Author's Note: Just a quick comment on vocabulary usage once more: when you see the words "conservative" or "liberal" appear, I want to clarify that I do not mean them in the way the terms are used today as far as political affiliations go. Once upon a time, the two words meant something different and they have been perverted into something that many people say with scorn (when referring to their opposite).

I'm sure that I'm just stating the obvious, but I wanted to make that clear to those who might read the story in that light and think I'm "bashing" one or the other (or however else their usage might be perceived). "Liberal" and "conservative" in regards to "democrat" and "republican" have no place in this time period, and as such should not be read in the same vein. Truly, at this time, dem's and rep's were not all that different in the way they slavishly followed classical liberalism. They didn't really start separating themselves until later on in the century.

And I apologize for the mini-rant. I'm no master of American history by any means, but I do love history in general and I sometimes tend to ramble on when something strikes my fancy.

Three

West Downtown Tenements

September 26, 6:00 AM

Anders took a step back and Garret found that a part of him regretted the loss of warmth against his side. He didn't turn to face the man—couldn't, lest he give into the burning temptation—as he reached for the doorknob.

"Thank you again, Garret," Anders said. "Try not to get stabbed again, all right?"

He spoke as if nothing had happened; as if they had just been chatting about the weather like old friends. It was a temporary salve, but it worked to loosen some of the tension that had been building in Garret's shoulders.

"I'll try," he offered with a small smile, still not looking directly at the fairy. "You try and keep a better eye out when you're walking at night."

"I'll try." The warmth in those words made Garret's knees feel like jelly, and he quickly exited the apartment before his willpower could falter again.

Upper East Apartments

8:06 AM

"So the brigand finally returns home?"

Garret had barely stepped inside his home—barely removed his overcoat and ran a hand through his dark tresses with a tired sigh—before his brother was on him. Carver Hawke stood in an open doorway that led to their compound kitchen/dining room, burly arms crossed over his broad chest as he regarded the older man with a disapproving scowl. Garret sighed again as he moved past the scowling young man towards his room further down the hall.

"Oh, that's right. Ignore anyone that dares speak against your illicit lifestyle. I'm sure that'll fix the problem."

Garret halted and half-turned so that he could level his younger brother with the acerbic look he knew the young man hated: "In order to be a 'brigand,' as you say, that would imply that I steal. Nothing that I sell was taken from someone against their will, and the fact that I have customers implies that there are many others who consider this amendment a bunch of bullshit, too."

"Just like a criminal to defend criminals."

With a frustrated sigh, Garret started down the hall once more. Continuing this argument—which was one the brothers had nearly every day—was a pointless endeavor and Garret was far too weary to get into a shouting match. Besides, if things got out of hand—as they had before—mother wasn't here to diffuse the situation as she was often forced to do. She and Uncle Gamlen would be out in the market by now, meeting with their friends and pining over the many little things they were no longer able to afford.

Leandra Hawke—previously Leandra Amell—had once been the daughter of an affluent businessman with an ample fortune hanging heavy in his pockets. But when she had decided to marry a poor, transient immigrant from Germany, Leandra had promptly been disowned. Her new husband had taken her back to Germany where they had given birth to Garret and Gamlen had been left behind as the family's sole heir.

Garret couldn't speak too disparagingly of his Uncle, for if it wasn't for him, the Hawke family wouldn't have a home; but Gamlen was a blithering idiot, through and through, and upon the death of his parents had promptly taken their money and lost it all in several hopeless investment ventures. Despite Leandra's being a woman, their parents had always favored their daughter and truly the money had been left to her in their will. But since she had been out of the country when the Amells had fallen beneath a bout of cholera—and since there were very few judges who would take the word of a woman over a man—there was no way to get the money back and no real way to punish Gamlen for his theft.

Garret wanted to change that for his mother, but working as a bartender—even if he was employed at one of the more affluent saloons in the city—wasn't really enough pay to bring his family back to the affluence that was their birthright. The most he had been able to do was move them out of Gamlen's hovel down by the railroad tracks into a decent apartment in the Upper East Side.

