Lights flicker demonic, jealous and angry, and watching. Mugs hit tables, bone against bone weaving through every meaningless conversation. Some patrons speak thick, like brewing poison, and some sing like birds. All of it is lost, though, pale in the light of the storyteller's grin.
"No shit," he begins. "There I was! Big cliff to one side, big cave to the other. We're unarmed, tired and hungry, and Daisy's leg is broken." His eyes widen like pewter dishes. "Blondie picks up a gigantic piece of driftwood, he's motioning to throw it into the horde, and then Hawke comes back out of the cave covered in dragon's blood. She catches the airborne tree branch and rips it through the oncoming Darkspawn." Varric's arms glide in a sweeping arc before the growing crowd. "Just like that!"
Then Hawke appears, fiery and wobbly. Stupid-drunk, she still talks like she's been eating ambrosia and grapes and clouds. Grown men are taken aback as she clambers past, gripping at tables and chairs to stay upright. "Varric! The sod're you up to?" She smiles wide, leaning in to meet Varric's poised fist with her own.
"Simply letting the loyal customers know what their champion does in her off time. Practicing the fist-bump does not appear to suffice as your alibi, especially when it's entirely untrue." Hawke giggles, her hand now tucked sloppily in a large pocket on her hip. "Just gimme a sword. I promise not to miss this time. Shit! Drinks!" she yells, motioning freely with her other arm. "Norah, a pint of your best, for my trusty dwarf!"
Leaning down, Hawke plants a wet, beer-flavored kiss on Varric's forehead. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and flips her balled-up hand over. Fingers splayed out, a small brown button falls into Varric's lap. "Th—thanks, Hawke," adding, under his breath, "what is this even for?" Hawke shakes her head like he should know. "It got stuck in my boot on the way over. It's small and mostly infuriating. I thought of you." Varric laughs through clenched teeth.
I rest in the corner of the suite, when they stumble in.
The door smacks against the wall, and slams shut again. "Your gift was...interesting," Varric says, looking at the floor. Hawke takes a seat at the long table and starts laughing. She's like a mad witch. "You're interesting, Varric." Shaking his hung head, he walks toward Hawke. "Tell me something, Champion Hawke. Why do you show up at the Hanged Man already piss-drunk and falling all over yourself?"
"Fenris, uh, brought another bottle of wine by the estate. We shared it, I..." Looking down at the sobering Champion of Kirkwall, Varric places a hand on her shoulder. "You know he cares for Isabela. Don't do that to yourself, Hawke."
"I know. That's why I came here. To see you."
Shit, shit, shit. Don't touch him. You horrible, tremendous harlot of a—do not dare.
"Me? You—you're, you know," Varric laughs, "Tall."
"I'm no dwarven lass," Hawke sighs. "That doesn't mean there's nothing you want from me." Head cocked, she reaches up and pulls his face down into an earnest kiss. Not beer-flavored, not friendly. Hard, mean, and full of longing.
To the void with you and your fleeting desires, harpy. This is my man, I do not intend to see him wasted and spent at your hands. What are you—stop. Not there. Not here.
Hawke moans into his chest as she kisses an uneven trail down to his stomach. Slipping a hand between his legs, she feels how deep he breathes the air around them. Loosening his belts, still teasing him as his chest rises with every quiet pant, she whispers just audibly to him. "Tell me your favorite story, or I won't keep going." The last of his underclothes are removed and cast aside. His pants flop awkwardly atop the well-loved crossbow in the corner, as the dwarf begins his least heard and most treasured tale.