Chapter Text
If Varric squints, he can almost pretend they’re back in the Hanged Man where they belong.
Hawke still takes up space the way she always has, too long legs stretched across a whole bench, reclining backwards on one hand while the other lazily waves her shitty hand of cards. She’s still the third worst card player he’s ever met, saved only by Daisy’s refusal to learn the rules and Cole’s inability to stop talking to the face cards.
The sight of her still brings a smile to his face, but there’s a hint of bitterness beneath the joy. Unlike their years in Kirkwall, Varric can’t remember the last time he got a full night of sleep. He’s old, tired, and he sees similar shadows beneath Hawke’s eyes. She’s lost weight, her armor sits just a little looser. When he mentioned it she joked about missing Orana’s cooking, but Varric wonders when the last time she had a decent meal was.
He suspects it was the night before it all went to hell. Fuck, maybe before that. Depends on whether or not any reasonable person counted the Hanged Man’s stew as a decent meal, which he certainly never had.
The door to the Herald’s Rest opens and Varric tears his eyes from Hawke to examine the newest patron. Thankfully, it’s just an Inquisition soldier mopping sweat from his brow and saluting a rowdy table in the back that greets him with cheers.
When he looks back at Hawke, she’s grinning from ear to ear like she’s swallowed a canary whole. “Nervous, Varric?”
“Nothing to be nervous about,” he insists smoothly, watching her discard a card only to replace it with an even worse option. Her nose wrinkles in annoyance and she shakes her head before looking up.
“I haven’t seen you this jumpy since we got back from Chateau Haine.”
He gives her a withering glance over his winning hand. “I was dodging assassins for weeks after Chateau Haine, Hawke.”
“It wasn’t my idea to stop in Val Royeaux,” she sniffs, lips twitching upwards. “For a crossbow-related errand.”
“My errand only caused two assasination attempts,” he points out. “The rest were because you had to impress our Qunari spy friend.”
Hawke’s smirk doesn’t drop for a minute. “You were the one who arranged the invitation, serah.”
“You were the one who gave the pretty elf a list worth a thousand gold for a kiss.”
He summons his grumpiest scowl, but she only beams twice as brightly at the fond memory of her shenanigans. “It was a hell of a kiss, Varric.”
He can’t blame her, he’s done some stupid shit for a kiss before too. He’s got a whole damn reputation, tragic backstory, and lifetime of regrets built on that premise, after all.
Crossbow-related errand, indeed.
“If it makes you feel better, Varric, I don’t think the Seeker is going to hire assassins.” Hawke manages a serious face, but he can tell it’s a struggle to try and soothe his rattled nerves. He appreciates the effort anyway.
“You’re right,” he drawls. “She’s the sort that likes to get her own righteous fists dirty.”
“And not the fun kind of dirty?” Hawke asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
Varric raises one eyebrow and gestures to his unbuttoned shirt and the chest he flaunts proudly. “Somehow, she’s immune to all my charms.”
Hawke’s eyes widen, her hand fluttering to her chest. “The horror! And I’m sure you were so helpful and forthcoming.”
Varric tries to keep a straight face, he really does. But Hawke’s wide-eyed faux innocence is too good to ignore. He tips his lips into a rakish half smile and shrugs. “Listen, the fact I managed to get out of being stabbed immediately is only because I’m the best damn storyteller in Thedas.”
Hawke has the audacity to snort in disbelief. He scowls at her unimpressed face. “Something to say there, Hawke?”
“You’re good, Varric, but it takes real skill to dance the Remigold underneath the Chantry’s nose. They’re a lot more sly than the Merchant’s Guild. It’s not your fault you were unprepared.”
She sips at her ale, eyes sparkling wickedly in his direction. Varric crosses his arms over his chest. “A room full of clucking hens in ridiculous hats is more difficult to lie to than the most cutthroat guild in Thedas?” he asks.
“The Guild is all bark, no bite.”
“I’ll tell that to the next batch of assassins.”
Hawke waves the assassins away as easily as only she could. “The same bulk discount assassins they’ve sent thirty times before. Empty threats for a man protected by such dense chest hair.”
When she puts it that way, he’s almost tempted to agree with her. That’s what makes Hawke a menace. She’s just as much a schmoozer as he is, able to get anyone eating out the palm of her hand with a bat of her big blue eyes and a twitch of her pointed nose. The fact she can snap her fingers and light you on fire is only the second most dangerous thing about her.
“I don’t think the Seeker is as dumb as the Templars in Kirkwall, Hawke. Cassandra can’t be fooled by the old ‘this is just my suspiciously glowing walking stick’ line.”
“I’d have sold her on it.” Hawke sounds absolutely sure of herself. “If she was looking for you, I’d have had a story she couldn’t resist that wouldn’t get me close to being stabbed.”
