Definitely not also known as Liquid Courage 2: Dwarf Harder
Varric stepped carefully around a pile of… something and slipped into the Darktown clinic, the only half-tolerable place in the dankest pisshole in Thedas. That didn't mean it wasn't still unbelievably awful, though. There were a few patients in various states of consciousness lying around on cots, but Anders wasn't tending to anyone at that precise moment. In fact, the mage was hidden away in a back corner, hunched over a table as he scribbled madly across a sheet of parchment. The pile of pages at his elbow, dark with ink, made Varric swallow back a groan.
If he found another copy of that blighted manifesto anywhere near his guild ledgers, pages of poorly written insanity clogging up the paperwork he despised anyway, he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.
"Hey, Blondie— " Anders' head shot up, his eyes clouded in that unfocused, mildly-deranged way that Varric knew Hawke was growing more concerned about. "You got a minute?"
Varric didn't comment on the few silent moments Anders blinked at him, looking lost. Dealing with this kind of crazy was not his strong suit, nor did he especially want to get some practice at it. He just did his best to keep Blondie from getting gutted by the gangs, and tried to draw the man out of his shell when the occasion presented itself, which was less and less often these days.
Finally, Anders shook his head and glanced back at the pages in front of him, tapping his fingers absently. "Varric, I don't think we're quite far enough removed from the… incident for this to be less than awkward. But go ahead."
Well, there was that out of the way, at least.
Moving to lean against the table, then thinking better of it when he noticed a weird stain spidering out over the pitted wood, Varric shrugged noncommittally. He'd been thinking of how to broach this question for two days, ever since Hawke had gotten brave and he'd gotten laid, and then she'd disappeared the very next morning to climb Sundermount with the Rivaini and their pair of elves. She hadn't given him the chance to have the proper talk he'd wanted, keeping him otherwise occupied for that entire incredible day and most of the night, but she had given him probably the dirtiest, sexiest kiss imaginable just before she'd left him sore and tangled up in his ruined bedclothes, so that was something.
He wasn't about to reminisce about all the unique particulars of that kiss at that moment, however. Anders' attention span was not exceptionally long to begin with, unless you wanted to rant about templars for a few hours. "Okay, you're Fereldan. Is there… I mean, what to Fereldan women like?"
That earned him a sharp, strangely unreadable glance. "Dwarves, apparently."
It was a little bitter around the edges, but the answer had a spark of humour that Varric latched onto like a drowning man. He grinned, hooking his thumbs in his belt, and kept his own tone very light. "Oh Maker, he's making jokes; things must be looking up. Did Hawke make a templar piss in his skirt again? Did I miss it?"
It was the kind of day where Anders chuckled quietly, almost no sound at all. Varric was getting pretty good at identifying which days he'd get that, and when he'd get a cranky abomination up in his face instead. At this point, it was mostly the second one, but apparently catching him and Hawke with their asses out, literally, had put Anders in a good mood— that, or managed to scare that killjoy Justice away for a bit. Varric wasn't picky.
"What exactly are you asking?" Anders' fingernails were ragged and bloody where he'd been chewing them, leaving red smudges on the parchment, and Varric watched as the man finally noticed. There was a faint shimmer of blue light, and the torn skin knitted together. "Hm. Hawke… well, Hawke certainly sounded like she was enjoying herself."
Varric schooled his grin into something a little less smug than it was trying to be. "I mean beyond that, Blondie. I've got that part… well in hand." Anders made a face, cheeks turning a little pink, and Varric decided to push on just in case some poor bastard came stumbling in with a rash, or this unusually lucid period decided to take a glowy turn. "Antivans like poetry, songs, stuff like that. Orlesians want gifts, Marchers usually go for liquor, and Rivaini just need a relatively flat surface…"
Now he was being gawked at, and Varric was regretting not drawing out the smug part of the conversation. "Wait, wait— are you asking me how to court? How to court Hawke?"
"I— no." He shifted in his boots, considering his other options. "Sort of. Shit."
Really laughing now, Anders leaned back in his chair and laced his hands together over his stomach. "Oh that's fantastic— Maker's breath, the dwarf's asking me how to woo." Varric gritted his teeth, almost wishing he'd gone to Aveline instead, but no, that was just stupid. He wanted to do this right, and taking a ribbing was better than showing up at Hawke's door with two goats and a sheaf of wheat, or whatever.
It was about two hours later when Varric wandered back up to Lowtown— Andraste's ass, nobody should live in a place where Lowtown was up— feeling somewhat better informed. It wasn't so difficult, actually; if Blondie knew what he was talking about, Fereldan women in general were pretty straightforward. Varric knew better than to take the advice just on spec, but he could see how tweaking some of it to be more Hawke-specific could work.
It was early evening, and Varric considered taking the long way home just to check in if the intrepid explorers had made it back yet, but stopped himself within sight of the stairs to Hightown. It wasn't the long way, it was the completely backwards, ridiculously-out-of-his-way way, and Hawke could still be traipsing around the countryside for all he knew.
"Shit." He ran one hand over his hair, scratching the back of his head. "Shit, shit, shit."
