With excruciating gentleness, Cassandra manages to turn the page of her book without dropping it on Varric's head. Not that he'd be likely to notice, she thinks. Not only is his head harder than a rock, it's about as heavy, too. The lamp on their bedside table flickers, and Cassandra notices the barest blush of light dawning over the mountains.
This is the calm before the storm, and Cassandra intends to enjoy every second of it. Particularly these moments when the world is still, and Varric's cuddled in close to her, head pillowed on her shoulder. His limbs tangle around her much like the bedsheets tangle around them. A soft snuffle draws Cassandra's attention from her book. With her other hand, she strokes Varric's hair, absently winding it through her fingers. Unbound, his hair is soft, and fine. An odd juxtaposition with his face, which is roguish even in slumber.
Laying her book aside, Cassandra memorizes Varric, the warmth of his body, the scrape of his stubble. The scars and furrows which mark them both. Every inch of him is unbearably precious to her, from the curve of his mouth when he smiles, his quick mind, and the loyal, loving heart he tries to disguise. There will be time enough for them, Cassandra resolves, wonders at how fiercely her heart burns.
There will be time enough for them, if she must fight the Maker himself.