Varric let his gaze wander lazily around the market, noting the familiar array of cutpurses and swindlers making rounds. That was one of the only nice things about Hightown— the criminals usually had a bit of class, and they'd mostly learned to leave Hawke and her merry band alone. Other than that slightly less smelly criminal element, Varric would pretty much take a breezy afternoon in the bazaar over being sneered at by these stuff-shirted prigs any day of the week.
He wasn't entirely certain what he was doing in Hightown that particular morning, but it had something to do with slavers and all the nasty surprises that usually entailed, so Hawke had asked him to tag along. It wasn't exactly the most convenient time for him to go slogging around boltholes on the Wounded Coast, but a gang of dug-in slavers meant defences and traps, and Varric happened to have a vested interest in keeping Hawke's legs largely unmarred. They were long and gorgeous, and felt fantastic wrapped around him; it would be a crime against the Maker for them to get blown off by a shit-rigged pressure plate.
The Guild was already barking at him about some garbage or other, but fuck them, he had perfect, sexy legs to look out for. Ledgers had been tossed aside, meetings were rescheduled, and he did his best not to think about the mess he'd likely have waiting for him when he got back. If Varric could have gotten his hands on Bartrand at that moment, he would have murdered the greasy bastard twice— once for being a backstabbing little maggot, and again for leaving him to deal with all this bullshit.
Aveline was talking to a couple of her guardsmen, getting information about the patrols in the area the slavers were supposed to be, while Fenris twitched and paced in that way he always did whenever they were about to go put some Tevinters out of business. The Lady Hawke herself was absently browsing the stalls, waiting for their dear Guard Captain to do her thing, and Varric took the opportunity to redirect his observations for just a minute or two.
He really, really liked Hawke's "travelling robes," though the only thing that made them robes by any definition was that Hawke insisted on calling them that. Trousers and a well-fitting coat were much more practical for adventuring around filthy sewers and rough coastlines, and holy Maker, the view from where he was standing was nice. Granted, he had nothing bad to say about the more traditional, magey robes she usually wore around the city, with low-slung belts and soft, shimmering fabric poured over miles of sweet, supple curves—
Shaking his head slightly, Varric realised he had started ogling an imaginary Hawke in imaginary robes, when a real Hawke was still standing quite nearby, with that ass on proud display in fantastically tight trousers. That was just idiotic.
He probably would have been content to just watch for a bit, but then Hawke's spine went stiff, and with her hair pinned up in preparation for a sweaty day of sun, sand, and killing, Varric could see the back of her neck and the tips of her ears blush faintly pink. To say he was intrigued would be like saying Isabela was an affectionate sort of girl.
Flicking some invisible lint from his coat, Varric sidled over to investigate, purposely keeping his footsteps whisper-quiet. Some mysterious item had drawn such a delicious flush out of his lady, making her fidget, and he wanted to see what it was before she had the chance to deny anything. Then he wanted to buy one.
He was a little surprised, maybe a little disappointed, when he realised the stall belonged to a furniture vendor— he'd been hoping for Orlesian lingerie. Slipping around to stand just beside Hawke, Varric glanced quickly from her enthralled expression, to her current focus of interest.
A footstool? Why would she be—
Oh. Oh, yeah.
Daddy likes.
Licking his lips, Varric made a valiant effort to stamp down his own rush of arousal as the possibilities buffeted around his brain— up against a wall, bent over the railing on the upper level of her study or over the edge of her big, plush bed, and shit, just for fun, spread across the blighted ledgers and contracts in the Merchants' Guild accounting hall. He wouldn't necessarily need the footstool for that last one, with all the tables made for dwarves, but it was still one of his favourites.
"Well now," he murmured, deep and low, and watched as Hawke jolted in surprise before turning wide, dark eyes in his direction. She had been biting her thumb, and the sight of that moist, tooth-marked little digit fluttering away made his smirk that much broader. "You're thinking naughty things, Beautiful."
"I—I'm just—" Sure, she floundered a bit at being caught out, but then she ducked her head and gave him one of those looks. He might have growled, quietly, at the sight of a slow blooming, wicked smile that mirrored his own. "So are you. Shall we compare notes?"
"Absolutely." Sparing one more glance at the greatest footstool in Thedas— yep, it looked stable enough— Varric flagged down the merchant with a quick whistle. He hoped the man had another one in stock, because lugging the thing back and forth between Hightown and the Hanged Man every couple of days would be a pain in the ass.
With any luck, the deliveries would be waiting when they got back. Massacring slavers didn't always have to be its own reward, after all.