Hawke threw open the sticky door of the Hanged Man.
Her eyes scanned the room, expecting to find Varric at the bar. To Hawke's surprise, the dwarf was not in sight. Instead, she caught sight of Isabella at a table with a couple of disgruntled patrons. The three of them were wrapped tightly over the table. Their voices were low, and the most haggard looking patron was speaking rapidly in Isabella's direction. Hawke could not muster up the strength to care. She wasn't curious about Isabella's dealings in the slightest.
Behind the bar, the bartender, Corff, eyed Hawke with his usual exhausted stare. He waved lazily in the direction of the blood soaked dagger clutched in her right hand. In her opinion, the greeting was not befitting of a "champion". Perhaps he (and the rest of Kirkwall) could be the least bit grateful. Filthy dog lords no longer lurked outside his place of business. He should be pleased to see her wiping their remaining fluids into the side of her already stained robes.
"You're welcome," Hawke hissed through her teeth. Behind her, she allowed the door to fall shut.
Without concealing her daggers (and with an angry "hrmpf" from the bartender) Hawke trudged over to Isabella's table. Hawke raised her leg and rested the heel of her boot on an open chair. The voices quieted immediately, which left the bar in dead silence. The only other patron (besides those involved in Isabella's illicit dealings) was drooling in the far corner.
The man in the chair to Hawke's left, a bloody templar by the looks of him, clicked his tongue impatiently. He made no effort to look at the approaching stranger.
"Piss off, yeah?" He grunted. The templar loosened his jaw and grinned stupidly at his partner. "This aint' the Rose. I'm not interested in your ugly cun—"
Hawke rested her dagger on the top of his Adam's apple. She shifted her weight forward onto her resting boot. A small bead of blood collected on the top of Hawke's blade. Their eyes met. Beside the Templar, the other man sprung to his feet. He reached for his sword, but Hawke was quicker.
"Get the fuck out." Hawke grumbled and loosened her grip on the blade. Neither of the men backed down. "Get out, or I kill you."
With a shove, Hawke knocked the Templar backwards over his chair. The second man curled his lip and began to lunge.
"Laurent. No." The Templar barked from the ground. He righted himself, and rested his palm on his partner's clavicle. As they passed, the Templar spat at Hawke's feet.
"Crazy bitch," the second man muttered as the door slammed at their heels. Hawke briefly considered following them. The bartender had no authority over blood spilt outside his establishment. The only hassle would be dragging the bodies to the nearest dump-site.
Instead, Hawke took the (now vacant) seat across from Isabella. The pirate's eyes held fire. Her brown arms were crossed, holding up her breasts. Until now, the pirate had remained silent. Or perhaps she hadn't. Hawke hadn't paid attention.
"Where do you get off, Hawke?" Isabella shouted. "That was important business. We were arranging a—"
"Don't care," Hawke interrupted and finally retired her daggers to their holsters. "Varric?"
"Excuse me?" Isabella looked up at Hawke incredulously.
"Varric." Hawke repeated. "Three feet. Chest hair. Lives in this hell hole. Where is he?"
Isabella narrowed her eyes.
"It's the middle of the night." She snapped. Isabella's shoulders tightened as she grabbed for (what Hawke assumed was) the Templar's flask. Her barbed tone was off-putting. Hawke's upper lip twitched in frustration.
"I got that. Thanks." Hawke motioned to the blood (now dry) settled into her robes.
"He's upstairs, asleep." Isabella grumbled into her pilfered drink. She did not look up. "Where the fuck else?"
Hawke pushed up from the table. She snatched the flask from between Isabella's palms and downed the last gulp. When she was done, Hawke threw it back atop the filthy surface. Isabella's nostrils flared, but she did not challenge Hawke. Pity.
Hawke turned her back on Isabella and took a single step towards the staircase. There, Varric's suite (and Varric) would be waiting.
"Thanks," Hawke called over her shoulder. "For the help."
