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Varric was at his usual table the next morning—well after he had heard Hawke's footsteps pass his door, pause, and then continue down the stairs—desperately trying to pretend nothing had happened the night before.

He had his small pile of manuscript pages in front of him, and was trying to focus on the fictional adventures of his as yet unnamed guardsman, but thoughts of Hawke kept intruding themselves between him and the page. That kiss had been … transporting. Consuming. Magical, even. And he had no business giving it so much as another thought. He was no good for any woman, but particularly not for a woman such as Hawke, who deserved … everything. Varric had nothing to give her, not now or ever, and he should never have let her kiss him, much less kissed her back with such fervor.

Pulling his thoughts to the present, Varric held the quill just over the page, ready to move on with the dramatic tale of the guardsman's adventures, but his mind was a total blank, all the exciting ideas that had been flowing so well yesterday completely gone.

Looking up, he met the exotic golden gaze of the last person he wanted to see right now. Well, second to last, after Hawke.

Varric looked at Isabela in silence, not wanting to imagine what must have happened between her and Hawke last night, not wanting to consider what might have happened between him and Hawke if he hadn't sent her away.

Isabela raised her eyebrows, waiting, but she'd be waiting a long time before he asked.

"You're no fun," she told him at last.

Since he wasn't trying to be any fun, Varric didn't see the point in responding to her.

"Fine. If you insist on it, I'll tell you: Nothing happened."

Against his will, relief flooded him. And he could see that the Rivaini had noticed it. Still, he tried to brazen it out. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Because you're a coward and a fool, but you're not a monster. You made sure you knew exactly where she went after you sent her away."

"I didn't—" But he had sent her away. Maybe not in so many words, but he had.

And the Rivaini knew it. Her eyes rested on him with a certain amount of sympathy. "Nothing happened."

He gave up the pretense. "Why should I believe that?"

"Because she was in no condition, for one thing. And because it wasn't me she wanted, for another. She was hurting and angry and lost, and she came to me because I was the safest place she could think of—except one." She shook her head, frowning at him. "What were you thinking?"

"I …" But there were no words. He couldn't admit to this woman in front of him—or to himself—how terrified he had been of the feelings that had coursed through him with Hawke's mouth on his. He cleared his throat. "Is she all right?"

Isabela shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Enough. Angry, to be sure, and who wouldn't be? To think of that sweet girl sent to the Gallows, and after all the work Hawke put into trying to keep her safe."

Varric didn't like to think of it. The conditions at the Gallows were harsh, and getting worse as time went on. But as he had said to Hawke, her sister was strong, and smart. She could take care of herself.

"What are you going to do about it?" The Rivaini was leaning across the table, her eyes as serious as Varric had ever seen them.

"Go to the Gallows, try to talk to the Knight-Commander—" He stopped when Isabela snorted in derision.

"She won't let you get half a sentence out."

"I talk fast."

"Not fast enough for that. And that's not what I meant, anyway."

She meant Hawke. And Varric realized with a terrible chill in his heart that he had no idea what to do about Hawke.

The pirate's golden eyes softened. "Why don't you tell her how you feel?"

Varric glanced at her, then looked back at the blank sheet of paper in front of him.

Isabela nodded sharply. "I get it."

"Do you?"

"Better than you'd think." She leaned back in her chair. "She'll forgive you, you know."

"Yeah? And why is that?"

"For the same reason you're the first place she came yesterday." Isabela got to her feet and moved next to Varric, leaning over to speak very quietly into his ear. "But if she ever comes to me in the shape she was in last night again because of you, you'll feel my daggers in some places you very much don't want daggers to be."

Varric believed her; he'd played enough Wicked Grace with the Rivaini to know that she never bluffed. Still, he doubted she would ever need to follow through. After last night, he'd be surprised if Hawke wanted to speak to him again, much less came to his room wanting things he dared not think about. "Noted."

"Good." Over his shoulder, Isabela looked at the door. "She's here." Her fingers closed, hard, on his shoulder, and Varric winced at the sudden pain. "You be nice."

He considered a flippant answer, but the Rivaini was in no mood for him to be flip, so he just nodded.

In the few moments after Isabela disappeared, as Hawke made her way through the Hanged Man toward his table, Varric contemplated Hawke's effect on those around her. Isabela was fiercely protective of her; Fenris willingly left the mansion in Hightown where he was squatting for her, even as afraid as he was of his former master finding him; Anders was more himself and less Justice when she was around; Merrill cheerfully followed her anywhere in Kirkwall she wanted to go. Even Aveline turned a blind eye to Hawke's transgressions. Any one of them—with the possible exception of Aveline, and Varric had his suspicions she wasn't as immune as she pretended to be—would have welcomed her to their bed with open arms.

There was an undeniable pride in being the one Hawke had come to—but there was fear there, as well, and now a deep shame in not having been what she needed the one time she had been vulnerable enough to need anything.

He should send her away, Varric thought. He should end their partnership right here and now.

But he wasn't strong enough to do that, so he just watched as she pulled out the chair on the other side of the table.