prompt is hmmm least normal conversation between your hawke and varric?
alternatively, putting hawke in their least favorite situations, parties or murder, whichever dreads them more?
TYY you read my mind with this, my hawke had SUCH a messed up relationship with varric. and to combine the prompts, skyhold is basically a saw trap for him. so here's varric and hawke having a terrible conversation about hawke and anders' relationship at herald's rest.
The swill they sold at Herald's Rest, Skyhold's only tavern, was unlike anything Hawke had ever tasted before. In his youth he might have been able to bear it - long nights at The Hanged Man emptying barrels upon barrels of the worst drink Kirkwall had to offer had once been his only hobby. But the past few years had softened him. He wanted warm mead, cheap wine, someone to bring him elfroot tea as he put his feet up.
Varric didn't seem to care. He took a large swig from his tankard as if it was nothing, smacking his lips loudly.
"Maker, that hit the spot." He groaned.
Hawke didn't know what to say in response. He stared around the tavern, observing the other people drinking. They seemed on edge, nervous. It reminded him of that last night at Ostagar, everyone more than aware of the fact that they could die tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he was the only one who wasn't drinking like a fish.
"Hawke?" Varric was saying, "you listening?"
Hawke turned his gaze to Varric, "I'm listening," he grunted, pushing his drink away from him.
"Come on. I know you didn't hear a damn word I said."
Varric was suddenly serious. He sat back in his chair, tilting his chin up and meeting Hawke's eye. In this light, he suddenly looked far older than the man Hawke knew; it was hard to believe it had been a decade since they'd first met. Those first few uncomplicated months before the Deep Roads expedition, before a thousand tiny invisible barriers had begun to worm their way between them, felt simultaneously like a lifetime ago and yesterday afternoon.
"Do we have a problem, Hawke?" Varric asked.
Hawke laughed sharply. "No."
It was unconvincing, Hawke knew that. He watched as Varric picked up his drink and took another steady gulp, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of his tankard.
Then his eyes drifted down, fixing on Hawke's hand before widening. He swallowed, coughed, reddened, looking for all the world like an Orlesian nobleman who'd just been caught doing something exceptionally unfashionable.
Hawke looked down at his hand. It was the same as ever, scarred and rough, nails bitten short in a habit Anders had always found disgusting.
And, against his worn skin, a single sunbeam in a stormy sky: his ring, once worn by his father and now worn by him. It was one half of a pair. The other half, his mother's, was somewhere far away, on the finger of someone he missed very much.
Varric couldn't stop staring at it. He was no longer red. His face was white, his knuckles even whiter.
"Hawke," he said slowly, "tell me that isn't what I think it is."
If he was honest with himself, Hawke had been anticipating this conversation ever since he'd arrived in Skyhold. If anything, he was surprised it had taken so long for Varric to notice. His gaze had a habit of lingering on him for a moment too long, taking in details nobody else saw.
He twisted the ring around his finger, "it's nothing," he lied.
"Doesn't look like nothing."
Hawke took the ring off and placed it on the table. It wasn't anything fancy, a cheap metal band coated with a thin layer of gold. His mother's ring had a small red gem inlaid in it, so bright it could have been red lyrium, but his father had been spared the frivolity.
"Does this make me your wife?" Anders had joked as Hawke had slipped the ring on his thin finger.
Varric reached out and picked it up, rolling the band around in his palm with a sour expression.
"When was the wedding?" He asked.
"A few years ago."
"Right." Varric said, gritting his teeth, "sure."
Hawke said nothing in response. He held his hand out, waiting for him to give the ring back.
Either Varric didn't notice him, or he pretended not to. He continued to fiddle with it, warming the cool metal in his hands, "were you planning on telling me? Or did my invite get lost somewhere?"
His voice was hard as stone but Hawke was harder. "Nobody was invited," he said, "it was just us."
And Bethany. And The Hero of Ferelden. And a few friends. But Varric didn't need to know that.
"Still," Varric continued to toy with the ring, "you could've written. I would've sent a gift."
Hawke snorted, "a gift for a wedding you don't approve of? The Orlesians are rubbing off on you, Varric."
It was hard for Hawke to keep the irritation from his voice. His patience was wearing thin. He reached out and snatched the ring from Varric's hand, slipping it back on his finger where it belonged.
Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Hawke let his mind wander, thinking about how he'd tell this story when he got home. Would it make Anders smile? Would Bethany chide him for being too cruel? Or would the three of them sit in silence afterwards, navigating the personal mazes they were more and more often finding themselves lost in.
Varric coughed lightly, "I don't disapprove." He said, so quiet that Hawke barely heard him.
"Pardon?"
"I said, I don't disapprove." He repeated, "of you and Blondie, that is."
He was lying. Hawke felt a fire begin to ignite in his chest, "I read your book," he said sharply, "everyone did. All of Thedas knows exactly what you think."
