Rogues and Roses

for Oleander's One

Ordinarily, Varric didn't believe in luck. His mother had taught him that good fortune was one part opportunity, one part brains, and a whole lot of hard work. Tonight, however, was one of those rare exceptions to this rule. Whether it was luck, magic, or some miracle of Andraste, the dealer kept throwing him amazing cards. As his winnings continued to grow, so did the annoyance of the other players seated around the table. Varric chose to ignore them long enough to appreciate that this might hold the all-time record for the best hand of Wicked Grace—ever. Where was Isabela when he needed her? He would have loved to see the look on her face as he slammed each card on the table in dramatic fashion. His delight was short lived, however. Across the table, the Inquisitor cleared her throat and flashed him a couple of stern looks. With a frustrated sigh, he folded, offering the gesture as much authenticity as he could muster without revealing his pointless bluff. Rika Cadash winked in reply and then smiled crookedly. What did that mean? Did it mean anything more than her sheer desire to win? Varric had found himself analyzing her facial expressions as of late, only to second guess himself every single time. Losing on purpose to a lady was terribly barbaric. But then again, no barbarian had ever had the pleasure of playing cards with Rika.

The rest of the players continued to study their hands, unaware of his unfolding dynamic with the Inquisitor. Cullen scratched the back of his head and crumpled his brow in exactly the right way so as to suggest that his cards were mediocre at best. Cassandra flung coin into the kitty with the same degree of severity that she had used to interrogate him in Kirkwall, while Josephine cocked her head this way and that, studying the room with the intensity of a seasoned diplomat. Of course, all he wanted to do was focus his attention on Rika and the way she bit the top corner of her lip in the most adorable way, but there was no way that Varric would be caught staring. Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief and she pushed two stacks of gold, more than double what the table was betting, into the kitty. That seemed to grab everyone's attention.

Dorian met her bet with equal grandiosity, his coin landing with a definitive chink in the middle of the pile. "It would appear that our Inquisitor is not afraid of flirting…" his eyes flicked from Varric back to Rika. "… with high stakes."

Varric's cheeks started to burn. The last thing he wanted was for Dorian to catch him playing googly eyes with the Inquisitor. He folded his arms over his chest and remained quiet, curious how the game would play out, annoyed at having folded so early and mortified at becoming the center of attention.

"Actually, stakes only matter when you're holding crap cards such as yours, Dorian," Rika replied, tossing more gold into the pile then batting her long lashes at Varric again.

Dorian pushed another neat stack into the kitty, then sat back with a crossed leg. "Ho! Ho! I shall raise you that bet and suggest that raising your stakes has had good effect. What's that old dwarvish saying? It's so good it will grow hair on your chest."

Varric had to physically restrain his eyes from bugging out of his skull, as he sensed the press of everyone's amused looks. Thankfully, the banter had started to grate on Cassandra's patience. She let out a huff, peeked at her cards then met their bet. "For the love of Andraste. Let us end this chatter and reveal our hands!"

He spent the remainder of the game hiding behind a tankard of ale, preventing a scorching blush from blooming over his face as Rika and Dorian continued with their mild ribbing at his expense.

After the game, he returned to his bunk in one of Skyhold's many cellars. It had a hearth and he had scrounged together enough furniture and décor to make it a little less dungeony and more amenable for long hours of writing. While he would always be a surface dwarf, the rooms in the parapets were far too draughty for his liking. Besides, no one came down here, with the exception of the odd servant on the hunt for a good vintage from the adjacent wine cellar. This meant he could write without having to suffer from curious over-the-shoulder on lookers. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the top drawer of his desk and organized his essential writing tools in front of him. The only drawback was that Rika never came down to this damp corner of the hold. She was impossible to find alone, and thus left him with few chances to start a conversation which he could steer into more personal territory. Dorian always seemed to get in the way. Damn Mage. With his knife, he sharpened a quill to a delightfully pointed edge and dipped the tip into a freshly topped off well.

He hesitated, still unsure what he wanted to write. The perfect follow-up to Hard in Hightown still eluded him. Something in Skyhold? His quill scratched the surface of the parchment, his handwriting small and exact. The words poured from him and when his hand finally cramped and his fingers were sufficiently stained black, he sat back in his chair and reviewed his newest short story. So consumed by his muse, he only now realized what he had written. It was a highly erotic tale of a Carta spy whose attraction to a handsome roguish surfacer—gifted with a luxuriant crop of chest hair—could not be denied. Despite the obvious wish fulfillment, the story wasn't that bad. In fact, it was some of the best smut he had written in years, striking that perfect balance of sensual detail with tender emotion. He'd even managed to work in a kinky scene involving Bianca the crossbow that elicited a blush upon his second read through. There was no way that this would see the light of day. For a split second he considered tossing it into the fire to seal the confessions contained therein. With a shrug, he dropped it onto his work in progress pile, thinking that with a little rework it would make for a good chapter in Swords and Shields. Before turning in for the night, he scratched Rogues and Roses at the top.

