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Hawke is not soft. Hawke is rugged and hard, despite being feminine, still everything Isabela is not. A paragon of honesty, in the way politicians are. She is an image; the epitome of greatness, and her shadow towers over Isabela, makes her feel small, insignificant. Unworthy.
Isabela is a lying, cheating pirate. She was even before she was, before her mother sold her to a man she’d later plot to kill, even before Zevran taught her everything she knew. She’d been a conniving, stealing, traitorous witch since the day she’d taken her first steps. It wasn’t going to change - she wasn’t going to change, and not even the fucking Champion of Kirkwall could make her.
Except she already had. It had been a long time ago, in the Hanged Man, maybe, watching Hawke over Hayder’s corpse, a delicate smile on her face, a warm look in her eyes, only for Isabela. It made her nauseous, an uncomfortable feeling building in her chest, like a knot coming undone, rope so often used aboard her ship instead twining itself around her insides. Hawke had said, “Isabela?” so softly she’d wanted to die and it had been over, right then and there. She would’ve followed the woman to the ends of the earth, given up the chance to ever be a captain again, given up her name, her essence, her everything to hear that voice just one more time. And she still would.
Problem is, Hawke has always been too virtuous, a perfect counterpart to Isabela’s constant treachery; the pirate had tried to keep herself intact, she’d tried to run away with the book. Tried to act as though Hawke hadn’t had any influence on her.
She couldn’t do it.
So she gives the book back. She steps off the boat, wind blowing in her hair and the scent of Lowtown around her, the buzz of Kirkwall coming back to her like the plague. Without her volition her feet find themselves in the Qunari compound and her eyes find Hawke’s and she thinks it’s all okay, for a moment, that for a second she can have peace, even though she has gone against everything she believes. But then she hears those words, hears what she has always known. She is unworthy. Lower than dirt. And Hawke is not. Hawke is Basalit-an, something Isabela will never be, and she’s doomed to sit and watch helplessly as Hawke fights the Arishok in her stead, as Hawke bleeds and suffers in place of her.
And then everything is over and both Hawke and her opponent are on the ground but only one of them lives and Meredith and the templars have arrived only a moment too late. Isabela can see the new Champion of Kirkwall’s chest rise and fall, and she breathes a sigh of relief, the creeping fingers of dread slowly retreating from their place around her neck. Hawke is alive - in spite of her but not because of her. Never that. Isabela sneers, lowers her eyes, takes a step back. She blends into the shadows. Kirkwall is not the place for her; Hawke is not the person for her. She does not deserve someone who would so easily die for her, when she would not do the same. Or would she?
Isabela does not bear thinking about the answer, only stops, only breathes, only readies herself to disappear again without garnering the notice of any of Hawke’s companions. Her former companions. She can feel their eyes following her out of the compound, but she does not stop to acknowledge them, or to look where she is going until suddenly she has walked past the Hanged Man and the Chantry and Fenris’ mansion and she opens her eyes to the gaudy door of Hawke’s estate. She is not supposed to be here, and yet here she is, fingers touching the doorknob like it is her only lifeline, her only connection to something real. Hawke is inside, but Hawke will not want to see her. Isabela retreats, slinks back to the Hanged Man. She will speak to Hawke before she goes. She can do that much at least. Maybe tomorrow.
Isabela leaves that night.
-
It’s three years later when she sets foot in Kirkwall again, and that forsaken conscience of hers is to blame for directing her to the Hanged Man and making her peace with Varric, who only laughs and says he is happy to see her. He says nothing of Hawke, and her questions go unanswered until the Champion walks in the door, surrounded by a group of miners and a brooding, soot-covered Anders and Fenris. She waves them off and orders all of her workers a round of drinks, but the moment she lays eyes on Isabela she freezes in place, mouth falling open slightly, leaving Isabela paralyzed with fear. The pirate stays glued to her seat at the bar, fixes her eyes on her glass, waits for something to happen. She isn’t sure what. It’s when she can feel Hawke behind her that she starts to panic; by the time she whips her head around the other woman has already taken the seat beside her.
