Work Text:
"What're you writing now?"
"What," said Chaucer, "am I writing now? Which is to imply that I have, in your most erudite opinion, heretofore exhausted all reasonable avenues of poetic expression, that I toil in superfluity? Oh heavens, Chaucer, percipient portraitist of human vice and virtue, incomparable chronicler of our times, what are you writing now--"
"Right," said Wat, slowly. "I want to know exactly what is so important it needs writing down at god-only-knows o'clock in the morning, you miserable git."
The last bit was more an afterthought than anything, but Chaucer was too busy gesticulating irritably to notice. "History!" he cried. "The past! The breadth and depth of immeasurable feeling distilled in written word, the epic, man's triumph and man's torment, versal proof of--"
"Good god, man, come to bed before you catch your death and haunt English forever."
"I am an author," Chaucer groused, but he laid down his quill all the same. "Not some clerk. There is no more end to my work than there is to human experience."
Wat slid over with a yawn and folded back the blanket. "A solid third of which, I'm told, your average man spends sleeping."
Grudgingly, Chaucer rolled up his parchments to submit to the temptation of bed. "But I am not," he sniffed for good measure, "your average man."
"Far less man than average," Wat drowsily confirmed, curling into his warmth. "Fong you like snapping a twig."
"You know, the sorts who read my books, they'd have me write in Latin or in French. But you, dear Wat, have the soul of a poet. Wouldn't have them miss it for the world."
But Wat was already asleep, and thinking perhaps Wat had his wisdoms after all, Chaucer followed shortly after.