the hawke/varric queen

After Rowan and August call it quits, Dawn Rose stays at Triple's party to enjoy the rest of her night. An unlucky bystander witnesses her attempt at coping.

No longer supervised by Rowan, with several drinks warming her skin and the lights so dim, Dawn's prone to risky decisions.

Triple shudders under her touch as she slides her hands across his stomach and onto his hips, pulling him closer as they devour each other, mouths hungry. Chairs and tables alike become collateral damage; Triple kisses her like there's no tomorrow, bumping them both into anything in their path. The remaining partygoers cheer as they stumble past, but Dawn can barely hear them, her head pounding and her thoughts melting into a swirl of nothing.

❤️❤️❤️❤️

His hands are gentle.

They clearly aren't used to long, curly hair like hers—the kind that spills out in orange waves of tangles and knots when not cared for, making his fingers catch every other strand as he desperately tries to brush away her trauma, light brown palms coming back bloodied. Her trembling hands had hacked off most of the betrayal, but shards of a mirror can only do so much to remove chunks of matted hair. Alistair moves his fingers through her hair as carefully as possible, the pile of stray hairs resting by her side growing larger by the second. Birds chirp as they fly overhead, littering the gray sky with black feathers and beady eyes, their song seeming somber in the aftermath of Faye's life coming crashing to a halt.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, startling him—his hands freeze momentarily before continuing their task.

"Shh," he says, softer than she's ever heard him. "I'm happy to help."

"You shouldn't have to brush out my knots when you—"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not think about it," he interrupts. "If doing this means…"

He trails off. The two of them sit in silence for a moment, watching the river next to them gurgle.

Is it the same? When his ears heard word of Duncan's death, did it crush him as leaving her parents behind crushed her? Was the darkspawn blood splattered across his armor and in his mouth nothing compared to the pain piercing his heart? When his head hit the floor of the tower, did he ever imagine he'd awake to that news?

"That witch says she'll fix it once I'm done," he starts again. "I may dance a mean Remigold, but I can hardly consider myself a talented hairdresser."

Faye laughs, despite herself. "I won't hold it against you."

He breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Oh, good. I've already got the deck terribly stacked against me. Shoddy hairdresser is not another mark I'd like on my board."

Their shy giggles peter off into silence again.

She sighs. "It's just us."

The banter between them dies instantly. His hands slow again. "Yes," he mutters.

"I won't leave you, Alistair." She keeps her gaze trained on the water, bubbles popping to the surface as she holds her breath, willing herself to hold back any further statements until he speaks.

He lets out a humorless chuckle. "It'd be awfully rude of you."

"I won't," she repeats. She can't make herself turn to look at him.

"I won't either," he sighs. The tension in her shoulders melts. "You've got one mildly funny, incredibly handsome pest attached at your hip for the foreseeable future. I'm no mabari, but I'll wag my tail for treats.

She laughs, a clear, chiming sound—the first she's had in a while—and Alistair laughs himself, his hands moving from her hair down to her shoulders. "No, really!" he continues. "Try it out sometime. The tail wagging skills far outweigh the, ah, taming of the mane. Not that you're an animal or anything! Your hair's quite pretty."

"It was," she corrects. "You've never seen it clean."

"Well, I intend to someday." He rises to his feet, holding out his hand. He smiles down at her, the sun glowing behind his head. Despite it all, the sun's still shining. The rivers still run. The small mercies still exist. "Now, come on. Your appointment with the freaky witch recluse awaits."

"Be nice," she teases, and takes his hand.

She always listens.

Dawn's always been pliable like that; no matter the argument, no matter the senseless bickering, she's always listened. She's always heard him, even when he was quiet. Even when the words didn't come out right.

So why can't she hear him now?

Don't leave. Fight for me.

"This is all just some fucking game to you," he bites, watching her face fall under the strobing lights. God, whose party was this anyway? Does it even matter? Anyone who buys strobe lights for their house party should be shot in the street. "Did you ever stop to think about how I'd feel?"

