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The house felt empty these days and Garret didn’t think it would ever be different again.
Bodhan and Sandal still occupied a guest room and Orana the servants’ quarters and if Garret had had a mind for it, he could have invited dozens of petitioners for his help or random acquaintances into his home every day. However, it did not help to fill the space with bodies when all the people he had dragged from Ferelden to protect them were dead.
He could have spoken to his friends, but Garret didn’t know what to talk to them about, what words would have helped. His family was gone, chattering would not bring them back, and he’d never been one to confide much in others. He still didn’t know how he even had a group of friends sticking around since he’d always been about as friendly as a wild mabari – Varric’s words, and Garret had glowered at him when he’d said them, but as so often, Varric hadn’t been wrong.
Garret’s friends were wrapped up in their own lives, anyway, as was natural. The couple of times Aveline had tried to question him when she’d handed him some contract, Garret had only shrugged his shoulders. Eventually she’d stopped trying to get anything out of him. It didn’t help his relationships that Garret hadn’t been to the Hanged Man in weeks, either, instead doggedly trudging on through one job after another, taking every opportunity to fill his days with mindless work. Fighting was still something to do, at least, and no one could sink into the grey drudgery of self-pity with an arrow zipping towards them. It was the only thing he could lose himself in at this point.
Varric still dropped by, though. He’d always been a stubborn one. Even during the first weeks after his mother’s death, when on some evenings Garret had sat at the table with Varric and had refused to give him as much as a nod or acknowledging hum, or, later, when he’d only needled and insulted Varric, Varric had gone on talking undeterred about everything that happened in the city and with their shared friends. Years ago, Varric had figured out that Garret’s bark was worse than his bite, that Garret usually tended towards mercy in the end, and since then his gruffness hadn’t done much to repel Varric anymore. This should have angered Garret, who’d never kept his attitude to make himself popular, but with Varric, things had been different for a long time.
Not that that changed anything, in the end.
It wasn’t odd that Varric was his friend because Varric made friends with people that ranged from Hightown dowagers to urchins begging at the docks. Garret was not optimistic enough to believe Varric’s interest in him went further than that, though. There was still a jump from liking someone to spending your life with them; and as much as Garret wanted to fall asleep next to Varric each night, couldn’t help but notice in every fast-flowing conversation how well they matched despite all their differences, he also knew it was a fool’s wish. When he imagined someone worthy to be at Varric’s side, it was a softer, friendlier, less broken person than himself.
Despite that veil of melancholy, though, Varric sitting at his table, complaining about the human-sized chairs that didn’t allow his feet to touch the ground, was still the one thing he looked forward to. Even the cavernous entrance hall of this damned mansion wasn’t quite so cold with Varric in it.
“You know, Rivaini and me miss having you around,” Varric said. “Since Blondie’s so busy these days, the table feels empty.”
“Do you need someone to fleece for coin?” Garret asked, raising a brow.
“Well, that doesn’t hurt,” Varric said with a charming smile, “and it’s not like you seem to be doing anything else with your evenings.”
Garret grunted. He’d never seen the point in denying the obvious. “Do I need to?”
“No, if you really want to, you’ve definitely earned free time spent staring at a wall. You’ve already packed a life’s worth of action into your years in Kirkwall. That’s not really the Hawke I know, though.” Varric hesitated briefly before he added: “No one would blame you for being a bit under the weather right now, either.”
Though Varric’s tone was humorous, Garret could feel a worried warmth sneaking in there. He frowned. He didn’t want this from Varric – not pity because it embarrassed him, and not concern because Varric already carried too many loads and Garret didn’t want to add his own.
“I’ve just been tired. I kept busy.” He dug his fingernail into the hard wood of the table. “If you want to tag along, I’ve got business at the Wounded Coast tomorrow. Rogue mercenaries,” he added, knowing Varric wouldn’t take an easy excuse. He had the job lined up, anyway. Maybe seeing Garret get out there would calm Varric down a bit.
“Sounds like a relaxing day at the beach,” Varric said. “You want me to bring anyone else along? Aside from my trusty crossbow, of course.”
“No,” Garret said, “just you. Meet me around midday?”