The following weeks were a blur. Varric was on the road again—forced into Rika and Dorian's constant company. Even amongst the excitement and drama of Hawke and Stroud's sudden appearance, he still found himself hanging on her every word or catching the way firelight danced across the angles of her face. And then of course there was Bianca, the woman from his past. Dorian seemed to relish in the awkwardness of the perceived triangle, but deep down, Varric knew. There was only room for Rika.

On the hike back through the Hinterlands to Skyhold, he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, one that he had not realized he had carried until now. At camp one night he hoped to take things a step further—baby steps, but forward nonetheless. For someone so experienced in writing romantic escapades, he sucked at turning them into reality. If he could only convince Dorian to turn in early, he'd have her all to himself. Bull was already snoring in the neighboring tent.

Dorian threw a log onto the fire and stretched out in front of it, pulling a shiny flask from the folds of his brocade robes.

"Inquisitor," he began after taking a sip, "There is a common misunderstanding that those of us from Tevinter are intimately acquainted with dwarven culture—what with our high demand for lyrium. However, I must admit that I know very little. If you'd indulge me for a moment, there are a couple of finer points I wouldn't mind clearing up."

Earlier that evening, the scouts had tapped a keg and Varric found himself enjoying the fresh draught, resigned to the fact that Dorian was as much of a nighthawk as he.

"What would you like to know?" Rika replied. Varric appreciated her bluntness, which made his own situation seem even more precarious.

"Do surfacers observe the same marriage rules as those in Orzammar? Would there be a taboo, if one in the Warrior caste, were to say, express her intentions to someone from a noble house?" Ale nearly sprayed from Varric's nostrils. If subtlety was Varric's game, Dorian never wanted to play.

Rika cocked her head thoughtfully, her lips turning into that crooked smile that threatened to turn Varric into a hormonal teenager. "It would depend very highly on the warrior and the noble. Those rules are upheld underground. But of course, dwarves have long memories, too. House Cadash has as many old alliances as they do enemies."

"And how are relations between House Cadash and House Tethras?" He asked, all innocent and evil.

Varric could not stand it any longer. "Shit. House Tethras still has issues with me. They can barely deal with their own." It was a decent deflection. And mostly true. He swore he saw Dorian wink at Rika, but it could have been a trick of the firelight. At that, instead of continuing to subject himself to further awkwardness, he retired to his tent where he dreamed of Rika all night long.

Back at Skyhold, Varric took advantage of their free time and returned to his desk. He dropped his pack at the door and left the chore of cleaning up to a later time. As soon as his eyes scanned the damp room and cold hearth, he remembered Rogues and Roses. After starting a lively fire to remove the dampness from the air, he sifted through the papers on his desk, organizing where he had last left off. The Skyhold Chronicles, for lack of a catchy title, had a decent start and was placed at the top of the growing pile where he had last left it. But Rogues and Roses was gone. His search became more insistent, his paper shuffling more frantic. Drawers were open and shut, he sifted and shuffled and flipped through this reams of notes, edits, and drafts. Papers were now scattered on the floor and over his narrow bunk. It was nowhere to be found. He swore he had left it at the top of his progress pile. As worry began to consume him, he stared into the hearth, certain that he had not destroyed it in a moment of impulsiveness. What if someone had taken it and decided to share it amongst the Keep? What if Rika had read it?

At that thought, panic took hold and he wandered into Solas' rotunda. The mage was bent over an old tome, deep in study, comparing bits of shard they had found in Sahrnia to ancient block-printed diagrams. Varric stood and watched, unsure whether he was being ignored or unnoticed.

"Hey Chuckles. Any of my scribbles end up with your research?" Maybe an overzealous maid had placed them here, ignorant of the categorical differences between the two paper piles. Solas looked up, his eyes remaining locked on his manuscript for an extended moment. "Pardon me?"

"I seemed to have misplaced a story and was wondering if it might have ended up on your desk?"

With a bony finger, the elf lifted the cover of a leather-bound volume to demonstrate the lack of loose paper on his desk and with a disinterested shrug, shook his head.

