Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Varric Thedas, once of Clan Tethras, never forgets his debts. One day, that will make him the most qualified to tell the story of Malcolm Hawke and his four children; for now, he keeps his cards close to the chest, collecting information but never distributing it.

Most would begin a biography of Malcolm and his four children with his rise to fame. They would start with the impact of his work, the changes he made on an already recently changed world thanks to the invention of the personal computer. Not even Varric knows exactly how Malcolm, darling of the Amell corporation, produces his magitek devices, as the process is a closely guarded secret. But it is known that the devices are powered by the Fade -- meaning they never, ever, run out of battery or lose signal. Out of nowhere, Apple is outdated, obsolete; everyone wants Amell phones, computers, devices. Malcolm had been on the verge of running off with his fiance, Leandra Amell; overnight he found himself accepted by her family instead, welcome to merge his "knife-ear" blood with her "pure", "superior" stock.

But, the real story, the story worth sharing, started one afternoon at the International Technology, Training and Trade Conference, known far and wide as I3TC. Only ten years running, the bi-annual event was nevertheless one of the most sought after places to met, mingle and show off new inventions, programs, and start-ups. Getting a coveted speaking engagement here can elevate a newcomer to untold heights- or break them if they fumble it. Debuting a new invention here successfully guarantees it'll at least sell strong for the first year of its run. Networking opportunities abound and entire conglomerates are bought and sold during the week-long event. Solid rumors of the goings on are worth livelihoods and lives.

When the Malcolm Hawke, fiance of Leandra Amell, leaves a full two days early in order to get a Shirén, one born to the stone and science, out of China and to Free Carribean, where slavery is illegal (mostly), the entire world hears about it within hours. Anyone else would have likely been ruined forever, not only for skipping out on his part in the closing speeches, but also for taking what some would say was Fractal Facets Limited's property with him. Not a major company no, but they had just patented two very impressive though not all that practical advances in cybernetic miniaturization, and a Chinese company, which means that the Dwarven Clans could have gotten involved. Instead, Fractal Facets... simply vanished. As did the young dwarf that Malcolm rescued shortly after reaching Haiti.

It was an international scandal. China, the bastion of the Clans of Stone, major exporter of technology, is the biggest rival to the Unitum Provincias, the home of the Church ever since the Papal Seat moved to the District of Columbia. Both were livid -- the one because Malcolm flaunted their authority and stole one of their kinsmen, the other because he was a Mage performing blatantly illegal actions in public. The third largest world power, the Tevinter Imperium in South America, remained officially neutral; one would imagine they'd approve only because the Church disapproved, as the two powers had clashed repeatedly over the ethics of blood magic over the years. The fourth, Russia, offered him safe passage -- Lyrium, their largest export, was essential in Malcolm's manufacturing process.

Varric took the second life Malcolm gave him, along with the handful of money, and threw himself into making it count. Two years later, Varric showed up on the elf's doorstep with a suitcase filled with money- ten times the amount Malcolm had given him. It had taken Malcolm a few months to work his magic, but eventually Varric started to accept that Malcolm didn't see there being a debt between the two of them. By the end of the year, Amell MagiTech had signed StoneSure Transport to ship some of their less valuable goods. A decade later and StoneSure became the sole transport company for Amell MagiTech. In the years since, StoneSure has scaled up to dozens of valuable clients, though AMT remains their principal concern. The sole owner and CEO is known for being reclusive, talented and enforcing brutally high work standards on both his company and himself.

He's also Malcolm's best friend- and Malcolm is Varric's only friend. Real friend anyway. Which sometimes leads to some really strange moments...

"This is a hundred and thirty year old scotch," Varric observes blandly, staring at the bottle. "Why do you feel the need to ply me with a drink older than both of us doubled for a 'small favor, nothing much really?'"

Because it isn't a small favor, not really. Once upon a time, Malcolm's life had been his magitech gadgets. He'd been young and hungry, desperate to prove himself, desperate to make a life for his lady so they wouldn't be stuck on the streets like he'd been as a lad. His parents had been Catholic; they'd sent him for re-education at one of the Circle camps, and he'd broken free, proven himself stronger than they expected. He'd won his freedom at the cost of stability, of his home and his family and everything he'd ever known -- but Malcolm Hawke was a survivor, and he'd rebuilt his life better and stronger since then.

Now, in his fifties, he is coming to realize that his life's work has changed. No longer is it his internationally famous business, his patents, his fame and his money. Now, his life's work is his children. And Malcolm's children are...

Bethany is doing well. Carver was doing much better on his hormone treatments than he had been before, when they thought he was a girl. Both of them are bright, promising young students, on the verge of graduating from the very same private boarding school Leandra and Gamlen attended. And Marian is doing alright -- struggling a little, but it's mostly due to the amount she's taking on, with her internships, world travels, and full courseload. She'll manage, and scale back a little next year, learning her limits.

