tagged by @melisusthewee and @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul for wip wednesday even though it isn't wednesday anymore lol
i've been working a bit on the sequel to a previous f!hawke/varric fic of mine, believe it's easier for you, which was a modern au about varric coming back to kirkwall after a several year absence in which he basically ghosted everyone, and must work his way back into earning everyone's forgiveness/trust again
this sequel so far has been delving a lot more into the backstories of varric and hawke. i can't reveal too much about the plot of the fic itself because i want to finish the entirety of the fic before posting it on ao3 as i did with the first one, but i don't mind showing what little i've done today:
"Varric," Edyiss said as they pulled up to a red light at an intersection, "I have a question."
Varric's smile froze on his face, accompanied by his train of thought screeching to a complete and very dramatic halt, because that was not a good set of words. That was a very bad set of words in fact, ones that foretold his immediate doom. His mouth worked as he struggled to find something to say that wouldn't make things catastrophically worse. "Oh?" he settled with, which seemed like safe waters. Peaceful, non-confrontational waters. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop his mouth from continuing to move without him. "Should I be sitting down for this, or would it be better to grab a shield?"
Edyiss' eyes narrowed only slightly, but it was enough that Varric winced. "Yes," she said, which compounded his wince into a pained grimace.
"That's nonspecific enough that I feel like I should be worried," he said with a half-hearted attempt at his usual grin.
She sighed and scrubbed a hand down her face. "Just… let me get through this, all right? It's hard enough asking it without you turning everything into a joke."
absolutely massive shoutout to the ever amazing @schoute for bringing my Anna Hawke and her gf Valentina to life 😍😍😍!!! yall should abso-fuckin-lutely go support her and commission her if you ever get the chance!
The way the game frames it, the inquisitor and co have just arrived at skyhold when hawke gets there. They're literally just now checking out the new digs and varric comes in and is like "ahahaha yeah so funny story" and BAM hawke.
Which, it doesnt say much if anything about how long the trek through the mts was, but i and a few other sticklers have figured it took about 2-3 weeks based on distance, size of the group, etc.
Which means hawke was already on their way when they got to skyhold. Which means they and varric had likely been planning on meeting up before haven went down. Which means hawke was coming to stand with haven against corypheus but got there too late.
But also, im picturing varric writing to bells on the road, telling her what happened, telling her "im alright dont panic" but this obstinate ass barely got to the a and was packing her bag to come save her man, willing to risk whatever ire cassandra had, willing to risk imprisonment not just as an apostate but as hawke, champion and loser of kirkwall, aka one of the most wanted people in the world second to anders. To save her man.
And im
Like yall i have to go to WORK i dont have time for these feels
"Not at all," Varric lied. Apart from the fact it was about to burn a damn great hole in his pocket before he would see even the slightest pay off. "It's why I've got a list as long as my arm of people interested in you, Hawke." That much, at least, was true.
"Your arms aren't that long," she said, dryly.
"And here, I thought we were friends!" Varric laughed, hand splayed against his chest.
word count: 2473
author’s notes: mhawke/varric commission for my buddy @punkdeaf !!! i had a lot of fun with this one, pls enjoy some gay losers reuniting after inquisition
—
The sky was dark with smoke and night around Adamant. The aftermath of battle began to seep into survivors' bones, the crash after the sweat and adrenaline of survival. Varric could feel it, heavier than stone.
He figured Hawke felt it, too. They sat side by side on a fallen block, tucked in a lonely corner of the now crumbling fortress. Armor clanked as Inquisition soldiers passed to and fro, just beyond the jut of the half-broken wall. Their voices washed over Varric: someone calling for the nearest healer, cries of victory, breathless exclamations and barking orders. Words, words, words, the words of a successful siege, the victorious in the face of an army of demons—all the stories of all those people, wrapped into one like threads of a rope. All those damn words. And yet, for once, Varric had none. He and Hawke sat in unusual silence.
“You’re really going then, huh?” Was the best Varric could manage. His voice was scratchy from desert air turned acrid with death and wicked magic. He watched a tower of pyre smoke roll high, high into the sky, sparks reaching up, as though freeing the fallen to become burning stars.
Hawke didn’t respond right away. Varric tore his gaze away from the massive pyre to Hawke. His broad shoulders were hunched, his robes covered in soot. The dark circles under his eyes persisted, as they had for years now. “You know me,” Hawke muttered then, scratching his beard; “Trouble finds me no matter what. May as well try to stay a step ahead and dive right into it.”
Varric gave a half-hearted chuckle. Hawke tried for a weak smile. Both looked about ready to fall apart.
Their gazes simply held, then. Words hung on the tip of Varric's tongue that felt too terrifying to breathe into fruition. He inched his hand closer to Hawke's; the other took it, entwined their fingers. It was the closest inkling of home Varric had felt in a while.
What could he say? All those words were so much that he couldn’t pick them out, like grains of sand sifting through his fingers.
“Just, uh,” he tried quietly, then sighed. “Just… come back. Okay?”
Hawke pursed his lips for a moment. “And what about you?”
Varric remembered their hushed conversation in front of the war room, just before marching from Skyhold to battle. He remembered leaning heavily against the wall, like without some tether he would be swept away in the chaos. “I think… I need to finish this out,” he had rasped.
Hawke had been a mirror before him then, and he was again now. A world of guilt carved lines around his eyes; Varric couldn’t know for sure—didn’t want to know for sure—but he could have sworn some whisper of the Fade still clung to Hawke, a smell like lightning in his clothes; and he could see, in the hunch of Hawke's back, where the demon's echo still slithered down his spine.
“Varric will die, just like your family.”
Not on my watch, Smiley, Varric thought.
“I’ll come back, too.”
Hawke released a sigh, deflating like the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He squeezed Varric's hand, and for just a moment, his eyes sparkled in that way that made Varric's heart skip. “Call it a date, then?”
It drew a laugh from Varric, a real laugh, that felt better than any sugar on his tongue. “It’s a date.”
Hawke's goofy smile was like a ray of damn sunlight in the gloom. He leaned in, and Varric followed. Their kiss tasted like smoke, love, and dare Varric think it—hope. A fine way to seal a promise.
—
Varric came back from the ruins of a prophet's temple, where he saw an ancient evil crumble to ash.
Varric came back from some of his least favourite places: the Deep Roads, yawning caverns with out-of-place carvings, now swallowed beneath water and lyrium. Places hidden behind mirrors, tucked in between the physical and the dreams that were foreign to him. The Winter Palace, a snake pit built upon greed and painted over with gold.
Varric returned home. But Kirkwall was emptier without Hawke.
He rebuilt, and watched, and waited. He trembled where he held their promise, close to his heart, so pure and lethal. Varric wasn't the kind of guy who did promises. Hawke wasn’t either, he knew.
Always an exception, huh? He thought, lying alone and unsleeping in bed. It became a habit of his.
Varric knew what hope and promises did. The risk of a broken heart was a terrifying thing to hold on your own.
Yet, he held.
—
There was a rapid little knock on the doorway of his suite. “Serah Viscount?” A voice squeaked. “I have your mail for you here.”
Varric sighed. Even in the Hanged Man, with the drunken clamour drifting up the stairs to him, he couldn’t escape. Bran must have told the carriers to deliver to him directly now.
“Alright, come on in,” he relented. “You can leave it on the table.”
Varric set aside his writing, not for any intent to actually read his letters, but so none could glimpse a work in progress. A scruffy young mail boy tip-toed in cautiously, setting the stack on the table as though it may bite him.
Varric did a double take as he did. Sitting precariously atop the pile, stark against the crisply folded papers, was a small roll of parchment, tied with red string.
He must have been staring at the scroll, because the carrier stuttered nervously, “S-Serah?”
Poor kid. Probably wasn’t paid nearly enough to see the Viscount have a damn heart attack.
Varric smiled reassuringly, and stood. “How much you being paid to deliver my mail, kid?”
The boy shifted on feet that looked too big for him. “Uh. Five sovereigns, Serah Viscount.”
Not nearly enough. Varric dug into his pocket, and tossed him a pouch; the boy fumbled, but caught it. “Here’s another fifteen. No matter what the Seneschal says, don’t deliver directly to me, unless—” Varric held up the roll of parchment— “I get another letter like this. Sound good?”
“Very good, Serah!” The boy was just about to run out in his glee, but hastily bowed first. “Fine day to you!”
Varric watched him scramble out with the pouch clutched tight to his chest. With no one to see him, Varric held the letter much the same.
The rest of the pile lay forgotten on the corner of the table as Varric retreated to the bed. He was of two minds: to simply hold the precious paper, untie the little red string with care, and carefully pour over the words; or unfurl and take them in voraciously, like a man starved.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and his hands were so torn in what to do that they froze. Varric stared at the letter, his heart pounding.
With shaky fingers, he slid the tie off the scroll, and gently rolled it open.
I'm okay, were the first words. He sighed like he hadn’t relaxed in years, and he traced the letters with his fingertips, as though reaching for Hawke's.
Varric felt full of mush as he read Hawke's quick account of Weisshaupt. Love, fear, and relief pushed and pulled at his insides until they ground him into pulp. The words carried him through his turmoil like a light in the dark. And isn’t that what Hawke always did? Varric chuckled to himself at the thought, fond and soft.
Don’t think I've forgotten our date. My memory may be shite, but never when it comes to you, love.
Varric guffawed, a full and happy sound that melded with the din outside his door. He fell back on the bed, staring up at the words and the sigil of a hawk signed beneath them. He laughed until those beautiful words and familiar sign became blurry through tears.
Giggling like a lovesick fool wasn’t on his list of things to do today, but he was always flexible.
—
“Well, finally he sends word,” Aveline huffed. Though she looked stern with her arms crossed, Varric knew from just the way she leaned on her desk that she was relieved; relaxed, even. The Guard-Captain still needed a hobby. “How Hawke manages to stay alive like this, I'll never know.”
Varric shrugged with a grin. “It’s part of his charm.”
Aveline rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now, too. “You’re downright chipper.”
“You think?” Varric scratched his stubble, and his grin turned wry. “I’m only acting as sappy as you did when you got married.”
She lightly smacked his arm, which wasn’t light at all considering she was built like brick, but Varric snickered nonetheless.
Despite his elation, Varric remained apprehensive as he left the Viscount's Keep, and looked into the cloudy sky. There was still a storm brewing, and he would have Hawke by his side when it hit.
Come home soon.
—
Some days, it hurt to walk past the ancestral seat of House Amell. Others, it brought Varric a fond sense of joy.
It had been ransacked more than once when it sat empty after the rebellion. If not for goods, then information; Cassandra and her Seekers had been among them. He tried not to think of being hauled and thrown into the place, once so full of life, turned harsh and cold. That house was a home, he reminded himself. Hawke's home—and Hawke's home was a home to them all.
That was the joy to it, the feeling he tried to call forth when he did his part to take care of the estate. It lingered beside the hearths, in the books he had carefully sorted back on the shelves, on the stairs where Isabela carved dirty things. It seemed to nurture the people who came in and out, those down on their luck who needed somewhere to stay. I'm sure the Champion wouldn’t mind, Varric would always say.
The Hawke Estate shouldn’t be a lonely place.
It didn’t have any occupants at the moment. The last resident gave Varric a loaf of bread they baked in the kitchen, with a warm smile kindled by the fire, and left with thanks and that joy. Varric couldn’t remember the last time he'd had home-baked bread.
He ate a piece as he wandered the estate, dusting here and there as he went. Pristine places didn’t have much character that Varric liked, but he didn’t want it to go overlooked. Unused. Unappreciated.
That was when he heard an unusual creak from Hawke's bedroom.
Bianca practically never left his side, and he slowly unholstered her then, carefully creeping forward. With his back pressed to the wall, the Amell crest hanging proud above him, Varric peered around the corner, past the open door.
A hooded figure slipped quietly through the window. They turned back and held up one finger, gesturing for silence, but Varric couldn’t see who—or what—lay beyond. The person looked broad, even beneath their fur-trimmed cloak, and they carried a staff in one hand… then, they pulled back their hood.
“Hawke?”
Hawke whirled around, just as shocked, and whatever was still outside scrabbled against the tiles in the garden. Bianca hung slack in Varric's arms, as through a sliver of the doorway, the two met eyes for the first time in years.
Hawke's beard was thicker, and his boots and hem of his cloak were dirtied. He looked as though he had maybe a few more scars and wrinkles, and Varric could say the same. But brown eyes met brown eyes, lighting up with the same joy that sang through the place—Varric understood deeply then, that it was created when a family was brought together—and it was Hawke.
Hawke's face split into a huge grin, and he spread his arms wide. “Honey, I'm home.”
Varric laughed. And laughed, and laughed more, as he remembered how to move again. He holstered Bianca as he rushed forward, and Hawke's staff clattered to the floor as he met Varric halfway. They collided in the middle of the bedroom, crushed together, and Hawke's laughter joined his own in the sweetest chorus Varric had ever heard. A bark sounded, and it was Hawke's mabari that leapt after her master, running in excited circles around the two of them.
It was Hawke. Varric's hands framed his face and brought him down; their noses bumped, Hawke's beard scratched his stubble, and their kiss didn’t taste like smoke. It was hope realized; it was a promise kept; and it was Hawke.
