Varric watched in shock and awe as Hawke saunters straight up to a templar, her staff in plain view, and stuffed a copy of Anders' manifesto right through the helm slit.

"Delivery for Knight-Captain Cullen." She smirked.

"Serah Hawke?!" Sputtered the hapless templar, fumbling for the papers, then giving up, and pulling of his helmet.

"Oh, so sorry, I thought you helmet was a mailbox." Next to Varric, Isabela was doubled over, wheezing for breath through her laughter, as Anders guided her out of the Gallows, mouth twitching.

"I told you I would get it to Cullen," Hawke chortled on the ferry back to the docks.

"That was... His face!" The pirate gasped, and high-fived Hawke.

"Pay up, Handsome," Hawke held a hand out demandingly at Varric, who willing handed over three sovereigns.

"Never again will I bet against you being able to render me speechless, Chuckles."

The noise in the Hanged Man dropped briefly, prompting Hawke to glance at the door. Knight-Captain Cullen had entered, with a look of decided consternation on his face.

"Oh, shit," Was Isabela's comment. Hawke just took another swallow of the piss-poor ale.

"Nah, he's in leathers, so it isn't official business, Gorgeous." Next to the pirate, Fenris shook his head in disbelief.

"Hawke, I stand by my statement that you are utterly insane, and have no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever." An awkward cough from Cullen, who'd finally managed to get though the crowds prompted Hawke to lean over backwards so she could see him.

"Knight-Captain Cullen, to what to I owe the pleasure? Please, grab a seat, we're about to start another round of wicked grace." She purred, dropping her voice seductively, just to watch the templar flush and stammer.

"I...ah, I r-received an... unusual delivery...Ser Rylen said you had shoved it in his helmet... while he was still wearing it."

"Oh, that. I thought his helmet was a mailbox, actually. Templar helmet really do resemble them, I'm afraid."

"Hawke." Cullen's tone was a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"Cullen?" She mimicked mockingly.

"Please refrain from shoving inflammatory writings in the helmets of my men."

"Awww..." She was fixed with a stern look, which was answered with a pout. "Fine... Ser Spoilsport."

"Good. Farewell, Champion."

Two days later, he was back.

"I thought I asked you not to shove things in my men's helmets, Hawke." The woman in question waved a hand absently at him, staring fixedly at Varric.

"Hawke... Hawke, what are you doing?" Cullen asked, in bewilderment. Varric blinked, and Hawke threw up her arms in a gesture of triumph, narrowly missing hitting Cullen in the face.

"Winning a staring contest with Varric, of course."

"Best eleven out of twenty one?"

"Hawke, you shoved a letter for me in the helmet of one of my templars patrolling Hightown."

"And?"

"I asked you not to."

"Nooooo, you asked me 'Please refrain from shoving inflammatory writings in the helmets', Cullen." Hawke smirked.

"Maker's Breath, I forgot how annoying your perfect memory can be. Please do not shove anything in the helmets of my men."

"Maker! Hawke, I asked-" Cullen huffed, in irritation.

"I didn't do it, Cullen, Isabela did." Hawke said, her tone of perfect innocence ruined by the smirk she wasn't bothering to hide.

"Okay, please do not put anything in my men's helmets, nor have anyone else do so for you."

"Hawke..."

"It was one of your female templars."

"None of my people should have anything shoved in their helmets by you or anyone else."

"Really, Hawke?"

"Carver is my brother, he's not a person."

"Maker's Breath, Hawke!" Cullen was sounding dangerously close to a wail.

"What? I shoved it in his breastplate, not his helmet."

"I haven't assaulted a templar with paper today, what are you doing in the Hanged Man, Cullen?"

"I give up. I just give up. You are going to keep harassing my people no matter what I do, so I here to get very, very drunk."

"Well, it's Wicked Grace night; we take turns buying rounds..."

"Why not?"

Varric snickered as he entered Hawke's manor, through the garden entrance. The sight of the helmet, on top of a box and post never failed to amuse him. Cullen had proved to be a horrid player of Wicked Grace, and even worse when drunk. The Knight-Captain had, by the end of the night, lost everything but his smalls, and that only because Hawke had taken pity and let him keep them. Now all letters addressed to Hawke ended up going through the slit of the helm, and into a locked box, when no one was home to pick them up.

"What's so funny, Handsome?"

"Just your mailbox, Chuckles."

"Don't you just love it?" Hawke beamed

A/N: Because my sister and I get into odd conversations, while watching each other game... And the Templar Helmets look like mailboxes... Don't judge us! ~EM17 and Deelzy