Chapter Text
He cared about her left shoulder. That was all. The state of her shoulder as of tomorrow morning bright and early was directly related to his odds of surviving whatever the recesses of that blighted Bone Pit held in store for them this time. Spiders, dragons, rodents of unusual size, no matter, he would shoot whatever lunged from the shadows. And though he or any of his companions might emerge from the fray with a crippling injury, it was really best if they didn’t start out with one.
There was no question that Hawke needed both arms at full mobility. She would have to swing a heavy blade at seemingly impossible speed, toss firebombs with expert precision, and quite possibly drag a knocked-out dwarf several meters to safety without allowing any harm to come to him.
So yes, it bothered him that Hawke was babying her damn shoulder and pretending otherwise. It bothered him enough that before he left to take a piss, he made a point to flag down Norah and give her a simple set of instructions. And Maker help that poor girl if she couldn’t follow them. Cleaving to instructions was not her forte, but bumping into people in a headlong, jarring sort of way was among her keenest talents.
In retrospect, he’d have to say that Norah’s performance was entirely acceptable. Though she aimed for the completely wrong left shoulder, she at least slammed into it hard enough that Hawke winced in pain and clutched at her proper left shoulder with several distinct grimaces and at least one pathetic chirp.
“Not a good sound, Hawke,” he said.
Hawke scowled at him. “It’s nothing,” she said.
“According to Blondie?”
“According to Hawke,” she said. “Anders is… a bit touchy at the moment. I figured I’d go visit Bethany first thing tomorrow.”
“At the Circle?” he said. “No time for that. We’re leaving at dawn. Do I have to drag your sorry ass to Darktown?”
“No! It’s not that bad,” she said. “Trust me when I say that I’m fine.”
Varric sighed. “Let’s have a look at it.”
“At my shoulder?” she asked. Her sleeves were long and tight. Short of slicing through the fabric, there was no way to show off even a little shoulder without removing the entire shirt. “What are you, crazy? I’m not taking my shirt off in this place.”
“Upstairs,” he said. “Come with me.” He used the tone of voice that would brook no argument. It was the same tone that had kept more than a few idiots alive despite their best intentions to exit the world with a bolt through the head. It was also the same tone that had brought more than a few willing women to their knees.
He didn’t expect it to work on Hawke. She typically saw through his bullshit. But this time she was either in enough pain or enough worry that she nodded in silent agreement and rose from the table to follow him up to his suite.
“Close the door, at least,” she said once they had crossed the threshold. “And no jokes, please… about tits or anything else. Honestly this is embarrassing enough without being made fun of.”
Varric watched her with a sudden curiosity. There was a story he liked to tell about a hardened warhorse that had been tricked by its suicidal master to charge headlong into an overwhelming horde of darkspawn. By some miracle of strength and self-preservation, the horse had pitched its foolish rider into the fray and then made its own escape, bounding through rank upon rank of blighted enemy. From that moment onward, in the depths of its broken, horsey heart, it had vowed only hatred for humans.
The story wasn’t necessarily true and Varric didn’t really know any warhorses firsthand, hardened or otherwise. But the important point was that the horse in question grew wild and unpredictable. The stamp of its hooves kept time for the roll of its eyes and the frothing of its mouth. It flinched from its own shadow.
Hawke was acting that way right now, though with a bit less stamping and frothing. It made him wonder who, if anyone, had ridden her badly.
“I would never make fun,” Varric swore, pressing a hand to his heart in a gesture of sincerity.
“Fine,” she said curtly and lifted her shirt in order to pull it off. She may have intended to achieve her desired outcome—shirtlessness—in one quick and fluid move, but it didn’t happen that way at all. Her injured shoulder was stiff and she couldn’t raise her left arm as easily as she had hoped. Hawke got stuck. Her eyes peeked out at Varric from behind the unusual mask of her half-removed shirt and a pair of lanky arms trapped by fabric.
He smiled, struck once again by how endearing Hawke could be in these spontaneous moments of minor disaster. She struggled against her captor, but the shirt would not yield.
“That won’t help,” Varric said as she teetered unsteadily toward him. Minor disaster blossomed into full-fledged catastrophe as Hawke stumbled forward and Varric stepped closer in an attempt to steady her.
At least she didn’t fall. That was the good thing. And though Varric didn’t really think that any part of this equation was bad, the decidedly tricky thing was the manner in which he’d caught her. In retrospect, he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up with one hand gripping her ass in a rather firm hold nor how both of her ample, round, and very pleasant breasts had ended up pressed against his face. His first instinct had been to open his mouth and kiss one of them through the delicate fabric of her smallclothes. It was a good thing he had stifled his first instinct. That would just have been awkward.
