A/N: HELLO ADD THIS TO THE EVER-GROWING LIST OF THINGS NO ONE ASKED FOR BUT MY STUPID BRAIN PROVIDED. I've been writing this consistently for like two days and it's been interfering with my sleep so with that in mind I am pretty happy with it hahaha. I hope you will enjoy, and perhaps share your thoughts!
17. the one where your soulmate's name is on one wrist and your enemy's name is on the other and you have no clue which is which.
He wasn't sure when exactly he realized he'd gotten it the wrong way around.
Maybe a part of him knew immediately, but refused to admit it. Bianca had hurt him many a time, certainly, but she wasn't, could never be, his enemy. And Marian Hawke was nothing if not a wild card. Charming, charismatic, and daring to a fault, Varric had no trouble believing she could be the one who would eventually lead him into real, lasting, life-shattering ruin. (Unwilling or unable to admit that this was the circumstance in which she had found him to begin with.)
But sod it all, she'd won him over so easily. Even knowing what he thought he knew, even carefully hiding his wrists under bracelets or gauntlets he didn't really need to shoot a crossbow, Hawke had such an easy, guileless way about her that Varric had found himself more than a little infatuated, more than a little too quickly for his liking.
Fortunately or unfortunately, though she was a terrible flirt, in this, too, Hawke was without guile. She threw her affection about lightly, and was surprisingly untroubled by the ways in which it came back to her.
"Listen," he'd said one night, maybe two or three beers further in than she was. "About Rivaini—"
"Well, well, well!" Hawke chided cheerfully. "Never thought you were the type for jealousy, Varric!"
"I am saying, she's great and all, I'm just worried you're going to get hurt. By which I mean stabbed and left for dead."
One of maybe a dozen such near-identical conversations—they all started to blend together, and Varric began to wonder at his motivations for finding fault with any lover Hawke kept around for too long. Hawke always waved away his concerns with a playful jab, usually at herself, and sometimes at the illusion of their doomed romance, blithely unaware of how those comments stung.
Another time, when Hawke had been the drunker of the two, she'd demanded quite persuasively to see the names upon his wrists.
"Come on," she'd wheedled, tugging at the gauntlets he'd wrapped very securely in case of just such a threat. "It's got to be someone I've heard of, right? Is one of them your crossbow? Is there a living, breathing woman named Bianca that you've been keeping from me this whole time?"
Like the bird of prey that she was, she did notice it then—the brief flash of pain across his face—and she'd taken it as she took all matters of the heart: too lightly.
"There is! There is a Bianca, I knew it!" Fingers still pulling at his wrists, and a horrible feeling settling in his stomach. "Varric, you sly dog, you've got to tell me now!"
"Sorry, Hawke," he said, but the fun had gone out of the evening in a rush of old memories, like a kick to the diaphragm that knocked all the air out of your lungs and left you gasping at nothing. "That's the one story I'll never tell." He squeezed her hands, then folded them in front of her on the table and climbed the stairs as quickly as possible, without so much a glance over his shoulder.
Maybe he'd known then, too. Earlier that day he'd sent a letter, one of what must be thousands now, and known even as he watched it disappear that Bianca would not respond. When Hawke had been pulling at the fabric over his wrists, it had occurred to him rather sharply that Bianca had seen her name on his wrist, but had always kept her own covered.
Then there'd been that one night, cold as fuck, snow mixed with ash and dust, and everything reeking of death and fear. Hawke had to leave soon, was going to ship off into the unknown with Rivaini and Fenris, of all the unlikely companions, and Daisy was going off to hide with some other passing Dalish clan until the storm settled. They were supposed to be getting some sleep, since there was no telling what might await them in the days or weeks to come, and Varric had been sitting on the roof of the tavern when Hawke had appeared and settled herself next to him.
"You couldn't sleep?" he said, needlessly.
"Not sure I ever will again," she replied quietly.
He held out his hand (the one with her name on the wrist), and instead of taking it, she tucked herself under his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. If this was what ruination felt like, he'd thought, he didn't mind it very much.
