Act I.

1. Isabela

Isabela stares at Hawke in the glowing golden light of the darkened Chantry. She’s transfixed by each of Hawke’s steady breaths through her mouth. She’s transfixed by the way Hawke wipes the sweat from her brow, then places her hands on full hips. By the solid curves of Hawke’s muscles, and the way sweat drips down her strong jaw. By the way her broad hips fill out the pleated leather skirt of her armor. What do they feed those Fereldens, anyway?

“So we’re good?” Hawke glances around the chapel. “I don’t see any more of those goons kicking around.”

“We’re good,” Isabela grins. “Thanks again, by the way. Drinks at the Hanged Man? I can give you your coin there.”

Hawke shrugs. “That’s alright. Thanks, though. I have to get home.” 

“Oh, come on,” Isabela pouts. “Got something better to do than getting booze and gold? Is there some paint drying somewhere? Maybe some grass growing?” 

“ Ha,” Hawke groans, though a half smile warms her face. It sends a wave of butterflies through Isabela’s stomach. Butterflies? Isabela really needs that drink. Also, she needs this woman in her bed, immediately. Isabela’s face heats as her gaze drifts to Hawke’s mouth, to the sharp little cupid’s bow of her lips. Isabela usually maintains a strict no kissing rule with dates at the Hanged Man. But as she imagines Hawke’s mouth on hers ( on her neck, on her breasts, on her stomach, then lower ), Isabela thinks she could make an exception. 

“I have to put my daughter to bed.” 

Isabela feels like someone’s thrown a bucket of cold water on her. “Oh. Shit . Alright, so now I sound like an ass.”

“No, you don’t!” Hawke smiles broadly, taking a step towards her. She breathes a laugh that begins warming Isabela once more. “You didn’t know. It’s alright. But bedtime toddler cuddles are more heartwarming than watching grass grow, at least. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Isabela finds herself grinning back before she knows it. “See you then, kitten. I’ll try not to drink all the booze at the Hanged Man before you swing by tomorrow.”

Hawke laughs again, and Isabela’s heart clenches. She wants to keep Hawke laughing, wants to see the way her nose scrunches when she does it. Andraste’s tits. She barely knows this woman. And she’s a mother. Probably got some big dumb husband waiting up at home for her. That makes this so much more mortifying than a simple rejection. Hawke probably wouldn’t even consider—

“Hold you to that drink tomorrow night, though. After my daughter’s asleep. I could be at the bar by 8:30. That okay with you?”

Isabela forces herself to keep smiling. “Won’t your man be jealous? You could bring him, if you’d like.” She’s caught between dread at the idea of actually having to spend the night talking to Hawke’s man, and the hope that… well, maybe he’s handsome. Maybe Hawke could still wind up in her bed, just… with her husband in tow. Could still be fun, if he’s not a complete wet blanket. 

Hawke makes a face like Isabela’s just said something completely absurd. “I don’t have a man.” Her tone sounds like she thinks the idea that she would have a man is a joke. “Is that alright? Will they let us fragile, soft-brained women order at the bar, or do we need a man to tell them it’s okay?”

Isabela chuckles, in spite of herself. Alright, Hawke’s funny, too. Or maybe it’s just that Isabela wants so badly into her pants. The line gets blurry. “It’s more than alright, kitten. Just didn’t want to get you into trouble if you had a husband back at home.”

“There hasn’t been a husband in three years,” Hawke assures her. “And trust me, no one’s ever stopped me from getting into any kind of trouble. Although Aveline does make a valiant effort.”

As if on cue, Aveline emerges from a side door into the chapel, her armor clanking as she walks back over to them. “I walked the whole perimeter, and no one’s hiding out in the corridors. We should be safe to leave.” She looks Hawke over, eyes locking on a bright line of blood dripping down Hawke’s leg. “Hawke, you’re bleeding.” Isabela hadn’t even noticed it. A wave of embarrassment washes over her as she realizes she’d been too distracted by ogling the more exciting parts of Hawke to notice the slash along her shin. 

“It’s not deep,” Hawke frowns, staring down at the blood. “I was going to get Bethany to close it when we get home.”

“Bethany?” Isabela’s brows furrow. Well that’s just great. She doesn’t have a man at home. She has a woman. Explains why she thought it was funny to think she might—

“My sister,” Hawke explains. Isabela fights the urge to bark a sharp laugh in relief. “She’s a talented… surgeon.”

“Oh, it’s alright, sweet thing,” Isabela assures her. “I’m not a Templar. And now that you mention it, I do remember Varric saying something about your sister now. I didn’t catch her name, though. But Varric said you were a Ferelden sailor, and your sister was a healer.”

“Varric said I was a sailor?” Hawke’s eyes light up, and her face glows with unexpected joy. 

“We should clean and bandage this before we go,” Aveline insists. Before Hawke can protest, Aveline kneels down in front of Hawke. She opens a bag at her hip, pulling out a clear bottle of liquid and a handkerchief. Aveline pours some of the liquid onto the handkerchief, then begins dabbing it along Hawke’s wound. Hawke grimaces, hissing once at the first dab before squaring her jaw and shutting up about it. 

“Are you two… involved?” Isabela asks before she can stop herself. Both Aveline and Hawke glance back at her in surprise.

“No,” Aveline grumbles, then goes back to her work on the wound. 

“Aveline’s straight,” Hawke answers simultaneously. “I think so, anyway?” She looks down at Aveline, who doesn’t acknowledge the comment one way or another. 

“Oh? And you’re not?” Isabela’s genuine grin returns. 

“No. I’m not.” Hawke nods, a sparkle of amusement glimmering in her dark eyes. “Is that alright?”

“That’s even better. I’ll see you tomorrow, kitten.”

2. Hawke

“Glad you made it,” Isabela purrs. 

“Glad you invited me,” Hawke flashes a slightly nervous smile. “Haven’t had a night out in…” Her face falls. “What. Five years?”

Isabela raises an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

Hawke’s cheeks burn, and she takes another sip of beer before shaking her head. “Not since I was in the navy.” 

“ Oh! That’s right ,” Isabela nods. “Varric said you were a sailor.”

A pit forms in Hawke’s stomach. “ Was . It was… kind of him to say that. But it’s not true anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.”

“Why not?” Isabela asks. Her brown eyes shine with warmth in the hazy yellow glow of the candlelit bar. “You’re young. You’re strong. You’re good with a bow — I bet you’re lethal in a fight between ships. And this isn’t Ferelden. The navy isn’t the only gig in town. You live on the coast now. Any crew would be happy to have you.” The Hanged Man suddenly feels too loud, too chaotic. The woman in front of her is too beautiful, too charming, too obviously eager to take her to bed for the story of Hawke’s loser bullshit.

“It’s not… it’s not an interesting story.”

Isabela’s softens. “I bet it is. But that’s alright. You don’t have to tell me.” Isabela takes a sip of her own drink. “I did tell you my story of how I lost my ship, though, so I doubt it’s much worse than that.”

A long silence passes between them. Hawke wants to leave, wants to go home and pretend she’d never even tried to be social for once. But before she knows it, an explanation comes spilling out of her, more like vomiting in public than charming her date. “I was given special dispensation to leave the navy after my father died. My family had a farm in Ferelden. My mother couldn’t handle all the work on her own. And then…” Hawke draws a ragged breath. She stares down at the candle burning on the table, unable to meet Isabela’s gaze. Why is she being so sensitive about this? And why can’t she calm down and have a conversation like a normal person? It’s not like Isabela held her at knifepoint and asked her to tell this story. But she feels like she’s falling down a hill, trying to stop herself but getting nothing but handfuls of dirt and grass on the way down. “We… couldn’t make ends meet. The season had a poor crop, and the cost of everything kept going up, and it… I took a rich husband. Mean old fucker.” Her voice breaks a little, despite her efforts to keep it steady. “He died. I got his money. It lasted until we got to this city and got price gouged on every necessary thing anyone could price gouge Ferelden refugees on. End of story.” Hawke takes a long sip of her drink, staring up at the ceiling to avoid seeing Isabela’s reaction. 

“Your husband was cruel to you?” Isabela asks softly. The kindness in her voice makes Hawke want to turn herself inside out. 

“Me. The servants. His horses. His hounds. I wasn’t special.” 

“Glad the bastard got what he deserved, then.” 

Hawke bites her lip. The image comes back to her of her elderly husband swarmed by undead, tearing into him in their marriage bed like dogs fighting over meat as he screamed. The same bed where she’d laid night after night as he’d climbed on top of her, as he’d vowed to father an heir on her. How many times had she pleaded with the Maker to make him drop dead? Or for someone to find some way to help her? And then finally, someone had. A horde of fucking darkspawn. One of the first in centuries, over a year before the blight began in earnest. Hawke suddenly finds herself laughing like a madwoman, just for a moment, just as she had the night it happened. “ I’m sorry. I’m sorry, ” Hawke insists. “He, ah ,” Hawke clears her throat. “It’s just that… he got eaten by darkspawn. Before the blight, just as they were starting to head to the surface. After centuries without a single one of those things popping up in Ferelden, they swarm our estate and kill my piece of shit husband.”

