museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

Varric was starting to like this place. Once he actually settled in, Llomerryn treated him well: good weather, good food, beautiful people in scanty, thin clothes- this city had it all.

The last few months had been good. The change of scenery actually was exactly what he needed to finish his book. Within a couple months, he had the finished manuscript on a ship to Kirkwall, ready for his editor and publisher. Long days of writing on the balcony, when he wasn't at the local pub holding court (as he had at the Hanged Man), turned into breezy evenings playing cards with Fenris. They lay there in those low chaises, smoking whatever it was that Rivainis put in their hookahs, thin silk tunics open and hair blowing in the night air.

And yeah, maybe things got a little weird. A tension built between them that never broke into words. Not the angry kind, of course. The kind that made him want to watch Fenris changing, if only to see the lyrium lines catch the moonlight. The kind that had Fenris look a little too long when his robes fell away, or listen a little too hard at the saucy bits of a story, and how Varric's voice wrapped around it. That made it so very interesting to see Fenris doing his morning... exercise, or meditation, or whatever on the balcony: shirtless, movements laden with perfect control, strength and (extreme!!) flexibility honed to perfection. That made Fenris reach over and fix some stray hair or wrong button, when pointing it out would have done just fine.

They both ignored it. There were more important things to worry about: running Varric's businesses and information network from halfway across the world, or Fenris making a name for himself as a merc. His book's publishing and immediate success- hell, it even started selling in Rivain. It hadn't quite made the journey to the printing presses of Llomerryn yet, but Varric's publisher assured him it would happen soon. He'd go back to Kirkwall and see for himself, but news out of Kirkwall still wasn't good. Aveline's correspondence kept warning him away; there were still rumors of an Exalted March. Hawke's companions were all on the run now: Aveline herself had been dragged before Chantry officials repeatedly, but her and Hawke's rocky relationship meant Aveline was not privy to the kind of information they wanted. By all accounts, they wanted him. So Varric had plenty on his plate.

So, it seemed, did Fenris. When the elf stumbled in, coughing and looking like absolute fucking hell, Varric stood up so fast he upset an ink bottle on the letter he'd been writing.

"Shit! Broody, what the hell happened?" He was at the elf's side immediately, hustling him over to a chaise. "Tell me the other guy looks worse."

"Dead," Fenris spat, his voice a croak rather than its usual baritone drawl. "Arvaarad defransdim."

He'd taken to cursing more in Qunlat than in Tevene, but the meaning was clear all the same: he'd been nearly overpowered, and now he was paying for it. Calling names seemed to help the pain.

He collapsed into the chaise, not thinking about the stain he'd leave behind. His longswords were gone, daggers sheathed, but only one of them looked serviceable. The other looked just as crusted in muck as Fenris was, though at least steel couldn't be bruised - unlike his throat, where a handprint that practically swallowed Fenris' entire neck was growing darker by the second.

"Should have fed him his heart."

"I bet he would've choked on it," Varric agreed, a soothing mostly automatic response as he checked Fenris over. With no immediately obvious life-threatening wounds, he went immediately for the pauldrons, clever fingers working at the buckles.

Damn it, he really did look like shit. Blood and muck and filth everywhere. Varric would have to give the servants a huge tip tomorrow.

"Come on, let's get this shit off. Make sure there's no broken ribs or shit hiding under there." Some things couldn't be entirely fixed with just a potion. Once the pauldrons were taken care of, he moved to the breastplate. He trusted that Fenris could work his own damn gauntlets in the meantime.

He did, albeit slowly. His gauntlets, and then the coin purse that was heavier than any he'd yet brought back. Possibly because he'd delivered a bodiless head to the contractor, with a dagger extended in threat and promise if the bounty wasn't increased for the danger he'd been put into.

It had been worthwhile in the end, he thought, even if he was rather sure he was going to spend the next few days in bed. For half a moment, he even missed Anders because, abomination or no, the man was a more than adequate healer. Unfortunate how insane he'd become.

