#hightown funk

[fanfoolishness]

The Boiling Point

Hawke and Varric have always been there through each other for thick and thin. Pity they're both also incredibly oblivious. Hawke and Varric dance around each other for years, but what happens when they finally figure themselves out? ~3500 words of friends to lovers, fluff and angst, and idiots in love. written for Hightown Funk 2022 for @veorlian. :)

-

“I didn’t realize it was possible for something to smell like that,” Marian Hawke hissed, using the tip of her staff to poke at a pile of sludge.  Something twinkled in the muck, a faint gleam of gold.  She forced herself to swallow her gorge.  “But coin is coin, right?  I don’t suppose Bartrand would object to another sovereign, even if it is a Darktown special.”

Varric raised an eyebrow.  “Can’t you do a spell?  Magic the stench off of it?  My brother does love gold, but this might cross the line.”

“Really Varric, where do you come up with these ideas?” asked Merrill.  “Hawke, I’m afraid you’re on your own for this.”

“Oh, yes, just a bit of a destenching spell, first magic I ever performed,” Marian snickered.  She glanced at Carver, who gave her a warning look.  “I suppose you’ve got a point.  Growing up with siblings, it’s a good spell to keep in one’s back pocket.”

“As if you weren’t right there with me, getting dirty as anything,” said Carver.  “Bethany might be the only one of us who’s ever known decorum.”  He gazed skeptically down at the sludge.  “Are you certain we can’t just find another job?  Do we really have to scrounge about in the muck?”

Marian wavered.  “I can’t bear to leave it, not when we’re so close to having enough for the expedition.  Stench or no.”  She reached for mana, experimentally trying something halfway between a force spell and fire magic --

Flaming shit exploded outward in all directions, spattering the passageway, the ground, and the entire party.

Varric and Carver got the worst of it.  Wrong place, wrong time.  Merrill was slightly protected, standing a bit behind Carver as she had been: she had a split second to summon a touch of frost magic to neutralize the foul flames.  Merrill shuddered at the fate she had nearly suffered, and turned her attention to de-flaming Carver.  Frost magic settled over him.  The set of his ice-studded eyebrows predicted imminent apoplexy.  

Varric stood where he had been struck, unmoving.  Tragically,  he had transformed into a shit-covered impression of a dwarf.  Marian felt a slight pang of regret.  Only time would tell if he had really survived the blast, though she suspected by his thousand yard stare that the scars might be permanent.  

Marian’s shock slowly retreated, replaced by awareness of the most astounding smell.  She reached up a shaking hand, gingerly wiping hot filth off her forehead.  She blinked.  Then she bent down, picking up the now sparkling clean gold sovereign and tucking it carefully into her purse.

“Is this something you’re planning on trying out in the Deep Roads?” Varric managed, the last word ending in a choked gag.  “If so, I request to be somewhere far, far away the next time you pull out that little number.”

“You’re the one who asked about destenching, Varric.  This is at least your fault as much as it is mine,” Marian insisted, wiping off her front, which only seemed to smear things around more.  She heaved a sigh of defeat.  “Besides, we’re one sovereign closer, so I count this one as a win.”

“You’re something else, Hawke.”  Varric shook his head, looking greenish under the splatter.  But she could have sworn, despite the stink, that he still gave her a smile.  

Or maybe it was a grimace.  Considering he bent over and vomited about five seconds later, she wasn’t sure which.  

-

“Varric,” Marian said carefully.

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone too light to be perfectly casual.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?”

“What makes you say that?” he said heartily, turning around in the junction of the crossroads to face her and the others.  Three completely identical paths stretched beyond him.  “This is absolutely where I meant to take us.”

“Up the ass end of the Deep Roads?” Carver asked.  

“It’s all right to admit it, Varric.  I hate these bloody roads too,” said Anders sympathetically.  “Perhaps we can sort it out together.  Anything to get out of here a bit faster.”  He focused, looking down the identical halls.  He turned to the north fork.  “Come on, this one feels like it might be right.  Or, well, at least it’s not got darkspawn down it, and that’s something.  What have we got to lose?”

“You mean after everything went pear-shaped?” asked Carver.  “Not much.”  He followed Anders, and Varric and Marian brought up the rear.

Varric was quiet beside her, too quiet by far.  She knew him rather well by now, as well as she knew Anders or Fenris or Merrill, and this wasn’t right.  She pondered the evidence as they walked, the downcast gaze, the way he shuffled next to her, the hand worrying something in his pocket.  His quill, maybe.  Her gut nagged at her.  

You ought to say something.

“This is Bartrand’s fault, you know.  Not yours,” she said at last.  “I mean, there’s plenty of times I’ve taken the fall for Carver, brothers being what they are, but you’ve got nothing to fret over here.  Unless it’s the food, in which case, I agree, I’m getting rather tired of hardtack and nothing.”

He trudged along, his mouth twitching to one side as if he wanted to say something.  

“Come on,” she wheedled.  He was starting to worry her.

“It’s not --”  Varric let out a long breath.  “It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“Bartrand’s always been an ass, but this is… this isn’t him, Hawke,” he muttered.  “I don’t know what it is -- greed? Magic?  I’m out of my depth here.”

“Funny thing to say, given we’re in the Deep Roads,” Marian cracked, but he didn’t smile.  He seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her.

“I know I’m not the one who locked us down there, but I don’t know.  Still feels like it’s on me, that’s all,” he said, his face drawn.  He shrugged.  “I talked you into coming down here.  Not Bartrand.  I’m sorry.”

Marian gave him a hard look.  “Well, if that wasn’t Bartrand back there, this isn’t you here.  Self-flagellation’s got its perks, but it’s an odd fit on you; doesn’t go with your outfit.  And to think, normally you’re such a style maven.”

A faint smile finally flickered across his mouth, almost reaching his eyes.  “Yeah?  Huh.  Maybe you’re right.”

“Ahh, there’s that Tethras optimism,” she said fondly.  “Now then.  Onward and hopefully upward, yes?”

He chuckled.  “Yeah, that’s the idea.”  They picked up the pace, Carver and Anders having pulled far ahead of them.  “Thanks, Hawke.”

“No worries, Varric.  After all, what are friends for?”

-

Varric didn’t say anything the first night Marian stayed over at the Hanged Man.  She’d had a lot to drink, she was tired, it made sense for her to crash in his overstuffed, dwarf-sized armchair, even if she didn’t really fit and the arms dug into the small of her back.

He didn’t say anything the second night.  The gangs had been roving around more than normal.  He understood why she didn’t want to climb the long stairs back to Hightown, alone, this time of night.  She tried the rug beside his bed and woke up in the morning complaining about the wooden floors.

He didn’t say anything the tenth night.  She’d run out of excuses to invent.  Eventually she drank to the bottom of her glass, and all she said was, “Mother wanted the manor so badly.  It’s… it still isn’t home.”

Varric just smiled at her.  He let her take the bed while he took the chair by the fire.  And the next day he put in an order for a human-length settee, the plushest one the merchant had to offer.

-

He’d never seen her look like this before.  When Carver fell ill in the Deep Roads was the closest.  But this --

She looked more ghostly than Leandra.  

It was the second day, the dust settling, the reality sinking in.  Marian was a jumble of long limbs, curled in on herself in the seat by the hearth; Varric sat a few feet away.  The great hound uneasily guarded her feet.   The manor felt more vast than ever.

“She never really knew how to be a mum, I think,” Marian whispered across the empty room.  “Sometimes I hated her for it.”

Varric blinked.  “Some mothers just know what to do.  Suited to it, I guess.  Others…”  He left out the part about his own mother, turning yellow in her own sick at the end.

“But she suffered,” Marian said, still in that same broken voice.  “She never deserved -- that.”

“No,” Varric echoed.  “No, she didn’t.”

The crackling fire swallowed his useless words.

-

“Well,” Marian said, her feet swinging over the edge of the great stone steps outside the Chantry. 

Varric sat beside her, his legs swinging much further above the ground.  “Well,” he agreed.

“That might have gone better.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Varric.  “I think the Qunari got something out of it.”

“Viscount Dumar might have a few words to say about that.  Mother Petrice’s corpse probably would as well.”

Varric mulled this over.  “Fair enough.”  His boots dangled idly, their swinging stilled.  “It’s going to be a mess.  Scratch that, it already is.  The Viscount’s son…”  He whistled, shaking his head.

“He hadn’t wanted any part of this.  And she had him, and those Qunari, killed to make a bloody point.”  She buried her face in her hands.  “It’s all another mess that I’m somehow deep in the middle of.  Maker’s balls.  What was that madwoman playing at, Varric?”

“Whatever it was, I don’t think the Maker’s anything had much to do with it.”  He shook his head. “She wanted a war with the Qunari.  It’s not looking good.”

Marian rubbed at her eyes.  “This is an absolute shit show.  And it’s going to get far worse before it gets better.  If it gets better.”

He reached out, patting her knee.  The weight of his hand felt good, a fact she tucked away for another time.  Hm.  

“Hanged Man?”

She nodded fervently, lowering her hands and giving him a rueful grin.  “Hanged Man.”

-

“You look like hell, Hawke.”

“I look better than the other guy,” she said stubbornly.  Dark circles ringed her eyes, fading bruises still visible on her face and arms, and she was still in bed, but she’d managed to sit up, which was a definite improvement.  A veritable explosion of pillows precariously supported her, keeping her upright.

“Hasn’t Anders been doing his glowy thing?  Or am I gonna have to have a talk with him?”

“He has been,” Marian said.  “We mages might be magical, but we’re not miracle workers.  Just because we can bend the laws of nature doesn’t mean we can ignore them entirely.”  She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at him.  “I’m healing as fast as I can, honest.”

Varric winced, dismayed.  This was after a week of healing?  From Anders, the guy with a spirit supercharge and more talent for healing than any mage he’d ever heard of?  

Shit.  Shit.  This was too damn close.

“Don’t look so pained,” she said.  “You’ll make me feel worse if you treat me like I almost died.”

“That ignores the fact that you did almost die,” he pointed out, perfectly reasonably.

“Arguing with the recovering patient.  Charming of you,” she said, coughing with the effort, her face twisting in a pained wince.

“Hawke, it’s time you faced the truth.  I’m always charming.”