His scent surrounded Varric, and he had the most wonderful ache in his heart that thumped with love. They kissed again; Varric's knees felt weak with emotion, or maybe from Potato headbutting him affectionately. When they parted just so, there were tears heavy in Hawke's eyes. “I made our date,” he murmured thickly.
Varric's cheeks hurt from grinning. Tears sprung to his eyes now too as they sank to the floor together, face to face, wrapped in one another. “So did I.”
Potato nosed her way between them to give Varric her own slobbery kisses, but Varric didn’t mind; he and Hawke kept laughing as Varric scratched behind her ears. “I missed you too, girl.”
She seemed satisfied with the attention, resting her head on Varric’s shoulder. Hawke asked jokingly, “Am I permitted to keep kissing him now?”
Potato's response was a happy rumble. Varric chuckled. “You heard the lady.”
Hawke's kiss, with his thumb stroking the apple of Varric's cheek, felt like home completed.
—
They stoked a small fire in the hearth of Hawke's bedroom. Coats and boots shed, they sat together beneath a thick blanket, sharing the loaf of bread that Varric retrieved. Potato dozed across their laps, basking in warmth and idle pets.
They talked—about everything. Weisshaupt. The Exalted Council. Kirkwall. Tevinter. What was yet to come.
“You're collecting another loaf in your beard,” Varric interrupted, his lips quirking up at the mess of crumbs.
“Snacks for later,” Hawke said without missing a beat.
“You’re such a damn dreamboat.”
“Of course I am. Only the finest man about for me.”
“We ruggedly handsome do tend to flock together, don’t we?”
“Don’t forget gentlemanly.”
They grinned at each other. He could taste the earthy bread on Hawke's lips.
“So,” Hawke murmured, “ready to help save the world, love?”
Varric sighed. “It’s always us in the thick of it, huh?”
“Seems that way.” Hawke kissed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “But we'll be in it together, hm?”
Varric held him like close wasn’t close enough. Against all the odds that kept him up at night, they were reunited in their home—and Varric knew he could take on anything. “You bet we will.”
Holy shit. This one is literally 16,000 words. It’s half the fucking fic. Summary: Cassandra wants to know about the beginning of Hawke and Varric’s romantic relationship.
Cassandra sat quietly for a long moment. Varric hadn’t looked at her as he recounted the story, choosing instead to look into the fire, but he knew she’d cried, if just a little. She no longer had any anger to spurn her on, to distract her from the tales he was telling, and Hawke was no longer just a phantom to be chased. She was real, tangible, a person, no longer just a heroic figure in one of Varric’s books to her. After a long while, she took a deep breath and a sip of wine. “So, who was he?”
Varric seemed jarred out of his reverie and looked at her. “Who?”
“That man they spoke of. Garrett. Who was he?”
“My brother.”
Varric leapt to his feet and spun around to face her, eyes wide like a child caught stealing a cookie. “B-Bells, I—”
She held her hand up to him and shook her head. “It’s alright.” She gave him a weak smile that shot guilt through his body, but she moved to sit next to Cassandra. “I figured you’d have told her about the Roads while you had the chance.” She leaned in close to Cassandra to reach past her for the wine bottle, making direct eye contact with her, almost like a power display. Cassandra said nothing but did not shrink back, either. Varric uneasily sat back down, a wretched expression across his face. Finally, after a long moment, she cleared her throat and sat back. “I’m glad. I didn’t want to listen to it again.” She gave him a gentle smile and sipped her wine.
Varric passed her his plate of untouched food, and when her hand brushed his, he smiled slightly back at her.
“I thought Carver was your brother.”
Hawke’s hand paused over the bunch of grapes she was about to grab. Varric bit his cheek, trying to read the expression on her face but found it impossible. It took a long moment for her to continue picking them up. “Shocking as it may be, Miss Pentaghast, people are allowed to have more than one brother.”
Cassandra blinked, realizing what she said. “I—, that’s not—”
“Relax.” She cast Cassandra a sideways glance before popping a grape in her mouth. “Garrett is one story not even Varric knows.”
Cassandra’s eyebrows raised as she looked at Varric with incredulity. “I find that hard to believe.” At Varric’s serious expression and the slight shake of his head, the teasing smile fell off her face.
“Varric.” All eyes at the table looked up, Cassandra jumping to her feet. The Inquisitor was standing there, a broad smile upon her face. She nodded towards the two women, a section of her snowy hair falling in her silvery eyes. “Good afternoon, Cassandra, Hawke.” Turning back to Varric, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Varric, I know this is inopportune what with Hawke being here and all, but I thought you might like to accompany me. We’ll be setting out soon for the Coast, you see, and I know you had wanted to look into those mines in the northeast for red lyrium. Are you interested?”
Varric looked pained at the idea, immediately turning to look at Hawke. She gave him a smile and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.” He held her gaze for a moment before nodding to Alena who practically beamed.
Cassandra cleared her throat, Alena’s kind smile turning to her. “Inquisitor, shall I accompany you?”
Alena’s smile turned bittersweet as she shook her head. “No. Thank you, Cassandra, but Blackwall is coming just in case we come across anything concerning the Wardens. Then Solas, of course.” Hawke resisted the urge to roll her eyes as the elf cast a disgustingly doe-eyed, girlish smile towards the rotunda beside their table. “Besides, Cullen has mentioned needing some more muscle to train the men. You could have them whipped into shape in no time.”
Cassandra was obviously hurt but nodded reluctantly. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor.”
Thankfully, Hawke, whether sensing the tenseness of the situation or just possessing a natural sense of good timing, leaned forward to smile at the Inquisitor. “I didn’t get a chance to ask, Alena. How have you been?”
The Inquisitor smiled towards Hawke and nodded. “I’m quite well, thank you for asking.” She leaned over on her toes to peek into the rotunda and beamed. “Please, excuse me.” She was already walking away but spun to face them as she backed into the rotunda. “Hawke, we should catch up soon!”
Hawke just shook her head, an entertained smile on her face. Once she noticed she was out of wine, she reached across and took Varric’s goblet. “She’s cute.”
“She’d kick your ass if she heard you say that.” Varric smirked at her, putting his chin in his hand.
Hawke chuckled, popping another grape in her mouth. “Remember when we found her with the varterral?”
“Wait.” They looked at Cassandra, both of them sharing the same amused expression. “You knew the Inquisitor before the Conclave?”
“Varric didn’t tell you?” Her amused expression turned into a sly one as she rose to her feet. “Shame.”
Cassandra blinked, watching as Hawke sashayed around the table to stand behind the dwarf who was now wearing an intrigued look. “How do you mean?”
With a smirk, Hawke leaned down and whispered something in Varric’s ear. For a moment, Cassandra thought she saw a blush dusting the man’s cheeks before he cleared his throat and stood. “Some other time, Seeker.” They left her sitting there, stammering and exasperated.
Xxx
The following day, Cassandra was out in the lower yard with Commander Cullen, offering her services per the Inquisitor’s recommendation. They were two of the earliest risers in all of Skyhold, already washed and dressed by the time the sun began to peak over the horizon with the heralding dawn every morning. The two of them had taken advantage of their time alone and had been sparring with one another, one-on-one, nothing serious. Since there was currently nobody being treated down in the healer’s area, they’d taken their training down there, not wanting to disturb anybody in the keep or in the tavern. Cassandra knew Cullen appreciated the opportunity because he never really got the chance to actually spar with the men. Without her and Bull’s Chargers, he’d likely never get practice.
They’d paused to take a break, leaning against the staircase leading down from the castle. Cullen had removed his upper armor after a while, having grown too hot in this midsummer morning. Cassandra tried not to stare. It was nearly an hour past dawn now, and the castle was beginning to buzz with activity. Cullen’s soldiers should be reporting for training within the next half hour.
The clopping of hooves drew their attention towards the gate, the both of them perking up. Blackwall, perhaps the next earliest riser in the keep, was walking towards the gate with three horses and the Inquisitor’s Tirashan Swiftwind, Da’Vunin, in tow, all saddled and ready to go. Once he saw them, he raised a gloved hand in greeting then tied the mounts off on the fence nearest to them. “Seeker, Commander.”
Cassandra gave him a smile and nodded her head. “Good morning, Warden Blackwall.”
Cullen gestured towards the mounts. “I see you’re preparing to leave.”
Blackwall nodded in affirmation. “Her Grace asked us to be ready to leave no later than two hours since dawn.”
“I’m glad to see Solas isn’t the only one who listens to me.”
They looked up the stair, Blackwall’s and Cullen’s backs straightening immediately. The deep flush across Cullen’s face did not escape Cassandra’s notice as she turned to look at their Inquisitor. Frankly, she looked terrible. Her hair hung about her in an unbrushed, untamed mess, her clothes were disheveled, likely from being rushed to get ready, two heavy-looking bags hanging haphazardly on her slight shoulders. Beside her, Solas stood stoically, not an item out of place on his well-rested body, only one pack across his back. Solas was usually the one to get Alena out of bed in the morning as she had an unusual amount of difficulty rising on any occasion. He offered them all a slight nod in greeting.
Cullen cleared his throat, eyes flickering over to Solas then back to Alena. He moved to grab his tunic and threw it on with no small amount of difficulty. “Good morning, Inquisitor.”
The elf grumbled something unintelligible and took the last set of steps down to the ground. “’Good’ is debatable, Commander.”
Cullen chuckled, perhaps a little too earnestly, and moved to take her bags from her as she went to greet her swiftrunner. He walked with her and helped her secure her packs. Blackwall and Solas traded a look before they each went to claim their horses. Cassandra watched, an amused smile playing at her lips as she crossed her arms. She heard Varric’s familiar gate clomping down the stairs before Hawke cleared her throat and in a low, throaty voice called, “Ooh, good morning, Commander.”
Cullen’s hands paused, his arms having raised high enough to show some skin on his back, and he flushed a full six shades deeper. Alena let out a giggle, her own cheeks darkening which Cassandra noticed made Solas’s eyes narrow. Varric let out a chuckle that told Cassandra just how tired he was. “Careful, Curly. I’ll won’t hesitate to fight you for this one.” He clapped his hand around Hawke’s waist as they traipsed down the stairs.
Cullen flushed darker and grumbled as he resumed his efforts to secure Alena’s packs. Hawke joined Cassandra by the stair, watching as Varric and his friends set about getting ready to leave. “Good morning, Seeker.”
Cassandra glanced at her and gave her a gentle smile. “Champion.”
They stood together in companionable silence, sharing a similar stance with their arms crossed and their hips cocked out. It didn’t take long for the away party to be ready to depart. Solas was the first to mount his horse, then Blackwall. Cullen helped Alena onto her swiftrunner, an unusually soft smile on his face which she was too tired to notice. It took Varric a moment to get on his horse, what with the height issue, but he managed to do it with grace. Alena shared a few words with Cullen as he guided her mount to the gates, Solas and Blackwall in tow, but Varric trotted his horse over to Cassandra and Hawke. “Seeker.” He puffed his chest out in a comical effort to look intimidating. “Take care of her while I’m gone. She’s trouble, this one.”
Hawke gasped dramatically, a hand going to her chest. “Me? Trouble?” They both chuckled before Hawke climbed up onto the makeshift table left sitting at the foot of the stairs. Cassandra looked away, a blush on her cheeks as Hawke pressed her forehead to Varric’s. “Come back safe, yeah?”
He smirked at her and kissed her cheek. “I’ll always come back to you.”
Cassandra frowned, realizing once again just how deeply the two felt about one another, and a pang of guilt for having ever separated them flooded through her body. Over by the gates, Alena, having spotted the interaction squealed and put a hand to her cheek. “Now that’s just adorable.”
Varric rolled his eyes but pulled his horse away to join them. Just before they slipped out of the gate, he cast her one final glance and winked.
Hawke turned to face Cassandra and sat down on the table, a broad grin stretched across her face. “So, what’re we doing today?”
Cassandra blinked. “Wha—”
“We,” Cullen nearly growled as he appeared beside her, “are training today.”
Hawke’s grin turned devious. “Ooh, Cullen, a chance to see our dashing Commander show his strength? You spoil me.”
He flushed and stammered for a moment before sighing in exasperation and skulking away, grabbing his armor as he went. Cassandra couldn’t help but laugh at his embarrassment. She looked over at Hawke, and her face softened. “I had better…” She looked as if she were going to go but thought better of it. “You are welcome to join us, Champion.”
Hawke waved her hand and offered a small smile. “Nah. Cullen wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off me. You go ahead.”
The Seeker gave her a once over and pursed her lips. “If you change your mind, we will be in the training yard most of the day.” She left the Champion sitting upon the table with a serene look upon her face and went to join the Commander.
Xxx
The day was rigorous, nonstop drills, coaching, drills, assisting, drills. The soldiers were worn out by the time the sun had begun to set, and though Cullen would never admit it, Cassandra knew he was, too. It took some doing, but finally she managed to convince him to let everyone call it a night. She was surprised when she turned to enter the castle and found Hawke sat upon the ledge in the middle of the stair, leaned back on her hands and watching them with an amused smirk. The smell of sweat and leather was strong as she pulled her gloves from her hands and tucked them beneath her arms, the cool air in the courtyard greeting her mildly sore hands. She cast a glance towards the soldiers retiring to the tavern before she headed for the stairs, intrigued by Hawke’s presence.
