"-pull Emile de Launcet out of the Circle to play Donnen. Donnen! And so I said, listen, if you want to cast Sebastian Vael as Jevlan, okay, I mean, I disagree, but if you insist on Emile then we're going to have a serious problem-"
"Go out with me."
Varric paused mid-gesture, and as one of his eyebrows climbed towards his hairline, Hawke realized he'd spoken aloud. On air. Was that a giggle from the audience? Shit.
"Well, Hawke," the dwarf drawled, smirking but looking mildly concerned for Hawke's mental well-being, "never let it be said you don't know how to derail a good story. You are aware we're friends, right? We hang out all the time? Should I call for a healer?" Nice of him to offer an out, but Hawke, utterly unable to come up with a witty remark that would carry them to safe ground, decided that there was only one way to go.
In for a copper, in for an excessively convoluted barter system of snark and self loathing.
Slapping a shit-eating grin on, Hawke leaned forward, perching his elbows on the edge of the desk, and batted his eyelashes, such as they were. "Sorry, Varric, was I not clear?" He batted his eyelashes again just to see that scrunched-nose look his friend got when he did something revolting. "I meant as a date. I can't bear the pining any longer!" He managed a melodramatic sigh, cupping his chin on his palms and gazing doe-eyed at the dwarf in front of him.
The other eyebrow crept upward, incredulous, before they both came down as Varric smirked. Hawke wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Varric had decided this was a joke - but to be fair, it wasn't like they weren't already jokingly flirting all the time. Mostly joking. Sort of joking. "Looks like even my best friend isn't immune to my charms," he lamented to the audience with a sigh of his own. He pressed a hand to his heart, and Hawke very courageously didn't follow the motion with his eyes, instead using the opportunity to make horrible kissy faces that would, he knew, be all over the internet in about five minutes. Carver was going to laugh himself sick, the prat.
Luckily, Hawke had their mother's album of embarrassing childhood photos to fall back on.
Varric reached out and patted his arm mock-sympathetically, startling Hawke back into the here and now. "Don't take it personally Hawke. You humans are just too noodley for my taste." There were some disappointed groans from the audience, and Varric winked out at them. For his part, Hawke mustered up a pout and hung his head. "There, there," the dwarf crooned, patting again, "we'll still keep our dinner plans for tomorrow, though I guess you'll have to forgo the roses."
Only years of working on television and having to be semi-polite to Templars kept Hawke from showing any confusion. Dinner plans? They hadn't made any- oh. Oh? "Break my heart, why don't you," he complained, leaning back in his seat and trying to pretend that his pulse wasn't going berserk. "And after all I've done for you. I brought that chair in just for you, y'know."
Varric glanced down at the chair in question, which was a hideous sparkly purple monstrosity, then back up at Hawke. "What a generous soul you are," he remarked dryly.
"I know," said Hawke airily, "it must be so difficult, cad that you are, to be around such an innocent, lovable person as myself. You can cry, if you need to."
"Oh, I think I can contain myself for now," the dwarf replied. "You'd better ask me some questions about the series, though, Aveline's giving us the stink-eye from backstage."
"Yeah, yeah, okay - so Hard in Hightown is being adapted for TV, everybody's iffy on the casting, even the cast, blah blah blah, but the real question here is who's in charge of the script-"
Aveline had been giving them the stink-eye, of course, because she's Aveline, and by the time Hawke Talk had ended and she was done alternating between scolding him and asking if he was okay being rejected on live television("Thanks, Aveline, you're such a pal." "Someone has to make sure your ego isn't too banged up." "It does bruise easily - like a peach."), Varric was nowhere to be seen.
This in itself wasn't unusual, because when Varric stood still too long, he tended to accumulate crowds.
Hawke threw on his coat and headed out for the night, wondering if he should call or text or maybe show up unannounced at Varric's rooms in the Hanged Man and pester him until he got answers. Or he could step out of Bone Pit Studios and almost run Varric over. That too.
"Varric!" he blurted, catching himself just in time. "Have you given up writing to be a door stop?"
"Yep. It's just so thrilling, and the weather is perfect for it," his friend replied, even as they drew their coats tighter against the freezing wind off the sea. "Drinks on me? I think they've got spiced cider at the Hanged Man."
"Maker, yes," Hawke said brightly, the cold air having robbed him temporarily of all other concerns, and shot off a quick text to Bodahn. "Where did they get the apples?"
"Did I say they made it with apples?"
"What did they- no, you know what, don't tell me. I don't want to have nightmares."
They hurried down the darkened streets in companionable suffering, slipping through unchallenged for once. Hawke supposed that not even the gangs wanted to put up with the cold, for which he was grateful, because he'd forgotten his staff again. It was outdated - nobody used staves anymore, it was all wands and batons and bulletproof energy shields these days - but with some tweaking and unhelpful pointers from his friends, Hawke had managed to construct a collapsible one he could carry around unnoticed and unmolested. It had sharp bits that came out at the press of a button. It had LED lights. In collapsed form it looked like an intricate dildo. Hawke loved it.
Except not enough to actually bring it with him, and it was a little harder to keep people out of stabbing range without swinging around a big fuck-off stick. However, Varric seemed to have left Bianca at home too, so Hawke took comfort in the fact that if they got jumped, they would both be fairly useless.
