Thief

Hawke should have known better than to trust Isabela. Or the dice. Or her own hubris. But at the moment, it was mostly directed at Isabela.

The best thing she could say was that the dress wasn't gaudy. It was elegant, certainly. Showy, definitely. When she looked down, she wasn't sure if she was meant to see that much skin of herself. And when she looked up, she had a full view of Isabela looking very pleased with herself.

Isabela's dress, in contrast to Hawke's, was all about show. It was blood-red silk with all the jewellery you could possibly add. Her assets were on full display, and Hawke was quite certain it would draw everyone's eye. Just as intended, of course.

She tried not to compare herself, but it was hard.

Isabela was all curves where Hawke was all angles. She felt like a certified stick.

Yet when she looked in the mirror, the image was that of an elegant woman. Rather than seeing herself, Hawke felt like she looked at someone else. That would work, she decided. She could just act like this woman in this elegant dress with a deep cleavage. She looked confident.

The thin silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a dagger was her only contribution.

Her mother knocked on the door to declare that it was time to go. She opened it, simply looked them over, raised her eyebrows, and declared that it was one way to attract a partner.

Hawke really wished she had rolled that six.

In the Keep, they left Leandra with a group of her friends, who welcomed her with warmth but shot Isabela and Hawke questioning looks. Hawke had barely made an offhanded greeting before Isabela whisked her away to the busier rooms.

It didn't take long for Hawke to notice something was different. And it wasn't just the presence of Isabela, nor the dresses they wore. However, that likely contributed.

She heard the whispers. Her name, spreading through the crowd.

Hawke. You know, the one who saved Lowtown?

They say it was Qunari gas.

So the Qunari are getting more dangerous.

The Arishok asked for her by name.

More influence than the Viscount, some say.

It didn't do much for Hawke's mood. The gas hadn't exactly been the Qunari's fault, but it was foolish to try and correct the hushes. It would only stir the pot, and this time, she really didn't want to be at the centre of something so delicate.

But Isabela only grinned. "This is a good thing, you know. They're talking. Eyes on you."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Hawke asked. "Besides, you could have been there with me, saving Lowtown. But you chickened out."

Isabela flirtatiously chuckled at a passing young man. "If I'd come along, it meant I'd lost the bet. And that meant I wouldn't be here. So I'm perfectly content." She hooked her arm through Hawke's and pulled her close. "Now, tits up. Let's find some game."

Hawke allowed herself to be dragged off. It was easier that way. Isabela did the talking, and Hawke didn't mind throwing an absentminded grin in the direction of someone well-dressed, well-groomed, or simply well-looking.

Though, they had to be all three before Isabela truly considered them.

Hawke was glad Saemus was absent, if she believed the whispers. She always danced with him once, to satisfy both their parent's wishes, but if she approached him dressed like this, she might actually die of embarrassment.

Still, she recognised others. Some from past jobs, others from previous balls.

A young woman flashed a ring to her friends. A young stood behind her, and leaned forward to join them in laughter. Behind them, a much older couple began bickering. Just a few seconds later, the man kissed his partner.

It was the amusing sort of observations that made these balls entertaining to Hawke. Experience small snippets of the life of people around her. Mundanity.

Isabela leaned closer and drew her attention away. "I wonder if his hair down there is just as red as on his head."

Hawke turned, not necessarily out of real curiosity, and instantly regretted it.

The man approaching them was familiar.

"Balls, Isabela," she hissed. "That's the Seneschal. I don't–"

But Isabela was still stuck on that first word. "Balls," she repeated with a wicked laugh. "Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."

This really wasn't how Hawke wished the evening would go. "I really don't want to talk to him," Hawke stressed, trying to drag Isabela away by her arm.

A group of young women cut off their path, giggling together like schoolgirls, moving at an agonisingly slow pace.

Hawke looked around for a different exit, but it was too late.

The Seneschal was only a few feet away. And looking vaguely at her.

She scrambled to recover and forced an overly manufactured smile to her face. "Seneschal," she greeted in a much too formal tone.

He hesitated mid-step, and looked back at her, this time with a lot more attention. "Hawke," he said, in a tone that told her he hadn't recognised her at first glance.

Shit. If she hadn't opened her mouth like an idiot, he might have just passed them.

And of course, Isabela made things worse immediately. She pushed closer and managed to stand in such a way that her already very visible cleavage was even harder to miss. His eyes drew downward.

Hawke didn't blame him, but Maker, she couldn't help feeling annoyed.

"Seneschal," Isabela purred. "So formal. It's Bran, isn't it?"

His eye snapped up. "Seneschal will do."

Isabela laughed, silky and sultry in a way Hawke could never manage. "And here I thought a ball was the perfect time to let loose."

"You thought wrong," he replied dryly. "A ball is the perfect place to broaden one's social circle with polite diplomacy."

"You can call me Isabela," she purred. "And that's exactly what I'm suggesting, Bran."

Hawke was almost impressed by the way he managed to keep his composure.

"Then your definition of diplomacy is deeply flawed," he commented.

Isabela tutted. "No wonder you're so tense."

One of his eyebrows shot up a fraction, but he didn't honour her with a reply. He shifted his gaze to Hawke, finally giving her more than a passing glance. She watched how he took in her figure, the way his gaze briefly dipped, and snapped back up with all the stoicism that was either innate to him or carefully nurtured.

Mortified, she wished the floor would swallow her. She didn't want him to think she was really this shallow. Though, he likely already was.

Then again, was it really shallow to dress like this?

"I lost a bet," she blurted, wanting to escape her vicious circle of overthinking.

"You lost a bet," he repeated flatly.

"I tried to cheat," she admitted foolishly. "It didn't go well."

"That is almost impressive."

She considered that. "At least I keep my promises," she concluded. "I'm true to my word."

His eyebrows shot up. "And yet you tried to cheat."

She scowled. "That's not the point."

Isabela leaned closer. "Andraste's tits," she chastised. "Point is… You sure clean up nicely, doesn't she, Bran?"

Hawke could have murdered her right there and then. Any other gentleman would likely have agreed with Isabela out of politeness, but that wasn't the sort of understanding she had with the Seneschal.

His gaze shifted from Isabela back to Hawke. He didn't answer immediately, but the pause was brief. "I have long since accepted that your wardrobe choices attract attention."

Isabela laughed, the sound clear as water. "So, you noticed."

"Is that not the point of being dressed like that?"

"Apparently," Hawke muttered, silently praying for deliverance.

"You seem displeased with your situation, and yet you orchestrated it yourself," the Seneschal replied. "Perhaps you would have won your bet if you had not cheated."

Yeah, Hawke thought. Everything he said was technically true, but it was always the way he said it. Detached, assessing, without fake politeness. Surprisingly undiplomatic for a public figure.

And right where it got under her skin.

Isabela released another water-clear laugh. "Oh, I like you," she said to the Seneschal.

He turned back to her and his expression softened to newfound curiosity.

Oh balls no. Hawke felt hot in all the wrong places. She'd rather fight a dragon, or even face the Deep Roads again than stay here a second longer.

"I'm leaving," she announced. "Good evening, Seneschal."

She turned without waiting for a reply. She didn't hear if he greeted her back, didn't see if his eyes followed her.

And she certainly didn't care.

She fled through a gap in the crowd, all rustling silks and glittering jewels, the heat of too many bodies stifling when she already felt so hot. The air smelled of punch and candlewax, and too many perfumes mixing together and screaming for attention.

She was already halfway through the room when Isabela's laugh entered her ear.

"Someone's flustered," she said, far too pleased with herself.

Hawke didn't stop until they reached the other side of the room. She had to catch her breath. "The Seneschal's someone I see professionally," she hissed. "I don't want him to see me like this. Do you know how often I have to sit in his office? For boring paperwork?"

Isabela shrugged, feigning innocence. "That's what a ball is for, to see people in a different light. If you want to make his meetings more interesting, show a little more skin."

"Isabela!" Hawke hissed. "He's…" She was grasping for an argument, and landed on the first thing that made sense. "…Old." He had an adult son, after all.

Isabela dismissed it with a handwave. "Who cares about age. But alright, we'll find a nice young thing for you. That better?"

"I suppose," Hawke muttered.

"Hawke," Isabela said, her voice softer now.

"Isabela," Hawke replied dryly, turning to face her.

"Do you even want this? Your wild enthusiasm suggests otherwise."

Hawke leaned back against the wall. She wasn't sure what she wanted. Be someone else that knew, was all that came into her mind. But at the same time...

"You know what, Isabela? You're right," she said.

"Well obviously," Isabela replied. "But about what, specifically?"

Hawke leaned forward again, and let her gaze sweep over the crowd. People were laughing, dancing. The Seneschal's fiery hair was absent. He must have left for a different room. Bless the Maker.

"This is a party," Hawke declared. "We should let loose."

"That's the spirit!" Isabela cheered. "Just for my curiosity, when was the last time you had a good, proper tumble? I know you were with Anders, but that was nearly two years ago." She paused, and laughed for effect. "I hope he showed you that lightning thing, that was nice."

Hawke looked up, but didn't answer. She knew Isabela had slept with Anders once, before the whole Justice thing. It didn't bother her. But she wasn't exactly eager to admit...

"Hawke. Please tell me Anders wasn't your last."

Hawke didn't answer.

"And if he was, please tell me it was a rebound? Like, a month ago?"

Hawke's silent glare was telling enough.

Isabela groaned. "Andraste's tits, Hawke. I thought we were talking months, not years. What happened? Did your bits fall off? Do we need to send a search party?"

Hawke rolled her eyes. "It's not that bad."

Isabela protested. "Oh yeah, it is. But we'll end this tonight, alright? What are you in the mood for? A man? Woman?"

Hawke shrugged. She didn't quite care. The thought of sharing a bed with anyone felt distant, like a long-forgotten memory not quite her own. But it should feel exciting. She certainly remembered it so. Maybe if she just played along, the feeling would return.

"I'll leave it to your professional judgment," she said, forcing a grin to her lips. "Maker knows I could really do with a good–"

"Pounding?" Isabela suggested.

Hawke shot her an unimpressed look. "Tension relief."


Bran moved through the crowd with purpose, passing groups that had long since abandoned their decorum in favour of more punch and indulgences. And if a ball had reached this stage, it was time for him to make his exit. He had done his duty. See and be seen.

As he often did, he wanted to note a few last-minute insights before heading home. It would be more productive than wasting his time here.

He used the gallery as a quick passageway to this office, when a burst of laughter caught his attention. Something about it was familiar, yet strange.

Hawke, he realised. She stood with her side to him surrounded by a small group of people. Her laugh wasn't the forced laugh of diplomacy, but the kind of unbothered laugh of enjoyment, genuine and unrestrained. He'd rarely heard it, if ever.

He should have kept walking.

Instead, he slowed his pace.

The people gathered near her and her busty friend were unmistakably Orlesian. Their clothing more colourful and more decorated than any Marcher would wear, and so, so rich. Bran knew the sort. Sons and daughters of parents with more wealth than sense, who happily send their children off to see the world, and gather experiences.

For them, experience often meant chasing skirts and pants.

He knew, because he'd been among them once. His parents weren't nearly so affluent, but enough to send him to Rivain for studies. There, he'd attended enough parties and bedded enough people.

But he never quite expected to see Hawke like this. Acting as if she belonged at a ball.

Her friend was all sultry lips and confidence, but Hawke joined in, seemingly at ease. He watched her tilt her head aside as if considering a flirtatious response. There was still something in her posture to suggest she was more comfortable on the battlefield than a ball, but the fact remained that she wasn't scoffing. She wasn't mocking. She was laughing.

The Orlesian opposite her leaned forward and she followed his gaze. After a chuckle, she picked up her pendant. A two-inch silver dagger attached to a thin silver chain. He had noticed it when he saw her earlier. It was quite hard not to, the way it rested tauntingly above the too-low neckline. She raised it between thumb and forefinger as if fighting a miniature monster. For a small moment, she seemed like Hawke, after all.

A sudden voice at his side nearly caught him off guard. Foolish. He should not have been so carelessly preoccupied as to forget his surroundings.

"That's Milady Hawke, isn't it?"

Bran turned. A nobleman stood next to him, regarding Hawke with keen interest.

He inclined his head. "It is," he replied curtly. He could hardly deny a fact.

The nobleman nodded appreciatively. "She was the one to clear that street in Lowtown, right? From the Qunari?"

Bran resisted the urge to sigh. Tales were always misinterpreted in the retelling. "The Qunari were not at fault. The matter was handled."

"Yes, by her, wasn't it? Quite heroic. As Seneschal, you must know her, for all she'd done."

Must he? That was presumptuous.

He knew her presence was disruptive. He knew she had more influence than she ought to have, but wondered if she knew. He was familiar with her insolent humour, directed at anyone regardless of rank. Knew the contradictory contrast between her confidence and her fidgeting.

He knew where she'd come from. Her shattered family, some of her motivation. Her deep need to be respected, despite her behaviour. Knew she despised punch but favoured whiskey. Knew that thunderstorms scared her.

But he'd never expected her to be flirting with Orlesians. Perhaps he was the fool, for thinking she must not have basic needs like most people.

And to claim he knew her?

Certainly not.

"If you are looking for tales of her heroics, ask her yourself," Bran told the gentleman. "She seems to enjoy an audience."

He inclined his head towards Hawke, and the nobleman followed his gaze. Hawke had just lowered her pendant, caught in mid-laugh. But suddenly, as if sensing eyes on her, she turned around.

Before the nobleman could ask him another question, or before Hawke's eye could fall on him, he was already moving.

The nobleman's question lingered as Bran entered his office. It wasn't just about Hawke. It was about the entire situation. People reasoned that Qunari gas meant Qunari guilt. They whispered that Arishok requested Hawke personally. That Hawke had more influence on him than the Viscount did.

He couldn't exactly blame Hawke, but she was still at the centre of it all. She hadn't asked for this job. If anything, she seemed to oppose the Qunari just as much as he did. But for people to even consider that she held more sway over the Qunari than Kirkwall's own leader...

Perhaps they were right, in a small sense.

What had Hawke said? That the Arishok preferred truth over empty diplomacy.

It was the kind of thing she would say. Just enough insight to make a point, but just as much irreverent to make it grating. Infuriating. Worse, she might be right.

Bran had never cared much for etiquette himself, but he could play what the Orlesians called the Game if he had to. And for all of Hawke's complaints, she was playing it herself tonight. Laughing. Smiling. Flirting. Acting as if none of Kirkwall's problems bothered her.

Not that she needed to, necessarily. But he doubted that she realised just how large of a set piece she was turning herself into.

No, Kirkwall's problems were his to solve. She just contributed.

He took a deep breath. Maybe it was time for another meeting with the Qunari. They were likely unpleased by being unjustly accused. Or perhaps they didn't care. Either way, he should invite them to the Keep. They would need to tie their weapon to their sheaths, of course. He knew just enough about their customs to know that it was foolish to separate a Qunari from their sword.

Tomorrow. He would send an invitation tomorrow, arrange for something early next week.

Bran pulled a stack of folders from his bookcase. But as he sat behind his desk, his focus drifted. Every time he tried to write notes, his mind circled back.

The Qunari. The wrong assumptions of the nobleman. Hawke's insufferable ability to be entangled in everything.

Maker, he was tired. Or just frustrated. He stared at the sheet of paper in front of him and only noticed too late that his quill dripped ink. A large, black dot marked the page.

Such an amateurish act. He should give up for the night. Clean up. Go home.

Put some distance between himself and Kirkwall's problems.

With a sigh, he set his quill aside. His gaze landed on the vase of chrysanthemums next to it, and he scowled. He didn't even like chrysanthemums. They reminded him of funerals.

But thinking about flowers hardly put him in a better mood.