The woman’s hair was pulled back in one long, thick braid that tickled the ground as she leaned, but she was paying it no mind. It buckled a little as she tilted her head back to look upon her. “You look quite a sight, Seeker,” she teased, the sides of her lips parted in an open-toothed smirk.
Cassandra grunted and gestured towards the braid. “Your hair is getting dirty.”
Hawke shrugged and looked up toward the sky, her crystal eyes drifting closed. “Hair can be washed. It’s only a bit of dirt, anyway.” A smile touched her lips, a chuckle that stopped just short of leaving her. “My brother and I used to wrestle in mud. I tell you, you’ve never seen an angrier mother than mine the day we knocked the clothesline down with us.”
Cassandra observed her for a long moment, taking in the small details in this warm evening light that she’d been unable to see in the dimly lit castle. Age was catching up to her, evident in the laugh lines that had set in about her mouth and in the crows’ feet that touched her eyes. Her armor had been set aside this night in favor of a grey gown that hugged her body like a glove, and Cassandra noted for the first time the same piercings in her ears as Varric wore, the center of one ear and the tip of the other. This would’ve made Cassandra smile if the Champion had not moved to scratch the side of her neck, and a thick golden ring upon her finger caught her attention. “That… That is the Tethras house signet,” she exclaimed, eyes widening slightly.
Hawke opened her eyes and admired the ring upon her hand with a soft smile. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
Cassandra snorted and sat beside the Champion, her legs dangling over the steep drop into the Surgeon’s area below. “I had no idea you meant so much to him,” she mused. And it was true. Before all this Inquisition mess, she’d never in a million years considered that the dwarf was protecting Hawke in such a way, that the reason for his secrecy and lies had been love. It had been nearly a week since Hawke had arrived, and Cassandra was still reeling. The fact that she wore this ring… “What, exactly, is between you two?”
She could feel Hawke sitting up, feel her wiggling to look upon her a little better, one leg hooked under the other. “Well, several dozen miles by now, I’m sure.”
Cassandra sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maker, give me strength. You know what I mean.”
Hawke tittered quietly. “What are you asking, precisely?”
“I mean to ask, what is the nature of your relationship?”
“No, that’s not what you mean to ask.”
“Maker’s breath, Champion, are you and Varric married?!” She cast a bewildered look upon the Champion, frustrated as all get out.
Hawke chuckled and shook her head, turning her eyes to admire the ring once more. “Not yet.”
Cassandra frowned slightly at the softened tone in her voice. “Why not?”
Hawke’s smile disappeared from her face as she considered her response, spinning the ring upon her finger. “Well, for starters, the Chantry exploded.” Cassandra frowned. Oh. “And then someone took him away from me.” Oh… Hawke shrugged and looked back up at the sky. “Once all this is over, I expect we’ll do it then.”
“Champion, I—”
“Belladonna.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name, Cassandra, is Belladonna.” A scowl set into her face, distorting her beauty a bit. “Champions do not allow their best friend to blow up half a city and bring turmoil to the world and then allow them to walk free. Champions especially do not help them do it, whether knowingly or not.”
Cassandra turned to regard her. A weight had settled over her shoulders and a shadow over her eyes which she had pointed to the ground. Around them, she could feel the pinpricking of the Veil, resonating with the anger and pain Hawke must have been feeling. Cassandra nodded after a moment. “Belladonna, then. I am sorry. For all of it. Especially that I apparently disrupted your wedding plans.” She tried to make her voice come out teasing, but it did not quite hit its mark.
The Veil lightened slightly as the weight lifted from Hawke’s shoulders. “If there’s one thing I understand, it’s duty, Cassandra. I won’t say I’m not frustrated you had to take Varric away from me, but I know why it was necessary.”
Cassandra smiled slightly, though much like her attempt to lighten the mood, it did not reach her eyes. In truth, she did feel quite terribly about the whole ordeal. Knowing she was forgiven helped a bit, but not enough. She regarded Hawke once more, Cole’s words ringing in her mind. ‘Her hands touch his and it feels like the sun, warm and welcoming and wondrous.’ She looked down at Hawke’s hands, now folded loosely in her lap, and it’s easy to call them a warrior’s hands. Years of wielding staves and years of hardships have dried them out and turned them calloused, the beginning of knobs in her knuckles already, but they remain delicate, strong, and gentle, much like the rest of her. It would not be difficult for her to imagine them as belonging to a lover. She followed them up to her strong arms, built up from years of fighting, then up to her face, across the one singular scar that cuts through her thick lips. Those same lips turned into a smirk, and a blush burst across Cassandra’s cheeks, urging her to look away.
“My dear Lady Pentaghast, I do believe you’re ogling me. Whatever will my betrothed think?” she teased.
Cassandra cleared her throat and stood abruptly. “Something snide and vulgar, I am sure,” she grumbled. Hawke tilted her head back in a boisterous laugh that had her belly shaking, and the sound made Cassandra smile slightly. “Would you care to join me in some supper, Ch—Belladonna?”
The woman looked up at her and beamed, almost literally it seemed, before jumping to her feet. “I’d be delighted to, Cassandra.”
The next three weeks passed much like this. Cassandra assisted Cullen in training, as per the Inquisitor’s suggestion, and she and Hawke would dine together in the evening. Cassandra was surprised to find she eagerly awaited these dinners with Hawke. Though she was nowhere near the storyteller that Varric was, Cassandra enjoyed hearing her talk about her life. She told her about her life before Kirkwall, about growing up and moving around. Belladonna told her stories of her father, a most humorous and kind man who loved his family with a startling fierceness, stories of her mother though at times a rift existed between them, stories of her twin siblings and their frequent exploits and adventures. She spoke with a softness that sang of pain, and often her eyes would glaze over with sorrow as she recalled her life before. The fact that she never mentioned this mysterious Garrett did not escape Cassandra’s notice, but she knew better than to ask if even Varric did not know that story. And where Varric refused to answer her questions about their companions in Kirkwall with any semblance of truth, Belladonna was eager to supply her with the information she desperately sought. Yes, Aveline is every bit as intimidating as Varric makes her out to be. No, Sebastian’s armor is not shiny enough to use as a mirror. Yes, Fenris and Isabela hooked up, and as far as she knows, they remain in touch. (And no, Fenris did not leave those bodies to rot in the mansion.)
It became increasingly common as the days wore on for other members of the Inner Circle to join them for dinner, come to listen to Belladonna’s unique insights into the Tale of the Champion. Many of them seemed taken with the woman, particularly The Iron Bull who delighted in Hawke’s brand of humor. He’d asked her to recount her victory against The Arishok, found it to be an especially amusing recount. They both agreed that The Arishok did, indeed, have “a great rack,” and Hawke lamented that she’d had to kill him. “I didn’t think he and I were so different,” she’d said. Cassandra thought that strange at first, but the more she considered what she knew of Hawke, of the actions that she’d taken in Kirkwall, it made sense. Hawke saw things in a very black-and-white sort of way. Though she was without a doubt one of the sweetest women any of them had met in quite some time (the Inquisitor aside,) it was obvious that Hawke valued honor and courage above most things. She’d become a smuggler in the beginning because she would not murder those who had not directly wronged her or her family, even for coin; she challenged the Arishok to the duel because she knew it was better to fight one-on-one than to risk the lives of so many others, and to allow him to take Isabela was far without the realm of possibilities; she sided with the mages because, despite any semblance of truth behind their paranoia, the Templars had been abusing their power too long, and to help oppress the oppressed was to become worse than the oppressor. Even Ketojan, the Saarebas whom she’d been tasked to help escape, she had allowed him the most honorable path, the ability to face his death with all the pride and honors the Qun would allow. If the Arishok had only asked for anything else, reparations in the form of gold or ships, supplies, a permanent residence in the city, literally anything but to take a prisoner, let alone one of her best friends, Hawke would have let him live, might have even grown to consider him something of a friend. The only decision Hawke seemed to grapple with on any sort of level was the decision to allow Anders to walk away after what he’d done. Cassandra could not decide if she believed Hawke regretted letting him live, but the decision clearly sat precariously upon her shoulders.
They’d received word nearly a month to the day that the Inquisitor had concluded her business on the Storm Coast. The castle was once again abuzz to receive her, as it always was. The nobility who’d been unfortunate enough to arrive in her absence were renewed in their eagerness; the soldiers trained harder, ready to impress their leader; their friends were excited to hear all about this latest excursion. Cassandra did notice Hawke’s subdued reaction upon hearing the news and thought it strange. It wasn’t until two nights later during their dinner when she finally caved. “You do not seem excited to hear that the Inquisitor and her party are returning.” That Varric is returning.
Hawke looked up from her potatoes and smiled slightly. “On the contrary. I’m ecstatic. Every moment away from him,” Ah. It seems I am not as subtle as I’d like. “is an eternity. But it’s no use sitting around getting all worked up. It leaves me with precious little energy with which to receive him.” Her smile turned into a lewd smirk which made Cassandra blush. Hawke chuckled at her shyness and leaned back in Varric’s chair. After a moment, the smile eased from her face, and she looked up at Cassandra with an almost startling depth of seriousness. “Cassandra?”
“Mm?” mumbled the Seeker around a mouthful of food.
Hawke chewed on her lip for a moment as she thought of how to word her question. “I am… aware of how good Alena is in a fight. And, of course, I know Varric. But I don’t know… I don’t know if I fully trust all of your companions, neither their mettle nor their intensions. What is your estimation of them?”
Cassandra blinked. “I…” She patted her mouth with a napkin and straightened up in her seat. With a cursory glance about the hall, she deemed it safe enough to speak here, not that she particularly cared if she was overheard. “Most of them are good, I believe. They’ve all got their strengths and weaknesses, but the Inquisitor trusts them all. The only ones I can’t figure out are Cole—which is because he’s… well, he’s Cole—and then there’s Solas.”
“Yes, he’s the, uh, bald one, lives just in there, right?” She cast a hand towards the rotunda Solas frequents. Cassandra confirmed it with a nod. “I’ve gathered he and Alena are… intimate.”
A blush dusted Cassandra’s cheeks, but she again nodded. “Yes. Though, he is hesitant about it, and none of us quite know why. In truth, I believe he is hiding something. He knows far more than he will let on.”
Hawke folded her fingers together and pressed her index fingers to her lips as she rolled over this information in her head. It fit with what she had been thinking. Varric had mentioned something similar in one of his earlier letters, but for the most part had seemed to write off his concerns in favor of bigger issues. It didn’t settle well in her gut, this knowledge. Cassandra had proven herself to be trustworthy and amicable in the time Hawke had spent here, despite the way she had handled Hawke’s arrival. Given time, the word “friend” could even be thrown around between the two of them. She trusted her word. If she had yet to get past Solas’s secrecy, Hawke had no choice but to be suspicious, and that worried her. The thought of not being able to protect her love out there in the world facing demons and bandits and Maker only knows what else, to have to leave him in the hands of someone who likely had an ulterior motive to his actions (again, she thought hotly ,) it killed her.
“Perhaps I should not have told you,” Cassandra mused bitterly.
“No.” Hawke shook her head and gave the Seeker a weak smile. “No, I’m glad you told me. Varric doesn’t always tell me the whole truth sometimes, tries to keep me from worrying. I appreciate your honesty.”
It was Cassandra’s turn to observe her, now. Her piercing eyes flitted about her face, took in her ruminating and vexed posture, noted the whiteness of the knuckles on her clenched fist, and she sighed. “I did not mean to worry you, Belladonna.”
Hawke shook her head and gave her a gentle smile. “No, no. It’s just…” She sighed and rubbed her tired face. “In the span of 9 years, I can count on one hand the number of quests I went on without Varric. I don’t like to think of him out there, out where I can’t protect him if he needs it. He’s not just the other half of my heart, he’s my other hand, and I’m his.”
Cassandra blinked at that and could not help but smile. “That’s a rather romantic sentiment.”
Hawke chuckled, a slight redness dusting her cheeks. “Yes, well.” With a clearing of her throat, she straightened a little in her seat. “I know you lot have been out here fighting for months now. I know realistically that I shouldn’t worry. But still. It’s…difficult to trust others to have his back. Back in Kirkwall, we didn’t even have to talk. From the very beginning, we just… worked.”
“To hear Varric tell it, the same can be said for more than your fighting skills.”
“No, I don’t suppose I hid my infatuation very well.” She laughed, and it carried a ways through the hall. “Honestly, Cassandra, he had me since day one. When he spun that arrow and stuck it in his quiver. Oo.” She shook herself dramatically as if chills had passed through her anew.
Cassandra’s interest was piqued. Eagerly, she leaned forward, voice lowered for privacy. “When exactly did the two of you…?”
Hawke smirked and raised a brow at her. “When did we…?”
Cassandra narrowed her eyes and leaned even closer. Her voice was little more than a hiss, difficult to hear over the crackle of the fireplace. “Get together.”
“Maker’s breath, Seeker, are you asking about our first kiss or our first fuck? You’re so difficult to read.”
Hawke’s voice was loud and carried far throughout the hall. For a moment, conversation lulled, and Cassandra’s soul felt as though it would escape its vessel. Thankfully, nobody seemed interested enough to focus on them for too long. Once Cassandra felt that it was safe to speak again, though Hawke’s shit-eating grin did not lessen, she hissed, “Your first kiss, you complete and utter ass.”