“You having anything to do with the truth?  Oh now that’s absolutely rich --” She started to laugh, but the laugh quickly transformed into another wracking cough, one that made her double over.  “Maker,” she groaned, panting.  

He was at her side before he realized he’d moved, laying a hand on her shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath.  “Take it easy now.  Didn’t mean for the charm offensive to take you out,” he said hastily.

“You’re a bastard, Varric,” she wheezed.  She draped her arm over him, leaning hard into him, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths.  “I hope you know that.”

He braced himself so that she was more secure, slipping his arm around her waist and helping her stay upright.  “Guilty as charged.  But you didn’t hear it from me.”

-

Varric kicked the floor, dust billowing out in clouds beneath his boot.  The ghosts of Bartrand’s manor had faded, but Varric was still pale, the set of his jaw hard and unfamiliar.

“Want to talk about it?” Marian asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Are you crazy?” asked Varric.  

“Suppose it depends who you ask, doesn’t it?”  

Varric glanced at the pouch at her waist, where the red lyrium’s glow faintly emanated through the fabric.  He sighed.  “Thanks for taking that thing.”

She shrugged.  It felt warm against her hip.  “It gives me a terrible feeling,” she said in a low voice.  “You know the feeling you get, right before walking into a trap?  Where the hair on the back of your neck rises before you even know why?  That’s how I feel, thinking of you keeping this thing.  It’s caused an awful lot of trouble.  More than the two of us combined, and that’s saying something.”

“Seems like trouble follows that stuff wherever it goes,” he said, tilting his head to regard a dusty portrait on the wall.  She could just make out the faint outlines of dwarven faces, one of them seeming a little familiar, if very young.  

“Is that you?”  

Varric snorted, which turned into a loud, forceful sneeze.  “If you squint.  Definitely not one of the better portrait artists in Hightown.  It wasn’t all her fault, though.  As Bartrand told it I couldn’t sit still to save my life.”

She peered at the dusty portrait.  A towheaded, round-faced little boy stared back at her, looking uncharacteristically solemn.  He was right.  It didn’t look much like him at all.

“I’ll take care of the red lyrium,” Marian said.  “What will you do with everything else?”

He turned away from the painting, no trace of a smile on his face.  “I’m doing it,” he said tiredly, and he walked away.

-

It’s coming to a boil.

The phrase repeated in her head, a warning knell beneath her jokes, her chatter, her rare quiet moments.  Coming to a boil.  

Kirkwall had been seething for years now, a tempest in the making.  She could feel it in the hard glares of the templars, the furtive paranoia of the mages, the denials of the Chantry.  Something was coming.  Something big.

She did her very best to ignore it.

It wasn’t too difficult, at first.  She could pretend that things were normal when she settled into a game of Wicked Grace with her friends, or got out of the city for a bit of fresh air with her Mabari, or put out little fires in Darktown or the alienage.  Pretty standard stuff.  She knew how to deal with that.

She didn’t know how to deal with people calling her Champion.  Or tense, dangerous audiences with Elthina, Meredith, Orsino.  Or rumblings about uprisings and rebellions, strident whispers from both the templars and the mages.

So she found herself at the Hanged Man for the fifth time in a week, sulkily staring down her third pint, waiting for the sun to set and her friends to join her so she wouldn’t need to be alone with her thoughts.

It’s coming to a boil.

“You look deep in thought, Champion.”

“It’s been known to happen, on occasion.  And don’t call me Champion,” Marian said as Varric climbed onto the bench beside her, a pint in hand.

“Don’t worry, Hawke.  All in jest.”

“Damn right,” she said, finishing her pint.  She cast around for the barmaid and nodded when she caught her eye.  “How’s tricks, Varric?”

“Same old, same old.”  

He looked just as world-weary as she felt.  “Liar.”

He chuckled.  “Takes one to know one.”

“Obviously.”  She tossed a silver to the barmaid in exchange for another ale, and took a long draught.  “You ever have those days where you’re just counting down the hours, hoping that somehow, some way, tomorrow will be different?”

“Something on your mind, Hawke?  Not that there’s anything wrong with introspection, of course,” he said, taking a drink of his own ale.  “You’re worried.  About Kirkwall, I take it.”

“Is it that obvious?”  She let out a huff.  “Something’s brewing, Varric, and I don’t like it.”

“Well, you’re gonna hurt Corff’s feelings with that.  He’s been working on this new crappy lager for months now.”  His mouth quirked in a grin, one that she didn’t return.

“You know what I mean.  You feel it, too, don’t you?”

His smile faded, and he nodded.  “Yeah, I do.  Why do you think I came over here?  Distracting you is a great way to distract myself.  Funny how that works out.”

Marian sighed into her ale.  “At least whatever existential dread there is lurking about feels a little less nasty when I’m with you.  You’ve always helped.  That’s got to be something, don’t you think?”

Varric’s face had gone ruddier than normal.  “That’s me, worth my weight in gold.”

“Is that a blush, Master Tethras?” she asked, her voice rising just a little too high.

“It’s the ale,” he said defensively.  “Something really has gone wrong with that lager.”

Marian considered.  “I think you’re blushing.  And I think it’s because I said I feel rather better when you’re around.”  She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, contemplating things.  “It’s true, you know.  Has been for ages.”  

How long?  How many hours had she put in at the Hanged Man, hoping to see him?  How many nights had she stayed over when going back to a vast empty manor seemed too hard?  How many times had just the sound of his laugh lifted her spirits?

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“Oh really?” Varric asked.  “Come to realize how wrong you were?  Most would say I’m more of an annoyance than a comfort.”  His flush deepened, if anything, but he leaned closer, his arm brushing against hers.  Her heart beat faster.

“Shit, shit, Varric.  I’m an idiot.”

“Hey!  That’s slander about my favorite misfit, and I won’t hear it,” said Varric.  “But now why would you say something like that?  You’re a lot of things, Hawke, but an idiot's not one.”

She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face.  “No, no, I’ve been quite daft.  Argh.”

“If you’re trying to paint me a picture, it’s clear as mud.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” she grumbled.  “Happy now?”

He froze.  He looked up at her with hazel eyes the size of sovereigns, his cheeks flaming.  If she hadn’t been so mortified it would have been funny, seeing him finally at a loss for words.  

“You, uh -- you what?” he finally forced out.  “Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

“Ugh, you heard me.  I can’t believe I’ve been so dim.  Why do you think I’m always hanging about here?  It’s not for the bloody ambiance, it’s for the company.”  She hauled her arms up to the table, resting her head on them and burying her face so Varric couldn’t keep staring.  “I’m an absolute fool, Tethras.  I hope I haven’t put you off permanently.  Still friends at least, yes?” she asked, voice muffled in her sleeves.  Oh, if she hadn’t put her foot in it.

For a horribly long moment the only thing she heard was the background chatter of the other patrons in the pub.  Then Varric’s laugh started up, a low, deep rumble leading up to rich, rough chuckles.  “You’re really serious,” he managed, as his laughter trailed off.

“Of course!  You don’t have to rub it in,” she muttered.

“It’s just -- hey, hey.  Would you look at me, Hawke?”

“So you can laugh at my ridiculousness?  Oh, I must be a glutton for punishment.”  But she lifted her head from her arms, her hair falling into her eyes, her cheeks burning.

“No, no, it’s not that at all,” Varric protested.  He laid a hand on her arm and took a deep, long breath.  He swallowed, then said in a shaky voice,  “It wasn’t love at first sight.  That’s the crap I put in Swords and Shields; that doesn’t really happen.  But… I’ve loved you for years, Marian.  And that’s the honest truth.”

“Oh,” she croaked.  

Oh.

“That’s, ah, very interesting, Varric.”  Her hand wrestled awkwardly with Varric’s until their fingers interlaced.  That felt pretty good.  It felt right.  “Maybe we should talk about this?”

A smile spread slowly across his face.  He opened his mouth, his eyes bright; he always did love getting the last word.  Before he could speak she bent down and kissed him, his stubble brushing against her cheeks.

And for a moment, they didn’t say anything at all.

---

(end)

(for @veorlian , whose prompts were right up my alley!)

Thank you very much in advance!! <3 Here are my prompts:

- I love slice of life mutual pining friends to lovers fluff where it's snippets of Hawke and Varric together going on missions and spinning lies and just generally being incredibly important to each other while fully ignoring how important they are to each other

- I really enjoy stories that fill in missing parts of the story, so I'd love to see the things that happen in between acts. For example, Hawke going to visit Varric at the Hanged Man because their manor is too big and doesn't feel like home; Varric and Hawke going on low-stakes adventures together, and so on. Really, whatever you think might fit in the several years we didn't get to see!

- Varric and Hawke get into a competition for who can tell the most elaborate lie and one of them messes up and accidentally confesses their feelings and/or one of them decides to use the opportunity of a lie to confess their feelings

[doodlingfoolishness]

A romanced Varric tarot card, drawn as an extra treat for my Hightown Funk giftee, @calysto1395 !

Image description: a tarot card illustration of Varric Tethras in rich jewel tones. He holds the hand of an offscreen Hawke in their noble clothing and gazes lovingly at them. The Viscount of Kirkwall crown hovers over Varric’s head. Background symbolism includes a golden sun, scrolls of parchment covered in writing, the Amell insignia in red, and a background motif of white quills and gold texture.

[fade-and-loathing-in-thedas]

Authors have all been revealed, so I can now share my angst filled Hightown Funk gift for the lovely kaijuburgers

Well, it's not a good story unless the hero dies

Summary: Why was he so surprised. He had written enough tragedies over the years, he should have known this was how it would all end.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras

Tags: Angst, Heavy Angst, Character Death, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, POV Varric Tethras, Warrior Hawke (Dragon Age), Red Hawke (Dragon Age), Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Hawke Left in the Fade (Dragon Age)

[tigereyes45]

Our Alibi

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras Characters: Varric Tethras, Hawke (Dragon Age), Bethany Hawke, Aveline Vallen, Isabela (Dragon Age), Merrill (Dragon Age), Fenris (Dragon Age), Sebastian Vael Additional Tags: POV Varric Tethras, Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age) Summary:

War has broken out in Kirkwall. Meredith is dead, and Varric needs to get Hawke back home.

