Varric forced his feet to keep moving, one step at a time, until he was finally standing—squirming— outside the Hawke estate. He wasn't sure when exactly he'd gotten so fucking thick… why he was there at all, when Hawke had already sent him a very clear note to stay away? She didn't want to see him, which was convenient, since he really didn't want to see her all sick and gross with whatever filthy disease she'd managed to pick up during their last foray into the sewers. He certainly didn't want to get sick, because shit, who had time to laze around in bed for a week, drowning in snot? Not Varric Tethras, that was for damn sure.
His mother, the Stone keep her, used to make a truly awful tea out of red lichen and some other horrific cave slime, supposedly good for ailments of the lungs, and it was something he remembered with a strange, masochistic sort of fondness from when he'd been a boy. Sometime between Hawke's first complaint of a cough and when she'd finally quarantined herself, he'd just happened upon the recipe tucked away in his mother's effects. It was beside the point that he hadn't even glanced at her things in years, or that he'd had to dig through a dozen crates of musty old junk before he found what he was definitely not looking for—
Once upon a time, he'd been a much better liar, especially to himself. Maybe it was a side effect of Hawke's craziness rubbing off on him. What a frightening thought.
So, there he was, lamenting the end of his promising career as a businessman, with a skull as thick as Orzammar granite and not a single sane thought left clanking around between his ears. When Bodahn answered the door, with an expression more haggard and annoyed than may have ever before graced the man's usually jovial face, Varric tucked the small satchel of tea inside his coat like a panicky kid who'd just picked his first pocket.
"Serah Tethras," Bodahn sighed, and actually sagged against the door. "You— Come in, please. She's upstairs, in her room."
There were warning bells pealing in his head, but whatever insanity had convinced Varric to spend a very awkward morning stuffing stinking bits of moss into little gauze bags, it now led him quickly inside the dimly lit house. The lamps were all burning low, while the fireplace was churning out an unforgiving kind of heat— just walking past the entrance, getting the first whiff of sick human, Varric knew he was in for some serious nastiness. There wasn't another living soul to be seen, except the mabari curled up snoring in front of the hearth. According to Bodahn's hushed explanation, even Madam Leandra had given up and retired to her own room after one too many feverish tantrums.
He heard Hawke before he saw her, and the sound of her wet, hacking cough blaring through her bedroom door made him stall on the staircase. This was… this was really gross already, Maker save him.
No. There would be no turning back. He could do this— it was just Hawke, beautiful, incredible Hawke, and he was going to drop in for a quick hello (no touching), because he was a moron. No problem at all.
The coughing trailed off, and the room was quiet by the time he made it to the door. Squaring his shoulders, Varric reached up and knocked very, very softly… then again a little bit harder when he got no answer.
He barely recognised the voice that snarled back at him, furious and deeply hoarse. "Blight take you, what is it now? Can't you let me die in peace?"
He could. He could leave right then, sprint all the way back to Lowtown and bury himself in drink and paperwork until Hawke was better or dead. It took a significant portion of his willpower to turn the door handle and inch inside.
The room stunk of stale sweat, and Varric very purposefully left the door opened wide behind him, just to air some of it out. There was a large, motionless lump curled up under a mountain of blankets, and he could hear laboured breathing puffing out of the heap.
He took a few more silent steps, sidling around to one side of the bed while keeping a relatively safe distance. "Hey there, sweetheart," he said gently, like he was talking to a spooked horse, and the lump began to wriggle pitifully.
"Varric?" Winning the struggle with the quilts, Hawke's head popped out— sallow skin, sickly sunken eyes, and all. "Why— no, Maker, you shouldn't be here. I'm disgusting, and you'll get sick, and I—"
"Hey, none of that." Somehow, keeping a relatively safe distance and no touching had turned into sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing limp locks of hair away from her tacky forehead. "Just let me bask in this opportunity to be so much prettier than you, okay? I mean, it's usually a close race, but now? Shit, babe, it's like you're not even trying."
She laughed, which degraded quickly into wheezing, and then pressed her face into her pillow as the harsh coughing took her again. Varric found his hand rubbing her shoulder and back, and wasn't quite sure how it had gotten there. When she finally stopped, she didn't bother rolling back over to look at him again, curling tighter around the pillow and groaning.
"You'll get sick," she said again, muffled by cotton and goose down, and he dearly wished she'd stop reminding him. "Told you not to come."
"You tell me a lot of things." Her skin was blazing hot, even through the soft linen of her nightdress, and Varric considered whether a cool bath might be the order of the day. It couldn't hurt, if only for the smell.
He did manage to convince her that a bath was the right idea, mostly because her chills were giving way to sweats. That was how he ended up in his shirtsleeves beside a tub of lukewarm, strongly herbal bathwater, sitting on a footstool that had never been less sexy. Whatever Bodahn had insisted on mixing in the water— something on Anders' orders— it had a sharp, sterile bite that lingered in the back of his throat and made Hawke gripe even more.
