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It's not that Isabela doesn't care.
She does, really. She does a lot, and there's the whole problem. See, usually when bad things happen, it's simple. Just last week, for example, Martin had slumped onto the bench across her table looking as if he'd recently taken up sampling some of his deadlier imports. "Mmph," he'd grunted.
"Mmph?" asked Isabela.
"Wife left," he'd said.
"Well, then," she'd said. "I hope you're not expecting me to buy you a drink."
"Fuck you," he'd told her, and peeled himself off the greasy table to go and find someone more sympathetic. Isabela had thought about yelling after him that she hadn't even known he had a wife, but decided it maybe wasn't the best idea. And there was the extent of her tact. All the better, too, if it meant she got to drink without hearing all about other people's problems. Really, why come to a tavern to complain? There went half the fun.
But then there was Hawke, grimacing against the messy hiss of smoke curling into the air, crooking its black, cloying fingers into the air as if in an unkind gesture -- and who came up with cremation anyway? Such a personal thing, everyone watching to see the bits of skin crackling away like parchment, to smell them. Out on the ocean, there'd be a sail and a needle and a half-coherent prayer: you had your shot, and then the men would tip the bundle into the sea and that would be the end of it, of the tears and the laughter, of everything but the excuse to drink. But there was Hawke, mouth stiff and straight and stubborn, shoulders bowed in the shape of a frown, and after they'd all filed into the Chantry there wasn't even a wisp of the docks, no ocean-scent, no salt. Only bronze, bronze, and more bronze. Dead fish wouldn't have been allowed to rot without ceremony. Some people weren't meant for Chantry pews or lit candles, some boots too rough for thin red carpets, some faces just not shaped for grief. Sebastian had a good voice for singing, they'd learned, warm and mellow, but that was something they could have found out without going to a funeral, and what else had anyone gained? But there was Hawke, all the same. And Isabela had just wanted so badly for her to laugh.
So that was right out, obviously.
She tries to explain all this to Varric, when he shows up the next day with wrinkles in his coat that say he'd slept in it and circles under his eyes that say it hadn't been a very good night. "Rivaini," he says, "What in flames are you doing here?"
It's unlike Varric, to turn the comforting stench of the Hanged Man into an accusation. And it's a stupid question, anyway, because Isabela's always here. Even Corff rolls his eyes. "I--" Isabela says, and that's as far as she gets.
"Go see Hawke," orders Varric. "Now." And then he's up the stairs, slamming his door.
Damn it, see, this is exactly the reason why she'd skipped out in the first place. All funerals are good for is making people sad, and then they get embarrassed and go all masculine on you and start getting angry instead. It's a wonder she showed up at all, really. She can't be blamed. Isabela and sad people just don't get on well. Isabela and serious people just don't get on well.
At least, not people that Isabela doesn't want to think she's an utter tit and then never speak to her ever again.
Though maybe people start to think that about you anyway when you sneak out the back of their mother's funeral.
Sod it.
"Not paying?" Corff asks, unsurprised.
"I have a tab," Isabela growls, and stomps out of the bar. The glare hits her hard once she ducks out of the doorway, right between the eyes, where it hurts.
Fucking sky. There would be too much sun today.
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It's not that Isabela doesn't understand.
Isabela is an explorer, an adventurer, intrepid and wild. Just last week, for example, she found this amazing hat shop in Lowtown.
(By "hat shop" what Isabela means is that a cart showed up parked in front of Lirene's, run by this incredibly short, incredibly drunk man who speaks in what sounds like it might be Antivan, with maybe a little Qunlat thrown in for good measure. There's a lot of grunting, in any case, and it's all very incomprehensible, which is all right because mostly the man only talks to his mule, and sometimes to Lirene when she comes out to try and chase him away. From what Isabela can tell the mule's name is Constance. It wears a hat balanced on its ears and it pulls the cart and the cart is full of more hats. All of the hats are amazing. By "amazing" what Isabela means is that they're all terrible to the point of hilarity. The man insists exuberantly that he gets them from Orlais, or at least that's Isabela's best interpretation of his wildly flapping arms, but it doesn't matter anyway because Isabela is certain that he probably actually gets them from the same places that Hawke find her torn trousers.
She'd meant to bring Hawke along, some time, and ask.)
Isabela discovers other things, too. Cheap drinks and spider nests and bracelets scraped together out of thin gilt-over-nickel, bracelets that are gold all the way through. Qunari tomes and men's eyes and something that might be called freedom. Might even be called happiness, if you're drunk enough, and if you tilt your head to look at it from the right angle. And Isabela thrills for it, laughs for it, and then wonders which way next.
But there are some places you go back to; Isabela knows that. Scars that don't heal, mouths that linger, that sort of thing. Varric could say it better. Isabela gets it, that's the point, stupid as it is.
Isabela cares and she gets it and she goes and buys a hat.
