When the Wind Calls You Wandering (Varka x Reader)
Synopsis: You never planned on letting anyone get close. Not while you were busy hunting Abyssal monsters and chasing ghosts from the past. But Varka is persistent, infuriatingly kind, and very bad at staying out of your business.
Somewhere between commissions, tavern conversations, and one dangerous night that nearly costs you everything, you both discover that belonging might be closer than either of you expected.
A/N: This fic started as a ~3k draft back in January that I never finished because something about it felt incomplete. This month I revisited it and turned it into a much longer oneshot. Blame the sunshine, my current craving for angst and fluff and tension, and Varka being Varka. Enjoy! 💙
Tags: Slow Burn. Fluff and Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Mutual Pining. Flirting. Banter. Tension. Slightly Suggestive. Fighting Together. Reckless Reader. Protective Varka. Reader Gets Injured. Post-Injury Care. First Kiss. Confessions. Affection. Happy Ending.
Word count: 11234
⋆ ✦ ⋆
The first time you meet Varka, you’re trying to convince Katheryne to let you take a commission above your current rank.
“I can handle it,” you insist.
“The recommended party size is three,” Katheryne says patiently. “You’re one person.”
“I’m aware.”
“Many Mitachurls—”
“I’ve fought Mitachurls before.”
A voice rumbles from behind you. “And how’d that go?”
You turn.
The man standing there is large. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with an easy confidence that probably makes most people instinctively defer to him.
You’re not most people.
“Fine,” you say flatly. “I won.”
His eyebrow rises. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe respect. “At the same time?”
“One got the jump on me while I was fighting the first.” You turn back to Katheryne. “So as I was saying—”
“The commission requires three people,” the large man interrupts. “For a reason.”
You give him a look. “And you are?”
“Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.”
Most people would be embarrassed. Apologetic. Deferential.
You just nod. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I’m not excusing you.” But he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds… amused?
“I’m telling you that commission is too dangerous to take alone.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You’re getting it anyway.” He crosses his arms, and you notice he’s trying not to smile. “You’re good—I can tell that much. But good gets you killed if you’re reckless about it.”
“I’m not reckless.”
“You’re trying to take a three-person commission solo. That’s reckless.”
You glare at him.
He gazes back, completely unmoved, and now he is smiling.
Katheryne clears her throat. “Perhaps a compromise? There’s a similar commission, lower rank, still challenging—”
“Fine.” You snatch the posting. “This one.”
Varka’s smile widens. “Smart choice.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
You turn to leave.
“Hey,” he calls after you.
You glance back.
“What’s your name?”
You hesitate. “Why?”
“So I know what to call you when I inevitably have to save your reckless ass.”
Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “It’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see.”
You leave without giving him your name.
(He finds out anyway. Katheryne tells him within the hour. He asks three times to make sure he heard it right.)
(You definitely don’t think about how his arms looked when he crossed them. Or how his smile changed his entire face. You absolutely don’t notice these things.)
The commission pays well.
You try not to think about blue eyes and an irritating smile while you work. You fail.
When you return to the city two days later, the sun is setting and you’re covered in dirt and blood. You’re walking over the bridge when—
“Heading out?”
Of course.
You don’t turn around. “Just got back.”
Varka falls into step beside you anyway, looking entirely too fresh and clean for someone who’s supposedly been working all day.
His stride is easy, unhurried, and you’re very aware of him. He could probably carry your pack and you without breaking a sweat.
“Successful commission?”
“Obviously.”
“No near-death experiences?”
“Not a single one.” You glance at him. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved, actually.” His smile is warm. “Though I did have a bet going with myself about how long you’d last before needing rescue.”
“How long did you give me?”
“Two days.”
“It’s been two days.”
“Exactly.” He’s grinning now. “I’m very good at reading people.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile. “You’re very irritating, is what you are.”
“I’ve been told that.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where are you headed?”
“Guild. Report the commission.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Free city. Walk where you want.”
“That’s not a no.”
You don’t dignify that with a response.
He walks with you anyway, making easy conversation about nothing important. The weather, festival preparations, a merchant who’s trying to sell him “authentic Fatui memorabilia” that’s obviously fake.
You find yourself listening. Occasionally responding.
“You know,” he says casually, “you’ve got guts. Most people wouldn’t take commissions like that alone. You must really enjoy the thrill of it.”
You stop walking. “What?”
He blinks. “The danger. The fight. Some people are drawn to—”
“I don’t do this for thrills.” Your voice is sharp.
His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—”
“I do it because someone has to. Because if I don’t, people die.”
The words come out harsher than you intended.
Varka goes very still.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was stupid of me. I made an assumption.”
You start walking again. Varka catches up, falling into step.
“You’re trying to protect people,” he says. “Same as me. I should’ve seen that.”
You glance at him. His expression is serious. No defensiveness. Just understanding.
“Yeah,” you say finally.
He nods once. Doesn’t push. The tension eases slightly.
When you reach the Guild, he stops.
“Well,” Varka says, “this was nice.”
“You have a strange definition of nice.”
“Spending time with interesting people? That’s my definition exactly.” His eyes are warm. “See you around.”
He’s already walking away before you can respond. You stand there for a moment, watching him go. Then you shake your head.
You see him again two days later. And three days after that. And then it stops being surprising when he just shows up. The pattern continues. You take commissions. He appears. You work together with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who barely know each other.
(Except you’re starting to know him. The way he fights. The way he laughs. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.)
Two weeks later, he shows up again.
“You know,” you say, blocking a treasure hoarder’s strike, “don’t you have Grand Master things to do instead of slacking off?”
“Probably.” Varka disarms another hoarder with casual efficiency. “But this is more interesting.”
“Following me around?”
“Protecting Mondstadt.” He grins at you over the hoarder’s shoulder. “And getting to do it with you.”
He pauses, and something in his expression softens. “Enjoy spending time with you.”
You fumble your next parry.
The hoarder takes advantage, lunging forward, and Varka’s there instantly, intercepting the blade.
You catch a glimpse of his arms as he blocks. The way his muscles shift under his sleeves, controlled strength that could probably break someone in half but he’s using it to protect you—
Focus. You need to focus.
“Careful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the hoarder.
Later, after the fight, you watch him sheath his claymore. There’s a scratch on his forearm that wasn’t there before, and you have the absurd urge to check if he’s alright.
He fought three hoarders without breaking a sweat. He’s fine.
You’re still looking at his arm when he nudges your shoulder.
“You alright? You seemed distracted there for a second.”
“Fine.” Your face feels warm. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing important.” You busy yourself cleaning your blade. “Thanks. For the save.”
“Anytime.” His voice is soft. “That’s what partners do.”
“We’re not partners.”
“Aren’t we?” He gestures at the defeated hoarders. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You don’t have a response to that.
— ✦ —
A month after your first meeting, you’re tracking Abyssal activity when he appears.