He gathered the folders and stood up to return them to their shelf. And to make matters worse, the shelf in question collapsed.

It happened before he could react. A groan of wood, a sudden tremble, and then the whole damn thing gave way.

A hard edge struck his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, hard enough to make him curse. Hard enough that it'd form a bruise come morning. He barely had any time to twist away before a flurry of books and parchment rained down, burying his desk, his floor, and whatever was left of his patience.

He exhaled sharply, pushing a stray parchment off his knee.

For the shortest moment, he debated leaving the mess till morning. But if he did that, he knew it would haunt his mind and disturb his sleep.

No. Better take care of it now.

He cursed again, just because he was so bloody done with this day, ran a hand through his hair, and knelt down –

Only to immediately curse again as the door swung open with surprising alarm. There was no announcing click of the handle being lowered, just the sudden crash of it swinging wide, like a storm.

Startled, he scrambled to his feet and sharply bumped his shoulder onto his desk. It was sturdy enough that it didn't budge.

"Balls, Seneschal, it's just you."

He recognised the voice, the tone, the phrasing. And when he turned, she stood in the door opening, still wearing that damned dress.

She was possibly the last person he desired to see. Whispers about her had echoed all evening. They had lingered long enough to pull his focus away from what actually mattered, long enough to distract him.

And before he could think twice, he opened his mouth.

"For fuck's sake, Hawke, must you be everywhere I turn?"

His tone was sharp, too sharp. He almost regretted it, but only because he had more self-respect than to let himself be guided by his emotions.

She blinked at him. For a moment, he wondered if he had actually surprised her. But it wasn't long before the corners of her lips curled.

Of course they did.

"I didn't know you could curse," she stated.

Bran had to take a deep breath before he answered. "I can," he snapped. "But I choose not to, most times." He had to bite back an accusation that it was just one of their many differences.

Hawke wasn't fussed. "But isn't it liberating? Don't stop now, you were doing so well."

He scowled. "Why in the Fade are you here?"

"If you must know, the door was ajar and I heard commotion. Excuse me for thinking there was a thief in here."

Bran paused. It wasn't the answer he was searching for. He had wondered why in the blazes she wasn't with her Orlesians, but he supposed this was an answer.

He glanced at his door. Had he truly not shut it? And had he really lost his composure enough that he hadn't even noticed it?

Only when he looked back at Hawke, did he spot the dagger in her hand, ready to attack any trespasser. A small one she must have carried concealed on her body. Probably at her hip, if he remembered their previous encounters.

"I had meant to close it," he said stiffly, gesturing towards the door.

Hawke kicked it shut with her foot. "It's closed now."

He kept staring at her. "With you on the other side, preferably."

"So antagonistic," Hawke mused carelessly. To his dismay, she took a step inside. "No gratitude for me trying to chase away what I believed to be a thief? I was ready to attack any intruder, armed with nothing more than a small knife, to protect your precious documents."

Bran exhaled sharply. "Thank you, Hawke, for your service to this city," he replied sarcastically. "Now, since we have established that I am not a thief, your help will no longer be required."

But Hawke ignored him, and took another step. Her eye fell on the chaos around him. "What happened here?"

He gestured aside. "The shelf collapsed."

Her eyes snapped back to him. "Are you hurt?"

He moved his shoulder, considering. There was a dull ache, but he refused to acknowledge it as anything worth mentioning. "A bruise is not a severe injury."

To his surprise, she started to laugh. His irritation sparked.

"Does my discomfort please you?" he asked.

"No," she stated bluntly, but she was still smiling. "It's just the exact same thing I say when I downplay an injury."

"I'm not cursed with false modesty, Hawke." And he couldn't believe she was.

She shrugged. "Bruises have a nasty habit of lingering, but suit yourself."

She stepped closer and knelt down, placing her dagger on the floor.

He watched her warily. "What are you doing?"

She glanced up. "Helping," she said simply. "I'm here now anyway."

He looked down as she gathered loose papers, his eyes drawn towards the silver pendant around her neck that caught the light of a lamp. Her second dagger. But he quickly realised where he was looking and turned his attention to the mess on the floor.

He should tell her to leave. That would be the logical response. But was it?

Dismissing her would be reactionary. And Bran prided himself on not being ruled by impulse or emotions. If he was being practical, her help meant the mess would be gone sooner.

And he was nothing if not practical.

Hawke prattled on when they worked, narrating whatever caught her eye. A name, a location, fragments of a testimony.

Bran could be bothered by it, but enough had bothered him this evening that he tried to tune her out. Just a background hum, akin to the music at a ball. Something to guide the process.

They were nearly done putting everything in neat stacks, when his hand brushed against steel.

A new spark of irritation surged. It was the knife she'd placed on the floor. He could have cut himself. He picked it up, and presented it to Hawke. She straightened from stretching her back, and glanced down.

"Put this away before anyone hurts themselves," he demanded.

She barely glanced at it before reaching out. No hesitation. No thought. Just action. Doing as he asked.

As if it was nothing at all, she hiked up her skirt.

Bran stopped in his movement.

Kneeling, his gaze was at the perfect height to catch the bare leg in front of him.

Her toolkit was a well-worn thing. Dark leather of an uncertain colour, two leather straps holding it close against her thigh. One was buckled around her leg, but the other vanished beneath the hiked-up skirts.

Hawke's move was precise, slipping the knife into place next to her lockpicks as if she'd performed it hundreds of times.

For all he knew, she had.

His heart beat heavy against his chest.

It wasn't the move that caught his attention. It was the contrast, the rough leather against her smooth, pale skin. The subtle shift of muscle as she slightly raised her leg for better access.

He wanted to reach out, trace his fingers along the inside of her thigh. Feel where soft skin met stiff leather. Slide beneath the buckle. Undo it, slowly, deliberately. Move to the other strap, trace it under her hem, feel where it crossed over her hip.

His fingers twitched at his side, as if they might betray him.

He wouldn't even have to move. She was right in front of him. Perfectly within reach.

Before he could even grasp where his thoughts had led him, the skirts dropped.

Hawke froze. Her fingers still lingered on her thigh, where she had held the fabric before releasing it. It only hit her now. What she'd done.

She hadn't meant to do it. That much was clear, from the way her posture went rigid. He had given her a task, and deeming it simple enough, she had done it. That was all.

She hadn't thought about him. Hadn't considered that he was kneeling right in front of her, already looking at her.

For a moment, Bran's instinct was to snap in anger. She was careless, reckless, acted without thinking. And now he had to live with the knowledge where his thoughts had brought him.

For fuck's sake, this was Hawke. He didn't want to see her. Be thinking of her at all, let alone her body. Like that.

But he prided himself on his control. He was better than acting out of frustration, berate her for an honest mistake.

Etiquette dictated he should act as if nothing had happened. Move past it. Never acknowledge it. Solid advice, and he intended to follow it.

But then he had to glance up.

It was an instant mistake. Hawke glanced down at the exact same moment. Their gazes met. And Maker, her eyes were brighter blue than he remembered. But they were large, mortified with the dawning realisation of what she'd done.

Now both of them had to live with the sharp, shared awareness of what had happened.

Just as quickly, she tore her gaze away.

Bran followed suit, and turned his attention back to the last remaining folders on the floor. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to cool down. He had years of practice at keeping his expression in check.

And yet his fingers, his fucking fingers, still felt restless as they gathered the remaining documents. As if they wanted to be touching something else.

With the last of the mess cleared up, he straightened, relieved to be back on his feet. And thank the Maker, he was taller than Hawke again. Just slightly, but the shift in perspective was a welcome change.

Hawke exhaled. Cleared her throat, a little too forced. A little too nervous. "So, ehm… seems like that's everything," she said.

She hesitated. For half a second, he expected her to storm off, as she had done earlier, in the ballroom. A simple escape from her problems, from discomfort. But instead, her posture shifted, and it shifted back to her other extreme. Offence. She was going to try to drag him down with her.