He didn’t think he could take more than one person yet and if it had to be anyone, Varric was the best choice. Even during Garret’s worst moods, the dwarf neither coddled nor chastised him. If he needed anything, it was that friendly presence. Maybe it was also an evening at the Hanged Man with Varric, but Garret had very little trust in himself that he wouldn’t do anything stupid if left alone with Varric over ale and candlelight. With nothing left to lose, he’d at times considered interrupting some tall tale of his by simply kissing him on the mouth even here in his house, stone cold sober. That was a shit idea, so fresh air and something else to focus on were the better choice.
“You’ve got a deal.”
Varric looked pleased and a little relieved as he grinned at him.
-
Fighting alongside Varric was like working a machine, the sort you saw at curiosity shops like the Black Emporium, where small wheels and intricate needles combined in mysterious yet perfect harmony at the pull of a lever. They had known each other for years at this point and a crossbowman would always work well with a warrior carrying sword and shield, but their coordination was way more than just routine and styles that fit together.
As Garret swung his bastard sword and caught the blows coming at him with the broad, heavy shield strapped to his other arm, he didn’t have to worry about his flanks or his back. If there would be someone Varric couldn’t keep at bay with a well-placed bolt, he would call to Garret to pivot. If Garret stepped too close to a trap, Varric warned him to stay put and then flitted past him to disarm the spikes or explosives and get Garret the room he needed to fight. On the other hand, when someone came too close to Varric and he was running out of escape routes, Varric had only to shout his name and Garret would lend him his shield and his armoured body to hide behind until Varric found his footing again. They distracted the enemies from each other, divided and conquered. It was exhilarating.
Only when they had gone through all the mercenaries, Garret noticed that his arm was bleeding. He’d fought blade to blade, inches apart, with the captain of the roving band of outlaws and he did remember him taking a swipe at his shoulder.
Varric walked up, strapping his crossbow to his back as he looked at Garret pulling at the torn, blood-stained fabric.
“Your own or someone else’s?” he asked.
“My own for a change.”
When Varric waved him to lean down, Garret went to one knee, allowing Varric to inspect the wound and, with a wisp of guilt, enjoying how gently Varric’s broad hands held his arm. Varric frowned at the cut before he took a leather-wound flask from his belt and emptied half of the water inside over the wound to clean it.
“Water?” Garret asked. “I would have expected you to carry something stronger.”
“I still have to aim my crossbow a little bit.” He dug through another pouch. They all came prepared to the battlefield and Varric emerged with a clean strip of cloth and dried elfroot, which he placed on the wound and fixed with the bandage. Garret didn’t twitch at the stinging pain, held still for him. “We should have taken a mage. A healing spell would be useful.”
“I can get one at a clinic in the city,” Garret murmured. “Besides, Anders has had his head somewhere else for ages and isn’t Merrill busy, too?”
“She is. I wonder if that is a good sign? Daisy’s not at loud about it as Blondie, but she can find trouble pretty well herself,” Varric answered.
“Maker knows.” Garret trusted her not to do anything that could hurt them or herself on purpose, but he was worried about some of the paths she walked nonetheless. “Do you check in on her?”
“Yes, but I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. Blondie, too. He could use someone to talk some sense into him and he’s not taking it from me.”
“I know,” Garret admitted grudgingly, watching Varric wrap the bandage tight. “I should come to the Hanged Man.”
“I mean, it could be good you’re not drawn there right now,” Varric said. “I like to get drunk when I’m in a really bad mood, but if I’m honest, it’s not much of a solution.”
Garret had to grin. His face felt stiff, like he didn’t even have the muscles for it anymore.
“Right. Still, I wouldn’t mind sharing a flask of something stronger with you if you had it,” he told Varric.
-
The next day, when Garret stood covered head to toe in blood, feeling it creep under his shirt and tasting the iron on his tongue, he knew that his last outing with Varric had put him too much at ease. He’d let his guard down and had convinced himself maybe things in his muddled head would be alright if he just kept Varric close.
But the mercenaries had been child’s play for them. This fight against a group of blood mages turned abominations was much harder and he could feel his grip on his sanity slipping as it had too many times lately. I knew this would be a challenge. I should have taken more support. He barely had time to pay attention to Varric, especially not as survival instinct kicked in and a sheen of red seemed to cover the whole world.
He raised his sword again, fury filling him with enough strength to decapitate a man where he stood.
He’d been told a few times that he could be a berserker, but he’d never learned the art. Even back when he’d been less close to the brink, he’d always known in the back of his mind that it would fit him too well and that perhaps if he threw himself off that ledge there’d be no way back up.