(You heard him coming. You always hear him now. You’ve learned the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s trying to be quiet.)
“You’re getting predictable,” you say without turning around.
“Am I?”
“Every time I go after Abyssal monsters, you show up. Commission or not,” you mutter, refocusing on the tracks.
He’s quiet for a moment. “You track them outside of Guild work?”
“Someone has to.”
“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s dangerous.”
“Don’t care. Someone has to keep them away from the cities.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Guess you need someone protecting you then.”
You swallow hard. “What are you doing here, Varka?”
“Maybe I’m just very good at timing.” He crouches beside you, examining the tracks. “Or maybe I worry.”
That makes you look at him. “Why?”
“Because you hunt them like it’s personal. Not just for the mora.” His voice is gentle. “And personal makes people reckless.”
“I’m not reckless.”
“You absolutely are.” But he’s smiling. “You’re like a firecracker. All explosive energy and no hesitation.”
You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is. Firecrackers are exciting. Dangerous.” His eyes meet yours. “Beautiful when they go off. Hard to look away.”
Your breath catches. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly—
“The tracks go northeast,” you say abruptly, standing. “We should move.”
“Right. Northeast.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just keeps looking at you with that soft expression.
“Varka.”
“Yeah. Moving. I’m moving.”
But he’s still smiling as he follows you.
Four days later, you’re following a track near the Thousand Winds Temple when you hear his footsteps. Again.
You stand, facing him. “I can handle this alone.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why—”
“Because you don’t have to.” There’s frustration in his voice now. An edge you haven’t heard before. “You keep doing this. I’m right here and you just—”
He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he repeats. Quieter this time.
You blink at him. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
The words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
Silence stretches between you.
He looks at a loss. Like he doesn’t know what to say. What to do with his hands.
It’s so unlike him that you actually feel bad. “Look,” you say finally. “You’re all strength and efficiency. And you like making use of your skills instead of just being in your office. I get it.”
Varka’s expression shifts. Something lighter creeping back in. “You could’ve just said you like it when I help you out.”
Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “Must be the adrenaline talking.”
“Right. Adrenaline.” But he’s almost smiling now. “From all the standing around examining tracks.”
“Very intense track examination.”
“Clearly.”
He crouches beside you, examining the traces. Closer than necessary. “Not easy to rely on others,” he says quietly. More statement than question.
“Works better like this.” You keep your eyes on the tracks. “Simpler.”
“Simpler,” Varka repeats. “Right.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. But he doesn’t push.
Seven weeks in, at Dadaupa Gorge, the fight gets messy. The Hilichurl camp is larger than expected.
You’re outnumbered, outflanked, and one of them has a crossbow—
Varka's improvised shield takes the bolt meant for your head.
“Behind you!” you shout.
He spins, catches your attacker with his shoulder, sends them flying like they weigh nothing. You’ve seen him fight before, but there’s something about watching him move that makes your breath catch.
He’s close enough now that you can see the sweat on his brow, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion.
You force your eyes back to the fight. You barely dodge the next strike. You cover Varka's flank as three more rush in.
The fight is chaotic. Messy. Dangerous. And you’re both laughing.
“This is insane!” you call out.
“I know!” Varka sounds delighted. “Isn't it great?”
“Are you actually enjoying this?”
“You're smiling too!”
You are smiling. You can’t help it.
Fighting beside him feels like you’ve been doing this for years. Like you know exactly where he’ll be, what he’ll do, how he moves.
The last Hilichurl swings wild—you dodge left, it clips your shoulder, throws you off balance—
You crash into Varka. He tries to catch you but the momentum sends you both down. You land on top of him, straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest to catch yourself.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your heart is still pounding from the fight. Adrenaline singing through your veins. Blood rushing in your ears.
And now you’re acutely aware of everything.
The way his chest rises and falls hard beneath your palms. The heat of him even through armor. The way his hands have landed on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.
Your faces are inches apart. His eyes are very wide. Very blue.
“Hi,” you manage. Your voice comes out breathless.
“Hey.” His comes out rough. Almost wrecked.
You should move. You can’t seem to make your body cooperate. Neither can he, apparently, because his hands are still on your hips and he’s just staring at you.
“You good?” His voice is lower than usual.
“Yeah. You?”
“Honestly?” His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Not sure.”
Your breath catches. The adrenaline from the fight is mixing with something else now. Something that makes your skin feel too tight and your pulse jump for entirely different reasons.
“You’re—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re still on top of me.”
“I know.”
“Just making sure you noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
Something flickers in his expression. Heat and surprise and want all tangled together.
His hands tighten slightly on your hips. You feel it everywhere. “If you wanted to pin me,” he says, voice rough, “there are easier ways.”
“I didn’t—I fell—”
“I know.” His mouth quirks, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. “But if this is a new combat technique, it’s very effective. I’m thoroughly distracted.”
“Varka—”
“Can’t think straight right now,” he admits. “You should probably move.”
“Probably.”
You don’t. Neither does he. His thumb brushes against your hip, and it sends heat racing up your spine.
“Firecracker.” His voice is strained. “You’re killing me here.”
That breaks the spell. You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall again, heart still hammering.
He catches your arm, steadying you, and when you glance at his face he looks flushed. Breathing hard.
You notice the scratch on his forearm then. Fresh, bleeding slightly. Without thinking, you catch his wrist, turning his arm to see it better.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.” But his voice comes out rougher than usual.
Your fingers brush over the scratch and the older scars beneath it.
His breath hitches. You look up sharply, but he’s not pulling away. Just watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
“You take a lot of risks yourself,” you mutter, still holding his wrist.
“Have to.” His voice is steady. Confident. “Besides, I’m good at what I do.” There's no arrogance in it. Just fact.
Your thumb traces the edge of one scar. Longer than the others, almost stretching across his whole forearm.
“Quite the battle map you’ve got.”
His mouth quirks. “That obvious, huh?”
“Tells a story.” You glance up at him. “Lots of them, looks like.”
“Yeah, well.” He tries for lightness. “Comes with the job. Can't lead from the back.”
“Mondstadt’s very own hero,” you say.
“Something like that.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “External scars tend to do that. Give people a heroic impression.”
Something flickers in his expression then. Brief. Complicated.
External. The word hangs there. You almost ask. Almost.
“You take calculated risks though,” you say instead, thumb still resting on one of the scars. “Not like me. You think things through.”
You glance up at him. “I admire that. Admire you for it.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer.
He clears his throat. “You’re growing soft on me, firecracker.”
“You wish.”
He laughs. That low, rumbling sound that you’re starting to recognize. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You keep me on my toes.”
Something in your chest does a complicated flip.
But he’s already shifting, gently pulling his arm from your grip. Not rejecting the touch, just closing the moment.
“We should—” He gestures vaguely toward the city.
“Yeah.” You let him go. “We should.”
His hand finds your shoulder briefly. Warm. Steady.
