Work Text:
Varric’s house was small and not very different from the ones on either side of it, which were in turn pretty similar to the houses on either side of them. Their backyards were all the same size, varying only in fence height and material, their driveways the same length, their mailboxes uniform. It was a nice neighborhood. Not very inspiring. The Skyhold suburbs were ripe with parents looking for convenient extra-curriculars. He had almost more students than he could deal with.
So he’d blocked off Tuesdays. No kids, no aspiring opera singers looking for cheap accompaniment, just himself and his piano, and the pile of unfinished symphonies he’d been composing for years.
Also, plenty of coffee, and plenty of frustration. He paced his living room, counting beats with his steps, waving his arms in a way no one watching would think was conducting. Lots of cursing. Why had he thought it would be fun to tackle a piece in A flat? He hated that key.
It was one of the first warm days of the summer, and he had the windows and the sliding glass door to the garden wide open. The moving air helped him think.
He muttered his way back to the piano, picked up his pen and glared at the papers spread across the body of the instrument. He was tempted to modulate the key partway through, but wouldn’t that sort of defeat the purpose?
He joked with Hawke sometimes that he should have gotten a degree in business like Bartrand and his parents had wanted him to. Right now, staring at the ideas he’d started and never seemed to be able to finish, he sort of wished he had.
No he didn't.
Back to basics. If he was having too much of a block to write anything, he could at least play. It had been a while since he’d had the chance to sit down at the keyboard himself. Maybe it would help clear his head.
It became a thing. When he got stuck, instead of tracking down Hawke or looking at Bianca’s facebook or trolling Couslandslist for gigs, he dug up all the old sheet music that he’d promised Professor Mac Tir that he’d hold onto. Most Tuesday evenings, he opened his windows and reacquainted himself with pieces outside his students’ basic repertoire. The challenge was refreshing.
It didn’t occur to him that anyone might be listening until he collected his mail one Tuesday morning, and found a handwritten note, placed carefully on top of his magazines and bills. It was written on the back of a postcard with a view of the Frostbacks, the historical Skyhold castle front and center. A humble request to the pianist: it said, Liebestraum No. 3 In A Flat.
Varric looked suspiciously at the houses on either side of his. They looked just as inconspicuous and similar as always. He went inside.
He sat on the bench and rested his hands on the keyboard, feeling strangely self conscious. He’d performed for plenty of crowds in the decade and a half or so that his career spanned, but there was something about knowing that one of his neighbors was listening to him now. They could hear all the mistakes he made, every time he made a false start or missed a note. They might even be able to hear him cursing about it too.
He considered not playing it. He didn’t even like Litz that much. He didn’t like playing A flat at all. But he was a performer at heart. He made sure the windows were open and did his best. There were a couple definite flubs, but he struggled through one rendition, and did much better when he came back to it after trying a few other pieces. He half-expected applause, but it was just as quiet as the week before.
Varric sort of forgot about it for the rest of the week. He played at a jazz club Hawke worked at sometimes, and at a wedding. He had more lessons than usual, since school was out for the summer.
The next Tuesday, there was another note. Moonlight Sonata. He rolled his eyes, but did it anyways.
Every week after, Varric kept an eye on his mailbox, but he never caught his mysterious listener. Isabela suggested installing a security camera, but that felt unsporting.
It went on for almost two months before he thought he had it figured out. The neighbors to his left (704 Bronach Ave) went for a two week vacation before their kids had to go back to school, and the notes kept up in their absence. Varric started watching 708 like a hawk.
The woman who lived there left early every morning, because Varric only ever saw her returning. She was human, tall and dark-haired, and always in blazers and business-like pantsuits. She lived alone, from what he could tell, had a cleaning service round once a week, but took care of her small garden on her own. She didn’t really seem the type to leave anonymous notes in people's mailboxes.
He’d have to talk to her soon, he knew, before it started to get weird.
It must have already gotten weird, because when he finally crossed paths with her-- Varric going out to drink with Hawke, Tall, Dark and Anonymous returning from whatever highpower job she must have-- she shuffled awkwardly and looked like she might want to run and hide.
“Hey,” said Varric. “Are you the one who’s been leaving notes in my mailbox?”
She squared her shoulders and nodded. “I am.”
The Nevarran accent surprised him. They stared at each other for a very long, painfully awkward minute. Varric was usually pretty good with words, but he had no idea what sort of conversation they were supposed to have.
“My name is Cassandra,” she said suddenly, and thrust her hand out toward him. “Cassandra Pentaghast. You play very well.”
“Varric Tethras, at your service,” he said reflexively. “And, thanks. I guess you'd know.” She frowned, but didn't disagree. Her handshake was businesslike and firm.
“I have to ask.” She sounded like she’d rather do anything else. “Are you the same Varric Tethras who composed the music for that show a few years back? The historical romance?”
Varric couldn’t help laughing, even though Cassandra scowled. Of all his meal tickets, why had that been the one to get so popular? “Yeah, that’s me,” he chuckled. “You don’t really seem like their target demographic though, no offense.”
She scoffed and looked thoroughly offended, but asked, “is it true that you recorded an alternate version of the theme song that was never aired?”
“You were a serious fan then? Not many people know that bit of trivia.”
Her cheeks colored slightly, and she made a noise like he’d insulted her, but nodded reluctantly.
“I did,” Varric told her conspiratorially, and she leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “The studio changed their minds at the last minute, but I still have the CD. I could loan it to you, if you want.”
Cassandra’s face transformed when she smiled, from severe to bright, though no less intense. Varric found himself swallowing dryly and offering a pitifully weak grin of his own when faced with her full attention. “Please do,” she said. “I’d like to know everything.”