A/N: So, I thought I'd attempt to take a break from the angst (THE ANGST) that is my muse. I'm not sure that she is pleased, but I wrote this nonetheless and so, here it is! *fanfare*

Rated M for language, violence, and the wild, stupid antics.

What is this I don't even...

Chapter One: In Which a Dwarf and a Hawke Hatch a Devious Plan

"Okay, so I have good news and bad news."

"That figures. Give me the bad news."

"You may not like it."

"Like what?"

"The good news."

"Oh. Do I need to be drunk for this?"

"Couldn't hurt."

When it came to Varric Hawke knew better than to ask, trusting that all would be explained in time, likely with fanfare and pomp. Her dwarven companion was, after all, a storyteller first and a swindler, liar and cheater second. His words.

She actually found the dwarf rather compellingly trustable, despite his tendency to wax poetic (and completely false) about their accomplishments in an attempt to embellish their reputations. Still, she had not starved for coin since he had taken Bethany and herself under his proverbial wing in the Hightown marketplace that day – was it a year ago? More? Less?

They had reached a comfortable routine since then. Varric maintained quarters at the Hanged Man and Hawke would find herself there in the evenings, parked in a comfortable chair with her boots on the table and him accusing her of getting nug shit on his papers. Couple that with as much cheap ale as she could drink, and it made for a less than miserable existence. Certainly more pleasant than the small attempt at a home she tried to make with Bethany, their mother Leandra, and their erstwhile uncle Gamlen. You could scrub the dirt out of Lowtown, but you could never get rid of the smell.

She was handed a pint and was content to sip at it silently as he rustled about his books, wrapping up this project or another. His efficiency was incredible; he had a good head for remembering numbers – and the number of favors owed to him. She owed him too, she suspected, for trying to get her in with his brother Bartrand. It had come to feel less like an obligation the more time that passed, however; the more small adventures they undertook while chasing the coin to buy their way into the Deep Roads expedition, the more frequently they saved each other's skins, the more their friendship had blossomed.

Not blossomed, exactly. She wouldn't use that word out loud, because it sounded dirty enough in her head. She could just picture Isabela lifting an eyebrow, a know-it-all smirk on her lips. Hawke and Varric, she'd purr out, painting a picture for anyone listening with just those few words. How… novel and adventurous. You know, I had a dwarf once, way back when, while I was visiting… And then Hawke would have to kill her.

But it wasn't like that. They'd talked about it once, both of them heavy in their cups. She'd congratulated him on being the best man she never wanted to sleep with, and he'd informed her with false regret that Bianca was, and would remain, the only woman for him.

"Alright, spill." She said finally, arching a brow at the dwarf who had by then settled back in his chair with a mug of his own. "The suspense is killing me."

"I may have a job for us."

"This, I'm assuming, is the good news."

Varric sighed. "Trouble is, it's dangerous. Alright, a different kind of dangerous," he amended when Hawke looked pointedly unimpressed. "It may or may not have to do with fighting bare-chested men of ill-repute in a circle to the tune of a roaring crowd."

The sardonic lift of her eyebrow did not change as she considered him, though she had to admit her interest was somewhat piqued. It did sound different than their other jobs, indeed. Go here, run back there, stab this guy, go get my money… often it felt like they were glorified errand runners for the rich and the devious.

"Fighting is the right 'f' word, isn't it? This isn't some weird, dastardly Kirkwall thing that I haven't heard about."

Varric rolled his eyes and had the grace to look at least somewhat disgusted. "If it were the other kind of 'f', I'd have Isabella in here, and not you."

Hawke laughed and took a long swig of her drink, the bitter taste helping to cleanse at least that image from her mind. "Fair enough. What's the story then?"

"It's sort of a bastardized version of The Proving in Orzammar. The Carta started it here, sort of picked up the tradition to help them resolve issues amongst their own. It got popular, though, and so they opened it up to more than just dwarves. It's not meant to be deadly, strictly, but it sure as hell is bloody. People die in there all the time. Which is probably why it makes for such good entertainment."

"Dwarves do love coin."

"That we do." Varric set down his mug on the table and lifted a hand to rub at his stubbled chin. "And we also like to hit each other with things. Apparently it was a win-win situation. For the Carta at least."

Hawke watched him over the rim of her mug. Now would be about the time he'd come clean with her about whatever it was that was bothering him about this job. It was odd actually, especially given that they'd fought everything from bandits to raiders to slavers to the occasional pack of wild dogs. They'd been tricked and ambushed more than once, dragged up and down the Wounded Coast, and half up Sundermount and back. So far this just sounded like a handful of desperate men, sweating and beating each other with their fists for the entertainment of a crowd. Oddly compelling.

"So what's the job?"

"Fellow named Grayzor runs the show. Apparently he wants to honest it up for a change, and he thinks that the current Arena champion and his… handler, for lack of a better word, are cheating with magic. I know, I looked into it a little further," he said as a nod to the incredulous look on Hawke's face. "Turns out he brought in a ringer that didn't so much ring as was rung."

"Lost some money, did he. Well, that certainly makes more sense than that other thing. Honesty."

Varric chuckled his agreement.

"So, what's the plan then? Back alley maneuvers, remove the competition? Possibly take out a dangerous apostate?" Hawke grinned. "You know how I love blood-mage Tuesdays."

"Don't let Anders hear you say that."

