cass or jac actually overworking themself into getting sick. being obstinate about being taken care of while the other is being obstinate about taking care of them. insisting they're able to fight, but being ordered to sit and rest or face the wrath of one forced to carry on without the other.
Cassandra is many things to many people. A Seeker of Truth on the side of righteousness, dark armour emblazoned with the ever-vigilant eye. A thug that serves the interests of the Chantry, iron-shod gauntlet tight around a sword hilt. The Right Hand of a dead Divine, severed from purpose and cast adrift by the chaos at the Conclave. Someone who has all of the answers, and is unafraid to relinquish her hold on them.
But at the end of the day, as exhaustion and the knot of stress in the pit of her stomach worries at her dwindling reserves of energy, she is but a mortal woman. Her red-rimmed eyes have not gone unnoticed, try as she might to quell the Inquisitor’s concerns over her health. She has endured worse, the Seeker says, brusque.
There is no room for concern and complaint in her statement, even as heat continues to flare under her skin, olive-toned Nevarran colouring flushing pink. Jacinto raises a brow, disbelief written over his features plainer than the book in Cassandra’s hands, and much to her ire, he continues to press the subject over the course of the day.
It isn’t until he has to repeat his question—thrice is the charm, so the saying goes—and she stares at him as if he’s sprung from the Fade that she concedes that maybe, just maybe, she should go lie down. Minutes pass by her count, but when Cassandra wakes next, it is to the press of a cool cloth against her feverish forehead, and the uneasy feeling that she didn’t make it back to her quarters on her own feet.
“ There is no need for this, ” she says, the gravel in her tone surprising herself. “ You are making a bigger deal out of this than it really is. I can still—— ”
“ ——Refuse to believe that you need to rest. ”
She scowls, squeezing shut light-sensitive eyes. Cassandra feels, rather than sees, the brush of cool lips against her forehead. From somewhere above, Jacinto says, “ Stay, ” and three hundred or so pounds of dog and slobber drapes itself over her legs.
The Mabari barks with her as she shouts hoarsely at his retreating back, and true to the stories of keen intelligence and an understanding of language, utterly refuses to let her leave the room. She scowls yet again, muttering between coughs as she scratches behind the hounds ears. It seems like minutes again—days, actually, Leliana tells her between mouthfuls of broth—, when Cassandra blinks open sleep-heavy eyes to find the faithful dog and Jacinto snoring at her side.
Well, this isn’t awful, she thinks, and smiles. Secret and soft, fingers tapping lightly at his cheek, she mutters quiet nothings. The dog wuffs, nose twitching in dream-chasing slumber and quieting as she runs a hand through thick fur.
“ What would you do without me? ” Cassandra murmurs fondly, before curling back against the warmth of Jacinto's back.
