Chapter Text
Varric had ever known someone who loved life as much as Hawke did.
She threw herself into everything--fights, friendship, art, ideals. She could reach for anything with two hands, grasping and scratching and biting.
She loved people fiercely, almost to a fault. She was protective, placing herself between danger and anyone who needed help, regardless of if she liked them or even knew them. She "did security" at Rivaini's bar, The Siren, most nights. She insisted it was for the pleasure of intimidating idiot men for money. She was intimidating: had arms the size of a man's leg and legs that could split a watermelon (an afternoon Varric would never forget), and the smile she threw as she punched you in the gut could knock you out just as easily.
Mostly, though, she didn't. She talked people out of the bar, stood in the street and held the hair of whoever she'd just kicked out for being too far gone. She was known as someone you could count on for a shoulder and a favor, someone who would chuck you out on your ass one minute and promise to pummel your cheating ex in the next.
She did everything with that compulsive ferocity.
She loved her art, showing off the deep scars on her hands and forearms, telling tales of band saws that fought her like dragons. Varric had watched her hands pull patterns out of oak and balsa, creating something new or repairing something ancient. Those same strong, callused hands that held your hand, held your drink as you cried, would be running over rough, broken things the next morning, assessing and planning and repairing.
She fixed things, made them better. It made Varric's heart swell to think how every part of her was meant to love, to fight, to fix.
A love for life as bright as Hawke's doesn't get nights off. There's always something to do, someone to help. So if getting her to turn off her head meant letting her drink her weight of horrible, luridly-named cocktails on his tab, it was the least Varric could do.
Riviani told him once that low lighting made people hungrier, lowering their inhibitions and making them care less about what they bought. And so the counter was the only well-lit place in The Siren, and then only by dim wall sconces and a flickering POS. Everything else was table candles and low-hanging lanterns. Little corner booths with practically no light to see by. And everything was made somehow darker by the low beats of the song now indicating closing time.
Varric was settling his tab, squinting at the numbers to check the damage. They'd been there for hours, and it looked like they'd be the last ones out. Nora (scalped from The Hangedman when Riviani opened), was pointedly counting cash. He tipped 50%, because what good was being a successful smut-peddler if he didn't? He slid the receipt back to her and she took it, glancing at the hefty tip without a blink.
Varric turned, watching Hawke and Anders in the middle of the empty dance floor. They had their foreheads pressed together, Hawke holding the back of Anders' neck.
"Listen to me," she shouted as if trying to be heard over the music that had already been turned down almost inaudibly low. "Li-sten to me, Anders. You are the smartest motherfucker in this city, do you know that?"
He shook his head, shoulders shaking.
She used the grip on his head to force him to nod. "You are. And you know what? You've got the biggest damned heart, you are the only person who can do what you do. You're so needed, Anders."
He was fully crying now, swaying drunkenly in her arms.
"You are wanted. This damn city doesn't deserve you. I don't give a shit what happened before you got to Kirkwall. Anders." She made him look at her. " No one gives a shit, as long as it made you the man you are. Whatever you were before, you left that in Ferelden. And the man you are here? Is a fu-cking he-ro." She annunciated as if trying to explain something simple to an idiot, making him laugh.
"Yeah," he sniffed, after a moment.
"Yeah?" she said, letting him go.
"Yeah," he said, forcing a wet smile back at her.
"Hell yeah!" She gave him a friendly slug to the shoulder, making him stumble. "There's my best little medical anarchist." She turned back, stumbling in the direction of the bar. To Varric's eye, it was the gait of a woman who did not know how drunk she was until she decided to walk.
"Nora! Nora, one more for the road!"
Nora had wisely disappeared to the back of house, loading the dishwasher loudly.
"Nor-aaa," Hawke shout-whispered toward the door to the back. She leaned on a stool as if to reach behind the bar herself, but her knee slipped on a spill. Her ribs met the stone counter with a thud and she lurched over, but Varric caught her before she hit the floor.
"You remember you work here, right?" he said. "Hard on the paycheck if you get banned."
She looked for a moment like she was going to fight him, but she just leaned her cheek on the top of his head, mumbling something about "employee of the month."
He slid an arm around her waist to keep her upright. "Ready, Blondie?"
Anders rubbed a hand over his eyes and nodded, taking Hawke's other side. Together they stumbled out, the door clicking locked behind them.