But Garrett...

"You know me," says Malcolm, with a warm smile. "Generous to a fault."

Varric is one of the few friends Malcolm didn't earn with his money and his wits; his wife, Leandra, is another, but she was less of a confidant and more of a conquest. With Varric, he knows how deep the bonds of gratitude and friendship run, knows nothing can sunder the foundation they've laid. With Varric, he can admit the truth.

"Besides, the favor might be a wee bit larger than advertised..."

Varric snorts. Mal, you're a genius with tech and magic beyond what anyone can measure. You've a gift with money, with speeches and leadership... but crack Stone if you're not shite at bluffing, he thinks to himself. "Go on," the dwarf says, taking a sip of his very nice scotch without breaking eye contact. He's going to say yes to whatever it is, Varric already knows that. Anything this important to Malcolm is something that Varric could never refuse his best friend.

"It's nothing too outlandish," the mage begins, meaning, it's nothing illegal, nothing as elaborate as the favors you've asked me in the past. "You remember my eldest son, Garrett?" he asks, swirling his drink.

"No Mal, I've completely forgotten the existence of your eldest child," Varric says in an entirely sincere tone of voice. "I mean, who?"

Malcolm throws his head back and laughs, a hearty, honest laugh. This is one of the things he likes most about his best friend: the jokes, the way he can entirely deadpan his way through an absurd statement. Malcolm always laughs, and often slugs him in the shoulder appreciatively; tonight he does not, only for the sake of the drinks they're both holding. "But seriously -- Garrett's been... advised to take a semester off school, for his health."

'For his health' is a loaded phrase here -- and so is 'advised', not that Malcolm will admit that to even his best friend unless hard pressed. A week prior, the school had called to advise their biggest donor that while his son was passing, technically, every one of his classes, he might not want to advertise his GPA just yet. Nor did the school wish to draw any conclusions from the fact that Garrett's homework quality had taken a nosedive after his twin sister Marian went on an expedition to Tevinter; after all, he might just be lonely, missing his twin sister. It doesn't have to mean anything.

And really, the first three disciplinary strikes against his conduct were just boyish mistakes, hardly anything to hold against the son of one of their biggest donors. That meant he had a whole strike left on their three strike policy -- and the slate would be wiped clean at the end of the year. "He just needs some time to adjust, to live up to his potential," the dean had advised. "Perhaps an internship, so he can apply some of his talents in the real world?"

Malcolm could read between the lines: if Garrett enrolled for the Spring semester without making serious changes, he was going to flunk out of school -- if he didn't get expelled for other reasons first. Nobody wanted that, not Malcolm, not the dean, and certainly not Garrett.

At least... Malcolm hopes his son doesn't wish to be expelled.

"I thought an internship with you might be just the thing. Something light, part-time work -- he's got a lot of extracurriculars to keep up with. But something to give his day structure, you know? Give him a good grounding in reality."

The Dwarf frowns. For his health (sick/stress/other)? And with the amount they charge (fucking ridiculous), the school recommending him to take time off? Yeah that's not good. Mal would have said prior to now if he was actually sick or something (medical connections/experts known?) so...

Varric doesn't know Garret as well as the other three kids to be honest. Marian is brilliant, and has managed to slip into various discussions over the years between Varric and Malcolm on all sorts of topics, impressing them both. No real surprise how she's doing these days. Bethany is well on her way to being an actress- stage most likely rather than movie, but a shared love of stories had given them a bond of sorts. Carver is a good kid, grateful how indifferent Varric has been to his changing genders if nothing else. Garrett... Always just a little too wild (careless) for me. No discipline and not enough gratitude for the life he was given. The family he was blessed with.

"Drugs?" Varric asks quietly, his tone no longer deadpan nor joking. The subject is a loaded one, given that Malcolm regularly diverts some of his high-grade, refined lyrium from his lab to Varric so the UnClanned dwarf can avoid using street lyrium.

The People of Stone, the so-called Dwarves, the Dreamless, have upgraded their ancestral silicate crystals, replacing them with microchips -- a move derided by their parents, but even the elders can't argue with the results. Microchips are a hundred times more compact, faster, and safer than the crystals engraved with runes, and all without requiring the centuries of Shinto baggage that came along with their traditional implantation ceremonies. Only the Dreamless can use silica, which is why the Dwarves aren't sharing its secrets: the Church would be happy to start Tranquil-ing people at birth to implant them if they only knew how.

Even the best cybernetics require at least a few grams of lyrium to keep functional every month. And what Varric has is beyond the best. If Garrett's begun using the substance to enhance his power as a mage...

"Maker, I hope not." For a moment, the friendly mask slips, giving Varric the same courtesy he's shown the older man; Mal's voice is a harsh whisper, half prayer and half damnation. He takes a sip, trying to smooth out his emotions, before he continues.

