Chapter Text
“Do it,” she says, and there's an elbow in his side – or, well, more like his shoulder. Like her aim, Hawke's depth perception has never been much to brag about.
“You realize you're asking me to get myself killed.”
She grins, a quick flash of a smile, and for a moment she looks like her old self. Like Kirkwall Hawke, not this...other Hawke, with burdens too heavy for her shoulders and too many shadows in her eyes. Then again, Varric is a far cry from his old self, too, so at least she's in good company.
“It can't be that bad.”
“Strangled, then. Brutally eviscerated. And you would put me through this – you of all people.” He tries to sound sufficiently betrayed, in hopes that she'll change her mind.
She doesn't, of course. “It was a bet, Varric, and one that you lost. I'm only collecting my winnings – which you didn't specify at the time, I might add. It's only fair I get to choose.”
“It's been two years,” he tries, because there's got to be some way he can get out of this, to save his own neck if nothing else. He'd offer her all the gold in his pockets, but by the clever smile at the corners of her eyes, Varric has a feeling no amount of shiny sovereigns could persuade her from her current decision.
“Has it?” she hums. “My, how time flies when the world goes to shit around you.”
Varric sighs, but lets his gaze skim across the tavern's residents until he finds a familiar head of dark hair amidst the crowd. She's got her back turned to them, and from what he can tell, she's not participating in the conversation happening around her, choosing instead to listen quietly to whatever story Nightingale is weaving.
Then – “You're sure it can't be anyone else?”
Hawke's grin only widens, and she takes another swig of her ale. “I'm quite happy with my choice, actually.” She throws him a look, and there's a challenge in her eyes that bodes no good things in his future. “Come on, Varric. I've never known you to back away from a challenge," she says. "And she wouldn't kill you for a little harmless flirting, surely?”
Hawke only smiles, cheerfully unperturbed. “Good luck,” she calls after him, lifting her glass as he makes to cross the room.
The Seeker still has her back to him, and he watches the slight shift of her head; the sharp angle of her nose as her profile comes into view. She's not usually to be found in the tavern at this hour (or any hour, really), but of course she would be, tonight of all nights. There's a glass of wine at her elbow, but by the amount that's still in it (and the tension that still clings to her stiff shoulders, the frown between her brows), she hasn't had much to drink. Which is just his luck, really. He's never seen her even close to inebriated, but with what he's about to do, a few glasses could have at least saved him from the full force of her wrath when she discovers what he's up to.
Maker's mercy, Hawke, but this better make you happy.
“Seeker,” he greets, and puts on a smile from his collection. “And here I thought my eyes were deceiving me.”
She jumps – she hasn't heard him approach, and her surprise could almost be called charming, if it weren't for the glare that follows at its heels. “Oh,” she says, voice entirely bland. “It's you.”
Varric keeps the grin, and takes a seat before she has a chance to protest, waving to the barkeep for another glass. The conversation around them doesn't stop, but he catches Nightingale's funny look before it disappears, swallowed by a polite smile, and she doesn't miss a beat, already elaborating upon a rather memorable event from her time in Val Royeaux as a glass is pushed towards his waiting hands. If she suspects anything, she says nothing.
When he finally looks back at the Seeker, her glare is still firmly in place. “Why are you here?” she asks, suspicion dripping from every word.
“Do I need a reason?” he counters. “Maybe I wanted to mend some fences.”
Her look of distrust doesn't lessen, but the hard press of her mouth eases a fraction, and she doesn't tell him to shove off, which is a start. Varric shrugs, and lifts the glass to his lips to cover the smile. “Or, maybe I thought you looked like you were in need of some decent conversation.”
“I was not,” she retorts smoothly, and entirely too quickly.
“You sure about that? Few minutes ago you looked ready to bolt.”
He receives a sidelong look for that, and he can almost imagine the corner of her mouth lifts a little, but he can't be sure. “This is not my idea of a good time, I will admit,” she says then. “But Leliana asked, and I had nothing better to do.”
Varric finds a grin – a real one now, and not one of his many 'one-for-every-occasion' smiles. “Finished the new chapter already?” And he doesn't even bother to hide the suggestive tone that curls along the words.
But – to his surprise, she doesn't duck her head, or splutter that it's none of his business. Instead she lifts her glass to her lips and says, “Twice,” before she swallows a considerable mouthful.
He shakes his head, strangely pleased by the answer. “You know, I still can't wrap my head around it,” he admits.
