled over it. He flips again. And again. Why did he think having Rosie help would work? “U-uh,” Cullen stuttered and took a deep breath. He’d just have to wing it. “The author really- uh. You have to make the best of something bad” Like letting your daughter write your conversation notecards. “You also don’t have to be rich to be happy.” He mentally pats himself on the back for that one. “It’s a great message not only for elementary students but adults. This book really transcends all ages. I’d recommend it to anyone, really. The writing is very accessible even for younger children if they have it read to them.”
Cullen sort of nods at the end of it as if reassuring himself then walks away. Rosie trails after him, asking if he’ll get her a slushy when he gets his coke.
Sometime after the conversation, he realizes that not only did he not introduce himself, he doesn’t know her first name. She’s just “the nice librarian that does story time” or “Miss Lavellan.” He also never asked her what she thought of the book. It was the final notecard and he hadn’t flipped to it. If the world worked in his favor, he wouldn’t have gone back the next week but his daughter refuses to go anywhere else.
When he gets there, there is no pretty, white haired librarian in sight. Instead, “Mustache desk guy” (as Cullen referred to him in his head) was seated in the storytime spot, a copy of the “Thomas & Friends Storytime Collection” in hand. Any normal person would assume that the pretty, white haired librarian was sick or had a day off. Cullen, unfortunately, is not that normal and instead assumes that he made the poor woman uncomfortable and she quit her job and probably moved out of the city.
It doesn’t help that “mustache desk guy” (who Cullen now knows as ‘Mr. Pavus, the most charming librarian in all of Thedas’), keeps giving him these knowing looks between trying to explain governmental systems to elementary-aged kids. “Thomas the Tank Engine is a totalitarian society.” He says it so insistently . Cullen vaguely wonders if he’s okay and how desperate the times must be if this is the guy running story time. Another bout of nausea passes through him.
Unaware to him, “Miss Lavellan,” better known as Mirae to those that bothered to ask, had a killer fever and hadn’t left her bed for a solid 12 hours. As she’d professed to “mustache desk guy,” “Mr. Pavus,” or just Dorian multiple times over text, she “had the plague” and was “definitely on her deathbed.” Dorian may have replied with patronizing emojis but within an hour his boyfriend, Bull, had shown up with homemade soup.
He handed it over with a smile and a wink, “Anything for my almost-girlfriend.” If her brain didn’t feel clogged to hell she would’ve asked what he meant. “Do you need blankets? Medicine? Kleenex? Dorian said I’m yours for the day.”
“...Can you heat up the soup for me? And then will you watch Portlandia with me?” Her voice couldn’t have sounded more pathetic and she nearly hacked up a lung right after. Bull scooped her up and placed her on the couch in a full nest of blankets then went off to feed the both of them. While he was out she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Bull at work in the tiny apartment’s kitchen.
[ to: Princess Mustache ]: thank you for lending me your boyfriend!
[ 1 attachment ]
[ from: Princess Mustache ]: Here I am, about to place myself in a crowd of biological
weapons and you text me pictures of my boyfriend making you soup. Chivalry is dead.
[ to: Princess Mustache ]: apparently not! he even let me wear his hoodie [heart eyes emoji] [ 1 attachment (it’s a selfie of Mirae in Bull’s Hoodie) ]
[ to: Princess Mustache ]: ;D
[ from: Princess Mustache ]: You are dead to me. Hot Dad is here. Looks like he wants to die.
Her face flushed and she decided to not even dignify that with an answer.
“Your fever back up?” Bull set the bowls of soup down and pressed a hand to her forehead. His palm was nearly the size of her face, and she’d never even noticed! He made some grunt that she couldn’t decipher and plopped onto the couch next to her. She instantly snuggled right up to him as he sighed and clicked the series on netflix to pick up wherever Mirae left off.
Meanwhile, Dorian concluded storytime with homework that none of the kids would do and sent them on their way. Cullen’s daughter bounced up to him, brimming with questions about why everyone has different governments. He is, unfortunately, still nauseous and tries to bumble through the questions to the best of his ability.
Cullen isn’t entirely certain how he gets home and into comfortable clothes but he’s not going to complain about it. His fingers curl into the worn, stained grey sweatpants as he berates himself for drinking that entire 12 pack in under a week. He’s a 28 year old man, he should have been able to haggle an extra twelve pack from a six year old, but here he is, completely without a source of caffeine. Rosie is coloring on the floor, those fancy twist-out crayons fanned around her. Maybe he should take up coloring, she seems so calm.
“Hey, Cullen! Look!” Her voice lilts as she grins at him and holds up the page she’s been focused on. All the colors are in the lines and his heart swells a bit.
“That looks wonderful, Rosie. You did a good job with the lines.” She grins at him and flips the page, setting back to work. His head is pounding and they’d just run out of black tea. If Rosie smelled coffee she’d rip him a new one so Cullen opted for a couple painkillers and Netflix.
Kid-friendly Netflix of course, there was a six year old in the room. He clicked play on Pulp Fiction for the third time that week.
The cold burns through Mirae in a matter of days. You wouldn’t be able to tell since she’s still in Bull’s sweatshirt and Dorian’s silk boxers, leaned up against Dorian himself while they watch the 13th episode of Portlandia that day. Fridays are good.
They’ve seen this particular episode at least ten times and Mirae is reciting the jokes in time with the people on the screen. She nestles further into Bull’s hoodie as Netflix tells them that the next episode will start in 20… 19… 18… 17- Dorian clicks to start the new episode with a mild grunt.
“The kid calls him by his first name.” Mirae doesn’t have to ask who Dorian is talking about. “Also, his name is Cullen.” She hums, neither of them moving their eyes from the brain-rotting vortex of Portlandia.
“So he’s the step-dad? Probably rich, definitely married.” Her face twists with displeasure. “He’s so pretty, though.”
“Being pretty tends to help men get married, dear.” Dorian disrupts her position to lean forward and grab the plastic cup of red wine from the coffee table. There are truffle wrappers littered around them and Mirae’s wine sits unloved, the ice cubes having turned it into a watered down mess.
“Okay but I don’t want him to be married. Maybe his wife is dead.” She pops a truffle in her mouth and steals a sip of Dorian’s wine. “He’s probably married.” He snatches the wine back and clutches it protectively against his chest.
“He was painfully awkward when he tried to talk to you. Either he wants an affair or he hasn’t tried to flirt with someone for multiple years.” He hums, obviously trying to come to an academic conclusion. “You’re an elf so I’m banking on affair.” She pinches his leg. Hard.
With a glare, Mirae reaches under the table and steals Dorian’s bottle of red wine, taking a swig out of it directly. He made a rather disgusted noise immediately followed by a disappointed whine, muttering something along the lines of “I wanted the rest of that.”
“He’s definitely married.”