“Ohohoh. Cassandra, I’ve never heard you swear before!” Hawke chuckled but relented. “Very well. It was early in the year my mother died. We had an argument and in the heat of the moment I just kinda grabbed him and laid one on him.”
“Oh, come now, Bells. 13 years together and that’s the best you can do?”
Hawke grinned from ear to ear, jumped to her feet, and practically leapt into the dwarf’s waiting arms. Cassandra watched with almost adoration as Hawke planted kiss after kiss on Varric’s laughing face, but she stood and bowed her head as the Inquisitor and Solas slipped out from around him. “Inquisitor,” she greeted. “We were not expecting you back so soon.”
Alena said a soft, “bye,” to Solas who set off for his rotunda, then she turned a bright smile to Cassandra. “It seems our raven was confused about where to go. Or something. I’m not really sure what happened.” She giggled and brushed her hair behind her ear. “We left the Coast about a week ago, and thankfully the roads and the weather favored us.”
“Mm, yes, thankfully,” mumbled Hawke, who had buried her face in Varric’s neck.
Alena rolled her eyes at her friends’ pda but turned her smile back to Cassandra. “I’m in desperate need of a bath and a good night’s sleep. We’ll speak tomorrow, yes?”
Cassandra patted her friend’s shoulder and nodded. “Of course, Inquisitor.”
Rather successfully avoiding anymore interactions, Alena slipped away and disappeared towards her chambers. When Cassandra turned her attention back to the love birds, she was relieved to find they had toned it down. Varric had settled into his chair and was digging through his bag while Hawke sat beside him, eyeing him with an almost nauseating amount of love. “I know it’s in here somewhere…” he grumbled. “Ah. Yeah. Here.”
Hawke let out a shrieking laugh as she held up what he’d given her, and Cassandra once more blushed. It was a garment made of chainmail, however once Hawke pressed it to her chest, it was evident that not only would it not provide any protection in an attack, it would not provide any protection from prying eyes. “This may be the greatest gift you’ve ever given me, my love.” Hawke laughed again as she put the chainmail on the table and slipped her hand into Varric’s.
The dwarf smiled adoringly at the woman. “Only the best for you, Hawke.” He brought her knuckles to his lips and brushed a kiss across them. Once he noticed Cassandra watching, he rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Right, right. Where did we leave off?”
“I… Well, the return after the Deep Roads, but Hawke was just telling me—”
“Seeker,” Varric chastised. “You know stories shouldn’t just jump around like that. There’s an artform to be respected.”
Hawke snorted and looked pointedly at him. “And what exactly happened of note in the three years between the Deep Roads and our first kiss?”
Varric put his hand to his chest and gaped at her in mock offense. “Hawke, you wound me! Can you say nothing of our many daring and dastardly deeds? The struggle to reinstate your family’s nobility? The many, many flirtations we shared over drinks at the Hanged Man?”
Hawke rolled her eyes. “Frankly, no, but I know you do.” With a bemused smile, she took a drink of her ale and gestured for him to proceed, to which he bowed his head in thanks.
XXXXXX Late in Year 2 XXXXXX
With the Deep Roads expedition more or less a success, business was booming. Literally at times. Hawke and Co. had made names for themselves, even beyond what Hawke had accomplished as a smuggler. Letters were piled upon her desk, notes of adoration and affection, letters expressing regret over the loss of Carver, missives and pleas from people seeking aid. The rift between Leandra and her had been deepened, to the point that it was not uncommon for days to pass without one speaking to the other, nor for heated arguments to turn into shouting matches and Leandra’s penchant to burst into sobs. Leandra said she understood that it wasn’t Hawke’s fault that Carver had died, but her inability to look upon her eldest and only remaining child did not pass unnoticed by anyone. Gamlen was no help, either, treating Hawke just as coldly as ever. The coin they made from the expedition went fast, but it went to good causes. Hawke donated 100 sovereigns to Lirene’s to help fellow Ferelden refugees, and more than half her loot was forced to go towards the restoration of her estate and title, though the Seneschal was hesitant to approve the change. Overall, it took more than a year for the Amell estate to be revived, during which time Hawke spent more time at the Hanged Man than she did at her own home. Not that Varric was complaining. She was more than welcome at his table whenever she wanted, and on a handful of occasions, she had even shared his bed (platonically, of course.) Their work kept them more than busy enough to avoid speaking of any unpleasantness, though, and for that both Varric and Belladonna were thankful. They rarely spoke of the Deep Roads to one another, but Varric would occasionally gave an exaggerated accounting to any eager drunkards wanting to hear the tale again. He never mentioned Carver’s demise.
What they did speak of was everything else: their work, favorite jobs thus far, gossip about residents of Kirkwall, stories of their past (many of them sordid,) even some more intimate things if enough alcohol was involved. (One such evening, Isabela had joined them at Varric’s table, and after several tanks of ale had teasingly mentioned that she believed Hawke “enjoyed taking it lying down and eye-to-eye, rather like a housewife,” to which Hawke had scoffed and said, “no, I prefer it from behind, bent over a table with a fist in my hair,” and Varric had spewed his ale in surprise. Isabela was banned from their dinners for several weeks.)
XXXXXX Present Day XXXXXX
“Really, Varric? Is that entirely necessary?”
The dwarf beamed at his betrothed with a toothy grin. “I did promise the Seeker the whole truth this time, Bells.”
Belladonna scoffed and rolled her eyes, though Cassandra could see the blush darkening her cheeks. Varric was still chuckling as he continued.
XXXXXX Back to the Story XXXXXX
The flirtation between Hawke and Varric had toned down in the time since the Deep Roads, but to say the chemistry was no longer there would be a most hideous and unforgivable lie. There was more than their fair share of offhanded remarks that left the other either blushing or wondering if they should be blushing, and a few awkward shoulder bumps and/or hand brushings, though neither of them commented on it or called the other out. Whatever this was between them, it was not unwanted, but it was not entirely ready to be explored, either.
Three months after Hawke moved into her mansion, Varric received word of a potential mission upon the Coast and decided to set off towards Hightown to tell her about it, the sun shining warmly overhead. He was about to walk past the Merchant’s Guild when he heard it, that sultry voice he’d know from miles away, confident and self-assured, and his steps faltered. No, it can’t be… It carried over to him clear as if she were standing beside him. It… It is. He’d not seen her since before her wedding, which he’d purposefully not attended. Seeing her here and now would be… Well, what would it be? Could he push past his pain? Greet her with a smile? Ask her why she was there as if nothing were wrong? Or was the lump in his throat and the ball of roiling ice in his gut too much to push past? They hadn’t fallen out of touch, but it was easy to picture her as he had known her, young and vibrant and with a ring-less finger even if she spoke of her husband in her letters. Could he return to that image if he saw her now?
He thought of leaving, of just continuing to his destination and putting this close encounter out of his mind, but his curiosity got the better of him. He had to see her. If he were to leave without at least seeing she was in good health, he’d never forgive himself. In true roguish fashion, he slipped into the shadows, careful to do so out of anybody’s notice. It had been three years before the Blight that Varric had last seen her, since they’d shared their final night together before she allowed herself to be taken from him. No, that’s wrong, he chastised himself. She had never been his, not really. His heart had belonged to her like he’d never allowed it to belong to anyone before or since, but hers had always been too free to be tethered to him. He had admired that about her, way back when, and still did though he often cursed himself for letting go.
It was not difficult to spot her. She was a tad on the short side for a dwarven woman of her age, and she wore a hood as she normally did, but she stood in such a way that she exuded confidence and attitude. A noble woman without nobility, a merchant who takes pride in her work, a genius among fools. She was standing so that he could see her face among the shadows of her cowl, and their nights together resurfaced in his mind. The long button nose, the sharp cupid’s bow above her thicker upper lip, the sharp cheekbones beneath soft eyes. It was her. She was here. Older now than he remembered, with the beginnings of age about her face, a few wrinkles here and there, but it was her. Bianca.
The words spilling from her lips fell on his deaf ears, the sound of his heart pounding too loud to push past. For the smallest of moments, Varric considered stepping forth, exposing himself, rushing to greet her with open arms and to hold her again, breathe in her uniquely smithy scent. And he might’ve, might’ve done just that had a man walked up beside her. He was tall for a dwarf, but his height did little for him because he stood sloppily. Next to Bianca, he practically shrank, overshadowed by her charisma, but she greeted him with a warm smile. Varric watched with a breaking heart as the man leaned in to place his bearded lips upon her cheek, as the two of them said goodbye to the merchant with whom Bianca had been speaking, and as they turned hand-in-hand to leave. Time seemed to pass by tauntingly slow as the two of them made their way from the square, and it seemed to snap back once they left. Varric stood there for ages, replaying the look on her face as she greeted that man again and again, and he remembered the way she used to look at him like that.
It was nighttime by the time Varric’s fist found Hawke’s door. He’d considered leaving when it took longer than usual for Bodahn to greet him, but the idea of returning alone to the Hanged Man bit at him sharply. No. He didn’t want to be alone.
The warm light from her foyer spilled out over him and washed him in a soft glow as the door was opened. His eyes refused to fixate on anything, so he opened his mouth to address her manservant when a bewildered, “Varric?” met his ears. It took a moment for the bare feet to register, pale and definitely belonging to a woman, and his eyes traveled up the soft skin to the hem of a light blue nightgown stopped at the knees, then up, up, up, into wide, concerned, breathtaking crystal eyes. “Varric, what is it? What’s wrong?” Hawke stretched out and cast her eyes about the square, one of her creamy hands going to his shoulder to usher him inside. It felt nice against his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him for the first time in hours.
“I…” What could he say? ‘I saw my ex-girlfriend with her husband and now I’m pouting like a teenager?’ No. That was too embarrassing. He wouldn’t burden her with that if he could help it. “I just… Uh...”
Hawke was looking him up and down, scanning every inch of him for something, perhaps signs of a battle or injury. The hand on his shoulder moved to his forehead, feeling for a temperature. “Varric, you’re warm. Are you ill?”
Yes. That’s it. I’m ill. I’ve come for healing. That works, right? “Mm,” he mumbled lamely.
Hawke nodded, but he could tell she was still unconvinced. “Well, alright. Come into the library, and I’ll have a look at you.”
“Belladonna? Who is it?” Leandra approached the railing, pulling a robe about her shoulders. At the sight of Varric, a concerned expression filled her face. “Oh, hello, Varric. Is something wrong?”
“He’s just a little under the weather, Mother. We’re going into the library. Please, go back to bed.”
Leandra nodded and turned to go, but stopped to add, “There’s some elfroot tea left in the pot in the kitchen.”
Hawke waved her off and lead Varric into the library. The smell of the books was one he enjoyed deeply, though tonight it wasn’t enough as he sank into the couch. Hawke disappeared for a moment only to return with a kettle and a mug, and she knelt in front of him, tea set aside. Her hands were soft and warm around his as she drew them towards her, and her eyes drifted shut while her magic thrummed strangely up his arms, an almost probing sensation as if searching him. This is pathetic, Tetrhas. Lying to Hawke. She’s your best friend. She won’t judge you. “I…”
Her eyes opened slowly, but her hands did not leave his, and the magic turned pleasant, soothing and loving. “What’s up, Varric?” she repeated, voice soft in a tender whisper.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, and his shoulders slumped. “I saw…” Her name felt forbidden upon his lips despite the same name secured to his back. Speaking of her felt like an invasion, a betrayal, but at the inviting and sympathetic expression held in Hawke’s eyes, he could not deny her the truth. “I saw Bianca. With her… With her husband.”
“Oh, Varric.” In one fluid movement, she pushed up from the floor and pushed into his arms to hold him tightly to her. The tears came, then, the comfort of her embrace breaking the dam he’d put up. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the top of his head, her lips pressed against his hair. The way he clutched her, pulled her tighter against him, she was forced into his lap but she made no protestations. Rather, her hand moved to his hair, and her fingers stroked through the strands delicately, soothingly. Part of him was still vaguely aware of the magic in her fingertips working its way through his body, warming him, urging him to calm, but he paid it no mind. Her skin still smelled of her lavender soap from her bath, her hair of blueberries, and she of home, and he breathed her in deeply. It hadn’t occurred to him until then just how strongly he associated this smell with pleasant feelings, that he’d come to miss it on nights she spent at home, and as he cried, it was just as soothing as her magic.
Her shoulder was practically soaked by the time he settled. He thought to apologize, but for the first time in his life, he found he had no desire to speak. Hawke did not move until he did, her fingers still working through his hair, her legs still settled around his, and if this were any other night, he’d be positively delighted at their current situation. As it was, such thoughts were tucked away in a locked box in his mind, and he held her for a while longer. A small part of him wondered if she was always this warm or if she were intentionally heating her body for him, but it was too nice to question. And in that moment, sitting there in this room that smelled of books and fire, Hawke sat in his lap, her existence filling his senses, he felt at home for the first time in ages. Unfortunately, this moment could not last, and as his grip about her waist slackened, she took that as her cue to slip from his lap and into the open spot in the sofa beside him. Where her hands had been upon him ached at the loss of her warmth, but he could still feel the strangely foreign and comforting sensation of her magic emanating into him from where she sat. Varric turned towards her, his arm against the back of the couch to look at her. He focused upon her features to keep his mind from wandering, studied the curls of her hair and the way the ends came together to form soft ringlets, counted the freckles upon her exposed upper chest (17,) followed the length of her arms and watched her delicate hands pouring tea into a teacup. Her mouth nearly touched the rim as she brought it to her lips, and enraptured Varric watched as those lips parted. Where her breath blew across the surface of the tea, a steady stream of light steam arose, and when the teacup was placed in his own hands, he was surprised to find it warm despite how long it had been sitting. It was no ale, and for that he was thankful. It was bitter and sweet and strong, rather like Hawke was, and its fragrance alone was enough to help him begin to feel better, feel refreshed.
