Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

There is a blizzard outside. The state has banned travel (until further notice), I'm stuck in my dorm room and the dining hall doesn't open until 11:30. Have another on me.

Yay ConnorMason. I'm trying very hard on making it so their relationship will bloom and not be like 'OHEYRELATIONSHIPINTHREECHAPT ERS'. That may not work because I don't know how many time-skips I'm going to write.


Snowfall and Stories


If someone had told Mason that four days after he was freed from the prison by his whistling friend that it would still be snowing, he would probably throw a fit. And by throwing a fit, he might of have attempted to throw a box off of its place only to fail.

But there he was, sitting down at his desk, wrapped in wool blankets and sitting with his knees to his chest to make sure his feet didn't go numb, watching the snow fall outside. It was mythical, really. Tiny drops of frozen tears falling as feathers to the white ground below.

The writer's hand began to move, picking up the quill and pressing it to the parchment laid perfectly on the desk, waiting. Whatever he was beginning to write, it would be fixed later. He knew it. There was nothing written that wouldn't be edited at least ten times in his mind.

He didn't hear the door slowly creak open to show the Assassin standing there. He didn't hear the soft footsteps over to his desk. What he did feel was when the tanned hand gently took his own off the paper and carefully laced their fingers together.

Mason sat there; stunned for a moment before recognizing that Connor's hands were freezing.

"You… were outside?" the writer mumbled as he shifted in his seat and brought some of his blanket up.

"Yes," the stoic man responded. "One of the horses got out."

Mason let out a soft huff before turning the Native and taking both his hands, wrapping them in his own and then wrapping that in the wool blankets. Connor was the one to stare at the hands while Mason watched the snow.

It was a quiet moment between the two. The only sounds were of their breathing and the howling of the wind outside. Neither of them knew how much time had passed until the room started to grow darker. It was then that the writer pulled his hands away to reach into one of the desk drawers and grabbed a couple matches before lighting up his three candles on the corner of his desk.

"What is that?" Connor finally broke the silence and gently picked up a book from off the desk. He stared at it, as if it were unknown to him. He knew what it was.

"That's a book, Connor," the writer said, a bit of a tone in his voice. "I know you at least know that. It's called Clarissa, or The History of a Young Lady by Samuel Richardson. This is my copy of it."

The Assassin stared at him before shifting and sitting down on the floor and handing the book back up to Mason.

"It sounds like a good story," he said softly as the other male took the book back.

"Would you like to borrow it?"

"I can't," he began. "But could you read it to me?"

Mason sat there, confused for a moment before nodding and bringing the candles just a little bit closer. Opening the book up, he cleared his throat and began to read aloud the story of Clarissa. Connor never moved and never interrupted all the while the wind howled outside and the snow continued to fall.


Well there's the first drabble down. This happened in real life man. Blizzard outside, my friend and I huddled around me while I read The Passenger by Andrew Smith. That's actually a sequel to The Marbury Lens. WINK WINK HInT HINT GOOD SERIES GO READ.

Okay. These will be updated as I keep thinking up of min-ideas for Connor and Mason. So yay.

Now I must still wait for the dining hall to be open.

-triptocaine