Adjustments: Part 2 of the Makers Series
The warm summer night of the keep was filled with laugher. On a roof somewhere two women sat chatting about cookies. One giggled, one guffawed, and their merriment joined the fray. In the well below the courtyard soldiers rolled dice. Their good-natured rumbling rolled up, contributing a pleasant timber. On a balcony a spy and a commander played a game of chess, taunting and teasing one another over every move. She giggled, he laughed awkwardly and their amusement mingled, melodic on the humid breeze.
The most boisterous came from the tavern wherein many of Skyhold's finest, and plenty of its less fine, had gathered together to hear one of Varric's tales. It was a common enough occurrence these days. With the threat of the Breach gone they could indulge in amusements. The people who had come to the place where the sky is kept had lost much, but now they were finally rebuilding. There was time for laughter once more, and drink and cheer. And, much more importantly, there was time for stories.
"I kid you not," Varric said loudly over the din of the noisy tavern. It was an old one, one he had told many times before, but it was new to some of the patrons. "Hawke said, 'Looks like the Duke… has fallen from grace'!" Laughter filled the small room and the dwarf looked to his left where Hawke sat. Her face was in her palms as she shook her head. "And that," Varric continued, "is how Duke Gaspard died!"
"He made it sound far more amusing than it was," she yelled, straightening her back and lifting her mug. "I just get punny when I'm battle fatigued and sleep deprived!" The story over, the crowd turned their attentions their previous efforts, waving and winking and shouting "sure" and "right, Champion," disbelievingly as they went, removing the pair from the spotlight.
"Maybe you should have spent more time sleeping, then," Varric quipped voice lowered so only she could hear him, "and spent less time mussing the sheets with the mage."
She shot him a glare and, Maker, if it didn't take his breath away. Her high cheekbones, flushed from drink, her kissable lips, those dark eyes, so dangerous and expressive. Maybe the barb had been a mistake. It had been years since they had so much as seen Anders but the dwarf knew that scar ran deep.
For a moment the narrowed squint of her gaze lingered and he worried he might owe her an apology, but then her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips curved into a beautiful, wicked smile. "It wasn't the mage," she said. "I could hear your snoring through three rooms in that Lowtown tavern."
Varric laughed boisterously and took a long pull of ale from his mug. "Poor Blondie," he sighed exaggeratedly, "you were thinking of me while lying next to him." He turned to Hawke and winked just in time to see the blush climbing up the pale stretch of her neck. Then she ducked her head and hid behind what little barrier her short black locks offered.
Drunk, and emboldened by their, admittedly new, connection, Varric lifted his hand and brushed the strands away, tucking a finger under her chin and turning her to look at him. He smiled at her, thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek as he admired the red scar that streaked over the bridge of her nose – the place she had so often streaked crimson paint across. He loved that about her, how she owned everything she was. Other women might have hidden from such a mark, but not his Hawke. "You don't ever have to hide your face from me, sweetheart," he said sincerely. She blushed harder, smiled softly, and leaned into his touch. It turned him into absolute jelly to see her being so vulnerable, so trusting. He'd gotten very lucky somehow.
"That was a long time ago," she said softly, pulling away from his touch, turning her eyes away, and emptying her mug in one long swallow. He felt a little disappointed by that, until her hand came to rest on his thigh. He smirked up at her wondering when he could get her alone again. Their dalliance had been going on for months now. He knew how he felt, and he'd even managed to get Hawke to open up but there was no such thing as having enough of her, he was finding. It was so odd to love an available woman.
Varric drained his drink and called for another round. The tavern at Skyhold was a wonderful place, he decided. Good audiences, good drink, fair music… but he missed Kirkwall. He and Hawke had discussed going back, helping to rebuild the city. And they would. As soon as the Inquisitor left he and Hawke would be on their way. Of course that trip had been postponed several times now. At this rate the Inquisitor and Dorian wouldn't leave in time to beat the snow.
Truth be told, Varric didn't mind the delays. He liked it here, and he didn't want to leave Cole. He was still working on that. The boy seemed reluctant. This was the first home he had ever known, the first place he had felt safe and accepted, and the boy was too new to the world to realize that it was the people who mattered, not the place. He'd come around eventually, they just needed time.
The night passed with laughter and singing and lingering looks until he felt his bed calling. He and Hawke left the tavern side by side, a bit inebriated, giggling and trading friendly barbs as they walked down the hill toward the stables. There was a time they would have had to be quiet to avoid waking and angering Blackwall, but the Warden was out recruiting. He'd come back to Skyhold with the makings of a new order of Grey Wardens… if he was lucky. So, the stables seemed like a nice place to find some privacy on a late summer night such as this.
