The coffee table was a mess.

Empty cups.

Crumpled papers.

Three pens without caps.

The open manuscript on the laptop, glowing like a white wound in the darkness of the apartment.

The only lights on were the screen, an old lamp tilted toward the keyboard, and the warm reflections of Chicago filtering in through the studio's high windows.

Everything else was asleep.

The plants.

The books.

The distant rumble of trains.

Everything except Varric.

Because Varric had been awake too long.

And it showed.

His shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His orange hair was completely dishevelled, falling over his forehead and the back of his neck.

Dark circles under his eyes.

His glasses slightly askew.

His gaze was lost, fixed on the manuscript as if the text would finish itself if he stared at it long enough.

He wasn't writing.

He was just sitting there.

Still.

Weared out.

The deadline for the last chapter was slowly killing him.

And Hawke knew it.

That's why, when she shuffled out of the room, still half asleep, the first thing she did was sigh when she saw him.