A clatter of metal against wood, the scrape of something sharp as it drags along the floor. Varric shouldn't associate these sounds with Hawke, shouldn't expect to see her face bloodied and bruised as she stumbles into his room. Thank the Maker it's the crack of dawn, even the bawdy drunks must be asleep in their cups by now.

"You look like hell, Hawke. Who did you pick on this time?"

Her teeth show through lips dripping red, a grin that manages to light up even the dingy corners of the Hanged Man. "Hey! You know the templars always pick on me first."

His head shakes ruefully. As if the templars need more excuses to loathe Hawke. Not like she's an unapologetic, opinionated apostate running around their city or anything. Why not add the actual murder of some of their rank and file to the list? Meredith will love it. "Of course they do."

Hawke leans her staff against the wall, heads for a chair until he nudges her toward the bed. Like he's going to let her sit up in a chair in this state. She huffs at his prodding, but doesn't have the patience to resist for long. A good call. He can easily match her in talent for being a magnificent pain in the ass when necessary.

She falls onto the mattress, shoves off her boots. Her long fingers fumble at the clasps of her armor.

And he notices them shake.

His hands are gentle as they grasp her wrists, take over the task without a word. The armor is scratched and dented, covered in ash and drying gore. He doesn't balk, but carefully pulls away each piece until only fabric and skin remains. He sees what the armor hid. Her clothes are ripped, the ragged edges stained a dark red. And her skin is covered in bruises, purple and blue spatters. Ink upon white parchment, except he'd never call this art.

Turning, he retrieves one of his shirts, throws it over his shoulder in her general direction.

While she changes, Varric begins to tick off his fingers, a comprehensive list of the people Hawke has managed to piss off. "The city guard, magisters, slavers–"

Of course she immediately picks up on what he's doing and chimes in, "Your brother, the Viscount."

"– nobles in general, basically every gang in Kirkwall–

"Pretty sure the Chantry doesn't like me either. Oh, and Carver. Even though I don't deserve that one."

By now, the sound of rustling fabric has stopped. He turns to face her again. She sits in the middle of the bed, knees pulled up to her chest. "–and the templars. You ever heard the phrase 'pick your battles'?"

Damn if she doesn't smirk, waiting for the punchline.

"You do realize that means you don't choose all of them, right?"

Her laugh is like summer rain, warm and sweet, beautiful even if it comes with a storm. "Are you going to try to make me put some back?" Her dark brows arch, challenging him.

Trying to start yet another battle. Of course.

"Nah, I know better. I'll be right beside your stubborn ass through all of them." A long-suffering sigh, as if it's a chore. But then he meets her gaze, that striking blue, brighter than lyrium and, to him, infinitely more addictive. And in that look is the same promise buried in his words.

"Ever my trusty dwarf." Another huff of laughter, as if it's all a joke. But she knows better.

He knows she knows.

"Yeah, ever yours."