An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: There are two games played at the Winter Palace: one of murder and deceit among the nobles, and another between Cassandra Pentaghast and Inquisitor Trevelyan who is determined to charm and dance with her.
Pairing: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan
Characters: Cassandra Pentaghast; Quinn Trevelyan; with brief appearances by Blackwall and Duke Gaspard
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,656
Notes: My piece for the @loveacrossthedaszine ! The zine version (if you have not yet downloaded yourself a copy) comes with really lovely spot art. But here it is now forever enshrined on AO3! It was a really great honour to be a part of this project and to get to share these silly sweet blorbos with everyone. And if you're feeling a bit spicy, this can very much be treated as the direct prequel to my first Cassmancing smut fic Impetus.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: In a time when the sky is no longer falling, former Inquisitor Quinn Trevelyan has attempted to retire to the countryside with his childhood friend-turned-Grand-Tourney-knight Ser Horatio Morris. Neither one of them can cook or bake, but Morris is certainly determined to try.
Pairing: Male Trevelyan/Original Male Character
Characters: Quinn Trevelyan; Ser Horatio Morris
Rating: G
Word Count: 3170 words
Notes: This was inspired very loosely by a writing prompt I had been holding on to for nearly a year but really veered off into its own story. It's a little bit of post-Trespasser pastoral silliness that serves as an interim to be inserted into a much larger story I am currently working on. Please enjoy The Babies(TM) and their complete domestic ineptitude!
Happy friday Mel! For Quinn/Cassandra, ❝ are you falling asleep? ❞ (after what you shared the other day about quinn's refractory period lmao)
I really liked all three of these prompts so I decided to combine them all together! Thank you @kiastirling @nirikeehan @contreparry I hope this entertains!
Title: Refractory
Pairing: Cassandra/Male Trevelyan
Rating: M
Word Count: 1070 words
For @dadrunkwriting
Nights out in the wilderness were very dark. The Inquisitor always offered to light a lantern, but Cassandra did not need shadowy outlines of the two of them projected onto the canvas walls of the tent for the rest of the party in their camp to see. He might have very little shame, but she still had her dignity.
Besides, there was something exciting about fumbling around in the dark. Having to rely almost entirely on other senses gave their lovemaking an edge to it that Cassandra found thrilling. To hear the Inquisitor's heavy breathing, to feel only the press of fingers and warm skin beaded with sweat and have to imagine the appearance of Quinn Trevelyan with his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair tangled up with her fingers made the experience all the more satisfying.
Everything was louder in the dark too. She felt hyper aware of every sound she uttered, and try as she might to muffle Quinn's own sounds, he kept playfully wiggling away from her attempts to smother him. There was a time when she would have been mortified - too distracted by the idea that their companions surely could hear them to focus entirely on the sensation of the Inquisitor between her thighs - but it was a thought that was easily forgotten when he moaned so prettily in her ear.
The air inside the tent was heavy with their exertions by the time they finished, gasping through their releases before drifting slowly back down to earth. Cassandra always liked this moment most, when Quinn would still for a while, his weight on top of her heavy but warm, comforting, and protective. She would hold him there for as long as she could, but he would always shift after a few minutes, pulling away and rolling aside with a soft chuckle that she knew was directed more at himself than anyone else.
The rustling of the bedding could be heard in the darkness and Cassandra was left alone with the air of their little hideaway cooling the heat of her skin as the Inquisitor fumbled around in the dark to make himself comfortable. But then he returned, his breath warm in her ear as he settled next to her, resting his head against her shoulder.
It was nice like this, lying beneath the stars, knowing he was close and listening to the sounds of the wilderness around them.
"I hate sleeping on the ground," Quinn grumbled when Cassandra brought up the peaceful solitude of the night. To emphasize his point, he groaned as he stretched and she could hear him turn and settle on his back.
Cassandra turned onto her side, not about to let him roll too far away from her. "Your back did not seem to trouble you earlier."
She could hear the wide smile in his voice when he replied, "For you, dear lady? Never…"
There was a dreamy softness in his tone towards the end that made Cassandra's heart feel full. He was more open with his affection when they were like this, no longer concerned about appearing too vulnerable or too needy when neither of them could see anything but the inky blackness around them. He did not resist when she drew him close to her and lazily draped an arm around her waist, letting out a soft breath that sounded almost like a sigh as he did so.