Isabela laughs too, her voice clear and bright. “See? And you said this wasn’t a good story. That’s a great story.” 

“Alright, alright. Maybe that part is a good story.” 

Isabela’s expression grows thoughtful. “Where does your daughter fit into things, then?”

Hawke takes a deep breath. She allows herself to meet Isabela’s gaze, and finds Isabela’s expression unexpectedly tender. “She’s the only good thing that came out of those years. Sometimes I think she’s only good thing that’s ever happened to me.” Hawke’s heart races. She swallows dryly as a lump forms in her throat.  Great work, Hawke. Go out with the first woman who’ll have you in five years, she’s a gorgeous pirate woman, and here you are, talking about your dead husband and your kid at home. Still, Isabela doesn’t seem annoyed. 

“You really love her, don’t you?” 

Hawke nods. “I do. She’s my little best friend. She’s my partner in crime. She’s funny, and smart, and so wild.” Hawke can’t help beaming as she thinks about Delia. “I just love her. I—“ Hawke hesitates, painfully aware of the fact that she’s already shared too much for casual drinking and bedding. “I don’t think I could have made it without her. She’s… I call her my silver lining, you know?” 

“She was born while you were married? Or—“

“No,” Hawke shakes her head. “Thank the Maker. I was four months pregnant when he died.”

“Well. Even better luck, then.” Isabela’s voice is warm and empathetic. Hawke’s stomach turns. She’s just being nice. You’re sharing too much. You seem insane. You’re making everything pathetic and joyless, just like you always do. There was a time when Hawke was a charming young sailor, when she might’ve been able to do this like a normal person. She might’ve been able to chat playfully with Isabela, might’ve been able to take Isabela to bed and seem like she’d done it on purpose. Now, Hawke feels older than her years. She feels terrible for wasting Isabela’s time and coin on this date when she’s nothing more than a wet blanket. She wants to cry. Maker, this is a disaster. You’re panicking. You’re ruining everything. Wouldn’t Isabela be disappointed with her, even if she did get Hawke into bed? Isabela looks like a goddess, and dresses like she knows it. She’s all glowing brown skin and shining black hair, all perfect curves in all the right places. Hawke’s pale stretch marks still mar her hips and stomach, her breasts have lost their perkiness from pregnancy and nursing, and her broad hips hardly fit into women’s armor, never into men’s. Even before that, how many times did her husband tell her what an unattractive freak of a woman she is? A woman who always wants to act like a man, talk like a man, dress like a man, use her body like a man. He was a wretch. He was wrong about everything. But Hawke hears his voice in her head as she tries to imagine what Isabela must think of her. Hawke isn’t sure what she’d do if Isabela even did try to have sex with her at this point. Would Hawke just lay there and try not to cry from stress and embarrassment? It seems impossible to think that she’d be able to finish, and even more impossible to think that Hawke could make Isabela come. Bethany and Mother were so excited to see Hawke try and get back out there when she’d left Delia with them tonight. But this was a mistake. 

“I don’t feel well,” Hawke sputters. Isabela’s expression shifts into one of concern. 

“Something I can do for you?”

“No. It’s, ah. I need to go home.” Hawke stands up, feeling lightheaded. This bar really is too hot, isn’t it? “I’m so sorry, Isabela. I—“ She fumbles through the bag at her hip, retrieving a few coins and placing them on the table. “Take this back. For the drinks. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“What?” Isabela stands up. “Kitten, you’re not wasting my time. Can I get you some water? Maybe we could step outside for a little fresh air.”

“No!” Hawke insists. “I’m sorry. Goodnight.”

3. Isabela

The distant sound of a woman’s voice, followed by the echo of a child’s wild cackling, carries on the same sea breeze that gently plays with Isabela’s hair and blouse. She had been sitting at a hilltop on the Wounded Coast, watching trade ships sail by like miniatures on the horizon. Now, she turns to see two figures walking along the hillside path. Isabela stares absentmindedly, taking a moment to recognize the mother. In a pale blue dress that covers her arms completely, with her long dark hair untied and fluttering behind her, Hawke looks almost unrecognizable from the handsome mercenary woman who had helped her fight Hayder in the Chantry without breaking more than a (very attractive) light sweat. Even at their catastrophic date, Hawke had worn a blouse and pants. Is this what she prefers? Isabela supposes it doesn’t matter. Hawke would look good in anything. 

Including Isabela’s bedsheets.

Isabela groans, getting to her feet. The only thing worse than completely fumbling a gorgeous woman has got to be running into her on an afternoon out with her child. Her stomach twists as she remembers the date. Why did she push Hawke to talk about every terrible thing that had ever happened to her before she could finish a single drink? Isabela runs her hands through her hair, sighing deeply. She knows damned well why she did it. She did it because she’d had a piece of shit husband, too. And of course she didn’t fucking say anything, didn’t tell Hawke why Hawke’s story made her heart ache as though Hawke were telling Isabela’s own story. Worse, really. Hawke was an innocent when her husband had tormented her. Isabela can’t remember a time where she was ever innocent. You asked her on a date just to make her cut herself open for you to stare at. Great work, Isabela.  Isabela wouldn’t blame Hawke if she never wanted to speak to her again. She cringes at the memory of Hawke giving her back the coins she’d spent on a single, stupid beer. “Fuck.” Isabela mutters to herself, staring down the hill at Hawke and her child. She glances towards the road ahead. It’s no use — the path loops back around. It would take her far longer to get back to Kirkwall, with no guarantee that she won’t run into Hawke and her kid anyway. 

“Isabela?” Hawke calls. Isabela freezes. Why does this feel worse than the time she was stopped by the Denerim city guard? She can’t exactly solve this problem with quick footwork and sharp blades. Hawke begins to run towards her, her daughter cackling as she races along at her side. Isabela finally takes the little girl in. She has long, black hair, just like Hawke. But where Hawke’s hair is straight, the child has a thick mane of bouncing curls. The little girl wears a pair of brown pants and an embroidered green tunic in an adult style, seemingly custom made for her. Varric mentioned that Hawke’s mother stays at home with the child, and Hawke said the family had run out of money from Ferelden — maybe she’s the one making the family’s clothes. The girl runs ahead of Hawke, and Hawke speeds up to pull alongside her, taking her hand. By the time they reach Isabela, both Hawkes are flushed and grinning. Hawke scoops her daughter into her arms, giving her a kiss on the stomach that makes the little girl laugh even harder. She then sets her back down. “Stay close to Mummy, alright?” The girl nods, then wanders a few steps away to look at a patch of dandelions. 

“Hey, sweet thing.” Isabela forces a smile. She notices Hawke’s daughter brush her hair back from her face, revealing a pair of pointed elven ears. Isabela tries to hide her surprise. Hawke had said she was pregnant when her husband died. If her husband was a Ferelden nobleman, he sure as shit wasn’t an elf. With some amusement, it occurs to Isabela that Hawke didn’t say her husband was the one who got her pregnant. If Hawke has a soft spot for a pretty elf boy now and then… well, she and Isabela have more in common than she thought. Not that it’s any of Isabela’s business, of course. Forcing herself back to reality, Isabela thinks about how hard it must be for the little family in this city, where prejudice against human refugees alone is bad enough. 

“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Hawke breathes. She rifles through the leather bag at her hip, pulling out her coin purse. “I’ve been thinking, and I wanted to give you back what you gave me for the job with Hayder. I didn’t know about the slave ship business when you hired me.” Isabela stares at her dumbly, still lost on the concept of anyone from Kirkwall wanting to give back well-earned coin. “That never should have happened to you. You shouldn’t have to pay to avoid getting killed for doing the right thing. I won’t keep your coin for that.” 

“What?” Isabela blinks. “No.” Hawke holds the silver pieces out for her, but Isabela folds her arms over her chest. “You helped me, fair and square. You did good work, too. You earned that.” 

Hawke shakes her head. “If it’s coin for keeping you from getting murdered for freeing slaves, that’s blood money. I won’t keep it. I can’t live with myself.” 

“ Hawke ,” Isabela lowers her voice, frowning. Her eyes drift to Hawke’s daughter, who begins picking dandelions and shoving them into her mother’s pockets. “You’re a single mother, and a refugee. Varric says you’ve got five people living in a one room shack in Lowtown.” Hawke’s cheeks redden. Great. Good thing you brought up how broke she is. How many times can you manage to humiliate this woman without trying?  “Keep the money.”

Hawke’s expression grows somber, and her lips draw a thin line as she glances down at her daughter. “You said that ship was full of refugees. Men, women, children. People fleeing Ferelden. It’s only a matter of dumb luck that it wasn’t us.” Her eyes and nose redden, and she draws a shallow breath. “Those people don’t deserve freedom any less than we do. Those children aren’t any less precious to their parents than mine is to me.” She flashes a fragile smile. “I’m proud to have helped you, Isabela. I don’t need your coin. I’ll make it back some other way.” 

