Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in...
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Kirkwall. 9:37 Dragon.
Varric fumbles the key into the door of his suite at The Hanged Man, carrying a long, floppy parcel over his shoulders, who keeps trying to blow his loose hair away from his ears. Hawke's breath stinks with ale and memories of laughter with friends. The door almost breaks open and swings into whatever is on the wall as he manages to not hit her head on it. He kicks the door behind him and throws the key somewhere. A strong scent of burning wood chokes the room with the little ventilation he has, suffering the windows near the high ceiling.
He drags her to his bedchamber, the alcohol long gone after he made the conscious decision to be that friend. He used to be level with Hawke's intoxication—a pint for a pint, swill for swill—but she doesn't live above a tavern. She lives in High Town, short of daily stupors, and he refuses to carry her all that way, since everyone but Rivaini already left. He'd ask her, but she'd make offers he doesn't want to hear, or be a part of, or protect Hawke from not-sober choices.
"What's up with their vaseline?" Hawke slurs.
"Sorry?" Varric says.
"You know. Their tattoos."
"Their vallaslin?"
"Yeah. What did I say?"
"I have no idea. Up ya go." He grunts as he lowers her onto his bed. She drops on her rump and sits, sighing.
She melodiously chimes, "Ah this is—" She falls back—CRACK.
Varric winces. The curse of fine dwarven furniture: simple, strong, stone.
"—harder than it looks."
"Yeah, I forgot humans sleep on straw, or whatever that is. Has the pain kicked in yet?"
"Nope!" she beams. "Wait. Ow. There it is. Is there blood?"
"Nah I don't think you broke anything." He shifts his weight as he shucks off his boots. "Good night."
"You're not gonna keep me company?"
"Uh." He looks at the dining room chair.
"Warm? Toasty? Naughty-toasty?"
Varric's face warms at the implications.
"I don't think naughty toast is healthy. Good night, Hawke." He turns to go—
She snatches his hand.
His heart pounds. He swallows the rock in his throat and turns back to reject her again. He looks at her—she's passed out. He's free to go, but he can't stop looking. Clammy forehead, hot cheeks, and partially-opened lips with a subtle drop of drool forming in the corner—he gently squeezes her hand.