Neither of you moves for another few seconds.
When you finally do start walking, there’s a new awareness between you. The way he stays close. The way you’re hyper-conscious of every accidental touch.
Everything’s shifted. And you both know it.
— ✦ —
A few days later, Varka catches you before you can leave the city again. “Angel’s Share,” he says. “Tonight. Just drinks. Just us.”
“Varka—”
“Please.” The word is simple. Sincere. “I want to understand. And I think you want to tell someone.”
You shouldn’t say yes. You do anyway.
The tavern is warm, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. You sit in a corner booth, and for a while neither of you speaks.
Then Varka sets a drink in front of you. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But I want to understand why you hunt them like this. Why it’s personal.”
You stare at your glass for a long moment.
“My parents,” you finally say. “Years ago. Abyss attack.”
His expression shifts—understanding, sympathy.
“We were traveling. Coming back from visiting family.” Your hands clench around the glass. “It was supposed to be safe. The road was well-traveled, close to town. The enemy never came that close to villages”
“But they did.”
“Yeah.” Your voice is flat. “They did. We saw them too late. Mages. Hilichurls. They came out of nowhere.”
You stop. Breathe.
“My parents told me to run. Get to town, get help. I didn’t want to leave them but my father—” Your throat tightens. “He made me promise. So I ran.”
Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers yours on the table. Warm. Calloused. Surprisingly gentle for its size. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and you’re suddenly very aware of every point of contact.
“By the time I got back with the guards, it was over.” You have to force the words out. “My mother was… she’d tried to crawl toward town. Trying to get to safety. But she didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My father fought them. Gave her time to try to run. There were five mages and he was alone and—” Your voice cracks. “I should have stayed. Should have fought with them instead of—”
You stop. Your eyes are burning.
“If I’d been stronger, if I’d stayed and fought, maybe—”
A tear slips down your cheek.
“Hey.” Varka’s voice is gentle. “It’s not your fault.”
“I left them—”
“You did what they asked. What any parent would want.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You survived. That’s what they wanted.”
You wipe at your eyes roughly.
“That’s why,” you say. Your voice is thick. “That’s why I hunt them. Why I track them even without commissions. They came too close to town that day. Too close to people. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen again.”
Across the tavern, a bard starts playing. Soft strumming that gradually builds into something familiar. An old Mondstadt tune you've heard before but never really listened to.
A few people join in, humming along. The words drift over the conversation:
“When the wind calls you wandering...”
The melody is warm. Steady. Not quite cheerful. Not quite sad. Something in between. Comforting in its familiarity.
“Because you’re protecting people,” Varka says quietly.
“Because I won’t let anyone else lose their family like I lost mine." Your jaw tightens despite the tears. "I won’t let them get that close again."
“Follow the wind that’s whispering, the northern wind from far…”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Looking at his drink. Turning the glass slowly. “And you still care,” he says finally. “After everything. Could’ve been easy to just shut down. Get cold. But you didn’t.”
Something in his voice makes you look up.
“Lot of people rely on me,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes. “Knights. Citizens. Whole damn city. Not much room for…” He stops. “For anything else.”
He glances up then. Brief. Vulnerable. Your breath catches. He clears his throat. Looks away.
The song swells around you. Voices blending together, something about steady winds and finding your way even when you’re lost.
“Your parents would be proud,” Varka says quietly, nearly lost under the music. “What you’re doing—it takes incredible strength.”
“Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you...”
The chorus fades. Returns to gentle strumming. Your throat tightens again.
“I’m proud of you,” he adds. "For what that’s worth.”
You look up at him. His expression is open. Warm. Full of understanding. “Thank you,” you whisper. "For listening.”
“Always.” His hand is still covering yours. “Anytime you need to talk. I’m here.”
Something in your chest loosens.
The music continues in the background. Familiar now, wrapping around the conversation like a blanket. You don't pull your hand away.
For the rest of the evening, you talk. About lighter things, easier things.
Varka tells you stories about the knights, about Mondstadt, about the time he accidentally started a food fight at an important dinner. He tells you about his past, and you can't help but imagine a younger Varka.
You tell him about little things. People you met on your travels. Encounters you are still fond of. Experiences that taught you something about life or yourself.
You laugh more than you have in months.
When you finally leave, his hand lingers at the small of your back as he walks you out.
The night air is cool. Welcome after the warmth of the tavern. You walk in comfortable silence for a while.
Then Varka glances at you. “You doing okay? That was a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” And you mean it.
You walk a few more steps. “You know,” you say, “most people get uncomfortable when I talk about it. They either avoid the topic completely or try to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I should move on.”
“That help?”
“Not really.”
“Didn’t think so.” He's quiet for a moment. “Grief doesn’t work on other people’s timelines.”
You glance at him. “You sound like you know something about that."
“Lost people too. Different circumstances, but...” He shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”
“So,” you say after a moment, deliberately lighter. “Do you always walk random Adventurers home? Or am I special?”
He grins. “Of course you’re special. Most Adventurers don’t try to fight several Mitachurls alone.”
“I won that fight.”
“One time.”
“Every time.”
“Keep telling yourself that, firecracker.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. Just laughs. “See, this is what I mean,” he says.
“What?”
“This. You giving me shit. Making me laugh after a long day.” He's smiling, but there's something genuine underneath. “Does me good.”
“What, having someone insult you?”
Varka looks at you, and there's something warm in his expression. “Makes me feel alive.” He clears his throat.
At that moment, you reach the corner where you usually part ways. Neither of you moves.
“This was nice,” he says.
“It was.” And you mean it.
“We should do it again.”
“Varka—”
“As friends,” he adds quickly. “If that's what you want. Or as—” He stops. “As whatever you want.”
You look at him. This large, kind, persistent man who's somehow worked his way into your life. Who listened without judgment. Who makes you feel less alone. Who you apparently make feel alive.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
His smile is warm. “I’ll take it.”
— ✦ —
Three months in you’re walking back to the city after a fight, the sun setting behind you, when Varka glances over.
“You ever think about doing anything else?” he asks. “Besides commissions?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Settling down. Taking a break. Living life instead of constantly fighting.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Fighting is living. For me.”
“Because of your parents.”
“Yeah.”
“I get it.” His voice is soft. “But you can’t hunt the Abyssal creatures forever.”
“Watch me.”
He laughs quietly. “Stubborn.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s very you.” He pauses. “Just don’t forget there’s more to life than revenge.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.” He gestures between you. “Working together. Talking. Spending time with people who—” He stops. “With people who care about you.”
Your heart does something complicated.
“Varka—”
“I know. Too much. Too fast.” But he doesn’t sound apologetic. “Just think about it.”
The shift happens gradually.
His hand lingers when he helps you over rough terrain.
He stands closer than necessary when you’re reviewing maps.
He finds excuses to see you even when there are no commissions. Bringing food, checking if you’ve eaten, asking if you want to spar.
