stabsbooks | for obi

The name had been a part of her nearly all her life, as familiar to her as her own. When it had first appeared - glowing golden script on her inner arm - she had been fascinated, spending hours upon hours staring at it, tracing the letters with one finger, dreaming about the kind of person her soulmate might be. The name was strange to her, not Nevarran or Orlesian or anything she had heard of, but that had only added to the mystery and excitement.

His name had appeared on her skin at the time of her first flowering - one more marker on her path from girlhood into womanhood. If she had been the sort to go to school and have friends, it might have been the kind of thing to giggle over with the other girls, to shyly hide away, only to shriek in feigned indigence when her sleeve was playfully pushed up and the name finally revealed. As it was, Cassandra learned from tutors, and rarely had contact with other children. The name, like her beloved books and dreams of dragon-hunting, became a solitary escape, a daydream of a better life.

Both had faded, in time, as such things do. Fantasies of true love and romance had been replaced by the realities of work and duty (though Cassandra had never quite been able to let go of her fondness for romance, if only entirely fictional ones). And the name on her arm had faded from a bright gold to something duller and duller as the years went on, until it was something that could not be seen at all except in the brightest light of day.

(The longer it took, they said, the more your soulmate's name faded, the less likely you were ever to find him at all. And this one - an unknown, foreign name, one belonging to a man who clearly lacked either the interest or the means to seek out a soulmate with the name Pentaghast, well...)

Cassandra herself couldn't say exactly when it was she had stopped expecting to find him. Certainly it had been nothing overnight, no sudden revelation. She had simply woken up one day, no longer a girl in her twenties eager to make the world her own, but a woman in her late thirties - accomplished, certainly, perhaps even fulfilled - but utterly alone, and more and more likely to stay that way.

But the name is still a part of her, as much as it ever had been. And so it is that when she hears it spoken aloud for the first time, she doesn't even blink; hearing the words she had whispered so reverently to herself for twenty-five years is as natural as breathing.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi." She nods sharply, focused on her work, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is urgently whispering something, something is happening, this is important - She holds her hand out to shake - her arms, as they always are these days, fully covered by long sleeves that meet her gloves, the barely-visible name securely hidden from even the most prying eyes. "I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That much is probably for the best - there would be no end to his teasing, if Varric ever found out that she read his books. Let alone the romance novel, of all things.

She blinks in surprise at Obi-Wan's concerned question - why would she not be all right? - and shakes her head, dismissing his worry. Somehow she can't seem to find the words for what she wants to say, and so instead she surges forward, cupping his face gently in both hands and kissing him passionately, there where he lies on the cold stone ground.

She breaks away from him after a moment, looking away from him, oddly shy. But she can't hide her smile.

"Thank you."

He's nothing loathe to the idea of being kissed-- is, in fact, enthusiasticall in favor. She takes him by surprise and leaves him breathless, so that his response is open and perhaps only too honest.

"...oh," He breathes, a little lost, and for a few breaths, that is all. And then, belatedly, "You're... very welcome."

Very welcome, indeed.

"I'm only glad I could bring a smile to your face."

She blushes at that, ducking her head to hide her expression and busying herself with parceling out their food. Obi-Wan would never tease her - not like some would - but still.

"It's silly, of course," she says, trying and failing to sound dismissive. As if this isn't such a big deal after all. "The book is not even good! But I..." She shrugs her shoulders, helplessly. "I have been...wanting...to know how it ends."

Dying to know would be more accurate. Once or twice she'd even come close to approaching Varric herself - even if he never wrote another chapter, he must know what had happened next! But she never had, of course. Couldn't have, knowing how he would react. She glances up at Obi-Wan again, her smile growing soft and warm.

"It is the perfect gift."

"I have to admit, I've never read any of Varric's books," He tells her, "Perhaps I could convince you-- to introduce me to them, sometime."

