Chapter Text
Isabela blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. She has far more important things to do than waiting in a dark and smelly alley in Lowtown.
She could be out stealing things with Hawke. She could be drinking and writing stories with Varric. She could be spending time with Merrill. She could be harassing Aveline. She could be harassing Sebastian. She could be reminiscing about old times with Anders. She could be with Fenris. She could be picking up strangers. She could be picking up strangers for Fenris. Though, he seemed to be doing a better job after a year of studying under her.
Ha, under her. She smiles at her own joke, amused for a moment instead of being dreadfully bored.
The pirate sits on an empty barrel, she knows because she checked. She kicks her boots and twiddles with her necklaces. She scans around for any movement in the shadows. The alleyway is narrow and short. There are three entrances. One to the left and one to the right. Five steps each going up. The last way out is a sewer grate not far from her. It was rusted and ready to fall apart from the slightest weight.
She contemplates leaving. The only thing keeping her firmly in one spot is the note stash in her boot.
I know of the relic you seek.
She doesn’t buy it of course. She knows the person is full of shit, but that isn’t why she's staying. She stays because of the handwriting. It’s crude and childish and it doesn’t match the sophisticated way the sentence is structured. Fenris is intelligent, no one could doubt that, but he’s just now learning how to read and write. He writes like a child, both in style and structure. This person knows how to write.
She is over analyzing the note, she knows this to be true. She thinks she spends too much time with Varric, but something feels off and she’s curious.
So, the pirate stays.
She waits a few minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty, when she hears metal on stone. It is one person and they are wearing heavy armor. She guesses they are a man, but they could be butch like Lady Manhands.
And they are coming from the right.
Silently, she slides behind the barrel and watches for the newcomer.
The steps grow louder and are joined by the sound clanking of metal until the man appears in the entrance way.
It’s a Templar, she first thinks, but no, that isn’t right. The chest plate might have the flaming sword, but he isn’t in those funny skirts.
And he is a man, she is sure. She can’t see his face, it’s obscured by a helmet. He’s tall, very tall. She hasn’t met many women who could match this man’s height. He’s also skinny. The armor did nothing to hide his wiry frame.
She watches him look around for a moment before standing up.
He’s startled and he jumps back but doesn’t draw his weapons.
“I suppose you’re the one who sent me the note?” she asks in a form of a greeting. She slowly walks completely into his view. She pretends she doesn’t care about the situation by picking at her nails. Its to disarm him mentally.
He nods, “I am.” His voice is deep and powerful and familiar. She tries to place a face to the voice, but she can’t. “I must apologize for my deceit. I know nothing of your relic, Captain Isabela.”
She schools her features, but her interest is piqued. No one called her Captain. She enjoys respect and honesty. “I figured, sweetie.” She looks him up and down. She wonders how easy it would be to convince the man to take off his helmet and then if he was handsome enough, the rest of his armor. She likes lanky men and the lankiest man in Kirkwall has been holding out on her for years now. “You know, if you do not wish to deceive me further, how about you take that nasty helmet.”
The man gasps in horror. “I did not realize a wearing helmet is a form of lying,” he removes the piece of armor. Golden blonde hair tumbles out and he lifts his head reveal Anders. Possessed Anders. “It is I, Justice.”
Isabela covers her mouth to stop the laugh threatening to burst out of her. “Andraste’s ass, what are you doing?”
“I wish to proposition you,” he says bluntly.
The laughter dies in her throat. No way is he asking what she thought he was asking. He couldn’t be. “Sweetie,” she starts out slow, “what do you mean, ‘proposition?’”
“I acquire your assistance,” he paces. “During one of our Underground exploits, Anders discovered slavers were using our routes. We eradicated the fiends and I thought justice had been done. However, I felt there was something wrong. While Anders slept, I went to investigate further. I believe I stumbled upon a slaver ring, but I need information. That is why I sought you out.” he faces her. Blue orbs bore into her and she shudders. He’s not judging her, but she’s on trial anyway. He can see all the wrongs she has done to her and the wrongs she has done to others. Her guilt laid bare for him.
“Why me? Why not Varric? Why not go to Aveline?” she asks.
“You know slavery, Isabela,” he says simply and she shudders again. She feels uncomfortable, she bares through, however. She isn’t as selfish as she plays up to be. She looks at her old friend’s face. Justice is in control, but he can’t hide the bags or the receding hairline. He’s thirty and he looks so much older than he should. She remembers Anders at twenty-four, youthful and outgoing. There was a spring in his step that there isn’t anymore. She doesn’t know what happened to him when he was taken by the Templars all those years ago, but it couldn’t have aged him like being possessed could.
“Right,” she says, “okay, I help you. But I want something out of this in return.”
He sighs, but it sounds more like Anders than Justice. “I expected as much.”
“It isn’t for me, it’s for the handsome man you call host,” he perks at this, like an eager puppy ready to please their master. She doesn’t share this allegory with the spirit. “You aren’t doing this with him knowing, are you?” he nods. “Figures. So, that means you’re taking his body out for a walk when he should be sleeping. Sweetie, mortals need sleep,” he opens his mouth, but she raises her hand to stop him, “our bodies need rest too. You let him have three uninterrupted nights of rest and one night to relax and have a few at the Hanged Man with the others. You do that, and we have a deal.” She held out her hand.
His jaw tightens, his eyes narrow. He takes three long strides and clasps her hand. “I do not make deals, but I agree to your terms.”
She grins and slinks an arm around his neck, “you ever had rum?”
“No…why?”
“Because every non-deal deal with a pirate is finalized with rum,” she pulls him down and stands on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek, “put your helmet back on, sweetie. Drinks are on me.”