A/N: Shout-out to my amazing Beta, without whom this would not be possible! Leave a review at the door, they make my day :)
Edit: I decided to split this up into 2 chapters, it seemed to make more sense. Anyhoo, please read, review, and enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except a gremlin.
Golden eyes watched Hawke across the crowded common room of the Hanged Man; watched as another shot of whiskey was tipped back without even a flinch. Her beloved longbow was resting next to her chair, and the well-worn leather quiver bristled just next to it, apparently abandoned. Dark waves swayed softly against a deeply tanned face that held a beauty that could bring men to their knees. Those lovely features were marred by a deep frown as the Champion of Kirkwall poured more amber liquid from the bottle at her hand into the squat mug. Her head threw back again, the blankness of her expression completely unlike the friend the pirate knew.
Andraste's teats, why did people have to be so bloody complicated in their relationships?
Isabela set down her own mug with a sigh. Her hips swayed seductively, unconsciously, and both male and female eyes followed the barely concealed curves of her rear end as she walked over to the table Hawke occupied. Without a word, she flopped down into the chair next to her, putting her legs up on the table and giving the guards across from them an eyeful. She ignored the catcalls, for once, her gaze fastened to the impassive face of the Champion.
"How many are you planning on downing like that tonight?" she inquired with a tilt of her head and a gesture to the empty mug in Hawke's hand.
Hawke blinked rapidly a few times before replying, her speech as crisp and clear as if she were stone cold sober. One of her many gifts was apparently an unbelievable tolerance for alcohol, something the pirate captain both envied and pitied her for. Pity was the dominant expression flashing in her amber eyes at the other woman's response.
"Until it stops."
There was nothing in her eyes or her voice that betrayed what she meant, but Isabela didn't have to be a blood mage to figure out what was going on in Hawke's impressively equipped mind. Only an idiot could fail to see what had been simmering for years. Isabela's usually beautifully pouty lips twisted into a frown as she considered the identity of one such idiot.
"You'll just ruin your liver if you keep that up. You can't get drunk on this swill," was the casual response as the dusky-skinned goddess, as she had been dubbed, crossed her arms loosely beneath her ample bosom.
"Never hurts to try," came the cool answer, her monotone finally breaking into one that brooked no argument that the conversation was over.
Isabela was never really one to take hints.
"This attempt does," she said, her own voice mirroring her friend's finality as she leaned forward and plucked the bottle from Hawke's grasp. This was done so quickly that the Champion had to blink several times before she realized she was pouring nothing.
Hawke glared at her, gesturing with a gloved hand that revealed only her fingertips, but Isabela shook her head.
"Enough for one night. Go sleep it off, you'll feel better in the morning."
Hawke just gazed at her in a manner she would have called petulant if she had been feeling like losing any blood. She glanced to her left and spotted Varric on the stairs leading to the back of the tavern, concern reflected on his broad features. He nodded to her and moved across the room, ducking under a drunken swing that was aimed at the man to his immediate left, ignoring the crash of glass that exploded behind him. Isabela's eyes returned to Hawke as the dwarf came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder.
"C'mon Hawke, I'll walk you home. I'd hate to lose the favorite hero of Kirkwall. What would I talk about?"
She looked up at him with a quiet expression before shrugging and standing from her seat.
"Thank you, Varric, but I can manage to get home on my own."
She stooped and picked up her things before striding out the door, unaware of the hurt expression on her friend's face, but Isabela knew she would have turned and hugged him if she had been aware of it. She sighed again, her coppery eyes meeting those of the dwarf, who shrugged his broad shoulders and went back to his rooms. For her part, Isabela leaned back in her chair, balancing it easily on two legs as she let her head fall against the back, lost in thought.
Without warning, a wide smile started to curve her full lips. She knew exactly how to fix this entire mess. Now, if only Martin had enough of the stock she needed. She chuckled deviously. Hawke was going to be in for a huge surprise.
Sebastian knocked firmly on the door to Hawke's estate in Hightown, his brow furrowed. The invitation he had received by messenger had been courteous, welcoming even, which surprised him immensely. He and Hawke had never been on the best of terms and especially not in the last few years. She had taken up the mantle of Champion, banished the fears of the people of Kirkwall and had risen to a position of respect and power. He had to respect her for that, even if he didn't care for some of her methods. Bodahn answered the door with a friendly expression, obviously expecting him.