A wet, nude, and slippery Hawke was a recurring dream of his— a personal favourite, especially if there were bubbles involved. This particular variation on that theme was not going into his fantasy rotation.
"This tastes like dirty darkspawn ass." She glared into the teacup Orana had brought up, filled with steaming orange liquid. The memory of the flavour Hawke was describing so succinctly nearly made him shudder, but he held back. It was an unappetising remedy, to say the very least, but it worked better than doing nothing at all. "Are you sure your mother used to make this? For children?"
He leaned an elbow on the rim of the tub, propping his cheek up in one hand. "Just plug your nose and drink it, you big baby. It'll make you feel better… unless I actually did add too much dirty darkspawn ass. That could be a problem."
Her attention shifted from the tea to him, rheumy glare flashing dark and dangerous, but then she tossed back the entire cup in one long swallow. "There—" She gagged just a little, and sank deeper into the water with a murderous scowl. "If I catch the blight and die now, it's entirely your fault."
The cup was floating in the water, a nasty stain lingering inside from the tea, and Varric snatched it up before it capsized. "So noted, Beautiful."
"Varric?" In for a silver, in for a sovereign— with fresh sheets on the bed and the room starting to air out, Varric had made himself at home for the time being, propped up against the headboard with a book while a squeaky clean Hawke was bundled beside him. He'd found a rather spicy Antivan romance hidden away on one of the library shelves, and made a mental note to thank Isabela for it later. He was only a couple of chapters in when Hawke's tiny voice broke through his concentration, but there had already been a threesome in a forest glade, a dramatically aborted duel for a lady's dubious honour, and a mysterious masked man in very tight trousers. It was complete trash, but it was hilarious trash.
Dropping the book onto his stomach, Varric glanced over to where one wide, deeply green eye peeked up at him. He'd been fairly certain she'd drifted off to sleep a while before, but now she looked entirely awake, if still miserable. "Hm? You need something, sweetheart?"
She shifted, and he felt her knees brush against his legs. "I really don't want you to get sick."
Calling up a reasonable amount of bravado, Varric shook his head. "What, me? Shit, your pansy little human bugs have got nothing on dwarven fortitude. My people are all but weaned on darkspawn taint, surrounded by that crap from the time we're born—"
Something jabbed him sharply in the hip, making him squawk. "You were born in Jader," Hawke said archly, though the mildly smug effect was ruined by her runny nose. "And you never even saw a darkspawn until you were twenty-three."
Reaching over on the bedside table for an unused handkerchief, Varric offered it to her as a not-so-subtle hint, then politely ignored her blush. "Now you're just getting bogged down by details. That'll ruin a perfectly good story, you know."
He turned back to his book while Hawke blew her nose, but only managed to get a few more paragraphs read before her sniffling became words again. "I've been sleeping for ages. Will… will you read to me?" Something in his chest constricted at her hesitant request, but it wasn't a painful feeling. It was fucking terrifying, but not painful.
"Sure." Whatever unwelcome emotions were threatening to make his voice crack, he swallowed them back, scooting down to lay closer to her. "Are you good with The Dread Pirate Hardbow, Captain of All Pleasures, or should I go grab something slightly less terrible?"
Hawke giggled, subdued enough this time that it didn't end in a coughing fit, and shimmied over until her head rested near his arm, not quite touching. Her colouring was moderately less corpse-like than before the bath and the tea. "Oh, read that. It sounds riveting."
Flipping back to the start of the book, Varric cleared his throat and began, putting on a really theatrical pitch. Tripe like this deserved no less. "It was a sultry evening in the port city of Rialto, with the air hanging warm and heavy like the embrace of a voluptuous courtesan." Hawke's head snuck over a little farther, nuzzling his shoulder, and he tried hard not to think about snot. "Lady Giovanna reclined into the silken caress of her bedclothes, aching with the memory of a more inflaming touch. The memory of a man who had brought her such wild and untamed pleasures, the likes of which could tempt even the most pious chantry sisters…"
It took three more days, but Hawke eventually clawed her way back into the realm of the hearty and hale. He wasn't stupid enough to question what may have been divine intervention, but Varric somehow managed to make it the entire time without even getting a sore throat, despite spending every evening of her recovery recounting the assorted, bawdy exploits of the Dread Pirate Hardbow and Lady Giovanna. If he'd managed to do something to get in the Maker's good graces, or some Ancestor took a shine to him, that was just peachy— as long as he could keep his lungs phlegm-free, he'd count it as a win.