------------

This story was a treat I posted for the @hightown-funk 2022 event. This is a gift for @fade-and-loathing-in-thedas​​

The Ao3 link is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42538806

[thehumantrampoline]

Summary:

Hawke tags along to Halamshiral. Varric's glad to have her - she'll certainly liven up the conversation, anyway. She never used to like a fancy party, but maybe that's changed in the four years since Kirkwall.

Maybe that's not the only thing that's changed.

My Hightown Funk gift of Winter Palace flirting for @queenofbaws. I just went ham with the banter and went from there lmao. I'm so glad you liked it! Hightown Funk is my favorite time of year 🙌

[hightown-funk]

We are melting into July everyone! And you know what that means! Climate Change Check-In Time!

As stated in our schedule, starting on July 30th we will be contacting every participant to see if they are still on board.

If you are participating and already know you you’re still good to go, you are very welcome to let us know beforehand, otherwise, keep your eyes peeled on your inboxes at the end of the month.

Similarly, if you already know you need or want to drop out, please let us know as soon as possible so we can find a pinch hitter.

When we contact you at the end of July, you have two weeks to respond (until August 13), otherwise we will assume you defaulted.

Happy Funking!

Mod C

[meggannn]

Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers (if you would like to)!

oh boy. does this count for stuff i haven't finished yet? even if most of this is unfinished???

Tides, Receding admittedly not because i think it's my best work, but because i've been wanting to write it for a while and am (mostly) pleased with how it's turning out, which is cause enough to be happy

Down Girl. i don't wanna talk about it but also PLEASE ask me about it i miss it so much

Heavy. i really liked this one i wrote for hightown funk last year cause it was my first time really diving into a red!Hawke

Golden If You Let Me. there's a lot i would change about this if i were to rewrite it now but i still think of it fondly

fuck i'm gonna go ahead and put @heyitsspiderman on here. i've never done anything like it before and probably will not ever again

[pen99]

Hi, it's your Hightown Funk author again. I don't remember if I've sent this question before, or not. So if this is a repeat of an earlier question then just ignore this. if not then: What are some of your favorite ships aside from Hawke/Varric? Are there any ships you dislike?

Asking so I can include your preferred ships in the story.

Oh!! The cast of DA:2 has chemistry no matter how you pair them. You should add your favorite side-ships!! I don’t have much a preference. I do have a small rare pair thing for fenris/carver or cullen/carver (I blame fanfiction for those, haha), but I would rather you write whatever side-ship you’d be most excited about!!

[anxiouspineapples]

Hawke and Varric at the Winter Palace 

aka my contribution to this year’s Hightown Funk exchange! it was my first year participating but honestly I had such a blast I’d do it again in a heartbeat

[sinsbymanka]

Presenting my 10k monstrosity written for @thedosianscholar​ for @hightown-funk​!

Don't Make it Hawkeward Words: 10061 Chapters: 3 Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras Additional Tags: 

Summary: Varric likes to think he's the best bullshitter Kirkwall has ever produced, but Hawke knows she can give him a run for his money. When she makes up her mind to convince the Inquisition her and Varric have a secret relationship, it's not like Varric can let her win this little competition. He just didn't count on how quickly things escalate.Smut chapters marked with a * 

Read on AO3

If Varric squints, he can almost pretend they’re back in the Hanged Man where they belong.

Hawke still takes up space the way she always has, too long legs stretched across a whole bench, reclining backwards on one hand while the other lazily waves her shitty hand of cards. She’s still the third worst card player he’s ever met, saved only by Daisy’s refusal to learn the rules and Cole’s inability to stop talking to the face cards.

The sight of her still brings a smile to his face, but there’s a hint of bitterness beneath the joy. Unlike their years in Kirkwall, Varric can’t remember the last time he got a full night of sleep. He’s old, tired, and he sees similar shadows beneath Hawke’s eyes. She’s lost weight, her armor sits just a little looser. When he mentioned it she joked about missing Orana’s cooking, but Varric wonders when the last time she had a decent meal was.

He suspects it was the night before it all went to hell. Fuck, maybe before that. Depends on whether or not any reasonable person counted the Hanged Man’s stew as a decent meal, which he certainly never had.

The door to the Herald’s Rest opens and Varric tears his eyes from Hawke to examine the newest patron. Thankfully, it’s just an Inquisition soldier mopping sweat from his brow and saluting a rowdy table in the back that greets him with cheers.

When he looks back at Hawke, she’s grinning from ear to ear like she’s swallowed a canary whole. “Nervous, Varric?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he insists smoothly, watching her discard a card only to replace it with an even worse option. Her nose wrinkles in annoyance and she shakes her head before looking up.

“I haven’t seen you this jumpy since we got back from Chateau Haine.”

He gives her a withering glance over his winning hand. “I was dodging assassins for weeks after Chateau Haine, Hawke.”

“It wasn’t my idea to stop in Val Royeaux,” she sniffs, lips twitching upwards. “For a crossbow-related errand.”

“My errand only caused two assasination attempts,” he points out. “The rest were because you had to impress our Qunari spy friend.”

Hawke’s smirk doesn’t drop for a minute. “You were the one who arranged the invitation, serah.”

“You were the one who gave the pretty elf a list worth a thousand gold for a kiss.”

He summons his grumpiest scowl, but she only beams twice as brightly at the fond memory of her shenanigans. “It was a hell of a kiss, Varric.”

[fanfoolishness]

You guys Hightown Funk gifts go live tomorrow and I cannot wait for all 20 of us Hawke/Varric shippers to go OFF

[hollyand-writes]

“Carver doesn’t approve, sadly,” Hawke jumps in. “Once he challenged Varric to a duel for my virtue and was utterly devastated to find out I didn’t have any.”

“Then he told me there were no refunds and got himself nearly killed to get away from us,” Varric adds. “I even sent him a card saying he’s the world’s best future brother-in-law and the only thing he sent me was a cease and desist letter.”      

Hi hello I am here to recommend this ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL and hilarious yet poignant 10,000-word fake-dating F!Hawke/Varric fanfic on AO3 that I read this morning by an anonymous author for the @hightown-funk exchange 😄 

It’s three chapters of laughter and bittersweetness and feels and fake-dating and it’s so good I just want to yell at everyone to go and read it OK 😆 The above is just one of many great lines from the fic. It’s not a ship I tend to read BUT the title drew me in (Don’t Make It Hawkeward) and it 100% did not disappoint. Give it a read! 😍

[fade-and-loathing-in-thedas]

WIP Whenever

Thank you to @oxygenforthewicked @merrybandofmurderers @wild-houseplant and @heniareth for the tags. I've been focused on writing my Hightown Funk assignment so I haven't been writing anything for my current WIPs, but got a weird burst of inspo so here's a little scene in my attempt to write Akroma meeting her siblings. (I know, it's not the merry band, but it's something lol)

Pride cometh before the fall - Arcadia Amell

The black silk of the mage’s dress rustled as she turned to face the Akroma. “Welcome, Inquisitor.” Despite the sentiment of her words, her voice was cold enough to send chills down Akroma's spin. Against the black of her clothes, her face seemed ghostly white, and in a certain light her slate grey eyes appeared to glow an eerie purple. A slight smile curved her plum-red lips, and she snapped her gloved fingers. Veil torches lit up the room and Akroma couldn't help the gasp of awe that fell from her lips at the show of power. The mage smirked. "What has brought you to my little collective?"

"Pure circumstance." Akroma cocked her head in interest. "But it seems you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I have no idea who you are."

The mage laughed. "Hardly. I know the rumours, as does the whole world. It was more of an educated guess." She gestured towards Akroma's left hand. "The Fade had never felt as close as when you walked into our shelter. It must be incredibly painful."

Akroma grinned. "You didn't answer my question." Curiosity flared inside her chest. "Who are you?"

The mage walked over to Akroma, black silk rustling, and held her palm out. "Senior Enchanter, Arcadia Amell, at your service."

Akroma froze. "Amell?"

"Yes, Amell. And no, I am not the Hero of Ferelden. Though I'm told we are related."

How did she not see it? The features were markers of her family.

Akroma rushed the mage and wrapped her arms around her. The mage tried to pull back in shock, but Akroma held tight.

"What is the meaning of this!" Arcadia demanded, trying to remove Akroma from her person.

Akroma abruptly let go and jumped back. "It's just so good to see you again."

Arcadia stepped back and watched Akroma, like she was a madwoman. Which to be fair, to all accounts she appeared to be.

"I've never met you before in my life, and I have an impeccable memory."

"That's right, you would have been too young to remember."

Arcadia narrowed her eyes in irritation. "It's clear that that mark has affected your senses–or perhaps you were always insane. I do not know you."

"Well then, introductions are in order." Akroma grinned. "Akroma Amell, Hero of Ferelden, Inquisitor and big sister."

[queenofbaws]

DA2: The Tale of the Champion (Who Didn’t Want to Be the Champion)

Characters: F!Hawke/Varric Tethras Rating: T Words: 8,328 Summary: After her duel with the Arishok, Hawke has some trouble getting to sleep. Ah, but lucky for her, she just so happens to be spending her convalescence with Kirkwall's favorite author! When she asks him to tell her a story to help her get to sleep, Varric obliges, but the tale's an awfully familiar one. Hawke can't help feeling that maybe she's heard it before...but if there's one thing Varric's good at, it's surprising his audience. Author’s note: The first of three pieces I wrote for Hightown Funk! If you’d prefer to read on AO3, the link is in the source! ---

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“Can’t.” Hawke heaved a sigh as she said it, intending for it to come across as a joking, playful thing…only to cringe inwardly when she heard the sound out loud. She’d missed ‘playful’ by a country mile and, by her measure at least, had instead managed to land squarely in ‘pathetic.’ She set down the book she’d lifted from one of the side tables after pretending to read the front matter, making her way to him as casually as she could while still hiding the worst of her limp. “No idea how you do it, honestly…all the shouting and clanging…”

Varric breathed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Says the woman whose mutt—”

“War hound.”

