Work Text:
It's a crisp autumn evening and dusk is not giving over to night without at least a little fight.
Varric snorts out a laugh. The thought came to him unbidden and, of course, fighting is on the forefront of his mind. Cassandra sits nearby on the balcony, pointedly not looking at him.
He doesn't even remember what the fight was about. They bicker so freely, it could have been anything; something she said, something he said, the dishes in the sink, the colour of the sky…
There's a gust of wind. It ruffles the pages he's working on, tugs at his hair. Summer is definitely gone and the wind has a bite.
Probably in spite of herself, Cassandra shivers.
Varric has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop from asking if she's cold or if he should go get a sweater. It's instinct to want to make sure she's okay, but the instinct to not be the first one to talk after a fight is just a teensy bit stronger.
She gets up from her chair and stalks inside, coming back with the blanket from their bed. Varric watches but doesn't say anything.
Cassandra wraps herself up in the downy comforter. She never did like the changing of the seasons, but she does like sitting outside with him in the evenings while he catches up with correspondence or works on his latest novel or whatever. Some nights, in summertime anyways, and when they're not fighting, they just sit and enjoy each other's company and Kirkwall's familiar noise.
Varric realizes he's getting lost in thought when, realistically, he's got another hour of contracts to draft for the Merchant's Guild. He dips his pen in the ink again and tries to refocus on the task at hand.
He's nearly done when he starts noticing the uncomfortable cold seeping into his bones. His fingers are getting stiff. He sneaks a glance at Cassandra, because if he's feeling the cold, she must be shivering. Varric's surprised, likely visibly, that she's shuffled her chair over without him noticing. He could move his hand off his contract and brush their hands together.
Cassandra must notice his discomfort. She sighs; a deeper a sigh has never been heard, Varric knows. She untucks the edge of the blanket and drapes it over his hand.
Varric laughs. She caved first. He's won.
"Quiet," she warns him, but she lets him move the blanket away and pull her into his lap.
"Okay," Varric agrees. He kisses her and feels her soften a little in his arms. Maybe it's because she's happily absorbing all his body heat, maybe it's because he's spent the last three years memorizing all the best way to kiss her, or maybe she, like him, was getting bored with the silent treatment.
When she sighs contentedly and lays her head on his shoulder, he knows the tiff is over. Sure enough, one will start again before the week's out, but they're through with it for now.
"Inside?" she suggests. Varric gathers up his papers, all notions of finishing his work tonight thoroughly quashed.
"Bed?" he counters.
She snorts back a laugh. It's how most of the ends of fights, well, end. Cassandra slides off his lap and pulls him by the arm until he stands and follows her in.
It isn't until an hour later they even realize they left the quilt outside, but it was agreed quickly that it was too cold a night to go fetch it. They'll find another way to keep warm.