The Tevinters hadn't put all these blighted stairs in with dwarven legs in mind, the selfish pricks.
Hawke hadn't actually been home yet, which was one long sodding trek for nothing, but Varric had been light-headed enough from his climb to leave a note with Bodahn. He regretted it almost immediately— he felt like an ass— but it would be a thousand times worse to scramble back inside and ask for the damn thing back.
He'd invited her to dinner. Dinner at his place, like it was a thing,and he could not remember the last time he'd done that for a woman. Generally, if he brought a woman to his room, it was for sex or business… never both, because that was just messy. Hawke was the exception on all counts, it seemed. It had been business at first, but then they'd gotten to know each other, and it eventually wasn't strange for her to simply visit, for drinks, or cards, or just to talk. Even before she held him down and fucked him stupid, Hawke still spent more time in his room than anyone else besides himself. She was… she fit in his space, in his life, in a way he hadn't really considered.
So that's how he ended up fidgeting with a glass of wine and staring into his fireplace, waiting for Hawke. He'd thrown on one of his best shirts, forgone his coat (a decision that just made him feel naked already, and not in a good way), and left his hair loose. Yep, he still felt like an ass.
A tentative knock on his door made him jump, splashing wine all over his hand, and he was licking it off when Hawke made her appearance. Her fingers were already twisting awkwardly in the cuffs of her robes, and the blush that reddened her cheeks when she saw him was unexpected.
It really shouldn't have been surprising at all, he realised suddenly. He'd known Hawke for years, but somehow he'd managed to overlook a very vital piece of information about this whole tangle— something she had told him herself, for Andraste's sake.
Why would she think she needed to be brave to get him into bed? Because she was nervous, and for him to be a flighty little girl about it certainly wouldn't help matters. With that thought in mind, Varric stamped down all the panicky fluttering in his own gut and shook off all of his concerns. It wasn't a mask, but it was a choice: he would be brave, and sure, and completely certain, for her. He would be exactly what she needed, which is what he'd always tried to be, really.
Setting his glass on the table, Varric let his mouth curl up into a very warm smile and walked over to greet his guest. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze lingering along the wall instead, but when he stepped close and gently took her hand in his, her eyes darted back to his face. Her blush didn't fade one bit when he pressed a kiss against her knuckles, and it actually started crawling down her neck when he turned her hand over and pressed another, longer kiss against her palm.
"Marian," he murmured, and the word felt strange in his mouth. Not bad, just strange. "Thanks for coming."
"Thank you for having me," she answered instantly, almost automatically, but then her eyes shifted in the direction of the bed, and her cheeks exploded with colour. The hand he wasn't holding pressed against her lips, and Varric let his smile broaden into a grin when it became clear she was giggling, even if it was in embarrassment.
"Oh Maker's balls," she muttered, sliding her palm up to press against one cheek. "I'm being ridiculous."
He stepped back, tugging her along as he moved towards the table. "You know, I'm strangely fond of ridiculous. Beats boring any day of the week." The chairs had been shuffled around to seat two people kitty-corner, and he let Hawke go long enough to pull one out for her. Everything in his room was built for someone dwarf height, which basically meant it was all guaranteed to be too short, but it would have been really, really weird to buy new furniture just to have a human over for a meal.
Hawke didn't seem to mind, but then she'd never complained about his chairs. She lowered herself into the seat, folding her legs in front of herself like usual, and Varric got to pouring wine before the food showed up.
If she wondered why he'd broken habit and put her at the head of the table, she didn't mention it. She also started to smile a bit easier when he began chatting like this was any other night, and he noticed she was being very careful to sip slowly at her wine. The idea that she wanted to be clear-headed for this, but was relaxing anyway as they talked and joked… it made something warm curl in his chest.
He kept feathering light touches on her hand and arm, and silently cheered the first time her fingers stroked his palm in return. He'd called in a favour and dropped a bit of coin to get an old acquaintance whipping up something special in the Hanged Man's tiny kitchen, but the surprised delight that brightened Hawke's expression when the meal arrived was more than worth an afternoon of finagling.
He'd considered Fereldan food, but somehow gravy and boiled meat didn't exactly scream romantic evening. The Antivans though, they had the right idea— most foods got at least a little sexier if you made them small and moist and could eat them with your fingers. Hawke smirked a little before following his lead with that part, but now her fingertips were shiny with sauces, and it seemed like the perfect time to… embrace the culture of this cuisine a bit more.
"Here, look at this," he said, picking up a pair of small bottles and pouring a little of each onto an empty spot on his plate. Dark vinegar beaded up in the golden oil, and Varric tore off a bite-sized hunk of bread to dip in the mixture. When he held it out to her, offering, he saw heat darken her eyes that had nothing to do with the flickering firelight. He waited, not making any attempt to coax, and a moment or two later he was rewarded by the velvety brush of her lips on his skin, and the wet slide of her tongue clearing away every trace of oil.
Things were a little less about eating and a little more about feeding after that, but Varric was not complaining. There was still talking to do, however, and he forced himself to keep that thought very firmly in the front of his mind.
