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Varric sat in his room in the Hanged Man, trying to find the right way to describe the fight with Meredith … such as it had been. It needed something more. Something like—like the statues in the courtyard coming to life and fighting the Templars and Hawke? Maybe. He scribbled hastily, but the words were flat. Dull. Lifeless.

Hawke had seen her sister and the mages on board the Rivaini's ship, and they had all said goodbye to their favorite pirate and her broody elf. That left Daisy, Aveline, and himself as the only remaining members of Hawke's companions in Kirkwall. Aveline was busy managing her guards, keeping the streets safe, squashing the looting that always followed a disaster, and distracting the Templars. Daisy had disappeared into the Alienage, saying she had work to do with her people, to keep them safe in the aftermath of the Chantry explosion—somehow, people always blamed elves, whenever there was no one else handy to blame.

And Hawke? She was right; already the rumors were spreading of her involvement with the Chantry destruction, with the mages' revolt, with the mystery of what had really happened to the Knight-Commander. Kirkwall wouldn't be safe for her much longer, if it was now. Deep within Varric lay the fear that she had left already, without saying goodbye.

And could he blame her? What had he ever offered a woman like Hawke?

Before he could even try to answer that question, his door opened, slowly and quietly. If he hadn't known by the pounding of his heart who it must be, he'd have had Bianca in hand right now. But he did know, and he sat there as if frozen to the chair.

Hawke stepped in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and unhooking the cloak she wore. "Varric."

"Hawke. I thought you'd gone."

"Without—" She sighed. "Well, I might have. But … I couldn't."

"Hawke," he said again, his voice cracking.

"No. Let me talk." Hawke put a satchel down near the door and unslung her blade from the scabbard on her back. "Tomorrow morning, a group of elves will make a disturbance at the gate. While the guards and the Templars are distracted, a cloaked traveler will slip out without having her travel papers checked. And she won't be coming back."

"Is she sure about that?" He was on his feet now, with no memory of having left the chair.

"She's sure that there's nothing here for her. Not any longer ... if there ever was. Arrangements have been made—her servants will pack up her house and leave the city, heading in a direction she won't be. No doubt they'll be followed, but they're resourceful. All that will remain will be the house itself. Aveline has promised to try to hold it as long as possible." Hawke sighed. "I don't want it—there are no memories there I want—but I owe it to my mother to try to hang on to it, and, who knows, maybe someday Bethany might be able to live there. In a new world."

"Is that what you're going to create? A new world?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'll go talk to the Grey Wardens and try to figure out what in the Void that idol was made of, and where it came from. But that's not why I'm here."

He wanted to ask, but somehow his voice caught in his throat.

"You and I both know, Varric, that if I were to stay, if I could stay, nothing would ever happen. You would cozy up to that crossbow night after night, and you'd hide from any possibility that you, or anyone around you, could ever be happy." She held up a hand to stop him from speaking. "Don't deny it."

He only wished he could. But she was all too right.

"But I can't stay, Varric. I have to go. This—we only have tonight. So this is what I'm asking you: For tonight, one night, pretend that if I stayed, we'd have a future."

"Hawke. Mina." The voice didn't sound like his own.

She crossed the room to him, going on her knees in front of him. "I love you, Varric. You know that. And I know you love me. Let's not waste this time. Show me what it would be like to be yours. Please." Her green eyes were filled with tears.

Fear filled him. Fear of what, he couldn't have said, but it was fear, all the same. He opened his mouth to say no, but what he heard himself say instead was, "Take your hair down."

He'd live all his life on the smile she gave him then, as she tugged the cord off the end of her braid and combed her fingers through her silky black hair so it fell around her face the way it used to.

Varric had her in his arms, her mouth on his, his fingers tangled in that glorious fall of hair, before he could stop to think.

Unable to tear their mouths away from each other, they awkwardly made their way across the room, stripping clothing off, stumbling, stopping to caress newly bared skin. Years of longing had built a fire that couldn't be slowed, and they were joined within moments of reaching the bed.

The second time was slower, more gentle, an unhurried exploration of every inch of one another, and the third time was filled with laughter, rolling across the bed, teasing each other, daring one another to make it last just that little bit longer.

At last, she fell asleep in his arms, her hair spread across his chest. Varric lay awake, not wanting to lose a moment, threading his fingers slowly through her hair. When he was certain she was asleep he whispered the words to the silent room.

"I love you, Mina Hawke."