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After a long night spent regaling the denizens of the Hanged Man with a set of increasingly fanciful tales of their adventures in the Deep Roads, Varric had finally retired to his rooms … about the time he found he could no longer keep the black rage he felt toward his brother out of his stories. Once his own emotions found their way into a story it had a tendency to go completely off the path, and he didn't want that. Not tonight. He'd gotten a good start today on a story about a fictional guardsman in Kirkwall and his various adventures, and he wanted to think about that.

He also wanted to stretch his toes out toward the fire, polish Bianca, and enjoy all the creature comforts he had taken so for granted before he spent nearly a month beneath the ground. Varric silently blessed his parents for deciding to leave Orzammar before he was born—he was one dwarf who had no desire to spend so much as another minute underground.

He had just gotten cozy in his chair, a blanket tucked around him and a snifter filled with the fine brandy he kept hidden for just such occasions in his hand when a knock came at his door. A single knock. Then, after a pause, another couple of knocks, and then another. Slow ones, as though someone wasn't sure they wanted to knock—

Or someone was drunk off their ass, he amended when he finally got disentangled from his blanket and opened the door to see Hawke standing there, a bottle of cheap rotgut in her hand. Her green eyes were blurry with drink, and she stumbled into his room and nearly fell over the table before righting herself.

"I thought you wouldn't touch that stuff with a ten foot pole."

"I went through all of Gam—Gamel—Gamlen's stash."

"He'll kick you out of the house for that."

Hawke shook her head vehemently, her hair whipping around her face. "Can't. I b—I bought it. And Mother's ancestral home." She pronounced the last two words with careful, cutting precision. "Guess I should have gone home first. Thought—thought I'd s'prise them. S'prise!" She lifted the bottle and took a long swig, to Varric's alarm. Hawke never drank like this. She didn't like to be off her game. A careful ale, maybe a harder drink in safe company, but this …

"Hawke. What happened?" he asked urgently, closing the door carefully behind him.

"She's gone."

"Who's gone? Your mother?"

"No. No, she's still there. Weeping. She's very good at that. Had plenty of practice." Hawke's green eyes filled with tears, and suddenly Varric knew.

"Sunshine. The Templars took Sunshine. Oh, Hawke, I'm so sorry."

She reached out and poked his nose. "Got it on the first try. You're very smart. I always said so. Too bad I'm not so smart as you."

"This isn't your fault."

"Tell my mother that." Hawke barked a bitter laugh and drained some more of the bottle. "My fault. Didn't take my sister to the Deep Roads. Never mind that she begged me not to, poor little Bethany in the Deep Roads. My fault. Didn't save my brother from an ogre. Killed it with my bare hands after, but not soon enough." She nodded. "My fault. Didn't save my father. Not enough coin for a doctor. My fault. Sold myself to the army, but … too late. He died while I was gone. My fault that Mother's alone."

"She isn't alone, Hawke. She has you."

"And she wants them." The tears spilled out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "Bethany, Varric. In that—that place. I told her, I promised her, never. Never never never. And then I left her."

"Hey." Varric went to her, reaching up to brush the tears off her cheek with his thumb. "You left to get money to keep her safe. You couldn't have known."

"Yes, I could have."

"She'll be all right, Hawke. She's very strong—she learned to be from you. And very smart. She learned that from you, too. Tomorrow morning we'll go over to the Gallows and we'll see what we can do."

"Yeah?" There was dawning hope in her eyes. "You'll do that for me?"

Varric would never have admitted it to her, but there were very few limits to what he would have done for Hawke. "Of course."

"I'm so lucky to have met you, Varric." Hawke leaned over, her face very close to his, her hand on his cheek. She repeated his name again in a soft whisper that had his heart thudding against his ribcage—and then she kissed him.

Varric was caught off-guard, his defenses down, and before he could stop himself, he had wound his arms around her neck, threading his hands into her glossy black hair the way he had always wanted to, and was kissing her back. Not that he was sure the word 'kiss' was adequate for something as consuming as this. Kissing Hawke felt like sinking into a bath of deliciously warm water—and then suddenly finding that you had always belonged in those liquid depths.

He was utterly lost in the taste of her mouth, the feel of her hands moving from his face down across his shoulders, strong fingers finding the opening of his coat and threading into his chest hair.

And then, from somewhere in the depths of himself, Varric found the will to capture those fingers and pull them away from his body.

Hawke broke the kiss and blinked hazily at him. "Varric?"

"We—I can't do this, Hawke."

For a brief flash of a second, her green eyes were stone sober, and he nearly recoiled at the pain he saw there. Then she blinked and the moment was gone. "Can't … or won't?"

"Does it matter?"

Hawke sighed. "Guess not. Good-night, Varric." She made her way to the door, swaying just a bit, and he worried about her going home through Lowtown in this condition—but he thought if he offered to walk with her, she might hit him. Which he deserved, but that didn't mean he wanted to be on the receiving end of Hawke's fist.

He needn't have worried. After his door shut, softly and carefully, behind her, he heard her footsteps down the hall and another knock, this time on Isabela's door. And oh, it hurt, to know that he had sent her into the arms of someone else.

Varric tried to tell himself about Bianca, about his long and devoted love for the world's most brilliant smith, about his friendship with Hawke and how much more important that was than sex—even the incredible sex he had tasted so briefly just now—about how drunk Hawke was and how she wouldn't remember this in the morning.

But he would remember it. He would never forget it. He had a sinking feeling that he would be eighty someday and still reliving that one kiss—and wishing he'd made a different decision.