Hawke and Varric have always been there through each other for thick and thin. Pity they're both also incredibly oblivious. Hawke and Varric dance around each other for years, but what happens when they finally figure themselves out? ~3500 words of friends to lovers, fluff and angst, and idiots in love. written for Hightown Funk 2022 for @veorlian. :)
-
“I didn’t realize it was possible for something to smell like that,” Marian Hawke hissed, using the tip of her staff to poke at a pile of sludge. Something twinkled in the muck, a faint gleam of gold. She forced herself to swallow her gorge. “But coin is coin, right? I don’t suppose Bartrand would object to another sovereign, even if it is a Darktown special.”
Varric raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you do a spell? Magic the stench off of it? My brother does love gold, but this might cross the line.”
“Really Varric, where do you come up with these ideas?” asked Merrill. “Hawke, I’m afraid you’re on your own for this.”
“Oh, yes, just a bit of a destenching spell, first magic I ever performed,” Marian snickered. She glanced at Carver, who gave her a warning look. “I suppose you’ve got a point. Growing up with siblings, it’s a good spell to keep in one’s back pocket.”
“As if you weren’t right there with me, getting dirty as anything,” said Carver. “Bethany might be the only one of us who’s ever known decorum.” He gazed skeptically down at the sludge. “Are you certain we can’t just find another job? Do we really have to scrounge about in the muck?”
Marian wavered. “I can’t bear to leave it, not when we’re so close to having enough for the expedition. Stench or no.” She reached for mana, experimentally trying something halfway between a force spell and fire magic --
Flaming shit exploded outward in all directions, spattering the passageway, the ground, and the entire party.
Varric and Carver got the worst of it. Wrong place, wrong time. Merrill was slightly protected, standing a bit behind Carver as she had been: she had a split second to summon a touch of frost magic to neutralize the foul flames. Merrill shuddered at the fate she had nearly suffered, and turned her attention to de-flaming Carver. Frost magic settled over him. The set of his ice-studded eyebrows predicted imminent apoplexy.
Varric stood where he had been struck, unmoving. Tragically, he had transformed into a shit-covered impression of a dwarf. Marian felt a slight pang of regret. Only time would tell if he had really survived the blast, though she suspected by his thousand yard stare that the scars might be permanent.
Marian’s shock slowly retreated, replaced by awareness of the most astounding smell. She reached up a shaking hand, gingerly wiping hot filth off her forehead. She blinked. Then she bent down, picking up the now sparkling clean gold sovereign and tucking it carefully into her purse.
“Is this something you’re planning on trying out in the Deep Roads?” Varric managed, the last word ending in a choked gag. “If so, I request to be somewhere far, far away the next time you pull out that little number.”
“You’re the one who asked about destenching, Varric. This is at least your fault as much as it is mine,” Marian insisted, wiping off her front, which only seemed to smear things around more. She heaved a sigh of defeat. “Besides, we’re one sovereign closer, so I count this one as a win.”
“You’re something else, Hawke.” Varric shook his head, looking greenish under the splatter. But she could have sworn, despite the stink, that he still gave her a smile.
Or maybe it was a grimace. Considering he bent over and vomited about five seconds later, she wasn’t sure which.
-
“Varric,” Marian said carefully.
“Yeah?” he asked, his tone too light to be perfectly casual.
“We’re lost, aren’t we?”
“What makes you say that?” he said heartily, turning around in the junction of the crossroads to face her and the others. Three completely identical paths stretched beyond him. “This is absolutely where I meant to take us.”
“Up the ass end of the Deep Roads?” Carver asked.
“It’s all right to admit it, Varric. I hate these bloody roads too,” said Anders sympathetically. “Perhaps we can sort it out together. Anything to get out of here a bit faster.” He focused, looking down the identical halls. He turned to the north fork. “Come on, this one feels like it might be right. Or, well, at least it’s not got darkspawn down it, and that’s something. What have we got to lose?”