If Hawke was blushing, he couldn’t tell, nor did he really care. The only important thing now was to get her seated somewhere safely before any more harm could come to that beleaguered shoulder. Fortunately, upon examination it became clear that her shoulder was only beleaguered by the most painful of large and angry bruises. The rolly parts didn’t seem to have come unhinged and that was really what Varric had been worrying about.
“I can do something for this,” Varric said. “Sit tight.”
He left her sitting in one of the stone chairs that she found so uncomfortable and returned minutes later with a small bowl filled with a mixture of oil and herbs.
“Smells nasty,” he said, “but it helps. Take your smallclothes off.”
“Excuse me?”
“Unless you want them stained with oil,” he added, flicking a finger at the ribbon of fabric that held her left cup in place.
“Fine,” she said and undoing the clasp, she slipped the little straps of the garment from her shoulders and let the whole thing fall into her lap. From that point forward and until she was once again fully dressed, Hawke would meet Varric’s gaze exactly once.
He hadn’t expected her to be so damn shy. He was her friend, after all, not some poor sot trying to put the moves on her. Still, even he had to admit how tempted he was to stare. Shirtless Hawke was lovely. The whole long, lean torso thing was working pretty well for her. And those breasts. Where to even begin? The answer that first came to mind was to hold them, testing their weight in his hands even as he dipped down to suck at the round dark of her nipples. Nice idea. Maybe later.
Or, in fact, never. What was he thinking anyway? This was Hawke, his dear friend Hawke, not some charming little conquest to make a lonely night no less lonely, but at least a bit less solitary. No. Under no circumstances was he allowed to think of her as anything other than a warrior friend with an injured shoulder. This was strictly a matter of business.
With that point settled once and for all, Varric went to work with strong, expert hands, massaging the oil into the soft flesh and lean muscles of Hawke’s upper back and shoulder. Her shoulder was tighter than he had expected. It seemed to be trying its damnedest to hang onto every last ribbon of tension. Relaxing her would not be easy, but at least the challenge was enjoyable.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he said, “and I’ll be more gentle.”
“It does hurt,” she breathed, “but I like it.”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she said. “Don’t ease up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Varric said. Had Hawke been looking at him, she would have seen how the barest hint of a smile deepened into one that held both appreciation and pleasure.
He had almost forgotten this part. That showed what a long time it had been. A massage properly given could induce a trancelike state for giver and recipient alike. Judging by the dreamy quality of Hawke’s voice, she was either entranced already or hovering right at the edge. Varric shut his eyes, relaxing more deeply into the rhythm of each stroke. He had to admit, a good massage was a lot like good sex. There was euphoria to be had in the sensation of skin on skin. And there was always the clear sense of satisfaction in a job well done.
At last, Varric could feel the tension dissolving from her tired muscles. He found a deep knot and rubbed at it, coaxing it firmly until it yielded in a spectacularly satisfying release. At that same moment, something unexpectedly awkward occurred. Hawke drew a quick breath and on her exhale she said Varric’s name. Except she wasn’t so much speaking it as moaning.
The noise wasn’t loud and, as far as moans went, it wasn’t even particularly bawdy. It was just a quiet, sensual sound that told the story of a woman giving in to absolute pleasure. Varric heard it and was immediately torn from his trance. He looked down at Hawke only to see a pair of big, frightened eyes looking back up at him. One of his hands lingered on her shoulder. Hawke shrugged, pulling away from his touch.
“It feels much better now,” she said. “It really does. And I think I should be going. It’s a long walk to Hightown, after all. A lot of stairs. Need to be home before it’s too dark. Can’t have Mother worrying.” Hawke spoke quickly, as if a flurry of words were all that was needed to fill up the space between them with a solid barrier that neither one could cross.
“Okay,” he said mildly. “Get dressed and get out of here. I’ll see you bright and early.”
After she had gone, Varric sat on the chair she had vacated and with a torn scrap of cloth, began to rub the excess oil from his hands. Though he knew better, he couldn’t help but raise one wrist to his nose and take a whiff of it.
Yup. Completely foul. All the best herbs for healing deep bruises were nasty. The next massage would be better. He’d use a decidedly nicer smelling mixture, perhaps the sort that was designed to heighten the senses on a night of seduction.
Oh, yes. Seduction. There really wasn’t much sense in trying to fool himself or pretend otherwise. Varric now knew with unwavering certainty that he wanted more than a healthy shoulder out of her. He wanted that moan again. And again and again. And he didn’t want his fingers on her shoulder to be the cause of it.