Chapter Text
“Remind me why we agreed to this?”
“Oh, you need rationale now? Shit. All right. Uh…how about…because there’s no finer sound in the world than that of coin rubbing together? How’s that work? Poetic enough for you?”
“Well! Far be it from me to disagree with reasoning as solid—and as folksy—as that, but if you wanted coin, Varric, we could’ve just milled about Hightown. Frightened off a few would-be burglars…reaped the generous rewards the thankful citizenry showered upon us for keeping their beloved garden gnomes unmolested…” Hawke turned to her reflection in the carriage’s window, wiping away a smudge of lipstick. “Or, you know…we could’ve just blackmailed someone. Bran, for example! He strikes me as easily blackmailable.”
“Blackmailing Bran Cavin would be like punching Choir Boy in that pretty face of his.” He felt her turn an appraising gaze his way and chuckled. “Easy, sure! But ultimately devoid of the joy you’d want to get out of doing it.”
Her eyes narrowed over her smirk. “You don’t think you’d find any joy in punching Sebastian? Not even a little?”
“I do not.”
“Wow. Dare I ask?”
Varric shrugged. “He’d probably just turn around and tell me that the Maker forgave me and loved me all the same. Wouldn’t even think about punching me back. Ergo, no joy. None whatsoever. Blackmailing Bran would be the same—guy’s already got no will to live, what’re we gonna do, make that worse somehow? Nah, not worth the effort.”
“What I would give to spend a day in that mind of yours.” Shaking her head, Hawke once more turned her gaze outward towards the countryside flashing by. “While I appreciate knowing where you stand on the issue of punching princes, don’t think you’ve wormed your way out of answering my question. I’m still waiting for an acceptable answer to that one, thank you very much.”
“I gave you an answer. You threw it back in my face.”
“It wasn’t a good answer. Try again.”
It wasn’t often those days that jobs of any shape or sort fell to just the two of them; usually the rest of their merry band of misfits strung alongside them (often causing more harm and hilarity than providing any real help), filling the air with their endless opinions and unsolicited gems of advice. But now, sprawled out in someone else’s carriage, watching the scenery of Orlais zip by outside, there was no idle bickering, no snappish debates about mages or Templars or what Corff put in the mystery stew back at the Hanged Man.
Thank. The. Maker.
There they were, Hawke and Varric, Varric and Hawke, crammed into clothes that didn’t belong to them, firing witticisms off one after another after another as they put their heads together to ruin someone else’s life for their own gain. Just like the good old days! Nostalgia alone was enough to put them in high spirits.
“Huh. Okay, well, I can’t really speak for you—”
“Never stopped you before.”
“—but for my part, maybe the reason I agreed to this is because there’s no finer sight in the world than that of you in a dress like that.” He paused for effect, then, smirking, added, “…something, something, rubbing together…”
She brought her hands up in a playful finger-clap, absolutely beaming. “See? See? That’s an answer I can accept!” When she reached down to adjust the bodice of her dress, it was impossible to tell how much of it was joking and how much was actual discomfort as she pulled and plucked and wriggled. “Ohhh, we’d better be at the top of our game tonight, because much as I love your lascivious gaze, I have to tell you…if I have to wear this monstrosity for more than a few hours, the Marquis will have bigger worries than an assassination plot. Namely…” A grimace marked her surrender, and her hands fell to her lap once more. “The strange houseguest skulking through his wine cellar fully nude.”
“That’s why I said you should buy a dr—”
“Yes, Varric, because I was about to spend my own money on an Orlesian-style dress. Me. That sounds exactly like something I’d do, doesn’t it?”
“You at least could’ve double-checked the size before you took it, then, Mademoiselle Complains-A-Lot.”
“What a joy that would’ve been…‘Oh hello, DeLauncet! Sorry, dreadfully rude of me, I know, but for the life of me I can’t tell you idiots apart. Why am I here? Ah, that. Well, you left your window open, you see, and Fereldan louse that I am, I simply couldn’t help climbing in and going through your finery! If you’re open to criticism, might I suggest you invest in colors other than bruised-tangerine-orange? Suits you, of course, but me? Not so much.’”
Much to their shared chagrin, that was the moment the carriage driver pounded on his side of the compartment, warning that they were approaching their destination. So much for fun and games…this was a return to the old days, indeed, and the time to get their hands dirty crept ever closer.
With that in mind, Varric rubbed his palms together, leaning in across the gap between them. “All right, one more time, just to make sure we got it down.”