“What, that a woman who wields a sword can enjoy a good romance?” By her tone, she's expecting him to agree, or (because it's him, no doubt), offer some teasing remark.
Varric smiles, because he knows a fair share of women just like that, but he doesn't tell her that -- oh no. Because she's got that look of irritation that dares him to say the wrong thing, and – he might just like riling her up more than is entirely good for him. “Actually, I was sure you'd drive a knife through it before even considering the contents.”
Cassandra huffs. “There is nothing wrong with the contents,” she tells him. “As it is, I happen to enjoy them. As you well know.”
“And like I said, I still can't figure out why, but to each his own, I guess.”
She says nothing to that, and for a moment Varric wonders if she's not going to answer at all, but then, “I...see a lot of myself, in your protagonist,” she admits at length, seeming to choose her words carefully. “She is a good character,” she adds, as she looks up from her glass to meet his eyes. A small smile finds its way along her mouth. “I find her very believable, for all that she is fictional.”
Varric says nothing, but– oh, he wants to tell her, the words are perched on the edge of his tongue, but he holds them back because this is too damn good to waste now on a whim.
“Well, I get my inspiration from real people who make an impression,” he says instead. “Who knows -- maybe I'll base my next character off you,” he adds impulsively, and for some reason he can't possibly name.
He almost expects her to snap at him, but instead she laughs – the honest sound pulling free of her lips almost without her consent, and he can tell she's as surprised as he is, and she can't smother her smile quite fast enough. And for the span of a moment the harsh lines at the corners of her mouth smoothens, and her eyes seem almost unnaturally bright in the candlelight, and–
“You should laugh more,” he hears himself say, before he can question the wisdom of his own words.
Cassandra offers him a decidedly wry look for that remark, and it's the second time in one night she doesn't react in the way he'd thought she would. “If there were more things to laugh about, I would,” she says, and takes another sip of her glass.
He doesn't know what prompts him -- it sure as hell isn't Hawke's eyes on his back because he knows what his charm sounds like when he's using it to coax favours, and what it sounds like when he's being honest. (If he really thinks about it, it might be the sombre look in her eyes, or the fact that she can't relax even now with a roaring fire in the hearth and laughter all around her, but he's a dwarf who knows self-preservation, and so he doesn't dwell on the thought).
"Oh, come on, Seeker," he says then. "I'm sure you can find something to enjoy." And if his tone is suggestive, it's not because he'd planned it to be, even if that was the reason he'd come over in the first place. But the lost bet seems a far-away thought, pushed to the back of his mind in favour of the beckoning warmth and noise of the tavern.
Cassandra looks at him oddly, and he thinks she might snap that they're in the middle of the world falling apart, how can he stand to joke in such a manner, but -- "The music is nice," she admits then, and hides the small smile behind the rim of her glass.
And Varric laughs, an honest guffaw. "You're breaking my heart, Seeker. And here I thought you were enjoying my company."
Strangely emboldened, she shrugs. "I did not say I was not enjoying it," she admits, quietly.
Varric considers her, then, and the rare humour brought on by something beyond his knowledge. The logical part of his brain that usually gets him out of trouble before it's too late deems it fit to remind him that he's threading on dangerously thin ice, but it's hard to stop when she's smiling like that (and he hasn't seen her smile much, not in Kirkwall and certainly not here in the cradle of the sky with her burdens always out in the open). And with her lips stained burgundy by the wine in her glass and her eyes crinkling at the corners with something other than anger, finally --
“You know, this went far better than I thought it would," he says, and the words are off his tongue before he can will them back.
She seems startled by the comment, and then she looks at him long and hard, and Varric wonders if he's gone a step too far, but there's something else behind the look she's giving him – something he can't put his finger on. And something that feels distinctly like unease stirs behind his ribcage. Ah, shit.
“Why are you here?” she asks then. “Truly?”
He feigns ignorance with an ease borne of long years. “With the Inquisition? I think we've already covered that.”
But she's not so easily deterred, and not so easily fooled, either. And Varric knows she can tell he's trying to avoid something. “No – not the Inquisition. Here. With–” She pauses. Glares, as though she can somehow read him better if she's squinting. “You would not seek my company without good reason,” she says then, and the truth of it falls heavy like a sentence.
He doesn't look in Hawke's direction, because he's not an idiot, but he knows by the flicker of her eyes when Cassandra does, and – Maker take him but he sees the moment realization dawns on her face, to settle like surprise between her expressive brows.