They were halfway to the bottom of the hill when a man in a cloak with hood drawn stumbled into them. In any other place in the world Varric would have been on guard for pickpockets and assassins but this was Skyhold. It was small, though a town proper was springing up outside the walls. He knew all the faces here, friendly and not so friendly.
"All right there, friend?" Varric asked as he reached out to steady the man. Hawke took a step to the side so she might better see the person. Maker, but he stank. He smelled of sour ale and sharp liquor and unwashed body. Varric could see now that the cloak, beyond tattered, was nearly worn through, patched a dozen times if once. From what he could see of the clothing underneath they'd been worn for a long time without changing. Worn out trousers and the fringe of an unraveling hem, poked out.
"Sorry," the man muttered. He started to continue on his way but Varric held up a hand, stopping him.
"Is there something we can help you with?" Varric asked. "You looking for someone?"
"Yes," the man sighed, "I am." Then the man leaned forward over Varric, revealing his face to the dwarf. A fringe of red-blonde hair fell out of the hood. Caramel eyes that had once been bright and full of life were now gazing intently at the dwarf, but there was no light in them. Hard lines of pain were written across the mage's face, and where once there had been a scruff of facial hair there now blossomed a full and tangled beard.
"Blondie?" Varric whispered in shock. That was all the time he had to react before Hawke reached out and pulled the hood back revealing Anders, or what was left of him, to the night sky. Varric watched her reactions carefully. Her fingers went to her lips and her eyes pooled with rare and startling tears. She reached out, pulling the mage into a fierce huge, despite the filth of him, and fisted her hands in his battered cloak.
"You're alive," she sobbed brokenly. "Thank the Maker, you're alive."
Varric wasn't sure how he felt about this. He was happy Anders was okay. Even with all his faults, they had been good friends. He knew losing track of him had been hard Hawke. Hell, it had been hard on him too. But he hadn't anticipated she would react like… well, like that. He was just starting to feel like a third wheel when she pulled back from the mage and he could see her face had gone hard with anger.
"You lying son of a darkspawn," she growled as her fist drew back. In the moment before it connected across Anders's cheek Varric could see the resignation on the mage's face. He didn't try to move, or stop her. He stood firm, took the blow, and then fell backwards with an audible "thud," unconscious. "Shit," she muttered quietly, clenching and unclenching her fist.
"Maker," Varric said with a long low whistle. "Remind me not to get on your bad side." He looked from the mage up at Hawke and saw her looking at him, tears still glittering in the moonlight. Those tears were as much of a shock as Anders's arrival… well, nearly. He could count the number of times he had seen them on one hand. She much preferred fighting to crying. He took her hand in his and slowly peeled her fingers open before dropping a kiss across her knuckles. "It's okay, Hawke," he said softly.
She nodded, squeezed his hand, and straightened her back. "We need to put him somewhere out of the way," she said authoritatively. "Any suggestions?"
"There are some unused rooms in the ramparts. They're in need of repair but they'll do fine for this season," he suggested. Hawke nodded, looking down on the unconscious mage. "You'll have to carry him, though, seeing has how you knocked him out and all."
She nodded again and leaned down, taking him over her shoulders easily. "Andraste," she swore, "he doesn't weigh a thing. Alright, Fuzzy, lead the way."
"You know I hate it when you call me that," Varric mock-grumbled with a grin and began walking.
"No you don't," she replied, the smallest hint of a smile returning to her tone.
"No," he admitted with a smirk, "I don't."
The room off the ramparts wasn't too far, though getting the bloody mage up the stairs to it had been an interesting exercise. Still, Hawke was a capable woman and soon enough they had put Anders on the cold stone floor and gone to fetch a few things. A simple bedroll and blanket would have to do for bedding. Varric rustled up a change of clothing and a basin for washing, even a razor to deal with what was, clearly, a matted mess of a beard. Hawke had gathered some food – bread, cheese, water – and candles.
When they returned with the goods Anders was sitting up against the wall, slumped, arms wrapped around himself, pulling his cloak tight. He didn't even look up when they entered. "I deserved that," he said.
"Yes," Hawke agreed, setting down her items. She busied herself with lighting candles to see by and setting things into proper places. "You did. And more."
"No kidding," Varric said. "You got off easy, Blondie."
Anders looked up at them and managed a weak smile. "You can hit me as many times as you like," he said. "I'm just happy you're alive. Both of you."
"Whoa there," Varric said warningly, "best not to tempt her."