“You have a really good heart, Hawke.” Isabela’s chest aches as she takes back the coins. “That’s no way to make a living in Kirkwall.” 

“Maybe not,” Hawke admits with a shrug. “But I have to live with myself.” 

Isabela sighs. Lowering her voice, she offers, “Look, Hawke… I’m sorry I upset you the other night. I don’t know what got into me, to tell you the truth. I feel awful that I ruined your first night out.” 

Hawke’s face turns an even deeper shade of red. “You didn’t. I… really did have a headache. It wasn’t your fault.” Hawke says it with such kindness and reassurance that Isabela wishes she could believe her, though she’s certain it’s a lie. As the little girl deposits yet another dandelion in her pocket, Hawke picks her up, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. 

“Birds! Birds! Birds!” Hawke’s daughter calls. 

“I haven’t seen any out here today. Must be the weather.” Hawke glances up at the gray clouds overhead, then back to Isabela. “She likes the rooks that live around the cliffs. They’re more purple-black than the pure black ones in Ferelden, and—”

“Purple!” the girl cries.

Hawke laughs as she nods, then presses a kiss to her daughter’s cheek. “She can’t actually catch them, but she likes to chase them.” A lump forms in Isabela’s throat as she’s struck by the obvious love Hawke has for the child. Impulsively, childishly, Isabela wishes she’d had a mother who loved her like that. “My family calls her our little Rook.” 

“Rook and Hawke?” Isabela thinks aloud. “As in, mother bird and baby bird?” 

“Something like that,” Hawke nods. Hawke nuzzles her daughter’s cheek, and the girl giggles again. The two of them practically glow as they look at each other, and Hawke’s daughter lights up at every bit of attention she gets from her mother. Isabela feels completely alien as she watches them together. The most affection she ever got from her mother was a few coins occasionally tossed her way for helping out with her mother’s latest scam. 

Isabela was a fool for ever taking Hawke out in the first place. Even for one drink. Even for one night. Hawke knows how to love. She knows how to say no to coin. She knows how to be a person, how to talk about the things that happen to her instead of drowning it in alcohol and sex with strangers. Isabela was wrong. She doesn’t understand Hawke, even if they’ve felt similar pain. Hawke endured the same bullshit, but came out of the other side as a human being. Isabela came out of the other side as… what? A thief? A con woman? As a replica of her mother, before all of her born-again Qunari rubbish?

Hawke’s face falls a little as she takes in Isabela’s expression. Shit. What does she look like? “We’ll leave you be,” Hawke assures her. “I’ll see you later, Isabela.” 

“Bye bye!” the little girl waves. 

“Hawke,” Isabela hears the words leaving her mouth before she can fully process them. “What’s her name?” She turns her gaze towards the girl. “I mean… you, sweetheart. What’s your name?” 

“My name’s Delia,” the girl answers. “Mummy, Delia,” she points from Hawke to herself. “She’s the mummy, and I’m the baby.” 

Hawke grins, and so does Isabela, in spite of herself, “That’s right,” Hawke agrees, kissing Delia’s dark hair. 

“Good to meet you, Delia. Be good for your mummy, alright?” 

“She’s always good,” Hawke assures her. 

4. Isabela

“Hey Rivaini,” Varric raises his pint of beer at her, and Isabela nods. 

“Hey, Varric. Did you miss me?” She takes a seat beside him at the bar, and waves at the bartender. The man -- tall, blonde, and dumb as a rock -- doesn’t respond. 

“He’ll get you eventually,” Varric assures her. Isabela glances around the Hanged Man, where less than a dozen patrons sit at tables, all of them nursing fairly full drinks. 

“Understandable. He’s a busy man,” Isabela raises an eyebrow pointedly. Of course, the bartender doesn’t notice, because he simply doesn’t care. 

“Kirkwall’s finest drinks, and Kirkwall’s finest service,” Varric laughs. “The sign over the door says so, anyway.” 

“That has to be a crime, doesn’t it? Someone fetch Aveline. She’d have them running this place like the army within a week.” 

“True. But then the drinks probably wouldn’t be so cheap.” 

“Fair enough.” Isabela sighs. “Quiet night, eh?”

“You just missed Hawke,” Varric glances towards the door. “I think she was on a date, maybe. She had some guy with her, but I’ve never seen him before.” 

Isabela tries to pretend she doesn’t notice how her face burns at the idea of Hawke on a date with some man. What’s gotten into her? Hawke can fuck whoever she wants. She should, in fact! She spends all her time working her ass off for her family. She should have a little fun while she can. You ran her off from a one night stand. You hardly have a right to be—

“Good for her.” Isabela purses her lips. “Hey!” she calls to the bartender. “Can a lady get a drink around here?” 

“Keep your shirt on, Isabela.” the bartender calls. He doesn’t look up from drying a glass with a cloth. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” 

“Eh, I don’t think it was a great date,” Varric continues. “Hawke looked miserable, to tell you the truth. Kept staring at anything in the bar but the guy she was with. They left a few minutes ago — called it quits and went home, I’m guessing.”

Isabela’s blood begins to boil. “You saw Hawke on a date with a man who was making her miserable, and you just sat there and watched?” 

Varric puts his hands up. “Hey, come on now. I only mean that she looked bored. It wasn’t like I just stood by as some caveman hit her over the head and dragged her off. I mean, listen, I love hearing about other people’s business as much as the next dwarf. But our friends still deserve a little privacy, right?” 

“Seriously, do you want my coin or not?” Isabela yells. The bartender flips her his middle finger without looking over at her. Isabela groans, getting up from her stool. “Fine. I’m going to a bar that actually serves alcohol.” 

“Can I come?” Varric asks cheerfully. “I’ve been known to enjoy actually being served alcohol.” 

Isabela sighs, trying to cool the fires of her annoyance. She nods. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

Varric hops down from the barstool, following Isabela as she storms out of the bar. “The Sea Dog has half priced drinks after midnight. They have a really good lime cocktail, too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Isabela nods. She takes a deep breath. It’s fine. Go have a good time with Varric. Hawke’s a big girl. And it isn’t like she’s your girl, anyway. Be a normal person. “I went there the first time I docked in Kirkwall. I was… maybe twenty? Puked my guts out in the street outside.” 

Varric chuckles. “I’ll bet! You could probably strip paint with some of the shit they serve in there.” As Varric and Isabela walk down the street, they hear a man’s voice, panting and groaning. Varric flashes a half-smile. “Ah, Lowtown. Never change.” 

“At least somebody’s having a good night,” Isabela sighs. As they finally pass the source of the noise, they can see a man pressing a woman against a wall, grunting as he thrusts into her. She wears a plain white dress, with skirts so long that she’s not exposed at all from Isabela and Varric’s position, even as the man fucks her. Isabela’s blood turns to ice as she recognizes Hawke’s face in the moonlight. She doesn’t seem like she’s being taken by force — she drapes an arm lazily over the man’s shoulder — but her expression is so lifeless it makes Isabela feel ill. It’s like watching this man fuck a corpse. Hawke says nothing, does nothing as this man has sex with her, even as he seems to be enjoying himself. 

“ Oh shit ,” Varric breathes. He points down a street in the opposite direction, then quickly heads that way. “Why don’t we go this way instead?” 

“Is she drugged?” Isabela breathes. She begins running towards Hawke and the man. “ Hey!” Isabela screams. “ Get the fuck off of her, or I’ll cut you from tip to tail.”

Before Isabela gets more than a few strides closer to her, Hawke’s head turns, meeting Isabela’s gaze. At once, Hawke seems to come back to herself. Isabela can hear a muffled, “ Wait. Stop. Stop!” as Hawke pulls away from the man. He stares back at her in confusion, asking a question too quiet for Isabela and Varric to hear. Hawke mutters a few words to the man in a half-hearted apology, then runs off, taking a corner at the end of the alley and disappearing into the night. 

“ Fuck . Fuck!” Isabela hisses. She runs a hand through her hair, groaning in irritation at herself. Varric jogs up to her side. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the man yells down the street at them.

“Says the guy having sex in an alley?” Varric calls back, raising a confused hand at the guy. 

“I’m sorry,” Isabela yells. “I know that woman. She’s a friend. I just thought… I thought she was in trouble.” 

“We were fine until you showed up.” The man mutters a string of curses, buttoning his pants closed again. “She was the one who asked, you know.” 

Isabela’s brows furrow. Is that true? Hawke did say she was trying to get out again. Fucking hell. Can you stop ruining this woman’s life? “Yeah, well, I can see that now. I told you, I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah. Me too.” The man frowns. “Your friend’s not a very good fuck, though.” 

“Okay, just move along, buddy,” Varric shouts. 

“Is she supposed to be turned on by that little butterknife of yours in a back alley? Couldn’t even find a room somewhere?”

“Fuck you, lady.”

“Fuck you, too.”

5. Isabela

Isabela grimaces as Hawke jogs up to her in the street, inwardly cursing the Hanged Man’s proximity to the Hawke house. 