"It was a dramatised version of events. I've said it a thousand times, Hawke, I'm not a historian-"
"-I'm a storyteller," Hawke finished, mimicking Varric's rough voice, "right."
Another silence. Varric had finished his drink by now but continued to fiddle with the tankard, peering into it every now and then as if hoping more alcohol would materialise if he wanted it badly enough.
Hawke had been maybe a hundred pages into The Tale of the Champion when he'd realised Varric was in love with him. The realisation had come over him like a heart attack, finally hitting after years of creeping up on him. Part of him thought maybe he should have realised sooner. It had, in hindsight, been sickeningly obvious.
When he'd asked Anders for his opinion, he'd had the nerve to laugh. (This had been, of course, when he still knew how to laugh. If Hawke had known how few of Anders' laughs he'd have left, he might not have been so angry. But that's always the way.)
"I was wondering when you were going to figure it out," he'd said, doubling over, "Maker, Isabela and I even had a bet, once."
Did Varric himself even know? Hawke looked at him. He was still staring morosely at his empty drink, a few strands of hair falling in his eyes where they'd come loose from his ponytail. Surely if he knew he would have said something by now. He was never usually quiet about his feelings.
"Varric." Hawke said.
"What?"
"Do you..."
Potential hung in the air, a dagger at the end of his tongue. Hawke could ask his question if he wanted. He could do anything if he wanted; he could ruin everything, he could run all the way home and cower beneath his bed, he could tear his sword from his hilt and see how many Templars he could slaughter before someone cut him down.
But he did nothing. Just as he had done nothing every night since arriving as Skyhold. He continued to sit on the uncomfortable chair at the dirty table, continued to ignore his drink. Varric stared at him with his tired, worn expression. There was a look in his eyes that reminded Hawke shockingly of Anders on the day he'd blown up the Chantry. An acknowledgement of an unavoidable fact and an acceptance of it, the mutual knowledge that Hawke could do anything in that moment and he wouldn't resist.
Just as before, Hawke couldn't go through with it. He dropped the dagger.
"Do you want another drink?" He asked.
Varric avoided his gaze and shrugged. "I think I'm done for the night."
"Sure."
"I'm going to turn in."
He slipped out from the table and into the fray of the crowded tavern, dodging stray elbows and swinging knees. Hawke watched him leave, finished his drink, then took the same path out into the cool night.
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Six things I wish you knew about chronic migraine
(By a person who’s lived with the condition for the last eight + years)
While it’s true that migraine is more common than you think (something like one in five women, one in twenty men), it’s also true that there are lots of different kinds of migraine. Optical migraine (“aura”), vestibular migraine (vertigo), and abdominal migraine (lots of nausea and vomiting) can and do frequently coexist, but only a fraction of the people who get “migraine” experience all three all the time. Complex migraine has symptoms similar to both a seizure and a stroke, frequently in addition to some/all of the aforementioned. A person with chronic complex migraine (like me) and a more normal person who gets an acute migraine every month or so (like my mom) might as well have two entirely different conditions.
Corollary to the above: migraine advocacy needs to cover both breadth and depth of sufferers. Naturally, resources and up-to-date research ought to be available to anyone who experiences migraine symptoms, but there also needs to be acknowledgment that even some people for whom the condition is technically “chronic” (eight days a month) might have it relatively easy in the scheme of things. I often tell people that I have a seizure condition (closely related to migraine) in order to be taken seriously in lieu of a thirty minute lecture.
Migraine is under-researched and poorly understood. I have one of the most expert migraine neurologists in the US and yet frequently, when I ask him questions that seem like they should have simple answers, his response is “good question.” Lots of meds/treatments are new and experimental and thus not covered by insurance. There is a LOT of migraine-related misinformation in the milieu. I cannot overstate this. Immense truckloads of misinformation. It’s incredible. Take anything a non-neurologist tells you about migraine critically.
You would be astonished by how many needles and hospital visits severe chronic migraine entails. There are periods where I’ve had to get painful injections 3x daily and had hospital visits every other week. IV steroid infusions are also a pretty common occurrence and they suuuuuuck.
Most people who get migraine take either OTC drugs or Imitrex/Sumatriptan pills, and if a person gets any kind of nausea/vomiting with migraine, this is pretty much insane. The body can process migraine like a physical trauma and as a result the stomach stops working (gastric stasis). As a result, if you take a pill after an episode has already begun, it won’t actually get digested until the migraine is basically over already. Injectables are much better if you can get them and it’s absolutely crazy to me that most doctors don’t prescribe them across the board. Doctors have known about the gastric stasis thing for decades now and it really ought to be common knowledge.
Not specific to migraine, but the longer you suffer with chronic pain the more sensitive your body becomes (barring improvements in treatment). This is kind of counterintuitive- you’d expect to get used to the pain over long exposure, but actually your nerves get hyper-attuned to it. This goes double if you have any kind of allodynia. If you have long-term chronic pain—you’re not going crazy if you think something/everything hurts more now than it used to.
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