Cassandra began to trace his outline in the dark, running her hand gently up his arm before slowly tracing her fingers down his side. Quinn hummed softly, a pleasing little noise that served to encourage her further. He lay very still, content to let her touch him gently and explore him as she pleased, drawing gentle little patterns across his skin. She could feel the soft hair on his forearm and the way it tapered up towards barely noticeable peach fuzz midway up his bicep. She could feel the firm shape of his shoulder blades, and the way his muscles in his back relaxed and relented to the press of her fingers as she followed them down towards his spin.
Aside from a brief brush of his fingers against her rear, the Inquisitor did not reciprocate any of Cassandra’s touch. She didn’t particularly mind at first, knowing that he likely needed a moment to come down from the bliss he often coasted on after their coupling. But when he responded with only the vaguest of grunts when her hand fell to his hips and she gave his exposed cheeks an affectionate little squeeze, Cassandra frowned.
The arm around her waist slipped down below her hips as Cassandra propped herself up, resting on her elbow. She narrowed her eyes, thinking that if she tried hard enough perhaps she could somehow see what he was up to in the dark. But everything was shadow upon shadow and she could only hear the sounds of the man breathing beside her.
“Are you falling asleep?” she asked.
“Mmmmmno…”
Quinn’s voice was thick and his words a bit muddled despite the simple and straightforward answer. She waited for a more certain assurance from him, or an apology, or any sign of life. But he didn’t so much as move, remaining exactly where he was, his breathing soft and even. With a sigh of her own, Cassandra settled onto her bedroll, turning away in an effort to hide her disappointment.
The stuffiness of the air inside the tent seemed unpleasant now, more easily noticed now that Cassandra was left only with her pillow, the ground, and her own disappointed thoughts. So when Quinn rolled towards her, pressing his face to the back of her neck and throwing one of his legs across her own, she was tempted to roll him back the other way. But as she made to do so, Quinn mumbled something that was sleepy and incoherent but sounded… happy. It made the warmth bloom in her chest again and she instead shifted only slightly in order to be comfortable. She found it difficult to be cross with him when he wanted to be so close to her in his sleep. It was the time when someone was most vulnerable and most themselves, and she would hold this secret affection from him close to her chest. Resting her hand on the thigh he had hooked around her, she stroked his skin gently, soothing him in his dreams.
Hi Mel, happy Friday! For Horatio, from the dialogue prompts, how about "It wasn't your fault."? Hope you are inspired!
Thank you for such a great prompt! I really liked being able to focus on Morris as just a solo piece where he's in those awkward young adult years but also getting a chance to do a bit of world building surrounding the ins and outs of the Grand Tourney.
I Want to Be Ser Morris
Word Count: 1,124 words
Rating: PG
for @dadrunkwriting
Ser Horatio Morris never pulled his punches. He'd been taught that you never swung a fist or bludgeon or any such thing unless you meant it. That had been a problem the first time he stepped into the melee ring, dressed in piecemeal armour and clutching a blunted hand axe that he knew looked more like a hatchet than anything else.
Which was why he now sat on a patch of grass, his face smeared with sweat and dirt and a vacant expression on his face as a lone elf swept fresh sand to hide the splatter of blood Morris - no, his opponent - had left behind when two healers had dragged the man's lifeless body out of the ring.
Because he never pulled his punches. Because he didn't know how to. Because his first opponent had a chip on his shoulder and something to prove, and had taken one look at Morris and his ill-fitting iron that clanked and rattled as he moved, and asked him whose arse he'd buggered to get himself entry and a fancy title.
So Morris had hit him, because wasn't that the point of the melee? And Morris had made sure to hit him hard to show him that the "ser" had been properly earned. The strike had been sudden and quick, because Morris had a friend who had taught him that opportunity and surprise were sometimes more important than brute strength. But in Morris' sudden burst of movement, he had not quite turned the hand axe so the flat edge of the head made impact. Where he had intended to simply knock the man backwards or perhaps daze him, he had instead cleaved off part of his jaw and left him bleeding in the dirt.
His first tourney. His first match. And he'd maimed someone.
At first he thought he'd be arrested or at the very least disqualified. But while the adjucator blew the horn to end the match, Morris was declared the victor and told to clean up, rest up, and prepare for the next round. Morris didn't want to move on to the next round. He wanted to go be sick somewhere and then he thought he very much wanted his mother.