The Hawke brothers shared a room and as Garret stepped inside the cramped quarters, he could hear Carver's heavy footsteps following close behind. Apparently it had been too much to hope that the younger man would drop the issue. Irritation emanated from Carver in suffocating waves as he pursued his brother into their room and watched as Garret sat heavily on the side of his bed, leaning forward to unlace his boots.

"When are you going to give this up?" Carver asked. "When you get arrested, do you really think the authorities won't turn to us next? Think of mother!"

"I do think of mother! Every day!" A boot was angrily tugged off and thrown across the room, thumping heavily against the wall. "Look at where you live, you little prat! My money paid for this!"

"Illegal money!"

"Then leave! You're seventeen, Carver. I hesitate to call you a man, but you are certainly old enough to get your own job and your own place if everything I do is so offensive to your delicate sensibilities."

Carver seethed, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say, because he knew that Garret was right. Most young men had jobs at age twelve—some even younger if it was needed—but thanks to Garret's hard work, Gamlen's supplemental income, and mother's somewhat smothering nature over her youngest child, Carver had never truly needed to get out and get his own hands dirty. Their family wasn't rich, but they made enough to live in a decent home with regular meals and enough funds to support an unemployed young man.

"If you're done," Garret said, frustration giving way to weariness, "then I'll ask you to leave. I have work tonight and I need to get some rest."

He laid back on the bed—not bothering to change his clothes—and threw an arm over his eyes. Silence stretched for a long moment before he heard Carver finally shuffle out of the room, heavy footsteps plodding down the hall. Garret waited until he heard the front door slam shut before he finally lowered his arm and studied the warped ceiling above him. He hadn't been lying when he said he had work, but sleep seemed an elusive thing.

A part of his mind wondered if perhaps he had gone a bit too far with Carver—if his words had been a bit too harsh. It was true that the volatile young man needed to get his own life, but Garret regretted calling his brother's manhood into question. The only reason he had was because he had become a master at getting beneath his brother's skin. Garret knew just the right things to say to drive Carver into a frenzy and oftentimes his own pettiness allowed him to take their argumentative conversations to that impasse.

But more than that, Garret's thoughts were occupied by Anders's haunting eyes and the beautiful way he smiled. Allowing that smile to wash over his mind, Garret eventually fell into a troubled slumber.

5:19 PM

Garret awoke with a start, covered in cold sweat. His clothes—still dirty and bloodstained from the night before—clung to him at awkward angles, especially over his groin which was painfully tense. Only ghosts of images from his dreams remained, but Garret could piece enough together to realize what had caused his erection and to feel just a bit of shame for its existence. He could hear the muffled voices of his family down the hall and Garret knew he would have to take care of the disturbance quickly, lest they think less of him.

He reached down into his waistband and wrapped a hand around the turgid length beneath, beginning a steady stroking rhythm with his fisted hand. The mental images he normally used for such occasion—such as Isabela's ample bosom, or the multitude of sounds he often heard coming from the back rooms of the Hanged Man—eluded him; the only thing Garret could focus on was Anders's smile.

Anders's eyes. Anders's touch. Anders's cock pressed tight against his side.

He shoved his free hand into his mouth to stifle the cry that bubbled up through his throat as he came. It had been quicker than usual; normally it took much more than one person's face to draw him over the edge. But that was the power the fairy held over him, and Garret realized that he had never before felt so relaxed.

The churches around town always preached that to desire sex was a sin of lust; sex only existed for procreation, and to think of it outside of that context was to be wicked. Of course, Garret's parents had taught him something slightly different, if not in words then in the way they had always watched one another; always touched one another even in light fingertips brushing against a strand of hair or the ghost of a kiss upon a cheek. The times were changing rapidly, but the old adages of religion and the stuffy opinions of stalwart conservatives still held strong.

Garret used his sweat-soaked shirt to clean the mess before donning a clean set of clothes and heading down the hallway. Mother and Gamlen were seated at the dining table in the kitchen, chatting as they sipped at steaming mugs. Coffee was a bit of a luxury, but Garret's father had always favored it and had gotten Leandra hooked on the stuff, too, thus Garret made sure that they always had some in the house. As he passed through the open doorway, Leandra looked up at him with her usual warm smile.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up. How was work?"