"To be honest, I don't know. I don't know what the problem is. Garrett's just as smart as his twin -- they used to compete, trying to outdo each other, prove they were the better mage. But now... I don't recognize him anymore. Maybe it's drugs. Maybe I should be sending him to a rehab instead of you. But he won't let me in. He says he's doing fine, even though I can tell he's struggling. He won't let me in -- how can I fix it if he won't let me in?"

Varric nods, clearly understanding. Malcolm hadn't sent Varric off with that loan as his first choice; he'd wanted to help more, but Varric had refused. He'd needed to fight his own way free for a bit.

So maybe drugs. Hell. Yes drugs but maybe not just drugs, or not mostly drugs. If the boy (he's twenty-two, hardly a boy) isn't at least getting plastered on the reg, I'd be deeply shocked. "An internship. What... what skills does he have?" Can't even recall what he's studying...

Malcolm snorts. "He's a mage. What else? He's brilliant. He's good with numbers, if you need a numbers guy. Keen head for people, if you need someone to oversee a project. He hasn't picked a specialty yet, except to be in the School of Magic, so I'm sure whatever you have he'll do well in."

So none, not really. Some talent, maybe some skills, no ability to use either. Great. "I can... interview him," Varric offers after a moment. "Maybe put him on a rotating tour of the departments, see if he... clicks anywhere." Limit the damage.

"Thank you, old friend," says Malcolm warmly. "I'm certain you won't regret it. Garrett's a fine lad. I'm sure he'll do wonderfully."

The interview is set for 10am sharp, giving Varric an hour and a half before he has to get to his next appointment -- but he'd prefer to be wrapped up inside of an hour, so he has time to go over the manifests before the quarterly meeting at 1. This should be more than enough time; it's not as though the boy is a stranger, and his resume is... sparse, and clearly written by his twin.

So when Garrett saunters in at Ten Forty Five, pale and swaying a bit, clearly not hungover but in fact still drunk, Varric gets his first impression of the real Garrett Hawke, outside of his father's approval.

He'd meant to be on time, he really did. But the night before had been Bela's last night in town, and he could hardly disappoint her, not when she comes into town so rarely. He'd intended to beg off early, get some sleep, but before he could think twice it was gone midnight, and then it was four in the morning. There's no point going to bed at four, not when you have to be up the next day; it's better to power through and nap later. So he'd kept up, and that meant still drinking so he'd be in peak condition. This was how he'd gotten through finals, after all. He was confident in his ability to pretend to be sober after a night of parting. And then the Uber was late, and the damn driver was so slow, sticking to the speed limit...

"Ho, Varric!" he says, swaying his way into the room. "Long time no see. How's the, ah, whatever it was?"

Varric closes the folder holding the manifests and slides it to the side. Not like he was going to just sit there and wait. "Job interview? Not going that great," Varric says coldly. He doesn't rise from behind the desk, nor wave, just studies the younger man steadily.

"Have a seat." Not a request. Nearly an hour (forty-six minutes) late, drunk, exhausted, lipstick on the bottom hem of his shirt (poorly tucked), not carrying a copy of his resume (or even something to take notes in) and a thoroughly unprofessional greeting. If your father was anyone, anyone, other than Mal... Not looking away or changing his expression, he uses his internal uplink to command the window blinds to open twenty percent.

Garrett hisses slightly as the brilliant morning sun flashes in his eyes. Still, he saunters to the chair, spinning it around with one hand before draping himself across it, legs spread wide, arm laid along the back of the chair. "So. What's this about, what's-- what's the job look like?" he asks, casually, tilting his head back to get the sun out of his eyes. "Father was adamant I take it, but I'm still undecided."

"If by adamant you mean, considering rehab, then yes, I suppose he is." Varric's expression doesn't change during all of this, even though he smiles inwardly at the hiss. "As for the job... right now, I think the best fit for you is the exit. You've gotten three changes to impress me so far and you've blown each and every one. Might want to reconsider your strategy."

Now the lad sits up, startled. "What? But we've only just begun -- how could I have failed so badly already?"

"You're late, you're drunk and you've arrogance bordering on farcical," Varric says bluntly, a faint flicker of curiosity at his reaction forming.

"Only a little," he protests, settling back into his chair. "I'm hardly drunk. Just a bit buzzed from the night."

"So if I called in a med tech to do a blood analysis..."

"Of course I'd pass," he says, waving a hand. I'd never let them take the blood, but a bluff's better than letting him get one over on me. "It's just a little holdover. Nothing much."

Varric hums nocommitedly. "And being late?"

"The Uber got lost, I had to call a second, and he drove so slowly -- I could have made the time up, but I didn't have my car, you see," begins Garrett, waving his hand again. "Entirely not my fault."

