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melisusthewee · 1 year

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Happy Friday Mel!! How about something for Cassandra/m!Trevelyan + "Cutting their hair for them." from the wordless ways to say i love you?

I spent ages working on this prompt fill only to re-read the prompt and go, "Oh... well... no one actually gets their hair cut" but you'll see why at the end and I still have to say I'm really proud of this piece and I think it was at least in the spirit of this prompt. Which I very much enjoyed receiving, thank you! It was a fantastic excuse to write some post-whump fluff.

Consider this a much later sequel to this prompt fill. Will I ever write the larger fic? I have no idea.

For @dadrunkwriting Word Count: 2,304

Quinn Trevelyan makes an irritable sound as Cassandra wrings warm water out of a fresh cloth. He isn't looking at her, instead staring out one of the room's large windows. His brow is furrowed and his jaw is set in a profile that is as handsome as it is unhappy.

He's not cross with her. She'd know it if he was. He is upset with himself and Cassandra's reassurances that there is nothing wrong with resting, that the road to recovery from an illness as severe as his is long and slow. But Quinn is tired of his bed, of his room, of the ragged and unkempt beard creeping across his face, and hair that hasn't been properly washed in weeks.

His stern expression softens when Cassandra begins to dab the cloth against his neck and shoulder, but only reluctantly. He doesn't complain - not to her, at least - but she knows he wants to.

"This is only until you get your strength back," she says, as she has said to him every time she does something for him that she knows he would rather do himself.

"It is back. It is just... short-lived."

"Perhaps we should keep that a secret," she replies with a quiet smile.

Quinn turns to look at her, confused for a moment before he narrows his eyes at her. "My lady, that is hardly what I meant."

"It was a joke, my love."

"You need to work on those."

"I thought it was funny," Cassandra replies, taking one of Quinn's hands in her own to hold out his arm for her.

He complies, intertwining his fingers with her own without a sound. He gives a little squeeze likely to insist upon how he is better, he is fine, and he doesn't need to have someone bathe him like this. But it does not have the effect he hopes for.

The Inquisitor has always been a lean man, but his prolonged illness has made him lose an unhealthy amount of weight. It will be a while before he gets it all back, particularly as his appetite is still only slowly returning in stages - the half-drunk cup of tea long grown cold that sits by the bedside is proof of this. With his limb extended as it is, she can see the atrophied muscles that shift as he does. His skin still has an unhealthy pallor to it, and the bruises and markings from all the initial attempts by the surgeon to purge the illness that circulated in his blood are still visible.

She has to remind herself that it is behind them. He is better now, mending, on the slow road to recovery. There is some colour returned to his cheeks, and while his eyes are bruised and sunken, a spark shines within in a brightness that is unmatched. When she looks at him, he smiles and she can see the familiar lines crinkling at the corner of his eyes. The man she loves perseveres.

But it is hard not to look at him and think about all the days and nights spent keeping vigil - of holding a hand that was clammy and weak and did not always squeeze back, of listening to fevered mutterings that became increasingly incomprehensible, of a man who at the worst of it looked so small and fragile and as helpless as she felt.

She pushes down these thoughts as she works. With one arm done, she moves on to the next before telling him to pull back the blanket and turn onto his side for her. He does so, without complaint at first, but as Cassandra tends to his back and tries not to notice how sharply his shoulder blades press against his skin, Quinn seems unable to help himself.

"You could make this a bit more exciting."

"I would not want you to feel inadequate with your short-lived strength."

Quinn gives her a look over his shoulder that tells her he very much regrets his earlier choice of words.

He continues to grumble to himself even as he turns back away from her. It sounds like it is for show more than anything else, but he then jumps suddenly when she dips down towards his lower back.

"Cassandra, I must insist you let me do the rest myself!"

"It isn't anything I haven't already seen."

"That's not the point." He pulls away from her, sitting back up in his bed, and holding the covers tightly over himself. The stern look from earlier is back on his face but this time it's directed at her. "I don't see why I can't just go and have a proper bath!"

Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him skeptically and pushes her chair back a little ways from his bedside. She gestures nearby to the ladder leading up to the little loft built into the room where Quinn had decided to have a private bathing area set up. The ladder is the only way up or down. She knows it is a simple climb under most circumstances, but Quinn is not under most circumstances right now.

"I can help you up or down a staircase. I cannot help you with a ladder. You can make it up there on your own? And back down when you've finished?"

Quinn's jaw is set defiantly. When he is in this way, Cassandra thinks this must be what it is like to deal with a child. In this instance, it is a very tall and bearded child who throws off the blankets and jumps to his feet in a flourish of naked glory.

Much to Cassandra's prediction and concern, Quinn almost immediately swoons and she is up on her feet to catch and steady him before he completely collapses to the floor. He's dead weight in her arms, looking dazed and dizzy for a moment before his expression slowly clears. He has not quite blacked out after all, but it was close.

"That was very foolish of you," she says, coaxing him gently into a sitting position on the edge of his bed.

There is a defeated slouch to Quinn's shoulders that make him look even smaller and thinner than he is. He can't meet her eyes - or he won't meet her eyes - and sighs, completely dejected.

"Can't I at least be saved this one indignity?" he asks.

Cassandra frowns though it is not an unkind expression. She hates to see him like this just as much as he does, if not more. The Quinn Trevelyan she knows and loves is tall and sure-footed, flamboyant and energetic, an absolute terror and menace. She can see how his current limitations weigh on him, how uncomfortable he is with being forced to admit and show any sort of vulnerability.

"Alright," she says, gently this time. "I will leave you to finish while I get fresh water. And we can then do something about your hair."

"Thank you," he says. And she knows that he means it.