"Probably a few cracked," he said once his gauntlets had fallen to the floor, leaving his fingers to start working at his tunic from the bottom up. Every single part of his back hurt to the point where he took shallow breaths to keep from aggravating the pain more than he absolutely had to.

And of course the moment he thought about breathing was the moment a breath hung in his throbbing neck and he began to cough - or, rather, alternately cough and curse, face twisted in evidence of the pain he felt and the anger that he'd gotten so injured to begin with.

"Hold still," Varric chided, batting the elf's hands away and unbuttoning the tunic himself. "I can't do shit if you explode on me before I can even get the healing balm."

It was easy enough to strip the tunic off of him. A touch less easy to make him sit up and put a cloth down under him, so he could lay on something clean. Easier still to grab the healing balm and sit on the cloth-draped chaise next to him.

"Alright, tell me where it hurts. And for shit's sake, hold still." He scooped some balm onto his hand, ready to rub it in wherever Fenris needed healing. Weird, this Rivaini stuff, but it did alright for small, localized hurts.

Laying down had left him gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. His chest didn't hurt but the movement did. And the moment his back was visible, it was easy to see why: it was one big bruise, from shoulderblades to waist, blooming outward from his spine though some places were darker than others. "Everywhere," he managed once he'd caught his breath. "Bounced off a boulder."

The darkest place was a large vertical oval that could easily span three or four ribs on his left side. Apparently the aforementioned boulder hadn't been nice and neat but had sported a ridge there that had impacted more sharply than the rest.

"Fasta vass, harder to breathe this way..." But he was trying.

Varric frowned in concern. "Do whatever you need to do, Broody. If you need to sit up, let me know."

He moved his arms, ready to help support the elf if he wanted to sit up, or let Fenris take his hand if needed.

Fenris took hold of him - and something changed, though he couldn't tell what. There was still too much of a distraction coming from his back, from his throat, from the coughing he couldn't stop as soon as he dared draw a full breath. It left him bent over one of Varric's arms. And there was a sight Varric had never seen, even in all the battles they'd shared: Fenris, eyes thick with tears from pain alone, the tips of his fingers pressing hard against Varric's elbows where he was holding on.

That alone made Varric's pulse quicken, the sight of strong, stern, harsh Fenris bent over and in tears. He scooped up an even bigger dollop of the healing balm and reached down to smooth it over the hideous bruise around Fenris's throat. After a moment, he mentally said fuck it and smeared his entire hand with the stuff, then gently placed his hand at the elf's throat and rubbed the balm in. That way covered more area at once- to heal him faster, to banish the awful purple-black ringing his slender neck, to mend the break in his breathing and the tatters in his voice.

For a moment, there was a pang of... panic? Fear? An instinctive move that was supposed to be a startle, but the pain in his ribs stopped him for long enough that reality could encroach past the kneejerk reaction.

Varric.

His eyes closed as everything that name meant unfurled inside him without words. He sagged against the dwarf as trust took away the tension. Already, the balm was helping. His breathing came more easily, and his deathgrip on Varric's arms began to ease. Varric. Of everyone in the world, the worst he had to fear from Varric was another small measure of heartache. He could live through that.

Fenris unknowingly exhaled a soft sound of relief as he found the only pain left to be that in his back. That alone was practically livable, compared.

Varric found himself basically cradling Fenris as one hand massaged gently at his neck. It took a few minutes: he had to go all the way around, as Tal-Vashoth hands were more than large enough to encircle an elven neck. His fingers dipped into the tub of balm again, and he had to gently pull the elf's matted hair off his neck before softly rubbing at the bruising on the back.

After a few minutes, the bruises had already started to recede into nothingness. Fenris could breathe, he could hold himself steady, and he seemed to be relaxed into Varric's arms. The dwarf let out a sigh of relief as he brushed hair from Fenris's eyes.

"See? Not so bad. Now let me see about those ribs."