A twinge of unease fluttered in her stomach at the mention of Anders and magic. You couldn't say the word with him in the room without involuntarily starting some conversation about the evils of templars and the plight of Circle mages. It wasn't that she didn't care about either of those things, she did, honestly, but his constant fervency could be off-putting and Maker, she was just tired of talking about it. She made an unladylike noise to cover her discomfort, halfway between a grunt and a snort. "Merrill either. Anders will get huffy, but Merrill will just look at me like I shot her dog."

"Merrill has a dog?"

"Maker, let's hope not."

They both had a good laugh then, and it helped to clear the air in the room. Anders and Justice were something that they talked about only rarely, usually when Hawke was frustrated to the point of tearing out her hair and given to pacing, ranting as she did about his politics and his inability to get along, sometimes with anyone. Even still, Varric didn't need to be told that it was something that bothered her and weighed heavy on her mind. Tactfully, he steered the conversation back to the topic at hand.

"'Fraid not, about the back alley maneuvers at least. Grayzor wants it done publicly." Varric paused. "In the ring."

Surprised, Hawke sat up a little straighter in her chair, her feet coming down to rest properly on the floor again. "He just wants this man ousted then? Not killed? Maker, that's a first."

"Not killed necessarily, but it's business." Varric amended. "He also wants us to find out how the fellow and his friend are cheating."

"Charming. I do think I see where this is going, however. Someone will need to get in the ring with this man, knock him out of the competition so to speak." When Varric didn't disagree, the look of incredulity returned to her features and she lifted both shoulders in a confused shrug. "So I beat someone into submission for the raucous amusement of a crowd, so what? Doesn't sound so hard."

Varric gave her a hard look, tilting his head to one side and giving Hawke the impression that she had just said something foolish. "As much as I admire your confidence Marian, trust me, you don't know about the Arena."

Her blue eyes narrowed instinctively when he used her first name. It seemed as though no one called her that anymore apart from her family, and even still it was foreign enough to sound like a scolding. "Well tell me then, master dwarf, so I will languish in ignorance no longer."

He pointedly ignored the sarcasm. "They do it tournament style, winners move on to the next round. So that means you have to beat a lot of people into submission for the amusement of a crowd. But to even qualify, you have to make it through what they call the Gauntlet."

"Which is?"

"The amateur league, honestly." He cracked a smile. "Bunch of desperate folks trying to push their way into the lineup. Not to say that it isn't dangerous - you know how much trouble your average Darktown cutthroat can be – but that part I'm not worried about. It's the rest of it. There are some real crazies in the Arena circuit, and they stay in until they get dead. Been looking into that champion they got too, Garner." Varric's eyes hardened, hinting the disapproval that he would not articulate with words. "A real son of a bitch, that one. Likes to hurt people."

"And the combat is…?"

"Hand to hand, no weapons, no magic, and no other rules."

At that Hawke gave a low whistle, staring across the room thoughtfully. With a pair of blades she liked to believe she was a match for anyone, but with bare fists… hmph.

"I see you take my meaning."

Hawke nodded but slowly grinned, the expression wolfish and spelling of trouble to come. "But the coin's good?"

"The coin is almost too good to pass up, which is why we're even having this conversation. I don't send you into danger just for fun. Always. Most of the time. Okay," he admitted, laughing as Hawke made to kick him under the table. "Ever. But we're close, this could help us out."

"Can this work?"

"Don't see why not." He was scratching at his chin again, the gesture different than before. "The way I see it, we'll put your name in for the Gauntlet and watch where it goes from there. There's no magic in the arena, but that crazy mage is good for something. At least you'll have someone to heal you every night, no rules against that. Plus, with all the extra mage-power we have around these days, we might be able to figure out what sort of tricks Garner and his friend are playing before you ever have to fight him." Varric shrugged. "Might give you an edge, if not remove the problem completely. For all we know, he's a cleverly disguised nug."

Hawke laughed. "It's settled then, I'll do it."

"No you will not!"

The sudden growling voice at the door had both Hawke and Varric starting in their seats, Hawke immediately taking it upon herself to upend her half-drained mug down the front of her armor. Not a badge of pride for either rogue, to be sure. Still, Fenris had an uncanny way about him that no one had quite gotten used to, long as it had been. He was usually so quiet – but he wasn't quiet now.

"Shit, Fenris, what the - "

"This plan is suicidal, and you are stupid if that escapes your notice." The white-maned elf seemed to shimmer slightly as he turned on Varric, who had the presence of mind to at least close his mouth - unlike Hawke, who was sitting shell-shocked and dripping in beer with the empty mug still in her hand. "And you, that you would even suggest this to her. You have no better sense than she does to entertain this foolishness. I will not allow this."

"All due respect friend, but it isn't really up to you."

Fenris made a sound somewhere between a sneer and a snarl, his lip curling derisively as he glared at them both. As sudden as he had come, he turned on his heel and swept out the door. "We'll see if it isn't."

There was a long moment of silence, interrupted only by the softly crackling flames in the hearth and the steady drip drip drip of ale off the scales of her armor and into the carpet.

Varric let out a breath. "That man has only one setting."

"Volatile?"

"Not the word I would have chosen."

The reek of cheap beer was almost overwhelming and Hawke could not help but look down at her sodden torso with a mixture of annoyance and regret. After another long moment full of apparently heavy contemplation, she set the empty mug down on the table with a click. "I should probably go deal with him." Her upper lip curled in disgust as she stood, feeling cold beer leak into her boot.

"Yell first, or just stab?"