NOTES: Thanks for reading. This is the first chapter (totally un-beta'd) of what will be a very short series (3 chaps max). Hope you enjoy!

Open Wide

Living in the Hanged Man, I saw lots of things: Drunk people crying over lost love, drunk men fighting over lost honor, drunk women coaxing drunk men to lose a few dollars; this is the way of the Tavern I called home. Nestled in my (secretly) favourite part of town, you could lose damn well anything there, but if you're skilled and observant, your winnings can far outweigh the losses. Thus is the predicament I found two of my favourite ladies in Kirkwall (save for Daisy, of course).

"Rivaini!" walking down the stairs, I spied the unexpected; Isabela sitting at my table in the back corner of the bar looking mighty thoughtful. Rivaini was many things, but somber and reflective? Not her style at all. "Why the sad face?"

She stiffened at my words as though they were a brutal accusation. (ah, so predictable it's nearly endearing, but don't ever tell her I said that, got it? Her ego is inflated enough; I'm sure her crewmen used it to float to Kirkwall after that damned shipwreck!) Settling next to the pirate, I called Norah over for two ales - on my tab. Isabela's muscles instantly untensed at the gesture. Tapping my gloved hand on the table, "Come on, Rivaini, tell your favourite, lovable dwarf what's bothering you." I could have sworn I saw the hellion blush, oh, this ought to be good!

Her eyes skittered forth from her ale, to the bar, and finally to me, then back to her ale, "I..." there was a pause as she trailed off, her expression suddenly turned serious and looked me dead in the eyes, "You have to PROMISE not to talk to Hawke about any of this!"

"Mums the word, Rivaini, now out with it."

Her gazed settled back on the untouched ale, fingers knitting themselves together as she held onto the glass mug with both hands like a life raft. She sighed, "Hawke... I..." I sipped at my drink, giving her the space she needed to unfold her tale. "I have... well..." Finally, she slapped both hands on the table in frustration, "Oh sod it! I have been very... honest with Hawke. I have... have told Hawke... how I feel."

"That you love her," I offered in mercy.

She turned her head, eyes wide with affirmation, "Yes! But she..."

"Hasn't returned the sentiment?"

"No," her expression turned incredibly gentle, it was almost sickening to watch! "No, she's very loving. It's just... she hasn't actually... said the words."

"And you want to hear her say those three precious words, huh?"

"Oh, I hate myself for it! I feel like I've been trumped in a game of cards by the kitten!" I laughed heartily at that, "I'm not supposed to... feel these things for someone but I do, and, don't get me wrong, I've accepted that. It's just... it's like Hawke twined me around her little finger without my even noticing, Varric. The sex is fantastic, she's everything I need her to be right when I need it; gentle, brutal, forceful, lustful, all of it. But I'm honest with her and I'm changing for her and I told her I loved her three times! Maker's balls, I just..."

"Want the reassurance?" I supplied. The look she gave me was one of pitiful, pitiful defeat.

"I guess," her ego deflated as she slumped onto the table, resting her brow on her forearms. Hawke had done the unimaginable, knocked Isabela onto earth.

"Ya know, Rivaini, Hawke did kill the Arishok for you."

"Bullshit, Hawke would've had to kill the Arishok whether I came back or not."

"Hawke could have handed you over, no problem." I countered.

"Hawke would never do that to anyone, Varric. She's full of that blighted nobility."

A silence passed between us as I rolled the predicament around my mind. "You know Hawke loves you, she's just... Ferelden. Ferelden's are squeamish with affection... hell, they seem squeamish with displays of emotion at all! Have you noticed that Hawke has a wise-crack for every occasion? The times when she should've been hurt, offended, or furious she's cracked a joke and laughed it off. It's her way, part of her culture."

"I was in Ferelden just before arriving at Kirkwall; bedded The Hero. She was gorgeous and deadly sexy but hardly a joker. On the contrary, she was constantly serious. I've no idea how she managed to proposition me in the first place, I think it must have something to do with the taint. Maker as my witness, Varric, you'd've thought she was a rut demon, even Zevran couldn't keep up with her. She had energy long after the rest of us passed out, I don't know whether to envy dear old "sister nightingale" or feel sorry of her. And her hands! Oh her hands were magic!" Isabela's expression bordered on swooning, I'd describe it as such if I thought the pirate capable of doing so over anything but a ship.

"Focus here, Rivaini." She snapped out of her reverie. "Why don't you just talk to Hawke about it? Tell her what you need." As the words left my mouth, I realised that might just be an impossible feat for the woman.

"What I NEED is a good rutting." She grabbed her ale and swilled the mug in one sitting, slammed the glass on the table, and marched out of the tavern. I shook my head and sighed at her retreating figure, "Sometimes I think Hawke is a glutton for punishment."