"I'm sorry, Varric," she said.
"For what?"
"Getting you mixed up in this mess."
Varric chuckled. "I could say the same to you." Wondered fleetingly, as he often did, whose names were written under her long, thick gauntlets. "With much better evidence, I think."
"Leaving you to clean it up after I'm gone, then," Hawke insisted. "And I know you don't really care about mages and templars."
"I care about you," he said, before he could think better of it.
Hawke covered his hand with hers on her shoulder. "My point exactly," she replied.
And I don't want you to go, he managed not to say. "I have a feeling we'll meet again sooner than you think, Hawke," he said, sounding far more self-assured than he felt. "The Tale of the Champion may have come to a...spectacular end..." he shook his head "...but our story isn't over yet."
Hawke gave a little laugh, then was silent for some time. "I'm going to miss you, Varric," she said, so quietly he almost thought he'd imagined it.
"Come on," he said, his attempt at levity somewhat dampened by the undeniable frailty of his voice. "Between Rivaini and Broody, you won't have time to miss me."
"Isabela is a lot of fun, and Fenris is very loyal..." said Hawke. "But neither of them manages to be both at the same time very often, you know. Few people do, in fact."
Contrary to what he'd promised, but in line with what he had expected, Varric hadn't seen Hawke for years after that night. He'd published the Tale of the Champion and enjoyed all the trappings of fame, most especially being captured and questioned for his knowledge of the mysterious apostate who had disappeared into thin air along with her surviving companions.
He'd wondered a lot about enemies and soulmates during the week or so Cassandra had spent questioning him. Wondered why Seeker Pentaghast's name wasn't emblazoned upon one of his wrists, that he might be utterly certain which one his enemy was. Wondered whether he was to be Hawke's undoing in the end, try though he might to protect her. Wondered whether he'd be executed, and die never knowing the truth.
Had no idea then how much worse the alternative could be. Would become.
Varric's grand entrance in the Tale of the Champion had not been fabricated. The scruffy refugee kid with the inky black hair and the sharp wit had made a name for herself quick as lightning, by Kirkwall standards. Varric had seen his opportunity and jumped headfirst. Hadn't actually heard her name (Eagle or Vulture or Condor or something) until it was too late, until she was saying it to his face and he was already just a little bit too enamoured of the light in her eyes and the playful lilt in her voice to just cut bait and walk away.
When he saw her again, he felt like he was the scruffy upstart and she the seasoned professional. He stopped short at the sight of her striding into Skyhold, nearly dropped whatever he was holding and stumbled over his own feet, while she stood prouder and taller than ever before. The years had clearly been hard on her, but the hardness suited her somehow, and she was more radiant than ever. Had he known then? He ought to have, in retrospect, but in fact, became preoccupied by the opposite possibility. She would be his downfall, or he would be hers, no doubt about that just then. He should never have asked her to come here, but Maker, was he happy to see her alive and in one piece.
"How flattering," said Hawke, "to receive one of the infamous rambling letters of longing from Master Tethras at last." Her voice was softer, gentler than it had been, and if he hadn't been utterly off his guard before, he certainly was now.
"Hawke..." was all he could say. Gazed up at her like she might be some trick of the Fade bleeding all around them.
With a hint of a smile, Hawke held open her arms and beckoned to him, and this brought him to his senses, if only for a moment. She had always been very physical with everyone, where Varric generally preferred to keep his distance, but he'd never quite found a way to deny her anything she'd asked of him. At least, this was the reason he gave himself for giving into her excessive inclination to affectionate touching, and the reason he clung to as he hugged her then, too tight and too long.
Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric.
Everyone could hear, but they all had the decency not to comment on the Nightmare's observations, even if each of them knew they'd never forget the words it whispered as long as they might live. Varric set his jaw and held his head high even as his stomach churned horribly. This whole thing had gone south so quickly. All this shit was so weird, he should have known there were no certainties.
He'd come to believe with a kind of blind adulation that the Champion of Kirkwall could make her way out of even the most impossible situations, because that was what she had done for nearly a decade of their shared history, but this particular scrape was looking less and less predictable.