Her hand found its way to the side of her head, and she leaned against the back of the couch while tucking her leg underneath her. Her hair fell in rivers around the arm, and she let out a soft yawn which she covered with the back of her other hand. “Oh, excuse me,” she said.
Varric moved to set the teacup down and frowned. “I’m sorry, Bells. It’s late. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”
The hand that had been in his hair shot out and grabbed his bicep, urging him to pause and turn back to her. “No, Varric, please. You’re always welcome here. Night or day.”
As he studied her face, he could find no hint of a lie or any sort of hidden conditions in her words, just pure and utter honesty. A warm sense of relief and belonging filled him from head to toe. The hand fell from his arm as he continued to put the teacup down anyways, but she could not hide the soft smile as she realized he was resituating himself upon the couch to get comfortable. They looked at each other for a long time, unsure of what to say now that the emotions had passed, and it was only then that Varric remembered why he had been on his way to Hightown in the first place. “Oh, I was coming to tell you…”
The information flowed freely from his lips, and she listened in earnest, eyes glistening as she became excited. Hawke loved many things—her dog, her friends, herself—but above all, she loved the fight. And this one promised to be a big one, an entire contingent of soldiers hiding out in the sewers. The conversation moved easily from the job to their plans to reminiscing of earlier conquests, and all thought of Bianca flew from Varric’s mind in Hawke’s presence.
The hour was nearing dawn by the time they fell into a comfortable silence, sat side-by-side upon the couch with their feet up on an ottoman. Varric was lost in thought, observing the flames in the hearth as they dwindled when he felt her weight shift. His arm moved instinctively, lifting up and moving behind her shoulder as she scooted down, and he couldn’t help the blush that dusted his cheeks when her head found his shoulder. He held himself very still and realized she’d fallen asleep, most likely some time ago.
Should I leave? I… What in the name of Andraste’s ass should I do? Varric had never stayed over at Hawke’s before. What would Leandra think? The woman looked upon him kindly, spoke to him with more fondness than she spoke to Hawke these days which frankly still baffled him. (It had been his fault the Hawkes were in the Deep Roads in the first place.) Would that change if she thought he were…entangled with her daughter? Did he care if that changed?
As he pondered the morality of his current situation, he was reminded once again at just how much taller she was than him. Though she was short for the average human, she still stood a good head taller than him. It was all legs, though. Her legs went on for days. Even though she’d turned in towards him and had both her knees bent a little, there was still a good foot and a half of length between her toes and his. He’d spent many evenings wondering at it, but this felt different. Perhaps it was because this was her space instead of his, that he felt a little like an intruder here under her roof, but it seemed new to him again just how strange this relationship was. He marveled at her toes which she painted an emerald green, wondered at how she could possibly reach them with legs as long as hers even if he’d witnessed it a handful of times before, and his eyes spanned across her impossibly smooth skin up to the hem of her robes that gathered at her knees. He swallowed hard and cast his eyes up to the ceiling, struggling to keep himself calm. Don’t be a creep, Varric Tethras. Maker’s breath.
As he sat busily steeling himself, Hawke shifted again, this time snaking her arms around his waist and pressing her face closer to his neck. Her breath drifted against his flesh and drew goosebumps in its wake. Against his better instincts, he carefully adjusted himself so he was leaning against the arm of the couch, and Hawke moved with him, her head settling comfortably against his pectoral muscle. He held her gently, a hand moving to her hair to gently stroke the curls, and he observed her face for a time as he had so many nights before. Like everything else this evening, it felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, and he marveled at her. The distinct arch of her eyebrows, the way her lashes curled so delicately, the smooth slope of her proud nose, the soft way her thick lips laid slightly parted, every inch of her skin so soft-looking. Every bit of her was so different from Bianca, from the bouncy curls in her chestnut hair to her painted toes. Bianca was sharp, harsh angles and prickly words where Hawke was just… precious and soft, almost to the point she seemed fragile, as if she were made of glass. And as he lie there, looking upon her, admiring the way the dying flames flickered across her delicate skin, he couldn’t help but think of how nice it felt to be in her arms, to have her in his arms.
He fell asleep with a smile upon his face and a warmth sparking in his heart. He would awaken later that day, Hawke still tucked securely in his arms, and it would dawn on him that perhaps his feeling for her moved beyond whatever minor crush he thought this was.
XXXXXX Present Day XXXXXX
Belladonna had a soft smile upon her face as she observed her fiancé. Varric chuckled when he noticed her eyes on him and turned a charming smile towards her. “Was it something I said?”
Belladonna’s own smile widened as she placed her chin in her hand. “You’ve never mentioned that last bit before,” she said softly.
Varric raised a brow at her. “Oh? And when exactly did you think I fell, Bells?”
“You know me, my love,” she cooed. “I thought I had you wrapped around my finger from Day One.”
“Oh well, of course I was. But that was the night I started to realize.”
Belladonna’s smile turned almost dopey as she looked upon the dwarf, and Cassandra couldn’t help but blush, as if she were intruding on a private moment. When the moment failed to cease, she forced herself to clear her throat, and both sets of eyes turned on her. “If you two would like a moment, I would be more than pleased to leave,” she teased.
Belladonna rolled her eyes while Varric took a drink of his ale. She observed him a moment and sighed quietly. With a gentle hand upon his shoulder, she leaned in and lowered her voice. “You’re tired, Varric,” she stated. It hadn’t occurred to her in her excitement to see him again, but it was undeniable. He carried dark bags underneath his eyes, and his voice had been growing almost strained as he recited their story.
He waved his hand dismissively and smiled unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”
“No, she is right,” Cassandra said. “You should get some rest.”
Varric looked between the two women with an almost exasperated expression. “And uh, just when exactly did you start agreeing with each other?”
Hawke flashed him a toothy grin and reached across the table to clap her hand over Cassandra’s. “Oh, honey, you’ve missed out on so much!”
The blush was hard to tamp down from Cassandra’s cheeks, but she joined in the taunt. “Yes, Varric. Belladonna and I have become quite close in your absence.”
“Why, you might even say we’re… besties.” The last word came as a hiss and with a waggling of eyebrows.
Varric looked incredulously between them before pushing back from the table. “Maker’s great saggy balls. The world really is ending.” With a sigh, he rose to his feet and put his hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “Fine, fine. I’m going. Just… if you start braiding each other’s hair ‘n’ shit, warn me first, ‘kay?”
Hawke chuckled and swept his knuckles up to her lips. “I’ll be in before too long.”
Cassandra averted her eyes as Varric moved his hand to stroke her cheek tenderly just before he stepped away. Hawke looked after him with an almost dreamy expression upon her face, and Cassandra couldn’t help but smile. “And what of you?”
Her question seemed to thrust Hawke out of her reverie because she started and looked over at her with wide eyes. “Pardon?”
“Well, Varric has disclosed when he first came to care for you. What of you for him?”
“Oh, I uh… I’m not much of a storyteller, Cassandra.”
The Seeker snorted. “Please. You’ve told me many stories these past few weeks. What is so different about this one?”
“Well, most of those were just… anecdotes, I guess.” At Cassandra’s insistent glower, she sighed and nodded. “Ok. Ok.” There was a long pause as she finished off Varric’s ale in one go, but she settled back into her chair soon enough. “So. I wasn’t lying when I said he had me from day one. Fastest crush I ever had. But I guess…” She looked up at the ceiling as if the words she were seeking might be imprinted upon them, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair. “I guess it was about a year after the Bianca incident that I knew it was more than that.”
XXXXXX About a Year After the Bianca Incident, Late in Year 3 XXXXXX
“Look, if I give away the ending, it’s not a good story, now is it? Fine, fine, I’ll give you a hint. It involves griffons. No, no. That’s all you get. Go on, off with you now.”
Belladonna side-steps the clambering rush of blond mass that darts past her, almost throwing her off balance. Shaking her head, she pushes her way into Varric’s room and dusts herself off dramatically. “Your urchins could do with a few lessons in manners, Vare.”
“Who, Dippit? Ah, he’s harmless.” A gloved hand gestures for her to sit down. “What can I do for you today, Bells?”
Belladonna smiles slightly at her nickname but puts her hand upon her hip. “Well, you can tell Corff to crack a new barrel for starters.”
“Uh-oh.” He leans forward in his seat and looks at her with compassionate eyes. “Come, tell your favorite dwarf all about it,” he says, patting the table near where she normally sits
A tankard is placed upon the table along with an entire jug filled with ale. She smiles in thanks at the serving girl who usually takes care of Varric and his friends. “Well, for starters, you don’t tip that woman enough, Varric,” Belladonna teases. Varric rolls his eyes but waits patiently for the real reason she’s there. It takes her a moment in which she downs nearly half the tankard in one go and gathers her thoughts. “It’s just the usual,” she starts. “Mother is… being Mother.”
“Oh boy, here we go. What’d she do this time?” Thankfully, he seems to know it’s time to get cozy because they’ll be here for a while. Varric settles back into his chair and kicks one of his feet up onto the table across from her.
“She just. I can’t. Augh!” She jumps to her feet and begins to pace, agitation rolling off her in waves (almost literally. She’s influencing the Fade around them; she can see the static beginning to build along his arms and raising his hair.) “She wants me to marry someone, Varric! I mean.” She scoffs incredulously. “Me. Married. Can you believe that? And as if that weren’t bad enough, she’s out here looking for suitors for me!” There’s a hard slap as her open palm hits the far wall, her back turned to him. “There’s one she’s considering, and I’ve met the tosser before. Honestly, Varric, I’ve never met more detestable and disgusting a man in my life!” She turns back to him and puts her hands on the table, leaning with her head drooped down. “I told her I don’t want to marry, least of all with a man for whom I have no affections, but she won’t listen. ‘We’re nobility now, Donna,’ she said. ‘You’re the only one left who can continue the line.’” She throws the last quote out with no small amount of venom, much like her mother had said it, a pointed blow meant to strike decisively against her. “As if I need reminding that I’m the only one left, that it’s my fault Carver and Bethany and…” His name is at the tip of her tongue, always present on her mind, but she refuses to speak it anymore. She’d not said it since that night in the Deep Roads, not even to herself, not since she’d failed him completely and utterly by failing to keep her promise to protect her family. No longer does she deserve to say his name.
There is a piece of fabric slipped into her line of view, startling her out of her self-pity. She follows the hand holding it up to his kind and sympathetic face, and only when he squeezes her bicep with his other hand does she realize she’s crying. Silently, she accepts the handkerchief and turns her face from him to dab at her tears. “So, you don’t wanna marry. What’s the big deal? This is your story, Bells. Your mother can’t dictate how it ends, no matter how hard she tries.” His voice comes earnestly, encouraging her to feel better.
Her voice is thick with tears as she chokes out a weak, “I wish that were true.”
The hand on her arm gently tugs on her sleeve, urging her to take a seat. With a quick glance at his gentle face, she nods and lets him guide her to sit back down. His chair squeals against the floor as he drags it closer to her, and he sits with his hand on her shoulder. “What d’you mean, Bells?”
“I just… What good would I be? A-As a daughter, I mean? If I were to disobey her now, after everything that’s happened?”
“You mean losing your family, don’t you?” He speaks cautiously, levelled and delicate as if to avoid hurting her further. His caution is wasted.
Pain flashes across her face as their smiles flicker quickly through her mind, one after another. “Yes. My family. I robbed my mother the chance to be proud of her children. What would it say about me if I… if I didn’t give her what she wants?” She wipes her eyes hard with the handkerchief he’d given her. “Carver wanted to marry. Wanted a gaggle of kids, he did. Bethany wanted to run her own farm.” Garrett wanted to help mages escape the Circles. “They all had such high dreams, and what do I have?” She scoffs at herself and shakes her head. “Blood stains and alcoholism,” she growls bitterly. As if to prove her point, her tankard finds its way to her lips and is promptly emptied.
Varric is quiet for a long time. She had begun to worry he was growing tired of the conversation, but with a heavy sigh, he grabs the jug of ale and tops her off. “What you have, Bells,” he starts then sets the jug back down. He looks up at her with a kind smile that makes her heart flutter, “is a whole mess of friends who love you, an estate which you single-handedly restored for your mother, more riches than all of Darktown combined, and the respect of three fourths of this entire city.” There is a mischievous twinkle in his eye as his smile melts into a toothy smirk. “And you got me, the handsomest dwarf to ever walk to surface.” He gestures towards his body as he says it, and she rakes her eyes over his body, over his broad chest to his thickly muscled arms, and she is reminded of how nice it feels to be wrapped in them. I wish he’d hold me. The thought snapps quickly in her mind, forcing her to tear her eyes from him. I… What in the actual hell?
