thedawn - Perfect
Name: thedawn/Arbryna
Title: Perfect
Characters/Pairings: Merrill + Isabela friendship
Rating: G
Summary: Merrill's having a hard time. Isabela is better at caring for people than she'd care to admit.
Notes: Inspired by Pink's song, "F*ckin' Perfect", because it gave me all kinds of Isabela + Merrill feels.
Link: AO3
The door to Merrill's house swings open with barely more than a nudge. Isabela's never been one to knock, but usually people try to make it a bit more difficult for her. Even after six years in Kirkwall, the necessity and value of locks has yet to sink in for the poor girl. Isabela steps in, shaking her head as a fond smile pulls at her lips. It's not as if Merrill's in any danger, anyhow. Varric's probably got bodyguards posted all over the alienage to keep her out of trouble.
For a moment, it seems like Merrill isn't even home. The main room is empty and silent, save for the muffled scurrying of whatever rodents are living in the walls, and the torches have burned down to a faint glow. There's brighter light spilling in from the bedroom, though, and Isabela walks over to investigate.
Merrill doesn't look up at first; she's sitting huddled on the edge of her bed cradling something in her hands, and while she's not openly weeping or anything, Isabela's known her long enough (and isn't that a disturbing thought) to know that she's clearly brooding, at the very least.
"What have you got there?" Isabela asks, sinking down next to Merrill.
"Oh!" Merrill looks up sharply. The surprise and alarm fade from her face as she realizes who her guest is. "Isabela, I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm not surprised, with how hard you're focusing on that thing." Upon closer inspection, Isabela recognizes the item Merrill is clutching as that odd tool thing Hawke helped her get from the Dalish. "I'm no expert, but aren't you supposed to do more than glare at it?"
Instead of the chuckle Isabela was hoping for, Merrill just sighs. "I've tried everything else," she says glumly. Her gaze drifts over to the wooden frame in the corner. "No matter what I do, I just can't get it to work."
Of course it's that sodding mirror again. If she thought it would help, Isabela would take the damn thing and throw it into the harbor. Merrill would never forgive her, though, and Isabela's never been the sort of person to tell others how they should live their life. She's had enough of that pointed in her own direction, thank you very much.
She hasn't got much in the way of advice, though. Magic has never been her area of expertise. She's quite good at changing the subject, however. "We missed you last night," Isabela says, bumping Merrill's shoulder with her own. "Wicked Grace wasn't the same without you."
Merrill scoffs, a sound so bitter and resigned that one would hardly believe it came from the normally chipper elf. "You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to make me feel better." Merrill's shoulders rise with her breath, then sag even lower than before. "I know I'm not a very fun person to be around."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, I never understand anyone's jokes. I can't drink more than half a pint of ale before I'm dozing off on the table. I'm no good at playing cards." Merrill sighs, frowning at the tool in her hand once more. "I'm not very good at much of anything, really."
Pursing her lips, Isabela tugs the blade out of Merrill's grip, placing it on the bed behind her. A gentle nudge of fingers to Merrill's chin guides their gazes together. "Kitten, where is all this coming from? Did someone say something to you?" Anders or Fenris would be the most likely candidates--if either of them had done this, they'd be having a nice long chat with her daggers very soon.
"Oh, no, you're all very kind to me," Merrill responds quickly. "You and Varric especially, and Hawke is wonderful to everyone. I wish I could repay you all somehow. You must spend more time worrying about me than anything else--"
Isabela presses a finger to Merrill's lips, stopping her mid-ramble. "Kitten."
Merrill's eyes are wide as she attempts to speak around Isabela's finger. "Yes, Isabela?"
"Have you ever known me to waste my time with anyone or anything I didn't like?" Isabela's voice is firm, but gentle. Merrill shakes her head slowly. "Then what in the Void makes you think I'd be here if I didn't want to be?"
That seems to stump Merrill, and her eyes drop. Isabela sighs, slipping her arm around Merrill's shoulders and tugging her closer. Merrill lets her head drop down onto Isabela's shoulder.
"Merrill, the only person who thinks you're not worth anything is you." There's a tightness in Isabela's chest, a lump in her throat. Just a few short years ago, she'd have been horrified to feel it; balls, she'd have been horrified to even be having this conversation. Kirkwall has changed her, though, loath as she is to admit it--well, maybe not Kirkwall itself so much as the people in it.
"Still, I wish I could be more like you," Merrill sighs.
