Cross-posted to AO3 as taslin_strider. Originally this was going to be made up of 100-word drabbles, but now I'm aiming for under 500 words each. We'll see how that goes. :p
Feedback is welcome. I'd love to hear what you think!
CW: flare-up of an old sports injury
Cassandra likes her espresso. She's honing her technique. Between work, grad school, and fencing, there isn't time for much else, although she wishes there were.
Tuesday morning, the assistant hockey coach orders his usual. It's full of caramel (ugh). His deep, warm voice carries over the chatter and her heart pounds. Meraad.
She's been stealing glances at him for the past few months. He's around her age, maybe thirty at most, with a square jaw and handsome, slightly tired-looking features.
He usually leans against the wall and reads a paperback while he waits. He took a seat nearby once, but the table was too low for a seven-foot-tall qunari. So, he got up from the too-short chair and turned it sideways before sitting down again, apparently unfazed. This must happen a lot.
The bar stools at the counter under the window have adjustable heights. He could stay for a while and watch the street scene, but for some reason he never does.
His paperbacks have creased spines and dog-eared pages. Once, Meraad looked up and caught her squinting at the back cover of his latest read. He raised his eyebrows and turned the front cover toward her. Well, now she knows he's a fan of Varric Tethras, and he knows how quickly she can turn beet red.
Cassandra makes the horrible drink, wondering why he likes it. She wonders a lot of things about him. He's never been anything but friendly and courteous, which she appreciates. A few customers have tried to flirt with her, and all it's done is make her anxious. They can leave; she can't.
"Thanks, take care," says Meraad, at the pickup counter. His eyes are so kind.
"You, too." It's the same response as always, but this time, she decides to smile.
Meraad looks startled, but he smiles back. One of his incisors is crooked.
Cassandra begins another order and runs her tongue over her teeth.
The rink is covered with ice shavings and trails sliced by skate blades. Meraad stays after practice to talk with Bull about the upcoming game. They sit in the bleachers under the fluorescent lights and go through their notes, coach and assistant, conversing in Qunlat.
The Frostback Heralds had a wobbly start this season, but they've held on to a decent ranking in the league. They have a good chance of making it to the championship tournament this spring, in Denerim. Where, of course, they'll face the Red Templars from Corypheus University.
"To old rivals," says Bull, clinking their metal thermoses together in a toast.
The hot cocoa slides down Meraad's throat. It's not coffee, but it's still pretty good. He thinks of a certain barista with kohl-rimmed eyes—what was that smile about, early this morning? She's usually kind of curt with him. Not that he cares, or anything. It just so happens that her caramel lattes are the best damn coffee in Thedas. That's what he's there for, and nothing else. Small pleasures, right?
It really isn't worth thinking about. Nope, not at all. Meraad has kept his skates and practice gear on, so he decides to get back out on the ice. It's something that he'll enjoy in the moment, but is bound to make his physical therapist sigh with frustration when he fesses up.
"Shootout, boss?"
Bull grins, never one to pass up a challenge. "You're on."
Cassandra parries and ripostes. She aims for Leliana's shoulder, misses, and feels the swift jab of an epee in her side. Completely unguarded.
"That is why you are captain this year, and I am not," she says afterward, in the locker room. Steam wafts over from the shower cubicles. The last of their teammates has just gone home.
Leliana's copper hair is plastered to her forehead. She folds her sweaty uniform, briefly grimacing at its state. "I thought it was so you could focus on your research."
"Such as it is," says Cassandra wryly, as she packs her helmet into her duffel bag.
"Stop that!" There's a hint of a laugh in Leliana's voice, but Cassandra knows she means it. "We all have rough days. Maybe you just need to trust your instincts."
"My instincts to be rash and impulsive?"
Leliana shrugs. "You're more direct than me. You see what needs to be done, and you do it. I like that."
It's true, at least. Cassandra decides to take the compliment.
Leliana switches the subject to something easier, and they keep talking as they push open the gym doors, facing mountain peaks wreathed in sunset.
Cold, clean autumn air gusts through the dining room window, sending a lightning streak up Meraad's left hand. He drops the red pen with a grunt of pain.
He shouldn't have messed around on the ice after practice yesterday. It's easy to forget why he ended his professional hockey career, since the mysterious nerve injury doesn't bother him unless he overtaxes himself. Temptation.
Bull noticed the problem before Meraad was willing to admit it to himself. It's uncanny how much the guy picks up on. If Bull hadn't glided over for a clap on the shoulder and told him to go home and get some rest, well, Meraad isn't sure if he would have said anything. He would have stayed out there on the ice, caught up in pretending that he was still a grinder with the Amaranthine Bears. He can just hear his younger brother's exasperated sigh when he tells him about it on their next phone call. Then he'll tell their younger sister, and it'll be a whole thing…
The pile of midterm papers waits patiently as Meraad shuts the window and massages his hand. He casts a simple warming spell to ease the pain. Ah, there we go.
It'll tide him over until his appointment tomorrow and get him through his work in the meantime. Being a TA this semester is an energy sink, but to be frank, he needed more on his resume. Who knows how long this coaching thing will last.
These days, it doesn't hurt as much to think long-term.
Friday night means wine and movies. Cassandra knocks on the apartment door and Josephine pulls her in for a lavender-scented hug. From the kitchen, Leliana shouts a hello.
They talk through an Antivan action movie and devour an Orlesian-style roast chicken. Midnight comes and goes, and they sprawl on the sectional in a tipsy haze. Josephine untangles the recent drama in the international relations department, semi-incoherent and giggling behind her hand. Leliana shares travel photos from her long-distance girlfriend. They crowd around to see the jagged heights of the Hunterhorns and the spectacular stained glass windows of Serault.
All the while, Cassandra sips her wine and holds a small secret close to her chest, until her friends notice (oh, but of course) and pry it out of her.
When he has a sliver of free time and no particular plans, Meraad likes to go for a browse in the used book shop near campus. There's that vanilla smell of old paper, and the aisles aren't too cramped for his large frame. It's a respite from grad school and hockey.
The counter is deserted that afternoon. A few bright chords float out of the back office, followed by a discordant note and muffled curses as Hawke undoubtedly tries to follow a new piece of sheet music on his lute. Meraad finds his way over to the room marked Genre Fiction.
He steps through the door and almost walks right back out again.
Too late. She's already seen him. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates and she's hastily shoving a paperback onto a shelf.
"Oh, um. Hey." Meraad waves. He has no idea what to do with himself.
The barista steps closer to the central table, the one that Hawke has covered in books with elaborate recommendations. Her short black hair is sticking up, as if she'd been ruffling it absentmindedly while she browsed. Her strong features are usually so composed, focused. He's never seen her this shy when she's behind the espresso machine, except for that one time when he was reading Hard in Hightown. Maybe she's a Tethras fan.
She fiddles with the strap of her leather bag. "Meraad? I… well, I suppose I knew you came here, but…"
"I wasn't expecting this, either," he admits. It's strange to hear so many words come out of her mouth at once. Maker, that voice.
"I'm Cassandra," she blurts out. That name.
Meraad pushes a nervous grin across his face. "Glad to meet you. Again. Sort of. You know what, I'll just go. You okay if I come in next Tuesday?"
"Of course." She brightens, just a bit.
He gives her a little salute, feeling relieved, and ducks his head so he won't hit his horns on the way out.
"Wait!"
Meraad turns back. Cassandra fishes a pen out of her bag and scribbles something on a free bookmark from the table.
"Only if you want to," she says, quietly, as she hands it to him.
He takes it, and realizes that he absolutely does.