The rain from earlier in the night had left the gutters fat with water, rushing trash and leaves into the storm drains. The little rivers caught the light of the city, making plastic wrappers and broken glass glitter prettily.
He felt Hawke lift her head and sigh. "I love this fucking city, boys."
Maker, Anders always turned her into a pensive drunk.
"KIRKWALL!" she shouted into the sky. "I LOVE YOU!" She angled her head over to Anders. "I wasn't shit before Kirkwall, you know."
"'s not true," mumbled Anders.
"And now you're just shit," said Varric.
Anders looked over Hawke's head at him, aghast, but Hawke laughed until she nearly knocked them all over.
"Yeah but I'm better shit now though, aren't I? Happy shit!" She threw Varric a sloppy grin.
"You're not shit, Hawke," said Anders.
"Oh, yes I am! How dare you? I'm just as big of a shit as this city, steamy and smelly and full of LIFE." This last echoed through the street. "Especially the steamy part, am I right boys?"
She did a little wiggly saunter between them, making both of them laugh.
They walked on for a while, tripping toward Varric's apartment. This was their pattern. Whoever came out would walk back to Varric's, they'd have another drink and maybe a hand of Wicked Grace, and Hawke would pass out for the night before everyone else went home. They were so used to it that everyone called the sofa "Hawke's couch."
Varric was surprised that in all these years, no one had ever finished the night by picking her up with a fond "I'll make sure this one gets home." No one ever claimed to be the one to take care of her, and though they all loved her in their own ways, no one person had ever really taken it upon themselves to be a partner to her. Except him, he guessed. But that's why you had lots of friends but one best friend.
They were nearing Varric's stoop when suddenly Anders stopped, making them all stumble in their little huddle.
"You know, Hawke?" he said. "You were right."
"Yes," she said, eyes drooping. "About what?"
"Kirkwall," he said.
Her eyes fluttered open. "Yess! Kirkwall!!"
"Kirk-WALL!" he shouted. "Neither of us would've done all this anywhere else."
She nodded at him seriously. "Best city in the world," she said. "Varric, isn't it the best city in the world?"
"It's definitely the best city in Kirkwall." Varric tugged them on.
She ignored him, turning back to Anders, who was looking misty-eyed into the sky.
"Well I'm proud to be a Marcher-- " she sang.
Anders picked up the song in a yell. " CUZ AT LEAST I KNOW I'M FREE. "
The two of them hollered, harmonizing like cats in heat. " AND I won't FORGET THose WHO DIED--"
"And gave MAGE RIGHTS to me!" interrupted Hawke, using the arm draped over Varric to point at Anders, who laughed hysterically.
" And I'll gladly stand UP, NEXT TO YOU, AND nununuh hunununuh. CUZ I'M PROUD nunhunuhhhuh MAKER KEEP THE FREE. MAR. CHES!"
"You're both Ferelden!"
It didn't stop them from mumble-shouting the rest of the lyrics.
Finally they reached Varric's stoop. Anders flopped onto the steps, pulling Hawke with him. Varric's eyebrows shot up at the way Anders' arm wrapped her close as he settled her next to him.
He hurried to the fiddle with the door, trying not to look like he was listening. He didn't want to have to fight the guy, but if Blondie even looked at Hawke in a way she didn't like, Varric would gladly deprive the city of its prettyboy anarchist.
Denim scraped across cement as Blondie shuffled close to her. "You know, you're an amazing woman, Marian."
"Haha, yeah," said Hawke. Varric heard the smile leave her voice. She hated her first name.
"You're so beautiful," he heard Anders hush to her. "So strong, Maker, look at your arms. You're so much stronger than me. You hold us up out of the darkness, all of us. You hold me up. It feels so good to be held, for just a moment. To trust someone enough to know they won't let me fall."
"Yeah, and I don't even work out!" she dodged. "All this? Kirkwall's best ruffians."
Out of the corner of his eye, Varric caught her reaching over her shoulder to give Anders his arm back.
Varric kicked the door to unjam it, making both of them jump. "Coming in or heading home, Blondie?" he said.
Anders looked back at Hawke, who was already standing and dusting herself off. Her face was set in careful neutrality, already putting a step or two between them.
Anders watched her a moment, before smiling and waving them away. "I just need to have a sit before I hobble back. You both go on."
"Don't pass out outside of my building, Blondie."
"You want some water or anything?" said Hawke, climbing the steps up toward Varric.
"No, thanks," he said, watching her walk away.