It’s Varric’s turn to scoff. The light of his challenge dances in her eyes. She lowers her mug back to the table with a clank. “Is that doubt I hear, serah?”
“Far be it from me to dismiss the mind who brought us bon mots like ‘freedom tastes like chicken’ while soothing our fine Elven friend.”
Hawke throws her head back and laughs uproariously. Varric’s lips twitch in response and he shakes his head while greedily storing that laughter inside him. Maker’s ass, does it feel good to hear it again.
“Challenge accepted, Varric,” Hawke says smoothly, throwing her losing hand on the table. “Challenge accepted.”
Somebody needs to tell his solicitor, publisher, and accountant there’s a war on, because clearly they’ve not gotten the memo. Why else does Varric spend most of his waking hours untangling his affairs in between trying to track down any lead on their red lyrium problem he can think of?
He never thought he’d be eager to hear the Inquisitor is planning on hauling him out to Crestwood with her and Hawke, but he needs a break from his constant correspondence flooding Skyhold. The fact that this break apparently involves a lake full of undead is not ideal, but he’ll take it.
Varric trudges up the stairs to the Rookery, emerging in the library, in what has unfortunately become part of his twice-daily routine. He’s got a fist full of letters to everybody and their most annoying cousins and all he wants to do is find Hawke and enough people to make up a card game, then spend his evening drowning his sorrows.
He’s less than thrilled to find Cassandra blocking his path, her head bowed, arms crossed over her chest. The back of his neck prickles in unease, more than a little suspicious she’s been waiting for him.
He doesn’t have time to be chased across the library while she swings pointy objects around. When she lifts her eyes to stare at him, he holds up his fistful of parchment in defense. “Seeker, if you want to play punching bag with the dwarf later, you better let me get these to my publisher before she murders me.”
“I am not here to fight,” Cassandra snaps, glaring down her nose at the floor, “obviously.”
“Good, glad we cleared that up.” Varric mutters under his breath, sidestepping her stiff form. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“I am here to apologize.”
For a second, he thinks he’s finally lost his hearing. His eyes swing up to Cassandra’s, startled, only to notice several far more concerning things. The Seeker’s lips are set in a frown that almost looks… ashamed. Her crossed arms lead to a white knuckle grip on her elbows, a nervous tick if he’s ever seen one, and now that he can look into her face…
Maker’s ass, Cassandra can’t be blushing, can she?
“You’re here to apologize?” he repeats. “To me? I’m flattered. What’s it gonna cost?”
Her fiery dark eyes finally meet his. “Do not be an ass,” she orders. “It was foolish of me to… to not consider the implications of your relationship.”
“Oh so now you believe me when I say I had no reason to trust the chantry?” Varric asks. “Nice of you to come around.”
She goes rigid, but the tongue lashing he expects doesn’t come. “It is… admirable. The things you have done to protect her. I was foolish to not see it.”
Varric is beginning to feel a bit foolish himself and more than a little suspicious he doesn’t have some crucial bit of information. “What can I say?” he asks instead with a meaningless shrug.
“You do not have to say anything,” Cassandra slumps, uncrossing her arms. “I… in your position, I do not know what I would have done, if someone I loved…”
She keeps talking, but Varric doesn’t hear her. His mind grinds to a screeching halt while he tries to process the bizarre conversation he’s found himself in. He’s in the Fade again, clearly, and it’s Hawke’s fault. Or he’s been poisoned, or he’s dead, or…
“I…” Yes, Cassandra is indeed blushing red as the Blooming Rose’s sheets as she stutters to a stop. “I should have expected you to be so passionate. Your romance series-”
Varric can’t take it. He really can’t. “My romance series? You’re not serious.”
He thought she was red before. It’s nothing to the shade she turns next, a color he doesn’t quite have a word for. “I- I must go. The Inquisitor is expecting me. There are errands, important ones, and I-”
The whole time she’s talking, she’s backing away from him. He swears she almost trips and falls over a stack of manuscripts before taking off onto the battlements, leaving him shell shocked. He stares at the door she vanished through, waiting to wake up.
Instead, he hears a slow, loud clap coming from above him. It startled the birds in the Rookery into soft caws, but it doesn’t drown out Hawke’s delighted giggles. “Bravo, Varric. Well done.”
He swings towards her voice automatically, staring up at her long, human torso draped over the railing like she couldn’t quite get close enough to the disaster she’s caused. The grin she wears spells nothing but trouble and it causes a lurch of anticipation in his gut that makes him itch to reach for Bianca.
As usual, he doesn’t know whether to shake her or kiss her.