Varric nods absently, attention having drifted to his computer, which he again used his uplink to control. "Uber's logs show you has having called for a ride at nine fifteen. It's thirty-five minutes to here, so you budgeted ten minutes for the car to arrive and to make your way from my doorstep to my office?" He shakes his head. "Even if the first had been on time, you'd have been at least five minutes late, best case."

Garrett scowls. I forgot he's one of those Dwarves -- but even then, did he hack Uber? That's a little much for an interview. "Those Maps times are never accurate. I could do it in twenty."

"You could do it in half the time," Varric says blandly, implications clear.

"Sure," he says easily. "They pad, for legal reasons. So you don't sue if you're late. I never pay the estimates mind."

"Didn't use Uber's map- used CartoGraph's." Which is what I use to plan logistics for my company. "So why not drive yourself, if you're so much better at it?"

"Didn't have my bike -- I wasn't at home." He frowns, then, realizing that yes, Varric must have hacked Uber -- otherwise he'd have calculated the time from Garrett's flat, not the hotel with the after-afterparty he and the lovely Bela were indulging in.

"Which brings us to you being drunk and wearing yesterday's clothing," Varric notes.

"Naw," he says, shaking his head. "These are last night's clothing. I definitely changed since yesterday proper." Varric studies Garrett silently, letting him sit there and dwell on the horseshit he just let escape his mouth -- which only serves to encourage the boy. "And as I said, I'm hardly drunk," he continues. "Only a little tipsy, after all. A bit buzzed. A mite... mashed," he adds, chuckling. "Fully functional and ready to get to it."

"Really?" Varric asks mildly. "So if I assigned you to make a delivery, right now, and you got pulled over, the cop's breath-analyzer wouldn't register you as over the legal limit? Which, for a logistics company driver, is point oh three? And company policy says is point oh one?"

"You can't hold me to a standard you never disclosed," he argues. "But I'd pass the legal limit, sure." Even if I have to bamboozle the machinery -- or the cop.

Always has a answer, thinks Varric. Suppose that's not nothing. "Fine." He leans in, his expression partially obscured by the light coming in behind him. "One last question, your last chance to impress me. And this is it, by the way, pass or fail right now. Now is the time for honesty. I can't really blame you for the shit you've been shoveling this whole time- trying to cover for a fuck-up is only natural. But not right now. Not for this question:

"Why?

"Not why should I hire you, I'll decide that myself. Why are you here? Why did you agree to come here and work for me, when you have to know my reputation, have to have heard the standards and demands I put on my company and everyone in it, from me to the most trivial of subcontractor. Why are you here?"

Garrett sits back, frowning slightly to himself. He could point out that he didn't actually know, that he thought of the dwarf as Uncle Varric and not Mr Thedas, CEO hardass, but he knew it wouldn't get him far. Fair doesn't come into it -- what lets you win this?

He knew what. It was degrading, but then , there was nobody around to see, was there? He has to appeal to Uncle Varric, his godfather, his father's best friend. So he lowers his head, worrying at his lower lip, and did his best to sound like his twin sister: "My father. He hasn't been proud if me in years -- hasn't had cause to be. He told me this was my last chance and I can't... I can't let him down again."

Varric studies the boy's face, frowning. Ring of truth there... Not as much as I'd like but... Maybe more than he thinks. "If you really mean that, then maybe there's still some hope for you. Alright. Your resume is shit, light and outdated. What can you do?"

Drink, fuck, and race. "I'm a decent mage, and I got top marks in Debate," he adds, not mentioning he hasn't been to debate club since high school.

"Must have missed that when I looked over your transcripts," Varric says blandly. "Alright, we'll just have to... shuffle you until you fit somewhere."

"Thank you, sir. You won't regret this." Looks like the kid remembered his manners finally; better late than never.

"About two hours late for that... but maybe you can change my mind," Varric says bluntly. "Honestly? I doubt it. But I've been surprised before, sometimes even pleasantly. You want to impress your dad, make him proud? Prove me wrong."

His job was to start on Monday at 8am, on the dot -- "if you're even a minute late, you're fired", Varric had said, and Garrett had nodded, promising internally to prove the fucker wrong about him.

It's unsurprising, then, if disappointing, when he's not in the building by 8:05.

The head of security radios up to him, letting him know that Garrett's arrived, and that he's held him at security, as ordered if the boy turns up late. But the kid is insisting that if they just check the tapes, they'll see it's not his fault.

And, as Varric checks the security feed... it isn't. He arrived at 7:45, carrying a paper tray with two large coffees in it; he'd parked his motorcycle in the nearest open space, which had been fine until he got almost to the doors and Mrs Bertrasi tried to park in her assigned space. She'd correlated his jacket and his bike and nearly run him over, pulling up behind him to shout at him. That had taken ten minutes, until finally, staring at his watch in horror, Garrett had put the coffees down, gone to his bike, physically lifted it out of the way, and walked it to drop it in a loading bay so she could get by.

