The Seeker is a hard woman, Varric knows. Of course, he also knows that's not quite true, but (extravagant or otherwise) Varric lies a lot. Cassandra probably couldn't lie to save her life, if she could, he'd never have found out she reads Swords and Shields. It's no wonder she's terrible at Wicked Grace, everything she thinks shows up on her face. That anyone could be so terrible at Wicked Grace is a sin against all that is good in the world, and Varric decides that while the Inquisitor's got him running around doing good deeds, he may as well add one more to the list. Cassandra seems less than pleased at his reasoning, but still shows up at Varric's door that night, so she can't be too unhappy.
Hopefully she doesn't stab his deck.
Varric starts her off on the basics- all the suits, their ranks, moves on to the ranking of different hands. The Seeker isn't terrible she just… isn't good. How the hell Cassandra can be one of the scariest Seekers and not grasp Wicked Grace is a little puzzling.
"Seeker, let me see." Varric coaxes. Cassandra glowers at him, holding her bruised hand close to her chest.
"I am fine, Varric. Continue." she snaps, and really that's the most frustrating thing about Cassandra. Even if she's hurting, she doesn't stop. Relaxation doesn't seem to be in her vocabulary at all.
"You punched a table. That's not exactly fine, Seeker." Varric says, temper wearing a bit thin. Cassandra is not the best student. Too bull-headed, no appreciation for the long game. She'd make a terrible con, which is probably why she's a better Seeker.
They stare eachother down, Cassandra's dark eyes simmering with annoyance. Varric just assumes a negligent pose and waits. He's not a particularly patient dwarf, but compared to the Seeker, he's a paragon of patience.
Without a word, Cassandra thrusts her gloved hand across the table.
Well, if she wants to be stubborn about it, Varric thinks, he can indulge her.
Varric takes the Seeker's hand in his, and loosens the buckles keeping it clamped to her arm. Everything about Cassandra is so buttoned up. Armoured. It's possible he's thinking about this too much, Varric tells himself as he slides the glove from the Seeker's injured hand.
Cassandra has nice hands. Long fingers, smooth knuckles, short, blunt nails. Her middle finger and ring finger are crooked past the last knuckle, and a ragged scar runs across them both. She's definitely busted the skin over her knuckles, and her index finger might be jammed. Other than that, the table seems to have come out the loser in their little disagreement. There are divots in the wood from the rivets on Cassandra's gloves.
Varric turns Cassandra's hand over, runs his thumb across her palm. She dealt the table one hell of a hit, after all. Besides, it's a strong hand. A good reference for his writing. Which is why he hasn't let it go yet.
The thought that he might be lying to himself briefly crosses Varric's mind. Cassandra's hand is cool in his, resting gently against his fingers. Like this, ungloved and still, it's easy to notice the differences in their hands. Despite being head and shoulders shorter than the Seeker, his hand dwarfs hers (ha ha). Blunt, thick fingers, clumsy looking compared to Cassandra's.
Varric's thumb has taken on a life of its own and is stroking slow, small circles at the base of the Seeker's wrist.
"Varric." Cassandra rasps out. She's a little flushed, Varric notes. It is a bit warm in his room. Warmer than usual.
"You'll be punching tables in no time" is what Varric says into the silence that presses in on them both. Slipping his hand away from Cassandra's, Varric tosses her her glove, and shuffles the Wicked Grace deck. "Another hand?"