So he does the next best thing and flies up the final set of stairs. He emerges into the Rookery to Hawke holding one irritated bird out to him in both her hands. It flaps its wings and caws indignantly. “Look!” she winks down at him with a saucy little smirk. “Your favorite bird got your second favorite bird all ready to go.”
Varric eyes the squawking raven. “Impressive,” he drawls finally. “I didn’t know she could drag you the whole way up here.”
Hawke merely cackles while he grabs the bird and strolls over to the nearest table. Hawke’s boots clack on the stone close behind him in a leisurely, rolling gate. Despite his inner turmoil, she appears to be as calm and collected as a Chantry mother.
She’s the only one. Everyone else in the Rookery is staring at them. A knot of scouts whispers excitedly in the corner. He swears he even sees coins change hands, but he studiously ignores it until he can dump his letters on the nearest surface. Hawke collapses into an empty chair and plucks one of his notes from the mess, beginning to roll it expertly into a tiny tube.
He’s reminded, with a pang, of all the times she sat beside his desk and did the same while they swapped stories and drank the finest swill the Hanged Man had on offer. Things were simpler then. Easier.
“Interesting conversation I just had with the Seeker,” Varric mumbles quietly.
Hawke looks positively delighted with herself. “Did she tell you about your romance serial?” she whispers. “Right hand to Andraste, I had no idea anyone was reading it.”
There it is, worst fears confirmed. His fingers move automatically, restlessly sorting all his papers while avoiding Hawke’s bright gaze. “So your solution to my Seeker problem was to lie more. Genius. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”
“It’s perfect!” Hawke defends, tossing her inky black hair over her shoulder. “She’s such a sap, Varric. I can’t believe you didn’t see it. All I did was tell her you left out the most important parts of the story.”
“Which are?” he asks bitterly.
If she notices his tone, she doesn’t react. She simply grins even more brightly. “The parts about us, of course.”
There is no us. Varric doesn’t do us. He has a lady love that he serves with knightly devotion in a tragic romance fit for the ages. That woman isn’t Hawke.
The fact that the woman in question is busy, currently not answering his letters, banned from his presence, and inconveniently married to someone else are all just unimportant details.
“So now instead of lying to the Seeker, we’re lying to everyone about a relationship we don’t have.” Varric tries to keep the annoyance out of voice. “Somehow that doesn’t seem better.”
Hawke rolls her eyes and slumps over the table. “You’d swear I nicked Bianca instead of saving your chest hair from future stabbings, serah.”
“You’re right. You’ve never caused more problems by trying to help. My mistake.”
It’s a low blow and he knows it. She withdraws immediately, blue eyes crackling. “Right. We should stick with your plan, which was to avoid it for how long again?”
He turns his full attention to her icy stare. She doesn’t back down for a minute, lifting her chin imperiously into the air in a stubborn gesture that says she’s right, she knows she’s right, and he’s an idiot.
“I suppose…” she begins silkily, mouth splitting in a predatory grin, “if you think you can’t keep up the ruse, we can always arrange a breakup. I know you’re getting a bit old for the long con, it requires so much… stamina.”
Her tongue twists around the final word, turning it filthy in a manner that sends an unwelcome shiver of heat down his spine. He should tell her that’s what they’re going to do. He doesn’t need her chaos at this particular point in his life, they’ve got bigger problems.
And yet, a part of him has missed this, missed her and her ridiculous shenanigans. Yes, this is going to end badly, most likely with both of them looking like idiots with their asses out. But they’ll be doing it together once again.
“Have it your way Hawke,” he sighs, surrendering. “But I don’t wanna hear it when you’re enamoured with the chest hair and it ruins you for all the pretty elves in Thedas.”
Just like that, her irritation vanishes. Her sunny smile is back, and twice as radiant in her victory. She claps her hands together and jumps out of her chair. “Excellent. I knew you’d see sense.”
He has not seen sense. Quite the opposite in fact. Before he can complain, Hawke leaps into action. He barely registers her long fingers curling into his tunic, brushing against the exposed plane of his chest before she wrenches him up to her mouth.
Then, Maker help him, he’s kissing Hawke.
It’s not the first time. They’ve been drunk together far too often to have many firsts left. But this is the first time he’s completely sober, the first time they won’t be interrupted by the cheers and jeers of their friends. This is the first time Hawke’s lips linger, the first time her tongue slides over the seam of his mouth begging for entrance.
It’s the first time he grants it. The first time his broad hands find her waist and tug her flush to him. He’s not about to be outdone in this charade, after all. Hawke makes a small noise of approval, her hand cupping his stubbled jaw. Something clenches deep inside him.
Then she’s gone, cheeks flushed with amusement, eyes sparkling. “Herald’s Rest later?” she asks brightly and loudly, tweaking his chin in between her fingers.
He gives her back his best roguish grin. “Never miss it, beautiful.”
Challenge accepted.