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Ensconced in a chair all by his lonesome self in his room, Varric stared off into space as he turned a pipe over and around in the strong and dexterous fingers of his left hand, the index and middle fingers of his right hand pressed to his temple while his jaw sank into the palm of his hand. Obviously: the Dwarf was thinking.
He was thinking about how his room smelled like her now. It mostly held Varric's scents: leather, wood polish, parchment, paper, ink, a hint of that explosive Qunari powder he still had the recipe for. But woven in among those scents and the faint spice of his soap were hers: the honeysuckle shampoo he paid exorbitant amounts of money on to have imported from Orlais after their visit to Orlais years ago now lingering in his bedding, her favourite leather conditioner for her armour and boots, her favourite tea which sat on his desk in a tin. It felt like she should walk in at any moment and sit on his lap.
Hawke.
Aubrey.
Hell, even the pipe in his hand reminded Varric of the absent redhead. She gave it to him shortly before leaving Skyhold, laughter in those shockingly bright blue eyes.
"You're a famous and dashing author, Varric," Aubrey had declared as she placed an oblong cherry wood box in his hands and leaned against his chest. "Killer wit, a gorgeous face, irresistible chest hair--"
"You're just listing off the things you like about me, Freckles."
"Which are perfectly valid! Because if I didn't scare them off, you'd have a bevy of beautiful women at your beck and call."
The Dwarf snorted and squeezed his arm around the vertically challenged woman he was proud to call his wife. "You're enough for me. Why would I want a bevy of women when I have you, Hawke?"
His answer apparently pleased her, because Varric found himself the happy recipient of a rather generous bosom squashed to his chest and a slow kiss. A lovely kiss at that. Partly because Varric was hardly a passive participant. When her teeth nipped at his lower lip, his arm around Aubrey tightened and pulled her against him while the kiss deepened, Varric's tongue diving into his lady's now-opened mouth. And she certainly didn't have any complaints judging by the way calloused little hands curled in his chest hair.
"Varric..." Hawke breathed against his lips with another little kiss. "You're distracting me."
"You're distracting me," was his retort. But Varric honestly didn't mind being distracted from the fact his wife would leave him soon, would head off to Weisshaupt without him.
Still, she tapped the box he'd set aside, the sound a soft thump as the pad of Hawke's index finger met lovingly polished wood. "As I was saying before you charmed me once again...You are a famous and dashing author, but there is just one thing you're missing."
Varric gave his lady wife a borderline baleful look at the interruption of their quite delightful sensual interlude, but she simply smiled back. Ah, the pitfalls of marrying someone as sassy, satyrical, and unrepentant as oneself. They drove the Dwarf to open the box and let out a bark of laughter at what lay nestled in soft cloth within the warm wood.
"You got me a pipe."
"Mhm!" An impish grin crossed freckled features while Aubrey lifted the pipe from its cradle. "So the next time you have a portrait done for the back of your books, you can have a pipe along with your bevy of buxom Dwarven ladies."
"Or I could have a pipe and a buxom, freckled ginger on my lap for my next portrait." He'd been thinking about it for a while now. The Inquisitor and Cassandra now knew Varric's highly personal connexion to Aubrey. There was no need to hide his knowledge of her whereabouts any longer. And...Varric was proud to be her husband. Winning her heart and trust were greater accomplishments than any of his literary ones (though he was rather pleased with those too). "Think I'd still be properly dashing?"
Oh, and that smile. That genuine smile which softened bright blue eyes, which seemed even more blue against the flush of her cheeks under the exuberant spatter of freckles on Aubrey's face. And that huskiness as she murmured, "You would definitely be properly dashing, Varric."
The author toyed with the pipe now and bit back a sigh. This just wasn't like him, sitting and brooding. Maybe he was channeling a certain white-haired Elf. Maybe like a disgraced Templar, he was going through withdrawal.
Freckles withdrawal.
She'd only been at Skyhold for a fraction of the time Varric had lived near or with her. It had only been a couple of days since she left. He shouldn't be in such doldrums over her.
Shit.
He was.
Varric had to admit to himself as his gaze dropped to the fire: he missed Hawke. He was always exhilarated by watching epic tales unfold for him to put to paper, to (moderately) embellish. It was always a rush to use his wits and aim against his enemies, even if there was an underlying disgust for meandering through the countryside, woods, and mines of Thedas. But things felt a bit...flat this time around. There was an irritation burning in his chest which came out as particularly sharp sarcasm and witticisms. The Dwarf was never the most gentle-spoken man, but these days he reached all new levels of biting deliveries.
Shit. His brain was going around and around, and just came back to the same thoughts.
He missed Hawke.
Maybe he'd enjoy this more if she were along for the ride.
...Maybe he should write her a letter...