Chapter Text
"And when Daisy had frozen the dragon's paws onto the ground, Hawke pushed its jaws firmly together and looked straight into its eyes. I swear she was flirting with–"
"Bullshit. That's not what really happened," a firm voice with Nevarran accent interrupted Varric's tall tale. When he looked in the voice's direction, he could see her lips almost curving instead of the blatant sneer that so often had accompanied their conversations, and the tone was lacking her usual disdain. That's new.
"Ooooh Seeker, would you care to finish the story for me, then?" Varric drawled and raised an eyebrow at her. She waved a hand, dismissively.
"Go on, Varric, I'm sure it's a good story."
He looked at the Inquisitor and saw his own surprise mirrored in her eyes. The dwarf brushed the emerging thought aside and continued with his story.
"So Hawke had the dragon's jaws clenched together and the beast looked all cross-eyed at her while she gave it a seductive look for a few seconds. Then–," he paused meaningfully, "she pulled her sword back and swiftly buried it in the dragon's soft spot, right below its jaw. I guess it was never meant to be for them," Varric said with a mock-sad voice to his enraptured audience.
"The next thing I hear is 'Pay up, Fenris!' They had a bet on Hawke's notoriety to flirt with every breathing thing. Something Broody wasn't too happy about, I might add," he concluded with a smirk.
The audience broke out in laughter and he cast a quick glance at the Seeker. She was smiling. Good.
After all that mess with Hawke –and Bianca– it was good to see that tentative companionship... or friendship? Anyway, it was good to see it again. He ordered another ale.
***
The main hall was sparsely filled with nobles and the occasional messenger. Gatsi was standing in front of one of the mosaics, the only finished one so far. Varric saw him scribbling something in a note book. He'd never thought the stone mason would mix the craftsmanship of the old Tevene tiles and ancient legends into a story. Hell, usually it was only him with the stories.
The dwarf sat at his low desk and winced at the pile of parchment in front of him. He had been working through quite a bit already, but he always procrastinated the unpleasant ones. So, instead of answering the ones from the Merchant Guild, he had been writing Hard in Hightown. That unbearable, terrible, awful book by the yet unknown asshole, published in his name, needed an answer.
A real sequel, written by him.
"Varric, do you have a minute? In private?" He startled. Trevelyan stood suddenly in front of him, looking at him with a deliberately neutral expression. Not good.
"Sure," Varric hopped off his stone chair and they went to the door. "Battlements?"
They talked about the upcoming missions on their way up until they stood at the parapets. "So?" Varric looked up to the Inquisitor. She took a deep breath.
"Varric, I don't mean to meddle but... I think you should know that I offered Bianca Davri work and protection here–" she paused and looked at him. He visibly stiffened and braced himself against what was inevitably coming.
"She could start a new life, like others already have here. She would be safe here, and we all would look to that, I told her. She didn't want any of it. She preferred to go back to her husband. She didn't even think about it for a second.” Barely leashed anger seeped through at Trevelyan's last few words, but when she looked at him again, her face was soft and there was so much pity in her eyes. Too much. Varric felt like he was hit by a maul.
“She left you a long time ago. Let it go, Varric," she added, and it almost sounded like a plea.
Varric shifted from one foot to the other and looked at a random point behind the Inquisitor's shoulder.
"You’re right, you shouldn't have meddled," was all he managed to press out between clenched teeth, and then he fled her presence.
He remembered the last time he had felt this painful void in his chest only too well, the last time he had felt so hollow that he hardly could breathe. His mind wandered to Bianca and how she'd stood him up and then later told him about the arranged marriage she planned to comply with. Nausea almost made his stomach turn. He couldn't bear this hurt once more.
He stalked stiffly to his quarters, curtly waving off people who wanted to talk to him. In his room, he rummaged through his cupboard, fishing out a bottle of Orzammar's not necessarily finest, but definitely strongest, and a glass. Looking at the glass for a second, he put it back. He wouldn't need a glass tonight. He sat down, staring holes into the air while unshed tears stung in his eyes and he tried to numb the fierce pain by emptying the whole bottle alone. He wouldn't remember how he got into his bed and he really didn't give a fuck.