“Bells?”
She shakes her head and looks down into her ale, thankful her weeping and the drink had already darkened her cheeks. With a sniffle, she runs her hand across her face and moves to stand. “I’m sorry, Varric. I… I shouldn’t have bothered y—”
A calloused hand shoots out to grab her arm as she turns for the door, and his kind and smiling face ducks into her line of sight. “Bells. Hey, I’m here.” With a gentle tug, he pulls her into his warm and inviting arms and squeezes her gently, his head laid against her bosom. “I’m always here for you.”
With the love in his embrace, the dam breaks once more, and Belladonna finds tears spilling in torrents down her cheeks. Her hands find their way to the back of his shirt which she grips with all her might, as if she were clinging to him for dear life, and she fights the urge to put her face in his hair and soil it with her sorrow. When Varric pulls away a few minutes later, Belladonna might have seen the shimmering of tears in his own eyes had she not taken that moment to wipe the tears from her face. “Let’s not talk about it, huh? Come on, let’s go find the Rivaini and swindle some poor drunkards out of their money in a game of cards, eh?” He looks up at her with a glint in his eye and a swaggering grin that draws a breathless and weepy giggle from her. “Ah, there’s my girl.” He beams at her smile. “Come on, Bells.” He waves her on as he turns on his heel and starts out the door, leaving her standing there trying to control the color in her cheeks.
Though the rest of the night passes in a pleasant blur filled with ale, friends, and laughter, but his words were never far from her mind. ‘My girl.’ And though she did not know why, when she laid beside Varric that night, a soft smile painted her face as her eyes closed. ‘My girl.’
Xxx
Demons plague her sleep that night, taunting her recent misfortunes. They come to her wearing the skins of men her mother might say suit her, all of them wealthy to be sure of their fine clothes made from pure silks, but all of them physically unappealing in some way and all of them the very opposite of the type of man she would consider for herself (should she consider a man at all.) One speaks harshly to her, whispers lewd and vividly obscene things into her ear and laughs at her discomfort before his eyes turn red and his grin turns devilish. Another is frightened by the smallest of mice and jumps upon a table shrieking shrilly for her to “save him.” The final sits in a plush couch reading some old and dusty book about some obscure bit of history, and when she suggests they go for a patrol he “harrumph”s her and settles deeper into the couch before declaring her adventures “too distasteful” and that she should “desist henceforth.” At the end of each of their appearances, when she finally tells them to shove off, they laugh at her. The first two disappear into smoke, but the third looks at her over the rim of his book as he chortles, his swollen belly jiggling with the effort. The book in his hand snaps shut and he stands, except that his height comes three times taller than it naturally should’ve been given his seated height. He looms over her and reaches forward with a spindly finger to stroke the rim of her chin. “One day, Mistress Hawke, this will be your fate.” His breath ghosts across her face like an icy cloud and smells of the sewer. “You feel it, too, don’t you? Your body beginning to grow old and tired, your magic beginning to drain away. Who will you be when you can no longer adventure? And then where will you be? Too decrepit to find a good husband, too unsociable to have any good friends. I mean, just look at yourself. Who would want to waste their time with this?” With the final word, his spindly hand grips her shoulder and turns her sharply around. An elderly woman stands before her, familiar in many ways but a stranger overall. Her skin is greying and sagging at the edges; her hair hangs limp and grey about her shoulders and gives only the vaguest indication of ever having possessed curls; her body is soft with the pudginess of age. It isn’t until Belladonna looks into the face, notes the faded scar about the nose, looks into the shockingly piercing blue gaze that she realizes this is not just any woman. This is her. Standing in a mirror.
The demon is at her ear, its icy breath rising goosebumps along her flesh as it coos, “Don’t you want to stay young and beautiful forever? To continue your life as an adventurer without reservation?” Though its face is not reflected in the mirror, she can feel the hand on her shoulder tightening, can almost sense its cruel smile. “We’d be more than happy to oblige, for a small fee of course…”
Panic wells within her, her breaths coming quickly and short as tears threaten to spill over. To tell it now, she would hesitate to admit that she nearly caved, nearly asked the demon what she must do to prevent such a fate. But as she opens her mouth to ask that forbidden question, a warmth forms at her side. She looks to find nothing there, but something wholly familiar about this warmth radiates up her body, its height and temperature tickling a memory at the edge of her periphery. Whatever is causing it, it gives her enough peace of mind and strength to reach up and grip the demon’s bony hand upon her shoulder and thrust it aside. “Twenty-seven years I have persisted against you and your lot. Do forgive me if my soul evades capture once more,” she purrs with a sweet smile.
The despair demon gloweres at her before it sheds its skin away to float before her, wearing a darkened hood underneath which she can just barely make out the faintness of what might’ve been a drunken child’s attempt at drawing a face. It pulls its hands in toward itself and begins to turn away as it hisses, “You cannot escape us forever, Mistress Hawke.” And as it disappeares, the dream world it created for her melts into fog.
Xxx
The ceiling of Varric’s room is more than familiar enough for her to recognize it even in the darkness of early morning. She lies there for a moment, recollecting her dream, committing it to memory as she does every time a demon came to her. It isn’t until she feels the warmth beside her twitch, hears it grunt and sigh that she realized what the warmth had been in her dream: Varric, lying there by her side, his arm wrapped around hers, his forehead against her arm. She lets out a breathy chuckle and puts her hand over his and shuts her eyes once more. “My, my, Master Tethras, you continue to impress. You saved your girl yet again and you don’t even know it.”
XXXXX Present Day XXXXX
“You are… haunted by demons frequently, then?” Cassandra regarded her with a wary look, eyeing her up and down as if trying to ascertain Hawke’s strength to persist against temptation.
Belladonna sighed and rubbed her face. “No point in denying it, I suppose. Yes, I am visited often. At least once a week now, I’d say, with increasing frequency and intensity these past few years.” She looked haunted behind her crystalline eyes, as if recalling the nightly horrors that follow her. Vaguely she could see Cassandra tensing in her chair, could see the warring emotions behind the warrior’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Seeker,” she sighed. “I’m no blundering idiot. I know better than to trust a demon. Especially…” She swallowed hard, thoughts of Anders flashing through her mind. “Especially now.”
Cassandra regarded her a moment longer. “I… I believe you,” she relented. Though she did not relax any, she did wave her hand gently. “Please, continue.”
Belladonna leaned back in her chair and rested her hands against her stomach. “Hm. After that, we didn’t have any more particularly noteworthy moments for about two months. Obviously, my mother put the search for a suitor on the back burner, but I hadn’t quite put it out of my mind yet, and I guess I… acted out.”
“’Acted out?’” repeated Cassandra. “In what way?”
Belladonna cleared her throat and turned her head to hide a blush. “Well…”
XXXXXX Early in Year 4 XXXXXX
“Hawke?”
There are so many limbs in so many places, it’s difficult to know where she begins and…whomever else ends.
A clearing of the throat and another, “Hawke,” this one firmer, a little louder. No. Go away. She’s so pleasantly warm and comfortable with just the right hint of soreness weighing her body down. I’m taking the day off.
There’s a hand drifting up her back, a nose near her ear. “Mm, Honey Badger, you’ve got company, sweet thing.”
Belladonna nuzzles towards the softer voice, and her hips rock towards the thick, burly hand resting on top of them from her other side. “Mm.”
“Andraste’s ass, Hawke, get up!”
Her head snaps up with a sharp inhale, her eyes struggling to focus. The bliss is gone, replaced with a heaviness that tells her a hangover is imminent and her delicate soreness is far worse than she’d thought. She blinks blearily over Dernier’s shoulder and smacks her dry lips. “Oh. Hey, Var,” she mumbles. Her head drops back down, and she has to resist the urge to purr as Serendipity’s hand finds its way to her hair.
Varric clears his throat, and from the tone in his voice when he speaks, he’s angry, though why he would be angry she doesn’t know. “Would you like to get out of…whatever this is and, I don’t know, join us?”
Join them? Them who? She’s already joined someone. Well, four someones last night and just the two now. She stretches her body out and squirms until she’s turned towards him fully, a hand on Dernier’s shoulder to keep her steady as she leans up. “Huh?”
He shakes his head in disbelief and rubs his face. The firelight has begun to die, but she can see his displeasure and the way he averts his eyes from them with a darkening of his cheeks. Idly, she remembers she and her two bedmates are quite nude, but it’s too early and she’s too hungover to care. “Maker’s breath, Belladonna. We’re going to the Bone Pit, remember? Broody and Rivaini are downstairs already.” Oh. Yes, that’s right. He’s looking at her strangely. She can’t tell if it’s in anger or disappointment, but she has to frown at the pang it sets off within her. He shakes his head again and turns to leave. “Just. Get dressed. We’ll be outside.”
The door slams shut hard after him. Dernier grumbles and slaps a pillow over his face, but Serendipity snakes slender arms about her waist and shoulder. “Are you alright, Honey Badger?”
Her eyes are trained on the door, a secondary heaviness settling into her bones that has nothing to do with her hangover or the events of the previous night. “I…” She frowns at herself and subconsciously leans into the hand that Serendipity has brought to stroke her hair again. Varric never slams doors. He’s not happy with her, and for some reason that makes a large ball of ice begin to form in her gut. “He’s never been mad that I’ve been late before.”
Serendipity chuckles and places a kiss against her shoulder. “You’re such a sweet thing. That wasn’t anger I saw.”
Hawke blinks and turns to cast a confused look over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”
She is met with a raised brow and a smirk. “Honey, your boyfriend’s jealous.”
A dark blush rises up along Hawke’s cheeks, and her eyes widen. “My…” Boyfriend? Wha…
Serendipity just chuckles at her fluster. “You’d better hurry along before he sends someone up to get you. Ooh, do you suppose it’ll be that pretty, stoic elf you run about with? He makes me quiver.”
Hawke rolls her eyes and crawls over Serendipity to slip out of bed. She smirks and let out a soft purr as their bits rub together in the process, but otherwise neither of them pays any mind. “I’ll be sure to tell Fenris he’s got an admirer.”
“Be sure to tell him that if it were up to me, I’d give him 50% off.”
Belladonna chuckles as she sets about getting dressed. She pauses at her door and casts a little finger-waggling wave at her attentive bedfellow. “My man Bodahn will set you up with food or anything you want. You’re welcome to stay a while, the both of you.”
Dernier lets out a grunt from under his pillow and grumbles something unintelligible. Belladonna raises a brow and looks at Serendipity for clarification. “Oh, he asked for more ale, Honey Badger.”
Belladonna chuckles and nods. “I’ll have it sent up.” Dernier gives her a thumbs up which makes her roll her eyes. She gives another wave to Serendipity before leaving. She pauses just long enough to tell Bodahn where she was going and to ask him to take care of her friends, a request which sends the proud man practically into a heart attack, but he obliges with grace as he always did. With a clap on his back and a large grin, she bids him goodbye before gathering her pack and staff and leaving.
Her companions are waiting on a bench outside like Varric said they’d be. Isabela roves her eyes over her body in a way that makes her almost self-conscious, but she meets her inquisitive stare with a grin and a hand on her cocked hip. “You should have a portrait painted, Isabela. It’ll last longer.”
Isabela smirks. “You look well rested. It’s a shame I missed the party.”
Belladonna flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Next time I’ll be sure to invite you.”
“Oh no, don’t mind me. You know what they say. Two’s company and all.”
Belladonna snorts and starts walking, adjusting her pack on her shoulder as she goes. “Yes, but what do they say about five?” She casts a sly grin back to her companion.
Isabela gasps dramatically and puts a hand to her chest. “My, my, you have been a busy girl.”
Belladonna chuckles, but glances over at Varric who has fallen in step at her side. Something is eating at him; she can see it in the set of his jaw, in how he’s carrying himself a little straighter than usual, how his steps lack his trademarked swag. She raises a brow at him. “What’s up with you, Vare?” Serendipity’s words replay in her head. “Your boyfriend’s jealous.” Could that really be it?
His jaw clicks but his gaze does not move off their path. “Bad eggs at breakfast.” The fact that Varric never eats eggs let alone for breakfast does not escape her notice, neither does the way he refuses to look at her.
She glances at him once more and nods. “Gotcha. Sorry to hear it.” He pushes a little ways ahead of her, and she doesn’t try to catch up. Isabela gives her a confused shrug which she returns before turning a lazy grin on Fenris. “Oh, Serendipity says hello.”
His back straightens and the tips of his ears darken a little. “Is that so?” he grumbles in his sardonic way.
“Mm. Great admirer of yours, actually. Said you could get half off,” she proclaims with a broad grin. His steps falter, and at the absolutely bewildered and flustered look on his face, Belladonna is lost in a fit of raucous laughter that has her clutching her stomach while she struggles to keep her own footing.
Varric leads them most of the way to the Pit, far too silent for any of their liking (though Fenris would say it was preferable if pressed.) Isabela and Belladonna spend most of the way chatting about this and that—gossip about the regular patrons at the tavern, plans for the booty they’ll get from this excursion, but as they draw nearer their destination, the discussion turns back toward the lewd. Fenris moves to the front of the party partly to get away from their tittering but also to take point as their tank, but the two men are still within earshot and Belladonna is unaware of the tension growing between Varric’s shoulders.
