Lavellan sat on the bench outside the subway station, nose-deep in the latest installment of Swords and Shields. It was crap, but it was such glorious, smutty crap. And the descriptions! Who in the world had "amber eyes that shone like the setting sun?" Having spent a summer there, those were the last words she'd ever use to describe a Kirkwall cop.
A shadow fell over the pages, and she looked up to see the strange guy from last week--Solas--sporting a slightly pained expression. "Please tell me you're reading it ironically," he said.
Lavellan rolled her eyes at him. "You hipsters. Can't enjoy a piece of trash for what it is." She stuck the book back in her purse and added, "At least this series is better than his vampire romance."
Solas winced. "I know the guy who wrote those. He tried to get me to read the first draft."
"You--what?"
"He was my RA back in undergrad." Solas shrugged. "Now he writes terrible novels for a living, while I eke out a student stipend advancing the world's knowledge."
Lavellan looked him up and down. Thick turtleneck, pens sticking out of his pockets, cheeks and pointed ears turning pink from the cold. "Somehow, I don't think 'terrible smut novelist' was in the cards for you," she said slowly.
Solas snorted quietly. "Then I am grateful for that. Shall we?" He gestured toward the park, where they could hear music coming from the pavilion in the middle. Lavellan swiped a playbill from the usher at the park gates and quickly scanned its contents.
"Bloody Tragedy Weekend: Macbeth and Titus Andronicus," she read. "You like your dates fun and upbeat, I see."
Even in the orange glow of the streetlight, she could see him turning pinker. "I...I didn't know--"
"Easy." She smiled at him as they sat down on the wooden benches, wondering when he'd last gone out for anything fun. If the papers he kept bringing to the coffee shop were any indication, it'd been months for the poor guy. She could pick out the harried grad students just by looking at them nowadays.
"I'm just teasing. Macbeth's my favorite tragedy."
Solas seized on the change of topic. "Interesting. Most people seem to prefer Hamlet."
"Hamlet is a whiny ponce who couldn't figure out which end of a sword goes where. At least Macbeth grew a pair."
Now he began to laugh, and it wasn't the dry hipster chuckle she'd expected. His laughter was warm, happy, and it lit up his whole face. "I'll have to tell my other housemate that," he said. "I love watching the vein pulse in her temple."
The stage lights came on, and she saw Solas's eyes flick to the place where her nametag would be. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I never got your name."
Lavellan shook her head, turning her face to hide her smile. "Later," she whispered as the lights flashed, and three witches dragged a smoking cauldron on stage.