And he flirts. Openly. Shamelessly.
“You know,” he says one afternoon, watching you sharpen your blade, “you’re really good with your hands.”
You don’t look up. “That’s what makes me a good fighter.”
“Also what makes you distracting.”
“How is me sharpening a blade distracting?”
“Everything you do is distracting.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.
“But especially that. Very focused. Very precise.”
You can feel your face heating and look down. “Don’t you have paperwork?”
“Probably.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Better view.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
You make the mistake of looking up again. He’s backlit by the window, and the afternoon light catches in his hair, highlights the line of his shoulders.
There’s something unfairly appealing about the way he’s standing there, completely relaxed, just watching you.
“You’re—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You’re very distracting too.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Distracting, huh?”
Oh no.
Your face heats. “I didn’t—that's not—”
“No, no. Don't take it back.” He’s grinning now. Fully grinning. “I’m listening. Distracting how?”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“That—” You gesture vaguely at him. “Standing there all... like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what you're doing.”
“Just standing here.” He’s clearly enjoying this. “Tell me. How am I being distracting?”
You look back down at your blade very quickly, then back at him. “The... the stones by the cathedral are very nice this time of year.”
Varka blinks. “What?”
“Stones. Cathedral. Nice. Pretty. You should look at them instead.”
His expression does something complicated. Confusion and delight and fondness all at once.
“You just tried to redirect my attention to cathedral stones."
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re very interesting stones.”
“They’re not.”
“Sure they are. Very stone-like.”
He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says.
“I’m not flustered.”
“You just recommended I look at rocks.”
“Stones.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Rocks are different from stones. Rocks are rougher. Stones are—” You stop. “Why am I explaining this?”
“Because you’re flustered and deflecting.” He’s fully smiling now. “And it’s working. I’m thoroughly distracted by your stone categorization system.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He pushes off the wall. “But I’ll go look at the stones if it makes you feel better.”
“It would.”
“Alright.” He pauses at the door. “For the record? Still more interested in you than any stone. No matter how stone-like it is.”
He leaves.
You sit there, blade forgotten, face burning.
Stones. You talked about stones. This is getting out of hand.
— ✦ —
The weeks that follow establish a rhythm you didn’t plan but can’t seem to break. You take commissions. He appears.
Sometimes he has a reason—patrol routes that conveniently overlap with your targets. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with excuses, just shows up with that easy smile and asks if you need a hand.
You always say no. He helps anyway. (You're secretly glad.)
You fight together in Wolvendom. Clear hilichurl camps near Springvale. Track treasure hoarders.
People start noticing. Adventurers at the Guild exchange looks when you both walk in together. Knights nod at Varka with barely concealed smirks when you’re spotted training near the city walls.
You pretend not to notice. So does he. But when you’re both in Mondstadt at the same time, you end up at Angel’s Share.
It becomes a habit.
It's late evening when you walk into the tavern and find him already there, sitting in your usual booth.
He looks up when you enter. Smiles.
There’s already a drink waiting across from him. Your usual.
Your feel all warm.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” You slide into the seat, fingers curling around the glass. Still cold. He ordered it recently. Like he knew you’d show up.
For a while, you just sit. Comfortable silence. The warmth of the tavern wrapping around you, the soft murmur of conversation and music in the background.
Then Varka glances at you. “Windblume Festival’s coming up,” Varka says, turning his glass slowly.
“Mm.”
“You going?”
You shrug. “Haven’t decided.”
“You should come.” He’s watching you now. “It’s beautiful. Music, dancing, flowers everywhere.”
“Not really my thing.”
“Relaxation and joy?” His mouth quirks. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be terrible for you.”
You kick his shin lightly under the table.
He grins. “Come with me.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
“To Windblume. Come with me.” He says it easily, but there’s something careful in his expression. “We could walk around. Listen to music. I could show you the good food stalls. It’ll be—”
“Like a date?” The words slip out before you can stop them.
“Would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.
The same bard from before is playing tonight. You recognize the melody immediately. That song about the wind. But this time it's different. Slower. Softer. Almost intimate.
No one's singing along. Just the gentle lute weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation, the melody familiar and grounding.
Your breath catches. “Varka—”
“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know you’re focused on your mission. I know you don’t want distractions. But I—” He stops. Breathes. “I like you. A lot. And I keep hoping maybe you feel the same.”
The music shifts to that gentler refrain. Something about home not being a place but a person.
“This is complicated,” you manage.
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“You’re the Grand Master—”
“And you’re an Adventurer. So what?” His hand finds yours across the table. “We're also two people who work well together. Who trust each other. Who enjoy each other's company. Who—” He stops himself.
“Who could be good together,” he finishes. “If you wanted to try.”
The bard’s fingers dance across the strings. Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat beneath the words.
You’re acutely aware of his thumb brushing across your knuckles. Of how close he is across the table. Of the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.
Your heart is hammering. You should keep the distance you’ve maintained. But his hand is warm over yours, and his eyes are soft, and he's looking at you like you’re something precious.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit quietly.
“Neither do I.” His smile is gentle. “But we could figure it out together.”
The music seems to fade into the background. Or maybe you just stop hearing anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The space between you feels impossibly small.
“Varka—”
His eyes drop to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”
You should say no.
“Yes.”
He leans across the table and kisses you soft and slow, like he’s been thinking about it for months. (He has.) His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping, and you feel him smile against your mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and wondering.
“So,” he murmurs. “Windblume?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Windblume.”
He smiles. “Good. Because I already told half the knights we’d be there together.”
“You did what—”
“I’m an optimist.” His grin is unrepentant. “And I was really hoping you’d say yes.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. He kisses you again. Quick and sweet and full of joy.
The bard finishes the song. Starts another. But that melody lingers. When you finally leave the tavern that night, Varka walks you partway home.
(You still don’t tell him where you live. Some habits are hard to break.)
At the corner where you usually part ways, he catches your hand. His thumb traces across your knuckles. A gesture that’s becoming so familiar. Comforting. But now it also makes your pulse jump.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at the statue? The one near the gates. Afternoon, around three?”
Your heart skips. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you.” He says it simply. “And because we should probably talk. About this. About us.”
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Three o’clock. At the statue.”
His smile is brilliant. “It’s a date.”
“Varka—”
He kisses you before you can finish. “See you tomorrow, firecracker.”
You watch him walk away, heart full and terrified in equal measure. Tomorrow, you think. I can handle tomorrow.
You arrive at the statue at quarter to three. (You’re not nervous. You’re not. This is just talking. Figuring things out. It’s fine.)
Three o’clock comes.
No Varka.
That’s fine. He’s probably just running late. He’s the Grand Master. Things come up.
Three-fifteen. Three-thirty. By four o’clock, you’re still standing there, feeling increasingly foolish. By four-thirty, something in your chest starts to hurt. He’s not coming.