“Isabela—“ Hawke pants. Her hair is still wet and freshly braided — probably just got cleaned up after a day’s work. She’s in another one of those long dresses that looks lovingly homemade — this time in red. The color suits her, although the style still seems inexplicably strange on her. 

Isabela puts her hands up. “I know. I feel terrible. Next time I see you and some man getting your rocks off somewhere, I’m going the other way. Don’t have to tell me twice”

To Isabela’s surprise, Hawke stares at her in confusion. “That’s not what I…” Her warm brown eyes widen, and her expression softens. “Isabela, Varric told me what you were trying to do. You thought that man was… hurting me?” Her voice is so breathless, so tender that it nearly makes Isabela’s heart stop. 

“He wasn’t. Was he?”

“No,” Hawke assures her. “No! It was just…” She closes her eyes for a minute, frowning deeply. “Bad,” she sighs, opening her eyes again. “It was my own fault. I feel so…” Isabela can see it in Hawke’s eyes — she wishes she hadn’t even started this sentence. Isabela isn’t sure she’ll finish it. Finally, Hawke continues, “ Untouchable sometimes. And then I feel… weird about the idea of being with other people, too. I get so tangled up in my own head about it. I just wanted to get over it, you know? I used to be good at this. I thought I’d… sink or swim, I suppose. But either way, at least I’d— It doesn’t matter. It was a stupid idea. But it was fine. Like I said. Just bad sex.” 

Isabela’s breathing eases. “I’m glad to hear it, kitten. Seriously. And listen, as someone who’s had a lot of bad sex in my time,” Isabela flashes a comforting smile. “It’s alright. It doesn’t mean you’re untouchable . Just means it’s not the right person for you.”

Hawke looks at Isabela with so much affection it makes her heart ache. “It feels like… for so long, no one besides my family ever cared about anything that happens to me. Not like that, anyway. Can I hug you, Isabela?” 

Isabela nods, though her stomach forms a pit as she processes Hawke’s words. Hawke wraps her arms around Isabela, holding her close. Who’s ever cared about what a man might do to Isabela? Zevran did, once, and she’d left him like a thief in the night. And now Hawke, who’d fought Hayder and his men for her and refused the coin Isabela offered her for it. 

With a pang, Isabela wonders what it would have been like to have known Hawke as a teenager. Of course, Hawke wasn’t a teenager when Isabela was, but a girl can dream. What if Hawke had been there to save her from her marriage to Luis? What if Isabela could have saved Hawke from her own abusive marriage? What if Isabela had lived with Hawke and her family instead of her husband after her own mother abandoned her? What if Hawke could’ve had her affair with whatever elf got her pregnant with Delia, and she could’ve borne her daughter in peace, with no echo of a cruel husband’s voice in her head?

Does Hawke have an echo of her cruel husband’s voice in her head? Or is that just Isabela? She’s never said she did, Isabela realizes. She’d just assumed Hawke did, too. 

Pointless. It’s a completely useless thing to think about. But as Isabela wraps her arms around Hawke, she finds herself on the verge of tears. Goddamn it, Isabela. Get your shit together. 

“Come home for dinner with us. My mother’s been cooking seafood stew. She’s an amazing cook.” 

“I can’t, kitten. I… don’t think that’s a good idea. I'm not good at meeting the parents.”

“Good news!” Hawke smiles pleasantly. “You don’t have to. My Father’s dead. Only one parent to meet.” Isabela’s mouth falls open. “I’m joking. He is dead, though. But seriously, it’s fine. My family would love to have you. Bethany thinks you’re basically an adventure serial heroine, and my mother loves interesting company. And I’m sure Delia would be happy to see you again. She asks about you, you know. She calls you Gold Lady. ”

Isabela snorts. “Gold Lady?”

“She loves jewelry. She asks me every day if I’m going to see the Gold Lady.”

Isabela’s heart warms. She shouldn’t say yes. She shouldn’t drag whatever chaos follows her into Hawke’s path. But the idea of being welcome, even just for a little while, in the Hawke home, with all of these women who love each other — with Hawke, whose kindness warms Isabela down to her bones like a fire on a winter’s night — intoxicates her. She feels like a stray dog being asked to come in from the cold — how can she say no?

“I do like seafood stew.” 

“Can you say Isabela?” Hawke asks. She bounces Delia on her lap as she and Isabela sit on the stoop, drinking wine as Leandra makes dinner. Even from out here, the mouthwatering smell of Leandra’s cooking is a welcome change from the usual stink of Lowtown. Lowtown is hardly the worst part of the city, but Hightown is the only place that ever really smells clean . And that’s just because they’d call the guard on anyone who doesn’t. 

Little Delia flashes a mischievous grin, shaking her head. Hawke frowns dramatically. “ No?” Hawke scoffs. 

That wasn’t always my name, Isabela thinks. That wasn’t the name my mother gave me. Can she tell? Isabela takes a deep breath. No, of course not. She’s just a child being a child. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Isabela. 

“Come on,” Hawke insists. “Can you say ‘Hi, Isabela?’ ” Hawke models waving at Isabela. 

Delia giggles, then waves. “Hi, Izzy Bella.” 

Isabela smiles at her. “Hey, there, sweetheart.” Without asking, Delia leans forward, reaching up for Isabela’s thick golden collar necklace. Hawke wraps her arms around Delia, pulling her back before Delia can touch Isabela. 

“Slow your roll, Rook. We don’t go around grabbing at people.” Delia continues reaching her hand out towards Isabela, thwarted in body but not in spirit. 

“Pretty gold necklace,” Delia says, staring longingly at it. 

Isabela laughs. “ You sound like a little pirate already. You’d better watch out, Hawke.” 

Hawke grins proudly. “She keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.” She draws Delia closer, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Delia beams at the attention, her little face radiant with joy and love. Isabela’s chest tightens. 

“You know,” Isabela clears her throat, trying to remain calm. Come on, Isabela. You can’t come over to this woman’s home and lose it over seeing her be kind to her own child. Get a fucking grip. She forces a smile, touching her necklace. “This is from the place I’m from. It’s called Rivain, and it’s far, far away . You have to cross the Waking Sea, the Amaranthine Ocean, and the Rialto Bay to get there.” 

“You sail on boats?” Delia asks. 

“Yes,” Isabela nods. “I do. Well, normally. My ship is kind of… broken at the moment.” Hawke frowns sympathetically, but Delia’s expression grows curious. 

“It’s broken?”

Isabela nods again. “It’s alright. I’ll get another someday.” She hopes so, anyway. No. She will. Isabela takes off her necklace, holding it out towards Delia. “Do you want to try it on? Maybe your mother could help.”

“That is so sweet of you,” Hawke insists, taking the necklace in one hand. “Can you say thank you to Miss Isabela?” 

“Thank you! Thank you!” Delia nods cheerfully. Hawke fastens the necklace around Delia’s neck. It’s huge on her, covering her little chin, along with her neck and collarbone. Even so, she looks completely delighted. “I wanna see! I wanna see!”

“Okay, okay, let’s go get you a mirror. Alright?” Hawke offers. She sets Delia down for a moment, getting to her feet before taking the girl’s hand. 

As she watches Delia bound along at Hawke’s side, little hands feeling all over the necklace, Isabela remembers being a little girl in Rivain, trying on jewelry her mother had stolen. She could only do it when her mother was out drinking or doing Maker knows what else, or else she’d earn a swift smack in the face and a reminder to stay out of her mother’s things. Still, she remembers looking in the mirror, seeing herself dripping in gold, and feeling like the pirate women who swaggered around Rivain’s port cities like queens. No one hit them. No one told them they were a waste of their mothers’ time and resources. Isabela would look back at herself in the mirror, dripping with all that shining metal and glittering jewels, and feel like she was worth something. Even if only for a little while.

Isabela takes a deep breath, irritated at herself for getting so emotional. She’s not a little girl anymore. And whatever jewelry her mother had gotten away with was probably fake, anyway. Nothing more than painted metal and colored glass. But as she watches Delia spin and play in the necklace, she feels a rush of satisfaction. All of mine is real.

“I’m right behind you, and I’ve got your wine,” Isabela calls to Hawke, standing up and picking up her wine glass and Hawke’s. Hawke glances back at Isabela, her strong, beautiful features so warmed by happiness that it makes Isabela’s heart race.

“My hero,” Hawke nods to her. 

Isabela’s stomach fills with those same damned butterflies as that night in the Chantry. Is this what it feels like all the time to be around people who love each other? Who are actually decent to each other? Isabela’s chest aches at the thought. 

As Hawke and Delia walk back into the home, Leandra calls out, “Who’s that little pirate queen?” Delia cackles, running over to her. She stands in front of her grandmother, turning in circles for Leandra to see. Then, she starts spinning in faster circles, just for her own amusement, before sitting on the floor in a giggly heap. “Don’t you look regal.”

“Isabela let her borrow her beautiful Rivaini necklace,” Hawke explains. Both Leandra and Bethany, who stands near her mother by the fire, flash Isabela appreciative smiles. 