When he'd gone for the coffees, a security officer had come over to scold him for leaving his bike there. He'd looked on the verge of tears, but he'd thrust the coffees at the man, grabbed his bike, raced it up to the next floor, come back down the lift, taken the coffees, and slipped in the door at 7:59.

From the interior camera, Varric can see him filling out paperwork for a visitor's badge, about to be perhaps a minute late. That's when Katie, one of the interns, comes in on the verge of tears. Garrett put the coffees down again to console her, and the two of them went out to the parking lot once more, looking for Katie's keys until 8:06, at which point he was then free to walk into the lobby -- right into the head of security, who told him he's late, no can do.

A moment later, a metallic and overly deep voice sounds from a nearby speaker. "See Mister Hawke to his assignment." The voice is almost Varric's, but with the modifications that come from having been sent from an implant and then turned into audio from an actual computer. Evidently Varric's tower is almost as tech-riddled as a dwarven Clan-home. The security guard seems startled at the declaration but doesn't dispute the order from on deep, taking the slightly undercover Mister 'Gary Hawke' to met with Anna. A junior clerk that's been here for a year or so, Anna has been assigned to give Garret the full tour, both of the tower and basements but also the employee handbook.

An hour into his torturous study session- evidently there are actual quizzes he needs to pass on the damn book- some nameless intern delivers a file to Garrett. Inside is a single sheet of paper with Varric's letterhead.

As you can see, I decided not to fault you for your morning. The following is an after-action analysis, with recommendations.
Fifteen minutes is sufficient, even generous, for a normal workday. For a first day, a half hour is suggested to allow for getting lost, finding parking and filling out any last minute forms.

- The courtesy of bringing coffee was well done, as was your willingness to sacrifice any good will such might gain from your supervisor of the day in order to calm Intern Katie. (In addition, it is of note that you rode your motorcycle to work while carrying those coffees.)
- As you seem unfamiliar with them, please take special note of Section 3-11 in the handbook, re Parking Complex Rules. Mistakes out of ignorance are forgivable, but only once.
- Per your dispute with Mrs Bertrasi. She is very contrary and stubborn- given your limited time and rigid deadline, it would have been better to simply acceed the agreement- or just walk away- and move your bike in the first moment. However, it is to your credit that you lasted ten minutes against a senior member of the legal team. Perhaps your comment about Debate club deserves further consideration.
- Based on specs, your bike weighs roughly 285lbs. Did you use magic to carry it or was that purely physical?
- You did the right thing helping Intern Katie. That alone would have gotten you in today.

The difference is slight, nearly imperceptible -- Varric wouldn't see it if he didn't have someone entering the test results to be graded by his algorithms as soon as Garrett finishes (standard procedure for mages, don't let them touch the computer). But after he reads the note, Garrett does ever so slightly better on his next quiz than the ones previous.

"Gary", just a regular old mage, nothing special here, is first sent to shadow Anna in the general assistant pool. This doesn't do so well; he answers the phones for about an hour before missing his first one because he was at the water cooler having a lively conversation with Keith, another intern. His notes are decent until he gets bored; Varric is shown a detailed hand-written outline of the first ten minutes of a meeting with a wonderful portrait of Hashimoto, head of logistics and twice Garrett's age, sketched on the bottom. By the end of the week, however, Anna hasn't issued so much as an official written warning -- and he'd notice a lovely fruit basket on her desk.

Varric mostly takes that as a sign that Garrett is much more like his father than either would care to admit. Mal was never the best at focus. Brilliant, skilled, and creative... but not overly dedicated (except to people anyway). Both of them are as horny as rabbits too.

When told he's on the janitorial staff next, Garrett laughs, and asks for 'seriously, though, my real assignment'. All the work gets done that week -- but security footage shows it's because he brought a book and a friend he's paying to do it for him, because, fuck that, he's not cleaning toilets. There's technically nothing on the books against outsourcing janitorial work, given they use contracting companies sometimes, but it's hardly the spirit of the job...

Yeah, about what I expected, Varric figures as he looks over the tapes. Was hoping he would at least get something out of it (something of value, not the 'plot' of the latest slasher pulp). Not humility, his ego is far too robust to fall so easily, but something. An appreciation for the work others do at least. Still, his 'sub-contractor' had been competent. And the security loophole Garrett exploited to get him in the building got closed, so that was good in a way.

He does better the next week in the warehouse. The look on his face indicates he still thinks this is beneath him, but at least it's not toilets. Varric runs a slick operation at the warehouse, and Garrett just... doesn't seem to get the picture. He does his work, but he doesn't seem bothered by not hitting his times, by being slower than the others and stopping to ask questions over and over. The last day he's there he asks just as many questions as the first day, and nearly causes a problem when he decides to forgo the rolling stairs and climb the racks to put something away near the top of the warehouse. The manager is keen to get rid of him, and he doesn't object either.