“You mean after everything went pear-shaped?” asked Carver. “Not much.” He followed Anders, and Varric and Marian brought up the rear.
Varric was quiet beside her, too quiet by far. She knew him rather well by now, as well as she knew Anders or Fenris or Merrill, and this wasn’t right. She pondered the evidence as they walked, the downcast gaze, the way he shuffled next to her, the hand worrying something in his pocket. His quill, maybe. Her gut nagged at her.
You ought to say something.
“This is Bartrand’s fault, you know. Not yours,” she said at last. “I mean, there’s plenty of times I’ve taken the fall for Carver, brothers being what they are, but you’ve got nothing to fret over here. Unless it’s the food, in which case, I agree, I’m getting rather tired of hardtack and nothing.”
He trudged along, his mouth twitching to one side as if he wanted to say something.
“Come on,” she wheedled. He was starting to worry her.
“It’s not --” Varric let out a long breath. “It’s complicated.”
“I know.”
“Bartrand’s always been an ass, but this is… this isn’t him, Hawke,” he muttered. “I don’t know what it is -- greed? Magic? I’m out of my depth here.”
“Funny thing to say, given we’re in the Deep Roads,” Marian cracked, but he didn’t smile. He seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her.
“I know I’m not the one who locked us down there, but I don’t know. Still feels like it’s on me, that’s all,” he said, his face drawn. He shrugged. “I talked you into coming down here. Not Bartrand. I’m sorry.”
Marian gave him a hard look. “Well, if that wasn’t Bartrand back there, this isn’t you here. Self-flagellation’s got its perks, but it’s an odd fit on you; doesn’t go with your outfit. And to think, normally you’re such a style maven.”
A faint smile finally flickered across his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. “Yeah? Huh. Maybe you’re right.”
“Ahh, there’s that Tethras optimism,” she said fondly. “Now then. Onward and hopefully upward, yes?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the idea.” They picked up the pace, Carver and Anders having pulled far ahead of them. “Thanks, Hawke.”
“No worries, Varric. After all, what are friends for?”
-
Varric didn’t say anything the first night Marian stayed over at the Hanged Man. She’d had a lot to drink, she was tired, it made sense for her to crash in his overstuffed, dwarf-sized armchair, even if she didn’t really fit and the arms dug into the small of her back.
He didn’t say anything the second night. The gangs had been roving around more than normal. He understood why she didn’t want to climb the long stairs back to Hightown, alone, this time of night. She tried the rug beside his bed and woke up in the morning complaining about the wooden floors.
He didn’t say anything the tenth night. She’d run out of excuses to invent. Eventually she drank to the bottom of her glass, and all she said was, “Mother wanted the manor so badly. It’s… it still isn’t home.”
Varric just smiled at her. He let her take the bed while he took the chair by the fire. And the next day he put in an order for a human-length settee, the plushest one the merchant had to offer.
-
He’d never seen her look like this before. When Carver fell ill in the Deep Roads was the closest. But this --
She looked more ghostly than Leandra.
It was the second day, the dust settling, the reality sinking in. Marian was a jumble of long limbs, curled in on herself in the seat by the hearth; Varric sat a few feet away. The great hound uneasily guarded her feet. The manor felt more vast than ever.
“She never really knew how to be a mum, I think,” Marian whispered across the empty room. “Sometimes I hated her for it.”
Varric blinked. “Some mothers just know what to do. Suited to it, I guess. Others…” He left out the part about his own mother, turning yellow in her own sick at the end.
“But she suffered,” Marian said, still in that same broken voice. “She never deserved -- that.”
“No,” Varric echoed. “No, she didn’t.”
The crackling fire swallowed his useless words.
-
“Well,” Marian said, her feet swinging over the edge of the great stone steps outside the Chantry.
Varric sat beside her, his legs swinging much further above the ground. “Well,” he agreed.