“That was very kind of you, Isabela,” Bethany offers. “She loves your jewelry. She calls you Gold Lady, ever since she and my sister ran into you. She always asks us if we’re going to see Gold Lady today before we go out.”

“She’s working on saying Isabela,” Hawke explains. She and Delia disappear into the bedroom for a moment. When they return, Delia holds a hand mirror in front of her face, wearing a smile so big it seems to take up her entire face. She does an ecstatic little foot-tapping dance, squealing loudly. 

“ I’m so pretty!”

“You are,” Isabela agrees. “I think you wear it better than I do.” 

Isabela and Hawke sit side by side in Hawke’s bunk bed, close enough that the warm skin of Hawke’s bare shoulder heats Isabela’s as they lean against each other. Isabela watches Hawke’s lips, full and peachy-pink as sunrise over the water, when Hawke takes another sip from the wine bottle. She’d poured the last full glass for Isabela, and decided to drink the remaining few sips straight out of the bottle. The room is quiet except for the gentle breathing of Bethany in the bunk bed above them and little Delia in her own tiny bed in the corner. 

“Think you’ve got enough maps?” Isabela teases, gesturing towards where someone has pinned maps all over the back wall of the room. 

Hawke shrugs. “I just love maps. Always have. I was a navigator in the navy. I was in training to become a cartographer for the king.”

“Really?” Isabela can’t hide her delight, fueled by the wine and the inexplicable comfort she’s felt since the moment she walked into this home. “You’re a navigator?”

“Oh, yeah. I loved it.” Hawke’s face lights up. “Setting aside— you know, not having Delia around yet — that was the best time of my life.” 

“We could’ve used you before the storm,” Isabela admits before she can stop herself. “Bet you would’ve known about the damned reefs.” Her mind drifts back to that horrible night in the darkness, wind and rain whipping her face as wave after punishing wave had crashed into her, threatening to throw her off of the broken plank she’d gotten hold of. Some of the men didn’t die right away. There had been screaming, for a while. But the storm thrashed Isabela around in violent tides so strong she couldn’t swim towards them, couldn’t get more than a few feet before being pounded by another giant wave. She can’t remember how long she was in the water, how long it was before she washed up on shore. She just knows that she’s the only person on that ship who made it back to dry land.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says, her voice low and painfully kind. Isabela stares down at her hands, unable to look at her. 

“Thanks, kitten.” A heavy silence passes between them. Isabela doesn’t belong here, with this truly good woman and warm little house and her loving family sleeping all around them. 

“You said you wanted another ship. I know it’s going to happen for you.” 

Isabela breathes a little laugh. “You’re sweet. Do you know that?” Hawke shrugs.

Hawke pushes a chunk of her long back hair, smooth and shining even in the dim light of the bedroom, behind her ear. The gesture sets Isabela’s heart racing. “When you do get another ship, if you ever need a navigator…” She laces her free hand with Isabela’s, her fingers rough and calloused but warm to the touch. 

“I’d love that, sweet thing,” Isabela nods, truly meaning it. The thought of being back on her own ship with Hawke as her guide makes Isabela’s heart ache with longing. “One of these days.” 

Act II. 

6. Hawke

“You have a visitor, serah,” Bodahn announces, scrambling through the foyer a few steps ahead of Isabela. “I know I said it before, but I’ll say it again: let me know if you need anything , Mistress Hawke,” Bodahn insists. “Anything at all.” With that, he scurries off. 

“Oh shit,” Isabela winces. Hawke holds a wadded-up, damp cloth to her nose. She’d hoped the cold would help ease the pain, but it’s not cold enough to truly help. She’s not sure the minor relief is worth the bloody, watery mess dripping down her arm and chest. 

“Isabela!” Delia cries, running towards Isabela and wrapping her arms around her. 

“Sorry,” Isabela stammers, seeming to realize a moment too late that she’s cursed in front of a young child. “I mean… oh… Maker . What happened?” She places a comforting hand on Delia’s back, but keeps her gaze locked on Hawke. 

“Just some a—” Hawke frowns as she catches Delia staring at her, her brown eyes huge in alarm. She really shouldn’t curse in front of Delia, either. “Some drunken noble pieces of—” Hawke raises her eyebrows at Isabela pointedly. “... You know — had some stupid things to say to us.” 

Delia’s little face grows anxious, and her dark curls bounce behind her as she throws herself tighter into her hug with Isabela. “They called me a knife-eared bastard.” She begins to cry. “They said…”

Hawke’s stomach turns. She feels as though her heart is going to burst in her chest. “They were pieces of shit,” Hawke blurts out, too angry to stop herself. “ Sorry, baby. But I shut them up.”  

“Oh, sweet thing,” Isabela breathes. She kneels down, hugging Delia close as she cries. 

“ We didn’t do anything to them. I don’t know why they were so mean.” 

“I know, sweetheart,” Isabela assures her. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Those were bad men. Sounds like your mother gave them exactly what they deserved.” Isabela gently brushes away Delia’s tears. Hawke feels a rush of warmth as she’s struck by a wave of gratitude for Isabela’s kindness. 

“I don’t know what bastard means,” Delia sniffles. “But I know knife-ear means that they don’t like that you’re an elf.” 

“They’re both foolish words used by foolish people.” Isabela assures her. 

“A bastard is just… a child someone won’t claim,” Hawke breathes. “But I love you. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. Those men were wrong. And they don’t get to talk to you like that. That’s why mummy had to beat them up.” 

“They called mummy a whore of Hightown. They said she was ruining the neighborhood by having me here. I don’t know what that means, either. And I don’t know why…” Delia begins crying harder. Hawke feels like a thousand pound weight is crushing her chest. “I’m not ruining the neighborhood! I didn’t do anything !” Hawke hurries over to Delia and Isabela’s side, kneeling in front of them: bloody nose, bloody snot rag, and all. “ I didn’t even do anything!” 

“I love you, baby girl. You’re right. You didn’t do anything wrong. Those men were hateful idiots. They’re the ones trying to ruin the neighborhood. Not you,” Hawke insists. She presses a breathless kiss to Delia’s temple. She cringes as she spots some of her own blood on Delia’s face afterward, but Delia doesn’t seem to care as Hawke wipes it off. 

“Your mother’s right. Are you kidding me? You’re the best part of Hightown!” Isabela insists, flashing her a warm smile. “And don’t worry. A whore is just a nasty term that stupid little men like that call a woman who knows what she wants. Men like that are just jealous that your mother worked hard to afford a fancy house like this for you. They’ve had everything handed to them all their lives, and they hate to see anyone who isn’t just like them get anything like what that they have. Sounds like they needed someone to teach them a lesson, and your mother delivered.”

Delia nods. “She hit them until they said sorry. And she made them promise to leave us alone, or she said she’d beat them up again. And throw them into the harbor.” 

“That’s my girl.” Isabela glances at Hawke, giving her a quick wink before returning her gaze to Delia. “But I want you to listen to me.” She takes Delia’s hands, squeezing them gently. “Where I’m from, there are plenty of people who look like me. Alright, maybe not quite as pretty, but…” She lets go of one of Delia’s hands, poking the girl’s nose playfully. Delia’s teary frown eases slightly, and Isabela retakes her hand. “I’m joking. The women in Rivain are beautiful . But anyway, when I came to Ferelden, there weren’t as many people here who looked like me. There were some, sure. But most people had lighter skin and hair than I did. Same thing here in Kirkwall. I’ve had plenty of people say things to me like they did to you. That I’m making the city worse, and that I should go home to Rivain. Or else they’d call me cruel names, like they did to you and your mother.”

“Really?” Delia sniffs. 

“Really.”

“What did you do?”

“I made them eat their words,” Isabela grins mischievously. “Sometimes the same way your mother did — with nothing but my fists. Sometimes by outsmarting them. Sometimes by just living well, while I knew they kept on going as useless lowlifes who could only feel better about their…” Isabela locks eyes with Hawke for a moment before returning her attention to Delia. “ Crappy lives by telling themselves they were better than me. But they’re not better than me. And they’re not better than you. You and your mother are worth more than a million men like that.”

“So are you,” Hawke says softly. Isabela stares at Hawke for a few seconds, studying her face. And just for a moment, Hawke can see Isabela’s mask slip. Isabela’s anger, her sadness, and her love are all written plainly on her face. “You’re a good person, Isabela. This city is better for having you in it. I’d be miserable here without you.” 

Isabela grimaces, and the mask comes back up. Can’t blame her. Hawke’s not good at taking a compliment, either. Isabela forces a smile. “Thank you, Hawke.”

“You’re really pretty,” Delia says softly. “I like your skin. I like your hair.” 

Isabela’s smile becomes genuine. “You’re pretty, too, sweet thing! I love your ears.” Isabela taps the tip of Delia’s ears lightly, then pulls her in for another hug. “They’re one of the things that makes you you. ” 

“Isabela’s right,” Hawke breathes. “I love you so much, Rook. I have since the moment you were born.” Hawke gets choked up. Not ideal when she’s already got a bloody nose; she presses the rag to her nose again to try and retain a little dignity as she faces a renewed rush of blood and snot. “You’re perfect. Everything about you is perfect. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Of course people are jealous of us.” 