"Are you still on about that?" Isabela chuckles. "You don't want to be like me. You're a far better person than I am. You're sweet, thoughtful, considerate...all those nasty things that don't put coin in my pocket or wind in my sails." Her thoughts are turning toward the dark and self-pitying; before they can get too far, Isabela squeezes Merrill's shoudlers and tries to focus. "And you're smart. You'd be a good con artist, you know, if you ever learned how to lie properly. Everyone thinks you're so naive and gentle, when you could have them at your mercy in a second. You could get close enough to someone to rip their heart from their chest without them suspecting a thing."
"I'm not sure I could do a thing like that," Merrill says uneasily, her frown pressing against Isabela's shoulder.
Isabela shakes her head, laughs. "That's exactly what makes you so bloody perfect. Even after everything life's thrown at you, you still manage to be kind. You'd give someone your last bit of bread if it meant they wouldn't miss a meal." She chuckles bitterly. "I'd be the one taking it from them when they weren't looking."
Merrill pulls away then, to peer up at Isabela. "You think I'm perfect?"
"Just the way you are, Kitten," Isabela replies, pressing a kiss into Merrill's forehead.
"Well, it's not very realistic," Merrill says, "but I do appreciate the thought." Her arm snakes around Isabela's waist, and her head drops back down to nuzzle into Isabela's shoulder. It makes a smile spring to Isabela's lips; she definitely picked the right nickname.
"So long as you stop beating yourself up over everything." It's ridiculous, really; of all the people Isabela has known in her lifetime, there's probably no one less deserving of criticism than Merrill. Oh, she's not actually perfect, Isabela knows that--the blood magic, and all that business--but she's the bloody closest to it Isabela has ever seen.
"You know, Isabela," Merrill murmurs, without pulling away. "If I'm perfect, then you are too."
Isabela scoffs. "I'm as far from it as you can get."
"No you're not," Merrill chides, squeezing Isabela's waist. "You're a good person. You've always been kind to me, and you don't make me feel stupid when I don't understand something. I haven't ever had very many friends, but you're the best."
There are so many things Isabela wants to say, so many arguments to make. She's not a good person--she's fairly certain she's proved that, time and again--but if it helps Merrill to think that she is, then maybe she can leave the arguing for later.
Instead, Isabela just drops her head down, resting it against the top of Merrill's. She can't deny that it feels nice to have someone think so highly of her--almost makes her want to believe it. "I thought you said you weren't good at anything."
Title: Perfect
Characters/Pairings: Merrill + Isabela friendship
Rating: G
Summary: Merrill's having a hard time. Isabela is better at caring for people than she'd care to admit.
Notes: Inspired by Pink's song, "F*ckin' Perfect", because it gave me all kinds of Isabela + Merrill feels.
Link: AO3
The door to Merrill's house swings open with barely more than a nudge. Isabela's never been one to knock, but usually people try to make it a bit more difficult for her. Even after six years in Kirkwall, the necessity and value of locks has yet to sink in for the poor girl. Isabela steps in, shaking her head as a fond smile pulls at her lips. It's not as if Merrill's in any danger, anyhow. Varric's probably got bodyguards posted all over the alienage to keep her out of trouble.
For a moment, it seems like Merrill isn't even home. The main room is empty and silent, save for the muffled scurrying of whatever rodents are living in the walls, and the torches have burned down to a faint glow. There's brighter light spilling in from the bedroom, though, and Isabela walks over to investigate.
Merrill doesn't look up at first; she's sitting huddled on the edge of her bed cradling something in her hands, and while she's not openly weeping or anything, Isabela's known her long enough (and isn't that a disturbing thought) to know that she's clearly brooding, at the very least.
"What have you got there?" Isabela asks, sinking down next to Merrill.
"Oh!" Merrill looks up sharply. The surprise and alarm fade from her face as she realizes who her guest is. "Isabela, I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm not surprised, with how hard you're focusing on that thing." Upon closer inspection, Isabela recognizes the item Merrill is clutching as that odd tool thing Hawke helped her get from the Dalish. "I'm no expert, but aren't you supposed to do more than glare at it?"
Instead of the chuckle Isabela was hoping for, Merrill just sighs. "I've tried everything else," she says glumly. Her gaze drifts over to the wooden frame in the corner. "No matter what I do, I just can't get it to work."
Of course it's that sodding mirror again. If she thought it would help, Isabela would take the damn thing and throw it into the harbor. Merrill would never forgive her, though, and Isabela's never been the sort of person to tell others how they should live their life. She's had enough of that pointed in her own direction, thank you very much.