Passive dickery (with a side of uselessness) as a means of protest. Stone, he's a little shite, isn't he? Varric scowls as he notes Garrett's file in his personal records. Clear as diamonds that he's not going to ever do a job he doesn't think suits him (not that he seems to know what that looks like). Typical rich kid.

The last week, he's posted as a temp to cover for Mrs Berasi's legal assistant as she takes a few sick days. This time, nothing disastrous seems to happen. In fact, it seems to be going well -- the work gets done, he doesn't punch her, she is as crotchety as ever so it's clear he hasn't seduced her...

Until he walks into Varric's office unannounced Friday afternoon, after confirming with his secretary he's alone, and drops a file folder onto his desk. "Verbal abuse, harassment, and unless I miss my guess, a hostile work environment. You going to handle this internally or am I filing this with my lawyer? Ten to one I can get Susan on board," he adds, name-dropping the legal assistant he's covering for.

Varric doesn't look away from his own work, doesn't even acknowledge Garrett entering the room. The only indication that Garrett gets that he was noticed at all was the blinds opening up twenty percent- thanks to his optical implants, Varric keeps his room barely illuminated when he's by himself.

Garrett crosses his arms, standing, towering above the seated dwarf. "Well? This is a courtesy, might I remind you -- I could have gone right to the lawyers, and good luck keeping the press away from it then. You take care of this, or I will, and you won't like how I do it."

Varric sighs. "Never learned how to use a light touch. No finesse or deftness, just going right to the hammer of Daddy's money and power." He still doesn't look at Garrett. "Does it make you feel better, coming in so strongly, casting down threats and challenges without even trying diplomacy?"

Garrett slams a fist on the desk, a small growl emerging from his throat. "This isn't the time for games, Varric. Susan's going to work for this woman on monday. If I don't reach out to the lawyer by eight pm, I'm not sure I can get him this weekend -- meaning I don't have time to dick around and listen to you lecture me on propriety."

Varric finally lifts his gaze. "If you're worried about her, then why didn't you at least try to approach me politely instead of making threats? I could have Miss Susan reassigned, given paid leave, or whatever's needed in less than an hour, neatly removing the deadline. But by making threats, you've now put me in a position where I have to weight Susan's wellbeing against allowing an employee to dictate executive actions via coercion, which sets a very dangerous precedent."

"Coercion," the mage snorts. "It's only business. If you don't want my warnings, fine. I won't give them in the future."

"Why this method?" Varric presses. "Why not simply approach me and tell me you found a problem?"

"That's what I've done -- and you're not interested."

"No, you came in and threatened me," Varric says patiently. "Why be so heavy handed? You can always ramp up aggression, but you can't undo any burnt bridges you've caused."

"I gave you a warning. If you choose to read that as a threat, that's on your head."

Varric nods slowly, expression thoughtful. "So it's not your fault if you threaten people by accident- you know you meant well, so that's all that matters?"

"Look, you either plan to do something or you don't. Either way, I'm getting this resolved."

"This is handled," Varric says, gesturing at the file. "You need to look at yourself. Why did you feel the need to handle it this way?"

"I'm not looking for a guru, thanks," he says, darkly, turning to go. "If I hear one peep out of Susan on Monday, I'm calling it in. No second chances."

"Tough shit," Varric snaps. "If you fuck up, I'm going to call you on it. Finding this out, having the resolve to do something about it? Good for you. Exactly what someone should do. But you fumbled hard on the finish."

He waves with two fingers over his shoulder, not looking back. "I'm going to lunch." Where I plan to consume bad shellfish so I have to call out the rest of the day.

Varric sighs, watching him go. Dammit... Mal... I'm sorry, but we need to talk. This... this isn't working.

Malcolm doesn't entertain Varric at home -- though not because he's ashamed of the dwarf. After all, it's not as if Varric hasn't been to the Amell Household before, on numerous occasions. No, today he entertains the dwarf in his office primarily because he's still there, working, late into the evening.

Malcolm's office has become his refuge, his personal penthouse. It occupies half the top floor of his Tower, the office building where the Amell Corporation global headquarters resides. Because he entertains visitors, he's built both a conference room and a bar up there, and rumor has it he's turned the old file storage room into a bedchamber so he can spend the night if need be. The bulk of the space is, of course, his workshop, where he personally can do research and development tasks, sorting out the possible from the impossible before he assigns his teams to carry out turning possible into practical.

For Varric, he leaves the workshop, heading to the bar area. This late, the city of Kirkwall is spread out below them, lights twinkling like stars. They can see out over the water, see the fog hanging heavy over it, threatening to roll in at any moment; in the daytime, they can see the Gates to the City, the pair of statues that welcome ships into the only safe harbor on the rocky island, but at night the fog occludes much. The window is curved, floor to ceiling and flawless; the bar is similarly curved, facing outward so you can admire the view while mixing a drink.