Isabela turns her attention to Hawke. “How’s the nose, sailor?” she asks softly. 

Hawke frowns. She can tell from the hot throbbing of her nose that it’s probably broken and swelling badly, though it didn’t look like it had been dislocated when she last checked a mirror. 

“Broken, I think,” Hawke admits. “But not out of place. I’m out of healing potions; that’s the only problem. We were going to stop by Anders’ clinic for more before those men…”

“You should go see Anders,” Isabela agrees. “Make sure everything’s alright. I could come with you, if you’d like. Delia and I can chat while you get checked out.”

“Wait. Why did you come here in the first place? Did you need something?” 

“Oh, no,” Isabela shakes her head. “Just bored. Wanted to see if you were up to something. Didn’t know you were out humbling the bigoted scumbags of Hightown.” 

“Mummy was really brave,” Delia offers thoughtfully. “She didn’t even cry when the man hit her in the nose. Or when they called us names.” Delia stares down at her hands. “I cried a lot. I was really sad and scared.”

“You were brave, too,” Hawke counters immediately, her gut wrenching. “You got out of the way, just like Mummy said. Just because you cried doesn’t mean you’re not brave. Trust me, Mummy cries plenty.” She cracks a weary smile. “Mummy might cry if Anders has to realign this broken stupid nose, to tell you the truth. But that’s alright.” 

7. Hawke

“Guess what, sailor?” Isabela grins, sauntering up to Hawke in the Hightown square outside the Hawke estate. Hawke finishes adjusting her sling of arrows over her shoulders. 

“The guy who hired us for this job today said we can skip the work, take the money, and go out for breakfast instead?” Hawke asks hopefully, clapping her hands together in mock excitement. 

“Nope. Far more exciting than that.” 

“Hmmm. Isabela says it’s exciting. Should I be worried?” Hawke teases. Isabela scoffs indignantly. 

“ No,” Isabela rolls her eyes, then jogs to close the gap between her and Hawke. She loops her arm through Hawke’s, sending a rush of warmth through Hawke’s belly as their bare arms touch. 

“ I just so happened to find a merchant ship captain in need of a navigator for a short sea voyage. It’s only two weeks altogether — you won’t be away for long. As soon as I told him about you, the man was chomping at the bit to hire you.”

Hawke can’t breathe. “Are you joking?” 

Isabela shakes her head, her expression achingly kind as she looks Hawke over. “It’s not a joke, sailor. I wouldn’t joke about this. I know how much you miss being on the water. And I know you can’t just pack up and leave Delia. But I thought… two weeks back at sea might be good for you.” Hawke can’t stop herself as she begins to cry. 

“ Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She wipes her eyes. “Are you coming too?” Hawke manages, trying not to completely lose control of herself. 

Isabela flashes a sad half-smile, shaking her head. “No, kitten. I can’t go back on someone else’s ship and take someone else’s orders. I’d be no use to anyone like that, anyway. Just a bossy woman storming around, pissed off that she’s not in charge. They’d probably throw me overboard the first day. But you should go. Breathe some salt air, feel sea spray on your face, get some wind in your hair. Stop worrying about everybody’s problems for once, and just focus on getting your ship to Ferelden and back again. Perfect opportunity to break out some of those maps you’ve been collecting, too.”

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Hawke sniffs. “I know it’s not… ideal, but maybe—”

“I can’t.” Isabela removes her arms from around Hawke, instead brushing Hawke’s cheekbone with her thumb, following the path of an old duelling scar. “I would if I could.” 

Hawke nods. “Well,” Hawke wipes at her tears. “Thank you, Isabela. I— I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” 

“You don’t have to,” Isabela assures her. 

“You’ll get back on a ship someday, too,” Hawke promises. She takes Isabela’s hand, squeezing it as she’s overcome with affection. “I promise you. And I’ll be your navigator. Maybe Delia can come with us, if she’s old enough.”
Isabela laughs brightly. “I’d love that! My little boatswain! We’ll have to find her a nice hat in her size.” 

“Oh, for sure,” Hawke chuckles too. “Or else she’d just steal yours.”

“Very true. Lucky thing she’s too cute to walk the plank.” 

“Do you actually make people walk the plank?” Hawke narrows her eyes, cocking her head in amused curiosity. “I suppose I’ve never been on a real pirate ship.”

“Well then,” Isabela squeezes Hawke’s hand back. “You’ll just have to join my crew and find out.” 

8. Isabela

“Maker, I’m dying in this dress,” Hawke fans herself with her hand, draping her body over Isabela’s plush red couch.

“I just put the fire out, and you’re still drinking. At this point, if you overheat, that’s on you, Hawke.” Isabela teases, sitting back down on the foot over her bed. She picks her wine bottle back up from the floor, taking a swig. It’s the same shitty red they always have at the Hanged Man. They don’t even try to call it this Orlesian grape variety or that Ferelden vintage. The Hanged Man only ever sells White or Red. It tastes like if grape juice hated you, but it does the job. Hawke takes a sip of her own bottle — she’d opted for the White, which differs from the red only by tasting like sour grape juice that hates you. Sweat plasters Hawke’s long black hair to her flushed skin, dripping down the chest and back of her heavy blue wool dress. It’s pretty enough. Very Hightown. But Hawke’s right, she does look like she’s dying in the thing. It’s a cold night, but they have enough fires in the bar and the guest rooms to heat Isabela’s room like a furnace. 

“Take it off. You won’t bother me.” Isabela shrugs. Hawke flashes Isabela big dark puppy dog eyes in gratitude. 

“I have underclothes on. I promise, I won’t be completely stripping in the middle of your bedroom.”

“Believe me, sweet thing. You’re welcome to completely strip in the middle of my bedroom any time you’d like.” She takes another sip of her wine, and Hawke laughs brightly before starting to untie the back of her dress. “You need help?” 

“No, that’s alright. Thank you, though.” Isabela watches as Hawke removes the dark gown, stripping down to a white undershirt and white bloomer shorts. They cling to her body from sweat, and Isabela can’t help noticing the curve of Hawke’s breasts, her broad hips, her perky ass. Isabela turns her attention to her stack of gold jewelry on the dresser, trying to avoid making Hawke uncomfortable. 

“Can I be honest, sailor?” Isabela calls. 

“Hmm? And you can look. I’m done.” Isabela turns her gaze back to Hawke. Hawke sits on her knees on the couch, arms folded over the back of it as she faces Isabela. 

“You just look so… different when you’re working than when you don’t.”

Hawke flashes her a tentative, confused smile. “Well, obviously. I can’t fight in a dress.” 

“I know,” Isabela nods. “But you just… don’t seem comfortable. They’re beautiful gowns, but… you don’t seem like yourself.” Hawke’s face pales. She rests her head on her arms, and seems to almost melt into the back of the couch. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No. It’s…” Hawke closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “You’re not wrong, Isabela.” Her voice is so quiet Isabela can hardly hear her. She looks behind her, reaching back for her bottle of wine and taking a long drink before melting into the back of the couch again. “I didn’t always…” Hawke closes her eyes and all at once, she seems a thousand miles away. “I tried to look different. When I was in the navy. I used to wear men’s clothes. Cut my hair short. Not that— I didn’t want to be a man. I know there are people who— that just isn’t who I am.”

“That’s alright,” Isabela assures her. “I understand, kitten.” 

“I never looked good like that, to tell you the truth.” Hawke’s face is deep red now, and she looks like she might cry as she opens her eyes again. She stares down at the floor in front of her, avoiding Isabela’s gaze. “My hips, my boobs, my ass were always too big to look good in any of it. I mean, I know my breasts aren’t like—” She gestures to Isabela’s chest, and Isabela snorts, in spite of herself. “But still. I always looked like a mother, even before Delia. I can’t change that.” 

“Oh, sweet thing,” Isabela frowns. “You would look gorgeous in anything. You just need a good tailor.”

Hawke studies Isabela’s face in silence for what feels like an eternity. “That’s what my mother says.” 

Isabela nods. “Your mother’s a smart woman.” Hawke bites her lip. “Then what’s the problem?” 

“It’s going to sound stupid. And… completely pathetic. You’re going to think I’m stupid.”