The Nightmare was damn right about one thing: if something happened to Hawke now, it would be his fault. He would be her life's greatest enemy, no matter what the names on her wrists might say.
He wasn't sure he'd ever felt pure, cold panic before he'd watched a decision that was out of his hands unfold before his eyes. He saw Hawke and Alistair offering to hold off the Nightmare so they could escape, and he saw the Inquisitor faced with the decision between them. Lavellan locked eyes with him, not for a fraction of a second, and nodded to Alistair, and Varric felt like the oxygen had returned to the atmosphere around him.
They'd barely made it out of that one alive, even with Alistair's distraction. They'd come stumbling and crackling and sputtering back into the real world feeling like fragments of themselves, and Hawke had such a haunted look in her eyes that Varric knew nothing he could ever do or say would serve as sufficient apology for dragging her into this. Even her survival was a hollow victory after putting her through this horror, for though it meant everything to him, he could see clear as day that her life mattered little to her in that moment.
You found the red lyrium. You brought Hawke here. This is your fault.
But had he fully realized the extent of his most grievous error, even then?
He'd watched her pack her things helplessly, been unable to say anything except variations of "Maker, I'm so sorry, Hawke," all of which were either brushed aside or cut off as soon as they began.
She agreed to stay for a drink before she took off into the night, but they'd spent a lot of that time sitting in stunned silence, free hands resting a finger's breadth apart on the table.
"I'm not sure when I got over seeing Meredith all...you know, burned up from the inside like that," Hawke began, unprompted. "I still see it sometimes when I close my eyes, but it doesn't make me sick to my stomach anymore, after all this time."
"Hawke..."
"But this?" She looked at Varric, and he felt something shatter inside. "I don't know how to get past this, Varric."
"I'm—"
"Don't. Please. It isn't your fault. I just..." she refocused her attention on their hands splayed on the table, closed the distance with her index finger just barely touching his. "Perhaps it's all more connected than I'd like to think. Perhaps I'm not even over that last year in Kirkwall after all."
"I...wish I knew what to say."
Bright blue eyes bored into him yet again, now shimmering with unshed tears. He'd only ever seen her cry once, after her mother died. When Hawke cried, the world felt impossibly darker. And what she said next could not have surprised him more. "Say you haven't given up on me yet?"
Varric felt his brows knit in bewilderment. "Never," he said. "Never in a million years." He didn't even really know what she meant, only that he knew in his very blood that he would never give up on her in any sense of the word. Only that a large and immutable part of him had believed she might turn out to be his enemy, his final downfall, for the entirety of their acquaintance, and still he believed in her more than he'd ever believed in anything.
Hawke took his hand in hers and pressed her forehead against his knuckles, and when she looked up again, she'd painted on a thin veneer of calm. Then, before he knew it, she was leaving, and he felt like he'd lost a piece of himself.
No, the ugly truth of it, he realized, was that he hadn't known for sure until it was much, much too late.
Like fucking clockwork, like she could smell emotional instability, Bianca Davri had shown up in the flesh in Skyhold, allegedly with a lead on the source of the red lyrium that had been popping up like a damn virus all over Thedas. He'd known, he'd just known, right then, almost on sight, but he'd chosen to ignore his instincts yet again. And surprise, surprise, it had turned out to be trouble. More of the old trickery. Not exactly unhelpful, but decidedly harmful. Not exactly bullshit, but never the full truth, either. Varric had never quite found a way to deny her anything she'd asked of him, and she made good use of his tragic loyalty.
This wasn't even nearly the most egregious untruth she had committed against him, but somehow it brought all the countless others crashing into focus in a way he could not ignore. He felt every grievance anew, as though it had been yesterday, and realized he had never fully accepted their impact at the time.
Am I supposed to wallow in my mistakes forever, kicking myself, telling stories of what I should have done?
Maybe Bianca didn't mean to be his enemy. Maybe she couldn't help it. But shit.
"Inquisitor." He could feel her presence behind him, waiting silently. "I think... There's something I think I might need to do."