“War hound, uh huh, my apologies, serah—says the woman whose war hound is just constantly bellowing at its own shadow…”

She rested her arms on the ridge marking the top of his chair and leaned her weight against the back of it. Much as she wanted to pretend she didn’t, she felt exhaustion’s insistent tug on every last one of her muscles, leading her to lower her chin to her arms and close her eyes in a half-hearted attempt to keep it at bay. Sleep wouldn’t come, but fatigue? Oh, fatigue was fast becoming an old friend of hers, a hanger-on she simply couldn’t seem to shake. “That’s different and you know it.”

“I don’t know it, actually.” With her eyes shut as they were it was hard to tell, but she thought the papery rustle that followed the statement meant Varric was starting a new page.

“Yeah, well…you’d understand if you were Fereldan.”

“Alas Hawke, the Maker in all of His divine wisdom saw fit to make me a Marcher instead of a mud-farming dog lord, so I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

She hummed a little chuckle of her own, but no matter how hard she tried, found she couldn’t come up with anything sufficiently witty to follow it up with. Figured. Well that was probably for the best—she had to assume writing was hard enough on its own, but writing and carrying on a snappy repartee at the same time? Impossible. Unthinkable. And since she was already leeching off of his hospitality…

All right, ‘leeching’ was perhaps going a bit far. He had, after all, always been very clear about his—ahem—palatial suite at the Hanged Man being her palatial suite at the Hanged Man…then again, none of those offers had been made when she was bleeding quite so much.

One of her ribs throbbed as though in agreement. Ugh.

It was also probably for the best that she couldn’t remember those first few days after the duel. If she really strained herself, she could pull up a few blurry images: the shadow of the Viscount’s throne, worried faces, the feathers of Anders’s pauldrons dark with blood, worried faces, the Knight-Commander’s disgusted sneer, more worried faces…honestly it was mostly worried faces, now that she was thinking about it, and none had been more worried than Varric’s.

Hawke didn’t like thinking about what that meant, didn’t like wondering how bad off she must’ve been there at the start if this was what she felt like now. Mostly, though, she didn’t like what it might’ve meant that Varric had been so concerned; in all their years of knowing each other, he’d reacted to even her worst bruises and bloodied knuckles with little more than an eye-roll and a shake of his head, maybe an incredulous “Again?” or “What did you get into this time?”

But since she’d woken up, something had…changed. He’d been a fixture at her bedside, there even when the others had given up and gone home. She’d come to mark the passage of time by the pages that had piled up next to him, the inkwells that had run dry. Again, there wasn’t much she could recall, but that much she knew—that each and every time the haze had lifted from her mind and the pain had let her think for even a moment, he’d been right there. And when she’d returned to herself enough to feel the horrible emptiness of the estate pressing down on her from all angles, he’d insisted on her staying with him instead.

Hawke couldn’t help but wonder whether he thought she might vanish into a puff of smoke if she wasn’t in his direct line of sight. Vanish or, Maker forbid, keel over dead.

Hmm. Cheerful.

“Are you my editor now? Is that what this is?”

She blinked herself out of that unpleasant line of thought, readjusting her position to take some of the weight off her injured knee as she leaned against the back of his chair. “Your editor? I’m an idiot, Varric, not a masochist.”

His eye-roll was positively audible. “All right, wiseass,” he said, clearly trying to sound authoritative but coming across wryly amused at best. “Please go lie down. Please sleep. Do you have any idea the bitching and moaning I’ll have to endure from Blondie if any of those stitches of yours tear?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “A lot.”

Hawke winced at the mention of the stitches. They, much like her ribs, took that moment to reassert their presence with a dull, throbbing ache. Healing magic, as she’d come to learn during her tenure in Kirkwall, only went so far…and she had a nasty, nasty habit of falling farther.

“All I’ve done for the past week is lie down,” she pointed out, and not without a touch of petulance, “What I need to be doing is stretching my legs. Get the blood pumping, as the saying goes. I mean…what would the good people of Kirkwall say if they saw their new Champion laying about like…like a…” Oh dear sweet Maker, she could handle the internal bleeding, but this marked difficulty with snappy comebacks was quickly becoming more than just a little distressing. “…well, like a layabout?”

That certainly seemed to get Varric’s attention. He set his pen down and twisted around in his chair to fix her with a look made of equal parts pity and fondness. She couldn’t quite figure out which part of that look struck her heart harder. “Hawke.”

“Varric.”

“I say this as your friend: Go sleep.”

“I’ve tried! You act like it’s easy to drift off into a peaceful, rejuvenating slumber when all of your bones are—”

“And I say this as your business partner—your business partner whose livelihood is upsettingly dependent upon your ability to, oh what’s the phrase…not be dead: Go. Sleep.”

That got a laugh out of her—a real, honest-to-goodness laugh—and while that felt like its own sort of miracle, it also sent another pang of pain shooting through her ribs, so it didn’t last nearly as long as she would’ve liked. “Fine, fine…” she said, heaving herself away from his chair with a grunt that couldn’t quite decide whether it was borne more of exertion or discomfort or a heady combination of the two. “I’ll lie down. Can’t promise sleep, though. Not unless drastic measures are taken.”

“‘Drastic measures,’ huh?” Varric asked dryly, “Dare I even ask?”

Her retreat wasn’t nearly as graceful as her entrance had been, and that was saying something. Leaning in that position for even that long, it seemed, had been all the permission her aching muscles had needed to lock themselves into stiff, unyielding knots, meaning she had little choice but to amble back towards the alcove of his bedroom with the gangly stride of a nug caught in a hunter’s line.

“Oh, you have no idea, Varric…you probably don’t know this about me, but since rising to the top of Kirkwall’s elite, my nightly routine has become a thing of decadence and ridiculousness. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s the sort of excess expected of noble houses like mine.”

“I know you did things a little differently back in Ferelden, but allow me to clear something up for you: A cup of warm milk hardly constitutes decadence.” 

Another laugh…quickly followed by another grimace. She hurt like hell, there was no doubt about that, but even then it was impossible to keep from smiling. There was something so comforting about their back-and-forth, something that went beyond a feeling of normalcy. Now of course, that idea of normalcy, of things maybe not being perfect but at least being okay, was part of it; it just didn’t feel like the whole story.

“A cup of warm milk? Oh no. Oh nonono, you misunderstand. I need at least a single cup of warm milk—with honey and cinnamon, of course—my sheets need to be doused in only the sweetest smelling oils—” she heard Varric snort aloud at that one, “—I require a retinue of no fewer than three but no more than six musicians playing traditional Fereldan folk songs in the next room, and most importantly, it takes upwards of ten minutes of someone tenderly stroking my hair before I can even consider falling asleep these days.” Hawke lowered herself onto the bed, wincing every inch of the way now that Varric couldn’t see her. “So as I said, I’ll try, but my hopes aren’t high. I’ve gotten used to a very specific way of living, you understand. Noble living.”

“Yeah…not too sure I can help with any of that.”

“No lutists on hand, eh?”

“I could ask Corff if he’s hiding any in the back, I guess, but the chances of them knowing any traditional Fereldan folk songs are—”

“Pretty slim, yeah, I’d imagine as much.” She bit back a groan as she eased herself down onto the pillows, searching in vain for a position that could ease some of the strain of her back and legs. And arms. And shoulders. …and everything else, really. “You could always come stroke my hair,” she teased, hoping the lilt in her voice would cover the fact she was only half-joking. When it came to that sort of thing, she was always only half-joking.

With him, anyway. It was easier that way.

“Or…oh! You could tell me a story! That’s what you’re supposed to be good at, isn’t it? Stories?” Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t help but grin at the indignant sputter she got in reply.

“Supposed to be good at? One more crack like that, O Glorious Champion of Kirkwall, and I’ll see to it that Norah and Edwina drag you out of here kicking and screaming. Well…flailing and whining, at least. You look a little past the energy it takes to kick.”

The sprawl she ended up finding wasn’t perhaps the most delicate or ladylike of positions, but it would have to do. Her eyes fell closed and her body sank into the coverlet of his bed. “Methinks the dwarf doth protest too much.”

That time it was his turn to groan. And oh, what a beautiful sound it was, because Hawke knew it meant he was absolutely, positively, unquestionably about to humor her stupid request. “How about The Elf Who Never Smiled? That’s always a fan-favorite.”

Oh, it hurt to laugh—it hurt to laugh! “I know that one already. One day he finds a really big stick that he uses to smack other people around, and only then does he learn how to smile for real. Try again.”

“Hmm…what about…Five Times Daisy Used Blood Magic and One Time She Didn’t?”

“I’ve heard that one too. The one time she doesn’t use blood magic ends rather badly, and if I’m being completely honest? I’m not sure I ever really walk away understanding the moral you’re trying to impose.”

“Everyone’s a critic…ambiguity can be an important aspect of telling a compelling story, Hawke.”

“Mhm. Well. For future reference, I didn’t ask for a compelling story, I asked for a bedtime story, and if I may say so, your idea of what constitutes one of those is deeply, deeply flawed, my fine dwarven friend.”

“Hard in Hightown?”

At that, she opened her eyes for the sole purpose of rolling them. “I’m not listening to Hard in Hightown, Varric. Not again.” She turned her head just slightly, letting the downy fluff of his pillow envelope the better part of her face, and suggested (more as an afterthought than anything else), “What about whatever it is you’re writing now?” Had she not been so absorbed by trying to swallow back a considerable yawn, she might’ve noticed the silence brought on by the suggestion. “You’ve been scribbling like mad, the past few days…there’s got to be something salvageable in there, no?”

The ambient sounds of the Hanged Man could again be heard from outside the suite. Wood creaking under heavy boots, glasses clanking, unidentifiable voices pitching up and down as they moved from insults to jokes and back again. Then, just when she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her, that she’d need to repeat herself, Varric responded.

“Yeah…I really don’t think you’d like this one too much.”

“Hmm, see, now you’ve piqued my interest! If it’s been enough to hold your attention for this long, I’m certain a lowly dog lord such as myself would be more than entertained by it.” Sleep felt no closer, but the longer she lay there, the easier it felt to talk, to smile, to laugh—and those were the things she’d been missing the most dearly since the Arishok had done his best to separate her head from the rest of her body, so she planned on taking full advantage of it. “Come on.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Can I at least get the title, then?” she teased, “Something to tide me over until the grand release where I can clutch my leather-bound first edition to my bosom and beg the author for an autograph?” Yes! Yes, she could feel herself slowly coming back into her own, and oh it felt so…all right, maybe not good, she was still probably a fair ways away from good, but definitely better.