"Alright, g'night then."
"But. Hawke?"
"Yep?"
"Thanks."
"Yeah mate, no problem."
"No, for everything." He threw her a wistful smile.
"It's no problem, Anders," she said. "'Night."
"'Night."
"'Night!" said Varric, glancing between the two of them. Hawke scurried through the door and he shut it behind her.
"What was that?" he mouthed at her.
"I don't know!" she mouthed back. They went down the hall to the elevator, Hawke only having to catch herself on the wall a few times. When the door slid shut, they rounded on each other.
"What the fuck!" she said.
"What did you guys talk about at the bar?"
"Just him! Like, the clinic. He was thinking about giving it up because he thought it wasn't making a difference." She sighed.
"Well that's stupid."
"That's what I said! So I was trying to pour some liquid confidence into him, maybe shout him into some self-worth."
"Mm. Too much confidence," said Varric as they stepped out of the elevator.
"I guess!" she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Andraste's tits."
Just because no one had locked Hawke down didn't mean there hadn't been interest. Fenris, Sebastian. Hell, even after Rivaini and Daisy got married they made it known that Hawke was " always welcome" at their place. But Anders had always seemed more interested in friendship. Varric remembered he had been flirty at the start, but as soon as he got to know Hawke he'd reigned it in.
Not that Varric kept overly close tabs on her love life. At all. It's just, with a group as close as theirs, it was hard not to pick up on things. And hey, if he was keeping a slightly keen eye on the developments, well that was just the concern of a friend. And if the concern of a friend sometimes felt like relief when Hawke turned down someone's advances, then… that's just how it was.
When they reached his door she leaned her face against the wall as he struggled with his keys.
"Gross," he said.
"Mm," she groaned into the tile. "Cold."
Varric hadn't seen her like this in a while. She was usually a sleepy drunk; occasionally a flirty one. But the stupor she'd been cultivating throughout the night had turned her maudlin. She gave him a weak smile as he opened the door for her.
His building was nice, nicer than anywhere he'd lived before. Walking through the hall, he still felt like he'd taken a wrong turn and would be asked to leave. But Hawke, who still lived in the holiest of shitholes, just strode through his Hightown digs without even bothering to lower her voice.
Inside, Varric's loft was all leather sofas and heavy blankets. The windows were shrouded in thick red curtains, walls lined with cabinets full of sentimental detritus. Huge, overstuffed bookshelves were everywhere, with more wall-mounted shelves scattered around. He even had a shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen, crowded with thumb-print greased books on Ferelden cooking, home-made pickles, and 101 things to do with spindleweed.
He pointed toward his bedroom down the hall. "You want me to grab you a pillow?"
Hawke scrunched her lips guiltily. "Are you tired?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Are you not?"
It was like this sometimes, when it was just the two of them. The bluster slipped. Her shoulders, usually so squared and ready, drooped. They would talk through those nights until it was time for breakfast, and then she'd go. Next time he saw her, every wall would be back up, braced against the world. It bothered him, knowing that beyond those walls she was tired and hurting.
She shrugged, running a hand over the blanket thrown over "her" couch. "What's there to drink, Master Tethras?"
"I actually got something new in," he said, moving to the kitchen. Hawke followed behind him, hands dusting over the shelves. "It's called water, I hear it's pretty good for you."
Hawke groaned, leaning against the door jam as he pulled her a glass from the sink.
"Tap?" she said. "Aren't you rich?"
"Where's your patriotism now?" He handed her the glass, pouring another for himself. "Kirkwall's finest!"
"It'll give me Kirkwall's finest kidney stones," she griped, taking a swallow. He smirked at her over the rim of his glass. They stood there for a moment, enjoying the stillness.
"It'd give you an excuse to go see Blondie, at least," he said, taking a gulp.
She screwed up her face. "Ugh. Can you imagine? 'Hi, remember the other night when you made a very sad and vulnerable pass at me? Anyway, about my urinary health.'"
He put on his best Anders lilt. "'Sorry about that, I didn't mean anything by it, haha. Will you piss into this cup for me then, fire of my loins?'"
She laughed, rolling her eyes.
He shrugged. "A person can't help their fiery loins, Hawke."
"I'm so sick of everyone I like making puppy-dog eyes at me," she sighed. "Can't you just love your friends, maybe be a little nice every now and then, without people tripping over themselves around you?"
"Most people do," he said. "Not you, it seems. Does this complete the set?"