Fenris nodded his answer as he caught his breath from whatever sort of panic it was that had grasped him before. He'd been near death more times than he could count, even across from people who would crow with triumph if they were to kill him. But being hefted in one hand and thrown that way had shaken him for all he'd denied it until now. But then, he'd had pain as a preoccupation until now, too.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice intact but soft. His hands moved from Varric's elbows to his sides in a way that felt automatic, but he wasn't sure if it was right. If it was something he should allow himself. He'd not forget it - but that was a double-edged sword in and of itself.

"Any time, Broody." Varric reached for the jar again, pausing a second to look at the name on his wrist- Leto. How long had he looked at that name? Wondering? Speculating, as a youth, on whether Leto was some fearful magister or beautiful Tevinter girl. Wondering, as an adult, whether the 'Leto' destined as his enemy would show up today.

How strange, to be taking care of him now. To be rubbing healing balm into tanned skin, exhaling in relief to hear a healed voice.

A moment's thought, then he felt Fenris touching him. Varric glanced down, but said nothing and gave no sign of discomfort. All he did was get more balm and start massaging it gently into the horrible bruises on the elf's back.

It was not a grope or a caress. He didn't even really think of it as a touch. It was, to him, a connection. A chance to feel that someone was there, someone was with him, someone who didn't want him to hurt. That alone was a rarity in his life, and he took it where he could. That it was Varric didn't hurt.

Fenris' breath came easier by the moment, now and then a quiet groan escaping him as he felt a particularly persistent stab or a nagging ache fade away. It wasn't until Varric was nearly done that he made two different discoveries: one, he had nearly fallen asleep leaning on Varric while looking like he had crawled out of the volcanic mud pits of Seheron, and two, he didn't hurt.

Normally, he would write that off as the effect of the balm, but the balm only worked on injuries. He'd used it on himself before, when he'd gotten bothersome cuts or fractures in his fingers. This was different. Before, when he'd used it, it had simply been himself - normal. Now...

Now his lyrium didn't ache, and that was nigh unbelievable. How was that even possible? Had they changed the mixture? If they had, he was going to buy a vat of it and swim in the stuff. But then it came to him that his arms didn't hurt either, and they hadn't touched the balm.

...Could that mean...

But he pushed the thought aside. He didn't need yet another reason to pine. He'd not say a word, Fenris decided, and simply enjoy it as it lasted.

"It is," he said at last, "a lowering experience, to be tossed through the air by something smaller than a dragon."

Varric kept his hand where it was, his thumb stroking idly over Fenris's spine.

"In your defense, elves are especially tossable. I'm not half the fighter you are and that grey asshole would've had a harder time throwing me."

It was true. Dwarves, humans, other Qunari - they were all made more sturdily than elves. Until now, he'd bucked the trend of elven mercenaries being particularly breakable. This was the first time in a long while that he'd felt physically vulnerable. He didn't like it in the least, even if it had gotten him a soft hand on his back that he silently reveled in, memorising the feeling in case it never came again.

"At least you'll be in finery for a while with the coin I brought in," he answered. "Even if some of it will have to go to the housekeepers for the mess I've made. I must look like some sort of swamp abomination. Perhaps a demon of disgust if such a thing is possible."

"Nah, the blood and filth bring out your eyes," he snarked. "Here, grab on, princess."

Varric moved the elf's arms around his neck, then picked him up bridal-style. It was easy: with the exception of awkwardly long limbs to deal with, Fenris was light as a feather. It took only a few moments to bring him into the bathroom and deposit him gently into the tub.

"There you go. Clothes off, we gotta find somewhere to put this shit..."

He looked around for a basket; on finding one, he stripped off and dumped his own now-filthy clothing in it, excepting the smalls, and turned to Fenris expectantly.

It was slow, but it was progress. His smalls hid little, but he still left them on when he pushed his leggings down and off, wincing with each motion. He was still bruised, joints still sore, but he could breathe deeply again, and he could live with the rest.