Varric wandered out into the courtyard, passing Haven's Rest and took account. Drinking and hitting things were more of the Iron Bull's style—he didn't strike Varric as the bookish sort, and he was quite certain that Cole was, for all intents and purposes, illiterate. And had Sera gotten her paws on that story, he was convinced that she would have already distributed copies throughout the Keep. When he found Cassandra, she was beating a straw dummy within an inch of its life.

"Seeker. Quick question."

She didn't stop and replied with a disinterested grunt.

"You didn't happen to find one of my works in progress? Handwritten…about a rogue…" He kept the details to a minimum. She turned and fiddled with the edge of her blade. "A story, you say? This wouldn't happen to be a sequel to…" He tried to tease out the meaning of her innuendo as she kicked a loose stone with the toe of her boot in a bashful sort of way.

"Not a sequel to anything. Just some rough ideas I was working out."

She looked disappointed. And with an abrupt turn, she whacked the dummy with an overhanded swing. "No. I have not."

Varric dashed back to the Keep, running up far too many stairs to the Library. Dorian was stretched out in a wingback chair, his legs crossed over its arm, his attention deep within a book of his own.

"Hey. Sparkler." Dorian snapped the book shut and sat forward with an air of arrogance that only he could pull off without offence. With expectant eyes, he waited for Varric to continue. He asked about the story, without even a breath about the subject matter. Instead, he described the condition of the paper and the color of the ink.

"You've lost a short story, you say? Can't say I've seen it. But I am glad you've popped by. Prevents me from finding myself amongst the dank and cobwebs of your office. I've been meaning to speak with you on a more personal matter."

"Personal?" Varric could not figure for the life of him why Dorian might condescend himself to discuss anything remotely personal with him.

"Yes. An issue has come up and I was wondering if you'd meet me later to deal with a… situation."

Varric scratched the top of his head. "Shouldn't you be going to Rika about these sort of things?"

"That is the thing. I don't want to involve her yet. Not until I have everything fully worked out. Will you help a chap out then? You're the sort to keep things quiet."

"This won't get me into trouble, will it?"

Dorian chortled and waved a dismissive hand. "Meet me this evening in that room just above the armory." He curled his moustache, then it returned perfectly in place. "All above board. Can you do that?"

"Sure." Varric replied, his tone thick with doubt. "And you haven't seen my writing?"

"What? No. Of course not. You don't think pulp fiction would suddenly find itself mixed up amongst my volumes of Imperial Tevinter?"

Varric rolled his eyes, then turned and left.

"Don't forget! Six o'clock!" Dorian's voice echoed as Varric rounded down the stairwell.

Back at his desk, he fiddled with one of his quills, unable to shake a complicated feeling that niggled at him, as he turned over the possibility that Rika had already read the story. What troubled him wasn't just the embarrassment of having revealed his feelings about her, it was more the disappointment that he was so careless with his thoughts and let them out of his care long enough for them to become public knowledge. She deserved a private conversation about this. He certainly didn't want her to become the center of innuendo and gossip. As a former Carta spy, he knew she would not take such a public confession lightly. This worry overshadowed any curiosity he had about Dorian's mysterious meeting. He decided to distract himself and calm his ruffled nerves through the simple act of shaving. Gliding a straight blade against the tender skin of his throat was enough to pull his mind back into reality. Before he left for the meeting, he dabbed a bit of cologne he had acquired in Val Royeaux. There was never an excuse to smell bad.

He arrived at the meeting spot early, deciding he'd feign professionalism and brought a bit of ale in case the subject of the Inquisitor came up and he was in need of a method to diffuse his uncontrolled blushing. When he arrived, however, the bottle of ale nearly slipped out of his grasp. The sparse room was awash with the soft glow of candlelight. A blanket was spread out on the floor, and on top was a bottle of wine, two glasses and a single white rose in a simple porcelain vase. A note had been tacked to a nearby post.

Now is your chance, Dwarf. Take it. —Sparkler.

Horrified, he crumpled it up and tossed it into a corner, collapsing onto a nearby crate. He considered how much time it would take to disassemble the suggestive setting, but instead took a long gulp of his ale. This was exponentially more awkward than he was prepared for. What was he going to say? Before he could collect his thoughts and prepare the perfect opening line, he heard Rika's voice and heavy footfalls on the stairs.

"What's going on up here? Why is it so dark?" At the top of the stairs, she scanned the room with a perplexed expression, probably similar to his own.

"Inquisitor," he stammered, "L-l-let me explain."

