"Maker's breath!" Andra said as she popped her head through the doorway.
He looked up from his hand—a surprisingly good hand, one that might allow him to dig his way out of the hole the dwarf had sunk him in—expecting to see her seductive smile. Expectations in a place such as Kirkwall were easily dashed, however. The dwarf's stubby legs and stocky body should have been hidden from her view by his chair's back, but the massive crossbow was another story. Nothing could hide that monstrosity even from unobservant eyes, and her eyes were anything but.
"Andra, care to play a hand?" He pitched his voice low and looked up through his hair.
You do that on purpose, don't you? she'd asked years ago, her cheeks flushed. It had taken him time to figure out just what that was, but it had had a galvanic effect on her cheeks and the rest of her that hadn't diminished over the years. He'd made sure to do that regularly ever since. This time, he hoped that might bring her smile back, and perhaps settle her into the exact sort of game she usually almost studiously avoided. One of these days, she would have to adjust to the dwarf's company, though she'd proven resistant so far. No matter how she wished it, the dwarf was going nowhere.
"No, sorry. I think I'll be going. If you need me later, I'll be…" She almost seemed to throw her thumb over her shoulder.
"Hawke!"
The dwarf's voice caught her mid-spin, and she froze stiffer than a bandit caught in a field of the abomination's magical ice.
"Is there something you need, Varric?" He could hear the strain in her voice as she tried to maintain the tone of forced civility she always used with the dwarf.
"Sit down! Play a hand, Hawke!"
"I don't play cards."
"Too bad—the elf here's a gold mine, even more of one than your dog."
"You play cards with Boy? Dear Maker!"
"I still need to talk to you about something, Hawke. Follow me to the Hanged Man, and I'll have Norah pour a you a mug or two."
"Just talk, Varric. We're both here right now."
"This news requires a mug, Hawke, and warm surroundings."
"Later, then."
"And when is later? I've already left Bodahn eight messages."
"Later is later. Not now. If you need me, I'll be…"
She wasn't going to escape so easily. He stood, cards in hand, and took a few steps toward her.
"Too bad, Broody, that looked like a winning hand." The dwarf snickered. "Good thing you won't be able to play it now—Daisy's bribe is due tomorrow, and I'd rather use your coin than mine."
Fasta vass!
"You use the gold I lose to protect the blood mage?"
"Nice to see the brooding return," the dwarf said. "I was getting worried I'd have to change my name for you, what with that inappropriate smile your paramour forces you to wear constantly. I also use your coin to protect Blondie."
"And the abomination?" He tried to force the calm back into his voice.
"You're no stranger to irony, elf."
True. He ignored Andra's wry smile and eyed the Sword of Mercy he still insisted on bearing, even though she'd found him a better blade months ago. She twirled her small knife in her hands, bringing it over her knuckles with small finger motions, and back into her palm, over and over. Her eyes twinkled and he knew something interesting awaited, perhaps nearly as interesting as the last time he'd seen the twinkle. Then, she'd held her crossed wrists out to him. The damsel's ready to run. Don't you wish to hold her back? Or down?
"Bianca's getting thirsty," she said.
"I'll fetch her a mug too when we talk. She misses you, Hawke."
"Why? She's always with me, and she's just waiting for you to say the right word."
Ah, the famous threat that never seemed to materialize. My knife, your eye, if you ever say that word again.
The dwarf's tiny eyes vanished as his thick brows furrowed. "I don't understand you, Hawke."
"I always thought Bianca was a delicate name," she said. "A name that demands finesse, not raw brutality."
The dwarf eyed his crossbow, then Andra, and then him in turn as he burst out with the laugh he'd held back since she'd first begun speaking.
"You're not making any sense."
She held her knife forward, and once again he admired the craftsmanship of the runes etched into the finely forged and freshly sharpened blade. This "Bianca" shone yellow and silver and orange in the flames' echo.