"I don't want to hit you," Hawke grumbled, somewhat unconvincingly. She finished setting up the bedding and then walked over to the mage. "I want you to get naked, wash up, shave, put on clean clothes, BURN the rags you're wearing, and then tell us what in the Void you are doing in Skyhold."
Anders nodded, rose shakily to his feet, and began disrobing. "Uh," Varric drawled, "do you need help?" The mage shook his head. "Right then, we'll be right outside." He gestured to the door and Hawke departed. He followed, the door swinging shut behind them. As soon as it was closed Hawke put her back to the stone wall of the room and slid down until she was seated with her knees pulled tight to her chest and her head resting on them.
Varric stood next to her and ran the palm of his hand across the top of her head, feeling the silky slip of her dark hair under it. "Alright, Hawke?" he asked after a moment.
"No," she said, voice muffled.
"That's okay, sweetheart," he replied dropping a kiss atop her head. Hawke reached up and grabbed his free hand, squeezing tightly. They stayed that way, silently comforting, reassuring, until they heard the door swing open.
"I'm done," Anders said.
Varric led the way, Hawke trailing reluctantly behind. There was a heavy silence in the room, nearly suffocating. The mage didn't speak. Hawke put herself in the farthest corner, shaded by darkness. He understood why she did that. She was a fighter. When she felt unsafe she would assume whatever position afforded her the most control. From her current spot she could see all the exits, the light didn't quite reach her, making her expression hard to read and offering her the chance to strike first if things came to blows. She even pulled out her favorite knife and idly picked underneath her nails, subtly threatening. She was probably working out of pure instinct right now. Given the only other people in the room were the ones who had known her the best in the last eight years none of these tactics were going to be effective. Varric considered telling her so, but if this made her feel safe, in a situation that was, at best, precarious, than perhaps it was wiser to let her indulge in the ritual.
But, Maker help him, he could not endure the silence. "So, Anders," Varric drawled as he found his way to a bit of fallen wall and parked his bottom on it. "Now that you're out of those rags I can practically smell a story on you." Anders didn't answer right away and Varric was left with nothing to do but watch him. The washing and dressing and shaving had made a real difference in him. He looked almost recognizable as the affable, caring healer he had known. But if anything that only highlighted exactly how much he had changed.
It was obvious the mage had been having a hard time. He'd never been built like a warrior but he'd had a fair amount of lean muscle on that wiry frame. Now he was thin. Eaten away to almost nothing. The clothes they had found would have done passingly well if he matched the image the dwarf still carried in his head, but on this man the clothes fell loosely. Nothing fit. His hair was pulled back now, with a scrap of fabric, but the locks were too long and still greasy. He'd need a proper bathing as soon as they could manage. There were new scars on the parts of him they could see, his neck, his face, his hands. Those had been the hands of a man who mended wounds. Now they were the hands of hard days, of struggle, of bloodshed.
However, it was the eyes that really cut Varric. Anders had been an expressive man. It might have been pain or amusement or longing or even anger, but those eyes had never looked as they looked now. Varric didn't need to hear the story to know what those eyes said. Defeat. Desperation. Resignation. There was simply no fight left in the mage.
"I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here," Anders said softly. He looked around the room, but didn't linger on any particular spot. Varric made a soft, noncommittal noise of encouragement. "I came here because I heard you were here, Varric."
The dwarf felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. "Me?" Well that's not how he would have written it at all. The revolutionary who had betrayed the woman who loved him should have been here for her. That at least made sense. Find the girl, make amends, ride off into the sunset. What could he possibly want with Varric?
"Yeah," Anders said. His voice was so rough. "I heard you and the Inquisitor were close. Heard a lot of things the last few years. When the Order of the Seekers snatched you up I tried to keep up to date on my info. Thought they might be after me."
"Oh," Hawke said from across the room, "they are." She didn't look up from the knife and her nails. "But they were asking Varric where I was." The mage looked despondent.
"Well, Blondie," Varric said, "it's nice to know you care, but why bother? You think I was going to give you up? Did you come here to find out what I told them? Bit late."
Anders shook his head. "No, I figured even if you had said anything they had bigger problems, what with the Breach and all. I came to ask you for your help."
This time Varric's jaw fell open in genuine shock. Help? What could Varric possibly do? He didn't have to ask. It seemed that, with the floodgates open, Anders couldn't stop talking.
"I've seen what the Inquisition has done for the mages in Ferelden. What it continues to do. I've heard things… impossible things, Varric," he said looking up at the dwarf properly. Varric returned the gaze steadily, managing to close his mouth and act like an intelligent being. "If even half of the things I have heard are true, then I had to come."
"I still don't see how I can help you, Blondie," Varric said honestly.
The mage looked back to the floor. "I – I knew I had no right to ask you," he said weakly. "But I had nowhere else to go."
Hawke was across the room in an instant. The knife clattered to the stone floor as she dropped it to grab Anders and pull him to his feet. He didn't resist, didn't even look surprised. "Give me one good reason," she growled in his face, "why I shouldn't drag you before the Inquisitor to face justice right now."
Anders swallowed thickly. "Because," he said slowly. "Justice is the problem. And if we don't fix it, he's going to rage through Thedas like a storm."
VVV
Fitzwilliam's head was aching. Maker, he was the Inquisitor not a magic theorist! Yet Dagna, Sandal, and Doctus Dexsius had been talking his ears off all morning in an attempt to explain their latest breakthrough. They were clearly very excited about it, but he wasn't really grasping the concept. That was a consequence of assembling this team, he supposed. Dagna and sandal were enthusiasm incarnate. And the good doctus, though he appeared quite refined and dignified in his fine Tevinter robes, was hardly better when it came to this project.
Fitzwilliam had to admit, Doctus Kaeso Dexsius looked excellent for a man of his age, and once again he silently thanked Dorian for recommending him to the job. Dexsius's hair, though it had gone white, had not thinned, and the absentminded disheveled look he sported more days than not was certainly attractive on him. Perhaps that was the problem here, the man was distracting Fitz with his obvious charms.
"You see," he was saying, attempting to explain the theory in a different way. "If you sever the lyrium at its most basic fundamental levels one part cannot be effected without the opposite part being equally but oppositely effected!" He waved his hands excitedly. "That is how we will make this work. We will sever it, put one half in one location and its opposite in another. Then when they are activated they will speak to each other!"
Fitzwilliam stared blankly, then turned to the mage at his side. Dorian's eyes were not glazed as he stroked the small patch of hair beneath his lower lip. On the contrary, they positively twinkled with excitement. "Dexsius," he said at last, "that's brilliant!" The mage turned to Fitzwilliam, animated and eager, his mustache lifted dramatically as a grin stretched his face. Fitz's eyes were drawn to his lips, however, and it was all he could do not to kiss him. "Don't you see what this means?"
Fitz nodded absently, then blinked looking back up at Dorian's eyes. "Sorry, what?" He wasn't sure if it was simply obvious that his mind was wandering or if he had the Lenen'hima'sa, the ancient magic which bound his soul and emotions to Dorian's, to blame for betraying him. As much as Fitzwilliam appreciated it, at times the Elvhen link was a downright hindrance to any attempt at deception. The mage could simply feel Fitz's distraction, just as Fitzwilliam was now feeling Dorian's amusement.
Dorian laughed. "Are you catching any of this, Amatus?"
"Sadly," Fitzwilliam said, "no. I don't know why you insist on me coming to these briefings."
"Because this was your beautifully insane idea," Dorian replied with a smirk. "And it's you who brings me. And why do you bring me?" he asked rhetorically. He did not allow Fitzwilliam time to respond. "To explain. So allow me to try." He waited for Fitzwilliam's nod, so much more reverent before company than he was in their private rooms, before beginning. "Imagine a dance," Dorian began and Fitzwilliam instantly groaned. "No," he said, eyeing the man. "You're right, don't do that." The mage stood and took the Inquisitor's hand, pulling the reluctant man to the center of the room. "Why imagine a dance when we could just as easily perform one?"
They began, with no music, a dance they both knew well. It was a complex number, requiring many different steps and gestures as well as an exact paralleling of your partner's movements. "You see," Dorian said with a smile. "The principle works like this: one half of the lyrium will lead, the other will have to mirror. They will move in what is, essentially, opposite ways, but they are not working counter to one another. They are working in opposite ways to a common cause." As they danced, through the motions of their bodies, Fitzwilliam could feel what the mage was saying. He was not doing the same things Dorian was, he was doing the opposite of them. Yet they did not crash together and tumble to the floor in a heap. Instead, they made something beautiful.
"Maker," Fitzwilliam gasped, looking into Dorian's eyes, "but you have a way with words."
Dorian chuckled affectionately. "Perhaps we should continue this dance later," he suggested in a low voice. "In private?" Fitzwilliam nodded. The dance stopped and, sadly, they parted. He always felt colder when Dorian's touch was gone.
The couple turned back to the, momentarily forgotten, group of scholars. Two dwarves and a Tevinter mage. Dexsius looked on, expression as politely blank as he could manage, though his eyes betrayed a twinkle, at least, of amusement. Sandal always looked a little dreamy so nothing much had changed there, just a smile and a distant gaze. Dagna, however, was obviously suppressing some sort of high-pitched squeal. She was entirely too interested in the Inquisitor and mage's relationship and Fitzwilliam was pretty sure he knew who was to blame on that account – Varric. Fitzwilliam had seen scraps of his next novel making the rounds.
"So," Fitz said, diving right back in and ignoring the responses of the inventors. "What you're telling me is that if we sever the lyrium in the right way, link it via the fade, and put the pieces in different locations we can use them to move objects across space?"
"Well," Dexsius drawled, clearly attempting to play along in the Inquisitor ruse of disinterest. "That's a rather paired down summation, but yes, essentially."
"That's amazing!" Fitzwilliam shouted. However, upon inspection is became abundantly clear that the room had a quid pro quo to add. "So… what's the problem?"
"Well," Dagna spoke up, apparently her interest in this project trumped her delight in seeing the dance. "We'd need a lot of lyrium, Inquisitor."
"The Inquisition has that kind of access," he said. "It shouldn't be an issue."
"And it all has to be in one solid piece…" she added slowly.
"Oh." Well, that would make it more difficult. "Just tell me what you need to make this work," he said finally.
"On the small scale," Dexsius interjected, "we have what we need to make another prototype, one that can transfer larger objects than apples. But to make this happen as per your requests we will need a single, sizeable chunk."
"How sizeable, exactly?" Dorian asked.
"Large enough to fit at least a single, grown, male Qunari inside," the white-haired mage responded.
Dorian let out a long, slow whistle. "That's going to take some serious string pulling," Fitzwilliam mused.
"Ha," Dorian scoffed. "String pulling? That's going to require a whole damn puppet show!"
"I'll see what can be done," Fitzwilliam assured. "But you're going to have to get the next prototype working perfectly. There's no way under the Maker that you'll get a second chance at a chunk of lyrium as large as Iron Bull. There will be no room for error."
Dexsius nodded. "Understood, Inquisitor."
"How's Sandal doing?" Fitzwilliam looked at the dwarf as he asked and the boy smiled back dumbly.
"The lack of language has been a barrier," the doctus admitted, "but give the boy the pieces and the theory and you'd swear he was a mage. The things he can do are astounding."
Dagna put a protective arm around the boy and smiled up at the Inquisitor. "Sandal's mind is beautiful," she said. "It's a shame so much of his time was wasted on basic enchantment."
"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaimed. Dagna grinned.
"Well if he needs anything," Fitzwilliam assured, "you be sure to let me know. Or if I'm not available find Varric. He's… resourceful." They shared a knowing smile of amusement and Fitzwilliam winked at her before turning on his heel.
Fitzwilliam and Dorian left the undercroft and began to climb the long stair back to the hall.
"I'll head to Alexius," Dorian said. "See if he has any input on the matter."
"How is Alexius?" Fitzwilliam asked. "You two have been spending time together but he cannot be enjoying his seclusion."
Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "He's no fan of the Templar-trained sentry," the mage agreed. "But he feels fortunate to be alive and allowed to work. He had feared you'd have him made tranquil."
"Oh," Fitz said emphatically, "I had considered it. After everything the man had done it was clear he was a danger."
"I must confess," Dorian said, stopping and turning to look down at Fitzwilliam one stair below him. "I am not clear on why you did not. That is what the right of tranquility is for, after all."
Fitzwilliam considered his answer carefully. There had been many factors leading up to that decision. And in the months after defeating Coryphaeus he did wonder if he had made the right choice. The world had always had dangers enough, and he questioned whether or not the cost of removing them was worth the safety it would assure. But, he supposed, in this case his ruling had come down to a single trait the accused had possessed. "Alexius," he began slowly, "was a good father." He watched Dorian's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I remember talking to you about Felix, about the days when Gereon was your mentor. When he gave you another chance at having a family. He was blinded by his love, not by his hate. In my estimation, that was his saving grace."
Dorian's hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling their heads close as his mouth slanted over his in a deep kiss that lingered. Here, in the dark and chill of the stone stair to the belly of Skyhold, they did not worry over passersby and gossip. The world was the two of them, the smell of dirt, and the trickle of water. When they parted Fitzwilliam inhaled deeply, pulling the citrus and spice scent of the man he loved along with the air his lungs craved.
"You should really consider a career shift," Dorian said smugly as he pulled farther from Fitzwilliam's touch. "You're going to make a terrible assassin. You care far too much for people. The market in Tevinter will eat you alive."
Fitz smirked up at the mage. "I think the clientele make a rather good argument for the need for an assassin with a conscience."
Dorian's smile lingered as he turned his back to the man and continued their ascent. "Speaking of," he said nonchalantly, "aren't you late for your meeting with Leliana?"
"Andraste!" Fitzwilliam exclaimed, scrambling past the mage and rushing up the stair. "She's going to kill me, Dorian!"
The roiling bubble of the mage's amused laughter followed him, echoing up the length of the cut-stone stairway as he ran for the door.
…
Varric sat heavily upon his bed. His elbows resting on his knees, his hands propped up and ready to receive his head, which they promptly did. His palms rubbed at rough stubble and tired eyes. Near the table he could hear Hawke pacing anxiously. He couldn't blame her. Anders's story had been a hard one, and the choices they now faced… even harder. It seemed Blondie had lost control of the spirit. He wasn't an abomination... yet, though that was precious little comfort.
The mage had looked so weak, so fragile – downright defeated. It had been hard for Varric seeing him like that, but Hawke had been unhinged by it. She'd been flying from rage to mourning all night. Even now, as the early dawn light seeped through the curtains and exhaustion pulled at them, she could find no peace. It hurt the dwarf to see her like this, confused and worried. She was used to being in charge, taking action, but in this there was precious little she could do. She wasn't a mage, she didn't have resources at her disposal or knowledge of the spirit world. She was, for once, just as trapped as the rest of them.
And Maker forgive him, but he just couldn't stand the steady stomp of her footfalls any longer.
"Hawke, sweetheart," he sighed, looking up at her. "Please. Stop." She halted but when her head snapped over to look at him it held a dangerous glare. He attempted weak smile and patted the bed. "C'mere."
For a moment she simply held that gaze, all steel and hardness, but then her shoulders slumped. The fight went out of her and she came over and sat beside him. He reached out, carefully, and put his hand on her thigh. He hoped the weight and heat of it was as comforting to her as the solid warmth of her muscle was to him. It was good to touch her, to know she was here.
"What do we do, Varric?" She asked. Void take him, if he had thought she looked defeated then her voice was downright desperate.
He let his thumb move, making small sweeps across her trousers. "I don't know," he said honestly. Hawke's hand reached out slipping under his as she shifted to press herself closer to his side. Despite their height differences Hawke leaned, resting her head of fringed dark hair atop his own.
"Are you worried?" She asked softly.
Varric nodded slightly, her head moving with his. "About Blondie? Yeah."
"About us," she clarified. Her voice had gone so low he could barely make out the words. He swallowed thickly. He'd been avoiding that question in his own mind. What Anders coming back would mean for their fledgling relationship. He didn't want to think about it now any more than he had wanted to when he saw Anders standing there. But he couldn't very well ignore her when she was asking him a direct question.
He cleared his throat. "I wouldn't say worried," he said slowly. "That's not the appropriate word. Word choice is important in crafting a narrative, Hawke."
She huffed softly and lifted her head from his. "Now?" She asked gruffly. "You want to have an argument about semantics right now?"
He sighed. No. He didn't. He had fallen into familiar habits in an effort to defend himself. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. "No, I'm sorry." He lowered it, but couldn't let go. "I'm not worried," he said finally, "but, yeah. I wonder what this means for our story."
Hawke was quiet longer than he would have liked, merely fidgeting beside him until she worked up the nerve to speak. "I just… I wish I knew, Varric. I'm too full of emotions right now. It's hard to pick out any single one."
The dwarf nodded. "I get that," he said. "Really I do. But…"
"But?" Hawke asked, turning to look down at him.
"But, forgive me for being just a tad selfish here, sweetheart." He shrugged, managed a small smirk. "I've gotten used to having you around."
That provoked a small chuckle from her and Varric couldn't help the warmth that swelled in him upon hearing it. It was pride and affection and desire and admiration all in a roiling boil in his chest.
"Same here, Fuzzy," she said in a rich voice. She pressed a kiss atop his head.
"Good to hear," he managed thickly. He felt a little of the pressure ease then. At least she didn't want to chuck him. Even if it had been a frivolous fear, it was still a good one to see off. He knew it wasn't over. He'd seen the way she'd looked at Anders. He'd seen that look directed at himself, recently, though with a tad less disbelief. She was every bit as in love with that mage as she had been the day they parted ways. "So what now?"
Hawke tilted her head to the side, considering carefully. He was willing to admit he was afraid of her answer. He'd honor her choice, but that didn't mean it would be easy. The silence was starting to grate on him. "Varric," she began in a slow, uncertain voice. "Is it okay if I don't know? I mean. Is it okay if we just see where it goes?"
He nodded slowly but couldn't help feeling uneasy, just leaving things up in the air like that. He must not have been as good of an actor as he was a writer, because Hawke wasn't buying it. She looked at him closely, scrutinizing his face though he refused to look directly at her.
"It's not okay," she said slowly. "You're still worried." He felt her slide from the bed to the floor and moved to kneel in front of him. She looked up at him and he felt his heart stop. He almost never saw her like this, looking up at him. Her face was crinkled with worry, her eyes dark pools shinning with love and pleading for understanding. She was beautiful. His hand reached out, the back of his hand stroking against her cheek out of a reflexive need to smooth the lines and sooth her. He wanted to say something, anything to assure her but all his clever words were lost.
She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed briefly as warm air escaped her in a long even breath. When she opened them again they looked clearer, more sure. "I still want you, Varric," she said calmly. His nod was weak and unconvincing, even to him. Her eyes narrowed and she shifted, moving up on her knees and pressing closer to him. "I still want you," she whispered again. He repeated his action but it only served to make her eyes glint more determinedly.
She tilted her head and closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in a kiss that was slow and deep like the feel of stone – solid, sure. It took him over body and soul and soon he found he was pushing back and pulling her closer at the same time, letting the slick slide of her lips guide him.
Her hands slipped under the open breast of his tunic, fingers curling in the thick hair there and pulling appreciative moans from deep within him. His hands slid into her hair, fingertips massaging just behind her ears. He felt her shiver and smile at the same time. Deft fingers worked the clasps at the front of his tunic, baring him to her. Varric pulled back to look at her. She was flushed, lips red and wet, eyes burning with want. And Maker help him, he believed her. "I want you too," he whispered as he pulled her to him. She followed compliantly easing back onto the bed and drawing him down with her.
He pressed her back against the bed, leaning over her and letting his lips trail down the expanse of her throat. She was so pale for a warrior. He always expected her to be sun-worn, but her skin was white and creamy. He delighted in her soft sounds of appreciation as his hands slid under the hem of her shirt and found the supple skin of her waist. He let his touch linger there, light and teasing until she made a low sound in the back of her throat. The frustrated growl vibrated against his lips, tickling him and he laughed, leaning back to look down at her. "Something wrong, sweetheart?" He asked as he slid the palm of his hand across her stomach.
She huffed at him, but didn't answer, choosing instead to take advantage of the space he had created between them. Her hands moved down to the bottom of her shirt and she started trying to pull it over her head. Varric, however, was deeply amused at how difficult their current positioning made this simple effort, and thusly refused to move. She managed to pull it about halfway up, exposing her abdomen and ribs, before she could manage no farther. "Ugh," she grunted, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Varric, either move or help."
He briefly considered doing neither, so great was his amusement. "I dunno, sweetheart," he said with a grin that was going to buy him a world of trouble. "I can see a lot of advantages to leaving you like this." Then he ducked his head and peppered kisses around her navel. Her reaction was beauty itself, as she wriggled and shrieked, laughing and attempting to push him away.
"Varric," she managed between giggles. "Stop! Ah."
He did as she asked and shifted his attention lower. His hands fell to her hips, his mouth pressing a firm trail to her sex. Her laughter shifted to a deep moan and she squirmed beneath him. He took advantage of her distraction and unlaced her trousers before returning his hands to their hem, pulling them off in a single swift motion, and taking her smallclothes with them. One of his prouder moments, really.
"Hawke," he purred, as he hurriedly clamored back to the apex of her thighs. He rubbed his nose in the short curls just above her already glistening slit and breathed deeply. "You smell delicious." He glanced up to find her propped up on her elbows, looking down at him with wild desperate eyes, all attempts at removing her tunic had been utterly abandoned. He held that gaze as his fingers spread her open to him. Hawke bit her lip. When his tongue snaked out and pressed a long slow lick to her wet folds her eyes rolled back in her head and squeezed shut before her entire body trembled under his touch and she fell flat onto her back.
He wanted to stay there forever, reveling in the way she arched into his touch, her mewling cries of pleasure, and the wet evidence of her arousal coating his chin. He pressed two wide fingers inside her and curled them, watching as her body convulsed. His free hand moved to her cup her ass, lifting her slightly so that he might dip his tongue to meet the place where his fingers pumped her dripping heat. He wasn't giving her the slow build she had anticipated. He was already hard and aching to fill her, to feel the clutching that surrounded his fingers applied to the place he really wanted it.
If his mouth hadn't been so busy he would have had a self-satisfied smirk on his face from the way she moved against him, her pelvis rocking steadily up against his face, begging for more friction. He let his fingers thrust harder, matching her pace, curling brush the spot he knew would drive her over the edge. The hand on her cheek squeezed and it was more than she could take. "Varric!" She screamed as her body fell apart around him, instinct taking over. He continued, relentless, as one of her hands fisted in the bedding and the other gripped his shoulder. Every muscle in her body became hard, pulling her so tight she was half-way to sitting up. She rode his hand and face, shaking with pleasure until the sensation waned and she flopped back gracelessly.