"Of course I did!" she screams, clasping her hands together. Dawn never screams. She never screams and she always listens. Who is he talking to right now? "Seven, please, let's just talk about this, without the snide comments, without the accusations—"

Don't leave.

"What is there to talk about?" Fight for me. "I clearly mean absolutely nothing to you."

She huffs, her grip tightening. Her fingers turn white against her skin. "If this is what you're going to get from this—"

No! Don't—

"—then I don't know what to say to you anymore," she continues, tears spilling down her freckled face. "I'm trying."

She's not listening. He's screaming at her, practically beating down the door, but she can't hear him. "Not hard enough," he spits, throwing his cup to the ground. A few partygoers throw him suspicious looks but eventually go about their day. "Whatever. Have fun with your band and your spotlight. God knows it's more important than us."

He turns on his heel, heading towards the door—away from the party, away from the nightmare. It's his feet moving away from her, his head turned, but it's her who's leaving, who's not listening, who's everything Seven never knew her to be. The Dawn he knows would fight for him. The one he walks away from now wouldn't even know where to find the ring.

You know, for a magnificent set of rich, fancy assholes, they really don't know how to trim the knives off of the eye-catching spirals of vines twisting through their gardens—or, at least, get their servants to do it for them. The sheer train hanging off of Hawke's shoulders snags on stray thorns as she walks past, her heeled boots clicking against the stone ground, crushing an array of Autumn-weakened leaves in her stride.

"Mm," she hums, snatching the bottom of her silky dress from the grasp of an eager plant, "what's privacy without a little pain?"

"Right as always, dear," says Varric, crossing his arms as he watches her struggle to find a comfortable position, "but I would go so far as to ask what are our lives without a little pain?"

Hawke's nose crinkles in disgust. "'Dear'?"

He shrugs. "Trying something new."

"Well, don't," she responds so matter-of-factly he almost feels bad for teasing her in the first place. Almost. "I've had entirely too much of pretending like we're civilized for one night. For Orlesians, no less. Now, you're here calling me pet names. I swear, that Inquisitor takes you out of Kirkwall for a few months and you forget who you are."

He shrugs again, struggling to keep back his devilish grin. "They'll make a devoted Andrastian out of me yet."

"Keep that bullshit up and you won't catch another glimpse of me all night," she huffs. "There's a woman far more worthy of devotion somewhere nearby…though for the life of me I can't recall where she wondered off to." She claps her hands together, giving him a pointed look. "Ah, well. At least we're alone."

Varric drops the bastard routine and leans back against a pillar, smiling up at her. With the moon shining down on the both of them, illuminating her with an ethereal glow, he can't say he disagrees. The stress of this endless night melts off of his shoulders the instant she smirks at him. "Finally," he adds, just to see her light up.

Mercifully, she acquiesces. Just as he knew she would. Her blue eyes shimmer as she gives him her first real smile of the night, sinking against her chosen pillar, her gaze full. If he can get about four more of those out of her, he'll be set for the rest of this political nightmare. "Finally," she repeats, grinning as she rolls her eyes. "Thank Andraste for that."

"Don't worry, Hawke. I will."

"Oh, shut up."

"Hey."

It's early morning. Dawn can tell by the way the rising sunlight tickles her nose, its gentle rays peeking out from behind her sheer green curtains. The light casts a jade glow across Triple's face, his brown eyes twinkling as he watches her, head rested on her chest.

"Hey," she murmurs, sleep still heavy on her tongue.

"You feeling better?" He blinks slowly, tilting his head. "No bad dreams?"

"No bad dreams," she repeats, melting under his tender gaze.

"Good," he says, then shimmies up her body to kiss her softly, pressing his lips against hers like he's afraid she'll shatter. She lets out a satisfied hum into his mouth.

"I love you," Dawn says when he pulls away. "Thank you for staying the night."

He beams. "I love you too. Anytime. Though I'd really like if it happened a lot more."

"Oh, I think we can manage that."