“That might have gone better.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Varric. “I think the Qunari got something out of it.”
“Viscount Dumar might have a few words to say about that. Mother Petrice’s corpse probably would as well.”
Varric mulled this over. “Fair enough.” His boots dangled idly, their swinging stilled. “It’s going to be a mess. Scratch that, it already is. The Viscount’s son…” He whistled, shaking his head.
“He hadn’t wanted any part of this. And she had him, and those Qunari, killed to make a bloody point.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s all another mess that I’m somehow deep in the middle of. Maker’s balls. What was that madwoman playing at, Varric?”
“Whatever it was, I don’t think the Maker’s anything had much to do with it.” He shook his head. “She wanted a war with the Qunari. It’s not looking good.”
Marian rubbed at her eyes. “This is an absolute shit show. And it’s going to get far worse before it gets better. If it gets better.”
He reached out, patting her knee. The weight of his hand felt good, a fact she tucked away for another time. Hm.
“Hanged Man?”
She nodded fervently, lowering her hands and giving him a rueful grin. “Hanged Man.”
-
“You look like hell, Hawke.”
“I look better than the other guy,” she said stubbornly. Dark circles ringed her eyes, fading bruises still visible on her face and arms, and she was still in bed, but she’d managed to sit up, which was a definite improvement. A veritable explosion of pillows precariously supported her, keeping her upright.
“Hasn’t Anders been doing his glowy thing? Or am I gonna have to have a talk with him?”
“He has been,” Marian said. “We mages might be magical, but we’re not miracle workers. Just because we can bend the laws of nature doesn’t mean we can ignore them entirely.” She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him. “I’m healing as fast as I can, honest.”
Varric winced, dismayed. This was after a week of healing? From Anders, the guy with a spirit supercharge and more talent for healing than any mage he’d ever heard of?
Shit. Shit. This was too damn close.
“Don’t look so pained,” she said. “You’ll make me feel worse if you treat me like I almost died.”
“That ignores the fact that you did almost die,” he pointed out, perfectly reasonably.
“Arguing with the recovering patient. Charming of you,” she said, coughing with the effort, her face twisting in a pained wince.
“Hawke, it’s time you faced the truth. I’m always charming.”
“You having anything to do with the truth? Oh now that’s absolutely rich --” She started to laugh, but the laugh quickly transformed into another wracking cough, one that made her double over. “Maker,” she groaned, panting.
He was at her side before he realized he’d moved, laying a hand on her shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. “Take it easy now. Didn’t mean for the charm offensive to take you out,” he said hastily.
“You’re a bastard, Varric,” she wheezed. She draped her arm over him, leaning hard into him, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. “I hope you know that.”
He braced himself so that she was more secure, slipping his arm around her waist and helping her stay upright. “Guilty as charged. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
-
Varric kicked the floor, dust billowing out in clouds beneath his boot. The ghosts of Bartrand’s manor had faded, but Varric was still pale, the set of his jaw hard and unfamiliar.
“Want to talk about it?” Marian asked, already knowing the answer.
“Are you crazy?” asked Varric.
“Suppose it depends who you ask, doesn’t it?”
Varric glanced at the pouch at her waist, where the red lyrium’s glow faintly emanated through the fabric. He sighed. “Thanks for taking that thing.”
She shrugged. It felt warm against her hip. “It gives me a terrible feeling,” she said in a low voice. “You know the feeling you get, right before walking into a trap? Where the hair on the back of your neck rises before you even know why? That’s how I feel, thinking of you keeping this thing. It’s caused an awful lot of trouble. More than the two of us combined, and that’s saying something.”
“Seems like trouble follows that stuff wherever it goes,” he said, tilting his head to regard a dusty portrait on the wall. She could just make out the faint outlines of dwarven faces, one of them seeming a little familiar, if very young.
“Is that you?”