He chewed and swallowed the pitted olive she'd just given him, licking his bottom lip where her thumb had been teasing. Chairs had been shifted, scooting closer until they were nearly elbow to elbow, and Varric made sure his lips were completely clean before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss against her shoulder.
"You didn't need a potion," he murmured against the silky fabric of her robes, and watched an uneasy sigh shudder its way out of her chest. He kept talking, not wanting to give her a chance to get all edgy again. "If I'd known… Maker, you could've just snapped your fingers."
That was pretty much true, he'd come to realise. Sure, she was crazy, and she was trouble, but he'd never been able to say no to her before. He didn't want to say no to her, and that particular insight was still too daunting to think about for very long.
He slid one hand down her arm, not stopping until he'd laced their fingers together. Her hand was so narrow, so fine-boned, but the sight didn't make him feel awkwardly bulky, which was something he'd been weirdly concerned about.
She shifted, hiding her eyes under the fringe of her hair, and spoke just as softly as he had. "Why didn't you say anything, then?"
Because you scare the living piss out of me, worse than Aveline but in a very different way seemed like the wrong answer. He hunted quickly for a better one.
"Because." He squeezed her fingers, gazing over at the fire rather than staring at the side of her face. "Because you're the most incredible woman I've ever met, and even though I'm hands-down the finest dwarf in Kirkwall, I still have no idea how that's good enough for you. I'm pretty sure it's not, actually, and you've just had too many hits to the head."
Silence sat heavy around them, until finally there was rustling, and Varric felt warm, sweet breath ghost across his cheek. "So, you're lucky I'm daft?"
He laughed in sudden, painful relief, catching her mouth in a kiss that was all tongues and panting, and made him shiver. When he tried to pull back, she followed, and he laughed again while she bit and licked at his chin. "Oh, sweetheart," he chuckled softly. "The luckiest, no doubt."
Talking and sex definitely weren't mutually exclusive, but he couldn't say the same for being comfortable while Hawke tried to crawl up into his lap with a big stone table squishing her from behind. A willing woman straddling his thighs was usually such a great thing, and that woman being Hawke made it so much better, but this was skirting a little too close to painful.
"Okay, hold it." He had two handfuls of very alluring bottom, while a pair of breasts were trying to get reacquainted with his face, and the way Hawke's robes had hitched up above her knees was just fabulous. If he didn't stop them now, he'd regret it, probably right around the time he was bending her over the table, and one of them ended up face-first in a lamp. "Bed, right over there. Clean sheets and everything."
There were teeth scraping his ear, tugging at one of his gold hoops while Hawke's fingers combed through his hair, and he latched on to the thought of a face full of oil lamp. "Dinner and clean sheets?" Her voice was a purr, skating down his spine and calling up very lovely memories of magical lightning. "You absolute charmer, Varric."
He'd never had the opportunity to undo a set of mage robes before, but he thought he had at least the basic idea down. There was a clasp at the collar, small and mostly hidden, and he leaned forward just enough to yank it open with his teeth. At the same time, he drew his hands in tighter, pressing Hawke's hips against his… growing interest.
She moaned into his neck, grinding down against him, and Varric very purposefully did not start undoing the laces that would free her chest. He knew his limits, and wow was he ever barrelling towards them.
"Bed," he said again, and it took every ounce of self-control he had at his disposal to peel his hands away from her. "Seriously. I want to see you."
It was shamefully clumsy, but they did eventually tumble onto his mattress, and he groaned roughly when Hawke hauled his shirt over his head and scratched sparking hands down his chest. He had her robes off soon after, and maybe they were a bit more complex than he'd expected, because he was fairly certain he heard something rip. Hawke gave him a look when it happened, but then she stuck her hands down the front of his trousers and squeezed— shit, if this was his punishment, then not a stitch of clothing was safe. He'd buy her a whole new sodding wardrobe, just to tear it off her.
He was also really glad he'd thought to pay his rent early this month, with a sizable discretion bonus included. When Hawke's knees were hooked over his shoulders, heels pounding against his back as she swore and shouted and shrieked with abandon, he wouldn't have had the heart to tell her to quiet down. Not that he would've seriously considered such a thing anyway— pissing off his landlord was a small price to pay for a serenade of more and faster and best of all oh Maker, yes, Varric.
Later, sweaty and grinning, he welcomed her snuggling up close against his side, and hummed contentedly while she twirled her fingers through his chest hair. Every time she flicked one of his nipples, which she was totally doing on purpose at this point, he'd feel his cock twitch pathetically. He was tempted to check under the bed for a desire demon, but that would mean moving, and that didn't seem likely to happen.
Hawke turned her head, resting her chin above his heart and looking up at him with soft, satisfied eyes. If she felt the way his pulse skittered, she didn't mention anything. "So... Do you think Bianca is jealous?"
It was a legitimate concern, even if she was just teasing him. Varric spared a quick glance at the crossbow sitting peacefully— reproachfully— in her stand. It was like this every time he'd ever brought a woman home, but this time his better half was just going to have to deal.
Refusing to wither under an inanimate glare, Varric turned his attention back to the woman in his arms, tracing his fingers teasingly down her long, elegant spine. "Definitely, but she'll get over it."