You wait until five. Then you leave.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Maybe he got called away. Maybe something came up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the kiss was a mistake and he realized it and didn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you misread everything.
You don’t go back to the gates. You don’t go to Angel’s Share. You take commissions without talking to anyone. Everything, not just fighting commissions. You train. You try not to think about it.
(You fail.)
— ✦ —
By day ten, the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.
You find yourself walking to Angel’s Share without consciously deciding to. The tavern is busy. Warm. Familiar.
Charles sees you come in, and something flickers across his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.
“Been busy.” You slide onto a barstool. “Just water tonight.”
“Right.” He sets the glass down. Then hesitates. “There’s, uh… there’s a message for you. From Varka.”
Your heart stops. “What?”
“He left it about a week and a half ago. Said if you came in, to give you this.” Charles pulls out a folded piece of paper from under the bar.
Your hands shake slightly as you take it.
The handwriting is unmistakably Varka’s. Bold, slightly messy, rushed.
Firecracker, Got called to Liyue. Something came up—had to leave immediately. Tried to find you this morning but you weren’t at the Guild, and I realized I don’t know where you live.
Left this with Charles in case you come by. I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe two.
Don’t take any stupid commissions while I’m gone. —V P.S. - Still want to take you to Windblume. Don’t forget.
You read it three times.
He didn’t just leave. He tried to find you. He left a message. And you weren’t here to get it.
For ten days, you’ve been thinking he abandoned you, when really—
“You okay?” Charles asks.
“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. “I’m—yeah.”
You sit there, holding the note, feeling like an idiot.
Don’t forget.
An hour passes. Then two.
You’re still sitting there, nursing the same glass of water, when the door opens.
Your heart leaps—
Varka walks in. He looks tired. His armor is dusty and his hair is disheveled and he’s the best thing you’ve seen in ten days.
He scans the room—
His eyes find you.
Stop.
For a moment neither of you moves.
Then someone calls his name. A group of knights in the corner, waving him over.
He glances at them. At you. Back at them. He goes to the knights.
You stare at your glass.
The minutes crawl by.
You should leave.
You stay.
Across the room, Varka sits with the knights, but he’s not drinking. Not really talking. Just present.
He looks as miserable as you feel.
Another hour passes.
The knights eventually leave.
Varka stays.
You’re both sitting in the same tavern, fifteen feet apart, not talking.
It’s ridiculous.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You stand. Cross the room. Slide into the seat across from him.
“You’re back,” you manage.
He doesn’t look up from his glass. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
This is wrong. He’s never this distant, never this quiet.
“I got your message,” you say, holding up the paper.
“When?”
“Tonight. Just now.”
His eyes lift to the note. Something flickers across his face. Relief? Hurt? You can’t tell.
“When did you get back?” you ask.
“Three days ago.”
Your stomach drops.
“I haven’t been coming here,” you admit. “I thought you just… left. Without saying anything.”
“I tried to find you that morning.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Couldn’t.”
“I know. I read—”
“I don’t know where you live.” The words come out blunt. Almost accusatory.
You blink. “What?”
He finally looks at you fully, and there’s something raw in his expression.
“Your apartment. I don’t know where it is. Spent a week in Liyue thinking about you. Got back, wanted to see you, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His jaw tightens. “Came here every night hoping you’d show up.”
Every night. He’s been here. Waiting. And you—
The confession lands between you like a weight.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t be.” But his voice is strained. “Should’ve asked before. But we kept running into each other and I didn’t think—” He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “Point is, I didn’t know. And it bothered me.”
The air between you shifts. Some of the tension bleeding out.
You take a breath. “Come on.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Come with me.”
You walk in silence through Mondstadt’s streets.
He follows without question.
You stop outside the door.
“Here,” you say. “This is where I live.”
He looks at the building. At you. Back at the building. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Do you… want to come up?”
“No.”
The word is gentle but firm.
At your expression, he adds quickly: “Not—not because I don’t want to. But because if I come up, I’m going to—” He stops. “I need to do this right.”
“Do what right?”
“This. Us.” His hand finds yours. “I’m not going to rush this. Not going to mess this up because I’m impatient.”
“Varka—”
“I’m a knight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “I’m supposed to be honorable. Patient. Do things properly.”
Then, quieter, he adds: “You regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“The kiss.”
Your breath catches. “No,” you say. “Do you?”
“No.” He steps closer. “But I’ve been gone for days thinking about it. Wanting to—” He stops. “Can I—”
You kiss him before he finishes asking.
This time there’s nothing tentative about it.
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
You make a sound—surprise or need or relief—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of your neck and you feel his pulse hammering against your palm where your hand has found his chest.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“I missed you,” you admit against his mouth. The words slip out before you can stop them.
His forehead drops to yours. “I was going crazy. Not knowing where you were. Not being able to find you.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your waist. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
He kisses you again. Slower this time but no less intense.
Your fingers find their way into his hair and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat racing through you. When you finally break apart for the second time, you’re both flushed and breathless.
“Grand Master!”
You both jerk apart.
A knight is running toward you, out of breath.
“Sorry—urgent—there’s been an incident—”
Varka’s jaw tightens. He looks at you. At the knight. Back at you.
“Go,” you say. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not—”
“It’s your job.” You squeeze his hand once. “Go.”
He searches your face. Then nods reluctantly.
“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk. Properly.”
“Okay.”
He kisses you once more. Quick and fierce.
Then he’s gone, running toward headquarters with the knight.
You stand outside your apartment, touching your lips, heart hammering.
Tomorrow, you think.
But something twists in your chest.
The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way your whole body responds when he’s near.
The way you spent ten days thinking about him. Missing him. Aching for him.
Oh.
Oh no.
This isn’t just liking him. This isn’t just attraction or enjoyment or companionship.
You’re in love with him.
The realization hits like a physical blow.
You’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. Never had time for it, never saw the point when you had a mission, a purpose, a—
But now there’s Varka.
Varka who shows up. Who stays. Who looks at you like you’re something precious.
Who kissed you like you matter.
Who keeps getting pulled away by duty because he’s the Grand Master and that’s who he is and you knew this, you knew this—
Your chest feels too tight.
You don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be someone who loves someone who has responsibilities to an entire city, who could be called away at any moment, who—
You need to think.
Need space.
Need to clear your head.
At dawn, you see the commission posting.
Stormbearer Point. Camp spotted.
You stare at it.
You should wait. Should ask Varka to come with you.
But the thought of seeing him right now, of having to look at him and pretend everything’s fine when you’re still processing this crushing realization—
And he’s busy anyway. Always busy. He’s the Grand Master—he has responsibilities that don’t include accompanying you on every commission.
You can handle this.
You’ve been handling Abyssal monsters for years.
You grab the posting.
— ✦ —
Bennett crashes through the headquarters doors, wild-eyed and terrified.
“Grand Master—need help—”
Varka is on his feet immediately. “Bennett? What happened?”