Even from the next room she could hear him exhale. “It’s, uh, hmm.” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice that she wasn’t at all accustomed to hearing, and that only served to deepen her curiosity. He should’ve known better than that. “It’s The Tale of the Champion, actually.”

Without meaning to, she’d opened her eyes again. “Oh,” was the only thing she was able to manage there for a moment, something in her chest having gone suspiciously tight at the revelation. “…it’s a bit of a shit title, if you don’t mind a little friendly advice.”

Varric chuckled, but unless she was wrong, Hawke thought she could still detect a hint of that same uncertainty lurking just below the surface. “You could do better?”

“I didn’t say that.” Blinking at the wall, she tried to make it work in her head. Was he having her on, maybe? It seemed like a strange joke to pull on someone who was convalescing, that much was certain. But the thought of him being serious, the idea that those stacks and stacks of pages he’d been filling like a madman since she’d first opened her eyes were about her…well she wasn’t sure she knew how she felt about that. That was a lot to write about someone. A lot of time and thought and effort. Just…a lot.

“No, no, if you’ve got such strong opinions about it, then hey, you do better, huh?”

“Oh, have I hit a nerve, Master Tethras?” To her own ears, it sounded convincingly flippant, and that would have to do for now. “What about…The Tale of the Champion…Who Didn’t Want to Be the Champion?”

“Succinct. Really rolls off the tongue.”

“Considering only one of us in this room has had the great honor of being bestowed the title, I think I would know the feelings of any fictional Champion much better than you. Whoever your poor protagonist is, she—” she paused, deciding whether or not to commit to the oblivious act, “—or he…they probably aren’t terribly happy about the whole thing.”

“You’re right on that much, at least. I wouldn’t exactly say she’s been having the time of her life.”

Hawke swallowed, distantly aware of how scratchy her throat felt. In comparison to all the others, it was a dull, unimportant sort of ache. “You know, if you’d quit dancing around it and just tell me the story already, I could probably provide all sorts of valuable insights into the Champion experience. I know how prone you are to exaggeration, so…”

“Exaggeration,” Varric scoffed, “The word you’re looking for is ‘embellishment.’���

“It’s not.”

Another moment passed where the suite was quiet and still, the sounds of the tavern filling the gaps in their conversation. On any normal day, those sounds would’ve made her thirsty; now she felt strangely disconnected from them, as though they were coming from a different life instead of a different room.

And then, nearly as subtle as the rasp in her throat, she heard the small clink of a pen being set down. “I’m not reading it,” he warned, “But I can give you the main beats.”

“Be still my heart.” Though it pained her to do so, Hawke shifted one leg then the other, tucking herself under his blankets instead of lying on top of them. “Start it ‘Once upon a time,’ if you don’t mind. That’s how bedtime stories are supposed to begin, I think.”

He made a noise that could’ve been a sigh just as easily as a chuckle. “Once upon a time…” Varric began, his tone jovial but still carrying that faint note of uncertainty, as though some part of him worried of saying too much or not enough or maybe simply picking the wrong words. “There was a Champion.”

“…who didn’t want to be the Champion.”

“She did not,” Varric conceded, “She never really saw herself as a Champion of anything…she wasn’t the sort to care about titles, not when there were other things to worry about. See, where the story begins, the Champion—who isn’t officially a Champion just yet—is running. She’s running from the Blight, running from only home she’s ever really known, the place where she was raised, the place where her father’s ashes are spread, and as the eldest, she feels that it’s her job, her responsibility, to keep the rest of her family safe as they run.”

“A thrilling introduction.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard anything yet. As they run, they find themselves face-to-face with legend incarnate: A Witch of the Wilds—The Witch of the Wilds—a dragon of a woman made entirely of spite and cryptic advice. She’s impressed by the Champion’s ardor, or maybe she feels some sort of pity, recognizing in her some sort of kindred spirit, and so she whisks the family far, far away from the ravages of the Blight to a new world entirely. But…”

Hawke closed her eyes again, telling herself she was simply resting her eyes and not bracing for impact. All at once, Flemeth’s voice was in her head, ringing there like the tolling of the Chantry’s bells at night, reminding her not of what had been said just outside of Lothering, Bethany’s body growing cold on the scorched ground behind her, but later, on Sundermount: It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly. She thought she’d probably fallen more than enough for one lifetime…Maker help her, though, it didn’t seem she’d figured out the whole ‘flying’ thing.

“That help had come a little too late. In the madness of their escape, the Champion lost her sister. And there was nothing she or the rest of her family could do but carry on and hope they could make that loss mean something by continuing to live, themselves.” Varric cleared his throat, and she could almost see him flapping one of his hands to hurry himself along in her mind’s eye, “Then there’s this whole boring part with a boat…I’m thinking I’ll probably axe that in the second draft.”

“And disappoint Bela? You know how much the woman loves big boats. Axe that and you’ve lost yourself a reader, serah.” Thinking about Lothering, about Bethany, about Father…she was glad for the excuse to make a joke. Joking was, of course, easier.

“Well regardless, the Champion awakes one morning to find herself in an entirely new world…a city of chains. An old place, its roots ancient and dipped in bronze that’s gone green at the edges where they meet the sea, its cobblestones set out in mazelike patterns to ward off spirits or maybe just confuse the foreigners. It’s not her home, she doubts it ever could be, but before too long she’s carved herself out a comfortable niche in the underworld, her desire to keep her family alive outweighing her fear of bleeding out in back alleys.

“And then, one day, blessed Andraste on her side, she has the best run of luck she’s ever had in her life: Upon being accosted by a common hoodlum, she meets a devilishly handsome rogue—”

The sting of her memories immediately flew out the proverbial window at that. “A devilishly handsome rogue?” she repeated, her laughter giving way to a dry, hacking cough for a moment, “Oooh, see, now you’ve hooked me! That’s where you should’ve started!”

She could hear him snickering from outside the door, and unless she was mistaken, she thought he sounded closer somehow, as though perhaps he’d moved his chair or turned it around so she could better hear him. “Ah ah ah, don’t get ahead of me now. There are plenty of zany characters she picks up along the way. There’s…let’s see…there’s a pirate queen whose jokes are almost as ribald as her choice in clothing, a feathery apostate who talks too much and sleeps not enough, a sweet Dalish girl whose smile belies her affinity for more dangerous magic, a grim warrior from Tevinter set on revenge and redemption, a guardswoman with fiery hair and a heart of gold…all very compelling in their own right, all balancing the Champion out with their wide array of dysfunctional personalities. Or, more often than not, encouraging her awful behavior in their own unique ways.”

Hearing him describe their merry gang of ne’er-do-wells like that tickled her endlessly. He always knew how to spin things into a story, Varric, even things as banal and familiar as their friends. But what got her, though, what really made her laugh, was his obvious omission. “Aren’t you missing someone?” she asked, unable to keep from grinning despite the way it made her jaw ache.

“Mmm,” Varric hummed contemplatively, “Don’t think so.”

“There’s not, say…a displaced prince in shining armor, or…?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

She snorted so hard that her sinuses throbbed and she had to press her fingers to her face. “You’re sure.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Hawke…can’t say I’ve got a character like that in here.”

“Ah. Sorry. Of course. How foolish of me. Carry on, carry on.” Sighing, she once more tried to find a comfortable position to lie in, tugging the covers up as far as she could without her shoulders lodging a formal complaint. As it turned out? Not that far at all. “Tell me more about that devilishly handsome rogue you mentioned before,” she suggested, “I have this…uncanny suspicion that you’ve gotten his character fairly fleshed out.”

She could hear him chuckle along with her for a moment. “Eh, story’s not about him.”

Again she felt that familiar tightening in her chest, its tendrils wending their way around her ribs and squeezing gently. What she wanted to say in that moment was that there was no story of Kirkwall’s unwitting (and unwilling) Champion without him, that to focus on her without bringing attention to him was tantamount to telling the story of the Golden City without mentioning the Maker…but she was tired, and her body ached, and so what she actually said was, “It could be,” hoping deep down that some part of him understood what she’d meant.

“I’m less sure about that. He plays his own part, believe you me…he introduces the someday Champion to his devilishly conniving brother, you see, and that brother brings the lot of them down into the Deep Roads to search for gold, fortune, fame…all the things the Champion never really cared about. And though the Deep Roads are known for claiming victims left and right without discrimination, the Champion leads their little expedition out of harm’s way at every turn, saving their necks where even the most hardened Wardens might’ve fallen…at least until that devilishly handsome rogue’s devilishly conniving brother decides to stab them all in the back.

“And even still the Champion prevails! She finds a way to navigate the Deep Roads, slices her way through ancient thaigs and the unknowable things thought to be buried within them, but again, there’s a cost. She saves their lives…and then loses her brother to the Blight. It’s not fair, that irony—she’d been so sure they’d outrun it before, that they’d escaped its clutches, but there, miles and miles under the city that had given them shelter from the darkspawn, it takes her brother all the same.” Varric’s voice dropped off then, though only for a moment. “I really don’t think this is the kind of story you want to be hearing, Hawke. Seriously, I think this chapter of Hard in Hightown I’ve been working on—”

“That’s an awful lot of losing that your Champion does.”

From the main room of the suite, Varric exhaled. To her it sounded suspiciously like a sigh. “It is. It is a lot, isn’t it?”

“Now I don’t pretend to be a writer, Varric…honestly, I’m lucky that half the words that come out of my mouth on any given day make the slightest amount of sense, but it seems to me that the main character of a story like this should…win more often than not, you know? Your girl here? I’m not hearing about too many victories. Not very Champion-like behavior.”

“Oh, she wins. Believe me on that one, Hawke, she wins. If you haven’t heard me say that much, maybe you haven’t been listening: She flees before the Blight can claim her entire family, she earns the begrudging attention of a living legend, that ill-fated trip to the Deep Roads makes her a rich enough woman that she finds herself getting invited to an Orlesian Duke’s lavish tourney as a guest of honor…she wins! The losing’s just…well, it’s louder.”

