who_is_she (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
who_is_she) wrote2014-12-05 12:15 am
who_is_she) wrote2014-12-05 12:15 am
hhhh
hIt had been a week since Jean had been kidnapped, and Varric still hadn't quite recovered. After his embarrassing crying session on Jean's shoulder they had napped together until they were well enough to move. Varric's wounds were much less severe than Jean's, so he was fine to travel back to Skyhold with his own two feet, with the exception of the healer mage who kept a close eye on his arm. Jean had been bedridden for another two days, more to ensure the proper healing of his injuries than any particular danger.
Varric had gone to see him, of course, but hadn't visited as much as he might have under different circumstances. There was a dry, itchy frustration curling under his skin, because everyone kept trying to buy him drinks and toast to his heroism when he just wanted to quietly get drunk and forget about Jean's blood on his hands for a few hours. He'd made it abundantly clear that he was uncomfortable with the whole hero thing, but almost everyone believed he was just being modest and needed more congratulations and celebrations to give him confidence.
The whole thing was making him irritable because he knew he wasn't a hero, he knew what his true intentions had been, and it made the whole thing turn sour. It wasn't the first time Varric had tied his life to someone else, but it was the first time he'd come so close to cashing in on that promise, and it had shaken him. Even when he'd fought the Templars with Hawke it hadn't been as frightening, because he'd had a hell of a lot of good backup and people to trade mood-lightening jokes with, even through the horrors. He'd never come so close to losing Hawke as he had come to losing Jean, and the realization that he would rather die at Jean's side than go on without him had been sobering and unsettling.
Then there was the whole... Tears thing. Varric had never blubbered into someone's shoulder like that, hadn't even blubbered to himself like that before. He hadn't cried at Bianca's wedding, nor had he cried when Hawke took Fenris aside in the Mage Tower's courtyard and kissed him silly.
Jean had crawled so far into his heart that Varric didn't think he could ever get him out again, and it had Varric scared.
He felt like he'd screwed up, somehow, like he'd made a mistake that Jean would blame him for. He felt guilty, so he only went to Jean's bedside a handful of times, and Jean had been cleared for light duty for two days now and he still hadn't exchanged more than brief pleasantries with him. He'd even been avoiding talking to Cole about it, which was something of a feat considering how much sneaking and careful thinking that took.
The worst part about the whole thing was that he couldn't write.
Previously, he'd always been able to write through his lowest points, but suddenly the well of words had dried up under the force of his guilt and self-loathing.
Growling, Varric scratched out the last few lines of text he'd written, then he'd lost his temper and broken his pen nib and crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the floor. It joined the dozen other piece of paper he'd wasted already, and staring down at them his temper had bubbled over again.
"Fucking stupid pointless bullshit," he yelled, kicking savagely at the crumpled papers and then winding back and punching the wall as hard as he could, crying out in pain when the force of it traveled through his not-quite-broken-anymore arm. He cradled his arm against his chest and fell to his knees, hot tears pricking at his eyes from the searing pain, "Fuck-fuck-fuck fucking fuck!"
Varric had gone to see him, of course, but hadn't visited as much as he might have under different circumstances. There was a dry, itchy frustration curling under his skin, because everyone kept trying to buy him drinks and toast to his heroism when he just wanted to quietly get drunk and forget about Jean's blood on his hands for a few hours. He'd made it abundantly clear that he was uncomfortable with the whole hero thing, but almost everyone believed he was just being modest and needed more congratulations and celebrations to give him confidence.
The whole thing was making him irritable because he knew he wasn't a hero, he knew what his true intentions had been, and it made the whole thing turn sour. It wasn't the first time Varric had tied his life to someone else, but it was the first time he'd come so close to cashing in on that promise, and it had shaken him. Even when he'd fought the Templars with Hawke it hadn't been as frightening, because he'd had a hell of a lot of good backup and people to trade mood-lightening jokes with, even through the horrors. He'd never come so close to losing Hawke as he had come to losing Jean, and the realization that he would rather die at Jean's side than go on without him had been sobering and unsettling.