“What’s Dernier like, Hawke? I haven’t had the pleasure of his particular services just yet,” purrs Isabela.
Belladonna just grins lazily and sighs. “Oof, Bela. He’s… He’s domineering and aggressive, y’know, like he’s in charge.”
“No, not that, you daft goose. What’s he like?”
“Ooohhh. Oh, Bela. You wouldn’t beli—”
“Maker’s hairy balls, I don’t want to hear about your blasted sexual conquests, Hawke!”
Belladonna stops in her tracks, eyes widening as she turns her attention to the dwarf doubling down on her. “I…”
“All day with this shit, Bells! All day! Well I’m sick of it! I don’t want to hear another word about any of it and neither does Fenris so if you would please just shut—” He lets out a yell in surprise as an arrow splits its way between them, and Bianca is in his hands and taking aim before Belladonna can get her staff from her back.
She moves fast, shields thrown up around all of them before Fenris and Isabela have darted out of range. Isabela throws down a smoke cloud and slips into the shadows as Fenris distracts their enemies—some renegade band of misfits who must’ve been on their way to ransack the Pit for themselves—and she and Varric split apart to cover their companions.
The battle is surprisingly difficult. Several waves come, each one bringing an additional ten or so fierce warriors. Fenris and Isabela keep the brunt of the forces contained away from Varric and Belladonna, but they are beginning to tire and enemies slip through the cracks. Belladonna almost doesn’t notice in her flurry of spells sent down towards the melee fighters, but as she turns to gain momentum for a bit of oomf in her lightning ball, she sees the shimmering in the light, and her step falters, the spell she had working up dissipating immediately. “VARRIC WATCH OUT!” she screams, and throws the feeling of pure protection in his direction—
She blinks, gasping for breath, looks up into the eyes of the now uncloaked assassin who is staring at her with nothing but pure shock. It takes her a split second to realize that she is no longer where she was, but she is now across the battlefield where Varric had been, and this is indeed the same assassin she had seen approaching. He looks down between them and lets out a shaking gasp, and Belladonna follows his path of sight. The blade at the end of her staff rests buried to the hilt in his chest, and with a startled jolt of realization she yanks the blade from his body. As he falls to the ground in front of her, she feels something tear through her, and she looks down to her own body. “Well. Shit.” The words are barely past her lips when she is falling to her own knees and clutches at the gaping wound the assassin has torn from her breast to her hip.
“BELLADONNA!”
She hears Varric’s voice and it brings a smile to her lips. His lovely face comes into view, hovered over her but not looking at her face. He looks pained, like he’s injured himself, and that makes her frown. “Are you hurt?” she asks.
His eyes tear away from her wound to stare at her incredulously and he can’t help but let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Maker, Bells, you’re lying here split open and you’re worried about me?”
Though she can’t feel it, she knows she’s smirking. “Well, someone has to worry about my favorite dwarf.”
He shakes his head and pulls his pack from his shoulders to root around in it, the battle all but forgotten. With one hand, he presses a healing potion to her lips and with the other, he presses clean bandages to her side where her robes which he has ripped to open further. “Yeah well you and I are gonna have a good long talk about what worry entails, Bells.”
As soon as the potion is empty, she makes a pbbt sound in her mouth and gives him a lazy grin, about the same time the sky above him begins to swirl. “Wha’s a little worry betwixt friends?”
Varric says nothing, throws the bottle over his shoulder and uses both his hands to hold her together. What must be moments but really feels like hours later, Isabela’s and Fenris’s faces come into view, both of them showing some signs of worry. She watches as Varric looks up at them, studies the muscles in his jaw as he barks something she can’t hear at them, smiles when his amber eyes turn back to her. His lips move like he’s speaking, and it takes an unusually long amount of time for her to realize he’s saying her name. She hears an airy giggle, watches a pale hand reach up to touch his cheek.
There’s another bottle pressed to her lips, another health potion, and it is almost enough to distract her from the pain of something being poured onto her wounds. The world threatens to blacken, but Belladonna Hawke is one stubborn bitch and she refuses to pass out. Instead, the pain brings her back into herself a bit. She can hear Varric talking to Fenris who is assisting him just short of her line of sight. She can smell the metal of her blood, can taste the bitter elfroot in the potion left in the back of her throat. She coughs, can taste the blood now, knows a little bit has stained her teeth. “L…”
Varric is back at her face now, his hand cupping her cheek. “Bells?”
She swallows hard, tries again. “Lyr…”
“Lyrium?”
A grin of relief bursts across her face. “Mm.” Varric moves fast to dig through her satchel, rips the cork from the lyrium with his teeth and presses it to her lips. The sour liquid burns her throat, but already she can feel it working. It brings her further into the moment, and now she can feel the searing pain along her torso with biting clarity. Her hands move over Varric’s still holding her together, and with all the strength she just imbibed, she pours healing energy back into herself. It drains quicker than it works, but it’s enough to stop her bleeding and bring the seams of her flesh a little closer. Her vision begins to swim black with the effort, a headache forming already, but at the look on Varric’s face she knows it’s not quite enough. “Another,” she manages to choke.
Varric looks up at her, eyes scanning her face as his own mirrors her pain. “Bells…”
She is too weak to argue, but that must tell him enough. Another bottle is at her lips in moments, the sour liquid flooding her body with strength once more. Though the size of the bottle is the same, the effects of it are already lesser than the one before it. It’s enough, though. Her hands move once more over Varric’s, using his strength to close her wound so that her spell might seal it better.
She does not have the good fortune to stay conscious long enough to know if it was enough.
Xxx
She wakes under the open sky, a blanket tucked up under her arms and a pillow beneath her head. That’s strange, she thinks. They’d not brought camping supplies with them.
The sound of laughter reaches her, followed by the smell of some sort of meat being cooked, and her stomach lurches. Quickly, she throws herself from her bedroll and manages to scramble a few feet away before her stomach violently insists on emptying itself in the dirt. She nearly collapses from it, might’ve if not for the strong and sturdy hand that catches her shoulder. “Hey, hey, easy.”
Varric helps her to her feet and moves an arm around her waist to support her. He does not protest when she has to lean nearly all her weight on him, the pounding of her head and the throbbing of her side too hard to fight. She blinks blearily at their surroundings. “The Pit?” she mumbles, taking in the familiar campsite of the workers.
Varric squeezes the hand hanging from his shoulder. “It was closer than Kirkwall. They have a field healer, patched you the rest of the way up.”
“Mm.”
Isabela catches sight of them and zips to Belladonna’s side lightning quick, helping Varric with the weight of their leader. “Bout time you were up,” she chuckled.
“Mm. Thought a nap sounded appropriate,” Belladonna mumbles in an attempt to be humorous.
“Well, now you’re up. Let’s get some food in you, yeah?”
A man approaches quickly, Fenris by his side. “Oh, dearie me. You shouldn’t be walking around just yet, Miss Hawke. There’s still one more round of healing to do before you’re fit for that sort of nonsense,” he chirps, guiding them to set her back down on her bedroll.
Varric kneels with her to get her settled, then takes a seat on the ground by her side. “She was sick. Just now.”
The healer nods as he kneels to fawn over her. “That’s to be expected with a wound as big as she had.”
Fenris stands stoically at the foot of the bedroll, watching the healer with wary eyes, his hands folded in front of him in what Belladonna supposes is an attempt to look even more intimidating than he is. Isabela had disappeared for the moment but manages to return right around the time the healer is asking Belladonna to remove her robes. “Ooh, goodie me, I’ve not missed the show. Here, pet. Some stew for you.”
Belladonna, now topless from the waist up save for her bralette which is sporting a very new and very bad stitch job from where the knife cut it, reaches up and takes the bowl. “Thanks, Bela.” She stares down into the murky broth, swallows a new bout of nausea.
Thankfully, the healer clears his throat. “I will need you to lie back for this, please.”
Varric takes the bowl and sets it down—farther away than was necessary as if he knows it is causing Belladonna distress—and slips his hand into hers. The warmth of it is pleasant, radiates up her arm in a comforting wave, and she clings to it. The healer’s hands are rough from his time working in the mine. They sting the still sensitive skin around her injury when he presses down, and the magic that fills the area is… unskilled. It is distinctly unpleasant, biting and jagged across her flesh, and she must grit her teeth and squeeze Varric’s hand. Her companion does not protest, puts his other hand about hers and rubs circles into the back of it. “I gotcha, Bells,” he whispers.
The healer does not have much left to do, so thankfully the discomfort is over quickly, no more than five or ten minutes. Once he is satisfied, he leans back with a cheeky grin. “There, should be fine now.”
Belladonna glowers at him and leans up with Varric’s help to inspect the damage. She will have a scar now, but she will live. The wound was worse than she’d originally thought, beginning on the inner side of her right breast, down through the middle of her ribcage, then juts sharply down to the top of her left hip. It is an angry shade of red, burns brightly in contrast with what remains of her dried blood around it, but it is closed. Her headache is alleviated somewhat, as well, but not gone. This healer must not be very learned despite his more advanced age. Still, she looks at him and offers her hand. “My thanks, ser.”
He is only too delighted to clasp his hands over hers and nod. “The pleasure was mine, Miss Hawke. Though,” he leans in close, lowers his voice. “The boys and I would take it as a kindness if y’didn’t… report me. There’s lots of wounds need tending in this mine.”
Belladonna just nods, pats his hand gently. “Your secret is safe with us.”
He beams, nods once to her companions, and leaves. Belladonna sighs and scoots up to sit freely. “I feel bad for the poor sods who get hurt in here,” she grumbles.
Fenris is watching the mage walk away. “Hawke,” he begins.
She shakes her head. “No, Fenris. No matter how shitty his abilities are, we won’t turn him in. He did just save my life.”
The elf looks at her and considers her words for a moment. “As you wish.”
Isabela puts her hands on her hips and sighs, “Seeing as you’re not on the verge, I’ll leave you alone for a while.”
“Wait,” Belladonna says. All six eyes are on her, waiting. “I’m in no condition to go down there. Would you lot mind going for me, make sure everything’s alright?”
Isabela and Fenris look at one another and each of them nod. “Sure thing, goose,” Bela says.
Varric shakes his head, squeezes her hand. “Not me. I’m staying here. With you.”
Belladonna regards him a moment then decides he won’t relent. “Alright. Bela, Fen, be careful, right? You break something down there, it’s up to that moron to fix you right, and trust me, you don’t want that.”
They nod and set off for the mines. Varric and Belladonna watch them go until they disappear into the mouth of the mine. “So, what’s up, Vare?”
Varric jumps at the question. “I… Nothing.”
Belladonna turns her gaze to him and raises a brow. “In all four years I’ve known you, Varric Tethras, that is the worst lie I’ve ever heard you tell. Hand me that stew, would you?”
He complies, passing the bowl into her waiting hands. She feels better, enough to maybe stomach a few bites. She looks pointedly at him as she forces the first spoonful down, not letting him forget her question. He won’t meet her gaze, but she knows he’s just looking for the words. Finally, after she has managed to choke the third spoonful down, he sighs and puts his hand on her thigh. “I… I’m so sorry.”
It’s hard to swallow this particular bite, but once it’s down she clears her throat and puts her hand over his. “What do you mean?”
His eyes find hers and they’re filled with raw emotion. “I wasn’t careful enough.”
She blinks then looks down at her injury. “You mean this?”
“…Maker’s balls, yes, Belladonna, I mean that.”
She snorts, talks around another spoonful. “Shit happens, Varric.” Swallows. “Don’t beat yourself up over this, ok? That’s an order. As your boss.”
“My boss, huh? Last I checked, we were partners.” There’s a teasing lilt in his tone, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
She chuckles. The stew is helping more than she’d anticipated. Already she can feel her strength coming back. “Didn’t you hear? I promoted myself, few months back. I’m a bonafide gang leader now.”
“Pfft, and I’m the next Paragon.” He is smiling now, a true smile but it is not easy. This will haunt him for some time, she decides.
“Hey,” she says, reaching for his hand. He looks down as her thumb brushes against his knuckles. “You got a deck of cards?” She beams at him as brightly as she can manage through her headache.
He lightens at the suggestion and rolls his eyes. “You know I do.”
They pass the next hour or so playing cards, nothing much more taxing than Go Fish. Finally, she yawns, winces when the stretch agitates her headache. Varric looks upon her with a soft expression. “You should get some more rest, Bells. The others’ll be a while yet.”
“Mm,” she agrees and scoots back down into her bedroll. Her hand reaches out as if of its own volition, and her fingers weave into his. “Stay with me?” she whispers.
The smile he flashes at her is dazzling and wrinkles the bridge of his nose. “Where would I go without you?”
She smiles at that and shuts her eyes, leaving her fingers entwined with his. Sleep takes her quick enough.
Xxx
She gets a good two hours in before the others return and she is awoken. It is now a few hours past midday but not yet evening, and if they want to return with enough time to sell their new wares, they need to be heading out as soon as possible. They thank the healer once more, give him a few silver for his efforts, and are on their way.
