The first thing Cassandra sees when she wakes up is Varric's sleeping face, mashed into the pillow. His hair is loose from its ponytail, falling into his face in gingery tangles. He sleeps on his stomach, one arm flung up by his head and the other trapped somewhere beneath him.
In sleep, Varric looks vulnerable, his usual smirk replaced by a lax half-smile. Seeing Varric relaxed is novel, and it's probably the result of all the champagne, or the fact that she's only half awake, but the sight of him stirs something in her chest.
The moment's broken when Cassandra learns something new about Varric:
He snores. Atrociously.
With a sigh, Cassandra rolls over and covers her ears with her pillow, hoping to fall back asleep.
It's not a success, and Cassandra stares at the water stained ceiling listening to Varric's snores before deciding to get up.
According to the clock, they've been asleep for five hours, and Cassandra's aching head tells her she shouldn't have downed all that champagne on a nearly empty stomach. Blearily, she makes her way to the ensuite bathroom, which is possibly more of a disaster than the bedroom. Everything that can possibly be heart-shaped is, and what can't be either has hearts on it, is pink, red, or white, or trimmed with lace.
Some unfortunate objects are all of these things.
Cassandra fills a pink-tinted glass with water from the tap, drains it, fills it again, and takes the opportunity to splash water on her face.
The bathroom mirror shows her a tired woman, with greasy hair that sticks up in spikes on one side and eye makeup smeared to her temples. A quick search through the bathroom reveals a shower tiled in alternating pink, red, and white tiles, fluffy towels in the same colour scheme, and an assortment of shampoos and soaps-all obnoxiously-tinted, and smelling like flowers.
Stripping out of her clothes, Cassandra folds them neatly despite the fact that they show the signs of two days' wear and tear, and places them on the counter. Hopefully their Inquisition babysitter can do laundry, or at least buy them a new wardrobe.
The motel has an excellent supply of hot water, which is the only good thing she can say of the place. Steam quickly fills the bathroom, and Cassandra can feel the knots in her back unwinding under the scalding hot water.
Cassandra admits that sharing a motel room with Varric has, so far, been painless (aside from the snoring) Granted, it's only been one day, but whether that has to do with them being on friendlier terms lately, or that they've found a common enemy in the honeymoon suite's horrible decor, she isn't sure. Whatever the reason, hopefully it can last a week.
Varric rises out of sleep slowly. The world is a blur of red, white, and pink, and the smell of hot, wet flowers hangs in the air. Propping himself up on one elbow, Varric scrubs a hand over his face and waits for the world to make sense.
Instead, the world brings forth Cassandra Pentaghast in a short pink robe and a cloud of flowery-smelling steam.
"Andraste's tits," Varric mumbles, caught between sleepy and awestruck.
Cassandra stops short in the middle of the room, clearly startled.
They stare at one another as steam invades the room. It's not a bad smell, Varric thinks, to distract himself from the swathes of skin Cassandra's robe leaves bare. Then he catches a whiff of his own scent, and winces.
A shower is definitely an excellent idea.
"How's the bathroom?" he asks.
"Worse than the bedroom," Cassandra says with a small laugh. "More hearts, lace on things that shouldn't have lace, and every soap and shampoo is named for some type of flower."
His champagne's flat, but Varric still takes a sip to clear the fuzziness out of his mouth.
"Wonderful. This place is a romance novelist's wet dream," Varric grumbles, sitting upright and shoving his hair out of his face.
"Varric, you write romance novels!"
"None of my dreams look like this, Seeker," Varric says wryly.
She ruffles her towel over her head, leaving her hair sticking up every which way. The robe is cut short, with slits up either side that display a healthy amount of leg. They're nice legs, though: strongly-muscled thighs and calves that taper down into delicate ankles. A nasty looking scar winds its way from behind her left knee to her ankle.
"Room service, after I shower?" Varric asks to distract himself from expanse of Cassandra's legs.
"Agreed. Perhaps we can request additional clothes." She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I do not want to wear the same thing for a week, or longer."
There's a knock at the door. In unison, Cassandra and Varric turn towards the door, waiting for the pattern of knocks that indicate their Inquisition babysitter.
"'Bout damn time!" Varric grouses after the appropriate number of knocks.
Cassandra strides forward, and Varric has to avert his eyes. That robe is really… something.
Clearly the Inquisition agent thinks so too, because she immediately turns bright red and develops a stutter.
"Lady P-P-Pentaghast. I'm… ah. I'm P-Parker." Parker sticks a hand out, and she darkens further when Cassandra shakes it. Stepping aside, the Seeker lets Parker into their atrocious room.
Parker takes a moment to compose herself before holding out two large bags. "Clothes and some supplies, with Lady Montiliyet's sympathies."
"Thank you, Parker," Varric says, amused.
"I have the room next door. Number 15," Parker says, stutter lost as long as she's not looking at Cassandra. "This is the number to reach me at. Is there anything you need?"
"A deck of cards, some books? Anything to keep us from murdering one another while we're stuck here," Varric says.
"Of course. Is there anything else?"
"Do you know how long we'll be here?" Cassandra asks.
"Lady Montiliyet and Lady Nightingale haven't sent any new information, I'm afraid. My apologies, Lady Pentaghast," Parker says, looking at a spot somewhere to the right of Cassandra's face.