Despite ducking through several alleys, no ne'er-do-wells came at them from shady corners, and presently the warm, slightly rancid, definitely infested with something face of the Hanged Man presented itself. Hawke struggled with the door, which had stuck again, then bowed Varric in with mock reverence once he'd finally got it. The door did not slam satisfyingly behind them, only bounced open again, but Hawke kicked it shut with minimal annoyance.
The tavern was blessedly empty, and Varric was already making for the stairs, having already placed coins safely in Corff's hands with orders to send up food and cider. Hawke waved at the bartender before trailing after Varric. They clomped cheerfully up the stairs, both of them thumping, in passing, the door of a room which had suspiciously enthusiastic noises coming from it. Isabela cursed at them indistinctly from within.
"Love you, 'bela!" Hawke called back, and followed Varric into his suite, snickering.
It was cozy as ever, which meant, naturally, that the only warm spot was directly by the fire. There was a brief, friendly scuffle over who got the best chair, but Varric ultimately won, because Hawke tripped over a shoelace at the last second.
"So," said Hawke, finding himself suddenly awkward. He flopped down onto the second best chair and toed off his shoes, which were now hopelessly muddy from the trek through Lowtown, and accidentally sent one flying into a corner with the force of his nerves. "I hear you've got dinner plans tomorrow? Are we going to needle wotshisname from the Merchant Guild? Ooh!" He brightened, a thought striking him. "Better, are we going to shove him in a sack and leave him in Darktown?"
"Now, Hawke," Varric scolded before, with a content sigh, he sank his sock-clad feet into the plush rug, "I thought we agreed we'd drop him down a darkspawn hole."
"Of course! My mistake." Hawke wriggled about on the chair, trying to find the most comfortable position on furniture not built for someone as leggy as him. He finally swung both his legs over the arm nearest the fire, to better warm his feet, and rested his head against the opposite arm with a satisfied huff. Realizing that his friend had yet to actually answer his question, he turned to eyeball him, only to find that Varric was watching him with something approaching fondness. Feeling self conscious, Hawke tried very hard not to squirm, and when he failed utterly, settled for picking absently at a fraying seam on the back of the chair.
Across from him, Varric leaned back against his cushions, hands clasped comfortably on his stomach. "Well," he said eventually, voice carefully even, as if trying not to spook him, "I thought we'd try out that new place in Hightown Merrill's been talking about."
Hawke considered this. "The one that keeps giving her free things because she's adorable and they think she's a tiny little orphan?"
"That's the one."
"Might as well," he said agreeably, staring at the mantle as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "She says they've got great cakes-"
"Great. I'll pick you up for our date at, say, seven?" This was put forward with utter nonchalance, because Varric was a terrible person. Just the worst.
"Date?" Hawke echoed, voice a couple octaves higher than he'd like, and he risked a glance at his friend.
Who was grinning. The bastard. "Wear something nice, not that weird spiky getup you like to scandalize people with."
"Excuse you," Hawke's mouth retorted, running on autopilot as his brain tried to catch up, "I am a fashion icon."
"We can only hope that Kirkwall will one day recover from your influence," Varric shot back.
Hawke eyed him, without succumbing to nerves this time, then climbed off his chair and went to stand over him, using his height advantage for some choice looming. Varric, who was unfortunately immune to this, stared mildly up at him, smiling like butter wouldn't melt.
"An actual date," Hawke started to ask, accidentally sounding more hopeful than stern, and he hastily cleared his throat to fix that. It didn't work. "Like a date date?"
Unable to help himself, Varric snorted. Hawke allowed it in favor of staring intently down at him. They could discuss vocabulary later.
"Yeah," said the dwarf, and reached up to grip the front of Hawke's shirt. He gently pulled him down so they were nearly nose to nose, and Hawke, putting his hands on the arms of the chair to support himself, swallowed hard. "A date date, Hawke."
Varric leaned in, which of course is exactly when the door of the suite opened and Norah stepped with a tray. "Serah Tethras," she began professionally, unfazed by the scene in front of her, "would you like me to put your meal on the table?"
"Please, Norah," Varric called back, throwing a charming smile over his shoulder, and when she had gone again, he turned back to Hawke, who was struggling to keep his knees from going out. "If you need it a little plainer," he went on, earnestly, "Yes, I am genuinely interested, no, I am not playing with you, and yes, I do expect you to pay for dinner tomorrow, because you still owe me from that last game."
"That seems fair," Hawke conceded after some hasty internal deliberation. He swallowed again as Varric let go of his shirt and rested a warm, calloused hand on top of one of Hawke's own.
"Good," said Varric, and this close, Hawke saw clearly as a weight lifted from the dwarf's shoulders, and defensiveness - which he hadn't even noticed - leaving his posture. His fingers trembled a little against the back of Hawke's hand.
"Good yourself," Hawke retorted, lifting his hand to lock his fingers with Varric's, and leaned in. "You're paying for the next one."
Note: Hey guys! There's an illustration that goes with this, and it's on my tumblr; miliabyntite, post/126837830341
Thank you for reading!