"Busy," Garret said. "Varric brought in a few upper-class customers last night and they kept us late. I'm sorry I didn't make it home."

Leandra waved the apology away. "Don't worry about it, dear. I just worry that that man works you too hard."

"Some nights, but it's good pay and good company, so I don't mind."

"Hmph," Gamlen snorted. "If you brought some of your 'product' home I might be more inclined to forgive you, boy."

"Gamlen!" Leandra slapped lightly at his arm.

"Sorry, Uncle," Garret said with a wolfish turn of his mouth. "I don't think you have enough money to afford the drink or the girls. And trust me, they'd charge double for you."

"Garret! Please don't speak that way in the house! You know I don't agree with your work, but I accept it anyways. If you want me to keep accepting it, allow a mother her ignorance."

"Of course, mother. I'm sorry."

"And Gamlen, if you don't clean up your tongue, I'll have you sleeping on the stoop."

The graying man snorted again, but said nothing more. No matter what petty rivalries the pair had exercised in the past, they were still family and Leandra was not the kind of person a wise man said "no" to. Even if Gamlen tried to defy his sister—or do anything else to threaten or harm her, as he had occasionally hinted at doing—the man knew that he would have two very irate Hawkes on him in a heartbeat. It was one of the few things Carver and Garret could ever agree on, and when it came to their mother there were a dozen different alleys one could hide a body in where it wouldn't be found for weeks.

As Garret moved past the pair into the kitchen to find some food, Leandra let out a sharp gasp.

"Garret! You arm! What happened?"

He looked down at his arm—which was still covered in the now-filthy bandages Anders had used—and cursed beneath his breath. How could he have forgotten about that?

"Um…I tripped?"

Leandra was already on her feet and moving across the small room to arrest his wounded arm in her grasp, running her fingers lightly over a patch of rust-colored cloth where the bleeding had soaked through.

"Does it hurt? What happened? Who did this?"

Garret tried to pull his arm away, but she was having none of that. "It's nothing, mother. I promise. There was…a fight last night and I got a little careless. It doesn't hurt and I didn't recognize their faces."

"A fight in the bar?"

"Um…no. On the street."

"Ohh! This is why I hate the fact that you work so late! There are so many gangs prowling the streets at night. Can't you ask Varric to work in the daytime?"

"The bar's only open at night, mother. Besides, it's just a scratch. I'll be more careful from now on."

She leveled him with a stern glare. "You'd better be. I've already buried one child; I will not bury another, do you hear me?"

Garret rested his much-larger hand over her pale fingers, squeezing them lightly. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Leandra allowed him to pull away this time, though her anxious gaze still lingered on his stained bandages. Garret had thought to get something in his stomach before he left for work, but now he felt a bit nauseous. That tended to happen whenever the subject of his sister was brought up. Bethany Hawke had been a sweet girl who hadn't deserved her end and no matter the fact that years had passed since that terrible night, Garret couldn't help but feel responsible—a feeling that Carver never let him forget.

He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his mother's brow before heading towards the door. Leandra followed him into the hall, watching as he shouldered on his heavily patched coat.

"I left some money on your dresser," Garret said. "Why don't you buy yourself a new dress? I heard a rumor that Mrs. Foley is a particularly skilled seamstress. Lives just down the street, too."

"Perhaps I will." Leandra tried to smile, but the gesture did not reach her eyes. "I love you, darling."

"I love you, too, mother."

The Hanged Man

5:32 PM

Varric looked over his books with a practiced eye, consternation furrowing his brow into a wrinkled mess. The party the night before had brought in quite a bit of cash, but it wasn't enough. Bit by bit, his saloon was losing business and the expenses of keeping it open were fast beginning to outweigh the profits. Prohibition was hitting hard and keeping a place like this—that had once been a classy joint that drew in the middle-class crowd who always had an extra penny burning in their pockets—open was beginning to seem like a losing battle.