“I...see,” she says then, voice hard steel and any traces of her earlier humour gone with her next breath. And there's that look on her face again, the one he can't quite read, for all that she's usually such an open book. It's almost close to regret, but he doesn't understand why she would be feeling that, of all things.
But then, it's the way she can't quite meet his eyes that finally does it, and the thought strikes him, sudden as lightening and just as brutal, but – that's impossible.
"Seeker,” Varric says, and he can't hide his surprise when he says it. “Are you–”
“I–” she starts, just as he speaks, but whatever she'd been about to say, she swallows it. Instead she says, “I do not know what came over me. It must have been the wine.” But he doesn't need to look at the glass to see that it's not even close to empty, and from the way she's clearly avoiding looking at it, Cassandra more than aware.
“Cassa–”
“Spare me this humiliation,” she says then, voice quiet but forceful below the steadily rising din of the music, and it's not with anger she speaks but something else, and he only recognizes it as fear when she continues with, “Please.”
The twang of Maryden's lute signals the end of the song, and a chorus of applause rises up to fill the tavern, and Cassandra doesn't give him the chance to so much as offer a word of protest, rising to her feet with an ease that does not match the turmoil on her face. And she's gone before the next song picks up, leaving Varric by the table.
There's a hand on his shoulder, then, clamping down with surprising force. “If you don't go after her now, you're an idiot,” Hawke declares.
But he's already rising to his feet. “I was an idiot for agreeing to this in the first place,” he says. If the rest of the tavern's occupants have picked up that something is brewing, they're being discreet about it, but he doesn't think it's just a coincidence that Maryden is singing just a little bit louder than usual, drawing eyes away from Varric's back as he makes for the door to follow the Seeker.
But – he stops halfway, and turns back to face her. “Did you know?” he asks, though he has a feeling he already knows the answer.
She smiles, and shrugs. “I know smitten when I see it, and she's terribly easy to read. Figured you needed a push.”
Varric snorts. “What, off a cliff? Maker's breath, Hawke, if she wasn't ready to strangle me before, she's going to want my head for this.”
Hawke sighs, as though he's being thick on purpose. “And you write romance novels.” When he doesn't move, she makes a shooing motion towards the door. “What are you waiting for? Go.”
"You might want to hurry, if you wish to catch her," Nightingale speaks up from beside him, and when he looks towards her, Varric finds the rest of her table is watching him expectantly. Somewhere at the back of his mind the thought registers that Maryden has stopped singing.
He looks back at Hawke, and hesitates only a moment longer (because she's someone he'd trust with his life and if she tells him to run he won't ask questions, but on the other hand she's also someone who's gotten him into more trouble than he's managed himself), before he turns on his heel, weaving his way between the patrons of the Herald's Rest as he makes to follow the Seeker.
"I'll be taking your bets, now," he hears her announce before the door closes behind him, cutting him off from the rising din. And he draws his conviction (and not a small amount of courage, Maker help him) from the simple fact that Hawke rarely ever bets if she's not entirely certain she'll win.
.
He finds her pacing in the practice yard.
“Need something to hit?”
She stops, but doesn't turn to face him right away, choosing instead to keep her eyes on the wall before her. A heartbeat passes, and another, and then she turns, movements stiff, and he can tell she's on the defensive, though she's got neither weapon nor shield in her hand. “If you are here to gloat–”
Varric holds up his hands before she can finish. “I'm not," he says. "I -- shit, Seeker, I didn't know,” he tells her, honestly, because her reaction was truly the last he'd expected. “I thought you hated my guts.”
Cassandra purses her lips. “Hate is...not the word I would use.”
He doesn't smile, but part of him wants to, because of course she'd put it like that. “And what word would you use then?”
“Don't mock me,” she snaps.
“I'm not,” he says again, calmer this time. “I'm just surprised. Hell, can you blame me?" He laughs, but it lacks mirth. "Here I was thinking you wanted me strung up by my ankles, when really–”
“It's not–” she starts, stutters. “I have not thought about it that much.”
“But you have thought about it?” Maker, but he can't reconcile what she's telling him with her behaviour – the anger, the spitting dismissals, the sniping over petty issues and over Hawke, even now. She'd called him a conniving little shit and tried to sock him, and –
“No. Yes. I mean – yes,” she admits, shifting her weight. “If you must know.”
Varric considers the admission – the revelation he couldn't have predicted if someone had straight out told him about it, and finds himself at a loss.
“You–” Cassandra begins then, when he hasn't said anything for several heartbeats, and he doesn't know if she's angry or – Maker help him – pleading. “Say something.”
