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Varric couldn’t call himself in a good mood. In fact he was in a pretty bad mood, all things considered. And it had nothing to do with the fact that it had been a miserable week, trekking across the Hissing Wastes. Or that Varric was sure that there was more sand in his boots than outside.
Rather, his sour mood was because of a lurker, which had snuck up on the group sometime during the midafternoon. And in his fright, he’d thrust Cassandra… blast it… he’d thrust Bianca forward. His crossbow was named after Bianca , he reminded himself hotly. And the blasted lurker had bitten into the wood.
Luckily, thank whatever gods watched over this Maker-forsaken blight-ravaged shithole, it had done no lasting damage. But it had left a large cosmetic scratch in the woodwork that he was determined to buff out, and had been doing so for at least the past hour sitting with his back against the sun-bleached wyvern skull by the crackling fire.
Still it was a mindless task, buffing out the scratch as the settling sun stained the horizon a dusky pink, which was slowly turning grey. The first few twinkling stars were visible, and one of the moons had appeared over a distant mountain peak. And Varric glared at the buffing rag, he could have been drinking, but for the fact that they’d ran out three days ago.
“Varric?” Dorian asked, saying his name in a long drawn out way to catch his attention.
Varric tightened his grip on the rap and looked up to see that Dorian was sitting with his head in his hands, eyes shining with amusement and he had a wicked grin on his face. He stopped the small circular motions of the cloth against the wood of… er… Bianca , “yes?” HIs voice thick with suspicion.
“Are you and Cassandra ever going to, you know…?” Dorian broke off quite suddenly, and Varric looked up just in time to see Dorian flinch back physically.
And with a grin, Varric caught the way that Cassandra - the Seeker - glared at Dorian, her expression sharp and venomous as a snake blade. “I’m right here.” She spat, although she threw Varric a single look that told him that she expected them to present a united front.
They’d agreed not to tell anyone about that night in the woods by Skyhold, or the afternoon in that closet in the Emprise du Lion, or the long weekend in Val Royeaux, or… well, honestly, accidentally hooking up a few times was starting to feel less like an accident and more like a hobby.
“Exactly,” Dorian agreed, recovering remarkably quickly and brushing his palms against his thighs. Then he cupped his hand around his mouth and said to Varric, “see she’s right there, what are you waiting for?” Then he dropped his voice deeper, to a stage whisper, that wasn't fooling anyone, “if you want to switch tents, I’m happy to oblige.”
Varric rolled his eyes at Dorian, and settled Bianca on his lap, plucking up the little pot of wood polish and dipping the cloth in the wax. He half expected Dorian to be twirling his moustache like some vaudevillian villain. But he pointedly didn’t look at him, as he pressed the cloth into the wood, “I’m not switching tents with you, Sparkler. I’m going to fix up Bianca and then head to bed.”
The fire in the middle of the group crackled happily, and it seemed the matter was put to bed. Which was nice, Varric closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Silently congratulating himself on successfully maneuvering out of that one.
That was until Cassandra made a kind of croaking sound.
Then the Inquisitor snorted, and slapped his hand right across his face, as though he could swallow the sound back down. His eyes were wide and his eyes were darting between the group.
Dorian looked practically gleeful, which was disconcerting and Cassandra was staring at him as though he’d just grown a second head.
Varric’s tongue found itself heavy in his mouth but he asked regardless, “what?”
“‘You’re going to fix up Cassandra ?’” Dorian repeated back to him, an eyebrow raised and an expression that meant trouble.
“Huh? No. I said Bianca.” Varric even raised his crossbow up to prove the point. “I definitely said Bianca ,” Varric insisted, with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. He might have yelled it. But he was very, very sure he’d said Bianca . Hadn’t he? Shit, he might have said Cassandra . Dorian’s smug, cocky smile and the Seeker’s horrified expression told him otherwise. Shit, shit.
Cassandra threw her hands up in the air, “ugg.” There was so much disgust in her voice that Varric felt a bit sick and he knew he’d messed up - big time. Cassandra, then, gave them all a viscous look and stormed right off into her tent, the one she was sharing with the Inquisitor, shoving the entrance flap out of the way with enough force that the whole structure shook.
Dorian nudged the Inquisitor with his elbow, head cocked towards the tent, “good luck with that.” He told him with an absolutely dashing grin, and he got another glare from the Inquisitor for his troubles.
“You need to stop provoking her,” the Inquisitor warned, with a fond look. Reach across to subtly thread his fingers through Dorian’s. Then in a sing-song voice told him, “she’s going to murder you, and I won’t be able to stop her.”
Varric grimaced, wishing that the sands of the Hissing Wastes would just swallow him whole. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this, not the Inquisitor's fumbling early stages of his relationship, or his own. He settled the crossbow on top of the Wyvern skull, and he glared at the polished wood and shiny brass gears for getting him in this mess.
“Oh?” Dorian queried, but it wasn’t aimed at the Inquisitor.