Varric snorted, which turned into a loud, forceful sneeze. “If you squint. Definitely not one of the better portrait artists in Hightown. It wasn’t all her fault, though. As Bartrand told it I couldn’t sit still to save my life.”
She peered at the dusty portrait. A towheaded, round-faced little boy stared back at her, looking uncharacteristically solemn. He was right. It didn’t look much like him at all.
“I’ll take care of the red lyrium,” Marian said. “What will you do with everything else?”
He turned away from the painting, no trace of a smile on his face. “I’m doing it,” he said tiredly, and he walked away.
-
It’s coming to a boil.
The phrase repeated in her head, a warning knell beneath her jokes, her chatter, her rare quiet moments. Coming to a boil.
Kirkwall had been seething for years now, a tempest in the making. She could feel it in the hard glares of the templars, the furtive paranoia of the mages, the denials of the Chantry. Something was coming. Something big.
She did her very best to ignore it.
It wasn’t too difficult, at first. She could pretend that things were normal when she settled into a game of Wicked Grace with her friends, or got out of the city for a bit of fresh air with her Mabari, or put out little fires in Darktown or the alienage. Pretty standard stuff. She knew how to deal with that.
She didn’t know how to deal with people calling her Champion. Or tense, dangerous audiences with Elthina, Meredith, Orsino. Or rumblings about uprisings and rebellions, strident whispers from both the templars and the mages.
So she found herself at the Hanged Man for the fifth time in a week, sulkily staring down her third pint, waiting for the sun to set and her friends to join her so she wouldn’t need to be alone with her thoughts.
It’s coming to a boil.
“You look deep in thought, Champion.”
“It’s been known to happen, on occasion. And don’t call me Champion,” Marian said as Varric climbed onto the bench beside her, a pint in hand.
“Don’t worry, Hawke. All in jest.”
“Damn right,” she said, finishing her pint. She cast around for the barmaid and nodded when she caught her eye. “How’s tricks, Varric?”
“Same old, same old.”
He looked just as world-weary as she felt. “Liar.”
He chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”
“Obviously.” She tossed a silver to the barmaid in exchange for another ale, and took a long draught. “You ever have those days where you’re just counting down the hours, hoping that somehow, some way, tomorrow will be different?”
“Something on your mind, Hawke? Not that there’s anything wrong with introspection, of course,” he said, taking a drink of his own ale. “You’re worried. About Kirkwall, I take it.”
“Is it that obvious?” She let out a huff. “Something’s brewing, Varric, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, you’re gonna hurt Corff’s feelings with that. He’s been working on this new crappy lager for months now.” His mouth quirked in a grin, one that she didn’t return.
“You know what I mean. You feel it, too, don’t you?”
His smile faded, and he nodded. “Yeah, I do. Why do you think I came over here? Distracting you is a great way to distract myself. Funny how that works out.”
Marian sighed into her ale. “At least whatever existential dread there is lurking about feels a little less nasty when I’m with you. You’ve always helped. That’s got to be something, don’t you think?”
Varric’s face had gone ruddier than normal. “That’s me, worth my weight in gold.”
“Is that a blush, Master Tethras?” she asked, her voice rising just a little too high.
“It’s the ale,” he said defensively. “Something really has gone wrong with that lager.”
Marian considered. “I think you’re blushing. And I think it’s because I said I feel rather better when you’re around.” She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, contemplating things. “It’s true, you know. Has been for ages.”
How long? How many hours had she put in at the Hanged Man, hoping to see him? How many nights had she stayed over when going back to a vast empty manor seemed too hard? How many times had just the sound of his laugh lifted her spirits?
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“Oh really?” Varric asked. “Come to realize how wrong you were? Most would say I’m more of an annoyance than a comfort.” His flush deepened, if anything, but he leaned closer, his arm brushing against hers. Her heart beat faster.
“Shit, shit, Varric. I’m an idiot.”