Not that it helped much, having just been carried and then treated to the sight of Varric disrobing. Ugh, here he was, feeling as if he'd been kicked by a bronto and Varric had to take his clothes off.

Fenris tossed his pants into the basket from where he sat, able to do that much, at least. "I'll keep a shred of my dignity today, if no more."

"Hey, your call," he commented, setting the basket aside. "I'm just here to assist. Let's get some water running- first bath should be quick, just to get the shit off."

Varric gets the water going, and in the mean time snags a rag to wipe the grossness off of himself. It takes only a minute or two, and then he dashes out of the room for another minute, only to come back clad in thin, breezy clothes that stick to his skin damply. He didn't have time to dry off- the water's still going in the tub.

"That should be enough, Broody. Just dunk yourself in then pull the drain. Hey, if I'm reading this wrong and your arms are working fine, just let me know, okay?"

"They're..." How could he describe it. He was the one who'd been tossed around by the dragon back in the Bone Pit. But--

Wait.

"Remember the Profane?"

If he thought about that, if he tried to make this understood, maybe it'd be easier than detesting the fact that he was still aching while Varric was dressed in--

When did he even get those? Where did he get them?

Did he even want to know? What was he going to do about it - set them on fire or go get his own set to torment--

...That wasn't a bad idea. Maybe when he felt like he could move again.

"How its limbs were so ... mutable? How it could pull itself together? I feel as if all of my limbs have been pulled apart just slightly too far," he said, pulling him back to the present rather than dwelling on that lightning-fast conversation he'd had with himself.

The thin 'wet T-shirt contest' garments were his sleeping clothes. Varric usually dressed before anyone saw them. Today, though, he had a feeling he'd be getting wet, and didn't want his regular clothes to get all shitty.

He cocked an eyebrow at Fenris's description. "So that would be a 'no, Varric, I would very much appreciate your assistance,' right?"

Smirking at his own cleverness, Varric pulled a stool over by the tub and, rag in hand, started washing the majority of the filth from Fenris.

He was going to have to throw away this set of smalls. As if that mattered so much. He didn't wear them most of the time - only when he thought jobs were going to be tough and there was a chance clothing could be ripped. He didn't want to end up walking back to the Merchants' Guild building naked.

But Fenris wasn't entirely helpless. He did shift as needed, and even picked up a cloth of his own to mop off what he could - not much, but enough that he didn't feel utterly hopeless. The blood wasn't his own for the most part. The few scrapes he'd had were mostly healed from Varric's treatment before, except for the cut at the side of his head that had matted his hair. When Varric touched that, Fenris instinctively jerked away with a hiss. "Careful..! Ngh, I'd forgotten that one..."

"Shit," he swore, steadying Fenris with a hand. "Let me see..."

It took some concentration to lift the hair away in a way that wouldn't hurt, but what he saw made him swear again. "Okay, I think I have a poultice somewhere. I was saving it, but..."

Excuse him, Fenris. He'll be right back.

In a few minutes, after some rummaging (and a little more swearing), he emerges with a small, weak health poultice. Enough for one small injury, like the one on Fen's head.

"Hold still, elf. This... might sting a little."

A small nod and Fenris braced himself, knowing that he could handle a healing sting better than this constant ache. Deodamnatus, if he hadn't cut off that dathrasi's head...

The temptation was there to go back and cut off his balls, too.

When the poultice touched, again, he hissed, but this time, as the wound healed, a little tension left him. That took away some of his headache as well, it seemed - no wonder, if it healed a head injury.

Eyes closing, Fenris leaned heavily against the side of the tub. Much better. "Thank you," he sighed, "amicus."

Varric patted his head lightly. "Don't mention it."

Beat.

"Now hold your breath."

Once he knew Fenris was doing, well, that, Varric used that same hand to push his head under. All the easier to run his hands through the hair, help the cloud of muck and blood blooming in the water around his messy hair.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject