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Sitting this hand out was the right decision. Varric took a swig of ale and propped his foot on Hawke’s stool to watch the cards fall.
“Three Serpents.” Isabela laid her hand down and Fenris pounded the table so hard the cards jumped.
“You win again,” he growled.
“I like your energy.” Isabela raked the pile of coins toward her. “But I like your coin more.”
Hawke smirked and started to clap while Isabela stacked her coins, and Varric chuckled.
“Easy for you to laugh,” said Anders. “Neither of you lost any money.”
Hawke shrugged. “Funny how the game works that way.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Fenris said, laying down a stack for the next hand. “Twenty silvers.”
“Ooh, confident.” Isabela shuffled the cards with expert hands. “I haven't even dealt yet.”
Fenris swirled the wine in his goblet and stared her down, but naturally, Isabela was unfazed.
“I'm afraid that's all I'm willing to lose tonight,” said Sebastian, standing up from the table.
“Sure you don't want to make it interesting? I'd say that belt buckle of yours is worth at least a sovereign,” Isabela mused.
Sebastian ran a finger along Andraste’s golden crown. “I'm afraid this isn’t up for grabs.” After so many years running with Hawke’s crew, he didn’t blush as easily as he once did.
“Pity,” Isabela sighed.
“Good game, everyone.” Sebastian continued on his way, nodding to Hawke as he passed. “Good night, Hawke.”
Hawke nodded and raised her mug. “Here's to you, Sebastian. Pleasant dreams.”
“To Choir Boy,” Varric chorused, knocking his mug against hers. They both downed the rest of the ale in their cups.
“I pray you're still in such good spirits tomorrow morning,” said Sebastian, half-serious and half-bemused. He left the Hanged Man and Isabela dealt the cards.
Varric took one look at his hand and knew that this wasn't the one, either. “I think I'll hang onto my money a bit longer.” Waving his empty mug in the air, he added, “Or put it to better use.”
“I like the way you think,” said Hawke, forfeiting her hand. “I've got this round. Anyone else?”
Anders declined and anted up. Fenris, who still had plenty of wine, was too focused on his cards to answer.
“If I have any more, I won't be able to see my cards,” said Merrill, placing her bet.
Isabela smiled at Merrill and put in her money. “I'll take another, Hawke, if you're buying.”
“You always get my money one way or another,” she said. “Three drinks, coming right up.” There was a little song in her voice. Was it Varric's imagination, or did she brush her leg against his when she stood?
He must have imagined it. She strode off to the bar, displaying coordination no one who had downed so many drinks had any right to possess. Grace, really.
“I'm rather enjoying the view myself,” Isabela said, startling him. Had he said that out loud? How many had he had? Corff started to laugh at something Hawke said, but Varric turned his attention back to the game.
“Oh! Have I won?” Merrill blinked down at her hand on the table.
“You sure did, kitten,” said Isabela, leaning back in her seat. “Nicely done.”
Varric glanced at Isabela and he could have sworn he saw her sitting on some cards.
“Venhedis!” Fenris pointed a finger from Merrill to Isabela. “You planned this!”
“What can I say? I was distracted,” said Isabela. She winked at Varric as she collected the cards, but he just shook his head. Isabela was always seeing things that weren’t there. She greeted Hawke with a knowing smile, but Hawke didn’t seem suspicious.
“Who won?” Hawke asked, placing Varric’s drink in front of him.
He gratefully accepted. “That massive pot went to Daisy.”
“Good on you!” She passed Isabela her drink and tilted her own cup to her lips. “Isabela’s pockets were getting entirely too heavy.”
“Only because she decided to line Merrill’s,” Fenris muttered.
Isabela shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. And you both know I don’t have pockets.”
Anders sighed and stood from the table. “Well, as much as I’d like to keep bleeding coin, there are matters that need attending back at the clinic.”
Varric was surprised he stayed as long as he did. These days, he only ever saw Anders for those special missions when Hawke wanted insurance in the form of an extra healer. Varric still couldn’t wrap his mind around Anders’s attempt to pass along a family heirloom, and he didn’t like being out of the loop.
But Anders had been sociable tonight. Varric exchanged a look with Hawke and they raised their glasses. “To Blondie,” they said in unison, knocking mugs.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” added Hawke after she drank.
Fenris let out a humorless laugh. “Too late for that.”
“At least I’m not going home broke. Try not to bet your dignity,” Anders shot back.