***
Varric happily embraced all the work Trevelyan loaded onto his shoulders in the following weeks, if only to make sure he was too tired to think about anything in the evenings. He didn't get any writing done like that, though. And he just knew that, sooner or later, the Seeker would come pestering him about another chapter of Swords and Shields.
He groaned inwardly at that thought and, for approximately the onehundredfiftyseventh time, he cursed himself for giving in to the Inquisitor in the first place. It had seemed such a good idea at that time, considering it was a peace offering to appease a ready-to-kill furious Seeker. The look on her face, her happiness, had been something he'd never expected. He smiled genuinely for the first time in days at the memory. Completely worth it.
It actually stroked his writer's ego that she liked his stories, of all people. He sighed as he looked at the Seeker's back in front of him.
The current task had sent their small party to the Hinterlands, again. It seemed like there was an ever-refilling supply of red templars and every damned time they went there, they had to slay through them.
"Don't forget to pick up some elfroot," Trevelyan had said, and to Cassandra with a wink, "and leave the bears alone." The Seeker had just made her very own disgusted noise in response, but it somehow sounded more amused than actually disgusted. Varric thought that he had even caught a quick wrinkling of a smile around her eyes.
"Dorian, where did you put the stakes for our tents?" Cassandra demanded to know after she decided they should make camp. Her sharp voice pulled Varric out of his thoughts. She hated looking for things that were supposed to be in order.
"In the bag with the cords, just as yesterday, and the day before and–" Dorian was cut short by an angry Seeker.
"They are not there!"
"And any of the other bags?"
"I'm looking now," she rummaged through a few of their rucksacks and bags. "Where are those–," her string of curses was swallowed by muttering. "Maker, that can't be! We've only been on the road for two days, and you are already losing things," she turned and accused the mage, almost yelling at him.
"Hey, I did put them in there but your horse has been carrying them!" Dorian fired back. Varric rolled his eyes. Better start building the camp fire as long as they were sorting this out.
"I cannot find them. They are not here," the Seeker said a couple of minutes later, and her mood seemed to be even worse than before.
"Somebody has to share then," Dorian told nobody in particular, "And it won't be me."
"Why should I be sharing? With Varric? You are responsible for the tents!" The Seeker was audibly aggravated.
"Wait, I'm not going to share. These tents are too small as is, and my shoulders are very broad," Varric protested.
"But I need my sleep undisturbed. And Varric snores!" Dorian intercepted the dwarf's threadbare reasoning.
"If we cannot come to a conclusion otherwise, we'll draw straws every night until we can replace the stakes at the main camp," the Seeker said exasperatedly. She was getting short-tempered with Dorian's perpetual complaints.
Two tents for three people it was. Well.
The dwarf ripped something out of the soil in front of him.
"Pick," Varric offered three blades of grass to his fellow travel mates. "The short one gets the single tent," he quickly added. Cassandra and Dorian drew and Varric was left with a long blade. Damn.
"Ha!" Dorian exclaimed smugly and presented his blade, "You two get to share." He swaggered to the tent and cast a glance over his shoulder at the Seeker.
"And behave, my dear." She shot him a murderous glare back.
Varric just rolled his eyes again. So the Seeker. Tent sharing trope. Two people that hardly get along. Great.
They shared their food in silence, and after washing up, Cassandra went into the tent without any further word, preparing for the night and only exiting to complete her nightly rituals. Varric kept wondering what she was doing for so long. Surely washing her face, brushing her teeth and whatever else she had to do couldn't be taking so long? He gave her some time for privacy after she got back, and as the busy rustling in the tent died down after a few minutes, he moved to the tent flap.
"Finished?"
"Yes," came the short answer, and when he crawled inside to grab his wash-bag, she was rolled on her side, facing away from his bed roll. Fine, he could work with that.
"Don't peek, Seeker," he said when he finally got back from the little stream. He only got a muffled grunt in response. Undressing was laborious –his shoulders were broad and the Seeker took up some of the small space– but finally, he wriggled under the blankets.
"Good night, Varric."
"G'night."
She obviously didn't have any problems with sleeping next to him, as he could hear her steady breathing only a few minutes later.
Wonderful.
***