She thought for a moment, finishing her water. "Everyone but Avaline, but I think she's just straight."
"Shame," said Varric.
"Not really. I don't date cops."
"Rational," he said. He took her glass from her and put it in the sink. "Everyone possible then. There has to be some kind of award for having every single one of your friends mooning after you."
"Except you," she said, her back to him as she opened the fridge.
He downed the rest of his water, putting his glass in the sink beside hers. "Except me. Hungry?"
"Not really," she said, picking up an old take-out container. She smelled it, looking doubtful as she held it up for him to check.
He sniffed. "Probably fine."
She grabbed two forks and headed back into the main room. He followed her, clicking on a few lamps as they went. "You've got a whole slew of options set out for you, Hawke. Nothing tempts you at all?"
They settled onto her couch, the take-out between them. "I don't know, fried rice just sounded good," she deadpanned.
She held a hand under her fork as she ate, eyes scanning the bookshelves.
"You reading anything good?" she said.
He sighed. "Not really. I just finished this big Uccam anthology and it really took it out of me."
"Ugh. Dryyy," she mock-rasped.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But there's some gold in here too." He reached to where he'd left it, tucked into the chair next to the couch.
It was a new edition, with just some vague public-domain painting on the cover. He flipped through to the sticky note he'd left on the poem he'd liked, thinking to show it to Hawke eventually. "Listen to this, it's werewolves, you'll love it."
A small smile pulled at her lips as she settled deeper into the cushions.
He cleared his throat.
"Thus was a bargain struck,
And Dane the wolf pack served in wolfen form,
And the werewolf to his family sped, as Dane,
One year and a day all told.
But some things cannot be repent,
Some coinage cannot be unspent,
When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent ."
When he looked back up at her she was squinting at him.
"No, I hate that."
"It's werewolves!"
"Yeah and still it's dryyy," she rasped. "'One year and a day all told.' Told who? I hate arbitrary magic rules. You're setting up a fantastical myth and there's still rules I have to remember? Exhausting."
"Did you hear the part about 'some coinage cannot be unspent, / when hearts are wagered, a fissure rent'?"
"And should it be 'repent-ed'?" she asked through a mouthful of rice. "In the line before?"
He glanced back down at it. "Maybe."
"There's so much like, really beautiful historical poetry. I don't know why you waste your time on the 'classics.'" She opened the Books app on her phone. "Listen to this…"
Varric let his head fall back onto the cushions, his cheek against the blanket he usually left out for her. It smelled like her, he thought, that warm sweet smell of wood, fruity shampoo, and cigarette smoke ("Only when I'm stressed!" she'd defend.).
"I found one this translation of The Ballad of Ayesleigh, listen to just the last stanza of this fucking thing. ' When darkness comes / and swallows light / heed our words / and we shall rise .'"
She threw her hands up, shaking her phone at him. "Varric! Ugh!"
"Yeah it's really good," he said, biting his lip to hold back a laugh.
"It's so good. And this is from the Exalted Age? What a shit age! And still it's so beautiful!"
"Yeah, a lot of war crimes and demons in the Exalted Age."
"And this is so beautiful! So sad, but so hopeful! Not hopeful, is there a word for like, knowing that you'll be victorious, even if you won't be alive to see it?"
He shrugged.
"It's beautiful, anyway," she said, locking her phone. "Makes me want to get crazy with some time magic or something. Figure out some Fade jukes so that I can go fight in the Fourth Blight myself."
"You gonna go enlist with the Wardens now?"
She shuddered. "So many rules. Carver can keep them. I'll just pop back to the Exalted Age and crash a battle or two. Maybe steal a griffon on the way back."
He nodded, mouth full of rice. He knew he was smiling at her like an idiot, but if she noticed at least she didn't mention it.
"See, that's so much prettier and more meaningful than your dumb werewolf thing," she said, taking the book from his hand and tossing it back onto the chair. Her fingers were somehow warm, despite the chilly night.
"You're right," he said.
"I am right," she nodded, putting the empty styrofoam box on the coffee table. She turned her body toward him as she settled back, her head falling to the blanket to mirror his.
"Do you think people will still be reading your stuff in the next age?" she asked.
"Maybe," he said. "People always get a kick out of ancient smut."
She rolled her eyes. "No, the real stuff."
"That is the real stuff." He gestured around the loft. "This is the house that porn built."