Mal mixes two, taking them over to sit at the round table. The seats are a long, curved half-booth, facing the windows: white, with red cushions, curved and polished like something out of a futuristic science fiction film. He sits beside his old friend, putting a glass in front of each of them, so they can look out over the city as they talk.

"That bad?" he asks, in response to Varric's earlier statements.

"You coddled him too much. He expects to get by on charm, innate talent and you. For most things... he's right. He is smart, charming and clever. But he doesn't seem to know how or when to use what." Varric sighs as he slips his drink. Should I touch on his... promiscuity? No, that's not a real concern. Besides, Mal used to be just as bad. "He's got good intentions, most of the time anyway. Tries to be helpful and to not dick over other people. Unless they annoy him in any way."

Malcolm is silent for a while, looking out over the city. Finally, with a reticence that tips Varric off that he'd only speak so freely to his best friend, he relents: "I knew that, I think. Deep down. Heaven knows I spoiled them both when they were young, but Marian turned out so well I thought... well.. I thought Garrett just needed a little push. A chance to spread his wings."

"Where is she, by the way? Haven't seen her around in ages," Varric asks, seizing on the digression to give Mal some time to process.

"Greece, I think, this month. She's on that world-travelling research ship still."

"Huh. Isn't it the twin's birthday later this month?" 'The twins' is always Beth and Carver, never Garrett and Marian. Which is... telling really. "Is she not..?"

"She promised she'd Send," he sighs, meaning the tongue-in-cheek-named app for communicating via Amell Phones and not the spell, which can only carry messages a short distance. "They're hurt, of course, but what can you do? They only turn eighteen once, but she only gets an opportunity like this once a lifetime."

It'd hurt less if she hadn't missed Christmas, or Christmas the year before, or the twins' previous birthday. If she'd been home more than strictly necessary. But he's not going to cage his children, not ever. If Marian Hawke needs time and space to discover herself, she's going to get it, no matter what it does to Malcolm.

I cannot fathom how someone could... For the millionth time, Varric forces his thoughts from jealousy, of the stirrings of actual hatred for those that spit on the blessing they have. That hurt or abandon their family.

"Sure, of course," he says, tone unconvinced. Can't even take just the day, the afternoon off? Teleport spells are pricey but Mal would- stop it. "Anyway. Garrett. He... there is good in him but getting it out is going to be like smelting the dross from silver."

"Try that in English?" says Malcom, smirking. He's well familiar with many of Varric's Chinese sayings by now -- but he pretends he's just as clueless as the day they met.

"Sweat, blood and tears," Varric says grimly, the corner of his lip quirking up. "Lots of them, and not just his. I'm real afraid that-" He cuts off, glancing towards the door inside, from where the sound of a phone ringing can be heard.

Malcolm frowns. His Amell Phone is in his pocket, of course -- but it's on silence, automatically, not just Minimal Interruptions but Silence All Calls mode, as is his habit when Varric is around.

The phone on the desk never rings after five. Not unless there's an emergency. It will ring for five people in the entire world -- and it requires a pin code from one of them before it'll make noise. So for that to be ringing....

"Apologies," he says curtly, sliding out from the booth and digging his phone from his pocket. With three taps, he forwards the call to his mobile and lifts it to his ear. "Malcolm here," he says, his voice still professional, but answering with his first name instead of his last.

He says nothing else, but his face pales as he listens to the voice on the other end. "I see," he adds, after far too long for this to be a simple matter. "I'll be right there."

He hangs up, sliding the phone into the pocket, and strides to the coatrack to grab his coat. "That was the hospital."

Having automatically starting trying to intercept and decrypt the call -- Varric rarely uses what he gleans from his habitual invasions of privacy but his ingrained paranoia and wariness go deeper than bone -- the dwarf nods. The call hadn't been long enough to get past Malcolm's bleeding edge security protocols any deeper than tracing the other end, which was exactly what Malcolm had said. "Teleport or copter?" he asks crisply, rising to his feet.

"Copter," he says, after a moment's pause. If he teleported, he could be there in an instant -- but only to the designated teleport spot in the parking lot, far from the hospital's computer systems, and Varric would have to catch an Uber to keep up. The copter can land on the roof, and he can have the room number on his phone by the time they get there.

As they start walking for the roof access, he adds, "it's Garrett. He's been in an accident."

Varric winces as he remote starts the helicopter and starts flagging for a flight plan. As good as he and his implants are, that takes a fair bit of concentration so he's mostly following on auto. "Any details?" he grunts.

"No," he says quietly. "But they don't call me over broken bones. They call if there's-- they want someone on-site who can make medical decisions."

