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The Hanged Man. Stepping under the macabre swinging sign and through the door is a shock to the system. The nauseating reek of stale ale, unwashed bodies, the hint of old vomit. Raucous laughter, stomping feet, mugs clanking together, slamming down - and is that a bard valiantly trying to play over this din? Flickering torchlight and flames from the hearth only redistribute the stumbling, drunken shadows.
They’re at their usual table off to the side, near the fireplace but not too far from all the action. (“The best table for spectating,” says Varric.) Rhythmic stuttering as cards are shuffled. Red, black, and white; little shapes and numbers, meaningless symbolism to Free Marchers. Ale and wine in mismatched mugs and goblets. Gold coins are stacked in the centre, just a friendly amount. No one’s going home without their shirt tonight.
The table is small, and six is a tight fit. Hawke sits at the head of the table, and Isabela sits next her, around the corner. Their knees knock together, as do their hands during more animated gestures. If this happens more with Isabela than with Varric on her other side, Hawke chalks it up to the pirate’s leggier nature.
As is traditional, Aveline folds first following a fortunate streak of middling hands. Losing a little is better than risking any more to these scoundrels. (“Dawn shift, you know how it is,” she says as they protest.)
It’s a good thing Aveline left when she did because everyone is forced out in rapid succession until Fenris and Isabela are the only two left with gold to spare. Despite having fallen victim to Isabela’s sleights of hand herself, Hawke still silently cheers her on as the atmosphere grows tense. Miraculously, even all of Isabela’s dirtiest tricks aren’t enough this time and Fenris scopes up the piles of coin. He flips five sovereigns toward Varric and takes his leave with just the smallest trace of a satisfied smirk. (“Told you I would pay you back,” he says, and Varric laughs. Isabela pouts.)
Everyone slightly poorer, they put aside the cards in favour of swapping outrageously tall tales about their days before all this. Varric kicks things off with his thoroughly sensationalized version of Hawke and Carver’s early days working as mercenaries. Every time Hawke opens her mouth to argue Varric’s blatant mischaracterization, Isabela shushes her with a flap of her hand. Hawke is so indignant that it takes her several repetitions to notice the way Isabela lazily drapes her hand on Hawke’s forearm in-between waving away her grumbles.
Anders departs after a rather unbelievable story about disguising his Darktown clinic from the templars. Something about a stab-victim, two tabbies, and an apostate pretending to recruit for the Qun? Pleasantly buzzed, Hawke is fuzzy on the details, but she is acutely aware of Isabela clutching her arm for support as the pirate keels over with laughter. (“I need to check on my patients,” he explains, and Isabela can barely pull herself together to wish him good night.) Hawke begins to suspect that not all the warmth she feels herself is from drink and mirth.
Isabela is as gifted a storyteller as Varric, possibly even more so when they’re both approaching dizzyingly drunk, Hawke thinks. She watches the way Isabela’s face lights up with emotion, the way her brows furrow during suspenseful moments, and the way her eyes shine at the triumphant conclusion. She could drown in Isabela’s honey-mead voice, sweeter and more potent than anything served here. It takes her a long moment to look away when the story is over.
Merrill interrupts her own story with yawns half a dozen times before Isabela takes pity on her. (“Go on, get yourself to bed,” Isabela shoos.) Merrill gives her an affectionate smile and a small hug before tottering off into the night, with Varric not-so-subtly watching to ensure no one follows her out. After she leaves, Hawke feels an illogical pang of jealousy, and wonders if she’s ever hugged Isabela. Maybe she’s flung an arm over Isabela’s shoulders while high off a battle, but she’s never embraced her, let alone as carelessly, lovingly as Merrill did just now.
Isabela offers to get the next round of drinks, and bumps into Hawke as she collects their mugs. Startled out of her thoughts, Hawke stares blankly after Isabela’s retreating back.
“You okay there, Hawke?” Varric asks, just a touch of concern in his voice.
Hawke blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” She doesn’t even try to sound convincing.
Instead, she watches Isabela lean idly against the counter, joking with Corff. Even from here she can see the twinkle of her jewellery, can picture Isabela’s warm eyes crinkled in a playful smile, accentuated by all the gold framing her face. Hawke sighs, overtaken by something she can’t describe.
Varric just shakes his head with a crooked smile, and pats her back in what passes for a sympathetic gesture. “I’m off to bed. Tell Isabela she can have my drink,” he says as he rises. And with a wink, “Don’t let her keep you too late.”
And speak of the devil, here she is, splashing foam onto the table as she sets down the mugs, wanting to know where Varric’s gone off to. At this empty table for six, Isabela is leaning companionably against her, bare arm warm against her own, their knees gently pressed together now instead of knocking. Hawke feels compelled to wrap her arm around Isabela, and she does so tentatively, as if to pull her in, as if their bodies were not already pressed together.
Isabela’s face, when she turns to smile at Hawke, is close enough that Hawke can smell the liquor on her breath. When Isabela brushes the hair back from Hawke’s face, Hawke finds herself holding her breath, dragged beneath the waves, overwhelmed by Isabela’s presence.
And when Isabela leans in for a kiss, Hawke finally realizes that they've been drowning together.