A bubbly laugh, a shimmy of her shoulders, and Hawke sank into a coquettish pose. “Mmm…oh yes, I love it when you talk exposition to me…”
“We,” he continued, the forcefulness in the word meant not as an admonishment for her, but a reminder for himself, lest he tumble head over foot into the familiar rhythm of their back-and-forth. It was a trap so much easier to fall into than to climb back out of, and damn it, they had a job to do! “In case you’ve forgotten—or weren’t paying attention the first time—”
Hawke gasped with feigned insult.
“—are the newlywed Lord and Lady Abernathy—”
Her tongue lolled out, giving her an expression completely at odds with her fine silk dress and her pouter pigeon chest. “Any chance the marriage is fresh enough that it hasn’t taken yet? Not sure I’m meant to be an Abernathy. Quite glad, on the other hand, that you’ve finally made good on your endless promises to make an honest woman of me. Oh, how long I’ve waited.”
The temptation to give in to the banter was, in a word, immense.
He had to be strong.
“—a lovely young Marcher couple out of Markham who’ve made a respectable living in mining.”
“Mining? Are there even mines in Markham?”
“Ours are,” he smirked. “And they’re wonderful.”
She snorted, the sound distinctly unladylike, bordering on piggish as she fought to sit up again. There were only so many positions she could sit in while wearing that damnable corset that didn’t threaten to suffocate her outright. Whichever DeLauncet she’d stolen it from had to be a masochist—had to be. “All right, what do we mine in these mines?”
He was slipping. It was inevitable.
And judging by Hawke’s smirk…she knew it.
“Sorry, what do we mine in the mines? The mines that are mine, you mean?” Across from him, Hawke grinned, and that was it—the struggle was over. “Hmm, what’s mined in mine own mines?” Varric chuckled. “Let’s say…sapphires. That work for you?”
“Sapphires? Again, in Markham?”
“They’re the pride of Markham, madam! Sapphires the likes of which you’ve never seen! Even Antiva’s envious of what we pull out of those mines.”
Hawke raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Antiva? My, my…well, what’s so special about these sapphires, then?”
“Deepest blue you’ve ever seen. Impossibly blue. Flawless. Stunning.” It was genuinely alarming, sometimes, how naturally the lies came to him, fully formed and thrumming with lives of their own. Alarming…and wonderful. “Same color as your eyes.”
Her coo was accompanied by her hands knotting over her heart. “This is why I married you! I take it all back, I was born to be an Abernathy!”
It was as good a place as any to get back to the task at hand. “And we were so kindly invited to the Marquis’s lavish estate to discuss signing one or more of those mines over, assuming the price is right.”
“Oho, the price had better be right—you’ve been promising me we’d buy ourselves a sweet little bungalow on the coast for aaages, now…”
“But.”
“Always a but.”
“Those talks aren’t going to go well.”
“Blast!”
“And we’re going to end up signing the mine—or mines—away for a much lower price than we wanted.”
“So much for my bungalow…”
“And while the Marquis is distracted with gloating over his new acquisition, someone’s going to kill him.”
“Oh nooo! I—wait. Oh, that’s us!” She tittered the saccharine laugh she used whenever they made fun of others behind their backs, grinning at her own joke. “Right, right, I remember this part. Once he’s dead, the strangest thing happens—Lord and Lady Abernathy simply disappear into the mist, and no sign of them or their illustrious sapphire mines can be found. ‘Sapphire mines? In Markham?’ the people will say, scratching their heads, ‘Why, I do believe Marquis DuRellion had gone mad in his final hours! Probably the stress of having so many different cheeses to choose from at every meal.’”
Below them, the carriage gave a lurch, signaling the changing pavement beneath; no doubt the dirt path had just given way to stone, meaning they were nearing the manor. Without needing words, they began slipping into their new skins, tightening their postures and refining their facial expressions, running through mental catalogues of voices that might best fit their new identities. It was always the best part of the game (lowercase g, of course), the moments leading up to the act, where adrenaline and schadenfreude alone felt enough to sustain them into the next century.
Hawke took one last deep breath in, and when she exhaled, her voice was only partially her own. “You got half upfront, right? In case things go tits up?”
“Did I get half upfront…who do you take me for?” He met her eyes and flashed her a wounded expression. “It’s like you don’t even know me! Now, if you would…”
She reached over to take his offered hand in hers, bracing herself as the carriage came to a halt. “I do so hope this business transaction works out in our favor,” she sighed. “But either way, dear husband, of one thing I am sure…” Just like that, her voice dropped down into her own once more. “I’m going to drink every last drop of fancy booze in this place, and then I’m going to rob this asshole blind the moment he stops twitching.”
“And that’s why I married you.” Grinning, Varric lifted Hawke’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.