"Come in, come in, Messere, the others have not arrived yet and Serah Hawke had to step out. Follow me and I'll show you to the study."
Sebastian nodded and gave the dwarf a warm smile, patting Hawke's giant mabari, Pippi, as he passed through the foyer. The dog nuzzled against his gloved hand, clearly enjoying the light scratch bestowed behind his ears before wuffling and settling back down to a nap before the fireplace. The prince was escorted into the comfortably furnished room and he admired the numerous books that lined the walls, stacked almost to the ceiling. His bright blue eyes moved about the room as Bodahn politely shut the door behind him. Sebastian didn't hear the soft sound of the door locking as his attention was absorbed in the perusing of interesting titles the Champion owned. The older dwarf placed the key in his pocket, patting it lightly and muttering to himself.
"I hope Serah Isabela is right in this. Ancestors know I would love to see a smile on Messere Hawke's face again."
Sebastian roved his fingers over the spines of several tomes. The atmosphere reminded him very much of the Chantry's library and he fondly recalled the days and weeks spent diligently copying parchments. Another memory surfaced, however, one that had taken place recently and his handsome face pulled into a frown.
Hawke strode into the small workroom where he sat on one of the numerous benches, a quill poised in his hand and his back hunched over his work. Only a few more of these and he would be finished for the day. He was pleased at his progress and looking forward to the precious few hours before nightfall during which he could walk across Hightown to practice his archery in the small training yard the Chantry had for the Templars. Her hands slammed down on the table across from him, her eyes sparking like heat lightning in summer.
"Why did you say it, Sebastian?" she growled at him.
His eyes met hers briefly before traveling across her delicate features. She must have just gotten back from some other mission, as blood still caked her hardened leather breastplate and her bow remained strapped to her back. Her lovely face was impassive as always, but he could see the mask slipping just the tiniest bit. She was furious about something, anger bursting off of her in waves. Sebastian repressed a shudder at the passionate emotion that leaked into her melodious voice and danced behind her mercurial eyes. Maker help him, now was not the time for his thoughts to be traveling in that vein. He ruthlessly squelched the curl of masculine interest that snaked down his belly.
"Why did I say what, Hawke?" he replied coolly, lifting a brow to signify that he had no idea what she was talking about. They hadn't spoken in weeks, not since she had foolishly agreed to go with Merrill to Sundermount and speak to the demon that had tempted the young elf down the path of blood magic.
Her hands curled around the edge of the table and in his peripheral, he saw the lean muscles of her arms flexing at the motion, her knuckles whitening. Her eyes had narrowed to slits and he fought down an urge to lean closer to her, to inhale the faint fragrance of raspberries that always seemed to waft around her. Andraste's mercy, but it was intoxicating when she brushed her hair back after a fight, the tangy aroma mixing sharply with the salty scent of sweat as she strode by him, the exposed skin of her thighs flashing under the leather pleats of her armor as her hips swayed so enticingly-
"Why did you have to say such an ugly thing to Merrill?" Her sharp words cut through his reverie like a dagger, snapping him back and mercifully ending that dangerous train of thought.
His own gaze narrowed as righteous indignation curled his lip in a sneer.
"Because it is the truth, Hawke. She is going to kill everyone she cares about if she keeps traveling down the path she is on," he replied, standing to brace his hands on the table.
He was surprised when she leaned closer, the stoic mask finally removed as her full lips tightened into a white line, her eyes glinting dangerously, making something deep within him stir to life, something he had thought he had long since conquered.
"It doesn't matter if it was true or not, you didn't have to say it to her. Maker's Breath, Sebastian, she hasn't stopped crying for days. And it isn't just because of the clan." Hawke's voice hissed out in a low tone, making his stomach do a strange flip at the huskiness of the notes.
"It's also because someone she viewed as a close friend went and called her 'filthy' and then rejected her offer of healing on account of her magic might 'taint' him," she bit out, her voice jagged as serrated steel. He bit back another urge to come even closer to her, to entangle his fingers in the hair he imagined was as soft as it looked and pull her to him across the table.
"I didn't say she was filthy, I said her magic was. She's a kind girl and I'm sorry her feelings were hurt but she needs to understand-"
"Who in the thrice-blasted Void died and made you the Maker's right hand, Sebastian? What gives you the right to crush a person like that?" she asked harshly, cutting him off.