"Seriously?" Isabella snorted. The abrupt scrape of her chair echoed throughout the Hanged Man. Hawke stopped at the bottom of the staircase, and turned towards her irritated companion. Isabella let loose an impatient laugh. "That's all you wanted? Maker Edyiss, you're a bitch."
Hawke waited stonily for Isabella to run out of steam. When Isabella realized her jest did not faze Hawke, she wove between tables and sauntered towards the entrance of the Hanged Man. As she did so, her bangles jingled pleasantly. Isabella met Hawke's eyes once more before disappearing into the night of lowtown.
Hawke grinned to herself as she ascended the staircase. She reasoned the patrons (the ones Hawke assaulted) could not have strayed far from the Hanged Man. If she was to bet, they were currently loitering outside to ambush Hawke. Perhaps Isabella could salvage her— whatever it was. Business partnership? Or better yet, they could have been assassinated by a stray dog lord. Even the Champion of Kirkwall could make a mistake…
Hawke reached forward to jiggle Varric's door handle. Locked. Her fingers brushed around the pouches lining her dagger holster. Hawke had in her possession two keys to Varric's suite. One key, Varric had given to Hawke for her personal use. The other, Hawke had taken off his (very drunk) person. Hawke swore under her breath and tugged at her bangs in frustration. No key.
Hawke considered picking the lock. That particular skill, however, Hawke did not possess. Picking the lock would take time. She had already wasted enough of her time on Isabella.
She broke the lock.
Hawke stood in the archway to Varric's suite. The room was dim, and Hawke gave her pupils a moment to adjust. The only light in the room came from the flickering candles in the hall. Hawke's muscular frame cast a shadow onto the far wall. Encompassed in her shadow, true to Isabella's word, Varric was asleep in his cot. Next to Varric, Bianca rested on the nightstand. Hawke was overcome by the urge to take the crossbow and leave. She restrained herself. Pissing Varric off was not (currently) one of Hawke's top priorities.
Her break-in seemed to rustle Varric from his sleep. His eye cracked open, and, upon seeing the intruder, Varric reached for Bianca.
"It's me." Hawke snapped, and closed the door behind her with the bottom of her boot. The broken lock caused the door to stick at an awkward angle. "Mus'ta Left the key in my other tunic."
With the door (mostly) closed, the room was cast once again into darkness. Varric groaned and fell backwards into his cot. After a moment, the room was illuminated by a single spark. Next to Bianca on the nightstand, Varric's twisted candle brought the light back to the suite.
Hawke had not seen Varric in a number of days. Although his chest was bare, Varric's golden ring gleamed on his collarbone. Both earrings were also present. Varric looked haggard. Hawke noticed his usual stubble was unruly. Even so, the mischievous gleam was not absent from Varric's eyes.
"It's on your writing desk," Varric yawned and absentmindedly ran his hand over his chest. He was slouching slightly, his back rested along the wall. He tilted his head. "And you left the spare at Daisy's."
Varric swung his legs over the side of his cot. He sauntered lazily across the room in twice the necessary steps (even for Varric's height). From his pack, Varric retrieved a package wrapped in muddy cloth.
"Here," Varric called and tossed the package to Hawke. "Daisy asked me to get it back to you. She was worried you locked yourself out of 'Hawke Manor'." Varric chuckled. It was genuine laughter, too. Hawke failed to suppress a smile. Varric often had this effect on her. "Didn't realize you'd find your way in, no matter the key. Speaking of—"
Varric surveyed the door with a scowl.
"Andraste's ass, Edyiss. I almost shot you. You couldn't have knocked?" Varric barked, although his voice held no bite. Hawke shrugged noncommittally.
"Don't flatter yourself. I would have slit your throat before you stroked her trigger." Hawke snapped. She paused before continuing. "You weren't downstairs. You're always fucking downstairs."