“How have you been?” Hawke asks, and she means it, Isabela knows, and it’s even worse than if she didn’t care at all. “You don’t have to keep checking up on me.” She whispers. “I’m fine.” Hawke’s laugh shimmies up her spine faster than the bottle of Antivan port she’s been drinking, and her lilting voice travels to Isabela’s ears like music she has not heard for an eternity. “I’m just here for the rat-flavored whiskey.”
Isabela rolls her eyes, trying to contain all of the feelings swirling round in her chest, hoping Hawke can’t read her like an open book, and she sighs, resigned, knowing what she has to do. “Remember what you said after that mess with the Qunari?” Hawke stares at her for a moment, and Isabela tightens her hand around the neck of the bottle she’s holding. “I’m proud of you for doing the right thing.” And it’s then when Isabela snaps, something in her breaks, and she tells Hawke that it wasn’t the right thing, it was the dumb thing, and that the relic was hers, it was hers and now it’s gone forever. And when Hawke has the audacity to say that she couldn’t have saved the city without the pirate’s help, she can’t take it anymore. “Bullshit.” It’s a lie and Hawke knows it. “You could have stormed the keep and slaughtered all those Qunari if you had to. You and Aveline. I mean look at her - she’s a woman shaped battering ram.”
Even though Hawke laughs, she can see the doubt in the woman’s eyes. She stands up, leaning over the Champion expectantly. “The fact is, you and I have nothing in common anymore. You’re a Champion, and I’m a lying, thieving snake.” She turns away to avoid looking at Hawke, who places a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off, but the other woman continues. “Whatever you think you are, I still care about you. It must have been hard to give up that relic. Whatever comes, you have my support.” And Hawke is just so goddamn good and she can’t resist that face, or those hands playing with the ends of her hair, and so Isabela smiles and bends down to whisper into the rogue’s ear, “Well, perhaps it’s time to stop hiding…and I do miss the trouble we used to get into.”
Isabela feels Hawke’s arm circle around her waist, and for a moment she can forget everything that has happened and pretend that there are no Qunari or templars or mages, just her and Hawke and a couple bottles of awful booze between the two of them. She can pretend that she lives in a world without Champions or pirates, let go of her past and her ship and enjoy the feeling of Hawke’s fingers under the edges of her corset. Isabela’s breath hitches and she can faintly hear Varric whistling to her as she drags the other woman into her room by the straps on her armor. Hawke looks different, Hawke looks rougher around the edges, and Isabela is the same, although maybe she isn’t; after all, the Isabela she knew would’ve been in Ostwick with the Tome of Koslun right now. Instead, she is chest-to-chest with the damned Champion of Kirkwall in the back of a bar in a city she swore she’d never come back to. She tries to remember how she got here, but Hawke’s mouth on her neck causes her to shiver, to snap back to reality, to tilt the other woman’s chin up to her mouth and force their lips together.
Hawke laughs breathlessly as they pull apart. “I missed you when you were gone,” she whispers, and Isabela pushes her down onto the bed, straddling her hips, and presses their foreheads together, smirking slightly. “Well, sweet thing, I guess we’re gonna have to make up for lost time.” And there’s something in Hawke’s eyes that scares her. She can’t figure out what it is.
When Hawke stands up to put her clothes on and Isabela realizes she doesn’t want her to go, a weight drops into her empty stomach. “You know…” she starts, more nervous than she has to be, because this is Hawke, the woman she has known for years, not one of her meaningless lovers, not one of the ghosts of her past, just Hawke, who never expects anything and always gives more than she has to. “You don’t have to leave. Unless…” and she hesitates, but Hawke is already in front of her, standing over her this time, hands gently cupping her face. “I always wondered when you’d come around.”
The Champion smiles, and Isabela’s eyes fall on one of her many scars. Hawke is hard, her femininity covered by layers of leather and bone and blood. She lies and cheats but does it all in the name of good, and now she’s gone and stolen Isabela’s freedom to walk away, stolen her heart and stolen all her goddamned sense.
Isabela is too soft.