A fire was starting to lick low in his abdomen as he stared into her flashing eyes, his disbelief at the audacity of her words mingling heatedly with a desire to see those clear depths clouding over with something even more powerful.
His response was a growl.
"I said what I thought, what I know, and if that damns me in your sight, then so be it," he ground out, his jaw tense, cerulean eyes unflinching under her furious glare.
She didn't respond and their eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps he was seeing things, but he could have sworn hurt swirled in those crystalline depths before she jerked back and began towards the archway that led outside. However, she turned suddenly, hands whipping behind her as she pulled, strung, and let loose an arrow in one smooth motion. It landed, quivering, between his braced arms. He didn't bother to look down as her words raked over him cruelly.
"If this is how you treat friends - people who have tried to help you, who have stood by your side as you battled your demons - then don't look for me when you take back Starkhaven. I have no desire to be crushed under your boot, Your Highness," she said coldly.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and was gone, leaving the prince frustrated in more ways than one as his gaze followed those swaying hips all the way out the door.
That had been months ago and he had heard little from anyone about Hawke, except for Fenris dropping by on occasion. They didn't always agree, either, but Sebastian knew the elf was genuine in his friendship. Through their conversations, he gleaned that Hawke had started spending more and more time outside the city, taking reckless chances and putting her life on the line for reasons that were entirely unworthy of her. He listened, offering a few words of comfort to the concerned man, but kept his own opinions to himself. If she wanted to throw away her life, it was her choice. She had walked out, not he; though a tiny part of him acknowledged that he had pushed her to it.
He let out a breath as he stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace, running a hand through the auburn waves of his hair. Maker, but she drove him insane. She had helped him without ever asking for anything in return; had fought his battles with him and had given no thought to it. He knew that she was a true and loyal friend, despite their differences of opinion. If only he could ignore the stirring in his blood every time he thought of her as easily as he was able to look past those dissimilarities to see the woman she truly was. Perhaps that was the entire problem; he saw her as a woman. "A desirable, practically delectable one at that," he thought, suppressing a shiver of desire. He may have decided to leave the Chantry, but he had still made vows to the Maker - vows he intended to keep as long as he could. If your word is worth nothing, then so are you. The teachings of his grandfather had been too deeply ingrained for him to just toss them aside.
And yet…
Shaking away his brooding musings, he moved to a table that had been set up nearby, filled with all kinds of delicious treats to entertain the senses. He nodded in approval. The Champion knew how to indulge her guests. It was nearly the end of autumn, but there were fruits, exotic and domestic, in large glass bowls; chocolates of every kind; sweet finger meats; wine; brandy - so many wonderful temptations. Selecting a plump, richly crimson raspberry - yet unwilling to examine his perhaps meaningful choice of food - he popped it into his mouth, savoring the burst of tang on his tongue. The berry was unusually sweet in its aftertaste, but it was certainly pleasant. He munched on another as he moved back to the books, determined to keep his mind off the beautiful rogue.
Unbidden, images wove their way into his thoughts as he swallowed the fruity delight and his gaze fell upon the wide, comfortable looking chair near the fire. It was upholstered in a rich green - almost like the color of her eyes when she was thinking of something especially mischievous, like kneeling between his knees as he sat in that chair, her naked breasts brushing his thighs as she took him into her mouth-
He shook his head. "Where had that thought come from?" he wondered as he placed another fruit in his mouth, the sweetness of the berry reminding him of her scent. He could see her in his mind's eye - long, gorgeous tresses tumbling across her body, brushing silkily against his bare skin as she leaned down to trace feather-light lips-
He shook his head again, trying to clear it. But it was as if a warm haze had settled over his mind, heating his blood as it thudded thickly in his ears. Slowly, he put another raspberry to his lips, and the taste exploded on his tongue. He could feel her slender hands running across his abdomen, down, down, to curl wickedly around him-
There was the sound of wood creaking and he dimly heard light footfalls on the stone steps leading up to the second floor of the study. His thoughts were lost in a whirlwind of lust even as he tried to pull himself out of it, attempted to think of anything else, to fight against the dull ache tightening in his groin.
"Sebastian?" Her soft voice pierced through the heated fog of his thoughts and he slowly turned around, every thought concerning resistance flying out of his head as the soft scent of raspberries flooded his nostrils. Oh, Maker, he was doomed...