It's a horrible hat, the one she picks. It's purple. It's not plum or mauve or anything that could be remotely described as tasteful. It's just purple. There's a flower on top of it, and that's purple too, a shade of ugly chemical purple that no real flower ever was. The ribbon running above the floppy brim stinks like it's just been dyed, and the whole thing is much too big to properly fit anyone's head, except maybe the Arishok's. It's completely stupid and it pisses Isabela off so obviously she loses two sovereigns buying it. Two sovereigns is much too much, but the mule bites her elbow and the man is very drunk, and Isabela doesn't even want to argue.
She's on the Hightown steps before she realizes that the awful thing is getting stains all down her fingers. She curses and rubs her hands viciously against the hem of her shirt, but that only makes the dye sink in deeper. Under her skin, it's sin-black, scurvy-black, like the cracking tongue of a sailor too far from home.
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What it maybe is, is that Isabela doesn't want to care. To understand. Any of that. And that's why the whole thing is so stupidly hard. Because she already does, so it's damned if you do, damned if you don't, oh the irony, and all that shit. But Isabela's never been one to dither. Like right now, for example, she's not going to waste her time standing in front of a door and wondering what's on the other side of it. Isabela has a history of affairs gone deadly, husbands gone dead, slaves gone free, and beloved ships just plain gone, sunk in frothy spitting seas. She knows well enough when she's in it, and sometimes the only way to get back out is to keep going forward.
Besides, the door isn't locked, and that's as much of an invitation as she's ever needed, or ever wanted either.
She doesn't bother to knock and the door bangs open and the dwarves are looking too somber to even be surprised. There's a couch dragged haphazardly in front of the fireplace, twisting the rug, and there, there's Hawke, sitting with that same bowed tension in her shoulder, that same dead line to her mouth, looking for all the world like her face hasn't so much as twitched in a week, and she doesn't even bother to scritch at her big dumb dog's ears where his lumpy head is resting on her knees. Aveline's there too, perched grim-faced on the arm of the couch like she doesn't quite know how not to be straining towards something, towards some lout's kneecaps or some murderer's neck (towards some small bit of justice), and she's saying, "My father though… you want to hear one thing?" and Isabela has never, ever been so angry.
Fuck your fucking father, she thinks furiously, and announces, "Hawke," like her hands aren't all stained black and her breath doesn't smell like a whole night of Corff's rankest brew and she has any idea what to say next.
Hawke looks up. "Isabela," she says, stiff, and stands, and both of them stare at each other like they're in a play but they've forgotten all their lines. And any minute now the audience -- that's Aveline, and the dog too -- they're going to start coughing awkwardly and demand their money back. And Isabela didn't come all this way just to put up with that shit, and it's all improvisation anyway, can't be that hard, so she strides forward and pulls out the stupid floppy hat and says, "Look what I brought you, pet."
"It's a hat," says Hawke, uncertainly. "It's… an incredibly stupid hat."
"Mmm-hmm," says Isabela and flops it easily onto Hawke's head. She startles for a moment, and then she has to lift up the brim to uncover her eyes, and it is a little sweet, isn't it, so Isabela smiles.
Hawke blinks at the smile, like she is trying to remember what it is, and then her lips twitch a little, lift a bit at the edges, and there's something of a shaky grin blooming in the corners of her eyes.
That little crack is enough to bring down the whole foundation though, and Isabela can only watch as the little smile wobbles away into nothing, as the eyes fill up with tears. "I'm sorry," Hawke whispers, and she's a dam bursting, a wall caving in, a storm's leading edge gusting harsh promises at the wide, flat sea. And it's lucky that Isabela knows a thing or two about sailing into hurricanes. Lucky that a thing is easier done than said, after all.
"Oh sweetheart," Isabela says, and she pulls Hawke's face out of her elbow, pulls it to her own chest, wet and close, and she can't even hear what Aveline is saying over the sound of Hawke sobbing helplessly into her sun-warm skin.
It's a stupid hat, and Hawke will never wear it again. Whenever she sees it, her stomach will lurch at the memory. Someday, when cleaning, or looking for some elusive lost bit of armor, Hawke will find it at the top of a closet, and it will make her cry, and she won't know whether to throw it away. It's a stupid hat, awful-smelling, rough against Isabela's cheek where Hawke's head is pressed uncomfortably into the dip of her collarbone. Probably the stinking dye is already leeching under her skin, and tomorrow Isabela is going to look like she has half-a-beard and Hawke's head is going to smell like a taproom floor. It's a stupid hat, but Hawke's hair is so soft under it, and her waist is so thick and solid beneath Isabela's arm, and her nose is slipping wetly in the crease of Isabela's breasts, and somehow that's just fine.
It's a stupid hat, stupid as the feelings welling up in Isabela's chest, but it's enough.
"Sweetheart," murmurs Isabela again, and then the both of them sink to the floor.
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