On the morning of the fourth day, Varric had woken up with a crick in his neck from falling asleep partially sitting up, and Hawke grinning at him. The pinkness in her cheeks was a healthy flush, and her eyes were bright and clear. When she leaned in to press a soft kiss against his forehead, Varric forcibly shoved aside all thoughts of the ridiculous-but-still-sexy scenes he'd been reading to her just the night before, when she'd been too ill to act any of them out. Hawke might be well enough to sit up, to get dressed in real clothes and face the world, but anything more strenuous would take a bit more time.
So he'd shrugged off all thanks for staying with her, falling back on a joke or two before meandering his way back to Lowtown. It felt like years since he'd been home, even more so when he started working his way through his perpetual backlog of paperwork, but even the familiar comfort of his room and the sweet taste of a pint didn't quite feel right. He already missed the constant, irritating rasp of her breathing. That was too bizarre to contemplate.
Time apart at this point probably would have been for the best— Varric was suffering an overdose of Hawke, and the withdrawal was making him woozy. It was every conceivable kind of embarrassing, disturbing, and just weird that he was so distracted by the lack of her presence. They weren't joined at the hip— Andraste's ass, they'd end up killing each other.
Of-fucking-course his heart started hammering against his ribs when she showed up at the Hanged Man that evening, looking every inch her usual gorgeous self, and holding that stupid, blighted book.
Sometime in the mid-afternoon he'd abandoned the idea of getting any work done in his room, where every single surface was saturated with memories of Hawke, naked and otherwise. Getting work done in the tavern was almost as unlikely, with people milling in and out, stories always being told and liquor flowing, but at least he wasn't pining like a milkmaid and freaking himself out. So that was where she found him, partway through a friendly game of diamondback with Isabela, which consisted mostly of trying to out-cheat each other, and Varric had never, ever been happier to find a mouthful of ale left in his mug.
Hawke sauntered in, entirely too perfect for woman who just yesterday was a mess of snot and greasy hair, and Varric felt his mouth go dry. He slammed back the last of his drink, just in case anyone wanted him to speak, but then Hawke was walking over, and the press of her breasts against his shoulder was almost as hot as the ghost of her breath against his ear.
"Will you read to me," she whispered, letting her lips brush his skin. There was a moan lodged in his throat, but he'd choke before he let Isabela hear. Holy Maker, this woman had him trained."That last part, in the captain's cabin? Please?"
The only response required was a nod, which was very lucky. He mumbled something to excuse himself, and whatever it was made Isabela howl with laughter, but that didn't matter. Hawke was leading him upstairs with a very promising little smile and a swing to her hips that made his palms itch, and he could already feel lightning sizzling down his spine.
As soon as he had the door bolted behind them, Hawke was bending towards him, overwhelming his senses with smells and tastes— soap, a hint of her perfume, and something minty, all floating above an undertone of Hawke. No nasty herbs, no sickness, and Varric couldn't quite remember why he'd been worried about this.
His hands were flashing around like a blur, but Hawke didn't seem to be complaining— he had her stripped down to her skin in a matter of moments, her robes tossed aside with probably less care than they deserved, but his clothes and the book followed right after, so it was only fair. He was mapping her thighs, teasing over her hipbones with his thumbs as he walked her back towards the bed, and every open-mouthed kiss he pressed against her breasts made her gasp and arch against him. She was so eager,which was beyond fantastic, but then the fingers she had tangled in his hair tugged sharply, and she stopped halfway to bed.
"Chapter Eleven," she purred, setting his blood blazing with her husky tone even if he didn't understand her words at first. Then his thoughts cleared a little, and they were both suddenly on the same page, literally. Chapter Eleven, the captain's cabin… Varric scrambled through fuzzy memories of that horrifically purple prose, but maybe the basic content would be enough. He could probably skip the bit about the storm too, though he was usually big on setting the scene.
Why was he over-thinking this? Taking the time to catch her pebbled nipple gently between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue in that way that always made her hips jerk, Varric found his voice, murmuring into the softness of her chest. "Lady Giovanna struggled weakly against her merciless captor, what few scraps of clothing the sea hadn't claimed clinging to her wet, luscious body. The rough, tar-stained fingers of the Dread Pirate scraped across her delicate skin, leaving smouldering trails in their wake—" His fingers were stained with ink and tobacco, but that was apparently close enough; Hawke shivered under his touch, mewling with faint, ladylike sounds that should not have turned him on so very much, but holy shit.
"You fiend," she gasped in a breathier version of her own voice, writhing ever so slightly as he turned and started herding her towards the wall. "I will never submit, no matter what foul tactics you employ!"
Yeah, if Hardbow thought he had a good thing going on in Chapter Eleven, he should have tried it from where Varric was standing. Dwarves might need a hand reaching high shelves, but for this? He was perfect.