"If you must use titles, Parker? I would prefer Seeker Pentaghast."
"Yes, Lady-ah, Seeker Pentaghast," Parker breathes.
"Thank you, Parker," Cassandra says firmly, relieving the agent of her bags.
"You're welcome, Seeker Pentaghast," Parker says, eyes like saucers.
Not that Varric can blame the poor woman. Cassandra's a tall lady, and wearing nothing but a robe doesn't detract in the least from how impressive she is. Parker's blush spreads from her ears to her neck as Cassandra turns to place the parcels on the table.
"Dismissed, Parker," Cassandra says, bestowing a nod of approval upon the agent.
Looking faint, Parker makes a beeline for the door. Striding towards it, Cassandra locks the door, and Varric can understand Parker's blush. Which is a bit disconcerting.
Cassandra's glaring at the note that accompanied the deliveries from Parker, as though her gaze could light the offending paper on fire.
"Bad news?" Varric guesses.
There's a patchy red flush spreading across Cassandra's face, and he knows her well enough to see that she's pissed. The letter lands with a thump and a jingle on the bed.
"Maker's fat ass." No wonder Cassandra's fit to be tied. The two rings attached to Josephine's letter are heavier than they look. It's all part of their cover, but there are limits.
"Ruffles has a point. We are registered as Mr and Mrs-"
"I know what the registry says, Varric," Cassandra seethes. Her hands are busy mangling the note's envelope.
Varric sets the letter down on the bedside table. The rings clatter together, and Cassandra winces, then scowls.
"She send us anything good?" Varric asks, hoping to distract her.
"Clothes for both of us. Toiletries," Cassandra replies, setting the aforementioned items on the table. There's a rectangular package separate from the rest, which Cassandra shoves under the stack of clothes Josie sent her.
Varric has a feeling he knows what it is (the newest Swords & Shields arrived just in time for them to leave Skyhold), and lets it go without a remark.
"That's a relief," Varric says, stretching as he stands. "If you'll excuse me, Seeker. The shower calls."
Varric pads towards the bathroom. It's just as appalling as Cassandra said it would be, but at least it offers a little privacy.
Ruffles and Nightingale are really selling the fake marriage cover story, and Varric's pretty sure that doesn't bode well.
Cassandra can feel the wedding rings. Their presence is like a psychic itch she can't scratch. Wedding rings. Of all the ridiculous bullshit. The worst part is that they're lovely rings. A pair of simple gold bands, the woman's band set with a single perfect diamond.
Cassandra dresses, puts away the clothes Josephine has sent her, hides her new book next to the night table on her side of the bed, and runs out of things to do. Varric is still in the shower, and Cassandra fully intends to retrieve the newest Swords and Shields from beside the bed. Instead she picks up the letter, with the rings attached at the bottom. The woman's band is already coming loose from the tape, Cassandra reasons as she plucks the ring off the page.
The ring shines in the artificial motel light. With a quick look at the bathroom door, Cassandra turns her back and studies her left hand. Unlike the ring, her hand is not delicate. Cassandra's fingers might be long but they're sturdy and show the effects of her job. Burn marks and scars dot her skin. Biting her lip, Cassandra slides the wedding band onto her ring finger, half expecting it to look absurd.
It doesn't. It looks beautiful.
Allowing herself a few moments to appreciate the ring, Cassandra pulls it off and sets it back on the night table with its mate. It may be a gorgeous ring, but it's still a lie. Both rings glimmer, and Cassandra sweeps them into the drawer to join the sex toys, as the shower stops.
Chastising herself for wasting time with foolishness when she could've been reading, Cassandra seats herself at the table where her gun sits on a soft cloth waiting to be cleaned. By now, she can strip, clean, and reassemble her gun almost automatically, but Cassandra focuses herself entirely on the weapon, examining it for any wear and treating it to a thorough cleaning. The familiar movements help to ease the tightness in her chest, Cassandra's breathing evens out into slow, measured breaths.
Movement catches her eye, and immediately her composure is broken. Varric had apparently decided to forgo the robe left on the hook, and opted instead for wrapping one of the fluffy towels around his waist. While he sorts through the clothes on the table, Cassandra watches the muscles of his back flex. It's a little disconcerting to realize that the man is well muscled. Perhaps because she stands well over a full head taller than Varric, the idea that he might be her equal in strength is a strange one, Cassandra thinks.
Varric turns, clothes in one hand and the other holding his towel up, giving Cassandra a better view of his...everything. It's not as though she was unaware of the profusion of ginger chest hair that covers Varric's chest (there's not a soul in Thedas who hasn't seen it, thanks to Varric's author photos, or his open necked shirts), but the way it trails down his chest and stomach to disappear beneath the towel is a little distracting.
"Seeker?" Varric shuffles his grip on the clothes to sweep a hand through the wet hair that's fallen in his face.
Startled, Cassandra realizes she's been busy considering Varric's arms and has been staring vacantly at him.
"Varric," she says evenly, tone giving nothing away. Hopefully Varric won't notice the warmth Cassandra can feel spreading across her face.
"Cabin fever already?" Varric says, making his way back to the bathroom. "Should I be hiding all potential weapons?"
Cassandra snorts. "Don't be an ass."
"Kind of my default, Seeker." The bathroom door closes behind him, and Cassandra lets out a slow breath.