“Commission—went wrong—there were Mitachurls—multiple Abyss Mages—they’re—”
His blood turns to ice. “Who’s with you?”
Bennett names you.
Varka’s already moving, grabbing his sword from the wall.
“Sir, should I alert—”
“No time.” His voice is clipped, focused. “How long ago?”
“Not long—I ran as fast as—”
Every second counts.
“Where?”
“Stormbearer Point, near the cliffs—”
Varka is out the door before Bennett finishes.
He hits the street at a run.
(Later, Jean will ask why he didn’t wait. Why he didn’t bring knights. Why he went alone.
He’ll say it was the fastest option. That he knew the route. That backup would’ve slowed him down.
All true.
But the real reason—the one he doesn’t say—is that it had to be him.
Because it was you.)
The clearing is too quiet when Varka breaks through the tree line.
His eyes sweep the scene. Fallen Hilichurls and Abyss Mages, scorched earth, broken weapons scattered across trampled grass.
And you.
Standing in the center of it all, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to your side.
Relief floods through him so fast it nearly makes him stumble.
“Hey!” he calls, running toward you. “You alright? Bennett said—”
You turn toward his voice.
That’s when he sees your face.
Too pale. Eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—soaking through your fingers where they press against your ribs.
“Varka,” you say, and your voice sounds distant. Confused. “What’re you… doing here?”
“What am I—” He’s moving faster now, closing the distance. “You sent word you might need backup—”
“Did I?” You blink slowly. “Oh. Right. Got a bit messy.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He’s close enough now to catch you if you fall. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes won’t quite focus on his face.
“’m fine,” you mutter. “Just need a… minute…”
“Sure. You’re fine.” His hands hover near your shoulders, careful not to jostle you. “That's why you’re bleeding through your clothes?”
“’s not that bad.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s assessing you rapidly. The blood, the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your legs. “How long have you been standing here?”
“Dunno. Few minutes? Half an hour?” You frown. “What time is it?”
His stomach drops.
“Alright. We’re sitting you down—”
“No.” You shake your head and immediately regret it, swaying dangerously. “Still got… gotta check if they’re all…”
“They’re all down. I checked on my way in.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You did good. Now let me—”
“Varka, I’m fine—”
Your knees give out.
He catches you before you hit the ground, arms banding around you with desperate speed.
“Easy—I’ve got you—”
His heart is hammering against your cheek. He’s breathing hard. From the run, from the fear, from the relief of catching you.
“Sorry,” you mumble against his chest. “Legs stopped… working…”
“Yeah, that happens when you lose blood.” He’s lowering you carefully to the grass, hands supporting your head, your back. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”
You blink up at him, and there’s something almost dreamlike in your expression.
“You came,” you say, like you’re surprised.
His chest tightens. “Of course I came.”
“Thought you were… in meetings…”
“Meeting can wait.” He’s already reaching for his pack, pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. “You can’t.”
Your hand catches his wrist. Weak grip, but determined.
“’m okay. Really. Just… dizzy.”
“You’re not okay.” His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly as he starts checking your injuries. “But you will be. Just let me work.”
He works methodically.
Years of battlefield experience make his movements efficient, clinical. Checking pulse points, assessing wounds, prioritizing treatment.
Gash on your arm. Superficial. He binds it quickly.
Bruised ribs. Painful but not critical.
The wound on your side where your hand had been pressed. Deep, still bleeding, but manageable.
He’s packing it with cloth, hands steady, when he notices your pant leg.
Dark. Too dark.
Wet.
His hands still.
“When did this happen?” His voice comes out rougher than he intends.
“What?”
“Your leg.” He’s already cutting the fabric away, and—
Oh.
The gash runs from mid-thigh nearly to your knee. Deep. Still bleeding sluggishly. The kind of wound that would’ve dropped most people immediately.
“How are you even—” His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking. “How long have you been walking on this?”
“Didn’t really… notice…” You’re squinting down at your leg like you’re seeing it for the first time. “Huh. That’s… not good.”
“No.” His voice cracks. His hands still for just a moment, like he’s forcing himself to keep moving. “It’s really not.”
He presses cloth to the wound. “You’re okay,” he says. To himself. To you. “You’re going to be okay.”
“’m sorry—”
“What were you thinking?” The words come out sharp.
You blink slowly at him.
His jaw is tight. “You could have—” He stops. His hands are shaking harder. “You could have died.”
“Varka—”
“I found you bleeding. Barely standing. Do you understand—” His voice cracks. “Do you understand what I thought when I saw you like that?”
You try to respond, but the words won’t come. Your vision is blurring.
Is that tears or is everything going fuzzy again?
“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out small. Broken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
A tear slides down your cheek.
He stops. Stares at you.
Then his whole expression crumbles.
“Shit. No. I’m sorry.” He shifts closer, hands gentler now. “I’m sorry. You’re in shock and I’m—”
Another tear falls.
“Hey.” His voice is softer now. Rough with emotion. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You’re crying, but you’re not sure why. The fear, the pain, the adrenaline finally crashing—
“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumb brushing away tears. “You’re safe now.”
He's focused. And tense. You see how tight his jaw is, the way he keeps checking your pulse.
“Hey.” Your hand finds his arm. “Varka. I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” The words come out sharp. “You’re really not.”
“But I will be. Right?” You’re trying for reassuring and landing somewhere around slurred. “You said… you said I will be…”
“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Talk to me,” he says. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”
“Commission went… sideways.” You’re watching his face instead of his hands. “More Hilichurls than… expected. Abyss Mages. And a Mitachurl. Strong one.”
“Did you fight them alone?”
“Didn’t have much… choice…”
“You could’ve run.”
“Couldn’t.” Your voice is getting quieter. “Had to stop them…”
His hands still for just a moment.
Then he continues bandaging, but his voice is rough when he speaks.
"You stubborn, reckless, incredibly brave firecracker."
“That a… compliment?”
“No.” But there’s something that sounds almost like a sob caught in his throat. “It’s me trying not to lose my mind right now.”
You blink slowly. “You’re...scared.”
“Terrified.” He doesn’t hide it. “When I saw you standing there bleeding—when you collapsed—”
He stops, breathes. “Yeah. Terrified.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just stay awake.” He finishes with the bandage and immediately shifts to check your pulse again. “Keep talking to me.”
“’bout what?”
“Anything. Everything. Just keep those eyes open.”
So you do.
He finishes bandaging in silence, hands steadier now.
— ✦ —
The sun is dropping toward the horizon.
Varka glances at the sky, then at you, then makes a decision. “We’re not making it back to the city tonight,” he says. “Not with you like this.”
“I can walk—”
“No.” It’s not harsh, just absolute. “You’re not putting weight on that leg until you feel better. We’re staying here.”
“Where?”
“I’ll figure it out.” He’s already looking around, cataloging options. “There’s a rock outcropping over there. Defensible. Out of the wind.”
