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Hawke didn’t dare wear red anymore.
The red dye in her favorite armor had been washed out to a muddy brown. If there was a red streak across her nose, it was actual, accidental blood, not ceremonial paint. Even her hair had changed, a bit. She kept it short but tucked it behind her ears. Hiding in plain sight; the Champion was better recognized with her face half in shadow, a stubborn lock of hair crossing the bridge of her nose.
She had always been good at hiding.
"Will you relax,” Isabela hissed, squeezing Hawke’s hand. “They don’t see you. No one recognizes you. We’re safe.”
The pirate stepped, and Hawke automatically followed, crimson tulle billowing out around her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the damn dress. She did. She liked it so much that it had only taken one pleading look and a pout from Isabela to get her into it. Now that they were here, though—crashers at an Orlesian party—her eyes darted from shadow to shadow without a moment’s pause.
"We’re never safe anymore," Hawke muttered.
Isabela laughed. “Were we ever safe to begin with?” she teased, sweeping Hawke around in time with the orchestra.
Reluctantly, Hawke pulled her eyes from the shadows. Isabela was a more pleasant sight by far, anyway: her hair grown long in the years they’d been away from Kirkwall, her coppery eyes sparkling with mischief. Hawke hadn’t talked her into a dress, but she did wear a sweeping blue coat over her billowy white blouse and corset, and she’d actually put on trousers.
Hawke shrugged a little closer, smiling. “I like your coat,” she said quietly.
"There’s my girl," Isabela murmured. She leaned in and kissed the corner of Hawke’s smile, prompting a chuckle.
Dancing was like sparring; neither of them had the steps exactly right, but they knew each other well enough. Isabela led—Hawke followed. When the song ended, they both clapped politely for the orchestra and moved off, hunting for drinks.
"There will be nothing good here," Isabela sighed, tucking her hand through the crook of Hawke’s elbow.
"Some nice cheese, perhaps," Hawke replied.
"Do I look like a rat to you?" Isabela asked. "Cheese is not…is not—Marian. We have to leave. We have to leave right now.”
Her voice had dropped, become suddenly urgent, her fingers like steel on Hawke’s arm, pulling her back.
"Why?" Hawke scanned the crowd ahead, frowning. There was no threat that she could see. "What’s—"
She didn’t finish, for she’d spotted a gleaming crossbow on the back of a dwarf with burnished gold for hair.
"Varric," she whispered, though there was no chance that he could hear her, not at thirty paces away.
"We have to go," Isabela pleaded, tugging uselessly at her arm. "You know who he works with now, you know—Marian!"
Hawke had slipped out of her hold, ducked around the stream of people in front of her, and set off for the table where Varric stood as swiftly as she could. Isabela cursed violently behind her and followed, whispering threats the whole way, but Hawke didn’t hear, slippered feet beating a hasty pace through the crowd.
She knew it was a bad idea, the worst of plans, but she hadn’t seen Varric in years, had started to forget what his voice sounded like. Her throat closed, for that was happening with all of them, now, those friends she had loved so well in Kirkwall: they were fading one by one, slipping through her fingers until she had nightmares of featureless faces.
She didn’t know where some of them even were; she didn’t know if all of them were still alive.
She was being stupid, but she wasn’t that stupid; she scanned the crowd for any sign of an all-seeing eye and, finding none, she gripped Varric’s shoulder and used the massive skirts of her dress to hide the fact that he was being frog-marched directly into the shadows along the north wall.
"What now?” he grumbled, right before she released his shoulder and let him turn. One hand went automatically to his crossbow.
She dropped down to one knee. He blanched, his fingers loosening up from the grip he’d taken on Bianca. His eyes darted from her face to Isabela, hovering over both of them; Hawke could feel her seething.
"Hawke," he said, like he’d been gutted.
No one called her Hawke anymore.
She nodded, throat too tight, and hugged him, breathing deep. He smelled all wrong—like forest and dirt and horses—but he was still Varric with a warm, pleasant chuckle and the solid bulk of his shoulders. Her eyes pricked at her; she closed them and steadied herself before she pulled back.
His hands were still on her shoulders. He glanced past her, up at Isabela again, and murmured, “Easy, Rivaini.”
"I’ll be easy when you tell us what you’re doing here,” Isabela hissed, hand at the top of her boot, ready to pull a dagger loose.
Hawke shook her head, drawing Varric’s gaze back to her. No; this was all wrong—
"We aren’t looking for you," he reassured, squeezing her shoulders. "Gave that up…a long time ago. Bigger nugs to fry. But you should go—just because we’re not looking doesn’t mean…”
There was silver in his hair. Had that been there before? She couldn’t remember. Maker, it had been so long. She didn’t remember the crow’s feet, pressed deep at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
"Come with us," she said. Her voice came out clear and gently mocking—a relief. "More fun than whatever pointless war you’re fighting."
His smile turned bitter. He squeezed her shoulders, let her go. “I’m sure it is,” he agreed, “but I can’t walk away.”
"Of course you can," she teased. "Come on, don’t you—"
"No."
His voice was hard, unyielding. Pressed too long to the stone floor, her bad knee ached.
"Go," he said, mouth twisted up like the word had been forced from him. "Before the Seeker turns up and begs for your autograph."
Isabela tugged at her shoulder. She rose, her heartbeat too fast, clattering against her ribs. There was guilt pooling in the pit of her stomach, rising up to choke her. Hadn’t she given enough already? Hadn’t she given everything?
He nodded, one sharp movement that smoothed his smirk back into place.
"Keep the red," he advised.
Before she could spit out a sufficiently witty retort, he had melted into the crowd. The crowd was melting, too. Hawke pressed the back of her wrist to her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Isabela’s arm—warm and lean and smelling faintly of salt—draped gently around her shoulders.
"Come on, sweet thing," she murmured. "Let’s go."