#i am physically incapable of not making everything hawke twins au

[veorlian]

happy Friday! 16 from the OTP advent calendar for Hawke/Varric would be amazing!!

16. You’re robbing the bank on Christmas eve and I’m a hostage but you’re actually really nice from this list

ish ily this was SO fun to write <3 thank you for the prompt!!

(i won’t have any time to write during the holidays, so i’m hoping to get all the christmas-themed prompts up this weekend!)

It was one of those rare occasions when Varric couldn’t avoid being at the Merchant’s Guild. Andraste alone knew why his brother insisted on checking the vault on the night before Satinalia, but here they were. The imposing stone halls of the Guild were empty, save for the scratching of quill on parchment and the clacking of coins. It was only him and Bartrand, given that everyone with a brain was with their families.

“Hands in the air everyone! This is a stick up.” The voice was clear and carrying, but surprisingly cheerful. It was like they were announcing the winner of the office raffle, rather than threatening violence. Varric was so caught off guard by the tone that he almost missed the meaning of the words. Almost.

“Sister, no one actually says that.” The second voice was decidedly less upbeat. Younger sibling energy if Varric had ever heard it, and he would know.

“C’mon, where’s your flair for the dramatic?” The third voice was deeper, but strikingly similar to the first. “Excuse me, Mr. Magnificent Chest Hair, hands in the air thanks.”

Damn. Varric raised his hands above his head from where they’d been inching towards Bianca. He looked in the direction of the robbers. Their faces were hidden, and they wore cloaks to cover any distinguishing features. They were all at least 6 feet tall, and the first two carried swords that were easily Varric’s height. The third was carrying a staff.

Varric heard a familiar, disapproving cough and he sighed inwardly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bartrand asked. Varric glanced over at his brother, and sure enough, he had his hands defiantly planted on his hips.

“I’d do what they say,” Varric suggested.

“See, now there’s a man with some sense,” the first figure said. “We really don’t want any trouble, we’d just like to inspect the inside of your lovely vault there. I see you’ve already gotten it open for us, how thoughtful.” She leaned nonchalantly on the biggest sword that Varric had ever seen. He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel the shit-eating grin in his soul. It was firmly at odds with the wicked-sharp edges of her blade.

“Security!” Bartrand yelled. His next words were stopped cold with a wave of the third figure’s hand. Well, his mouth was opening and closing, but no sound appeared. The first figure clicked her tongue.

“Now now, that’s not very nice,” she murmured. “How about, to make it up to us, both of you nice folks gather in the corner over here?” She motioned towards where Varric was sitting.

Bartrand firmly crossed his arms and remained where he was. The third figure tutted and easily lifted Bartrand off the ground, carrying him over to Varric and setting him down. He patted Bartrand on the head and Varric had to hold back a laugh.

“My associates will go relieve you of your excess stock, and I’ll stay here with you two,” the first figure said cheerfully. The others moved away. Under different circumstances, Varric might have thought that that evened his odds a little bit. But he had the sneaking suspicion that trying anything wouldn’t go particularly well for him. 

Ah, well, it was only money. Besides, the look of incandescent rage on his brother’s face was honestly an early Satinalia gift for him. 

The figure pulled up a chair next to him, her sword still in her hands. Varric leaned back and rested his hands behind his head nonchalantly.

“How’d you know now would be a good time for a hit?” he asked casually. He caught the faint flash of teeth from a smile beneath the hood.

“Aw c’mon, that’d be telling,” she said. 

“Worth a shot. Can I ask what you’re planning to do with the money?” he asked.

“You know, no one’s ever asked that before,” she said. “Granted, most people aren’t in a particularly conversational mood when they’re being robbed.” Varric arched an eyebrow. So they’d done this before. Maybe there’d be a record somewhere.

“I’m a writer, I love a good story,” he replied. She shrugged and leaned back.

“Alright then, Mr. Chest Hair the Writer. There’s a whole hell of a lot of refugees that are going to be going hungry during the holidays. What’s the point of having all this gold sitting in a vault gathering dust when it could be buying food and gifts?” she explained.

“How very noble of you, if it’s true,” he said, genuinely surprised.

“Why would I lie?”

“Oh, any number of reasons. It’s usually more fun than the truth, for one thing,” he replied. She chuckled, the sound like music to his ears.

“A man after my own heart. Okay, how about I’m planning to commission an erotic statue of Andraste to ship off to the Chantry in Val Royeaux? Then the extra cash will be for a massive sword in the shape of a dragon,” she said.

“Now see, that’s more like it,” he said, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

“Oi, we’re ready to go,” the second figure called. The woman nodded and stood up, her hand still on the hilt of her comically large sword.

“I suppose you won’t tell me your name?” Varric asked quickly. The figure hoisted a massive bag of gold over her shoulder and glanced back.

“We’ve only just met,” she said, “at least buy me a drink first.”

In the days after, Varric reached out to every contact he had, going through reports of crime sprees in Kirkwall. It was no easy feat. Kirkwall had just so much crime, holy shit, no one should live there.

In the end, he found her entirely by chance. He was working late in his suite in the Hanged Man, and he caught the distant sound of the voice that had been echoing through his head at every hour. Dwarves didn’t dream, but if they did his sleeping hours would have been filled with the sound of that damn voice.

He picked up the bottle of whiskey he set aside for special occasions and made his way down to the common room. She was sitting in a corner towards the back, with two dark-haired men that had to be related to her. Their voices were familiar too. 

Varric caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. A grin spread across her face and she motioned him over.

“I see you’ve brought me a drink. Good man,” she said cheerfully. The taller of her brothers stiffened and frowned at him, his hand moving for his weapon.

“So I have,” Varric said. He sat down next to her, about as far from the man as he could.

“Boys, why don’t you go get us some more ale?” she asked. The one with the sword glared at her, but the other one flashed an easy grin and shrugged. He looked enough like the woman that he might have been her twin.

“C’mon little brother, let’s see how many shots we can do before we pass out,” he said. They left, leaving Varric alone with the woman. There was a distinctive red stripe of what looked like blood across her nose, and something bewitching about her dark brown eyes.

“The name’s Marian Hawke,” she said, “and yours?”

“Varric Tethras.”

“Well, Varric Tethras, now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”