"Your gear will rust if you just let it sit there." A familiar gravely voice broke through the fog filling Morris' head. He looked up to see Ser Calanth, his old mentor now even older and somehow smaller than he ought to be. Morris wasn't used to seeing him out of his jousting armour and down on the ground without a horse.
"Did you see what happened?" Morris asked hesitantly. If he felt bad for having sliced open a man's face, he knew he was about to feel even worse under the gaze of the man who was practically a second father to him.
"Not many people can say they won their very first match with their very first swing," came the answer. "I think it could have used a little more showmanship for the crowd's benefit, but you'll get better at that with time."
"You what?" Morris turned and stared at the old man incredulously. Was Calanth going blind in his old age? That could be the only explanation for why he was praising Morris for what he had done.
But Ser Calanth's gaze was as sharp and steady as ever as he looked at Morris. "People bleed in the melee, lad. They come away with bruises and cuts and all sorts of injuries. Half of them don't even have proper armour. It's why they dull the weapons. Did you think when you chose to do this that you would go your entire career without hurting anyone?"
"You never did," said Morris. He'd always thought that Calanth was one of the kinder knights in the joust, perhaps because he didn't have the same drive for glory and fame that so many of the others did. He'd treated Morris well as a boy which wasn't something every squire in the Grand Tourney could always claim. Morris had looked up to him, and had grown up wanting to be the sort of knight he felt he was.
Only Morris wasn't very good on a horse and couldn't afford one anyway. He'd arrived at this year's tourney having borrowed his father's draft horse which was good for ploughing fields and pulling carts but not much else. He wasn't built for jousting anyways as he'd grown from an average-looking boy into a broad shouldered and stocky young man. He was made to hit things from on the ground, not atop a horse. But he hadn't wanted it to be like this.
"I'm sure every man who was knocked off his horse by the impact of my lance would disagree."
Morris knew it was intended to comfort him, but he didn't think their circumstances were the same.
The elf had finished up their sweeping of the sand. The next two challengers on the list were preparing to square off against one another. All evidence of Morris' fight was gone.
"You're a good lad, Morris, you always have been," said Calanth after a time, "but you're a soft one too. We're all here performing various kinds of blood sport for entertainment. When your opponent bleeds, it isn't your fault. It's his for not being quicker or smarter."
When Morris didn't say anything, Calanth added, "You can always quit if you want. It's a choice to be here and you can go back home if being a farmer is what you prefer. You should be making this choice for yourself, not because you feel you owe me."
Morris looked up at that, frowning slightly. He had wanted knighthood for years. He was grateful to Ser Calanth for the education he provided and the allowance he had always been able to bring home to his parents, but that wasn't why he was here. Squiring had been a job, no different than all the work he'd done on his father's pig farm. But Morris had kept at it because he had decided long ago that he wanted very much to become a knight instead of a farmer. He'd seen other boys grow up and disappear from the tourney either because they weren't good enough or didn't want it. But Morris wasn't one of them. He wanted to be here, he wanted to fight and drink and be a knight. He just hadn't expected it to feel like this.
"I don't want to be a farmer," he said softly. "I want to be Ser Morris."
"Do you?" asked Ser Calanth.
"Yes," said Morris, and then more firmly, "yes, more than anything."
"On your feet then, lad, and get yourself watered. There are more matches to come."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: The world is changing, with every step on the Din'Anshiral bringing it closer to the end. As he marches ever onward, Solas tries to hold on to the comforting figure of an old spirit friend who wears a mortal's face.
Pairings: Solas/Fade Spirit; Solas/Male Trevelyan
Characters: Solas, A Spirit Who May Have Once Been Wisdom, and m!Trevelyan
Rating: T for a little bit of implied shenanigans at one point
Words: 2,300 words
Notes: What's this? More Solas/Wisdom fic after a thousand years? I'm just as surprised as you! Inspired by a gift I received in this year's Arlathan Exchange, I've revisited Solas' relationship with his favourite spirit friend. In many ways, this feels like the culmination of the spirit's journey from Wisdom, to Curiosity, to something else entirely. This follows the continuity previously set out in "The Many Faces of Wisdom" as well as "The Dreamer Sets the Rules." "Callback" by Lukas Kristjanson is also recommended reading even though telling you this has likely given away the ending.
(Thank you to everyone tagging me today for WIP Wednesday. I don't have anything in progress to share because I am bringing you all this instead!)