“Varka—”
“Not arguing about this.” He looks down at you, and his expression is gentle despite the firmness in his voice. “I’m keeping you safe tonight. That’s what’s happening.”
You don’t have the energy to argue.
He works quickly—gathering branches, building a simple lean-to against the rocks, making a space that’s warm and dry and protected.
Then he comes back for you. “Alright. Arms around my neck.”
You comply, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.
“Don’t jar the leg,” you mumble against his shoulder.
“I’ve got you.” And he does. Steady. Careful.
He settles you inside the shelter, back against the rock, and immediately starts building a fire.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Little bit.”
His cloak is around your shoulders before you can blink.
“Varka, you need—”
“I’m fine.” He’s arranging blankets, positioning you more comfortably. “You’re the one losing body heat.”
The fire catches. Warm light flickers across his face.
He settles beside you. Close enough to monitor, close enough to reach you if anything changes.
For a moment he just sits there, staring at the fire, jaw tight.
Then his shoulders drop slightly. Like something in him is finally letting go of the fear now that you’re stable.
He pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, holding you steady.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But I’m going to anyway.”
You don’t argue.
For a while there’s just the crackle of fire and the sound of breathing.
Then Varka starts talking.
“You know what the worst part was?” His voice is low. Rough. “Seeing you standing there and thinking you were about to fall, and knowing I was too far away to catch you.”
“But you did catch me.”
“Barely.” His arm tightens slightly. “Another second and you would’ve hit the ground.”
“’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” He presses his face briefly against your hair. “Just don’t do this again. Please.”
“Can’t promise that.”
“I know.” A rough laugh. “It’s what you do. But maybe next time don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to call for help?”
“Noted.”
“How you feeling?”
“Dizzy. Tired.” You pause. “Safe.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re here. So… safe.”
His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
“Not letting anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”
You lean into him, and he adjusts to support your weight more comfortably.
“Varka?”
“Mm?”
“Thanks for coming. For staying.”
“Nowhere else I’d be.”
Time becomes strange.
You drift.
Sometimes you’re lucid. Aware of the fire, of Varka’s solid presence beside you, of the pain that’s settled into a dull throb.
Sometimes you’re floating. Disconnected, confused, words coming out wrong.
Varka talks through all of it.
Later—or maybe just minutes, you can’t tell—you’re drifting when Varka’s voice pulls you back.
“You know what happened last week?” he says.
“Kaeya convinced me to help him with inventory in one of the wine cellars. Made me believe I still owed him one.”
You make a vague sound.
“Should’ve known it was a trap. Man is always up to something.” There’s warmth in his voice now.
“Got down there and realized he’d ‘accidentally’ locked us in. Said we weren’t getting out until I told him about ‘the Adventurer who has the Grand Master running around Mondstadt like a lovesick puppy.’”
Normally you’d react to that. Tease him. Say something.
You don’t.
He continues anyway. “Tried to break down the door. Jean heard the noise, came to investigate. Very calm. Very professional. Right up until she saw me covered in wine because Kaeya had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a bottle trying to dodge my attempt to strangle him.”
Silence.
His hand stills in your hair for a moment.
“The look on her face,” he continues, voice a little more forced now. “Like she was reconsidering every leadership decision that led to that moment. Pretty sure she’s still thinking about bringing it up in a dignified way.”
Nothing.
“Hey.” His voice shifts—less storytelling, more concerned. “You still with me?”
“Mmm.”
“Come on, firecracker. Give me something. Tell me the story’s boring. Tell me Kaeya’s a scoundrel. Tell me anything.”
“’s boring,” you mumble.
“Liar. That story’s hilarious.” But there’s relief in his voice. “Though you’re right about Kaeya being a scoundrel.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
Silence falls again.
His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there's tension in the movement now.
“You're scaring me,” he admits quietly. “You're not talking. You're not arguing. You're just—” His voice roughens. "Just stay with me. Please.”
“'m here.”
“I know. But I need you to stay here.” His arm tightens around you. "Keep talking to me. Even if it's just to tell me to shut up.”
“Won't tell you... to shut up.”
“Why not? You usually do.”
“Like... your voice."
He chuckles. “Yeah?”
“Mmm. 's nice. Warm.”
His hand is trembling slightly as it cups your face. “You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”
“I know.” Your voice is getting quieter. “'cause you're here.”
“That's right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
Time passes. You're not sure how much.
The pain starts to dull. The dizziness eases slightly, then gets worse again. You drift.
Varka keeps talking. About anything, everything, his voice a steady anchor.
Then something shifts.
He's not talking anymore. He's humming. Quiet. Almost unconscious. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it.
You recognize the melody through the haze. That song from the tavern. The one about wind and wandering, about following the north wind home.
His voice is rough, unpracticed, but steady. Familiar. Safe.
Eventually, the fog lifts enough that you can follow thoughts again. The pain settles into something manageable.
You shift slightly, and your head finds his shoulder.
“Varka?”
The humming stops. “Right here.”
“That song...”
“Mm?” He sounds surprised, like he didn't realize he was doing it. “The one from Angel's Share?”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn't get it out of my head,” he admits quietly. “You looked... peaceful. When it was playing. Thought maybe...”
He doesn't finish. But you understand. He remembered. Noticed it comforted you. Used it to keep you here. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
He starts humming again. Softer this time.
When the wind calls you wandering...
“You're really warm,” you murmur.
“That's the point.” His voice is soft, relieved. “Keep you warm. Keep you with me.”
The melody continues. Gentle. Grounding.
“'m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” His voice is fierce. “You better not.”
His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. “Feeling better?”
“Little bit." You are. The fog is lifting. “Still dizzy. But better.”
“Good. That's good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just don't do it again.”
“Can't promise that.”
“I know." His laugh is rough. “But I can hope.”
You lean into his warmth, and his arms come around you more securely.
The humming fades, but the melody stays. Wrapped around you like his cloak. Like his arms. Like safety.
“Tell me another story,” you murmur.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The wine cellar one was good. Even if you tell it boring.”
“Knew you were listening.” But he sounds delighted. “Alright. Think I got something...”
And then he starts talking again.
His voice rumbles through you, steady and warm and alive.
You hold onto the sound. And somewhere underneath it, you can still hear that melody.
Slowly, slowly, you start to feel like maybe you really will be okay.
Later, you're mumbling something that doesn't quite make sense.
“...can't believe you... came all this way...”
“Course I did.”
“Could've... sent someone else...”
“No time. Wasn't sending anyone else anyway.” His hand strokes your hair gently. “It was you. Had to be me.”
“Why?”
The question hangs in the air.
His hand stills for a moment. “You know why," he says quietly.
You're floating again. The words come out before you can stop them.
“Love you... too much to die...”
His breath catches audibly. “What did you just say?”
"Didn't mean... to say that...” You're fading, words slurring. “Wasn't supposed... to tell you... yet...”
