A/N: I was having trouble getting to sleep one night and the idea for this story popped into my head. Ever since then, it has burrowed its way into the forefront of my thoughts. I apologize to my readers that are expecting a "Feral" update, I just can't get this out of my mind. The inspiration (and some of the dialogue) for this piece came from a video that I saw in an online guide. The Champion in this story bears the default name/appearance.
Disclaimer: Dragon Age II, Garrett Hawke, Isabela, and the Hanged Man are all property of BioWare. Corff is a real character, but I created his appearance and backstory. Mortimer Turnbee is my creation.
P.D.A.
"[...] Affections are like lightning: you cannot tell where they will strike until they have fallen."-Lee Iacocca
The Hanged Man tavern was the kind of place that didn't turn away any customers. It was also the kind of place that couldn't afford to. Located in Lowtown, just north of the docks, it was the sanctuary for spineless husbands, vagabonds, criminals, and anyone in between. The sign swinging above the door was that of a man, hung by his leg while the other was crossed—forming a triangular shape—blowing in the wind. The idea for the emblem was stolen from a Tarot card bearing the same design. The card could be interpreted to mean "in suspense" or, more literally, "hanging around". The latter interpretation being slightly more apropos for the bar's patrons, as many of them spent large amounts of time inside the Hanged Man waiting to move on with life but never doing anything, except drinking, to expedite that process.
Kirkwall's lone watering hole was housed in a two-story building with a deceptively pristine sand-stone façade. The interior of the tavern more accurately reflected the weather-beaten wear and tear of its distinctive logo. The walls were largely unadorned and the available seating in the bar was sparse. Austere, rectangular, wooden tables flanked by backless, wooden seating benches were dotted around the room and were punctuated by the occasional round, wooden table with accompanying—albeit mismatched—chairs. Only a few of which had stable backs. Rusty orange banners were strung up to the high, vaulted ceiling in a pattern that, at one time, might have passed for eclectic. Any chance the banners had at seeming decorative was dashed by their tattered, stained appearance. The floorboards were a pale brown color and splotched with spilled ale, vomit, and occasionally urine. But in spite of its aesthetic shortcomings, the Hanged Man was a popular destination among Kirkwall's residents and strangers alike, and possessed a sort of rustic charm.
Isabela unequivocally adored it.
She sat in her usual spot facing the south wall, with the shorter side of the L-shaped bar counter to her immediate left, nursing a tankard of ale. She often spent her nights here, reveling in the scraggly hodge-podge that reminded her of life at sea. The life she had been forced to abandon. Occasionally she entertained company—an amusing distraction that took her mind off of the harsh reality of her circumstances. Tonight she was alone, but not for a lack of overeager suitors. Initially, she had politely refused their offers to refill her glass with a tight smile and an ambiguous "maybe next time", but as the night wore on the seemingly unending advances had grown more lewd and significantly more annoying.
At one point, she had spotted another horny, thickheaded, drunk preparing to make a pass at her and stopped him before he could even make it half way across the room by standing, raising her right palm, and shaking her head. Since then, she had adopted a glare and grimace combination that would not have been more subtle than having the words fuck off tattooed on her forehead, and she was given a wide berth. Isabela was in a terrible mood and knew that it was only a matter of time before her peaceful solitude would be interrupted again. The sound of heavy footfalls on the floor behind her proved her assessment to be accurate. She sighed deeply. She was too tired to think of a particularly scathing rejection and too drunk to start a brawl. She decided to settle for a detached indifference—the proverbial cold shoulder. She heard the footsteps stop at the far end of the table, felt the lusty eyes drink in her plunging neck-line, and prepared to thoroughly ignore him.
"Isabela! My dusky goddess!" he began, and introduced himself as Mortimer Turnbee—a mildly successful entrepreneur.
Isabela sloshed the contents of her mug for a few seconds before tipping back her head and polishing off the ale. She slammed the mug down hard enough to leave a crescent-moon indent on the pock-marked wood.
Mortimer persevered. "You have buried yourself in the flesh of my heart like a worm in a red, red apple."
While Turnbee struggled not to slur any of his words, Isabela motioned to Corff, the surly bartender, for another drink by pantomiming that she was holding a glass. The barkeep gestured to Mortimer, asking-without-saying if he was bothering her. Isabela shook her head, and Corff pulled another tankard down from the shelf behind him. The aged bartender was very fond of Isabela, and had been ever since she had bailed him out of some financial trouble. Corff had grown very protective of her as well. He was a man of exceptional size—tall with a paunch that extended over the front of his bar apron. His face was equally as intimidating with a thick, black, handlebar mustache that was almost swallowed up in the dark five o'clock shadow surrounding it, and steel grey eyes beneath bushy eyebrows that were framed by his neck-length, salt-and-pepper hair. His exposed forearms were engorged with corded muscle and covered in coarse, black hair. He eyed Turnbee once more suspiciously before shrugging, and filling up another mug with ale from one of the abnormally large barrels behind the bar counter.