Louder. That was one way of putting it. “You’re the professional, I suppose. But still, don’t you think the story would be better if you had a Champion that was, say, heroic and victorious and blah blah blah, laurels perched upon her head and applause following her through the town square and flower petals and blushing virgins thrown at her feet? Adventure stories like these sort of require that, don’t they? Having a hero you can—”

“Never said this story was an adventure.”

Her mouth turned down in confusion. Slowly, carefully, Hawke forced herself to sit up once more, Varric’s pillows wedged between her back and the headboard. “…it’s…this isn’t supposed to be an adventure?”

“It’s not.”

“They’re…they’re running through the Deep Roads and slaying darkspawn. There was a fancy tourney you mentioned there. They meet a dragon, and it’s…it’s not an adventure story?”

“Nope.”

Hawke swore she could still hear that strange, discordant note of uncertainty in his voice, but she couldn’t even begin to piece together what that might’ve meant. The idea that he’d be writing about her was one thing—mystifying and flattering in turn—but the idea that he’d frame her story as anything other than some rags-to-riches tale was something else entirely. She thought she felt a headache forming somewhere between her eyes, and she doubted very much that it had anything to do with the Arishok. “…this could very well just be the head trauma talking, but I am at a loss for where you’re taking this, then.”

Varric took his sweet time in responding. “If you have to know, it’s…” he cleared his throat again, and something about the sound made Hawke glad she’d decided to sit up after all.

How long had the two of them known one another? And in that time, she thought she could likely count the number of times she’d heard this sort of anxiety in his voice on one hand…and even then, most of those instances had accompanied Bartrand’s betrayal.

“It’s a love story.”

She was suddenly acutely aware of her pulse fluttering in her neck and wrists. “A love story?” Hawke asked, feeling as though she’d misheard him. That was possible, wasn’t it? That she was somehow hearing what she wanted to hear? Her quip about head trauma had been a joke, but…

Varric didn’t correct her. “If you’d let me continue…” he said, and she had the strangest sense he was gearing himself up in much the same way she was. It seemed possible, if not likely, that she wasn’t the only one in the suite whose stomach was a mess of writhing, wriggling knots.

For the first time in a week, her aches and pains weren’t the focus of her attention. “By all means.”

“After escaping the Deep Roads, the future Champion and the devilishly handsome rogue find themselves very wealthy people. As it turns out, sometimes treasure hunting results in treasure finding! Who would’ve guessed? With these newfound riches, the Champion buys back her birthright—her family’s old estate—allowing her mother to live the life she feels she deserves.

“Then, when she thinks the world has taken all it can take from her, the Champion loses her mother, too. Loses her to a maniac, a monster, and suddenly…she’s all that remains of her family. There’s no winning edge to that one. Nothing balances out the scales—nothing could. So the Champion keeps moving. She can’t stop. And that’s all right, because neither can the devilishly handsome rogue. They have that in common—the fear that if they stop, if they let themselves rest, that everything will catch up to them. So they don’t let that happen. And not to jump around and muddle the narration here, but the devilishly handsome rogue also knows firsthand what it feels like to be the only one left…to live with the fallout. It’s something else they have in common: Watching their mothers die and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it from happening. That sort of loss numbs something in you, I think. Numbs or kills, I’m not really sure.”

“Probably a little of Column A, a little of Column B.” The lump had come unbidden to her throat, and for more than one reason, she wouldn’t wonder.

“Probably. Anyway. She throws herself into doing everything—anything—to keep from thinking about it. From the moment she wakes up until the moment she falls asleep, she breathes for the city and its people, cleaning up the messes others have made and left behind, shouldering the blame for a sickness that’s rotted its bones for centuries…and then one day, she does something really, really, incredibly stupid.” It wasn’t a break she heard in his voice then, nor was it a crack, but it was something.

She couldn’t figure out through the mess of her thoughts why that something filled her stomach with hope. Then, unsure whether she was doing it to change the subject or confirm that anxious gnawing in her gut, she swallowed hard and interrupted him. “A thousand pardons, Varric, but I thought you said this was supposed to be a love story. So far all you’ve given me is pulse-pounding adventure and enough drama to choke a courtier, but where, pray tell, does the love come in?” She paused, worried that the next part would come out wrong…too obvious, too hopeful. “Who is it that’s in love with her, exactly?”

“Everyone,” he said without missing a beat. The shift in topic, it seemed, had been fine by him—as he spoke, falling out of the groove of recounting the events of the story to answer her question, he began to sound more like his usual self, no trace of that earlier strain remaining. “That’s the thing about her…she has this uncanny knack for turning everyone around her into besotted morons. It’s actually rather impressive, if you ask me…a real talent.”

“Everyone,” Hawke repeated, and oh, it was difficult to bite back the scoff that accompanied that particular thought, “I sincerely doubt everyone’s in love with her, Varric. The woman sounds like an absolute maniac. I can’t imagine even one person—”

Almost as though reciting verse, he ticked them off one by one, only succeeding in making Hawke roll her eyes harder. “The pirate queen offers her the open sea, freedom, plenty of booty—and I do mean that in whatever sense of the word you’d prefer—the sweet Dalish girl thinks the sun rises and sets wherever she walks, the grim warrior from Tevinter has on more than one occasion given her his heart…by which I do mean a heart he tore out of someone else’s chest, usually still beating, often with other organs attached…”

There was no fighting the laugh that time. “The guardswoman?” Hawke prompted through a smirk, “The one with the, uh…what was it? Fiery heart of…no, no, heart of gold and fiery hair. What about her?”

“Her love’s more subtle. Present mostly in the fact that she hasn’t strangled the Champion to death yet.”

“Ah. Of course.” Bracing herself against the headboard, she let her head loll back until she was looking up towards the ceiling, eyes tracing the cracks in the plaster as though they might spell out what she needed to say next. They didn’t, surprisingly enough, and so she tried to quell that fluttering in her stomach once more. “And the devilishly handsome rogue?”

“Oh, the feathery apostate, by the way, has threatened to drown the city in its own blood for her, too. I’d hate to leave that one out.”

“And the devilishly handsome rogue?” she repeated.

His pause went on for a breath longer than she would’ve expected. “I already told you, Hawke…story’s not about him.”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. If he thought she was going to let this drop, he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the character arc he claimed to be writing. “Well it’s supposed to be my story, to help me sleep, so perhaps you go off-script for a second and give me a peek into your author’s notes. You sat there only moments ago insisting that everyone was in love with your exhausting Champion who doesn’t want to be Champion. I simply want to know whether or not you’re counting your devilishly handsome rogue among that number. Is that so much to ask?”

“What do you think, Hawke?” he asked after another long moment where the seconds stretched and stretched until they strained at their seams.

“I think,” she said, more than a little alarmed to realize her heart hadn’t been pounding half so hard when she’d looked up into the Arishok’s dour face and accepted his challenge, the Viscount’s blood still tacky on his armor, “That you’re the author, so it’s your job to tell me what to think.” When he took too long to answer, she changed tack, asking, “Is she in love with any of them? The others?”

There was another beat of silence that she felt more than she heard. Then, “I haven’t made up my mind on that one yet.”

Instead of replying straight away, she hummed softly, adjusting her position again. It seemed impossible, even laughable, that she’d fall asleep now. Or ever again. “Ah, quite the pickle for a writer to be in, I’m sure. But if you don’t mind my saying so, again, as the resident expert on Champions and the inner workings of their complicated, complicated heads…if she hasn’t taken any of her colorful retinue up on their offers by this point in the story…and from what you’ve told me, we must be…where? Nearing the end of Act 2, I’d imagine? If she’s not with any of them despite their extremely tempting offers of both blood and booty, that’s probably an answer in itself, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” Hawke swallowed hard. She took a breath, let it out, grit what was left of her resolve, and did everything in her power to keep her voice light. “Like you’ve said, I’m sure I’m missing key details and…nuance, and all those other things your readers will no doubt be fanning themselves over soon, but speaking as a Champion who doesn’t want to be Champion, maybe…maybe there’s a reason she’s not with any of them. Maybe she knows someone else with a knack for making people fall in love them, and maybe she has, because they have so much in common and they’re such good friends and it’s just so…easy. But…but maybe you’re right, that losing is always louder for her, and so when she thinks about saying anything, or…or doing anything to let him know she feels that way…she’s just so scared she’ll lose him, too.”

The Hanged Man had never been so quiet.

Varric spoke up again after what might’ve been a lifetime, but he only had chance enough to get out a single word, “Why—” before Hawke answered, the words spilling out of her like bad blood from any of her many various wounds, unpleasant to purge but necessary for the healing to begin.

“I don’t pretend to know your protagonist, but if she was scared like that, maybe it’s because she feels like there might be someone else? Someone whose name comes up often enough to make her wonder…” She looked down at her hands, frowning at the bruises on her knuckles, the blood dried under her nails, and forced herself to laugh. “Or, you know, maybe once he made some witty comment about her being too tall for him or her legs being too long or something equally demoralizing for someone with an ego as overinflated as hers, who’s to say? The possibilities abound.”

“He is.”

She glanced up from her hands at the sound of his voice.

“Like everyone else in that damned city, he is…so in love with her, Hawke. The, uh, the rogue you keep bringing up.” The note of anxiety was back, lurking just under the surface of his words, though it felt different, somehow. The thought of bloodletting occurred to her again—uncomfortable at first, but necessary. “He suspects it for a very, very long time, but…but she’s the Champion, and he’s not the kind of person who gets included in stories like hers, so he keeps his head down. Or, you know. Tries to.”

“…how long?” It probably wasn’t the right question to ask in the moment, and yet it was the only one that came to her.

Varric’s laugh was just loud enough for her to make out from the other side of the wall separating them. “Long enough. He doesn’t realize how deep he’s in, though, until she does that incredibly stupid thing I mentioned before. Remember that? See, there comes a day where the city seems to explode in chaos. The Viscount, a benevolent if not somewhat standoffish figure, is murdered by an invading force. And the Champion decides it would be a wise idea to avenge that death by engaging in single combat with the leader of said invading force. An invading force, it stands to be noted, whose society focuses rather heavily on combat training.”

“I’m sure my continued asides have begun to wear on you, but I think your protagonist’s something of an idiot.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all! In fact, I have to agree—not completely, of course, because don’t worry, she wins that duel and, by extension, finally earns that title of Champion—”

“But the losing’s louder.”