What fighting after the death of his mother had taught him was that he didn’t need anyone to teach him to tap into the beast within.
He pushed and pushed, threw himself at every figure that came too close. Claws and hands and blades all became one whirl in his mind. It was easy to be liberal with his sword when he hated just about every blighter in this town and when these mages reminded him so much of the monster who’d taken his mother, the mangled body that wasn’t hers...
“Hawke!”
He whirled and slammed his sword down where the voice had come from. Varric jumped out of the way of his blade just in time for it to cleave the wet earth where he’d stood.
“No further left, you’re about to get your feet speared,” Varric said, out of breath. “But you’ve done enough.”
Like a man pushing his head above the surface of the water, Garret looked around. There was one shade left, to his right, but Varric put a bolt in its misshapen face before Hawke could think to throw himself at it. Next to his foot, he now also saw the faint lines of the trap Varric had come to warn him about, next to where a crumpled abomination laid on the floor.
At the start of the fight, he’d cursed himself for putting Varric in danger. He hadn’t expected he’d himself turn out to be the biggest threat.
The blood kept pounding in his head, but it was for shame and fear now as he stared at the furrow in the ground where Varric had stood.
“I apologise,” he ground out as he swept his gaze across the warehouse again. There was no one left moving.
With hasty steps, Garret left, only making sure that Varric had followed out of the building before he took off, using the speed he had by virtue of the greater length of his legs to escape Varric in the crowded streets of Lowtown.
-
Varric had not stopped visiting Garret when he’d not spoken to him, he hadn’t stopped when Garret had grumbled and snapped, and apparently a murder attempt wouldn’t make him stop, either. That evening, Orana informed Garret that Varric was waiting in the library for him and Garret almost told her to send him away, but though he did not deserve the hand that had been extended towards him, it was too tempting to reject.
When he came to the library, Varric was already seated by the fire. Seeing Garret enter, he pointed at the bottle sitting before him on the table.
“Listen, I know neither of us is really into talking about our feelings, but I got that drink you wanted.”
“You don’t think I’m out of control enough yet?” Garret asked, dragging back a chair, his back straight with tension.
“Come on now, a blundering, heavyset warrior like you couldn’t be a real danger to me.” Varric smiled but cocked his head, expression turning a little more serious. “Mistakes happen. I’m just a bit concerned that you might not be able to tell my voice apart anymore because you’ve had nothing but the clash of weapons in your ears for a couple of months now. You could use a break from the battlefield. I mean, everywhere I ask about you, you seem to have beat someone up for somebody else.”
“You’ve been spying on me again?” Garret grunted.
“In the name of friendship,” Varric said sweetly.
Garret shoved aside, with some vehemence, the thought of how much he loved Varric for so many reasons, but one among them that he so often saved Garret the need to explain too much. Varric was a nosey bastard, but Garret needed someone like that to get under his armour.
“How about that drink?” he asked.
-
Cups were acquired from a shelf and Varric filled them to the brim with heady wine. Garret had to empty his cup twice before he opened his mouth, his head already swimming.
“I don’t think I could say anything about my mother or my siblings that would surprise you. It’s not like you can’t imagine what it feels like,” he murmured. “I don’t need you to go through the platitudes, either. I know I fucked it up.”
“Well, my family is all gone now except for Bartrand sitting in that chantry with no memory of who he is, too. We have that in common and you don’t judge me for that, as far as I know,” Varric answered, shaking his head. “You’re not responsible for what happened to your family. You tried as hard as anyone could, but sometimes, fate, luck, whatever you want to call it, it just isn’t on your side.” Immediately after saying so, before Garret could get as much as a breath, much less a denial in, Varric slapped the table with his flat hand. “Right, then, as you said, no need to talk about it any more than that.”
Despite everything, Garret gave a rough laugh.
“Oh, very clever, dwarf,” he muttered. “Did you practice getting the last word in?”
“I need to when I plan to visit you,” Varric answered.
It was soothing that Garret believed Varric meant what he’d said. Garret wouldn’t stop blaming himself anytime soon, but to know Varric didn’t think of him as rotten gave him a little faith in himself, which he’d been sorely lacking lately.
Varric emptied his cup and reached down to adjust Bianca, who leaned against the table.
