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Varric was wrestling with a knotty plot problem—Donnen Brennocovic was in over his head, as usual, and Varric didn't know how to get him out—when there came a knock at his door. "Come in!" he called, hoping whoever it was could be dealt with quickly and then gotten rid of.

But when the door swung open, it was Hawke standing there. She had a bottle of Antivan brandy they had looted last week in one hand, and two of Corff's treasured—and hoarded—brandy snifters in the other.

"What are we celebrating, Hawke?" he asked as he bundled up the papers and put them away. Maybe Antivan brandy would give him the inspiration he was looking for, he thought optimistically.

"The Champion of Kirkwall," Hawke announced dramatically, shutting the door behind her and plunking bottle and glasses down on the table. She filled each glass with an inch of the amber liquid, handing one to Varric as she took her seat.

"A person well worth celebrating." They clinked glasses and drank, Varric sipping while Hawke drained the entire contents of her glass and refilled it.

"She's extraordinary," Hawke said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you know that?"

"I've certainly said it often enough." Varric drank deeply. Damn, but Antivan brandy was good stuff. Too good for the mercs they had taken this bottle from.

"In stories. To other people," Hawke muttered. Varric wasn't sure he had heard correctly, so he didn't comment on the remark. Refilling both glasses, she lifted hers again. "The Champion of Kirkwall—slayer of the Arishok, vanquisher of Knight-Commander Meredith, if only momentarily. Righter of wrongs, avenger of the innocent, larger than life." She drank again.

Varric took the merest taste. The way this was going, he thought he was going to want his wits about him, and he could already feel the warmth of the brandy stealing through his system.

"Do you know what they say about the Champion of Kirkwall, Varric?" Her green eyes held his.

"I ought to. I wrote most of those stories."

"Oh, no, your stories leave something out. You know what they leave out? They leave out the persistent rumors that the Champion of Kirkwall can have anyone warm her bed that she likes."

Alarm filled him. Conversation that led in this direction had the very real possibility of going very badly.

Hawke nodded. Despite the brandy, her eyes were clear and sharp as she focused them on him. "Yes. They talk about the pirate, and the elf, and the mage, and the elf mage. Speculation abounds. Some talk about Knight-Commander Meredith, and some about First Enchanter Orsino. Some mention frequent visits to the Blooming Rose. But do you know that I have never heard a single rumor, not one, about the dwarf? Can you imagine that, Varric? People in Kirkwall have seen you and yet it never occurs to them how many nights I fall asleep fantasizing about you touching me."

Well. That was a stimulating image. Varric could feel himself beginning to be stimulated by it even as he sat here. He'd had similar fantasies—of course he had—but he wasn't about to say that to Hawke. Not with her in this mood. He took a fortifying gulp of the brandy. It burned, but it also … stimulated.

Hawke lifted her glass once more, flourishing it in his direction. "Here I am, Champion of Kirkwall. I could have anything I wanted—practically anyone in Kirkwall in my bed … except the one I dream about."

"Hawke," Varric began, his voice hoarse.

She leaned across the table, those amazing green eyes still fixed on him. "You called me Mina once. Do it again."

"I … Hawke, this really isn't …"

"I tell you what, Varric. You let me kiss you again, and if, when the kiss is over, you can look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me, you'll never hear about this from me again. I promise."

"Mina …" The word was a moan of desperation. There was nothing he wanted more in this moment than to kiss her again, but he couldn't. If he kissed her again, he would lose himself entirely, and he didn't know who he would be on the other side. The fear paralyzed him.

And then she was leaning farther across the table, the swell of her breasts revealed beneath the loose shirt she wore, her breath caressing his lips, and a different emotion entirely paralyzed him. All he could do was stare at her mouth as it came closer and try to control the hunger that filled him.

"I'll take that as agreement," she murmured, moments before her mouth claimed his and fire leapt to life all along his body.

He hadn't forgotten what it was like to be kissed by her, but the reality was so heightened, so vibrant, so rich, that the memory paled in comparison by far.

Somehow his chair had been pushed back and Hawke had stretched herself across the table because she was lying half on the table and half on his chest, kissing him with all the cleverness of her wicked tongue, and his hands were moving of their own accord to hike up the hem of her shirt, sliding across the smoothness of her bare back, caressing the sides of her breasts as they nestled against his chest.

Hawke broke the kiss to murmur "Maker, yes" as she arched her back, bringing her breasts higher until he could take them fully in his hands, squeezing lightly, his thumbs brushing across the nipples until they hardened for him. Starving for her taste, he took one nipple in his mouth and suckled, and then the other, as Hawke gasped and moaned in his arms.

As many times as he had imagined this, he had never come close to what it really felt like. Hawke leaned down, capturing his mouth again, a slow and thorough exploration, more intoxicating than the brandy, by far.

Suddenly she drew back, leaving Varric chilled and bereft without her weight on him.

Holding herself above him with obvious effort, she looked him in the eye. "Ask me to stay, Varric. Tell me you want me. Say my name."

The spell was broken. Badly as he did want her, his tongue was frozen, unable to say those words. Or any, here in this moment. What she wanted, he simply didn't have to give. Hadn't he and Bianca learned that already? His inability to be what a woman needed had driven her to another man's arms, or so Varric told himself, driven her to keep most of a continent between them at all times. He couldn't bear to lose Hawke that way.

That Hawke understood that he couldn't speak—or at least believed that he wouldn't—was clear in the way her eyes darkened and her lips trembled. "This is the last time, Varric. If you let me walk out that door tonight, I'm never coming to you this way again. I can't—I can't keep wanting something so temptingly close, so obviously right, and not be able to reach it."

Varric's jaw clenched, whether with the effort to speak or the effort not to speak he wasn't sure.

But Hawke got the message. Surprisingly gracefully given the position she was in, she got to her feet and straightened her shirt. "Good-night, Varric."

And the door closed behind her, leaving Varric alone. The way he wanted it … or so he told himself.