“You’ve got that right. There’s a moment there where the devilishly handsome rogue is convinced she’s—” That was a crack. Hawke was suddenly unspeakably relieved she’d moved to the bedroom before he’d started telling his tale; she didn’t think she would’ve been able to keep from searching his face as that silence stretched on. “It sure looks like she’s dead, is the thing. Exceptionally dead.”

Her teeth worried at her lower lip until she tasted salt. “Takes more than a single duel to kill a Champion,” she said after a beat, wondering whether her voice had been loud enough for him to hear. “Even if they don’t want to be a Champion.” She pulled a deep breath in through her nose and held it for as long as she was able.

“Apparently,” he said, and rather flatly, at that. “But she’s not dead. No one can really figure out how she’s not dead, but…she’s not. She gets her title, she’s brought to a healer, and all the while, all the devilishly handsome rogue can think is that if that had been the end of her story…if she had died…she would’ve died not knowing how much he…” His voice trailed off then, and she couldn’t blame him for that. She knew firsthand how hard it had been to get out.

By her count, the silence the followed lasted roughly forever. Hawke sat there, basting in the implications of it all, the pads of her fingers working at a knot in her neck as she waited…and waited…and waited some more. But save for the muffled sounds of clanking glasses and low, buzzing voices outside the room, the silence persisted.

The mattress (and her muscles) creaked as she began to slowly push herself up towards the edge of the bed. “And?” she asked, surprised and perhaps even a bit alarmed to hear the hope, the anticipation, in her own voice. “What happens next?”

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh come on,” she said, her emphasis on the final word little more than a flimsy attempt to mask her groan of exertion as she took to her feet. “You’re the author—you must have some idea how the rest of it will go.” She couldn’t say why precisely, but she felt continuing the charade was the safer option…at least for the time being.

So too, it seemed, did Varric. “Don’t know what to tell you. If you hadn’t picked up on this, the whole damn thing has been one unexpected turn after another, so…” He glanced up from his writing as she joined him at the table, and there was a moment where she was sure he was about to shoot another admonishment her way; he’d tell her to go back to bed, or to stop walking around, or maybe even to go home where she’d be able to ache in peace and they could both pretend they’d never had this conversation.

Only…he didn’t. All he did was move a few papers to the side when he saw she meant to sit on the edge of the table.

“Stands to reason, then, that whatever happens next will be just as unpredictable.”

“And just as ridiculous,” she added helpfully, trying not to wince as she perched herself on the table, her legs two sore, overstuffed weights dangling to the side of his. “Probably just as stupid, too…and bloody, I’d wager.”

“Sounds about right,” he said with a tired chuckle, keeping his eyes not on her, but the small point of ink where his pen met his paper, the shape of it bleeding into something larger the longer his pause went on.

This was where, under normal circumstances, she’d energetically swing her legs or crack a joke or do something—anything—to keep from bringing attention to whatever it was that thrummed in the air between them. Circumstances weren’t normal just then, though—they’d never been farther from it. There, against the muted chatter of the Hanged Man, her muscles weak with the relief of living to fight another day, she couldn’t recall a single reason why she’d let any of it muddle her thoughts: partnerships and losses, others’ expectations and crossbow names. So she didn’t make a joke to shift the mood of the room and she certainly didn’t swing her legs (though that one was admittedly more a matter of doubt she even could).

“I suppose it really doesn’t make sense to try and predict the rest of it,” Hawke sighed, her fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough to hurt before she released it, allowing what remained of her apprehension to melt away. “Still…are you open to suggestions?”

“Oh, always,” Varric quipped back, having apparently decided to dig his heels twice as hard into the metaphorical dirt. “Unsolicited editorial notes are every writer’s best…” Something happened to that easygoing smirk of his when finally he looked up at her. There must’ve been something showing on her face. “…friend,” he finished lamely, his eyes dropping from hers for only a second, only a moment…

But that was all it took.

Hawke didn’t need to bend much, given the table’s height. She brought her hands to either side of his face and kissed him—kissed him without abandon, without doubt, without any of the mind-clouding bullshit that might’ve been there had she not caught the way he’d looked at her lips only a moment before.

She barely heard the noise of his pen being dropped before the warm weight of his hands on her sides stole away what remained of her attention, the pressure of his fingers soothing aches she hadn’t been aware of while managing (as if by magic) to avoid the worst of her bruising.

It felt, in a way, like the most natural thing in the world, as though it was something they’d been doing for years or even lifetimes. A part of her—many parts of her, in fact—suddenly wanted nothing more than to slide off of the table and onto his lap, to close what space was left between them…but that, Hawke knew, would have to wait for now, perhaps until she looked and felt a bit less like the things that sometimes washed ashore on the Wounded Coast after particularly bad storms.

Meaning to say something, she pulled away, her thumbs still mapping the curve of his cheekbones; “I think,” she began, though Varric leaned forward, following her, bringing their lips together again, and she lost her thought to a bout of delighted laughter.

“I think,” she said the second time around, breaking the kiss but setting her forehead against his such that they still breathed the same breath, “That whatever happens next, no matter how unpredictable or dangerous or downright bizarre…” It was impossible to control her smile as Varric laughed. “As long as the devilishly handsome rogue and the Champion who doesn’t want to be the Champion quit being thick and finally admit that they’re just…completely and utterly mad for one another…well, I think it has real promise as a story. In my humble opinion, it might even be the greatest story I’ve ever heard.” Hawke felt her smile grow pointed. “The greatest story I’ve ever heard from you, anyway…”

“Nice,” Varric chuckled, “Real nice, Hawke.”

If only her aches and pains would allow, she thought she could’ve stayed like that forever and a day, their lips close enough to brush, her thumbs slowly moving back and forth along the lines of his jaw, but something in her side chose that precise moment to twinge, forcing her to straighten her posture before it could become worse. She did her best to hide her grimace with a coy smile, gesturing vaguely with one hand as she joked, “Now, all of…that…the whole Champion not wanting to be Champion and the devilishly handsome rogue stuff? That was about us, right? Because if it wasn’t…”

“Hawke.”

“Oh, will I ever have egg on my face, Varric.” She wouldn’t have called the breath he exhaled through his nose a laugh, exactly, but it was close enough for her taste. Without wasting more time than she already had on things as useless as doubt or uncertainty or even thought, she plucked the ink-stained page he’d been writing on from the table, setting it atop the ever-growing pile beside him, and then nodded towards his bedroom again. “I’m afraid your little story had quite the opposite of the intended effect: I am now unbelievably awake. So. What say you that you make it up to me by joining me and stroking my luxurious hair until I drop off? We can forego the warm milk and the scented oils this time. Sound fair?”

He watched her for a moment, the corners of his eyes creased by a smile made of relief and disbelief and amusement in equal measure, and then stood from his chair and took her hand in his, their fingers fitting together as though they’d been made to do just that. “Still don’t know any Fereldan folk songs,” he warned.

“Ah well,” Hawke said, feeling more alive and whole than perhaps she had any right to, considering the bandages, “I guess I could settle for a proper Marcher ballad or two, instead.”    

[tigereyes45]

Letters to you - A Varric/Hawke fanfic

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras Characters: Varric Tethras, Hawke (Dragon Age), Bethany Hawke, Aveline Vallen, Isabela (Dragon Age), Merrill (Dragon Age), Fenris (Dragon Age), Sebastian Vael Additional Tags: POV Varric Tethras, Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age) Summary:

War has broken out in Kirkwall. Meredith is dead, and Varric needs to get Hawke back home.

----------------

This story was one of the treats I posted for the @hightown-funk event. This is a gift for russets on Ao3.

Ao3 link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42280659

[veorlian]

honey tongue

The stories will tell you that falling in love with your best friend is as easy as breathing, that it's the height of romance. Varric Tethras had written far too many stories to believe that crock of nonsense.

my submissions for @hightown-funk are up!! here’s the first one <3

read it on ao3 here

The Hanged Man was legendary for two things: bar fights, and ale that was at least 50% vinegar. There were also the suspiciously sticky floors, the rooms you could rent by the hour, and enterprising individuals keen on relieving you of all that burdensome coin you had on you. It was what people had come to expect. The barkeep had offered a higher-quality ale once, and the regulars had stormed out in protest. And Maker have mercy if they ever decide to clean the place up a bit. There’d be riots in the streets.

Well. More riots than usual, at least.

Marian Hawke spent most evenings in the Hanged Man. The petty crime and general chaos faded into the periphery as she played Wicked Grace with her friends. It was replaced with a different kind of petty crime and chaos, but at least this was hers.

And speaking of chaos, at the moment Varric was regaling the crowd with the tale of their most recent trip to the Bone Pit. There was a rough semi-circle of regulars standing around Varric, with the kind of slack-jawed, wide-eyed expressions that normally accompanied one of his particularly tall tales.

He was in fine form. Marian had never quite figured out how he could look so laid back and engaged at the same time. She’d tried it once. Carver had just said that she looked constipated. Varric made it look easy. He made most things look easy.

“And then Hawke raised her sword and leaped through the air, landing on the dragon’s back, killing it in a single blow—”

“It was already mostly dead,” Garrett called. Marian flipped him off. A few of the stragglers towards the back of Varric’s audience turned to face the two of them.

“It was not,” Marian tossed back.

“Was too."

Marian rolled her eyes at her brother and leaned forward on the pitted table.

“Hey Varric, tell them about the part where I did a sick back-flip off of the dragon—”

“And fell on your ass—” Garrett interrupted. More of Varric’s audience turned now, their eyes bouncing back and forth between the twins like a tennis match.

“And landed perfectly and took a little bow,” Marian finished, pointedly ignoring Garrett. She kept her eyes fixed on Varric’s face, and the wry little twist of his lips.

“Of course! How could I forget,” he said, his eyes dancing. “As she struck the killing blow, the dragon came crashing down to the ground. Hawke gracefully leapt off of its back, landing neatly on the ground.”

“I can’t believe this,” Garrett complained. Varric continued to regale the audience with tales of the twins’ exploits. Marian patted Garrett on the arm in a way expertly calculated to be both patronizing and comforting.

“Sorry little brother, it’s just not very dramatic when you wave your fancy baton around,” Marian replied. “Doesn’t have the same impact as a bigass sword.”