Then there was the whole... Tears thing. Varric had never blubbered into someone's shoulder like that, hadn't even blubbered to himself like that before. He hadn't cried at Bianca's wedding, nor had he cried when Hawke took Fenris aside in the Mage Tower's courtyard and kissed him silly.
Jean had crawled so far into his heart that Varric didn't think he could ever get him out again, and it had Varric scared.
He felt like he'd screwed up, somehow, like he'd made a mistake that Jean would blame him for. He felt guilty, so he only went to Jean's bedside a handful of times, and Jean had been cleared for light duty for two days now and he still hadn't exchanged more than brief pleasantries with him. He'd even been avoiding talking to Cole about it, which was something of a feat considering how much sneaking and careful thinking that took.
The worst part about the whole thing was that he couldn't write.
Previously, he'd always been able to write through his lowest points, but suddenly the well of words had dried up under the force of his guilt and self-loathing.
Growling, Varric scratched out the last few lines of text he'd written, then he'd lost his temper and broken his pen nib and crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the floor. It joined the dozen other piece of paper he'd wasted already, and staring down at them his temper had bubbled over again.
"Fucking stupid pointless bullshit," he yelled, kicking savagely at the crumpled papers and then winding back and punching the wall as hard as he could, crying out in pain when the force of it traveled through his not-quite-broken-anymore arm. He cradled his arm against his chest and fell to his knees, hot tears pricking at his eyes from the searing pain, "Fuck-fuck-fuck fucking fuck!"
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He had tried to understand when Varric had made himself scarce after his recovery, tried to give him his space, but he had ended up keeping his distance for much longer than Jean had anticipated. He wishes he could say something to help him, but since Varric was being particularly closed off, it was hard for him to figure out what the right thing to say would be.
He can at least bring him food, since he knows Varric keeps forgetting to get food for himself, and that was exactly what he was on his way to do. He stopped off at the kitchen and, after chatting with the cooks for a few minutes, all of whom had questions about Varric's and his own well-being, he left, with a two plates of whatever could be spared, and headed towards Varric's room.
When he gets close, he hears shouting and banging, and it spurs him into walking more quickly down the hall. He pushes the door to Varric's room open and sees him clutching at his arm, and he nearly drops the plates he's carrying to rush to his side.
"Varric," he says, urgently, setting the plates down on Varric's bed and kneeling beside him, "Are you all right?"
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"I'm fine," he said gruffly, gritting his teeth through the pain and unable to look at Jean as he shifted back a little from his curled-up position, "Just lost my temper."
As he sat up and looked down at himself he realized there was blood smeared on his good arm, and looked at it blankly before he realized the skin on his knuckles had torn and was bleeding sluggishly.
"Shit," he swore, moving his grip to cradle his wrist.
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He looks around the room, at the crumpled and scribbled on papers on the floor.
"Writer's block?" he asks, "Or something else?"
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He laughs, once, bitterly, at Jean's question.
"Writer's block caused by something else, I guess," he says, shuffling the scattered papers into more of a pile with his foot, "It's not important." He looks up and sees the tray of food on the bed, feeling another ache at the evidence of Jean's concern.
"Oh, you didn't have to do that," he says, realizing that he's probably been worrying Jean tremendously and feeling his guilt double.
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He pushes himself up and sits at the foot of Varric's bed, taking a slice of bread off of one of the plates and taking a bite. He chews thoughtfully, and crosses his legs.
"You know you can talk to me, Varric," he says, after a few moments of silence. "About anything."
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"I know," he says, after a long pause, still unable to look Jean in the eye, "I don't want to bother you with my little," he gestures vaguely, "Pity party. I'm fine," he repeats, trying to convince himself more than Jean.
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"It wouldn't bother me," he says, trying to sound upbeat, "It worries me more that you've cut yourself off hiding out in here. I'd much rather know what's going on with you. How's your arm doing, anyway?"