Isabela rolled her eyes. “Down, boys.” She heaved a sigh. “Can’t we have one night without you two bickering?”
“We can’t break the streak now, can we?” Anders gave a weak smile and took his leave. Isabela started to deal the cards and Merrill frowned.
“Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead,” she said, pursing her lips. “I could use a new rug.”
“But imagine the rug you could buy if you won again.” Isabela leaned in, speaking in low, tantalizing tones. “Fine Orlesian silk thread, or perhaps bear fur?”
“Oh, I’d just get it dirty,” said Merrill.
Isabela winked. “That’s the whole point, kitten.” Merrill giggled at this, but Fenris just scoffed.
“If you’re just going to let her win again, I see no point in staying,” he said, looking away from the table in disgust.
“Come now, Isabela wouldn’t do that.” Hawke smirked and laid down five silver coins. “Stay for another round.”
Fenris narrowed his eyes, but he saw her bet. This time, Varric had something to work with.
“I’m in, but make it ten,” he said, doubling his stack. Hawke raised an eyebrow, but her confident smile never faltered. Even without her weapon or blood-stained armor, anyone could recognize the woman who had defeated the Arishok. She’s got a hell of a game face.
Isabela looked from Hawke to her cards and back again, but she finally resigned, setting her hand down in disgust. “Not this time.”
“I’d give you my cards, but I don’t think even you could make these work,” said Merrill.
All eyes landed on Fenris. With a grunt, he put ten silver in the pile. Hawke added to her original bet, still wearing that beguiling smile.
In the end, it was Hawke who took the pot with two sets. Now grinning like an imp, she raked in her coins, and Varric had a hard time feeling disappointed.
Fenris downed the last of his wine and sighed in frustration. “Well done, Hawke. Perhaps I’ll have better luck against Donnic next week.”
“You always do,” Isabela said. He bid everyone goodnight and left before Hawke and Varric could toast to him. Merrill stretched out her arms and couldn’t hide her yawn.
“I had better go, too.”
Isabela finished her own drink and stood. “I’ll walk with you. I could use some fresh air, or at least as fresh as it gets in Lowtown.” Hawke and Varric started to raise their glasses, and Isabela put up a hand. “Don’t. I’m not drunk enough to handle you two being cute.”
“Suit yourself,” said Hawke. “We can be cute without you.”
“But why be cute when things could get so much more interesting?” Isabela drawled, walking with Merrill to the door. Varric shook his head. He knew where Isabela was going, but the idea was ridiculous.
“Interesting? Do you mean between…” Merrill’s voice trailed off as they headed out, but Isabela was louder.
“I’ll explain on the way.”
He stole a look at Hawke, who didn’t seem to notice. She was counting her money and tapping out a happy beat on the table. Varric took the cards in his hands, shaking Isabela’s words from his head.
“You look awfully happy with your little stack of coins, Hawke. Care for another round?”
She looked up in mock horror. “Why, Varric, don’t you want me to be happy?”
He wanted nothing more, but he met her shock with a devious smile. “It’s every man for himself in Wicked Grace, you know that.”
“Then let’s make it more interesting.” And she had a devilish look of her own, one that made him feel just how many drinks he’d had. He took another long drink so as not to let on. “Perhaps you’d wager advance copies of your novels?”
“Come now, Hawke, some things are sacred.”
She reached over to toy with the ring around his neck. “Your necklace, then.” He looked down at her long fingers. She was drunker than she looked, too, and the light in the Hanged Man was getting dimmer.
“Sentimental value,” he said, his voice coming out lower than he intended. Hawke drew her hand back, startled by his tone, and he met her eyes. “Can’t put a price on that.”
“How about an earring, then? They can’t all be special.”
Varric laughed. “Are you that desperate to carry a piece of me?” She had to know that she already did, wherever she went. The thought was so sappy, he wanted to cringe. Hawke wasn’t laughing at him, so at least he probably didn’t say it out loud.
“What, were you just going to let me win? Don’t you want to know what I’m wagering?” And she did this little wiggle, lips ever so slightly pouted. He couldn’t be sure if it was intentional, but it was having an effect.
“I’m sharing a drink with a beautiful woman. What more could I possibly want?”
“My unending love and devotion?” she offered, widening her eyes.
“I already have that.”
She smiled, and he really needed to sober up. “Damn, you caught me. What could I possibly offer that you don’t have?”