She takes her time climbing the ladder into the loft and fetching things for his hair. She knows where everything is kept - she's used the Inquisitor's special dwarven-constructed bath enough times to know which soap is kept where - but she chooses to allow Quinn a moment alone in order for the storm cloud threatening his mood to pass.

When she returns, Quinn has left his bed again although this time he appears to have taken more care and settled himself in her vacated chair. He's retrieved a small mirror and seems singularly focused on his appearance. Every now and then a hand reaches out to comb strands of hair out of his eyes. A deep frown is etched in his face that seems to linger even as he looks up at her approaching footsteps.

"I look terrible. Why did no one tell me I look terrible?"

Cassandra does not think he looks terrible at all. He looks tired, he looks thinner than usual, and considering his lack of modesty she thinks he looks rather cold. But she knows these are not what Quinn is complaining about. She isn't certain if the growth on his face can truly be called a proper beard, but his moustache and chin have gotten considerably thicker and longer. It is uneven in places and while there isn't much more than patchy-looking growth on most of his cheeks, what she can only describe as scruff has spread along his jaw. It is in her opinion somehow both adorable and rugged.

"You just need a good wash," Cassandra says, setting the basin and jug on a nearby table. "And perhaps a comb through it."

"I must protest, Lady Seeker," he says, though he takes the basin when she offers it to him and bows his head over it obediently. "You know I'm very particular about my hair."

"Do you not trust me? Shall I instead ask Sera to see to you? She cuts her own hair as well."

Quinn's protest is immediate, his head snapping up to glower at her. You wouldn't dare, he says wordlessly as he stares at her. Cassandra simply rolls her eyes and pushes his head back down so that she can begin.

She uses the water sparingly at first - just enough to wet his hair before beginning to lather soap into it. Quinn's strict particularities about his grooming rituals mean that every bottle of soap and oil and lotion is clearly labeled. Even so, he mumbles the names of products to her and what they should smell like lest she grab one in the wrong order. But eventually, the tension in his shoulders seems to dissipate and he simply sits with his head bowed, cradling the catch basin in his arms, soothed by the feeling of Cassandra's fingers working through his hair. She thinks she even hears the softest of sighs or a happy little sound of contentment.

The scent of cloves and rosemary mixed into Quinn's soap soon fills the air. It is crisp and refreshing, the first thing to finally overtake the smell of sickness that still clung to him. It's a cleaner and brighter sort of herbal scent that is sharp and alive. Cassandra is much more fond of it than the bitter smell of nightshade from the tea he'd been fed, or the earthy smell of Vivienne's tonics and the surgeon's leeches.

She works the soap evenly through his hair, being careful to keep it out of his eyes and from dribbling down the back of his neck as much as possible. Once she is satisfied with her work, she gently pours the pitcher of warm water over his head, continuing to run her fingers through his hair to gently rinse away the lather.

"You see?" she teases once she's finished, reaching for a nearby towel to gently dry his hair. "You've survived. I haven't drowned you."

Quinn chuckles for the first time, a sound she admits that she has missed from him and one that never ceases to cause her heart to flutter. "May I sit up now, my lady? Or do you wish for me to remain bent over for you a while longer?"

Cassandra makes a dismissive sound at the back of her throat and gives his head a bit of a rougher rub than she should for a moment before draping the towel around his shoulders. He can't see it but she is smiling. "The world will be pleased to hear your cheek has not suffered nor your tongue lost any of its boldness."

Quinn grins as he sits up and looks at her, an impish expression on his face. Cassandra rolls her eyes at him - more for show than for anything else - before setting down the pitcher and picking up a nearby comb in order to tend further to his hair.

"Do you know which side to part it on?" he asks suddenly, almost as if he can't help himself.

"Are you going to ask me next if I know what colour your eyes are?"

Quinn frowns slightly, realizing his misstep and hastily offers a sheepish apology. For a moment, Cassandra is tempted to comb back his hair and part it on the wrong side anyway - either to tease him further or to make a point - but decides against it. He wouldn't look right anyway.

"There is still the matter of my face," he says as she struggles with a lock of hair on his forehead that seems determined to misbehave.

"The Inquisitor has decided to trust me now? I've proven my worth by washing his hair?"

Quinn smiles, but it is a soft and almost subdued look with none of his earlier cheek. "Perhaps I realize that I enjoy this. Sitting here with you. The two of us."

Oh.

His earnesty is unexpected but not at all unwanted. Quinn is normally so flippant with his words, a man of smiles and humor and action that so very rarely seems capable of expressing himself from the heart. Of course she knows he enjoys her company but it is something else entirely to hear it said to her like he does now.

She smiles back at him in turn, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear before gently taking his face in her hands. He leans into her touch, saying nothing but looking at her with eyes that seem so expressive that he doesn't need to say anything at all. She knows what he means. And she is glad for it.

"Perhaps..." she says slowly, brushing her thumbs across cheeks dotted with long-faded freckles and the barest hints of scruff at the edges. "Perhaps you can live with this for one more day?"

"This time, I think I will survive," Quinn replies with a breathless little laugh.

#da drunk writing circle #dadwc #cassandra pentaghast #cassandra x inquisitor #inquisitor trevelyan #m!trevelyan #sick fic #oc: quinn trevelyan #melis writes stuff #i did an unhealthy amount of research for things that only appear in the background #such as the nightshade tea and vivienne's tonics and the leeches for bloodletting #also did you know that apparently cloves were often used in medieval hair treatments as the smell drives lice away?#you can also probably tell that i started writing this almost immediately after finishing a certain amc show and i am not sorry #that's a visual reference only a handful of you will understand

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