Mel Mel Mel Meeeel happy friday!!!! Solas/m!Trevelyan for "Nonlethal impalement" from the whump list??? maybe???? >:)))
This is a great prompt, though I had to think hard on it because I've written an entire fic that's basically that premise! But it was a good prompt, so I cooked up something different and hopefully unexpected!
So here's some post-canon/canon-divergent Quinn/Solas whump!
Word Count: 446 words
For @dadrunkwriting
Quinn Trevelyan remembered the first time he had gone hunting. He had been too little to do much except observe, though his father had told him that if he was a good lad then maybe he’d get to blow the horn that recalled the dogs. Quinn was never a good lad though, and he never paid attention. He had instead gone wandering in the woods, eager to explore a place he’d never been before until he found himself facing down a very angry boar.
He remembered the fear. He remembered the snarling of the hunting dog that had thrown itself between them. And he remembered the crash of a man through the underbrush as his father came barreling out from nowhere and threw himself and the pike he held with so much desperate force that for a moment, Quinn thought his father and the boar might impale each other on the same pole.
In the moment, he isn’t sure why it is that memory of all things that comes rushing to his mind. Quinn has never hunted a boar and never will. They frighten him too much now.
But he cannot help but remember the shape of his father - everyone said he’d grown up to look just like him - leaning heavily on the shaft of that spear, breathing loud and throwing all his weight behind it. He had looked so terrifying and so furious as the boar shrieked and squealed and struggled until it fell silent - its own anger and lifeforce spent. Then he had seemed to sink, as if all the strength had rushed out of him at once.
Quinn feels that heaviness now as he leans onto the shaft of a spear that he thinks might start to crack beneath his weight. He had thrown all of himself behind it, all his strength and what little balance he had to thrust it forward and down, forcing it through armour, flesh, and bone. He isn’t sure what he expected - a scream, a cry, a curse - but he didn’t expect silence.
Beneath his feet, Solas looks up at him with a detached expressionless gaze. It troubles him even though he can’t bear to look away. This doesn’t feel like the catharsis Quinn thought it would be, but it is at least done. But as the reality of what he’s just been forced to do begins to settle upon him, the violet eyes gazing back at him blink.
The head of the spear sits buried in Solas’ shoulder. It is no doubt painful, but it’s harmless to a god. For a moment, Quinn is confused. He never misses his mark. He always catches his prey.
Happy Friday Mel!! How about something for Cassandra/m!Trevelyan + "Cutting their hair for them." from the wordless ways to say i love you?
I spent ages working on this prompt fill only to re-read the prompt and go, "Oh... well... no one actually gets their hair cut" but you'll see why at the end and I still have to say I'm really proud of this piece and I think it was at least in the spirit of this prompt. Which I very much enjoyed receiving, thank you! It was a fantastic excuse to write some post-whump fluff.
Consider this a much later sequel to this prompt fill. Will I ever write the larger fic? I have no idea.
For @dadrunkwriting
Word Count: 2,304
Quinn Trevelyan makes an irritable sound as Cassandra wrings warm water out of a fresh cloth. He isn't looking at her, instead staring out one of the room's large windows. His brow is furrowed and his jaw is set in a profile that is as handsome as it is unhappy.
He's not cross with her. She'd know it if he was. He is upset with himself and Cassandra's reassurances that there is nothing wrong with resting, that the road to recovery from an illness as severe as his is long and slow. But Quinn is tired of his bed, of his room, of the ragged and unkempt beard creeping across his face, and hair that hasn't been properly washed in weeks.
His stern expression softens when Cassandra begins to dab the cloth against his neck and shoulder, but only reluctantly. He doesn't complain - not to her, at least - but she knows he wants to.
"This is only until you get your strength back," she says, as she has said to him every time she does something for him that she knows he would rather do himself.
"It is back. It is just... short-lived."
"Perhaps we should keep that a secret," she replies with a quiet smile.
Quinn turns to look at her, confused for a moment before he narrows his eyes at her. "My lady, that is hardly what I meant."
"It was a joke, my love."
"You need to work on those."
"I thought it was funny," Cassandra replies, taking one of Quinn's hands in her own to hold out his arm for her.
He complies, intertwining his fingers with her own without a sound. He gives a little squeeze likely to insist upon how he is better, he is fine, and he doesn't need to have someone bathe him like this. But it does not have the effect he hopes for.