"Of course," the Inquisitor replied. "You name it."
Varric traced his finger over the writing on his wrist. He'd carefully avoided looking at it for years now. "I appreciate the thought, but...I need to go alone."
He felt Lavellan's hand on his shoulder, a light, awkward pat-pat. She was not touchy or affectionate—she, like Varric, preferred to keep her distance. The simple gesture was thus rendered rather moving in its novelty.
"If you need anything, you know who to call," she said, then left him to prepare.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Hawke was anything but subtle. That she had dabbled in blood magic was not a very well-kept secret, and even a dwarf with far less sense for magic than Varric could follow the signs of that shit.
He caught up with her, telltale shock of scruffy black hair and violent magic, a few days outside of Skyhold, ass-deep in demons and not faring very well. No fucking wonder, he'd thought, all the blood she'd lost to leave such a trail. But for all Bianca Davri's personal shortcomings, she was the finest mechanic Varric had ever met. Bianca the crossbow never let him down.
Varric couldn't close Fade rifts, nor could he magically heal wounds. The best he could do was to help Hawke stagger back to her camp and dress her injuries the old-fashioned way.
"No, need, I can—"
"I don't think so. At this rate, you'll drain yourself dry."
Hawke relaxed, and, seemingly for the first time, took Varric's presence in through glassy eyes. "What would I do without my trusty dwarf?" she wondered with a feeble grin.
"Have a lot less shit to deal with, probably," Varric muttered.
After she was a little bit further from death's door, Varric arranged his things and built a fire for them. A few hours previously, he'd spared a disparaging thought for the flask he'd broguht along, but now it seemed like an excellent idea to take a swig.
"Not that I'm not thrilled to see you again, Varric, but...is there some reason you've come charging after me?" Hawke wondered idly warming her hands before the fire. "I rather thought you were happy working with the Inquisition."
Varric sighed heavily and took another swig before he put his flask aside. Instead of trying to cobble together anything to say, when he knew too well that words would be woefully insufficient, he tugged at his gauntlets and cast them onto the grass beneath their feet. With a spark of interest that comforted him considerably, Hawke grabbed his hands without so much as a second's hesitation and yanked him closer to her so that she could see. Varric closed his eyes, feeling more vulnerable, more exposed than he ever had in his life.
She traced the script on the left wrist with her fingers. "Bianca Davri..." she murmured. Then, turned her attention to the right. "Marian H—" her own name caught in her throat.
She held Varric's right hand in both of hers for a long time, stone-still, barely breathing, then curled up so she could rest her head on his shoulder and cradled his hand against her chest. He wasn't sure what he expected her to say, but somehow what she decided upon seemed wholly appropriate. "I knew there was a real Bianca."
Varric scoffed, but the sound was more gentle than brash. "I beg your pardon, but my love for the crossbow is very real."
"You absolute fuck, you thought I was your enemy, didn't you?" There was no malice in her words—indeed, they were surprisingly warm.
Varric didn't respond—he didn't need to. There was a silent question hanging in the air—one he'd already had to face once before in my life. He hadn't demanded it of Bianca, and he wouldn't ask it of her, but sod it all, Varric, he thought, you really need to stop showing people your hand, in every sense of the phrase.
"Maker, I'm almost too ashamed to show you," Hawke murmured. "You've no idea how it's haunted me."
"I might," Varric muttered in response, daring to entertain just the tiniest sliver of hope.
Hawke straightened her posture, and Varric ventured a glance in her direction, but she turned her head away with melodramatic flair and thrust her wrists at him.
Varric felt a lump rising in his throat, felt his heart pounding in his ears as he took her left hand in his and gently tugged at the gauntlet that covered it. How could something so innocent feel more intimate than anything he could ever remember experiencing?
At first the script on her upturned wrist made no sense to him, like he'd forgotten what the word looked like, for how completely he'd tried to banish it from his mind. "Oh, Hawke..." he breathed.