Mortimer finally seemed to notice that Isabela wasn't paying any attention to him and ratcheted his speech volume up another notch.
"You heart-worm you!" he said.
His outburst was slightly successful because Isabela then turned to look at him. He wasn't altogether unattractive. He had thick, sandy-blond hair that was pulled back into a short ponytail and green eyes that were slightly glazed over with drunkenness. He wore a white, short-sleeved tunic with an unfolded, stand-up collar that was unfastened in what—Isabela imagined—was supposed to be a fashionable way. There were ornate grey designs that wound down the front of the tunic and that trimmed the cuffs of the sleeves as well as the hemline. He had on dark blue pantaloons and calf-high, brown leather boots. There was a dusting of hair along his upper lip that foreshadowed a mustache, and a small patch of sandy-blond fuzz beneath his mouth. Isabela decided that under normal conditions she may have even found him handsome, if not a little young, for her tastes. She returned her gaze to the table in front of her. Maybe next time, she thought.
"There you are!" shouted a new voice. "I've been looking for you!"
Isabela jumped at the sound, but a smile quickly began to spread across her face as she recognized the speaker. She twisted around in her seat and met the brown eyes of Garrett Hawke, her travelling companion. The white of his teeth was evident from beneath the short, full, black beard that covered the bottom half of his face. He was smiling back at her. She was slightly caught off guard by the warmth that began to spread through her while observing his rugged-but-friendly face, and decided that she was elated by his timing more than his presence.
She didn't spare Mortimer a glance while she said, "Oh, look. My friend is here. Excuse me."
Turnbee recognized that his already-slim chances had just taken a turn for the worse and desperately clung to whatever hope he had left.
"But I haven't gotten to the part where I invite you to feast upon my tender, white flesh," he begged.
Without turning from Hawke, Isabela said, "That's alright! I think I'll manage."
She spun around completely on the bench where she was seated and stood to welcome him. Garrett took a step towards her and moved to place a familiar hand on her shoulder. Mortimer anticipated the move and hurriedly clambered around the table to try and interrupt the exchange. He stretched out a hand to grasp Isabela's arm and reclaim whatever miniscule amount of her attention that he had been awarded, but Isabela saw his scramble out of the corner of her eye and made a quick decision. Grabbing the back of Hawke's neck, she hauled him down and mashed their lips together in a searing kiss, effectively freezing Turnbee. Mortimer withdrew his hand as if he had placed it over a hot stove, blanched, and suddenly found the floor to be very interesting.
If Hawke had been surprised by the kiss, he didn't show it. Isabela had felt him stiffen with shock but he quickly relaxed and responded to her. He slid the hand on her shoulder down to her lower back and pressed their bodies closer together while weaving his other hand into her shoulder-length, brown hair. When they had separated there was a smirk on his face, but a question in his eyes. Isabela whispered that she would explain, but first she sided-nodded towards Mortimer and winked. Hawke shifted his gaze to rest on the rather pale gentleman that appeared to be attempting to count the number of stitches on the toe of one of his boots.
"Can I help you?" Hawke addressed him.
"Yes—Martin, was it?—you were saying?"
The man raised his head and his eyes flickered over to Isabela and then to where Hawke's hand rested dangerously low on the pirate's waist.
"It's Mortimer," he said, once again avoiding eye contact. He grumbled "have a pleasant evening," as he turned and walked dejectedly back to his table.
Isabela thought she heard him mutter something about that being the last time that he ever took flirting advice from a dwarf. She turned back to Hawke and realized that she had a much more pressing problem at hand. She still had not released her hold on him, and she laughed nervously as she unwrapped her arms from around his neck. It was her turn to avoid the gaze of her companion, and she busied herself by fastidiously brushing invisible dust off of his tunic and smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. Hawke waited patiently for her to explain herself, and the silence lasted about a minute before Isabela spoke out.
"Sorry," she quickly glanced up, then back down at her hands. "It's been a rough night."
She couldn't remember the last time she had been embarrassed about—let alone apologized for—anything that she had done. What did it matter what Hawke thought of her?
The man in question chuckled quietly then said, "You don't need to apologize for that." He slid his hand off of her hip and back to rest at his side and continued.
"You probably don't even need to ask me if you want to do it again."
Isabela was glad that he didn't try to push her into talking about what had been bothering her, and instead followed his lead. She backed out of his immediate vicinity and slugged him in the shoulder.
"Sorry, Hawke," she smiled teasingly. "One-time offer only." She gestured with her thumb back, over her shoulder, towards the table where Mortimer sat wallowing in self-pity while three of his friends mocked his failed pick-up attempt. One of them stood up and mimicked Turnbee's surprised expression and then pretended to faint and the other two erupted in laughter.