The Inquisitor has always been a lean man, but his prolonged illness has made him lose an unhealthy amount of weight. It will be a while before he gets it all back, particularly as his appetite is still only slowly returning in stages - the half-drunk cup of tea long grown cold that sits by the bedside is proof of this. With his limb extended as it is, she can see the atrophied muscles that shift as he does. His skin still has an unhealthy pallor to it, and the bruises and markings from all the initial attempts by the surgeon to purge the illness that circulated in his blood are still visible.
She has to remind herself that it is behind them. He is better now, mending, on the slow road to recovery. There is some colour returned to his cheeks, and while his eyes are bruised and sunken, a spark shines within in a brightness that is unmatched. When she looks at him, he smiles and she can see the familiar lines crinkling at the corner of his eyes. The man she loves perseveres.
But it is hard not to look at him and think about all the days and nights spent keeping vigil - of holding a hand that was clammy and weak and did not always squeeze back, of listening to fevered mutterings that became increasingly incomprehensible, of a man who at the worst of it looked so small and fragile and as helpless as she felt.
She pushes down these thoughts as she works. With one arm done, she moves on to the next before telling him to pull back the blanket and turn onto his side for her. He does so, without complaint at first, but as Cassandra tends to his back and tries not to notice how sharply his shoulder blades press against his skin, Quinn seems unable to help himself.
"You could make this a bit more exciting."
"I would not want you to feel inadequate with your short-lived strength."
Quinn gives her a look over his shoulder that tells her he very much regrets his earlier choice of words.
He continues to grumble to himself even as he turns back away from her. It sounds like it is for show more than anything else, but he then jumps suddenly when she dips down towards his lower back.
"Cassandra, I must insist you let me do the rest myself!"
"It isn't anything I haven't already seen."
"That's not the point." He pulls away from her, sitting back up in his bed, and holding the covers tightly over himself. The stern look from earlier is back on his face but this time it's directed at her. "I don't see why I can't just go and have a proper bath!"
Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him skeptically and pushes her chair back a little ways from his bedside. She gestures nearby to the ladder leading up to the little loft built into the room where Quinn had decided to have a private bathing area set up. The ladder is the only way up or down. She knows it is a simple climb under most circumstances, but Quinn is not under most circumstances right now.
"I can help you up or down a staircase. I cannot help you with a ladder. You can make it up there on your own? And back down when you've finished?"
Quinn's jaw is set defiantly. When he is in this way, Cassandra thinks this must be what it is like to deal with a child. In this instance, it is a very tall and bearded child who throws off the blankets and jumps to his feet in a flourish of naked glory.
Much to Cassandra's prediction and concern, Quinn almost immediately swoons and she is up on her feet to catch and steady him before he completely collapses to the floor. He's dead weight in her arms, looking dazed and dizzy for a moment before his expression slowly clears. He has not quite blacked out after all, but it was close.
"That was very foolish of you," she says, coaxing him gently into a sitting position on the edge of his bed.
There is a defeated slouch to Quinn's shoulders that make him look even smaller and thinner than he is. He can't meet her eyes - or he won't meet her eyes - and sighs, completely dejected.
"Can't I at least be saved this one indignity?" he asks.
Cassandra frowns though it is not an unkind expression. She hates to see him like this just as much as he does, if not more. The Quinn Trevelyan she knows and loves is tall and sure-footed, flamboyant and energetic, an absolute terror and menace. She can see how his current limitations weigh on him, how uncomfortable he is with being forced to admit and show any sort of vulnerability.
"Alright," she says, gently this time. "I will leave you to finish while I get fresh water. And we can then do something about your hair."
"Thank you," he says. And she knows that he means it.
She takes her time climbing the ladder into the loft and fetching things for his hair. She knows where everything is kept - she's used the Inquisitor's special dwarven-constructed bath enough times to know which soap is kept where - but she chooses to allow Quinn a moment alone in order for the storm cloud threatening his mood to pass.
When she returns, Quinn has left his bed again although this time he appears to have taken more care and settled himself in her vacated chair. He's retrieved a small mirror and seems singularly focused on his appearance. Every now and then a hand reaches out to comb strands of hair out of his eyes. A deep frown is etched in his face that seems to linger even as he looks up at her approaching footsteps.
"I look terrible. Why did no one tell me I look terrible?"