“Hey! That’s slander about my favorite misfit, and I won’t hear it,” said Varric. “But now why would you say something like that? You’re a lot of things, Hawke, but an idiot's not one.”
She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. “No, no, I’ve been quite daft. Argh.”
“If you’re trying to paint me a picture, it’s clear as mud.”
“I think I’m in love with you,” she grumbled. “Happy now?”
He froze. He looked up at her with hazel eyes the size of sovereigns, his cheeks flaming. If she hadn’t been so mortified it would have been funny, seeing him finally at a loss for words.
“You, uh -- you what?” he finally forced out. “Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”
“Ugh, you heard me. I can’t believe I’ve been so dim. Why do you think I’m always hanging about here? It’s not for the bloody ambiance, it’s for the company.” She hauled her arms up to the table, resting her head on them and burying her face so Varric couldn’t keep staring. “I’m an absolute fool, Tethras. I hope I haven’t put you off permanently. Still friends at least, yes?” she asked, voice muffled in her sleeves. Oh, if she hadn’t put her foot in it.
For a horribly long moment the only thing she heard was the background chatter of the other patrons in the pub. Then Varric’s laugh started up, a low, deep rumble leading up to rich, rough chuckles. “You’re really serious,” he managed, as his laughter trailed off.
“Of course! You don’t have to rub it in,” she muttered.
“It’s just -- hey, hey. Would you look at me, Hawke?”
“So you can laugh at my ridiculousness? Oh, I must be a glutton for punishment.” But she lifted her head from her arms, her hair falling into her eyes, her cheeks burning.
“No, no, it’s not that at all,” Varric protested. He laid a hand on her arm and took a deep, long breath. He swallowed, then said in a shaky voice, “It wasn’t love at first sight. That’s the crap I put in Swords and Shields; that doesn’t really happen. But… I’ve loved you for years, Marian. And that’s the honest truth.”
“Oh,” she croaked.
Oh.
“That’s, ah, very interesting, Varric.” Her hand wrestled awkwardly with Varric’s until their fingers interlaced. That felt pretty good. It felt right. “Maybe we should talk about this?”
A smile spread slowly across his face. He opened his mouth, his eyes bright; he always did love getting the last word. Before he could speak she bent down and kissed him, his stubble brushing against her cheeks.
And for a moment, they didn’t say anything at all.
---
(end)
(for @veorlian , whose prompts were right up my alley!)
Thank you very much in advance!! <3 Here are my prompts:
- I love slice of life mutual pining friends to lovers fluff where it's snippets of Hawke and Varric together going on missions and spinning lies and just generally being incredibly important to each other while fully ignoring how important they are to each other
- I really enjoy stories that fill in missing parts of the story, so I'd love to see the things that happen in between acts. For example, Hawke going to visit Varric at the Hanged Man because their manor is too big and doesn't feel like home; Varric and Hawke going on low-stakes adventures together, and so on. Really, whatever you think might fit in the several years we didn't get to see!
- Varric and Hawke get into a competition for who can tell the most elaborate lie and one of them messes up and accidentally confesses their feelings and/or one of them decides to use the opportunity of a lie to confess their feelings
A romanced Varric tarot card, drawn as an extra treat for my Hightown Funk giftee, @calysto1395 !
Image description: a tarot card illustration of Varric Tethras in rich jewel tones. He holds the hand of an offscreen Hawke in their noble clothing and gazes lovingly at them. The Viscount of Kirkwall crown hovers over Varric’s head. Background symbolism includes a golden sun, scrolls of parchment covered in writing, the Amell insignia in red, and a background motif of white quills and gold texture.