It's a pleasant thought, of the infirmary at Skyhold, the heat of the fire and thick blankets. Of Cassandra reading-- well, not all of the book of course. But some; if they survived this, if Obi-Wan survived this, then he had at least some convalescence ahead of him, surely. Even magic couldn't put together bone as quickly as all that, and he could afford a break, where those with stronger duties could not.

"After all, who better?"

"Oh."

She hadn't considered that he might ask that. She goes quiet, and suddenly finds herself very interested in looking down at the food as she hands Obi-Wan his portion and takes some for herself. If he looks closely enough, he might be able to make out the blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Ah...perhaps."

The light in the cave leaves something to be desired, but his eyes are well-accustomed to the twilight dimness and, most of all, it is her doing the blushing. Of course, therefore, Obi-Wan is watching closely enough to see the blush, and to smile.

"...It's alright, if you'd rather not," He takes the portion meant for him when she offers it, and chews slowly, thinking, "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

But that soft, faintly smug expression says otherwise, as if her blush were the best reward he could have hoped for, when he made the suggestion. As if simply seeing her like this, open, vulnerable and honest in her emotion, were more beautiful in his eyes than any other could be, be she ever so dignified. A tender moment, and sweet.

"Oh, it - it is not that..."

Cassandra isn't accustomed to being less than entirely truthful, and it shows. She fidgets uncomfortably, unable to meet his gaze - and therefore entirely ignorant of the affectionate, tender way that he smiles at her - and finally clears her throat, sitting up straight and doing her best to look unruffled and dignified. The result is merely that she looks unnaturally stiff, and more uncomfortable than ever.

"I simply...do not know that you would enjoy it. That is all."

"It's true, I'm not much given to reading purely for pleasure."

He reads a great deal, but more often it's reports and lists and letters. Dry things, things that are as absolutely riveting as they are intensely boring. After all, the movements and needs of Skyhold's slowly-increasing Templar population are of no less importance, for all that they're dull.

"But, since they're your favorites..." He leads, gently enough, though the smirk is slowly escaping its leash, yearning like an eager dog towards becoming a grin, "That seems to me to be something of a recommendation."

For some reason, her cheeks go even redder at the word pleasure. She does her best to keep her eyes firmly on the ground, knowing that all will be lost if she looks up at him now.

It doesn't last long. Her head snaps up, eyes going wide with alarm. A recommendation?

"You must not think that!" she blurts out, near-panicked. "They are not - that is - simply because I enjoy them, that does not mean that they are good!"

He can't help it; she's so earnest. He laughs, just a chuckle, but enough to earn him the just reward for such foolishness: pain, from his forgotten injury. Bruised ribs and tender bones do not happy bedfellows make when paired with belly-laughs. Ouch. He deserved that.

"No, no, I'm quite sure Varric made sure they were awful," He assures her, through the wince. It's appropriate, you see, because in his own affable way, Varric himself was awful, "But you do like them?"

Cassandra doesn't share his amusement. She sniffs, injured, and draws herself up with all of the dignity she can muster - which is as considerable as ever, even sitting in yesterday's clothes on the floor of a cave.

"Yes. I do." Her eyes narrow, and she glares at Obi-Wan, as if daring him to challenge her. As if she hadn't been the one disparaging the books only a moment ago, as if he hadn't been the one praising her taste.

"...Then, I'm certain I will too," He tells her, trying to stifle another chuckle, which could do no good, and would be painful besides. Even if the books are truly horrendous, the pleasure she takes from them would have been...

Would be...

Would be, yes. He must not give in to that despair; there might not be any coming back from it.

"I'm glad, that you like the gift."

Cassandra eyes him suspiciously a moment longer, as if waiting for him to turn on her, to laugh outright at her or even smile the wrong way. But he manages to keep a straight face, and after a moment she relaxes slightly, her expression softening.

"I do, my love." She pauses, and then reaches out to him, taking his hand. "It is..." She sighs, helpless, and shakes her head. "It is terribly thoughtful of you."

for obi_wanmanshow

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

shows up late, with starbucks

dusts off journal