"I just needed help getting rid of tall, drunk, and pasty over there." She folded her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to lean on her right leg. "You were just the closest available body."
Hawke raised an eyebrow that said you're so full of shit and you know it, but didn't press.
"Usually women have to treat me to dinner first," he said. Isabela laughed.
"Don't be such an ass!" she warned through a smile, but then she turned to Corff and held up two fingers.
"Your finest," she said and then motioned for Hawke to take the empty seat across from her. "So, what brings you to Lowtown? Slummin' it?"
"Business actually, if you can believe that," Hawke indicated a small parcel that he had placed on the table beside him.
"During one of my…adventures down by the docks I stumbled across an underground passage," he paused and waited for Corff to set down their frothy tankards before continuing. "I did a little exploring and found this hat inside of a crate," he took a sip from his glass. "It had the name 'Waxler' scrawled on the underside of the brim. So I did some asking around, and it turns out my little friend Waxler is a regular patron here at the Hanged Man." He pointed diagonally past Isabela to the far corner of the bar where a hooded dwarf with a thick beard was standing with his arms folded, trying to look menacing.
"Glad I ran into you, though," he said.
"Why's that? And don't say anything about 'eating white flesh' or I'll douse those fine new clothes of yours with a pint of ale." Isabela glanced at his mug and then amended, "Two pints."
Hawke laughed again, but carefully slid his glass to a point that was safely out of her reach.
"I wanted to speak with you," he said.
"What about?"
"Something that's been nagging at me."
"Could you be a bit more cryptic, perhaps?"
Hawke smiled enigmatically and then added, "Perhaps."
He stood up and snatched the paper-wrapped parcel off of the table and made off towards the grumpy dwarf in the corner of the bar. As he passed her he said, "Don't go anywhere."
Isabela held up her mug in a mock-salute to signal her acquiescence, took a long pull on her drink, and then sarcastically mumbled, "Wouldn't dream of it."
Hawke offered Isabela his hand in assistance as they left the Hanged Man two hours after midnight. A pudgy drunk had passed out on the threshold of bar's only entrance and was snoring loudly, blissfully unaware of his obstructing position. Isabela accepted the proffered fingers but still made a point of stepping on the slumbering man's stomach, eliciting a painful groan from him. Hawke grinned at her actions. They were so…Isabela. He released her hand as she settled into stride beside him.
The night air was warm but tempered by a cool breeze coming from the sea that filled the air with the slight twang of salt. If anything but the large rock walls around Lowtown had been visible, the pair would have been able to admire the cloudless sky. Another gust of wind washed over the twosome and Isabela shivered and shifted closer to Hawke. He noticed her slight discomfort and extended the crook of his elbow towards her. Isabela wrapped her hands around his arm and smiled up at him with silent gratitude.
"Not exactly dressed to withstand the breeze," he said.
Isabela chuckled, "No, not exactly."
Her dress more closely resembled a short, thin sheet of off-white fabric with a V-shaped hole carved out in the middle for her head and neck. The hemline of the dress fell to just below her buttocks, and the neckline revealed a healthy amount of cleavage. She wore a brown, leather corset that covered her midsection from the underside of her breasts to the top of her hips. A blue, silk sash was slung low around her waist and she wore a matching bandana in her hair. The attire was fitted to accentuate Isabela's hourglass figure, but hung loose from the bellybutton down to allow for adequate freedom of motion. Various bands of cloth and leather circled her bare arms and studded, fingerless gloves adorned her hands. As always, the outfit was completed by the pair of distinctive buckled-leather boots that rose to her mid-thigh. Hawke examined her clothing once more before chuckling to himself. Isabela hip-checked him and told him to shut up while laughing right along.
They proceeded west out of the tavern, towards the Gallows. Upon reaching a larger commercial alley, the pair turned right and headed north towards Hightown. Once they began climbing the two-hundred and fifty foot staircase that led to the wealthier districts of Kirkwall, the moon and the stars became visible above the craggy overhangs. Isabela began to tell Hawke about navigating the seas by the position of the stars. She grew more excited with each step and soon took one hand off of his arm and pointed out to various constellations that she recognized—most of them Hawke didn't. Her finger dexterously traced their outlines in the night sky as she told the Champion of Kirkwall about her many exploits on the raging seas of Thedas. He listened intently to her stories and recognized the faraway look in her eyes as nostalgia and perhaps longing.
"You really miss it, don't you?" he said as they came to a halt.
Isabela nodded thoughtfully and said, "More than anything." She stared into the eyes of her companion. He stared back.
"Maybe when all of…," he swiveled his arm out in front of himself in a sweeping motion. "This is over you can return to your former life."
"Mmm, maybe."