Not to mention the fact that the Committee of Fifteen was also cracking down, making Varric paranoid about whether the men who stepped in at night were really customers or some undercover investigator rooting out prostitution violations. The business itself was accepted overall, but the city officials seemed determined to remove all instances of "immoral activities" from the underbelly where they had always reigned supreme.

His options so far were either to cut off several of his girls or lower the standards of his bar. The former would be the easiest solution, but it would only be a temporary fix; eventually, he'd have to let all of the girls go just to keep the saloon from going under and after that happened, he would go bankrupt anyways. But the latter option…well, that wasn't really fair to the girls, either. Part of the reason they had signed up to work for Varric—paying him a small fee from every nightly client—was because he had not only promised them housing and food, but had promised to keep the riff-raff away from them. Lowering the standards of the saloon would put them at risk for that and soon enough there would be no real difference between working here and working on the streets.

Slender hands gently gripped his shoulders, fingers moving in a soothing pattern as they worked to ease the tension that had been building in his shoulders and neck. Varric leaned back with a contented sigh, closing his eyes and allowing those fingers to relax his body bit by bit.

"You should come have a drink with me," Isabela's voice purred next to his ear. "Sit up here much longer and you'll probably become one with the dust."

Varric chuckled, reaching up to grasp one of her tanned hands in his own so that he could plant a light kiss on the palm. "And perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing. At least dust doesn't have to think or worry. It just lies there and waits placidly for a rag to move it along its way."

"Mm, so you're in that kind of mood." Isabela moved so that she could perch on the edge of the table beside him, hands crossed over her bosom as she considered him. "Want to talk about it?"

"What good will it do? Thanks to that damn Volstead Act, I've lost a good quarter of my customers. Who wants to go to a saloon for a glass of chalky water?"

"Not to mention the new crack-down on prostitution. A couple of my friends were arrested just the other day for propositioning sailors down by the docks."

"Thanks," Varric said, sarcasm heavily lacing his voice, "I'd almost forgotten about that."

Chuckling, Isabela reached out to cup his bristled cheek in her palm. "No need to be snarky, hon. I have a suggestion or two you might want to consider."

"Might as well. At this point, I'm just about ready to try anything."

"First," Isabela began, dropping her hand back to the table, "I think that you should increase the portion we pay you from our clients."

"You'd willingly give more of your own pay?"

"Varric, you let us board and eat here for free. This is a thousand times better than working in the alleys where it wasn't always likely you would even be able to find a clean room for the…transaction. If taking a little more out of my pocket to keep this place from going under and thus keep myself from returning to that life, then I'll gladly pay you more."

"And what of the others?"

Isabela shrugged. "I think that most will agree with little persuasion. But if there are any who don't accept the idea, then they can leave. Either way, you'll get more money."

Varric nodded thoughtfully, mulling the idea over for a moment before he said: "And your other suggestion?"

"I have a…friend who works in the bootlegger business. If you'd like, I might be able to get you a cut."

"Oh? And what all would that entail?"

"Well, I don't know all the details, but I assume that he will want to use your saloon as a base of sorts: a place where he and his men can rest without fear of harassment. If you want to know what else he has up his sleeve, you'll have to talk to him yourself."

"I'll consider it," Varric said after a moment's pause. He trusted Isabela—to an extent. She was a good woman, but at the same time she was the type who would do anything and everything she needed for herself first and foremost. They had built up a good camaraderie over the years, but Varric had no doubt that he, too, would be left behind should Isabela ever find herself in a position that called for a quick getaway.

Not that he was really any different.

Isabela had risen to her feet and made it to the door that led back down into the main room of the tavern when she stopped and turned back suddenly.

"Oh, and one more thing: might I suggest hiring a few different people?"

Varric rolled his eyes. "That's one of my problems, my dear: too many girls."

Dark mischief glinted in her eyes. "I never said anything about more girls."

Before Varric could even think of a response, Isabela was out the door and gliding down the stairs. Distantly, he could hear her sultry voice as she struck up a conversation with the other girls. Truly, that woman had a sharp mind. Perhaps Varric had been a tad bit fatalistic before her visit, but her ideas would take some careful thought.

"Different people" indeed…