"She's a beauty, isn't my dearest little Bianca? She's taken out blood mages, corpses, and the occasional miscreant. A single stroke, and she finishes the job."
"That's a very pretty knife, Hawke, but Bianca's…"
"Light and almost airy in my hands. Yet she takes life with efficiency, and, might I add, artistry. She's ready at the quickest slip, the fastest grasp. No cranking of clumsy gears, or slapping of huge bolts. She flies free with the smallest flick, and penetrates with force when one puts only a faint hint of heft behind the throw."
"Hawke, you can't name your knife 'Bianca.' I'll have you know, I trademarked that name with the Merchant's Guild."
"So every mother who names her little girl, 'Bianca' can't? In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a dwarf."
"And she's the Champion," he said. "No mere Merchant's Guild can stand up to the daggers that took down the Arishok."
"Figures you'd join in, Broody. I guess I'll see you later, Hawke, if Bodahn ever passes on my messages." With a sigh, the dwarf left, his pockets jingling with hard-earned and easily-lost coin. Almost four sovereigns' worth.
She waited for the shuffling, rapid footsteps to die down before she sighed, "Thank the Maker!" Her shoulders slipped down to a more normal position, rather than riding up about her ears.
He stared at her for a moment or two before he realized he still held his cards in hand. They slipped onto the table and skittered among the remnants of the diamondback game he'd started with the dwarf. He smiled and settled himself onto a bench, his arms wide. She sniffed, but slipped in beside him, warm and solid. Dependable and fiery. Dependable, if you weren't the dwarf, apparently.
"Are you going to tell Bodahn to deliver your messages on time?"
"There's nothing wrong with Bodahn's timing," she said, a wry grin spreading across her lips.
"Ah."
"I'd thought it was safe. Isn't this your card night with Donnic?"
"Donnic wanted to prepare a surprise for his wife, so he begged off."
She giggled, just a little. "Aveline will be surprised indeed, after an afternoon wrangling with Meredith. The Knight Commander still won't approve my request to transfer Bethany to Ferelden."
"A pleasant surprise, likely. You didn't ask me to accompany you."
"Well, I didn't want to interrupt your game. Besides, I'd hoped the Knight Commander would have the wits to listen to the Captain of the Guard. It appears I was wrong, though I survived." She laughed. "I thought she'd have me shod in concrete and dropped into the ocean."
"Why do you dislike the dwarf so much?"
"Little bastard," she muttered under her breath. "Maybe I should ask you why you like him?"
This conversation never changed, no matter how many times they'd had it.
"He amuses me."
"Really. His wit is so sterling that you'd take pleasure in polishing it to a shine with your laughter?"
"He reminds me of someone."
"Dear Maker," she muttered, white as usual. And yet, she didn't ask who this time.
"He has a kind heart, Andra, much like someone else I know."
"Because his golden heart is much more convincing when he never stops speaking of it. 'Look at my pretty gold heart! Isn't it a work of art?' Maker's breath, he'd turn that into a damned song! Is that why you like him? His stupid ditties about his crossbow?"
"Bianca." He chuckled as she stiffened. "Yet another Bianca has come into my life, it seems. A duplicate, a mirror's reflection. At least the reflection is far more beautiful than the source, and, fortunately, much taller."
She sat stock still as he whispered into her ear, "And very, very female."
And, as always, she forced herself to her feet. "I… Well, goodbye."
A familiar patter of small human feet and she was gone. He rested on his bed and picked up the current book they'd been working on. Or rather, he had been working on with her—A People's History of Ferelden translated into Arcanum. She sounded out the letters as he translated and she slowly picked up the rhythm of his native tongue. He smiled as the book fell open to a chapter about the day-to-day lives of Alamarri tribesmen, with nary a mention of their chieftains. The last time they'd had this conversation and she'd flounced off, she'd returned, heated and panting three pages later. The time before, four.
He smiled wide and began to read.