Authors have all been revealed, so I can now share my angst filled Hightown Funk gift for the lovely kaijuburgers
Well, it's not a good story unless the hero dies
Summary: Why was he so surprised. He had written enough tragedies over the years, he should have known this was how it would all end.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras
Tags: Angst, Heavy Angst, Character Death, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, POV Varric Tethras, Warrior Hawke (Dragon Age), Red Hawke (Dragon Age), Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Hawke Left in the Fade (Dragon Age)
aka my contribution to this year’s Hightown Funk exchange! it was my first year participating but honestly I had such a blast I’d do it again in a heartbeat
Presenting my 10k monstrosity written for @thedosianscholar for @hightown-funk!
Don't Make it Hawkeward
Words: 10061
Chapters: 3
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Additional Tags:
Summary: Varric likes to think he's the best bullshitter Kirkwall has ever produced, but Hawke knows she can give him a run for his money. When she makes up her mind to convince the Inquisition her and Varric have a secret relationship, it's not like Varric can let her win this little competition. He just didn't count on how quickly things escalate.Smut chapters marked with a *
Read on AO3
If Varric squints, he can almost pretend they’re back in the Hanged Man where they belong.
Hawke still takes up space the way she always has, too long legs stretched across a whole bench, reclining backwards on one hand while the other lazily waves her shitty hand of cards. She’s still the third worst card player he’s ever met, saved only by Daisy’s refusal to learn the rules and Cole’s inability to stop talking to the face cards.
The sight of her still brings a smile to his face, but there’s a hint of bitterness beneath the joy. Unlike their years in Kirkwall, Varric can’t remember the last time he got a full night of sleep. He’s old, tired, and he sees similar shadows beneath Hawke’s eyes. She’s lost weight, her armor sits just a little looser. When he mentioned it she joked about missing Orana’s cooking, but Varric wonders when the last time she had a decent meal was.
He suspects it was the night before it all went to hell. Fuck, maybe before that. Depends on whether or not any reasonable person counted the Hanged Man’s stew as a decent meal, which he certainly never had.
The door to the Herald’s Rest opens and Varric tears his eyes from Hawke to examine the newest patron. Thankfully, it’s just an Inquisition soldier mopping sweat from his brow and saluting a rowdy table in the back that greets him with cheers.
When he looks back at Hawke, she’s grinning from ear to ear like she’s swallowed a canary whole. “Nervous, Varric?”
“Nothing to be nervous about,” he insists smoothly, watching her discard a card only to replace it with an even worse option. Her nose wrinkles in annoyance and she shakes her head before looking up.
“I haven’t seen you this jumpy since we got back from Chateau Haine.”
He gives her a withering glance over his winning hand. “I was dodging assassins for weeks after Chateau Haine, Hawke.”
“It wasn’t my idea to stop in Val Royeaux,” she sniffs, lips twitching upwards. “For a crossbow-related errand.”
“My errand only caused two assasination attempts,” he points out. “The rest were because you had to impress our Qunari spy friend.”
Hawke’s smirk doesn’t drop for a minute. “You were the one who arranged the invitation, serah.”
“You were the one who gave the pretty elf a list worth a thousand gold for a kiss.”
He summons his grumpiest scowl, but she only beams twice as brightly at the fond memory of her shenanigans. “It was a hell of a kiss, Varric.”
“Carver doesn’t approve, sadly,” Hawke jumps in. “Once he challenged Varric to a duel for my virtue and was utterly devastated to find out I didn’t have any.”
“Then he told me there were no refunds and got himself nearly killed to get away from us,” Varric adds. “I even sent him a card saying he’s the world’s best future brother-in-law and the only thing he sent me was a cease and desist letter.”
Hi hello I am here to recommend this ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL and hilarious yet poignant 10,000-word fake-dating F!Hawke/Varric fanfic on AO3 that I read this morning by an anonymous author for the @hightown-funk exchange 😄
It’s three chapters of laughter and bittersweetness and feels and fake-dating and it’s so good I just want to yell at everyone to go and read it OK 😆 The above is just one of many great lines from the fic. It’s not a ship I tend to read BUT the title drew me in (Don’t Make It Hawkeward) and it 100% did not disappoint. Give it a read! 😍