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"It's all right. When I'm not punching walls with it, anyway," he says, rubbing his palm over his still-sore forearm. He looks over at Jean, one corner of his mouth quirking up when he sees the crumbs caught in Jean's beard.
"Here," he says, reaching out without thinking to comb the crumbs away with his fingers. He freezes with his hand against Jean's face, eyes going wide as his heart clenches with the memory of running his hand through Jean's hair, Jean's blood warm on his fingers and he'd been so sure that had been the end. He pulls his hand back, his expression closing off as he turned away and let his hand drop into his lap.
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"Yeah, punching stone will do that to you," he says with a slight smile. "This is a stone castle. You might find a different outlet next time. Don't want you shattering your bones again."
He reaches forward cautiously, resting a hand on Varric's knee.
"Honestly, though," he says, his voice going soft, "Is there anything you want to talk about?"
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"I..." Varric means to deflect, to deny, but what comes out is, "I feel like you should be angry with me. I wish you would. I'm angry with myself." He pauses, rubbing his hands over his face, and when he looks over at Jean his expression is broken and terrified.
"They keep saying I'm a hero and I'm not."
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"You don't know how many times I've felt the same way. And I know you think that's ridiculous of me, but...much of what people assume were selfless acts on my part were done out of fear of seeing the ones I loved hurt. Like you. Or Cole, or Sera, or Bull, or Cassandra, Josephine, Dorian, Leliana, any of them. I couldn't--"
He laughs, grimly, and bows his head.
"You know I never told you that in that future Dorian and I saw you died for me? Just to buy me a few minutes. You and Cassandra and Leliana all threw your lives away one after the other so we could escape. That was what spurred me to fight so hard. I couldn't ever let you do that, and I knew you would do it again in a heartbeat. That's just who you are, Varric. Whether you think so or not."
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"I... I know, if it was you, I'd be furious. If you died to keep me living I..." he pauses, breathless with fear at that prospect, "I don't know what I would do, but... I know I would never move on. And if it was me that's what I would want for you. I'd want you to keep going, to move on, to be happy. It seems so hypocritical."
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"I mean, maybe it is," he says, scratching his chin, "But I think that's just the way it is when you really...when you really love someone." He sighs.
"Maybe its selfless and heroic at the same time as it's selfish and self-serving and hypocritical. But...I know you, Varric. Your heart's always been in a better place than you think it is."
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"Aren't you a little biased to be saying that?" Varric asked, pulling his hands away from Jean to place the tray of food carefully on the bedside table, so he could sit closer to Jean and take his hand again.
"I do... Really love you. I'm sorry for... the last couple days," he says, speaking slowly and carefully choosing his words, "Seeing you like that... Bloody and broken and nothing I could do about it... It scared me more than I wanted to admit." He looks away, ashamed at what an asshole he's been.
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"No apologies. Just...please feed yourself. And don't punch any more stone walls." He smiles a little, and pushes his hands fondly back through Varric's hair.
"For the record, though, I did miss you very much," he says.
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"I can't make any promises," he says wryly, cracking an eye open to smirk at Jean.
"I missed you too," he said softly, turning towards Jean to press their mouths together, making a low pleased sound into the kiss.
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"Maker," he says, breaking away to mutter against Jean's mouth, breathing heavily already, "I am so glad you're not dead," he says, a little deliriously, his hands gripping tightly at Jean's shirt, "You're warm and very much not dead and so beautiful and I'll just-- I should just stop talking," he says, flushing at the accidental slip-up and kissing Jean again to keep the torrent of intense affection and love he was feeling from spilling out of his mouth.
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"I'm alive, Varric," he mumbles into the kiss with another quiet laugh, running his hands down Varric's neck and combing his fingers through the hair on his chest, "I promise."
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Varric's arms wrap tightly around Jean's shoulders, pressing him close so Varric can feel the whole line of his body as warm proof that he's survived.