A/N: I did say that the next story in this series was going to be nice but, well…Yes Hawke, I lied. Deal with it. It's nicer than the first one?

Direct sequel to 'A Well-punctuated Response', not essential to read first but probably recommended.

Kinks/tags/warnings: M!Hawke/Varric, kinda rough, kinda angsty, kinda smutty H/C, **contains references to recent past rape, avoid if this is a squick/trigger**

Three weeks, and the word Varric would choose to describe them would be 'barbed'. The fact that the three day journey back to Kirkwall from the nightmare that was Chateau Haine had taken just over a week had not, unfortunately, as it turned out been enough time for the diplomatic hysteria to die down.

They'd managed to keep their return unknown for an entire day, arriving via a Darktown 'dock' that even in the bad old early days together in Kirkwall had been a venue of last resort. Bhodhan and Orana had willingly met all callers with polite, helpful and utterly stonewalling hospitality, delaying Hawke having to deal with any of the Keep's 'ambassadors' for another day.

None of the others had argued with Varric's statement that Hawke needed a couple of day's downtime; contact-free. They hadn't pressed for the details he hadn't given although he could see the questions, and concern, in their eyes. Anders had been by once, briefly, to finish the remaining minor healings on Hawke's ankle and ribs. And in a case of 'do as I say, not as I do' Varric hadn't been able to stay away entirely; turning up late on the first morning after their return despite nursing a hangover that almost made him wish whatever they'd been drinking last night had been poison.

-o-o-o-

When they'd reached Anders' clinic in the small hours Hawke had turned aside at the hidden entrance to the Amell estate cellars; the only anonymous means of returning that didn't involve more rooftops than any of them were up to dealing with.

"Get some rest, all of you, and try and stay out of trouble for a few days. Killing a foreign Duke has to be some kind of personal record, even for us."

The weak attempt at levity couldn't hide the fact that this close to home and actual defensive walls, the shadows were back with a vengeance, tearing down the mental ones Hawke had thrown up to get them all home.

"Varric…I'll see you at the Hanged Man."

The words attempting to be casual, using up the last shreds of the mask of leadership even as the look that Hawke turned to him pleaded for the chance to go to ground from everything for a while. Varric nodded, intending to offer a touch light, non-threatening; and wanting to offer a patented dwarven bear hug. As if sensing his thoughts Hawke slipped back from his intended movement, vanishing up the passage into the dark.

When Varric opened his eyes after a long moment, glancing over to Isabela in the grim silence that lingered he saw the unspoken agreement that they weren't going to bother making it back to the Hanged Man to carry out the only ending a mission like that just gone warranted. She'd looted several bottles from the nearest Darktown drunks, demanding Anders check them to make sure they weren't actively designed to kill people as they'd commandeered a space in the back of the clinic to get down to the business of getting blackly, stinkingly drunk as fast as possible.

Anders had slightly disapprovingly commented that there wasn't much in it concerning the bottles' contents, but he hadn't stopped them; leaving the clinic closed for the few remaining hours until dawn. He'd actually joined them when at some point the evening degenerated into telling the filthiest, most disgusting stories they had; and as a healer had produced some stunners. It was possible he might have won if anyone had been capable of that much comparative thought by that point.

Varric had dragged himself round to issue orders concerning repelling all comers; hoping it was a good sign that Hawke hadn't emerged yet when he forced himself to leave, Anders' own orders sitting in his head.

"If you go up there you'd better have the best bloody reason ever for not giving him the space he needs for the next couple of days. He'll come to you, no matter what you might think, if he trusts you. Don't force it."

-o-o-o-

The healer might have been right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. As a distraction the next two days had been spent determining which rumours he needed to quash, and which ones he needed to spread; and implementing the results with grim efficiency.

Around the third day Hawke had met the sixth, or possibly seventh envoy, right about the time they'd decided to send an actual ambassador not just a messenger bearing a summons. And provided an entirely sincere and impressively untrue account of their uneventful and enjoyable attendance at Chateau Haine. They'd taken their leave of the Duke early in the morning, an old friend from Ferelden who'd happened to be visiting with a passion for hunting and an unexpected business opportunity that had delayed his return from Orlais. And he was interested himself in the rumours concerning bad business at the Chateau.

Qunari? Well not that they'd noticed and he'd had practice. And assassins didn't seem like their style, their methods tended more towards the brutally direct in response to threats or betrayal. But what military interest would the Qunari have in murdering an Orlesian Duke, Orlais being a signatory to the peace treaty…

For all that Hawke had never had an interest in playing the nobility's political games and a bluffing ability that tended to be erratic at the card table; on a battlefield it was unerring, as was his instinct for sensing them. And politics was frequently only one very small verbal misstep away; right now it was a dance of bluff after insinuation after counter-bluff. But while they had no proof of the truth they knew about events at the Chateau, neither did the Orlesians. The rest of the witnesses to the final confrontation were dead, with one exception they were fairly certain wouldn't be making an appearance anytime soon to enlighten either side.

And if Corvais was too experienced a player to believe the story given to him was the whole or even partial truth, he was willing to pretend; and to take the warning behind Hawke's words as well as the political bone. Apparently such insinuations concerning Qunari, and Orlesian, motivations hadn't been Hawke's alone, and opinion seemed to be that when it came to it the Orlesians would be willing to let the matter lie when a sufficient level of pontificating had occurred in both directions.

Varric had gleaned some of the facts, and heard the rest along with the others, in a conversation at the Hanged Man that had eventually shifted to his rooms as a kindness to Corff; on the grounds that the glares directed towards anyone venturing anywhere vaguely resembling that corner of the pub were bad for business. Hawke had told it as the final chapter in catching everyone up on the sorry business; most of it. Casually; as if Varric might want to use it as starting material for his write-up. Since the status quo concerning that thrice-damned list was probably ever so slightly better than its presence in Orlesian hands, that smallest of victories was enough that even Sebastian had refrained from any form of commentary on the ill-advised nature of that particular job.

Varric was too busy being glad of Hawke's presence to even make much of a pretence at a few desultory notes on a tale that would likely never see the light of day in any form for the foreseeable future. And along with everyone else he pretended not to notice the tension that ran through Hawke's uncharacteristic subduedness and abysmal performance at the card table, behind even Anders and Merrill. Admittedly that might have been due to his lack of partaking in the dubious fortification that was the Hanged Man's alcohol, another oddity let pass without comment.

-o-o-o-

They could have kept the game of 'keep away' with the Powers-That-Be going for a lot longer if they'd been working out of the Hanged Man. Since Leandra's death Hawke had tended to end up there more than half the nights of any given week, regardless of whatever hours Varric was working. Other times, well, there was a certain attraction to having luxuries available on tap when they wanted them, even if he'd never admit to it in the common room.

And damn if it didn't amaze Varric sometimes how much he'd come to love reaching his rooms at some unholy hour to find a certain human lounging in a chair, idly scribbling 'notes' through whatever draft Varric had accidentally-on-purpose left lying around; or sprawled asleep across a bed now about as tidy as if a nug had taken a dust bath in it. Or the evenings of Hawke leaning over Varric's shoulder, purring creatively lewd suggestions in his ear. These inspirations would have been far more helpful if they weren't frequently offered when Varric was battling Guild paperwork; which came into the category of an enemy that you could shoot, it just wouldn't die. "…and those forms will have to be redone; in triplicate…"

For the last three weeks however, Varric felt like he'd been trying to negotiate a labyrinth where the walls kept shifting, frequently without warning. While hauling it across the wilds of Orlais more nights than not Varric had gently backed off, giving Hawke the space he wouldn't ask for as he'd tried to hold the pretence that everything was fine, tried to hold back the flinches that anything more than the most casual of touches brought. Since their return to Kirkwall Varric had been sleeping, badly; in a bed distressingly unrumpled. And while he intended to walk this maze for as long as he needed to, would never abandon Hawke, he'd had to draw more than was pretty on his ability to wait for a plan to come together; to ignore the helplessness of watching his lover in pain, lost in the same maze. And officially the monster in the middle that you had to kill to leave was already dead.

Oh none of this meant that he hadn't seen Hawke. That night at the Hanged Man had been followed by close to two gruelling weeks, a reminder of those frantic months before the Deep Roads when, within certain limits what had mattered most had been turning over jobs as fast as possible to keep the coins coming in. Back then Varric had been happy to frequently offer, and help with the work; wanting their agreement to succeed even as he'd been impressed with Hawke's resourcefulness. Now it was supposed to be one of the perks that they took on that sort of work far less, and by choice rather than necessity.

The pace that Hawke had set had amounted to a relentless assault on the predators in and around Kirkwall that walked on any number of legs. They'd killed so many exotic creatures that even the Bone Pit seemed temporarily cowed, and Sol had insisted several times, slightly desperately, that there really was nothing he needed collected by way of ingredients.

Slavers, bandits and the remaining gangs still determined to work the streets against Aveline and the Guard had also not had a good time of it. Even if Varric suspected that several of their late night excursions had stretched the definition of 'job' more towards 'passing idle comment'. He wasn't the only one; Sebastian had frequently contrived to be elsewhere and more importantly, so had Aveline several days in. That conversation had walked closer than usual to the line of things being said that couldn't easily be taken back, concerning where 'assisting the guard' ended and 'vigilantism' began.

-o-o-o-

"And yet you'll take the 'off the books' help when your lot can't handle things, as long as everyone dances along to your own special moral tune."

"I've spent the last six years building up the Guard to make Kirkwall a city where the law means something; I thought in spite of everything that meant something to you as well. But this, this isn't like you Hawke."

"Still trying to cram everyone into your worldview through the power of denial Aveline? 'This' seems to have done me fairly well so far, and you once upon a time. But if you're suddenly squeamish about lightening the hangman's load, feel free not to come. We'll try and leave something nice and easy for the Guard."

"I won't help you do your best to get yourself killed; and break Varric's heart into the bargain, you ass. And this won't help with whatever's wrong; I hope you figure that one out before it's too late."

For all they fought like cats and dogs Varric knew there was genuine concern in her attempt; unfortunately ultimatums were a high-risk, high-failure tactic. And he could have strangled her for the loss of a frontline fighter; there was a reckless edge to Hawke's battle presence that was giving Varric worse sleepless nights. He silently gifted Fenris a week, possibly even two of sarcastic retort-free brooding for his unquestioning willingness to cover that gap. In another gift of small miracles the triangle of bickering between him and Anders, and Merrill, that flared up whenever two of them were in each other's presence for more than five minutes had been kept below a level where Hawke usually felt compelled to step in, despite his opinions on the subject of blood magic, and wrangle the party back onto the day's misadventure.

And over the days Varric had watched worry war with exhaustion in all of their eyes whether they knew, suspected or wondered at the reason for the shadows that haunted Hawke in the infrequent unguarded moments.

-o-o-o-

The break point came, and the irony was not lost on Varric, from a job he'd requested; more than a little reluctantly at that point. But he made a point of keeping tabs on just who, reputable or known disreputable, was offering work to the Lowtown youngsters. Making efforts to see that risk was suitably rewarded, and that exploitation was 'discouraged'; severely and occasionally permanently. And something about the failure of several of his runners to turn up for a couple of days set off a warning bell in his mind.

He'd expected ill intentions; he hadn't expected blood mages of the crazier than usual variety, whose intentions in their 'experiments' he didn't care to find out the details of. 'Break' had nearly become literal, and not in their favour; the fight had been a painful grind of fatigue-fuelled screw-ups, near misses and desperate saves on all their parts, taking too long and too many potions.

The aftermath saw them all at Anders' clinic, along with the in the end seven kids they'd rescued in more or less one piece; physically anyway. Anders had patched them up to frequent imprecatory mutterings, apparently holding them all equally (ir)responsible; and a notable lack of sympathy, if with his usual level of care. He'd informed them the kids would be staying another couple of days, and kicked them out to drag themselves back to their respective homes. This time though, Varric made that trip in silence, but not alone.

-o-o-o-

"Did Anders tell you?"

There was a stiffness edging the quietly deliberate words that wasn't to do with the physical after-effects of the day's chaos.

"About what, Sweeps?"

Hawke's mere presence in his rooms, combined with the tone and clutched in one hand the first alcohol Varric had seen him touch since that blighted night gave him a fairly clear heads up about the subject about to be broached. He strove to keep his tone neutral, even if the impending conversation filled him with equal parts relief and trepidation.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Chateau Haine. The Harlequin. About…the rape."

The word hung between them, ugly, burning the air around it as the whiskey burned his throat for the first time in weeks. He'd fought the temptation, knowing that otherwise he'd have spent too much of the past two weeks drunk off his ass; the loss of control too close to the grip of the FeverDream. At least this way the broken sleep and half-formed nightmares had been his alone. It'd probably been a mistake to think it would ease the surreal edge of the conversation they were sliding into. One which he'd be still running from, burying it under yet another mission; in combat he understood and accepted the limits of control. Except for the knowledge that today had been too bloody close, and not just for him. Looked like Aveline had been right; cow.

"No. I already knew. It…wasn't the first time."

Of course; there seemed to be little Varric hadn't encountered in some form or other, why would this be the exception? He was managing neutral a lot better of the two of them, as Hawke felt a flash of relief, resentment he couldn't even tell at the words.

"Who else knows?"