"Why aren't you at the ball?" she asked, the words sharp as her dagger.

He gathered his thoughts and took a deep breath. "I was at the ball. You saw me there."

She scowled. "But why go back to your office? Is your job that demanding?"

"I value efficiency, Hawke." His voice came out colder than intended, a reaction to the heat rising in hers. He welcomed it. Distance, professionalism. A shift back to who they were supposed to be. "If I note my findings soon after, I am less likely to forget details."

That is where he should have stopped talking, but perhaps he had less control over himself than he thought. "Besides, I don't enjoy balls much. Something we have in common, I believe. But you seemed to enjoy yourself a great deal more this time."

"Enjoy myself?" Hawke repeated. "Do you…?" She faltered for a moment, shook her head, and released a humourless laugh. "I heard the whispers. I'm sure you did, too."

She let her shoulders slump and addressed the ceiling. "Do you really think I like being the centre of attention, Seneschal? I don't want the city panicked about the Qunari. You know I don't. But what was I supposed to do? Argue? Would that have been better?"

Her hands twitched at her sides and she looked back at Bran. "Because I could have. But I think that would have made it worse. So tell me, what do you wish I'd done? If I argued, you'd say I was throwing oil on the fire. And now that I kept my mouth shut, you think I enjoyed it. Which is it, Seneschal?"

She had once again misinterpreted his remark. But, then again, she didn't know he'd seen her with the Orlesians. He sighed. He certainly wasn't going to mention them. No, that would bring him too close to places he was determined to avoid.

"Maker's breath, Hawke," he said at last. "I suppose it doesn't matter what I think. Not when you've already decided there's no winning." And now that she had dragged the Qunari into the conversation, he might as well follow. "But I do think you're reckless. You don't always understand the weight of your influence. People will keep talking. That's not something you can grin away."

Almost reactionary, a grin formed on his lips. She tilted her head, assessing him, and crossed her arms defensively. Bran forced himself not to let his gaze drop for the effect it had on her cleavage. "Imagine for a moment, Seneschal," she said sharply. "I'm your pawn. What would you have me do?"

Bran leaned back, and considered his words carefully. "You think I want to dictate your every move? If I had my way, you wouldn't be playing at all. But we don't really have a choice now. None of us do. So if we must play, do it wisely. Don't stir the pot."

She started to chuckle, but looked up when he continued.

"I intend to invite the Qunari here," he said. "Have a diplomatic meeting. Be direct, as you suggested."

She blinked, surprised. "Good," she said after a moment. "That's… Good."

And like that, she decided the conversation was over. She turned away, her heels clicking softly on the floor. They halted as she neared the cabinet that held his bottles. She glanced at them, and decided that perhaps the conversation wasn't over. She glanced over her shoulder.

"You know, the drinks at these balls are shit. Please, can I have some of your whiskey, Seneschal?"

Not answering immediately, he observed her keenly. "Seneschal," he said in the end, his tone curious. "It is remarkable that out of all formalities you disregard, you kept that one intact."

She raised her eyebrows, turning to face him. "I always assumed that if I started to call you by your first name, you'd start calling me Rose."

And she didn't want that. For some reason, she hated that name. But Bran thought it was actually perfect for her.

"What?" she pressed, wary of his silence. "Are you seriously complaining? Do you want me to start calling you… You know…" She faltered, paused, and swallowed. "By your actual name?"

Bran didn't answer right away. For a moment, he imagined what it sounded like. His name, said by her voice, coming from her lips.

No.

"Forget I said anything," he said cooly.

She studied him, likely searching for a reaction, but he didn't give her anything. She exhaled, and glanced at the bottles again.

"So, about that drink? I could use one. After… everything."

He should refuse her. Tell her to leave. Keep the boundary where it belonged.

But his shoulder ached, he was tired, frustrated. He refused to admit to being confused. Maker knew he could use a drink. And if he needed it, he couldn't very well deny her.

"Alright," he said at last. "But only if you pour me one, too."


Note: This is where bad choices are being made. Next chapter's called Desk, and I can't say any better choices will be made there.