Minific: A Bedtime Story
Title: A Bedtime Story
Characters: Varric, Merrill
Rating: E for everybody!
Synopsis: Merrill doesn't want to go home to her empty, dingy house. Varric lets her sleep over.
“Varric?”
Varric looked up over the rim of his reading glasses to find Merrill standing in the doorway to his bedroom, one bare toe worrying at a knot in the worn wood floor. He placed the book he was reading in his lap, a finger tucked between the pages to hold his place, and smiled.
“Daisy! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The little elf’s shoulders were hunched, her arms wrapped around her slender waist as if trying to squeeze herself out of existence.
“I was wondering, that is, if it isn’t too much trouble, I wouldn’t want to bother you if you’re reading something very important like about lyrium idols or crossbows or even one of Isabela’s naughty stories, that would be too terribly embarrassing -”
“Just spit it out, dear,” Varric interrupted, gently, catching her eyes and giving her a warm, reassuring smile. Merrill took a deep, fortifying breath.
“Could I maybe stay here, with you?” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. “Just for a little while? It’s just that it’s so very late, and my house is so dark and empty and lonely at night…”
Without another word, Varric pulled aside the blankets next to him and patted the bed beside him.
“Ditch the chain mail and hop in,” he told her, and she all but sprinted to comply, practically under the covers before her staff hit the ground.
“Ooh, my!” she marveled, running her hands over the soft, embroidered fabric of the quilt. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a bed as nice as this one.” She turned to poke at the sheets beneath her. “Is the mattress really stuffed with goose-feathers, or is that just a story?”
Varric chuckled warmly and helped draw the covers back over her lap.
“You didn’t have feather beds with the Dalish?” he asked. “Or do you use them all up, sticking them on your shoulders like that?”
“No, we usually slept on furs,” she told him, gathering her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Big piles of furs from bears or wolves stuffed with rushes between the layers to make them softer.” She flopped backwards onto the bed, flinging her arms over her head and sinking into the luxurious pillows. “This is much, much nicer.”
“I like to think so,” Varric agreed.
She lay there awhile, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable. Just as he was about to return to his book, she sat up abruptly, tucking her legs beneath her and placing her hands in her lap.
“What are you reading?” she asked, bending over to see. Varric jerked away from the sudden invasion of his personal space, but quickly relaxed, placing the book between them.
“It’s a book of… bedtime stories,” he explained, face and tone oddly guarded. Merrill cocked her head like an inquisitive bird.
“Are they naughty?” she asked, with innocent curiosity. Varric rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Well, no. They’re actually children’s stories,” he admitted. Daisy swiped the book from his hands and began pawing through the pages.
“Are there any pictures?” she wondered aloud, holding it sideways and letting the leaves fall. Varric gingerly snatched it back.
“A good story doesn’t need pictures,” he told her, smoothing the book across his lap, “but yes, there are pictures.”
Merrill crowded close to him, pressing her cheek against his upper arm and clutching at the sleeve of his night shirt.
“Will you read one to me?” she asked, eyes trained on the book. Varric smiled indulgently.
“All right,” he agreed, holding the book out to her. “Which one?”
Merrill rifled through the pages a moment before pointing emphatically to a woodcut illustration of a cat speaking to a woman wearing long robes and a crown topped with a single, shining star. Varric made a little rumbling sound in his chest, something soft and sad and a little bit happy all at the same time as he took the book back and held it between them.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “ ‘The Little Cat and the Morning Star’. Always a classic.”
Merrill reached behind her to grab a pillow to clutch to her chest and rest her cheek against.
“I’ve never heard of that story before,” she told him with a confused little frown.
“That’s because I wrote it,” he informed her, fluffing the pillow behind him before leaning back against the headboard. “Now, let’s see… ‘The Little Cat lived in a nook no bigger than a loaf of bread beneath the stairs of the bakery…”
Characters: Varric, Merrill
Rating: E for everybody!
Synopsis: Merrill doesn't want to go home to her empty, dingy house. Varric lets her sleep over.
“Varric?”
Varric looked up over the rim of his reading glasses to find Merrill standing in the doorway to his bedroom, one bare toe worrying at a knot in the worn wood floor. He placed the book he was reading in his lap, a finger tucked between the pages to hold his place, and smiled.
“Daisy! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The little elf’s shoulders were hunched, her arms wrapped around her slender waist as if trying to squeeze herself out of existence.
“I was wondering, that is, if it isn’t too much trouble, I wouldn’t want to bother you if you’re reading something very important like about lyrium idols or crossbows or even one of Isabela’s naughty stories, that would be too terribly embarrassing -”
“Just spit it out, dear,” Varric interrupted, gently, catching her eyes and giving her a warm, reassuring smile. Merrill took a deep, fortifying breath.
“Could I maybe stay here, with you?” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. “Just for a little while? It’s just that it’s so very late, and my house is so dark and empty and lonely at night…”
Without another word, Varric pulled aside the blankets next to him and patted the bed beside him.
“Ditch the chain mail and hop in,” he told her, and she all but sprinted to comply, practically under the covers before her staff hit the ground.
“Ooh, my!” she marveled, running her hands over the soft, embroidered fabric of the quilt. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a bed as nice as this one.” She turned to poke at the sheets beneath her. “Is the mattress really stuffed with goose-feathers, or is that just a story?”
Varric chuckled warmly and helped draw the covers back over her lap.
“You didn’t have feather beds with the Dalish?” he asked. “Or do you use them all up, sticking them on your shoulders like that?”
“No, we usually slept on furs,” she told him, gathering her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Big piles of furs from bears or wolves stuffed with rushes between the layers to make them softer.” She flopped backwards onto the bed, flinging her arms over her head and sinking into the luxurious pillows. “This is much, much nicer.”
“I like to think so,” Varric agreed.
She lay there awhile, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable. Just as he was about to return to his book, she sat up abruptly, tucking her legs beneath her and placing her hands in her lap.
“What are you reading?” she asked, bending over to see. Varric jerked away from the sudden invasion of his personal space, but quickly relaxed, placing the book between them.
“It’s a book of… bedtime stories,” he explained, face and tone oddly guarded. Merrill cocked her head like an inquisitive bird.
“Are they naughty?” she asked, with innocent curiosity. Varric rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Well, no. They’re actually children’s stories,” he admitted. Daisy swiped the book from his hands and began pawing through the pages.
“Are there any pictures?” she wondered aloud, holding it sideways and letting the leaves fall. Varric gingerly snatched it back.
“A good story doesn’t need pictures,” he told her, smoothing the book across his lap, “but yes, there are pictures.”
Merrill crowded close to him, pressing her cheek against his upper arm and clutching at the sleeve of his night shirt.
“Will you read one to me?” she asked, eyes trained on the book. Varric smiled indulgently.
“All right,” he agreed, holding the book out to her. “Which one?”
Merrill rifled through the pages a moment before pointing emphatically to a woodcut illustration of a cat speaking to a woman wearing long robes and a crown topped with a single, shining star. Varric made a little rumbling sound in his chest, something soft and sad and a little bit happy all at the same time as he took the book back and held it between them.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “ ‘The Little Cat and the Morning Star’. Always a classic.”
Merrill reached behind her to grab a pillow to clutch to her chest and rest her cheek against.
“I’ve never heard of that story before,” she told him with a confused little frown.
“That’s because I wrote it,” he informed her, fluffing the pillow behind him before leaning back against the headboard. “Now, let’s see… ‘The Little Cat lived in a nook no bigger than a loaf of bread beneath the stairs of the bakery…”