Hawke was doing it again. That little wiggle. He could think of a few things right now, all of them scandalous and justified. He took another drink. “This outta be good.”
Hawke’s eyes lit up. “You can write a book about me!”
“I think enough weird shit has happened to justify a book. If you win, you can write whatever you want. If I win, I get to keep an earring.” She leaned in and fingered the gold ring in his cartilage. “This one.”
Her touch tingled, or maybe that was the drink. He could smell the ale on her breath—or was that his? Either way, there was no way she could take him when she was this drunk. He still had his wits about him. As proof, he scooped up the cards and shuffled. Even if he couldn’t match Isabela’s flair, he didn’t drop any cards.
“A book? That’s a damn good idea. You’re on, Hawke.”
The ale was gone, and then Corff was shooing them out. “Either take it to a room or take it outside, we’re closed.”
“Well, I can’t leave now, can I?” said Hawke. Varric agreed, and the two of them lumbered into his room to continue their game. It wasn’t suspicious—Hawke came into Varric’s room all the time. Usually with at least two other companions, but still.
Head foggy, Varric was careful to deal the right number of cards. Not much to work with, he thought, looking at his cards. Hawke was focused on her own hand. He took a turn to discard, as did she. In the end, he put down the best cards he could manage against Hawke’s hand.
“A pair of Swords.” They said the words in unison. Hawke started to giggle, letting out little snorts here and there, and Varric couldn’t help but join her in laughter.
“Well, shit. Now what?” he said. “Now that you planted the book idea in my head, I’m not gonna let it go.”
“Oh, Varric.” She ran her hand over his arm, leaving goosebumps in her wake. “You know I’d let you do that anyway.”
And he did. She was a good friend; his best. He couldn’t imagine sitting here so close with anyone else, knees touching like something out of one of his books. Only his heart wasn’t racing because of course it wasn’t. This was Hawke, and she was looking at him like she had looked at him hundreds of times before.
“We have been through a lot together,” he said. “It would make a damn good book.” He could call it The Tale of the Champion, or Journey of the Champion, or something with Champion, and he’d finally get the chance to let the world know what Hawke could do—with perhaps a few embellishments.
“I see those gears turning in your head,” said Hawke with a sly smile. “So you get your book. Do I still get your earring?”
“Those weren’t the terms!” Varric protested. “You offered up the book, win or lose, and I made no such offer.”
“Spoilsport.” But she didn’t seem too put out, and she was still laughing. “How about a consolation prize? My very own nickname, for example.”
He shook his head. The thought had crossed his mind, but he always came up blank. “You’re too complicated to sum up in a word or two. Or at least, any word other than Hawke.”
“Do you even know my first name?” she asked. “Sometimes I think the only person who did was my mother.”
“Of course I do, Amanda.” It did feel strange on his tongue. “I thought you liked being called by your last name.”
She smiled and patted his hand. “I do. It’s just nice to be reminded that the important people know it. Nice to be more than a Champion.”
“You’re more than just a Champion to me, Hawke.” Shit. But he was surprised how little he cared that he was getting sentimental. In the candlelight, her eyes looked endless. Had they always been this deep? He wouldn’t have been able to tell they were brown if he wasn’t so close.
“And you’re more than just the Head of House Tethras to me.” She was giggling again. “You’re an acclaimed author and expert marksman with the finest chest hair in Thedas. Should I go on?”
Now he was laughing, too—laughing, not giggling, and he said, “You’re going to make me blush. I’m almost tempted to stop you.”
“I dare you to try.” And before she could list the rest of his virtues, he stopped her. With his mouth.
Shit.
Hawke went rigid, and he started to pull away, but she surged forward and kissed him like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.
Dim awareness that he was going to regret this later sparked in his brain, but Hawke’s hands were in his hair, and her technique was...well, she wasn’t the Champion of Kirkwall for nothing. Varric ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed like this, by someone he trusted, someone who loved him more than anything and was determined to show him.
It was before Bianca got married to what’s-his-name.
And even though he knew that pulling away was what he was really going to regret later, when he was alone and trying to relive the past with a woman who didn’t really want him, he pulled back.
Hawke knew it, too. She stood, looking as sober as Varric felt, and her attempt at a smile broke his heart. “Good night, Varric.”
And then she was gone.