Cassandra was back. She had crawled back out of her tent with her bedroll slung over her shoulder, furiously shoving items into her pack and an absolutely murderous look on her back. “Well?” She hissed at Dorian, and gave him the smallest little jerk of her neck, like a cobra waiting for strike.
Dorian stretched back where he was reclined, and crossed his ankle over his leg. “Well what, Seeker?”
Cassandra’s grunt of outrage, could probably have been heard back in Skyhold. The faithful among them, probably interpreting the rolling thunder as some potent of the Maker’s disfavour and doom upon the world. Her jaw worked silently, and then she spat out. “You offered to swap tents, didn't you?”
The smug smirk on Dorian’s face was blinding, all white teeth.
While waiting for an answer, Cassandra blushed so hard that that wine-stain covered her ears and disappeared beneath the high-neck of her armour. And with a thought that went right to Varric’s cock, he wondered where that blush might end.
Dorian stood, leisurely, and gave the Seeker a flourishing little bow, “I did.” He agreed, amicably, and disappeared into the smaller tent that he and Varric had been sharing to pack his own belongings for the move sixteen-paces across camp. With his head, shoulders and torso buried in the tent, he called, “so, if Varric’s a merchant prince and you’re in the Nevarran line of succession, what will your children be heir to?”
The Inquisitor dissolved into giggles, but he did stifle them long enough to get to his feet and help Dorian gather his things.
“I hate you.” Cassandra told him in a clipped tone. Her pack slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a little ‘poof,’ kicking up a little sand as it did so. Her posture was so rigid and tense, her hands squeezed into fists, relaxing and tightening again, over and over. She was wound tighter than Varric’s crossbow, whatever its name was.
Varric didn’t want to admit how much he was secretly enjoying this whole thing, and he definitely didn’t want Cassandra to see. He glanced down, and saw a little beetle that was struggling through the sand near his feet. He studied it intently, hoping that if he didn’t make eye contact with any of them, they might forget that he was here. It was a long-shot, but stranger things had happened.
When Dorian was done, pulling his stuff out, the Inquisitor touched him lightly on the shoulders, “please, I beg you,” he laughed. “Stop asking questions.”
Dorian pouted at the Inquisitor, but did give him a wink and a small little shrug of surrender.
“Varric, can I speak with you?” Cassandra bit out stiffly, she wasn’t looking at him, but she’d moved over by his tent - their tent, he corrected.
“Er, now Seeker?” Varric asked blankly, his mind actually quiet. There was nothing, not even an errant tumble-weed rolling through the rolling hills of his mind.
“Yes,” her voice strained and an octave higher than it usually was.
Varric nodded. When he stood, he looked at his crossbow, knowing he couldn’t just leave it out here, but it might have sent the wrong message to take a crossbow with him. He hooved on the spot for just a second.
“We’ll keep an eye on ‘Cassandra,’” Dorian winked, gabbing a thumb towards the crossbow, still balanced on top of the wyvern skull.
Varric thanked him with a grim-faced nod, and then moved towards the woman called Cassandra.
And Cassandra was still glaring at him, but her expression had softened just slightly around the eyes.
“Ladies first,” he offered a hand to the tent with unearned confidence. When she didn’t budge, he sighed, ducking his head and moved inside the canvas structure. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, it wasn't large, but it was a nice sized two person tent. The space where Dorian had been was obvious, like a gaping void on one side of the space.
Varric waited for Cassandra to join him in the tent, she crawled in and then sat up on her knees. She pulled in her belongings after her, thrusting items down along the edge of her bedroll with a perfected, meticulous, neatness.
“You wanted to talk, Seeker?” Varric broached the subject cautiously, like one might a shady merchant in the back-alleys of Kirkwall.
“You are so - uggh.” Sometimes, she groaned, twisting her hands together in front of her like she was throttling the air with force, “if you wanted to tell them, why did you agree to keeping it secret?” Then in the darkness her shape came towards him and he flinched.
Despite his revelations the moment earlier, Cassandra hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. He’d forced her into it, he expected her to punch him. Was waiting for it -
She didn't.
Cassandra sagged, rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m mortified.” She mumbled into his shoulder. Her words tumbled out on a warm breath, hot against his collarbone, but her hair smelt like Nevarran jasmine. “Wait, Varric, are you sniffing me?”
“No,” he lied, pulling back to see her face. He thought she looked like she was going to cry, her face was all screwed up and he couldn’t help himself. He laughed, then cupped her cheek so that he might turn her face to him, “look, I’m really sorry about that. Shit,” he whispered softly, “I didn’t mean to say it, didn’t realise I had.”
“We agreed that we wouldn’t tell anyone,” Cassandra protested, stubbornly, her lower lip pouting out.
Varric rather wanted to capture her pouting lower lip in his mouth and suck it, until she had something else to complain about. He tore his gaze away from her face, “look, I could have blazened it out. I just misspoke, you didn’t have to react like they’d just walked in on us.”