Isabela knows the reason at once. Her stomach aches. “Your husband told you to stop.” Hawke closes her eyes again, nodding once. Isabela’s chest grows tight at the thought of her own husband, how his screaming still rings in her ears all these years later whenever she makes a mistake, whenever she does something she knows he wouldn’t have approved of. Which is, essentially, most of her life now. “Fuck him.” Isabela’s jaw clenches. “He’s dead.” Hawke’s husband and Isabela’s own blend together in her mind’s eye. Her thoughts of young Hawke and herself as a young bride in a forced marriage merge together. She looks at Hawke across the room from her and sees the shattered remnants of herself, of everything she tried to put back together in all the years that have passed since her husband tried to break her. “You’re not. You’re alive, and you’re here, and you’re a damned hero in this city. He’s some darkspawn’s leftovers in Ferelden. What do you want to do, Hawke?” Hawke seems lost, and Isabela grows agitated. “What if this had happened to Delia? What if it had happened to Bethany? What if it had happened to your mother? What would you want them to do?” Isabela’s heart begins to race. She knows she should tell Hawke what she really means. She should share the moment with her, instead of poking at Hawke’s raw wounds and never telling her about Isabela’s own. But she can’t. The words won’t come. They’re anchors stuck on the sea bed of her heart, always weighing her down. 

Hawke looks physically sick. Isabela pushed too hard, she realizes. She shouldn’t have said anything about Hawke’s daughter, her sister, her mother. It’s too much. Especially when Isabela won’t be honest with Hawke herself. What right do you have to—

“I want to cut all this hair off.” Hawke swallows hard. There’s steel in Hawke’s gaze now. “I want to give my dresses away. I want to buy men’s clothes, and I want to make a tailor make them fit my body. I don’t want to look like my dead husband’s dress-up doll. And I don’t want to look like a little girl playing in her father’s closet.” She lowers her voice. “That’s what I would want Delia to say. Or Bethany, or my mother. If it happened to them.” Her eyes redden, and she wipes her nose as it begins to run. 

“Then let’s do it, kitten.” Isabela stands up, striding across the room to her dresser. She pulls a pair of sharp scissors out of the top drawer. 

“Do what?” Hawke sniffs.

“Cut your hair. The market’s closed, so we can’t change your wardrobe tonight. But we can cut your hair.” Isabela takes a breath, realizing this probably isn’t what Hawke wants. They’re both drunk, it’s the middle of the night, and Hawke’s hair is down to her hips. She must’ve been growing it out for years. Even if she wants it gone, she probably isn’t ready to—

“Do it.” Hawke says quietly. “Let me get some water and wash the sweat out, first. After that, let’s do it. Do you have soap?” 

Hawke sits before Isabela on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. Hawke inhales deeply, then takes a long swig of her white wine. 

“One last drink for courage?” Isabela grins.

“Do I need courage? Are you going to fuck up my hair?” 

“No! Of course not!” Isabela pats Hawke’s shoulder. “I promise, kitten.” She takes a long chunk of Hawke’s damp hair in her hand. As she makes the first snip, the sound of the blade cutting through each strand is the only noise between them. Hawke begins breathing again as soon as it’s done, and so does Isabela. Isabela lets Hawke’s dark lock of hair fall to the floor. The room fills with the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the steady snipping of Isabela’s scissors as Isabela works. She starts with the longest portions of Hawke’s hair. She brushes stray hairs off of Hawke’s neck, Hawke’s skin warm and soft as silk beneath Isabela’s fingers. Isabela’s touch makes Hawke shiver. 

“Just getting some stray hair off of your neck, sweet thing.”

“Thank you.”

Isabela feels her own skin heating as she works through Hawke’s hair. It’s the proximity to Hawke. It’s the feeling of Hawke’s hair in her hands, the touch of Hawke’s skin. It’s Hawke’s faith in her to cut away the parts of her that hurt, the parts that make her look like someone she isn’t. It’s Hawke’s trust in her with a pair of sharp blades near her neck. Isabela wants to do well. She wants this to make Hawke happy. And as she works, she realizes that she wants Hawke. Not as a one night stand. Not as a friend. It’s more than that. It’s greed. It’s a physical need for Hawke. Isabela wants to kiss the delicate skin of Hawke’s exposed neck. She wants to take Hawke’s breasts in her mouth, wants to hold Hawke’s hips in her hands, wants to feel Hawke’s clit on her tongue. She wants to fuck her until Hawke forgets about her husband, until the only voice in her head is Isabela’s. Until the only voice in Isabela’s head is Hawke’s, calling her name. 

Get a hold of yourself, Isabela. Steady your hands.

The room is so quiet that Isabela fears that Hawke must hear her heart pounding, though she knows that can’t be true. If Hawke does, she says nothing. She only sits in utter silence as Isabela cuts her hair. Isabela has no idea what’s going through Hawke’s mind. Hawke is calm enough with Isabela’s hands in her hair and on her skin that Isabela doesn’t think she’s upset, at least. Time seems to slow down between them. Isabela feels like the haircut takes all night as she works tirelessly to get the cut just right, to make it perfect for Hawke. But Hawke doesn’t complain, and Isabela doesn’t give up. Isabela eyes the sharp curve of Hawke’s jaw, the strong arches of her eyebrows, the slight downward curve of Hawke’s mouth when she’s at rest. “You’ve got a beautiful face, kitten,” Isabela mutters, reluctant to startle Hawke after so much silence. “Now you’ll finally get to see it.”

Hawke smiles warmly. “You’re so kind to me, Isabela.”

Isabela leans in to look at Hawke, and Hawke turns her head to look back at her, their faces only inches apart. “You always take care of me when I need a hand. You do the same with everyone else. Why shouldn’t people take care of you?” Isabela asks. Hawke sits back, lowering her gaze to her hands. 

“I don’t know. I’m fine. I don’t need to be taken care of.” 

“ Yes, you do.” Isabela bites her lip, then takes another portion of Hawke’s hair and resumes cutting.

“What about you?” Hawke asks. 

“What about me?” Isabela’s eyebrows furrow. 

“I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like… you never talk about anything real .”

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Hawke pauses before she tries to explain herself. “We talk all the time. You tell all these stories, but sometimes… I feel like I don’t know what’s going on with you. Not until you tell me there’s some pack of goons on your tail, and you need me to go take them out for you. Which I don’t mind! But it’s just that… You know me. I want to know you. But even after three years… I don’t know if I really do.” Isabela can’t speak, can’t do anything but stare down at the scissors in her hands. Hawke’s right. She’s absolutely right. And if Isabela was a normal person, a decent person, maybe this is where she’d come clean. Maybe this is where she’d tell Hawke that she’s been using Hawke and her daughter to heal the parts of herself that are still bloody and raw after all these years, the parts she thought she’d long since killed and buried at sea. That she’s doing this to Hawke because Hawke has the courage to wear her heart on her sleeve with Isabela, even when Isabela has never done the same with her. That she’s cannibalizing Hawke’s courage the way a carrion bird on the shore steals bites of tender flesh from beached fish. 

But Isabela’s not a good person. So she’s not going to tell Hawke that. 

“I don’t know what you mean, kitten,” Isabela answers breezily, keeping her voice even and calm. 

“I’m so sorry,” Hawke offers immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk, and tired, and… You’re my best friend, Isabela. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Please, forget I said anything.”

“It’s alright, kitten. I promise, I tell you everything you need to know. And besides, goons don’t always give me a 24 hour heads-up and a list of demands before hunting me down, you know.” She keeps her expression pleasant, even as she recalls the Qunari bounty on her head and their demands for the return of their dusty old tome. Her heart skips a beat as she thinks of the Tome of Koslun itself in its locked box beneath Isabela’s bed, five feet from where Hawke is sitting. Alright, maybe Isabela is keeping a lot of things from Hawke. Still, the realization that Hawke can tell makes Isabela’s skin begin to crawl. How uncomfortable is she making Hawke? How much has Isabela lied to her? 

“I know,” Hawke nods. “I’m sorry. I trust you. I just worry about things sometimes. I get lost in my own head. And the whole bottle of wine probably didn’t help.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve said plenty of stupid things after too much wine.” The words are bitter on Isabela’s tongue, though she doesn’t show it.

“Thank you for helping me anyway.” Hawke murmurs. “That night you found me in the alley with that man… Ugh. I just thought if I put on a dress and found some man who really wanted me, who liked the look of me , I might feel more…” She covers her eyes with her hands, sighing deeply before folding them in her lap again. “You, Delia, and Mother are the only people who make me feel… I don’t know. Like a person, I suppose. So thank you.” 

“What do you think?” Isabela asks, passing the hand mirror to Hawke. Hawke’s mouth falls open slightly, and she seems to stop breathing. A cool chill of anxiety washes over Isabela. “Oh shit. You don’t like it.” Hawke begins breathing heavily, which soon escalates into crying. “I’m sorry, kitten. I think it looks good! But it’ll grow back.” She’d cut Hawke’s hair with meticulous care, leaving her with a neat, boyish cut, just long enough to run your fingers through. 

In one blur of motion, Hawke launches herself from her seat, wrapping her arms around Isabela. “ I love it. I can’t believe it. Isabela—” Hawke draws a ragged breath. Isabela hugs her back. “I look like me .” Hawke sniffles. “Maker, that sounds stupid. I still feel sort of drunk.” 

“It’s not stupid, sweet thing,” Isabela insists. She pats Hawke’s back before letting go of her. Isabela runs her hands through Hawke’s hair. “Look at you! Hope you’re ready to have every woman in Kirkwall banging down your door.” 