"And good porn it is, too. It's not all you are though," she said. "Did you end up pitching that one book to Cassandra?"
He shook his head. "Narrative nonfiction doesn't really fit the Varric Tethras brand, does it?"
His publisher and agent had cultivated a persona for him when his romance serials started taking off. He was supposed to be this suave dwarf with a ten inch bulge and chest hair abound. He'd even frozen his ass off at a photoshoot on Sundermount in a flimsy, low-cut ruffled shirt for the portrait on the book jacket.
Needless to say, he did not write with a leather notebook on his knee as he gazed across a misty lake. He wrote on the same laptop he'd had for five years, on the sofa in his boxers, covered in all the sunflower seeds that hadn't made it to his mouth.
"No no, I think it would help," she said. "A look behind the chest hair. If all the college students and Chantry sisters knew you were sexy, poetic, and real? You'd be rolling in it."
"What, money or sex?"
"Both!"
He laughed, making her smile.
"Sexy, huh?" he teased, after a moment.
"I've heard," she shrugged, glancing out the window. "You got any more of that water stuff?"
They passed a few hours like that, talking nonsense and sharing stories.
Hawke told him that she was worried that she wasn't making anything of herself; all her friends were establishing their careers, getting married, changing the world. All she did was whittle chairs and beat up drunks, she said. Varric reminded her that all those successful idiots were the same people who turned to her when they needed help, himself included.
Varric told her about an email he'd gotten from Bianca the week before, ("From her work email, which is inscrutable.") letting him know that she'd be in town for a few days. It was the first time he'd heard from her in almost two years. He told Hawke that he'd stared at the email, taken a shot of whiskey, and told Bianca to enjoy her trip. Hawke gasped like he had said he'd beat cancer, and gave him a proud smack on the shoulder.
Eventually they fell into silence, watching the sky brighten by degrees as the sun rose behind the buildings.
"What day is it now?" asked Hawke, voice fried.
"Tuesday, I think."
"Nooo," she whispered. She checked the time on her phone and looked at him. "I've been awake for twenty-one hours, Varric."
"Oh shit."
She scrubbed her eyes with a hand. "Merrill wants me to come by the museum today to see if I can fix the arm on this ugly ass, stupid ass thaig relic."
"Just take the day off, Hawke. It's waited for a few ages, it can wait another day."
"No, Merrill asked me to," she whined. "I can't tell her I'm flaking, she'll be so damned understanding."
"Well," he said, pulling out his phone, "as an ugly ass thaig relic myself, allow me."
He stood, pulling Hawke's socked feet to rest where he'd been sitting. He tugged the blanket down from the back of the sofa over her.
"Hey," she said, already pulling the blanket up to her face. "Hey, don't. I can still go."
He went to grab a pillow from his bed, dialing Merrill with one hand.
"Hey Daisy," he said, loud enough for Hawke to hear. "About Hawke…"
When he hung up (promising her that Hawke would come by as soon as the swelling went down and the projectile vomiting ebbed) Hawke was already asleep, her face stuck to the leather armrest. He peeled her cheek away far enough to slide the pillow underneath her head.
He huffed a breath, just looking at her.
Her jaw fell slack, lips parted and a little chapped from talking all night. She was drooling. Varric brushed her hair away from her face so she wouldn't wake up with a mouthful. He just pushed his fingers through it for a moment, making sure it wouldn't flop back, enjoying how soft it was.
Maker, he had it bad.
He took the empty take-out container, throwing it away and putting their forks in the sink, and slunk off to his room.
He yanked the blackout curtains on his window shut, hoping to sleep through most of the day. He pulled himself out of his clothes and just flopped onto the bed, too tired to even get under the sheets.
She was right. Each of their friends held a flame for her, to varying degrees.
He knew himself how hard it was to be on the receiving end of her too-tight hugs and laughing eyes, and not get a little dreamy. Hawke was brash, brave, impulsive, often self-destructively so. She would throw herself at anything, fighting and kicking and yelling the world into being better, safer for the people she cared about.
Hawke didn't need dreamy. She didn't need someone putting all their hopes on her, wanting her to share their life. They all wanted so much of her. It was too much to think of asking for her heart too.
She just needed someone to hug her too tight, to make sure she had something to laugh about, and to let her be who she was. He tried to do that for her, at least. The dreamy parts, the wanting, he could keep to himself. He could do her that favor.
He drifted off after a while, thinking of her laugh, and hating himself just a little.