Hawke's gaze remained fixed decidedly away from him. Her hair had been slicked back neatly when she'd first arrived in Skyhold, but now it fell over her eyes the way it always used to. "Just look at the other one," she said quietly. "Know the extent of my delusions."
Varric was faintly aware that he was shaking. Couldn't remember the last time that had happened. He took her other hand and pulled at the gauntlet with trembling fingers, saw his own name and felt tears in his eyes, or maybe they were already rolling down his cheeks.
Hawke's hands balled into fists. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, didn't know if she was watching him shatter before her, maybe didn't want to know.
"Here, I'll do it for you," said Hawke, and though her voice wavered, she sounded sharper, and much more like herself than she had the entire time she'd been in Skyhold. "Well, that explains that fucking stupid dalliance of yours, Hawke. Andraste's tits, Hawke, did it never occur to you that a literal abomination might end up causing you a little bit of trouble? Maker's balls, Hawke, you have the absolute worst fucking judgement of anyone I have ever met, and that anyone, anyone in this entire Blighted world, let alone me, especially me, who's never done anything but try to help you, has ever looked at you and seen a hero is a fucking laugh!"
Varric had gradually been drawn out of his own private tragedy by the vitriol in her voice, and he looked up at her at last to see her face twisted in agony like nothing he'd seen outside of their worst battles. He took her face between his hands and turned her to face him. "You know that isn't true."
Hawke leaned into his right hand, laid her own hands on his shoulders, brows knitted in horrible disbelief. "Do I?"
"You should," Varric said.
"Why did you come after me, Varric?"
Varric ran his fingers through Hawke's hair, smoothed it back from her face, and privately delighted in the way it fell right back into her face. "I might have been a little worried about you," he said. "But mostly I just..." he shook his head. "I needed you to know."
Hawke inclined her head in a challenge, "Before it was too late?"
Yes. "No." Kind of. "As soon as I knew."
Hawke's features softened slightly, but the change was immeasurably soothing. She seemed suddenly much further from a complete meltdown from which no one might be able to recover her.
Encouraged, Varric added with a lopsided smirk, "As soon as my dumb ass finally put that fucking mystery together."
Hawke's smile then was as bright as it had been in the old days in Kirkwall, when they'd spent half their days on life-threatening adventures and half their nights drunk and teasing one another over cards. She leaned in to kiss him then, eyes falling half-closed, and he rose to meet her like a collision.
She'd kissed him countless times before (well, not countless. he had counted.), on the forehead and the cheek, and one rather horrible time on the nose, when he'd thought she was going to kiss him on the lips, but she'd just been meaning to tease him. Hawke was touchy and affectionate with everyone, always hands and hugs and kisses, always light as a feather, almost never aware of how heavy she left her victims feeling in her wake. But this...this was something else entirely. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, her lips pushed against his, then her hands in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, something like desperation in it, or maybe desperate hopefulness, emanating from both of them.
Voices and faces were flashing through his mind, old memories and newer ones, taunting him and taking new shape, but Varric pushed them happily to the back of his mind. Now that they'd broken apart, Hawke's attention was on some random blade of grass on the ground, but she still held his hand between both of hers. "Perhaps..." she began. "Perhaps I could...stay. Come back with you, I mean. Help you with Corypheus. Keep you out of trouble." This she said with a sidelong glance in his direction, mischievous twinkle in her eyes eyes not quite obscured by her hair.
Varric's heart flipped. "Get me into trouble, more likely."
"What else am I good for?" Hawke countered pleasantly. She took his arm and wrapped it around herself, curled herself up on the ground and stretched out her legs so she could wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his chest without agitating her shoddily-patched injuries.
He wrapped his arms around her tightly, still disbelieving. "I..." he began, thought better of it, but then continued anyway. "I was sure it was too late."
Hawke didn't respond for a long time, and he thought she might have fallen asleep already. He settled himself against whatever the fuck was behind him—a sack of something lumpy that would definitely leave him aching something awful in the morning—but he wouldn't move, not now. Anyway, he was tired enough that he'd almost drifted off, too, when he heard Hawke whisper, "So was I."