Cassandra does not think he looks terrible at all. He looks tired, he looks thinner than usual, and considering his lack of modesty she thinks he looks rather cold. But she knows these are not what Quinn is complaining about. She isn't certain if the growth on his face can truly be called a proper beard, but his moustache and chin have gotten considerably thicker and longer. It is uneven in places and while there isn't much more than patchy-looking growth on most of his cheeks, what she can only describe as scruff has spread along his jaw. It is in her opinion somehow both adorable and rugged.
"You just need a good wash," Cassandra says, setting the basin and jug on a nearby table. "And perhaps a comb through it."
"I must protest, Lady Seeker," he says, though he takes the basin when she offers it to him and bows his head over it obediently. "You know I'm very particular about my hair."
"Do you not trust me? Shall I instead ask Sera to see to you? She cuts her own hair as well."
Quinn's protest is immediate, his head snapping up to glower at her. You wouldn't dare, he says wordlessly as he stares at her. Cassandra simply rolls her eyes and pushes his head back down so that she can begin.
She uses the water sparingly at first - just enough to wet his hair before beginning to lather soap into it. Quinn's strict particularities about his grooming rituals mean that every bottle of soap and oil and lotion is clearly labeled. Even so, he mumbles the names of products to her and what they should smell like lest she grab one in the wrong order. But eventually, the tension in his shoulders seems to dissipate and he simply sits with his head bowed, cradling the catch basin in his arms, soothed by the feeling of Cassandra's fingers working through his hair. She thinks she even hears the softest of sighs or a happy little sound of contentment.
The scent of cloves and rosemary mixed into Quinn's soap soon fills the air. It is crisp and refreshing, the first thing to finally overtake the smell of sickness that still clung to him. It's a cleaner and brighter sort of herbal scent that is sharp and alive. Cassandra is much more fond of it than the bitter smell of nightshade from the tea he'd been fed, or the earthy smell of Vivienne's tonics and the surgeon's leeches.
She works the soap evenly through his hair, being careful to keep it out of his eyes and from dribbling down the back of his neck as much as possible. Once she is satisfied with her work, she gently pours the pitcher of warm water over his head, continuing to run her fingers through his hair to gently rinse away the lather.
"You see?" she teases once she's finished, reaching for a nearby towel to gently dry his hair. "You've survived. I haven't drowned you."
Quinn chuckles for the first time, a sound she admits that she has missed from him and one that never ceases to cause her heart to flutter. "May I sit up now, my lady? Or do you wish for me to remain bent over for you a while longer?"
Cassandra makes a dismissive sound at the back of her throat and gives his head a bit of a rougher rub than she should for a moment before draping the towel around his shoulders. He can't see it but she is smiling. "The world will be pleased to hear your cheek has not suffered nor your tongue lost any of its boldness."
Quinn grins as he sits up and looks at her, an impish expression on his face. Cassandra rolls her eyes at him - more for show than for anything else - before setting down the pitcher and picking up a nearby comb in order to tend further to his hair.
"Do you know which side to part it on?" he asks suddenly, almost as if he can't help himself.
"Are you going to ask me next if I know what colour your eyes are?"
Quinn frowns slightly, realizing his misstep and hastily offers a sheepish apology. For a moment, Cassandra is tempted to comb back his hair and part it on the wrong side anyway - either to tease him further or to make a point - but decides against it. He wouldn't look right anyway.
"There is still the matter of my face," he says as she struggles with a lock of hair on his forehead that seems determined to misbehave.
"The Inquisitor has decided to trust me now? I've proven my worth by washing his hair?"
Quinn smiles, but it is a soft and almost subdued look with none of his earlier cheek. "Perhaps I realize that I enjoy this. Sitting here with you. The two of us."
Oh.
His earnesty is unexpected but not at all unwanted. Quinn is normally so flippant with his words, a man of smiles and humor and action that so very rarely seems capable of expressing himself from the heart. Of course she knows he enjoys her company but it is something else entirely to hear it said to her like he does now.
She smiles back at him in turn, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear before gently taking his face in her hands. He leans into her touch, saying nothing but looking at her with eyes that seem so expressive that he doesn't need to say anything at all. She knows what he means. And she is glad for it.
"Perhaps..." she says slowly, brushing her thumbs across cheeks dotted with long-faded freckles and the barest hints of scruff at the edges. "Perhaps you can live with this for one more day?"
"This time, I think I will survive," Quinn replies with a breathless little laugh.