The road back to Kirkwall is thankfully much emptier now. Not even so much as a fennec risks crossing their paths. Belladonna must use her staff as a walking cane, but it is not too difficult just to walk. Conversation is scarce, but the silence is not uncomfortable. Varric seems to have resigned himself to staying by her side, a step ahead of her and his hands open and ready to brandish Bianca if necessary. It makes Belladonna feel slightly guilty, but she does not say anything. Her thoughts wander as they walk. As they pass through the scene of their earlier battle, she must pause to observe the scene. Isabela takes this opportunity to loot a few bodies while she can, but Fenris and Varric stop with Belladonna. “What is it?” Fenris says.
She frowns slightly. “I just…” There are scorch marks left on the ground from where she had taken up position, and the assassin she felled for Varric is lying at her feet now. But the distance between them is… significant. “I don’t know how I… I was standing all the way over there. Then I was here. I… How?”
Fenris observes her warily as he normally does when she speaks of magic. “Perhaps, you used a spell?”
She shoots him an exasperated look. “No, Fen, I think I ran the distance in a split second,” she barks sarcastically. She flinches, frowns at herself. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
He shakes his head and waves it off. Varric touches her hand but does not take it. “You were just… there, Hawke. Just,” he snaps for effect. “There.”
Isabela rejoins them, her coin purse jingling far more noisily than earlier. “Are we going to just stand here and stare at dirt all day, or are we going to head out?” she quips.
Belladonna glances at her then sighs. “Yes, yes, alright. Let’s go.”
They set off once more. Isabela chats Fenris’s ear off now that her sense of wealth has returned, but Belladonna’s mind will not wander from the fight, from the question of how she moved like that. The city comes into view in almost no time at all it seems, but she still has no answer. Defeated, she tables it for later dissection and looks to her companions once they reached the Hanged Man. “You guys go ahead, sell your stuff or whatever. I’m going to head on home.” She gives them a tired smile.
Fenris and Isabela both nod and head off towards Darktown, but Varric stays behind. “I’ll walk you home.”
She pats his shoulder and smiles softly. “Nah, that’s ok, Vare. I can make it.”
He looks as though he wants to argue, but he can see she is resolute in going alone. “Ok. But I’m coming to check on you later,” he threatens with a calloused finger.
She chuckles, already walking away, and lifts a hand to him over her shoulder. “I’ll have Bodahn set an extra place at the table for dinner,” she calls. The steps up to Hightown give her a bit of difficulty. Her brain is still fogged from all the stress, and her limbs are still heavy with blood loss. It takes her twice as long as normal to reach the summit, but at least she reaches it. She almost makes it through the marketplace without wanting to stop, but as she passes Jean-Luc, she is reminded of the current state of her robes and sighs.
The man greets her with a hook-toothed grin and a clasped hand over hers. “Welcome, welcome, Mistress Hawke. In need of some new robes, are we?”
“How could you tell?” she teases. Her fingers glide over the robes he has laid out for her.
“And uh, where’s your boyfriend today, Mistress Hawke?” The question throws her for a loop, makes her frown at the merchant. Surely he can’t mean…
“Um. In my mind, I guess?”
“No, no, the short fella. With the chest hair.” He holds his hand at about the right height that makes her think, By the Maker, he does. He means Varric. That’s two in one day, what the hell?
“Um, if you mean Varric, we’re not…”
“Yes, that’s the one. Cute couple you two make. I say so to my wife every time you two come through.”
“…Oh. Well. Thank you?” She decides just to move on, make her way back home and sort through the robes she has on hand. “I think I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s alright? I’m a bit more tired than I thought,” she says lamely.
“Of course, Mistress Hawke.” Jean-Luc bows dramatically and kisses her knuckles. “Á demain.”
Belladonna sets off for home, his words spinning in her mind. Though she tries to brush it off, she can’t stop thinking about it, even now nearly four hours later, washed, dressed, and fed. Is her infatuation that obvious, so much so that even the robes merchant can see it? Though she is no great liar like Varric or actress like Isabela, she thought (hoped) she hid it well, even with their flirtations. T’would seem not, Bells, she thinks. She replays the conversation with Serendipity in her head, too. “Your boyfriend’s jealous.”
And with Serendipity’s and the merchant’s words come, too, the reminder of their fight earlier that day. “I don’t want to hear about your blasted sexual conquests, Hawke!” That, too, had thrown her for a loop. He’s never shown so much as even a modicum of interest in her (probably too frequent) visits to the Hanged Man, but the way he’d acted since finding her in bed that morning had been as if she’d struck him across the face. Then that outburst… What did that mean, then? Was it just her that put him in a bad mood? Something else? If it was just her, why? Was he jealous? Why?
The questions run through her mind almost too fast for her to process, so loud and insistent that she doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t hear her name being gently spoken. She jumps at the hand on her shoulder and looks up, blushing profusely. “Oh, Varric. I didn’t hear you come in.”
He raises a brow at her but gestures to a chair, asking permission to sit which she grants with a wave of her hand. He settles in across from her and rubs his face. “I want to… I wanna apologize, Bells. For earlier, before.... When I yelled at you. I was…” He clears his throat. “I was out of line.”
Belladonna blinks. “I… Thank you, Varric. I’m sorry, too, for… making you uncomfortable or whatever. I promise, I’ll keep my bedroom excursion talk to a minimum, ok?”
He looks as if he wants to say more, to talk more, but he seems to put it aside. She can see his fist clenching and unclenching by his side, as if something is bothering him, but she does not want to push it. They sit together for a time, enjoying the fire that is burning a little too brightly for the amount of wood within it. Nearly half an hour goes by in silence before she remembers the merchant and his words. “So, something interesting happened on my way home.” The words startle her as much as him. She’d not intended to actually say them.
“Mm?” he hums.
“I stopped by Jean-Luc’s stall to look at his robes. And he asked. Well. Apparently, Varric, everyone thinks we’re a couple.”
Varric snorts and smirks. “I know, Bells.”
Something in the way he says her nickname, softer than usual and with a hint of something she can’t put her finger on, it makes butterflies stir in her stomach. “You know?” she whispers. “It doesn’t… It doesn’t bother you?”
He looks at her then, and perhaps it’s the fire reflected in his sweetly amber eyes, but they feel fuller than usual. “Should it?” Then, as if realizing how softly he’d said it, he clears his throat and straightens, and the fullness was gone from his gaze. “I mean. Does it bother you? I can certainly do worse as far as fake lovers go, but…”
But? The word hangs between them for a heavy moment. But? Butbutbut? But what? “I…” It hits her, then. Why he’d been so upset with her. Why the butterflies are multiplying by the microsecond. Why their banter flows so easily and naturally between them. “Your boyfriend is jealous.” Andraste’s ass, Serendipity… “I…” Standing. She is standing now. He looks up at her, confused and almost a little afraid. “Varric, I–”
There’s a clearing of a throat from the doorway, and Belladonna jumps so bad she hurts her side. Her hand goes to it automatically as she looks at Bodahn. “Dinner is served, Messere.”
Wonderful timing, Bodahn, really, jolly good. She glances at Varric then nods at her man. “Thank you, Bodahn.” The former merchant bows ever so slightly and slips off into the next room.
Varric is looking at her. “Bells…” He stands, then, crosses the last few feet to her. “I… I’m no good at writing romances, Bells, but if I were…” His rough hands take hers, and he averts his gaze to the ground. “If I were… I think this would be the part where the devastatingly handsome dwarf tells the beautiful human he… He loves her.”
Belladonna’s breath hitches in her throat, and her mind goes blank. Varric, taking her sudden silence in completely the wrong way, blushes furiously and takes his hands back after a moment. “But, but of course, I’m no good at that kind of stuff so that’s not how I—”
His words are cut off when her hand moves to his cheek, turns his face back towards her. She’s trembling, from fear, from excitement, she doesn’t know, but when his hand moves up to hold her wrist and his cheek turns ever so slightly into her palm, it feels… right.
“And… How would the devastatingly handsome dwarf say such a thing?” she whispers.
His eyes flick across her face, studying the expression she has on it, and she has to wonder what he sees printed there, what words he would use to describe her. “He would say…” He takes a small step closer, moves his free hand to hers and brushes his fingertips along the length of her palm. “He would say that she is the bravest woman he has ever known.” Their fingers link together. “The most beautiful woman he has ever seen.” Another step closer. “That everything about her is simply incomprehensibly astounding.” She’s leaning down, her hand beginning to slip to the back of his neck. “That he loves her more than he has ever loved anything in this world…” he finishes with a breath before their lips just barely brush against one another’s, a hair’s breadth from actually touching.
Belladonna smiles softly, her eyes drifting shut at the proximity. “And… What might she say?” she breathes.
“Well, hopefully, something along the lines of, ‘Oh, mister dwarf, you’re so handsome and valiant and—‘” Belladonna bursts into laughter at his falsetto voice, the seriousness of the moment dashed away, but he grins at her amusement.
She looks at him again until her laughter is suddenly cut off, and they stare at one another for a long moment before lips are crushed against lips, hands are fisting in hair, bodies are pressed together, tongues are thrusting against each other. Varric pushes her backwards, his hands traveling her body before she is shoved against the bookshelf with a thud. Belladonna moans, a knee moving up to Varric’s hip which leads to his hand moving to hold her ass. It’s wild, passionate, frankly a little gross, but it’s been so long coming. Varric’s hand moves from her ass up towards her breast, but Belladonna hisses in pain, eyes flying open. Varric freezes instantly, his hand ripped away from her body as realization dawns on him. “I-I’m so sorry, Bells, I—”
She smiles at him, breathless, blushing, and shakes her head. “It’s alright.” Realizing their position, she blushes furiously and slips her leg from his hip and brushes her hair behind her ear self-consciously. “Um. We… We should go eat. Before… Before Bodahn charges in.”
He nods and steps back, righting his shirt as he does. The air between them is tense, neither one eager to look the other in the eye. Varric turns to leave first, but Belladonna catches his hand and locks her fingers with his. “Varric?” she whispers.
He looks back at her. “Yeah, Bells?”
She swallows hard and steps closer to place a warm kiss upon his cheek. “I do, you know.”
“Know what, Bells?”
“Love you.” She glances away for a moment then looks back at him shyly. He’s looking at her with watery eyes that he tries to hide by turning away, but it’s not enough that she can’t see his absolute beaming grin.
“Thank the Maker,” he chuckles.
XXXXX Present Day XXXXX
Cassandra blushed as Belladonna concluded her bit of the story and tried to hide her grin behind her cup of water. “That certainly is… romantic,” she mumbled.
Belladonna chuckled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I like to think so.” With a yawn, she rose to her feet and gave Cassandra a slight smile. “If you’ll excuse me, Cassandra.”
“Of course,” the Seeker said. She watched as Belladonna set off to the side door to retire for the evening and pondered over the tale she’d just been told. She looked down into her flagon and frowned at her reflection, and for not the first time that day did she curse herself for bringing those two pain.
So I did the lyrium idol shard quest with Varric finally in DA2 (I s2g all his content is the best) and I noticed Hawke mentions Bianca being heartbroken (like REAL Bianca, I don’t think he would’ve taken the personification of the crossbow so far as to use it against his friend’s insanity) as if to imply he’s heard the one story Varric “will never tell”. So that spawned a little bookend dialogue scene in my mindgrapes because I just love their friendship gaaah kill me. So here you go:
So there it was, everything laid out about as neatly as if he’d upended a full chamber pot all over the table. Gross metaphor, but there wasn’t a much better one to capture the clusterfuck that was the entire Bianca situation. Varric would blame his running mouth on the ale later on, but for now he could own that he’d simply found the one person he didn’t mind knowing.
But even for all his trust in Hawke it still kind of unnerved him how he’d take all that in. Would it seem pathetic? Well, it was that, but Varric didn’t need that pointed out to him.
Hawke just took a smug swig of drink and Varric rolled his eyes. Nevermind. Whatever he said next was going to be a lot worse than judgement.
“I feel I have to point out...” he said, leaning back in his chair with that familiar shiteating grin. “This was supposed to be the one story you’d never tell. And yet...here we are.”
“Don’t make this into a victory party for you, I’m pouring my heart out here. Also...I’m drunk.”
“You’ve been drunk before,” Hawke groaned. “I just want to know what feat of friendship I must have performed to earn that insight into your...shockingly scandalous love life. That isn’t so much to ask is it?”
Varric shot him a pointed glare. “You’re really going to make me say it? And the night was going so well.”
“Maker knows I can’t make you do anything, but yes, I admit I’m curious. Friendship has never been my forte, we both know that. I’d like to know what I’ve done right. Perfect my skills and all that.”
Another stupidly smug grin was indication enough he was making shit up but, well...what the hell. He’d already said this much, hadn’t he?
“You’re my best friend, idiot. If I can’t tell you my darkest secrets, then...well, I guess I’m no different than I was before we met. Still. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to be completely honest with.” Hawke smiled again, sincerely this time, and of course he had to deflect a bit with another drink and, “Then again...with me, you never really know what the truth is.”
“As long as you’re sincere about our being best friends. I find the feeling is mutual.”
“Okay, enough,” Varric waved off, smiling as well into his tankard. “Any more of this sentimental crap and I’m going to start crying- in the Hanged Man of all places and there’s our reputation, gone.”
They sat in companionable silence for a beat, letting the pleasant reality of the moment settle in. Varric didn’t like making himself this vulnerable most of the time, but when it was right, well...it was right.
“It’s a good story,” Hawke said finally. “The Bianca one. Any chance of my meeting her someday?”