“Last I checked, fireball has a hell of an impact,” Garrett shot back.

“Potato, potahto,” Marian said dismissively.

“There’s only one way to settle this,” he said. He rolled up his sleeves and set an elbow down on the table, his hand open. Marian smiled crookedly and did the same. Varric lost his audience again, as they formed a loose circle around the table. There was the clink of coin changing hands, and an exaggerated sigh and eye roll from Carver.

“My money’s on Hawke,” Isabela called.

“Which one?” Garrett and Marian asked in unison.

“Whichever one wins,” Isabela said cheerfully.

“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Merrill murmured anxiously. Isabela waved her away airily and tossed a few coins on the table.

“Have you seen how ripped I am? Of course I’m gonna win,” Garrett said. Marian snorted and shook her head.

“Bigass sword. Fancy baton,” she said. She gripped Garrett’s hand, and the arm wrestling began. It was evenly matched, as most things were with the twins. But not for nothing did Marian swing around a giant hunk of metal nearly the same height as herself.

She slammed Garrett’s hand down into the table, grinning widely.

“Best two out of three,” he said immediately. She laughed and shook her head.

“You lost fair and square,” she said cheerfully. Garrett flipped her off and went to refill his drink. Marian glanced up to find Varric making his way over to the table, settling in his customary spot at her side.

“You couldn’t wait until I was done?” Varric asked agreeably. Marian shrugged nonchalantly.

“Not my fault your admirers couldn’t resist the lure of my rippling muscles,” she said. “You’ll just need to make me sound even cooler. What if I had a sword for a hand?”

“No good,” Varric replied, shaking his head, “it’d interfere too much with the romance scenes.”

“Varric, I’m not exactly seeing a lot of that kind of action at the moment,” Marian said dryly. “Let me have a giant sword for a hand. It’d be cool as hell.”

“C’mon Hawke, a romance plot is always more compelling. Why not ask the pirate?” he said, gesturing to Isabela. Isabela caught the motion and winked broadly at them. “I can see it now; a daring love story, set against the backdrop of a ship tossed at sea. Readers love that stuff.” Marian snorted derisively and shook her head.

“I’ve got enough going on trying to stop this city from going to hell,” she complained. There was a deep ache in her chest that she couldn’t quite place. Fortunately, she didn’t have to think about it for very long, because Garrett arrived back at the table, his arms full of terrible beer.

“How come I never get the big dramatic retellings?” he griped.

“Because you keep heckling me,” Varric said dryly. “Plus, you’re not as good-looking.”

Marian’s heart stuttered and fully came to a stop. She ducked her head to hide the blush that threatened to set her face on fire. What the hell…?

“Nonsense, I’m the prettiest person in Kirkwall,” Garrett said primly.

“C’mon, we all know that’s Merrill,” Marian said, swallowing down her embarrassment. A crooked grin spread across her face. “At least, that’s what Carver always says.”

“Hey—” Carver began.

The ensuing chaos and overlapping voices covered up the weird and alarming thoughts floating through Marian’s head.

 Plus, you’re not as good-looking.

Did Varric think she was good-looking?

Andraste’s sacred knickers, did that actually matter to her? Marian tossed back her drink in one go and stumbled to the bar to grab another.

Somewhere between the witching hours of 2am and 4am, the others traipsed out. Now, Marian was good at traipsing. She’d elevated it from a science to an art. She could traipse with the best of them. But when 4am rolled around, she didn’t.

It was a weekly ritual at this point, and it happened more often now that she was in that stuffy old mansion. Such a big place, but it felt like the walls were constantly creeping in on her. More than a few hours there and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

And so.

“Varric, don’t make me walk all the way back to Hightown,” she would groan, and he would chuckle that warm chuckle that brought the blood rushing to her ears. Probably just the alcohol, she always thought.

“Alright, you can stay just this once,” he would say, and she would flash him a crooked grin.

“You’re my favourite.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, serrah,” he’d say. She’d generally waggle her eyebrows at him suggestively, and they’d both laugh.

She didn’t remember when the flirting had started. A few minutes after they’d met, she figured. It was just a part of them, both of them. An easy way to keep everyone at arm’s reach. If they both agreed that it didn’t mean anything, then there was no harm no foul.

After all, it’s not like anything was ever going to come of it. Varric was happily married to a crossbow, and he’d repeatedly told her that he wasn’t into humans. So that was that. Marian was perfectly happy being Varric’s best friend and partner-in-crime.

And if she couldn’t sleep these days without hearing the gentle scritching of his quill on parchment, well, no one needed to know that. … Varric Tethras was a storyteller, most comfortable staying unobtrusively on the sidelines of a tale. It was safest that way really. Fewer people shooting at you, for one.

He couldn’t remember when it had started, becoming a part of Hawke’s story. He hadn’t been, at first. He’d been a plot device, a quest-giver just tagging along.

“You won’t even notice I’m here,” he’d told her. Varric Tethras: such a gifted liar that sometimes he almost convinced himself.

It had shifted by inches, their friendship. They’d gotten along almost instantly, like they’d just been waiting for the other to come along. So it was natural for them to spend most of their time together. And then it was natural for her to sleep on his couch when she was too drunk to walk home. His palatial suite at the Hanged Man was her palatial suite. That was all perfectly natural and normal and fine.

Until it wasn’t.

He couldn’t fall asleep these days until he heard her snoring (she and Dog seemed to be in a competition for who could be the loudest. On occasion it shook the dilapidated rafters).

She’d slipped into his life as easy as breathing. Easier, in some ways. So many little rituals. Like putting extra jokes into his manuscripts, just for her.

“Hey Hawke, you think you could give this a read for me?” he asked. She glanced up from where she was lounging on one of his chairs. She arched an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face.

“Am I going to blush?” she asked. He chuckled and shook his head.

“I just want to make sure that I’ve got the character right,” he replied.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” she said cheerfully, already on her feet and moving to lean over his shoulder. She rested an elbow on top of his head, like he was an armrest. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“Problem, serah Tethras?” she asked innocently.

“Hands off the merchandise,” he said easily. She leaned down to meet his eyes, her haphazardly cut bangs flopping in her face.

“I think you’ll find it’s my elbow on the merchandise. Very different part of the body,” she pointed out. To prove her point, she shifted her arm and rested her hand on his shoulder instead. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile off of his face.

“Just read the damn passage,” he said. She shrugged and turned her attention to the page. She hadn’t moved her hand, and the warmth slowly seeped into him. He realized with a start that he was leaning into her touch. What the hell?

The smell of cinnamon and honey drifted through the room. Not that that was unusual either. It clung to every part of the room. Even his trademark leather coat smelled permanently of cinnamon and honey, from that tea she drank at all hours of the day and night.

He missed it, when it wasn’t there.

He knew she’d gotten to the unflattering description of the Knight-Captain when she began to laugh. He thought her laugh was the best thing he’d ever heard. It wasn’t graceful by any means, caught somewhere between a cackle and a snort. But she laughed with her full body, like it was the funniest thing she’d heard in her life. Joyful, reckless abandon.

It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

 Oh.

With Hawke’s hand digging into his shoulder, her laughter ringing in his ears, the smell of cinnamon and honey on the air, Varric Tethras realized that he was in love.

Shit. … The stories will have you believe that revelations of love are dramatic, that they’re accompanied by flights of angels or some other shit like that. Marian Hawke had heard too many love stories to believe in them anymore.

She was sprawled along the couch leafing through Varric’s latest draft of The Tale of the Champion. She liked to leave little notes and doodles in the margins. It drove Varric’s editor up the wall. She heard Varric’s familiar footfalls coming up the stairs.

“Hey, you forgot to mention the bit where I single-handedly took down a chimera,” she called, not looking up. Varric hummed noncommittally in response. She glanced up from the page to study him. He was swaying slightly on his feet, eyes a little unfocused as he leaned against the doorframe.

“You okay?” she asked. “Merchant’s Guild crap?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face and he shook his head, running a hand through his graying hair.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. Marian’s eyebrows knitted together, and she shifted on the couch to make room for him. When he didn’t move, she pointedly patted the space next to her. When he still didn’t move, she made her way across the room to meet him.

“Then what is it, Varric? Crossbow troubles?” she asked. He looked away and his hand came up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Marian, I—” Record scratch, freeze frame. Varric never called her Marian. Never anything than Hawke, actually. He’d never even given her a nickname, like he had all the others. She was just Hawke.

“Didn’t realize you knew my name,” she managed. Another faint smile, only barely reaching his eyes. It was gone as soon as it came.

“Shit, I’m not good at this kind of thing,” he said. The smell of cheap ale and whiskey clung to him like a second skin.

“What kind of thing? You’re freaking me out, Varric.”

His warm amber eyes turned up to meet hers. Carefully, seemingly giving her every opportunity to move away, he reached up a hand on her face. Distantly, she realized he must be standing on his tip-toes. She might have laughed, if he hadn’t gently tugged her face down towards him.

His lips were softer than she’d imagined they’d be. His calloused hands tangled in her short hair, bringing her closer. She could taste the faint touch of alcohol on his tongue as her mouth slanted over his.

She looped an arm around his waist and easily lifted him up into the air.

“Hawke, put me down,” he said indignantly. She laughed breathlessly against his mouth.

“My shoulders were getting sore from bending over,” she said. She wound her free hand through his hair and tugged him back to kiss her again. She realized suddenly that she would be quite happy staying right here, like this, for the rest of her life. Well, maybe with a stool. She was strong, but Varric was sturdy. He’d probably whack her on the arm if she told him that though.

She set Varric down on the table, standing between his legs and bringing both hands up to cup his face.

“Better?” she whispered. He grumbled something indistinct and unflattering that was abruptly cut off as she began to trail kisses down to his neck.

“Would you believe that I’ve wanted to do this for years?” he rasped. Hawke stilled. And then, she began to laugh, resting her forehead against Varric’s.

“Well, there’s no call to be rude,” he said. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, still chuckling.

“I have as well,” she said at last.

“Ah,” Varric managed. And then, “So, what now?”

“You in a rush, Tethras?” Marian asked. She gently tipped his chin up to face her. “Seems to me we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“So we do,” he said, and he kissed her again.