museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

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.

If the water had been clear, if his hair had been clean, it would've been a lovely sight, the way it started to fan out and float in the water, the white strands almost looking silver until the blood and dirt obscured them. He could hold his breath for quite a long while, and did - until he had to tap Varric's arm and come up - and not quite all of the muck had been rinsed free. More had, it was true, but not all. The downfall of having grown his hair out as far as it had gone.

The positive was that Varric's fingers in his hair, now, with that wound gone, had felt heavenly. He would, he thought, nearly pay to have him do that again. He wasn't sure he'd go to the length of getting tossed against a rock by a Qunari again, but he'd gladly donate a few sovereigns to the cause of a repeat performance.

"How much extra do you think they'd charge us if I requested to have my meals brought in bed tomorrow?" he asked as he filled his lungs a few times, hoping that his expression hadn't given too much away about how lovely it had felt to have hands in his hair.

Varric didn't see it. He saw a man relieved to be free of eight layers of filth and slime, a man who took pride in his appearance finally feeling water in his hair.

"Eh, it's worth asking. I mean, I'm not actually going anywhere, so I could wait on you, but making those dusters do it just sounds too fun."

Let it never be said that Varric Tethras isn't petty.

"Now, do me a favor, and unplug the drain." The water was murky and disgusting. "We gotta do another pass if you're gonna get clean."

"Good idea." He did as asked, only fumbling a little before he found the drain plug and pulled it, letting red-tinted water and silt go down the drain. He rinsed the worst of it down as best he could, unconscious of how his smalls now clung thanks to the water. At least they were dark instead of white, not quite showing everything, but they showed shape while he moved, still slow, still cautious, but better than he had been.

Once most of the silt was gone, he judged it good enough and plugged the drain again. "Of all Dwarven inventions, running water is the best."

"Yeeeaaap, my people sure did one thing right," he agrees, reaching for the faucet again. "You know, they even have this shit in Ferelden? I hear all the nobles have it- even some of the Chantrys."

Varric noticed the smalls. He also noticed what appeared to be a small mountain lion curled up inside them. However, now was not the time for ogling or noticing anything- his injured friend needed help, and for all his consummate bitching and professional whining, Varric was determined to give it.

"They did similar in some parts of Tevinter," he muttered as he leaned into the water that was pouring in. "Some parts. Others preferred to have their slaves bring water as always."

Oh, Tevinter. Paradise for the magisters. Hell for everyone else.

"That actually surprises me," he remarked. "How much trade they do with the dwarves? You'd think they'd be all over conveniences like that."

With the water high enough, Varric turned off the faucet and got a cloth. They had some nice, expensive soaps here- the good shit made for nobles, the kind that didn't burn like peasant-grade lye crap, the kind that had oils and perfumes and herbs in it that could wash away anything. Varric lathered some of this up onto the rag and picked up one of Fenris's arms, gently, from where it floated atop the water.

"Some are," he said, letting his arm be taken as he watched - and then his stomach clenched. His guards were gone. Months had passed since--

Since Kirkwall.

The scars had mostly healed, but the evidence was still there, the skin having pulled and tugged and gone uneven. The markings had remained stubbornly the same, their lyrium stronger than what he'd put himself through, but the names...

They were only starting to piece themselves back together, the writing having gone blurred and piecemeal from the cauterisation he'd done courtesy of a fire and the end of his sword. It had been his way of freeing himself a second time, erasing the names that had caused him so much pain. And now, Varric had his hands on...

Well.

He'd likely find out eventually, anyway.

"Some like the power and the look of being served," he went on, picking up the conversation where he'd left off.

Varric started by propping that arm on the side of the bathtub and washing it gently, laving the soapy cloth over lyrium-etched skin in slow passes. Conscious of the delicate state of him, the dwarf picked up his arm again after a moment, thumb stroking gently along the underside of his wrist.

"Tch. Like there aren't less stupid ways of doing that."

Something felt wrong. Instead of smooth skin, his thumb kept running over bumps and- were those scars? With a frown he turned Fenris's arm over, then-

Oh.

"Oh, Broody," he sighed, eyeing the wreckage sadly. "I- I'm sorry."

Suddenly, every way they had crossed personal boundaries came crashing back to him. He let go of Fenris's arm, dropped the cloth, and settled back on the stool heavily, staring at that mess of scar and burn. It... felt worse than he would have expected, seeing it.

But Fenris shook his head, looking at it and... he pulled his arm back, drawing up one knee like a stiff old man to rest it against. "I was angry and hurting. And it isn't the first time I tried to erase his name."

Varric's...

Varric's, he'd left. Until the very last, anyway. That arm, he left in the water, unseen.

"It grows back after half a year or so. They never stay gone."

Too late to hide that slip, though. At the word his, Varric's eyes shoot up, meeting Fenris's all too keenly. Then he looks at the other arm, unseen in the tub, and back at Fenris- questioning.

"Did you...?"

His eyes drifted away from Varric's, shoulder lifting in an admission of guilt. "I was angry," he echoed. "And hurting."

As close as he'd get to a yes.

Ah. That was that, then.

His eyes dropped once more, studying some very interesting speck of dirt on the floor. Andraste's tits, what could he even say to this? It wasn't like he could exactly blame Fenris for being angry or hurt- not after what he'd spent a lifetime going through.

And yet.

It still stung to think of: Fenris, burning his name off of his wrist. Fenris, trying to erase him. In all Varric's many long, confusing, heartbreaking years in this life, he had never once tried to erase either of the names that confused him.

It hurt. It stung in the same place that ached when Fenris turned against them, that roared at Hawke's plan for Tevinter, that leaped when Fenris stumbled in covered in blood. He wondered, for the first time, if he wasn't starting to confuse the markings on his own wrists.

In his reverie, he didn't realize he was staring at his wrists. At the names.

It was Fenris who broke this new silence, swallowing tightly before he said, softly, "I think I can take care of it from here, Varric. Thank you. ...For everything." It felt like farewell, for some reason. Probably better if it was.

But it had been so good of late. So perfect. The two of them living like this. He'd loved the balmy evenings, the laughter, the camaraderie. He'd liked how Llomerryn was slotting their lives together. For a while, he'd been able to ignore the damned names and just live, but it always came back to this. Easier, he thought, if he'd never met at least one of the names. There was no way for him to deny Danarius, but if the other had been something far away, something Orlesian or Fereldan--

Then he would've gone to Orlais or Ferelden after escaping Seheron, he reminded himself, instead of the Free Marches. Hope had led him to Kirkwall.

There was no reason to think about those what-ifs. Pointless, in the entire. And now, they'd spoiled something else.

It was the tone of farewell that got him, that snapped Varric out of this reverie.

"Shut up, elf," he said quietly, shaking his head with a quiet determination. "Your arms are falling off."

It took him a second to look up, to deliberately shake off the heaviness of the moment, so he could look at his friend once more. "Like hell I'm gonna leave the armless wonder to wash himself. Maybe an elf could pull it off, but you'd have a hell of a time reaching your back."

With that, he reached into the tub for the fallen cloth and started gently washing Fenris's shoulders.

Screw destiny. Screw the stupid tattoos on their stupid wrists and those stupid legends about stupid soulmates and stupid enemies. Fuck it all. Fuck them. Fenris was his friend, whatever else, and he didn't abandon friends.

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