Getting a decent grip on Hawke's knee, Varric lifted one long leg over his shoulder, spreading most of her weight between himself and the wall as she balanced on one set of tiptoes— between that shift in angle, and curving his back a little, he was hitting a bull's-eye. He nuzzled his nose into that welcoming thatch of hair he'd missed so much, taking a moment or two to reacquaint himself with the soft, springy curls before delving deeper.
Hawke whined wordlessly, the muscles in her thigh flexing against his neck, and he used his free hand to sneak up and slide slowly down the length of her wet slit. If he hadn't been expecting her to buck, she might have knocked the both of them ass over tits, but he kept his balance and teased at the velvet of her lips, stroking and dipping ever so briefly inside as her needy sounds got louder.
She was wiggling, trying to get him to lave any sort of attention on that little pearl of sensation hidden away near his chin, but he nipped and kissed low on her belly instead, moving in exactly the wrong direction.
"Varric," she snarled, digging her nails into his scalp. "Varric, ah, please—" He pushed up with two fingers, gliding easily into the dripping heat of her, and had to bite the inside of his cheek when the tight, slick feeling and her strangled moan made his cock throb painfully.
Starting a slow, deep rhythm with his hand, crooking his fingers on every upstroke to search out that small spongy spot that made her breath stutter and her toes curl against his back, Varric tilted his head enough to look up at her heaving chest and flushed face.
"My lady," he rumbled, fierce coiling want roughening his voice without any effort. "If you find my tactics foul, please, do speak."
Then he pointed his tongue and burrowed between her folds, seeking and lapping until she shrieked and shuddered, but just like Lady Giovanna, she didn't object.
Much later, after working through the rest of Chapter Eleven, the middle bit of Chapter Twelve, and that part in Chapter Four that had turned out to be a dream sequence, Varric was blissfully content. Sure, his muscles were like jelly, his back had a twinge that might cripple him come morning, and his dick was so sensitive that a stray breeze might bring him to tears, but Hawke was in no better shape, and he was incredibly pleased with himself.
He could feel the room swimming on the other side of his eyelids, exhaustion making everything spin a bit, and sleep seemed like a top-notch kind of cure for that. Hawke was already plastered against his side, all sticky and too warm, and her breathing still had a little congested whistle on the inhale… it was disgusting how much he adored it.
"Hey," she murmured suddenly, dragging his mind out of the comforting clutches of sleep, and he grunted something vaguely inquiring in response. Her voice wasn't nearly as slurred as he'd expected, and shit, if that performance hadn't worn her out, he'd need to invest in some special equipment. A sloppy kiss pressed against his throat, and Hawke's whole gangly body tried to twist around him like a giant cat. "You know I had to re-read some of the book today? Couldn't remember what chapter I wanted."
"You… you did good, sweets," he managed, just barely comprehensible, and blindly patted the arm slung over his chest. "Mmhm, full marks."
He felt her laugh, then kiss him again, this time much softer in the crook of his neck. "Captain Hardbow, a misunderstood scoundrel with a heart of gold, falls madly in love with the elegant Lady Giovanna." He hummed something that was supposed to be great, but synopsis unnecessary; sleep now. She didn't quite get the hint. "He realizes that she's the only woman for him, but he's never let himself feel like that before. When he finally tells her, it's lovely and sexy, and they sail off into the sunset together. That's how you told it, but it's not in the book. Hardbow's an ass, and he gets killed in another duel with the Masked Stranger in Chapter Eighteen."
Oh shit. Now he was awake.
"I— uh." This wasn't fair; how was he supposed to think of a decent lie when he was wrapped up in a tangle of inescapable limbs and all his wits had just been milked out of his cock? Maybe if he wished hard enough, he'd have an apoplexy and not have to explain exactly why he was acting like some kind of love-struck twit. "That's… creative licence."
The fact that he was a love-struck twit wasn't something he'd planned to share with her, or even think about too hard. At least not yet.
Hawke was silent for long enough that he thought— prayed— that maybe she'd fallen asleep. Then, just as he started to consider relaxing again, she made her move. He could feel her looming, propped up with arms on either side of him, penning him in. Very reluctantly, he forced his eyes open.
She was staring down at him, tousled waves of rich chestnut hair spilling around her face, and she was smiling. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that particular smile before, but there was something hidden in the gentle curve of it that… well, it didn't exactly scare him, but it made his heart pound.
"Varric." She rested her chest against his, reaching up to stroke her thumb over his cheekbone and down his jaw. Her eyes searched his face, a lingering study, and her smile never wavered. "You know I love you too, don't you?"
She— he knew— what—
"Of course," he said quickly, probably too quickly if the quirk of her brow was any indication, but she didn't call him on it. "How could you not? I'm a catch, Beautiful."
He was also the luckiest bastard in Thedas, but she knew that already.