Given that magical healing is so intensive and dangerous to the body, not to mention hard on electronic equipment, its use in trauma cases is limited to ensuring that the patient survives. There are also hard limits; it's rare to find a healer who can reverse brain death or massive brain damage. They don't like to use any in accident scenarios unless there's a field medic on the scene -- healing the outward signs of trauma does not remove any infections that may have occurred, and it weakens the immune system, leading to more difficult complications down the line. That said, if the case is bad enough, they may want to employ magical healing -- and they'll want someone to sign a release form if so. Calling Malcolm means Garrett is unconscious, dying, or dead.

"Fuck."

The two don't say much more than that until they're in the air, Varric focusing on piloting. Mal isn't bad at it himself, but Varric is better. And... well, he's distracted for obvious reasons. Best to not make him fly. It's not a long trip to the hospital and Mal manages to get landing clearance before they arrive, so they'd down and exiting without issue, heading to the room.

Malcolm's a shell of himself by the time they land -- he's taken to biting his nails again, an old habit he's long since dropped. But you wouldn't know to look at him once they get on the roof. He strides confidently to meet the nurse, walking slightly faster than is comfortable for her as she briefs him on the situation.

Thankfully, Garrett is alive. Unconscious, but alive. They've already administered emergency healing on the crash site, as little as they could get away with; they've brought him in through the ICU, but they expect him to recover. No damage to the spine, though one of his legs was badly mangled before the healing and will need to be in a cast for some time. The treatment plan is solid, and Malcolm has no issues dashing off a quick signature for the waiver -- this could have been done over fax, if it were just about Garrett's care.

No, it's the cops standing outside his room that Malcolm was called in to deal with.

One of them is new to him, though not to Varric: a short, scrappy woman with a shock of white-blond hair, the sides shaved short. Wylde Lowell, marshal, likely having taken the case off the beat cop who called for backup. The other is very much not. Captain Vallen of the Kirkwall Police Department is a familiar face to Malcolm by now, though not a welcome one. Vallen's personally been handling anything associated with him or his family for years now, and she's proven oddly resistant to both his charms and his money.

Malcolm plasters on a false smile and nods to them. "Captain. What's this about, then?"

"Roughly five years," Vallen says bluntly. The Amells aren't the worst of the lot, but the way these 'Nobles of the Caribbean' run roughshod over the common folk is disgusting. I have him solid this time and like hell am I letting him slip his way out. "Seven if the kid's wrist is broken, not just sprained." Her eyes flick to Varric and her lips curls slightly. Great. Of course he's here too.

Malcolm's smile doesn't slip, but his voice becomes a touch chillier, exposing the steel core under his pretty words.

"Let's not misunderstand each other," he says, locking eyes with Aveline. "My son is in that room, so badly wounded he required magical healing. I have not yet seen him. I have not seen for myself that my son is alive because you are standing between myself and him. I would greatly appreciate your being clear about what it is I can do to get into that room faster. I understand that you are not a parent, but perhaps you have spoken to enough parents that you can have some understanding of my feelings on the matter of word games right now."

Aveline's eyes narrow, fury roaring in them, though her voice never budges from politely firm. "Dylan Gottwald has parents too. His mother was gardening around the side of the house when your son almost murdered her son because he got on a bike with three milligrams of lyrium in his system on top of a point oh eight BAL. Dylan won't be receiving magical healing. Dylan's parents are farmers and can't even afford to take off work to be with him while he's treated. But go ahead and reassure yourself," she finishes, gesturing at the door next to her. "I'll wait."

Malcolm gestures to Varric, not bothering to even ask. "Dylan Gottwald's parents have been contacted and his medical bills paid. We can have this discussion when you can be civil enough to tell me what happened instead of pointing fingers, Captain. Good evening."

That said, he moves past her, entering the door to the hospital room. I'll need to see those blood tests, have my own doctor re-run them. There's no way she got the blood herself, I can put it down to a medical transcription error. Doc'll get him a prescription for Lyntol, that sometimes shows up as Lyrium in blood tests, confuse the matter. That brings it down to drunk driving, he can beg off with community service in court. He's alive, that's what matters.

Despite reassuring himself, as he looks down at Garrett's body, so seemingly small and fragile between all the medical instruments and the cast on his leg, he can't help but wonder what's really going on with his son. Time was, he'd never think to start a vehicle tipsy, let alone drunk. And now he's hit some kid? Garrett... what's happened to you?

"Captain Vallen," Varric says cheerfully, eyes glinting with challenge. "Let's talk legalities and other such things," he begins, enjoying the way the cop's jaw tightens. He's sent a quick message to his own lawyer to get on the Gottwald angle before Mal even finishes talking. He'd love to get started on hacking the hospital to start changing numbers, but Vallen is too sharp to divide his attention. Which does make it more fun, true, but he'd prefer a less... fraught occasion for such things. Whatever this is about, I really hope Garrett pulls through. For Mal's sake, if nothing else.