They held each other's gaze for some time, content to be in the presence of one another. Isabela wondered, not for the first time, what this was that was building between them. She thought about the kiss back in the Hanged Man, and then thought about how she would like to try it again. Something held her back and the moment passed, but she quickly grasped his forearm again as they turned back to ascend the stairs leading to Hightown.
"Now," she began excitedly, "let me show you one that looks like a phallus!"
Isabella and Hawke continued north into Hightown but turned east at a fork and traveled towards the merchant district. Past the shops and at the edge of a vast courtyard directly across from the Viscount's Keep was the Hawke Estate. Along the way, Garrett explained that the property had originally belonged to his mother's parents and bore the name of the Amell Estate. In their will, the Amells had left their house and fortune to Hawke's mother, Leandra, but she was unable to attend her parents' funeral having just given birth to Carver and Bethany Hawke—Garrett's siblings—and so control of the estate fell into the hands of Gamlen Amell. Only recently had Hawke and his mother been allowed to move in.
It was a tasteful piece of architecture with a dark-stone façade and a short, arched passageway that led to an ornate, wooden door. The pair stopped just before the passageway, and faced each other in a comfortable silence. Isabela admired the opulence of their surroundings that—she noted—was distinctly absent anywhere else in Kirkwall.
"I still can't believe you live here," she said after she had concluded her inspection of the landscape.
"Isabela," Hawke sighed in resignation. They had been down this road before. "I know you don't appro—"
"What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?" she interrupted. Hawke narrowed his eyes slightly in a: we're-not-done-talking-about-this manner, but he chose to let it drop and turned his mind towards answering her question.
"Nothing," he said.
"What?"
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing," he repeated.
Isabela put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. "Then why the hell did you tell me that you did?"
He shrugged again but tossed in a smile for good measure. "Just wanted to spend some time with you."
Isabela returned the smile but still regarded him with incredulity. "What? You could have just asked, Hawke. No need for all the cloak and dagger."
"Oh no," he shook his head. "I was watching you in the Hanged Man; you were determined to spend the night alone. Nobody—nobody—in their right mind turns down that many free drinks. I don't know what the Maker did to piss you off, but I've never seen so much rejection in all of my life."
"So, what? You thought that you could just come in and sweep me off my feet?"
"No. That's why I hired Mortimer."
Isabela's eyes grew wide with shock, and she stepped in to slug Hawke's shoulder again. This time a little harder.
"You what?"
"I paid him some coin to go and speak with you. Even asked Varric to give him some lines that were certain to get him shot down. Based on your reaction though, he may have gone a tad bit overboard."
"Varric knew?" she punched the same shoulder.
"Of course, you didn't think Mortimer came up with that apple metaphor all by himself did you?" Hawke said.
Isabela made a show of pondering the question, and then remembered what Mortimer had said about ignoring the advice of a dwarf. Sneaky bastard, she thought but after a few seconds she ended up just whacking Garrett in the shoulder again.
"Ow!" he rubbed at the tender spot on his upper arm. "Will you please stop hitting me?"
"When I decide that you're no longer a jackass," she replied.
She drew back her fist to strike once more, but Hawke caught her wrist in midair and then he drew his body flush to her own. They were so close together that with each breath they took, their chests rubbed against one another. Hawke placed her captured hand over his shoulder, and slowly withdrew his arm as if he was afraid that she might take the opportunity smack him in the back of the head. The blow never came. Hawke searched her golden-colored eyes a moment before he leaned down and connected their lips for the second time.
This kiss was very different from the first. They had been rushed and frantic inside of the Hanged Man, but here—beneath the stars—there was no sense of urgency. They explored each other's mouths slowly and passionately. The anger stirring within Isabela transformed into desire and she arched her back to press herself deeper into Hawke's strong, warm body. They came up for air after some time, but remained close together.
"Isabela, I—"
She took hold of the hand he had draped around her waist and slid it down so that he was now cupping her backside.
"Shut up, and kiss me," she commanded. Hawke did not have to be told twice.
They eventually made their way into the Hawke Estate, up the staircase to the left of the main hall, and into Garrett's bedroom.
"I guess this means that I'm forgiven," Hawke said as Isabela continued to lead him silently, by hand, towards the four-poster canopy bed.
"Not yet," she smirked. "Tell me Hawke, have you ever been to bed with a pirate captain before?"
Garrett shook his head. "Going to show me what I've been missing?" he challenged.
Isabela spun around and reversed their positions. She pushed Hawke back onto the bed and then crawled in between his legs to sit astride him.
"You'll see," she said, a moment before leaning down and hungrily capturing his lips—silencing him for good.
Fin.
The apple/worm exchange between Mortimer and Isabela was directly quoted from an in-game cutscene. All of the credit for that dialogue belongs to the Dragon Age II writers.
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