“Hey.” His hand cups your face gently, turning you toward him. “Stay with me. What did you just say?”
But you're already drifting off, eyes closing.
"Damn.” He sounds wrecked. “You're gonna tell me this now? While you're half-conscious?”
He pulls you closer, and you feel his forehead press against yours.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright. We're talking about this. But later. When you're actually awake enough to remember saying it.”
His thumb strokes your cheek.
“And for the record?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I love you too. So you have to wake up properly so I can tell you that when you'll actually remember it.”
He starts humming again. So quietly you might be imagining it.
Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you.
The melody wraps around you. Steady as his heartbeat. Warm as his arms.
Following you down into sleep like a northern wind guiding you home.
— ✦ —
You wake to sunlight and the smell of smoke.
Your body aches everywhere.
But you’re warm. And alive.
And Varka is right there, sitting beside you, looking like he hasn’t slept at all.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”
“Did I… sleep?”
“On and off. You talked a lot.” His mouth quirks. “Said some interesting things.”
Oh no.
Your face heats. “What kind of things?”
“We’ll get to that.” He’s already checking your pulse, your bandages, assessing.
“How you feeling?”
“Like I fought a mitachurl.”
“You did.” He helps you sit up carefully. “And won. Somehow.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.” He hands you water. “Drink. Slowly.”
You do. It helps.
“Leg?” he asks.
You shift slightly and wince. “Hurts. But… better than last night.”
“Good. We’re getting you to a healer today.” He’s packing up the camp with efficient movements. “I’m going to carry you part of the way. When you feel steady enough, we’ll walk slowly. But you’re not putting full weight on that leg yet.”
“Varka, you can’t carry me the whole—”
“I can carry you as far as needed.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’ll take it slow. Rest when you need to. But we’re getting you treated today.”
The journey back is slow. Careful.
True to his word, Varka carries you for the first stretch—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, moving with steady purpose through the terrain.
“You can put me down,” you mumble against his shoulder after a while.
“Can I?”
“I can walk.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” But there’s warmth in his voice.
Eventually, when the path levels out and you insist, he sets you down carefully. Keeps one arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, his other hand ready to catch you if you stumble.
“Still with me?” he murmurs every few minutes.
“Still here.”
“Good. We’ll rest when you need to.”
You do need to rest. Twice. But each time he’s patient, never rushing, just sitting with you until you’re ready to continue.
By the time the healer’s house appears, you’re leaning heavily on him, exhausted.
The healer—a woman named Greta—takes one look at you and immediately gets to work.
Varka hovers.
“Sir, I need space—”
“I’m staying.”
“The wounds need cleaning, it’ll hurt—”
“I’m. Staying.”
Greta looks at you. You shrug slightly.
She sighs. “Fine. But sit down and don’t get in my way.”
He sits.
But his hand finds yours, and he doesn’t let go through the entire process. When Greta irrigates the leg wound and you gasp, his grip tightens.
When she stitches and you bite back a sound, his thumb strokes across your knuckles.
“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”
Finally, Greta steps back.
“Well. You’re lucky.” She’s washing her hands. “That leg wound was deep. Another few hours without treatment and we’d be having a different conversation.”
Varka’s face goes pale.
“But,” she continues, “you’ll heal. Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for two weeks minimum. And someone needs to monitor you for the next few days.”
“I’ll do it,” Varka says immediately.
You blink. “Varka, you don’t have to—”
“I’m doing it.” He looks at you, and there’s no room for argument in his expression.
“Not negotiable.”
Greta‘s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Alright then. Change the dressings twice daily. Make sure they eat. Rest. Plenty of fluids.”
“Got it.”
“And get some sleep yourself. You look exhausted.”
“I will.”
(He won’t.)
He takes you back to his place.
“Varka, I have an apartment—”
“Which is up three flights of stairs.” He’s helping you through the door. “You’re not climbing stairs on that leg.”
“I can manage—”
“You’re staying here.” He settles you on his couch with surprising gentleness. “At least until you can walk without limping.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Then you're staying for weeks.” He's arranging pillows, getting blankets, moving around his space with purpose.
He sits beside you, and for a moment there's just comfortable silence.
Then you notice him looking around his own place with a slightly bemused expression.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing. Just...” He gestures vaguely. “Place feels different with you in it.”
“Actually—” He stands, and there's something determined in his expression now.
He stops. Turns to look at you.
“You should just move in.”
You blink. “What?”
“Move in. With me.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Move in. For as long as you need. And if you want to stay after that, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Varka—”
“I know it’s fast.” He sits beside you again. “But last night, when I thought—” His voice roughens. “When I thought I might lose you—”
He takes your hand.
“I don’t want to waste time anymore. I want you here. Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.” He pauses. “Where I can tell you I love you every day instead of just when you’re half-conscious and bleeding.” Your breath catches.
“You… you remember that?”
“Every word.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “You said you loved me. And I said it back. And I meant it.”
“I meant it too.”
“I know.” He smiles. “So. Move in with me. Please.”
You look around his space. At the care he’s already taken to make you comfortable. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important thing in his world.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ll move in.”
The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant.
“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours carefully. “Because I’m never letting you do something that stupid alone again.”
“Hey—”
“You fought alone. While injured.”
“I protected Mondstadt—”
“I know.” His voice softens. “I know you did. You’re brave and strong and incredible. And I love you. But you’re also reckless and stubborn and you’re going to give me gray hair.”
You laugh despite yourself.
"Don't scare me like that again," he whispers.
You're quiet for a moment. Thinking about the night in the clearing. About him finding you. About how it felt to wake up in his arms knowing you were safe.
About how you told him you loved him while half-conscious and he said it back.
“Can’t promise I won't do something stupid again," you say finally. “But I can promise this.”
“What?"
You look up at him. “I’ll only be reckless with you.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.” You squeeze his hand. “No more dangerous solo hunts. No more running off without backup. If I’m going to do something stupid..." You pause. “I want you there.”
His expression does something complicated. Surprise and joy and relief all tangled together.
“That’s not much of a promise," he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “You’re still planning to do stupid things.”
“Yeah. But with you.” You manage a small smile. “We can be reckless together. A little. Like partners.”
“Partners,” Varka repeats softly.
“If you want.”
"If I want?” He laughs. Rough and wondering. “I’ve wanted that since you tried to take that commission alone and glared at me for interfering.”
“That was months ago.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours carefully. “Took you long enough to catch up.”
Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear still lingering—you laugh.
“So,” he murmurs. “Reckless together?”
"Reckless together,” you confirm.
“I can work with that.”
He kisses you. Gentle, careful, full of relief and love and the fear he's still processing.
When he pulls back, his eyes are very bright.
He settles beside you, arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his warmth.
“Welcome home,” he murmurs.
And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you actually are.
⋆ ✦ ⋆ A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon. :)
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