He doesn't. Oh Varric could say a whole lot of things, but she's got that look on her face – the one where she seems to be teetering between decisions, and uncertainty is such a rarity with her, but she shows it to him now, and it's more than he's asked for and more than he'd counted on, but at the same time–
to hell with it.
Despite her height it's remarkably easy grabbing hold of the front of her shirt, and he catches the surprise on her face – the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her mouth – before he tugs her down, the words on their way past her lips muffled by his own. And she might have reached for his throat once for even suggesting it (hell, for so much as thinking about it), but with a breath she relaxes into the kiss, first just a little but then in earnest. And then it's her hands on his shoulders, clumsy fingers tangling in his tunic and her mouth a careful press against his. It's been a while since her last, he suspects, by the hesitance that's replaced her usual brashness, but Varric doesn't kiss tentatively, and when he pulls her closer she responds, finally, hands tightening at the base of his neck.
She's the first to draw away, the grip on his shirt loosening, and when she meets his eyes there are more questions in them than Varric thinks he can answer.
"Well," he says, into the quiet, and clears his throat. "Can't say I'd planned on doing that."
Cassandra glares, and releases her hold, but -- she doesn't step back. "Why did you approach me tonight?" she asks then, and there's no way out of it now, Varric knows, not now that he knows the feel of her nose against his; that her mouth is softer than her frowns suggest and that her eyes flutter shut when she's being kissed, like in the great tales.
And so, “I lost a bet,” he says, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. "It was years ago, back in Kirkwall, but Hawke figured it'd be fun cashing it in while she was here. 'In case she died a horrible death'." He snorts. "Said she'd always wanted to see my charm in action, to make sure that I wasn't just talk. I might have...embellished my own expertise in the area."
She seems entirely unsurprised by the admission. "And me?" she asks. "What was I in this? An unfortunate victim, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?" And he doesn't imagine the slight waver to her voice now.
He tries not to smile too much. "Not if you're to believe Hawke. Apparently, Seeker, you're smitten with me."
Cassandra splutters, and Varric can't hold back the grin, now. "I -- I am no such thing!"
"You know, an hour ago I'd be agreeing with you, but now I'm inclined to think that she might be onto something." He takes a step closer, and makes it deliberate, so that even she can't mistake the intention.
She doesn't repeat her denial, and her hands tighten against her sides, like she wants to raise them in defence, but she doesn't. And she doesn't step back now, either.
"And?" she asks instead, wary still (and she'll always be that, he thinks), but not dismissive.
He reaches for her hand, fingers curling around her closed fist, coaxing her own fingers loose. "And," he says, meeting her eyes now. "You know, I think this might be the first bet I'm glad to have lost."
He doesn't know what he'd expected, but Cassandra snorts (an honest to Maker snort, and he should write it down for posterity). "Your flattery is no less atrocious when it's sincere," she tells him, but she doesn't have anything to hide the smile behind now, and when he gives a tug next she comes only with a little resistance. In the shadows of the practice yard she doesn't shy away like she would anywhere else, and Varric doesn't push further than she lets him, though his hands are steady on her hips, and when she meets him next she's the one kissing him.
He hasn't entirely wrapped his mind around what has happened (what is happening, Maker but that's going to take a while to get used to), even as he tastes the wine on her lips and finds that beneath his hands she's not the hard edges he'd expected, but soft curves, and muscles tense with something that's slowly loosening. But good things are hard to come by these dark days, and she's a damn good thing, Varric knows that by the slight curve of her smile against his, still a tentative thing even if her kisses grow bolder.
But most of all he knows it by the forgiveness that sits in the warmth of her hands, and he resolves that he won't be an idiot. Not with her, and not for all the winnings in the world.
.
"'Your charm in action'?" she asks later, when they're making their way across the courtyard back to the tavern. He doesn't tell her what no doubt awaits them behind the closed doors -- that between Hawke and Nightingale there's probably a betting pool the size of Skyhold's treasury already formed and ready to be doled out upon their timely arrival.
Instead he grins. "It charmed you."
"Oh, shut up."
But she's grinning, too, though she's trying very hard not to, he can tell. She's not touching him, and keeping an appropriate distance that's going to fool absolutely no one, but -- her hand nudges against his ever so slightly, before she tucks it securely behind her back.
And as she ducks back into the tavern, offering him one last look before she's swallowed by the music and the laughter, and the skin of his hand tingles --
Shit.
-- Varric can't help but wonder what else he lost tonight.