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open, rather comically into a picture of shock, her eyebrows disappearing underneath her fringe, “typical,” she muttered, “you’re blaming me for this.”
He grinned, “yes, it appears that I am.”
She rolled her eyes skyward, “remind me why I put up with you.”
“Because…” Varric smoothed his palm up her thigh, Maker it was as thick as his bicep and he wanted both her thighs around his hips, yesterday. Then he dropped his voice, “how quickly can you get out of that armour, Seeker?”
Cassandra grunted in frustration, but it wasn’t a good sound, and she batted his hand away refusing to be wooed. “This is serious, Varric.” She made a small sad sound in the back of her throat and looked towards the closed, loose-hanging tent flap. “I don’t want them to think less of me, because I am allowing myself to be distracted by romance-“
“Wait,” Varric murmured as he started to piece together what she was saying. “Seeker, stop, are you saying that you think the Inquisitor is going to question your judgement because we’re-?”
“Yes.” Cassandra hissed, a worried little frown tugging at her lips.
Varric choked back a laugh, “you’re oblivious, you know that?”
She huffed at him, crossed her arms over her chest with a little clunk as her vambrace hit her chestplate.
“I really don't think you have to worry about that.” Varric insisted.
“Or really?” She snapped. “Well-”
“Just poke your head back out.” Varric quickly cut through whatever tangle she’d gotten herself in.
Her bistre-brown eyes fixed on him, and she frowned. She rocked back into a kneel. And very suspiciously she asked, “why?”
“Trust me?” Varric shrugged.
She sighed heavily, but did as he suggested. It was almost funny, watching her crawl around in full armour, all clattering and clanging with zero stealth. She pushed the tent flap up, then back upped and back in the space of the tent. Now, she looked confused, and uttered a completely baffled, “I don’t understand.”
Varric offered her the explanation, “Dorian’s been trying to switch tents for a month, and I’ve been holding out, because he wanted to keep the bigger tent.” He spread his arms, this one. Theirs.
“But he and the Inquisitor are…?” She couldn’t seem to find the word, ‘together,’ and instead she lightly clapped her hands together. “No?”
“Yes.” Varric confirmed, “they have been for a while,” Varric grinned, then he squinted at her, “did you really not know?”
Cassandra considered for a moment, then rocking forward onto her hands and knees to crawl out. “That hypocrite!” She hissed too loudly, far too loudly for her voice to be contained by the thin canvas. “He let me think-!”
“Shhhh,” Varric laughed, catching her by the waist and tugging her lightly to keep her with him. He wanted to pull her close, and caress all the anxiety out of her, but she was still wearing her amour, it would be as effective as hugging a lamppost.
Cassandra allowed herself to be manhandled and turned back to Varric, face flushed again and eyes furious, “Dorian let me think-“
“Dorian was only teasing you.” Varric told her softly. “Because I suspect we haven’t been as subtle as we think we were.” He sat back triumphant, glancing around at the shared tent. Even if it had been badly done, he was glad that they were public now. Then a horrible little thought bubbled into his mind, if they were public he’d have to tell Hawke, or worse, someone else would tell Hawke, and Hawke would tell all of their friends. “Oh shit.”
“What?” Cassandra gasped, her eyes fixing on him in alarm.
He stared at her in abject horror, already picturing the next time he went into the Herald’s Rest. Isabela would appear, like she usually did, in that ridiculous, gorgeous, feathered hat. But this time she’d plop a large ale in front of each of them, rest her feet on the table, give him an awful knowing look and ask ‘why he only liked women that bullied him about, and was there something quaint and psychological about that?’
“Varric?” Cassandra insisted, when he still hasn’t said anything.
“Um,” he replied rather ineloquently. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his trousers.
“What’s wrong?”
“I, er-” how could he tell her that the tent they were sat in was the paradigm shift of their relationship. And that maybe he wanted his friends to know about Cassandra, the woman, not the crossbow. The thought flared excitedly in the bottom of his gut, well that was unexpected. If he was doing this , he should do this right. “I think I like you.”
Cassandra considered this for a moment, her face carefully neutral. And she sighed, some of the tension unraveling from her shoulders. “Oh.” She shifted, to sit beside him, with a shimmy of her hips.
He groaned, “ohh don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She demanded, rightfully alarmed.
“Really?” Varric asked, as though she was utterly oblivious of the effect she had on him, “you do his wriggle-“
“I do not wriggle.” She snapped, glared at him.
“You do,” Varric protested, putting his hands out in front of him to repeat the movement, “with your hips, a whole ‘wibble.”
“A ‘wibble?” She muttered, rolling her eyes. Then, he saw the moment the thought struck her, and illuminated her like a torch in the darkness - a mischievous torch in the darkness. And she rather experimentally moved her hips, watching him the whole time.
“Shit,” Varric breathed, his hands ghosting forward and pawing at her warm metal chestplate. Then he caught her gaze and practically growled when he asked, “you have got to get that armour off.”