A/N: Takes place during The Two Swords

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This is the rewritten version (as of 8/27/08) and will not be continued like I had previously planned; it will remain a oneshot. Hopefully it's a little better than it was, and I hope you enjoy it.

Set after the events of Road of the Patriarch by R.A. Salvatore.

Dwahvel Tiggerwillies yawned and rubbed her eyes as she wrapped a warm robe around her small form. It was well past midnight, and at long last the patrons of the Copper Ante had either left the establishment or retreated to their rooms.

Except, of course, Artemis Entreri. He sat at a table in the common room, one finger idly tracing the rim of his empty mug of ale. His eyes were red and his face gray from a recent lack of sleep. He looked up as Dwahvel came into the room, but his bleary eyes seemed to see right through her.

The halfling sighed and moved to him, waving one of her tiny hands in front of his face.

"Artemis?" she asked him. "Are you there?"

He nodded absentmindedly, his dark gaze turning to meet her eyes. "Yes, sorry. I know you want to get to bed—I'll clean this up." He motioned to the mug as he scooted his chair back. "Goodnight."

Dwahvel stayed where she was, watching the man curiously. She had come to know him uncommonly well the last time he and Jarlaxle had stayed at her inn. Now, she had once again gotten used to the late-night talks; she had even stranger insights into the inner workings of his mind and character. She was so familiar with every little nuance and could tell with just a quick glance what kind of mood he was in, even when others just saw a perpetually sullen assassin. She knew that something was on his mind.

"Anything you want to talk about, Artemis?" she asked nonchalantly. She had learned that if she asked him carefully enough, he would tell her.

He turned to look at her, studying her for a brief moment. He opened his mouth, then hesitated and shook his head. "No. No, there isn't," he replied as he scrubbed a rag over the mug. "But thank you for your concern, my friend."

Dwahvel's eyes narrowed. He had been calling her that ever he had returned from Vaasa, or wherever-it-was, some unheard-of place that had returned him to her a stranger. She didn't like it at all. She wanted her Artemis back, that angry and pessimistic assassin so hell-bent on killing some dark elf Jarlaxle had told her about that he had no room in his mind to think of anything else.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't realize Artemis was speaking, still washing the mug as though his hands needed something to do.

"…sort out my mind. I have never spoken to anyone so freely. I believe I would be hard-pressed to find something about myself you didn't know." He turned to look at her, an odd expression on his pale face. Dwahvel merely looked at him in return, playing, as always, the role of silent listener.

"Friends are very much a foreign concept to me, Dwahvel. But I do consider you one. Jarlaxle was barely even a confidant. I only loved one woman, and even then it was a struggle to tell her anything. You…you may be the most valuable person in my life, Dwahvel. You seem to know my every thought. I'm so thankful to have you. You help me, even when you never speak. I…never mind."

Dwahvel kept her eyes on him, wondering if he would continue. He had been so enigmatic since his return. He was as quiet as always, but it wasn't the sulking silence she was used to; he seemed content, if that were possible. He was less quick to anger. And even his outward appearance had changed a little. He still wore the same road-worn clothes, but his expression was softer, his face now rarely set in the once-customary scowl. His eyes had a gentler look to them, too.

"You don't judge me."

His voice was strangely choked, and he refused to look at her and she stood up and walked slowly over to him, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Of course I don't, my friend," she said quietly, gently taking the clean mug from his hands and setting it in the empty dish rack. "I'm here to help you."

"I know you are," he murmured, at last turning to look at her, a blank expression on his face. The look in his eyes didn't match, though—he desperately wanted to tell her something, and seemed to hope she could guess at it. He shook his head then, and gave a little chuckle. "Thank you for allowing me to stay here. You know you can throw me out whenever you want."

Dwahvel smiled. "Yes, of course. And the moment I do get sick of you, your things will be out on the street!"

Artemis laughed then, a happily genuine sound. "Goodnight, Dwahvel. And thank you again." He ruffled her curly hair on his way out of the room, leaving her alone to ponder for a moment. And then she thought she understood.

Puzzled, not quite sure what to make of what she was positively certain was right, she quickly turned and skipped up the stairs to Artemis's room. She knocked almost frantically on the door. He opened it and looked at her, an eyebrow raised.

Hesitantly, she whispered, "You came back here for me. Didn't you?" She didn't want to be wrong.

The most incredible expression lit up the assassin's face then. His stony eyes crinkled and his lips turned up at the corners, and a moment later an astonishing sound escaped his throat and a great well of mirth, a whole lifetime's worth of it, came bubbling out. He scooped her into his arms and held her close to him, his body warm against hers.

"Yes," he murmured.