She approached the blanket and pointed to the bottle of wine. "Well. This is not the sort of meeting I was expecting. Mind if I have some?"

"Of course!" He joined her on the blanket and filled her glass with a full-bodied and exquisitely dry burgundy. Candlelight glinted from their glasses and Varric had extricated himself from his own mortification long enough to notice how lovely Rika was this evening. Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail and she wore a flattering tunic, white breeches, and soft leather boots.

"You smell nice," she smiled before taking a sip, "Dorian told me that you wanted to meet with me about something important?"

"Right." He struggled to find the words. Was he going to take credit for this? She seemed to like it. Before he started babbling like a complete idiot, the thump of footsteps on the staircase interrupted his incoherent thoughts.

"Sorry I'm late." Maryden adjusted her lute strap. "Don't mind me, I'm supposed to fade into the background." She strummed a delicate tune and Rika shifted her gaze back to Varric.

"You were saying?"

"Right." Varric was no closer to making his point when Maryden started to sing in her sweet warble.

When we're out in the moonlight
Lookin' up on the stars above
Feels so good when I'm near you,
Holdin' hands and makin' love…(1)

Varric bolted upright. "That's enough!" he barked, waving his hands madly at the startled bard. In the process, his foot caught the blanket which knocked over the bottle of wine. Rika cried out, grabbing the bottle, but was too late to save her white breeches. Maryden stopped playing with an off-key twang, her mouth gaped open in silent bewilderment. With a gentle hand, he ushered her back down the stairs. "Very lovely, thank you. But that's enough for now."

"But… Dorian said…" She replied with confusion.

"Great playing! Such skill! We'll catch your next set at Haven's Rest!"

He returned to the unfolding disaster, stubbing his toe on a crate and knocking down some of the candles.

"Come over here and sit before you set the whole building on fire." Rika extinguished the flame with a pinch, then returned to mopping up the mess of wine and blanket on the floor. The romantic setting now looked like a scene from a horror story set in an abattoir.

Varric knelt beside her, taking the sopping napkin from her hand. "Look. I had nothing to do with this. Despite what you might have read, it wasn't me."

"What I've read? You mean Hard in Hightown? Please tell me you've written a new chapter for Sword and Shields!"

Realization dawned on him. Then relief. It must have been obvious, as Rika gave him a questioning look.

"Never mind. This is all Dorian's handiwork. The candles, the wine… that wretched music." Varric could see disappointment shadow her expression, so he barreled on. "I'm a writer. Words matter. And right now, me, of all people can't find the right thing to say about … how I feel… about … you." Her eyes widened, softening a little. It was a good sign.

"I don't know how this story should begin and I certainly don't know a thing about the tension, the plot, the theme, and all the stuff that goes on in the middle, but I know I want it to end with happily ever after." That sounded far cheesier than he had intended.

Rika pressed a finger on his lips and leaned forward. "Just shut up and kiss me."

Varric needed no further invitation and grabbed her roughly, and with all his pent up desire and frustration, kissed her long and hard.

~ooo~

The quill scratched the surface of the paper. His hand couldn't keep up with the words that tumbled from his thoughts. Now that things with Rika were real and definitely no longer awkward, his mind was able to relax into the Chronicles of Skyhold. This was only a holding title, until he was able to come up with something catchier. He promised her he wouldn't stay late. The thought of curling up in her warm bed made him wonder why he had holed himself up in this cellar in the first place. But she understood how writing was more than just a pastime. It was a need, though the thought of caressing the smoothness of her bare skin and the invitation of her delicate touch was enough to prioritize his other needs. Yet, despite the urgency of that thought, his hand continued to scratch out the words, the story insisting that it needed to be told.

Someone cleared their throat, interrupting his stream of consciousness. He looked up to find Dorian standing in the doorway, flipping through a stack of papers.

"I believe this belongs to you?"

Varric took them. It was Rogues and Roses.

"You lied to me!" he couldn't help but smile.

"Yes. A slight inconvenience. However, it is positively chock full of ideas. Too bad you can't follow your own advice."

"She never read this?"

"Not a word. Now I have an even better suggestion. Go take this up to her quarters and read her a bedtime story. I assure you, this will not put her to sleep. Though, if I were you, I wouldn't try and act out that scene with Bianca. Not yet anyway."

Varric gingerly straightened the pages together and could barely believe his luck. "Thanks Sparkler." He paused and looked up at the mage. "For everything."

Bioware owns all. 1) Song taken from "Track 2" by Dean Blunt and Inga Copeland