Varric avoided her eyes, and sat back down on the cot. This time, he positioned himself on the far side. It was an invitation. Hawke had taken up residence on Varric's cot before. Most of the time, it was after she had a few drinks and could not make it all the way back to Hightown (in one piece, that is).
"It's late." Varric shrugged and smiled warily at Hawke. His voice was cautious. "I was tired."
Hawke scowled at Varric's obvious bullshit. Across the room, the two of them locked eyes. Varric was proffering a challenge. Hawke was not ready to accept. Not tonight. Instead, she prowled over to the cot and kicked her muddy boots up on the bed. Hawke was hopeful this would piss Varric off. Asshole had it coming, after all.
"Really Edyiss?" Varric cried and elbowed Hawke playfully in her side. She ground her jaw in agitation. Hawke had no interest in horseplay. Varric quickly realized his mistake and muttered an apology. "Where have you been, anyway? You're filthy."
"Dog Lords." Hawke answered. She dug her dagger from its holster and began picking the blood from under her nails. "I ran into a few on my way to the Hanged Man."
"And before that?"
"I was arranging a job." Hawke said.
Varric raised his eyebrows skeptically.
"No slavers." Hawke promised and rolled her eyes. Slave-owning bastards were too much of a risk. The last time Hawke ran with slave traders, she left with two fewer gold pieces than agreed upon. Besides (despite her personal feelings about the elf), Fenris was a useful addition to Hawke's circle. She would like to avoid forcing his hand. "Some Orlesian asshole needed assurance his shipment would arrive without interception from the Guard. Nothing too dangerous. I checked."
"I'm guessing Red won't be happy?" Varric asked and exhaled a shallow breath.
"No. She won't be." Hawke agreed. She paused her digging to smirk at Varric. "I slipped a gold coin into Donnic's tunic before he returned from patrol. I figured it would be enough."
Hawke brushed the remaining blood flakes off her thigh and onto Varric's cot. He scoffed, but did not complain about Hawke's disregard for his belongings. She holstered her dagger in disappointment. It had proven worthless (in this battle).
"I'm surprised, Hawke. You? Playing nice!?" Varric admitted. "Last I saw, she had you pinned to the floor of the barracks. Not that you didn't deserve it." Varric frowned. His eyes lingered on the purple splotch cupping her left eye. It hurt like hell. She didn't need to be reminded. "This isn't your first black eye, Hawke."
His lips were parted and there was absentness to his gaze. Without warning, Varric tangled his fingers into Hawke's chalk-white bangs. His thumb traced the heavily scarred hairline that encompassed her temple. Hawke made a fist around his wrist and tugged downward (asshole hadn't asked). When he didn't offer an apology, Hawke pulled her upper lip into a snarl.
"Aveline and I have reached an understanding." Hawke spat and scowled at Varric. "My outside dealings are not your concern."
At her words, Varric flinched slightly. He failed to mask the momentary "hurt" that flashed across his features.
Hawke refused to speak while Varric composed himself. As it was, Hawke suspected Varric was seconds away from expelling her from the Hanged Man. Isabella would be pleased. She had won. There was no use tainting her victory with misconstrued language or expulsion. As a result, the two of them sat in silence for several minutes.
Finally, Varric reached over the far side of the cot and pulled up his boots. He took his time, unlacing his previous work and re-lacing each boot individually. When he was finished, he stood up from the cot and removed Bianca from her place atop the nightstand.
"Why does she always make this so difficult?" Varric said to Bianca. The crossbow did not respond. "Alright, Hawke. You don't want to talk. That's fine. Why are you here?"
Hawke appreciated Varric's attempt at straightforwardness. Hawke found that brevity was difficult for the dwarf.
"I'm going to rob the Harimann Estate." Hawke deadpanned. "I thought you might be interested."
Varric tried (but failed) to suppress his grin.
"You better hope the loot is good." Varric grumbled. He was halfway across the threshold before he shouted back at her. "You owe me a door."