I’ll deal with this in the morning, he thought, tossing and turning as he tried to get comfortable in bed. At some point, the drunkenness took over, sending him into fitful bouts of sleep. First too hot, then too cold; he was never going to drink again (he could almost laugh at that one).
In the morning, he had half a mind to go straight to Anders for a hangover cure, but that would require moving. Instead, he stared at Bianca, wallowing in guilt and pounding temples.
The worst part was knowing his guilt was misplaced. Bianca had chosen stability over love, and he didn’t even want to know what she got up to with that other guy. Exclusivity was Varric’s choice, even though he hadn’t seen her in years. It suited him just fine.
It was fine because he always had an excuse. When Isabela needled him, he could say he was taken. When people asked if he and Hawke ever, “you know,” he could give them a dramatic sigh and lament how it just wasn’t meant to be.
And now, he had firsthand experience of just what he was missing. He hoped he wouldn’t remember anything, but the memory of Hawke’s delicate touches as her fingers traced lines over his scalp was so clear it almost soothed his headache.
He shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as he did.
But crazier things had happened while he and Hawke were drunk. He couldn’t recall any right now, but this was just another one for the pile. Maybe this one wouldn’t go in the book.
He doubted Hawke was stewing on it. She had probably cured her own hangover and gotten back to work without a second thought. It didn’t have to mean anything, and he didn’t want to make things weird.
Maybe they’d even laugh about it someday...or they’d never speak of it again. Either way, they were going to be fine, and if he didn’t drag himself out of bed, he was going to miss breakfast.
At least the sausage and bread on his plate looked appetizing, as did the goblet of water. He ate slowly, trying to think of a joke to amuse the day shift girls, but he was drawing a blank. Isabela either hadn’t come back or had come and gone, so they couldn’t swap stories.
For once, Varric really didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He tried to focus on plotting his new book; he’d start with the Hawke family’s journey from Lothering. Losing Bethany was hard on Hawke, harder on Carver and Leandra. Varric could only imagine how it felt to lose a beloved sibling. Bartrand was still here, at least sometimes, and they had never been on good terms.
Hawke’s tale was marked by tragedy, most of it senseless. That wasn’t unique in the Free Marches, but the way she responded was. No matter how she mouthed off, Hawke was the people’s Champion. Even if no one was there for her, she was there for everyone. It must have been exhausting.
And he was not going to let a night of drunken foolishness stand in the way of their friendship.
“Morning, Varric.”
Apparently, neither was she. Hawke sat down next to him at the table. She always did attack her problems head on.
“Good to see you up and about,” Varric replied. She looked like she always did—eyes bright, not bloodshot.
She wiggled her fingers, and he tried not to remember where they were last night. “Spirit magic is a beautiful thing. Just say the word.”
“Do your worst,” Varric conceded. Her hands hovered over his head, the familiar tingle of magic alleviating the pressure. He took in a deep breath. “Much better, thanks. There’s nothing like sticking it to nature’s consequences.”
She grinned. “Happy to help.”
Varric ate some more of his breakfast, but it was hard to enjoy his cleared head while it was flooding with thoughts about last night. He was being ridiculous; this was Hawke.
“So last night was wild, huh?” he said. It sounded even dumber than it did in his head.
“Oh? Compared to the night we fought off fifteen mercenaries, I thought it was pretty tame. Isabela stabbed three in one swipe.”
That one could go in the book.
Varric laughed. “You have a point.” He took another few bites to fill the silence. “So, we’re good?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” said Hawke. He studied her for a moment, remembering how desperately she had kissed him last night, but there was no trace of that raw passion in her eyes today. He had to remind himself it was a good thing.
Varric shrugged it off. “No reason. So, who do we need to kill today?”
“How did you know?” said Hawke, lips curling up in a smirk.
And just like that, the momentary weirdness had passed. Neither of them ever brought it up again, even after Hawke left to find the Wardens.
So why was Varric thinking about it now? He blamed the cold—he wasn’t meant to travel the mountains.
But he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Corypheus was alive, and Hawke would want to know. She would want to get involved. And after the Herald almost died for the Inquisition, it was the least he could do (even if Cassandra was going to kill him).
Duty made him write the letter, but it was something else that compelled him to slip in that earring. Finally living up to my end of the bargain, he wrote.
He had never questioned the state of their friendship since that morning; it was as strong as it ever was. But he never forgot that night.
Hawke had more important things to worry about. He doubted she had even thought about it since.
Then again, she did have one hell of a game face.