Chapter Text
I’ll never get used to the stench of sour swill and stale blood in here, Hawke thinks as she enters the Hanged Man. The tell-tale odor wafts over passersby on the street every time the door opens, but to really get the full effect, one must enter the tavern so that the smell wallops like a mallet to the nose.
Hawke weaves her way through the bar’s early evening crowd only barely resisting the urge to pinch her nose on the way up to Varric’s suite. Thankfully, she knows that the warm smell of the dwarf’s wood polishing oils will mask the other odors once she makes it up the steps. As she enters his suite, she finds him just as she had expected, holstering Bianca after her nightly cleaning. The aroma of lemon and olive oils filling the air.
“There you are, Hawke,” Varric says. “Bianca was worried she wasn’t going to see you this evening.” He pets his crossbow lovingly before motioning to her regular chair.
“Varric, have I ever mentioned how truly horrid this tavern smells?” she grumbles as she slides into the proffered seat.
“I think it has a certain charm,” he retorts before pushing a flagon her way.
“As charming as a drunken Darkspawn, that is,” she says with smirks and pulls the mug nearer.
“Well, I suppose we’ll find out next week once we’re hip deep in genlocks.” He grasps his own mug and pulls a large drink.
“By my ears, it sounds like you’re almost looking forward to it, Varric.” The joke doesn’t stop the gooseflesh on her arms from raising. Even now, a year after their flight from Lothering, the thought of facing the Darkspawn horrors again makes her flesh prickle. The creatures’ hissing growls still stir her from her sleep, but the memory of their corrupted scent--bloodied steel mixed with sour filth--is what chills her during lonely nights in Gamlen’s back bedroom. Even Carver puts on a brave face about it, but she hears his boyish whimpers in the night as their lost sister’s name falls from his dream addled lips.
As Hawke vigorously rubs the bumps along her forearms to calm them, she can make out Isabela’s distinctive boots coming up the stairs. The woman can be as silent as a Chantry mouse when she wishes to, but her leather boots have a certain creak when she is in a hurry.
“Rivaini, you owe me a silver,” Varric calls loudly as he too recognizes Isabela’s approach.
She appears through the door muttering and finds her way to a chair. “Blast. I hate losing a bet,” she huffs. Her eyes dart past Hawke’s, “This is all your fault you know. I’m never late to a business meeting without proper provocation.”
Hawke starts to defend herself against this accusation, when she hears a quiet cough behind her.
“I assure you it was unintentional.” The voice is quiet, but she still starts a little as she recognizes the deep timbre of the tattooed elf they only just met a few days before. And much like the first time she heard it, Fenris’ voice warms her cheeks in the most embarrassing way.
“I could...er... reimburse you. If you wish,” he says coming around to the only unoccupied seat left at the table.
“Reimburse me?” Isabela’s mouth widens into a deep grin. “I rather like the sound of that.” She leans forward along the table to pull Fenris’ chair closer to her own, and Hawke notices that her ample cleavage bulges as she motions to him to sit next to her. He eases himself into the chair across from Hawke silently and meets Isabela’s sultry eyes.
Their eye contact makes Hawke’s stomach churn. She had swallowed her immediate attraction to the escaped slave, but now with him sitting so close, she could see the details of his markings seductively peeking through the edges of his armor. Even worse, she can faintly make out a hint of leather and smoke that his hair must smell like. Their close proximity forces those magnetic feelings to start to bubble up again.
“I suspect you might,” Fenris responds evenly as he leans back against the wooden chair. He seems to be enjoying Isabela’s eyes roving his body, and Hawke can’t really fault him for that. She’d never met a man or woman who would resist her friend’s persistence and charm. In fact, she herself would no doubt end up in the pirate’s bed if Isabela wished it so.
Lost in her own distracting thoughts, Hawke does not feel Varric’s discerning eyes upon her. Too late, she lifts her flagon to attempt to nconspicuously hide her flaming cheeks, but seeing as she has the subtlety of a bronto, she knows that he knows exactly what she’s thinking. He grins widely and reclines in his chair to enjoy what must be a very entertaining show. Rather than concede to the dwarf, she tries desperately not to think about the scent of Fenris’ hair as she gulps her ale and fails in her attempt to quell her fiery face.
“And why not,” Isabela’s voice swirls around the table like a sensual eddy. “I can be quite flexible. We could even work out a payment plan if you like.” She walks her fingers across the table towards his hand, and though he doesn’t withdraw his hand or his eyes, his lips do not turn up into a smile as she would expect a man to do in his situation. Instead, his expression is cool, almost detached, yet he is clearly not uncomfortable with this course of conversation.
Hawke jams shut her eyes and pulls hard on the ale until the mug is drained. Maker, why can’t I flirt like that? She thinks, All I can muster is ‘seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf’ -ugh.
Relieved of her drink, she lowers her flagon fully intending letting her head smack off the table in resignation to her own awkwardness, but she feels eyes upon her that give her pause. She steels herself for more of the dwarf’s blatant enjoyment of her mortification, but when she peers out she is met with Fenris’ huge green eyes instead.
Their gazes lock, and while she is certain that Fenris can probably feel her emblazoned face from across the table, she cannot look away. In her periphery, she can see that Isabela has draped herself over his shoulder, and despite the intensity of his glare, all she can think of is that the pirate must be able to fully indulge in the smell of smoke and leather she’d only been able to hint at before.
Andraste’s ass, what’s wrong with me? Hawke scolds herself. He had made his feelings about mages such as herself very clear after they’d cleared that mansion of Danarius’ spirit minions, but her stomach will not stop twisting about and his scent won’t stop haunting her nose and those eyes won’t release her…
“A refill. Yes. Beer,” she stammers as she pushes herself suddenly away from the table. She nearly falls over the chair leg as she backs away from all three sets of wide eyes upon her, but she catches herself on the door frame and gracelessly stumbles into the hall. The spell of his eyes is broken for now, but she pauses against the wooden slats of the tavern walls until her vision clears and her breath returns.
“What’s with her?” she hears Isabela ask from within.
“Beats me, Rivaini, now about that silver…”