“You know, I’ll need to spend some time fixing up my crossbow after the last couple of days. Without you, I just don’t get into enough fights,” he said, switching topics somewhat unsubtly.
Garret was willing to go with it. He filled their cups again.
“‘Your crossbow’?” he said, suddenly.
Varric raised a brow. “Yes? It’s not a sword.”
“You haven’t called her Bianca in a while,” Garrett noted, with the useless, concentrated clarity that intoxication sometimes brought.
Varric huffed. “How would you know? You’re hardly ever around.”
“You won’t leave me alone, so I see you often enough.”
“I’ll give you that,” Varric admitted. He sounded a bit unsteady himself, thoughtful in that soft, drunken way people got. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m not talking to anyone but you, anyway,” Garret muttered sardonically, though he allowed a shadow of a smile.
Varric chuckled. “Right. The truth is, the Bianca thing is a predictable story, which is why I don’t tell it. It’s about a woman and it’s a love story – of sorts. Exactly what one would expect, too boring for a tale.”
Garret felt his stomach seize and suddenly wished he hadn’t asked. “So what changed?”
“It’s gone downhill for years. I admitted it to myself a while back, but old habits die hard. I figured it’s time to cut the last cord.”
The weight in his stomach lifted again, just a little. “How long did it go on?” Garrett asked into his cup.
“All together? Hard to say, it was a winding road to be sure. A decade, probably.” Varric sighed. “Basically no time wasted at all...”
It didn’t surprise Garret that Varric would cling so long even to a failing relationship. He was loyal to a fault – otherwise he would not have sat here, either.
Garret didn’t want to be happy that something that Varric had obviously cared about had crashed and burned, but he couldn’t quite stop feeling glad that this was over, so he hid his relief in his cup.
“It’s always a woman, isn’t it?” Garret murmured vaguely, too intoxicated to think of something more meaningful to say.
“Not always, in my case! Sometimes, it was a man,” Varric joked.
Garret kept himself from spitting his wine back into his cup. He’d seen Varric joke around with men before in a way that suggested he wasn’t totally uninterested, but Varric had a way of speaking that could make you think he was flirting with a doorknob – or a crossbow.
“Right,” Garret murmured. “It’s the men for me, too.”
“Are they really, though?” Varric asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you with anyone for more than a night. Doesn’t seem like you keep them around for long enough to become problems. Which – I guess I can’t really fault you for that, considering my experiences.”
“Sex is easy,” Garret answered with shrug. “Everything else isn’t. Besides, I had my reasons.”
Varric looked up with curiosity in his eyes and Garret didn’t know what it was that made him decide to do what he did next: hearing that Varric might be interested in men, or that he was not entangled with anyone else anymore, or perhaps just that he was offering his mouth up perfectly at that angle and Garret was absolutely drunk.
He kissed him.
The last thing he remembered was Varric leaning in.
-
When Garret woke up again, it was dark and he laid in his bed with his boots on. Varric’s head rested against his shoulder, hair tie loosely tangled in his blond strands and his tunic hanging down over his naked shoulder, but otherwise looking quite decent. As Garret had shifted abruptly, Varric moved, too, blinking himself awake.
They looked at each other for a long moment before Varric smiled.
“Doesn’t look like we got too far. Antivan wine can really knock you out, especially once you get horizontal.”
“Yeah...”
Slowly, Garret sunk back into the pillows, experimentally pulling in the arm that Varric laid on, tugging Varric against his side. Varric did not move away.
“Should we talk?” Varric asked after a long moment.
“I could kiss you again instead.”
“I like that option better.”
So Hawke did, curling himself over Varric’s body in the process. He was sure they both had the sour aftertaste of wine on their tongues, but he was too sleep-addled and euphoric at once to notice anything but the warmth of Varric pliant underneath him.
“One thing,” he murmured, parting, because if he didn’t say it now he didn’t know when he’d have the courage again, “I love you. I know I’m not the kind of man – I guess someone kinder would fit you better. It is what it is, though.”
“You’re plenty kind at heart, you’re just an ass,” Varric said, looking up at him in the gloom, raising a hand to cup Garret’s face. “Why do you think I peeled myself off that relationship with Bianca after a decade? I’m not a reasonable man, after all.”
Garret pressed his face against the crook of Varric’s neck. It was much too soon to say that all was well, but as he closed Varric in his arms, he felt, for the first time in weeks, like things might eventually get better.