She was still panting for breath when he crawled up and took her mouth, kissing her, their saliva mixing with the heady taste of her sex. She indulged that kiss, moaning at the taste of herself, pulling him closer and delving her tongue deeply into his mouth, seeking out more. He rocked his hips against her, aching. Her hands slid under his tunic and slid it off before they traveled lower and began pulling at the ties of his trousers. "Roll over," she managed breathily when the kiss ended.
He saw no reason to deny her and rolled onto his back on the bed. She undid his lacing deftly, then pulled the breeches down, disrobing him quickly. Generally Hawke preferred to take her time, tease him, touch him and taste him – not this time. As soon as he was bare she climbed atop him, straddling his manhood. He could feel the moisture that had gathered between her legs pressing against the stout length below her.
Varric wasn't built like a human. His cock wasn't all thinness and length. He'd been worried at first. Worried that she would need that to find pleasure. But he quickly found that the somewhat shorter length was no hindrance when paired with his superior girth. The first few times they had had to go achingly slow. Hawke wasn't accustomed to stretching so wide. But now they'd had plenty of practice.
She sank down on him in a single slow slide, moaning as he filled her. "Maker's breath," Varric gasped, watching her sex swallow him.
"Fuuuuck," she drawled. Once seated on him she leaned over and kissed him again as her hips began rocking. He thrust up to meet her as he tangled his hands in the short fringe of her dark brown hair. Slowly, she picked up the pace until they were writhing and moaning.
She sat up, leaning backward slightly and his cock sank into her, to his sack, as deep as he could get. His hands moved to her hips, clutching her firmly as he pushed up harder. She threw her head back, a soft keening dripping from her open mouth. He could feel her tight depths fluttering around him. She was holding back, waiting for him. He knew it.
Well, that wasn't going to do at all. He lifted a hand from her hip and grabbed her right wrist, tenderly guiding her digits to the place where their bodies met. Her eyes opened and she looked down at him.
"Touch yourself," Varric said in a voice gone rough with want.
She furrowed her brow. "But I already…"
"I want to watch you," he admitted. "I want to watch you touch yourself and I want to see your face when you come. I want to feel you shaking and hear you screaming and I want to know we found pleasure in each other." He felt her core shudder at his words. "Touch yourself," he said again in a low rumble.
Her hand started moving, fingers dipping down to her entrance, gathering her arousal and pulling it to the top of her opening making her slick. There was nothing reserved about the way she moved, riding him hard, fingers rubbing frantically as he pushed into her again and again, meeting her move for move.
Soon her breathing had become uneven, her movements desperate. She was muttering his name over and over like a prayer, "Varric, Varric, Varric…"
He felt it building, the liquid pool in his groin and knew he wasn't going to be able to hold back. "Let go, sweetheart," he whispered.
And she did. He watched as her face crumpled, looking almost pained by the intensity of the pleasure washing over her. She was such a picture in that moment – head thrown back, her breasts, flushed pink and coming to a point in tight rosy nipples, thrust forward, the muscles of her torso pulled tight as her center tried to crush his aching shaft. It was that picture which broke him. His sack tightened almost painfully, and his fingers dug into her thigh as he gripped her tightly and bucked up into her. He spilled himself as her inner muscles tried to pull him deeper still, consuming his seed, making him a part of her entirely, something no one could take. He grunted and groaned, body moving out of primal instinct, his cock shooting stream after stream until he thought he would be sucked dry.
She collapsed on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder, body shivering. He was shaking too, he realized as he lifted an unsteady arm and wrapped it around her. Aftershocks of their orgasms trembled through them as they held each other tightly. Hawke pressed kisses to whatever bits of skin they found. She was muttering something but he couldn't hear her, so soft were her words.
One last kiss fell, and her body sagged. He rolled her over onto her side, his soft length sliding from her. His hand smoothed back her hair and he caught her eye. "I love you, Varric," she whispered.
He kissed her, soft and slow, trying to put everything he didn't have a word for into it. When they parted he rested his forehead against hers and replied, "I love you too."
AN: This fic is a stand-alone written for Tumblr's Dragon Age: Big Bang event, but it is also a companion piece to my (completed) fic, Birthrights. While it was written to stand on its own merit it does come in on already established relationships.
The positively lovely companion art was done by Eclectify at . She has been amazing as we worked on our respective projects and went far above and beyond for this story. Visit her site and give her all the love in the world!