It did not start in The Hanged Man. That would make sense. It would follow the logic of Varric's stories—beer scented and a little twisted, but always coming home. No. It started with wide eyes and shocked looks, quieter than Hawke's appalled, damnable honour that saw the mage stuck on the Arishok's sword for her, of all people. For a book that had been too easy to steal for something this dangerous—and tedious—to keep.
Isabela thought Hawke had been the worst of it. Hawke's hope had made her come back, after all. And the infuriating woman had the gall to say that she knew she'd do it, too. No wonder Sebastian followed her, all zealot-eyes and endearing confusion as he found himself aiding and abetting apostates every second Tuesday. No wonder Fenris wore that mad red favor about his wrist, and that Hawke would very probably wait for himuntil Andraste was found in a back room at the Rose. No wonder she and Varric had spent feverish evenings writing, embroidering some exploits and colouring others until they were drunk on charisma instead of whiskey, and she found herself telling the dwarf of an idiot Rivaini called Naishe, who lost her mother at the market, the minute that mother saw a wealthy man.
The whole load of them reeked of commitment, and it made Isabela's insides squirm. Not in a good way.
No. The worst had come later, when she left the Hanged Man with the last remnants of her life slung up in a pack, and Merrill was waiting.
"The back entrance, kitten? That's…" she couldn't stop the smile, tired as it was. "Unexpected."
"Why?" said the elf. Not smiling. Not even a little. "I know you." She had her arms wrapped around herself, eyes huge in the dingy light that eased through cracks in the pub's back door.
Any other time, Isabela would have slung an arm around her, felt the smaller body turn into her warmth like some flower to the sun, making Varric's name for her real. Now, it was all—
"—Isabela."
"This whole blasted city knows me, kitten." The words came easily, even if the rest of her refused to follow old patterns. "That's not exactly—"
"You stop that right now."
The pirate stared.
"You always joke," Merrill said, letting her arms fall. "And I love your jokes. Don't always understand them, mind, but I do love them. But this isn't—you are not just going to run off. Again. Don't you dare run off again."
"I dare anything," Isabela snapped. "I don't know what you're doing here—shouldn't you be standing between Anders and Fenris as they make asses of themselves? Shouldn't you be…trying to see yourself in that bloody mirror? You should—" Small, calloused hands had taken hers. Isabela felt the fingers twining about her own, knew she could break that hold if she wanted. But she had never pulled away from Merrill.
"I," said the elf, in a fierce whisper that the other woman had to lean in to hear, "Dare you."
Surprise made her breath catch. Surprise and the new, determined set to the elf's mouth; the warm and suddenly much stronger grip on her hands. Isabela felt fingertips press into the back of her wrist, felt strong thumbs on her palm. The Dalish, she thought, rather dizzily. Outdoorsy types. Good at setting traps.
The silliness made her smile. She pulled, just a little, and found that Merrill was ready for it, tightening her grip and easing into a stance that made the pirate remember nights in an old barn in the Anderfels, where one particularly lovely man showed her how to twist so that your opponent just flew wherever you wanted them. Her eyebrows rose.
"What do you dare, kitten?"
"To trust me," said Merrill, eyes intent. "You can run away again tomorrow, be all embarrassed that you have people who love you and want to keep you safe and would hurt themselves to do it. No—hush." Merrill spoke over Isabela's outraged squawk, hands tightening still further. "You can do all or none of that tomorrow, but…stay with me tonight. You didn't even say goodbye when you left with that relic."
"So I should when I leave without it?" Isabela said, with some acid.
"That's right," said Merrill. "Exactly right." Reaching up, Merrill freed once hand to cup Isabela's cheek. "And I want you to stay."
The emphasis was unmistakable. And, coming from Merrill, it was shocking. Isabela felt her eyes widen as the elf's thumb brushed out across her lower lip."
"You…want me to come home with you," the pirate said. "And not to get a very good night's sleep."
"Oh, I don't know." Merril smiled. A tiny, familiar smile, as she shrugged. The tips of her ears, even in this trickster light, were pink. "I find I always sleep very well after sex. Don't you?
Isabela stared.
"What? It's true."
Isabela managed to pull her hands away, though it left her breathless and Merrill rocking back on her heels, eyes wide and full of blooming hurt until the pirate laid them warm and strong against her face, mirroring her. She ran her thumb across one sharp cheekbone, scored a curl of intricate ink with her nail. She felt the flush and softness of the other woman's skin. Considered her mouth. Looking at Merrill here, like this, Isabela was suddenly amazed and shamed that she never had considered the woman's mouth. Teasing, she let her thumb brush there, expecting a whimper and feeling her heart stutter a little as the elf jerked her head, catching Isabela's thumb firmly between her teeth. She sucked.
And Isabela whimpered.
"Everyone always acts," said Merrill as she drew a little away, her hands now moving to Isabela's shoulders, "As if I don't know what I want. And that's so stupid, you see? I hope you see."
"…I—"
"You will see."
And it was Merrill who lent up to kiss her, twining and sweet and pulling Isabela's head down to better tease her mouth, tongue soon wicked-deep and sure, and those hands pulling tight enough in her hair that Isabela felt white, bright flicks of pain. She reveled in them.
"Come home with me, lethallan." Merrill was smiling as she pulled back, taking in the other woman's shaky breathing, the way it was she, this once, who seemed drawn to follow another's body. She pressed a kiss to Isabela's throat, and laughed against it as she felt the pulse jump there.
"I…I think I'd better," Isabela said. "Are you going to keep being bossy?"
Merrill's answer was a sharp nip to her throat. A soft, soothing lick that only made the bite ache more beautifully. Isabela shuddered.