She hasn't got much in the way of advice, though. Magic has never been her area of expertise. She's quite good at changing the subject, however. "We missed you last night," Isabela says, bumping Merrill's shoulder with her own. "Wicked Grace wasn't the same without you."
Merrill scoffs, a sound so bitter and resigned that one would hardly believe it came from the normally chipper elf. "You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to make me feel better." Merrill's shoulders rise with her breath, then sag even lower than before. "I know I'm not a very fun person to be around."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, I never understand anyone's jokes. I can't drink more than half a pint of ale before I'm dozing off on the table. I'm no good at playing cards." Merrill sighs, frowning at the tool in her hand once more. "I'm not very good at much of anything, really."
Pursing her lips, Isabela tugs the blade out of Merrill's grip, placing it on the bed behind her. A gentle nudge of fingers to Merrill's chin guides their gazes together. "Kitten, where is all this coming from? Did someone say something to you?" Anders or Fenris would be the most likely candidates--if either of them had done this, they'd be having a nice long chat with her daggers very soon.
"Oh, no, you're all very kind to me," Merrill responds quickly. "You and Varric especially, and Hawke is wonderful to everyone. I wish I could repay you all somehow. You must spend more time worrying about me than anything else--"
Isabela presses a finger to Merrill's lips, stopping her mid-ramble. "Kitten."
Merrill's eyes are wide as she attempts to speak around Isabela's finger. "Yes, Isabela?"
"Have you ever known me to waste my time with anyone or anything I didn't like?" Isabela's voice is firm, but gentle. Merrill shakes her head slowly. "Then what in the Void makes you think I'd be here if I didn't want to be?"
That seems to stump Merrill, and her eyes drop. Isabela sighs, slipping her arm around Merrill's shoulders and tugging her closer. Merrill lets her head drop down onto Isabela's shoulder.
"Merrill, the only person who thinks you're not worth anything is you." There's a tightness in Isabela's chest, a lump in her throat. Just a few short years ago, she'd have been horrified to feel it; balls, she'd have been horrified to even be having this conversation. Kirkwall has changed her, though, loath as she is to admit it--well, maybe not Kirkwall itself so much as the people in it.
"Still, I wish I could be more like you," Merrill sighs.
"Are you still on about that?" Isabela chuckles. "You don't want to be like me. You're a far better person than I am. You're sweet, thoughtful, considerate...all those nasty things that don't put coin in my pocket or wind in my sails." Her thoughts are turning toward the dark and self-pitying; before they can get too far, Isabela squeezes Merrill's shoudlers and tries to focus. "And you're smart. You'd be a good con artist, you know, if you ever learned how to lie properly. Everyone thinks you're so naive and gentle, when you could have them at your mercy in a second. You could get close enough to someone to rip their heart from their chest without them suspecting a thing."
"I'm not sure I could do a thing like that," Merrill says uneasily, her frown pressing against Isabela's shoulder.
Isabela shakes her head, laughs. "That's exactly what makes you so bloody perfect. Even after everything life's thrown at you, you still manage to be kind. You'd give someone your last bit of bread if it meant they wouldn't miss a meal." She chuckles bitterly. "I'd be the one taking it from them when they weren't looking."
Merrill pulls away then, to peer up at Isabela. "You think I'm perfect?"
"Just the way you are, Kitten," Isabela replies, pressing a kiss into Merrill's forehead.
"Well, it's not very realistic," Merrill says, "but I do appreciate the thought." Her arm snakes around Isabela's waist, and her head drops back down to nuzzle into Isabela's shoulder. It makes a smile spring to Isabela's lips; she definitely picked the right nickname.
"So long as you stop beating yourself up over everything." It's ridiculous, really; of all the people Isabela has known in her lifetime, there's probably no one less deserving of criticism than Merrill. Oh, she's not actually perfect, Isabela knows that--the blood magic, and all that business--but she's the bloody closest to it Isabela has ever seen.
"You know, Isabela," Merrill murmurs, without pulling away. "If I'm perfect, then you are too."
Isabela scoffs. "I'm as far from it as you can get."
"No you're not," Merrill chides, squeezing Isabela's waist. "You're a good person. You've always been kind to me, and you don't make me feel stupid when I don't understand something. I haven't ever had very many friends, but you're the best."
There are so many things Isabela wants to say, so many arguments to make. She's not a good person--she's fairly certain she's proved that, time and again--but if it helps Merrill to think that she is, then maybe she can leave the arguing for later.
Instead, Isabela just drops her head down, resting it against the top of Merrill's. She can't deny that it feels nice to have someone think so highly of her--almost makes her want to believe it. "I thought you said you weren't good at anything."