The question suddenly vitally important; to know if it was knowing pity or ignorant concern behind the looks he knew had gone back and forth even as he'd refused to acknowledge them. And even as they'd followed him into one battle after another; letting him run.

"Rivaini perhaps; with what that bastard said to you…she hasn't asked and I haven't said. It's not mine to speak about anyway."

"Really; Anders was quick enough to suggest I talk to someone. I'd assumed you'd let the others know since you've all spent the past two weeks watching like I'm made of glass."

Not giving a damn whether that was fair or not. His anger snapped like lightening, leaping undirected from target to target.

"They care; they don't need to know the details to do that. I hoped you'd talk to someone, if you wanted; but it's your choice who you tell, if anyone."

"What's there to tell? It happened? I wish it hadn't? I'm sure there are worse stories to hear- Anders, Isabela, Fenris…"

/Varric, for all you know/ part of him whispered.

Varric didn't respond; letting a silence continue undemanding, but one that subtly invited someone to fill it.

The chair at once pulling him in and yet too close. Alcohol trailed sharp heat down his throat again as he resisted the urge to pace; any movement to avoid acknowledging the truth of the matter.

"I didn't fight him" Hawke said eventually; the admission harsh. Shame burned, twisting again to relief that they hadn't come, hadn't seen what he'd surrendered to, allowed.

"Not enough to…stop him; hard to know what- who he was, under the 'Dream. Just enough to make things worse." Unbidden his hand drifted to the site of the brand, healed without scarring thanks to Anders' skill…"a more memorable token"…the tingling itch his imagination. Staring at a spot on the wall, unwilling to meet Varric's eyes.

"Perhaps his description wasn't so wrong after all."

"Never." The certainty in Varric's voice was ironclad. "And it wouldn't matter a damn to me what you did for a living, it wouldn't make what he did right; in any way."

"Was he…the only one?"

"No…there was another; one of the guards. It…wasn't the same. Just a blowjob…not my best offering." The sound that came from his throat missed laughter by several notes, sounding too high in his ears as Hawke clenched his teeth on it. Another swallow, his glass was empty, no smoother however much he'd had; was it supposed to get easier.

"Him I killed, on the way out. Man with an axe."

"I remember."

"Not well enough to remember it when you decided to take care of the Harlequin. Trying to atone for whatever guilt you thought you had a claim on from all of this; or are we going back a few years now?" The sudden focussing of his anger snapped him out of whatever defensive shell he'd pulled around himself, shifting his gaze to meet Varric's. Knowing they'd reached a heart of the matter he hadn't even recognised until they'd arrived. Saw the truth of his accusation in the stricken look that flickered for a moment in Varric's eyes.

-o-o-o-

"Gods I'm sorry Cian; I had no right to put that on you. It's not your-"

"Not my what? Not my problem? Doesn't seem that way now. Maker's balls Varric; this was supposed to have died five years ago. You were bespelled, that wasn't you or we wouldn't be here, so don't you dare try and hold me responsible for whatever I said while I was out of my mind on that fucking drug!"

Did it make a twisted form of logic that if Varric still held the guilt from back then that he'd take on whatever else had been levelled at him? Another moment of weakness he didn't want to acknowledge. He doesn't remember, which is worse; has no way of knowing what he said or did, doesn't want to ask. But here and now the anger was for what he was denied.

"And that has nothing to do with…you killed him. He was mine."

"It…was a battle call at the time. If we hadn't had you to hold the rest of that fight together-"

"Holding it together, always that isn't it?" /Like the last two weeks?/ "And so that's a reason to go play the hero and nearly get yourself bloody well killed; that wasn't your call to make!" Not caring that he could have taken what Varric had offered, finished it however he wanted. He hadn't wanted it like that, too late, not enough-would it ever have been? Unable to prove to him, to himself…

"Would it have helped?"

"Yes. No- I swore that I would kill him for what he did…what I let him do!"

"I'm sorry." The quiet words offered as a statement, not a justification.

"Fuck you." Glass shattered against the wall; he'd been aiming for it, mostly. Shards scattered across the end of the table where Varric sat, the rogue didn't bat an eyelid.

"And fuck him for that…this…for being…"

/Broken? At the mercy of something you can't control, just like then? Afraid of someone already dead?/

"This isn't nothing; it'll take as much time as-"

"Time? As if we know how much we've got of that. And I will not let him- control that…me…" He was out of his chair but wouldn't let himself run again as he echoed the glass's path to the table's far end; not sure what he was trying to prove to whom but the need to stronger than the fear. And there was an invitation in Varric's eyes as they met Hawke's, in his lack of resistance as Hawke's mouth closed over his-