Hawke flushes. “You’re sweet.” She looks at herself in the mirror again, beaming from ear to ear. “I can’t believe this, Isabela,” she repeats. “This is amazing. I can’t thank you enough.” 

“Any time, sweet thing.” 

Hawke hugs Isabela again, holding her close. “ I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you.” 

Isabela opens her mouth to respond when she suddenly stops herself. She thought Hawke had said ‘ I love you,’ but realizes immediately that Hawke said nothing of the sort. Isabela schools her expression, pushing past her confusion. Why did she think Hawke said she loves her?

9. Isabela

“At least your mother loved you. Not everyone can say that.” As soon as Isabela sees the look on Hawke’s face, she knows she shouldn’t have said it. Hawke’s face softens, and Isabela feels like Hawke can see straight through her, straight into her thoughts. 

“Your mother didn’t?” Hawke wipes her tears. Maker, she’s still crying over her dead mother. Her dead mother who was dismembered and sewn onto other women’s bodies before dying in Hawke’s arms, by the way. What the fuck is wrong with you, Isabela?

“It… doesn’t matter.”

Hawke sniffles. “Mother always liked you. She liked that you’re so kind with Delia. And that you’re brave, and strong, and you live your life on your own terms. She always wanted me to be like that. It’s why she liked having you around. She thought you might help me lighten up. I’m not sure that’s possible, though.” 

“Come now, kitten. We’re not so different.” 

Hawke bites her lip, staring down at her hands. “You would never have married a husband who hurt you. And you’d never have stayed with him, once he started—” Isabela feels dizzy. The truth lodges itself in her chest like a blade through the heart. We are the same. Yes, I did just that. Yes, I stayed. I’d probably be dead if another man hadn’t had the guts to do what I couldn’t. At least you have the guts to admit to it. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Isabela insists. “Men are dogs , sailor. That’s not your fault .” Her heart aches. “You were trying to take care of your family. You were young.” Isabela’s voice breaks, and she shuts up, fearing that she’ll start crying if she says anything else. She can’t cry now. It’s not fair. It’s not like Isabela’s mother just died. It’s not like it would be the same, even if she did. 

But Maker, Isabela was young, too . 

Hawke and Isabela had been the same age when they’d been married off to men who hated them. Who hated all women, most likely. At least Hawke’s mother had cared. At least Leandra had tried to stop the marriage, according to Hawke. And she’d been there to welcome her home when Hawke had gotten away. Hawke is so lucky. Isabela feels like a piece of shit for thinking that, after everything Hawke’s been through. But Maker, if Isabela had a mother like Leandra, if she’d had a mother like Hawke herself, maybe she’d have turned out as a decent excuse for a human being. Not some jealous freak, wishing she could swap places with her friend whose mother just died. 

Isabela sits down beside Hawke on the bed. “You’re a good woman, Hawke. Your mother was proud of you. And I know it’s not the same, but for whatever it’s worth… I’m proud of you, too.” 

10. Hawke 

“I want you to tell me what you want,” Hawke breathes heavily as Isabela begins unbuckling Hawke’s belt. 

“I want you, kitten. Was that not obvious?” Isabela flashes a wicked smile at Hawke before pulling her belt off with a flourish.  

Heat floods Hawke’s belly, and she can feel all her blood rushing to the space between her legs. Having already unbuttoned Hawke’s shirt, Isabela pulls it off of Hawke’s arms. Hawke joins in, eagerly helping Isabela get the top off. Isabela unlaces Hawke’s bra, tossing it to the floor. “Oh, kitten, you’re just gorgeous.”  

Hawke glances down at her own breasts. “They’re, you know. Not as cute as they were before I had Delia. But—“

“ Shhhh,” Isabela interrupts. “None of that talk. That’s not you. That’s your rotten old husband. And I do like a good three-way, now and then, but he’s not invited.” Isabela brushes the back of a finger against one of Hawke’s nipples, grinning as it hardens at her touch. Hawke’s breath catches. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I usually am,” Isabela laughs. Isabela pulls her own dress off before Hawke can offer to assist, tossing it on the floor next to Hawke’s clothes. Hawke can hardly breathe as she takes in Isabela’s breasts, full and beautiful and as perfect as she always thought they’d be. Her skin glows a rich, beautiful bronze in the light from the fireplace and the candles, perfectly accented by the darker brown of her nipples and the spray of freckles across her chest and shoulders.  “But you don’t have to apologize. This is about you and I getting what we want.”

“And what do you want, Isabela?”

“First of all, I want you out of these damned pants. Even if they are sexy on you.” 

Hawke grins. “Hang on, alright?” 

“ If you insist,” Isabela sighs, climbing off of Hawke for a moment as the other woman hops off the bed, pulls her pants down, and then climbs back on top of Hawke. “Glad to see those dresses are gone for good.”

“You and me both,” Hawke agrees. “But thanks. That means a lot.”

“Of course, sailor. Now allow me,” Isabela meets Hawke’s gaze, her eyes glittering with mischief as she pulls Hawke’s panties off. She plants a quick kiss to Hawke’s lower belly, just above the dark curls of her bush, that sets Hawke’s skin on fire. Her touch is like lightning on the ocean; it electrifies her, spreading throughout Hawke’s body from the site of Isabela’s kiss in a split second. Isabela moves up, pressing another kiss to Hawke’s mouth. Hawke kisses her back hungrily. She wraps her arms around Isabela, pulling her close. Isabela’s familiar smell — salt air from her walks around the harbor, jasmine perfume from Rivain, a hint of the buttery bread smell that permeates the Hanged Man from the owner trying to make snacks for drunk patrons — intoxicates Hawke. 

“ You’re perfect, Isabela.” Hawke pants. Isabela flashes a half-smile before kissing her again. 

“So are you, sweet thing.” Hawke’s fingers slide over the smooth skin of Isabela’s hips, slipping between Isabela’s body and the fabric of her underwear. She pulls Isabela’s panties down. Isabela joins in, helping her get them down to her ankles before kicking them off. Hawke glances down at the triangle of trimmed black curls between Isabela’s legs, and it’s all Hawke can think about. Hawke kisses a trail down Isabela’s neck, circling Isabela’s breasts with her thumbs. She’s strangely comforted to find that Isabela’s breasts have stretch marks, too. They’re beautiful on her, like streaks of gold foil on her skin. Everything would look beautiful on Isabela, probably. Isabela breathes heavily. “ Just like that, kitten.”   Hawke presses a kiss over Isabela’s heart, moving her hands lower. Hawke slips two fingers between Isabela’s legs, stroking her clit rhythmically. Isabela lets out something between a moan and a growl, and Hawke can’t hide her grin of accomplishment. Isabela is so wet already, and the spicy, woodsy scent of her floods Hawke’s thoughts. “ You know what I liked, Hawke?” Isabela asks, riding Hawke’s hand. Each buck of her hips against her touch sends a thrill through Hawke.

“ What ?” 

“ When you picked me up and carried me all through this fancy house like I was a sack of flour.” Isabela leans down, kissing Hawke’s mouth as she continues to grind against her. “ I’ve always wondered what you’d be like. But I should have known you’d be full of surprises. You always have been.” 

Hawke breathes a laugh. “ Alright. What else do you like?”

“I like being on top of you.” Isabela laughs, too. Hawke kisses her again.

“I like you on top of me, too.” 

Isabela moves faster against Hawke’s hand, and Hawke strokes her faster. Isabela’s panting speeds up, too. Isabela’s body softens, opens, beneath Hawke’s fingers. “You’re beautiful, Captain.” She is. Her face glows with sweat and exertion, her hair falls wildly around her, and those beautiful breasts bounce in front of Hawke as Isabela fucks her. 

“ Say it again.”  

“You’re beautiful, Captain.” Hawke breathes. She wants to help Isabela with the fantasy, but doesn’t want to ruin the mood by reminding her of the ship and crew Isabela lost. “I’d follow you anywhere. I’d do this for you anywhere.” 

“ Say it again,” Isabela insists.

“ My captain. My captain. My captain.” Isabela’s body shudders, her legs tightening around Hawke as she cries out. Hawke pulls her close until her body relaxes. “ That’s just the warm up, you know ,” Hawke whispers. 

Isabela chuckles. “I knew you were my kind of girl.” 

“Call me your man.” The words leave Hawke’s mouth before she can second-guess them. She’d thought about it before, in her horniest daydreams. But she’d never thought she’d really ask anyone to do it. Frankly, she barely has sex with anyone as it is, and when she has, it’s never been like this. She’s never been so comfortable, so happy, so in control. 

Isabela’s grin returns. “Oh, I like that, kitten. Is that… Just in the bedroom, or—”

“Just in the bedroom,” Hawke assures her. “I’m not—” Don’t over explain. Don’t scare her off. “I don’t want to be a man. It’s fine if people do, it’s just— I only want to be your man. That probably doesn’t make much sense, but—”

“It makes sense to me,” Isabela assures her. “And what else do you want?” Isabela takes Hawke’s hips in her hands, stroking the skin with her thumb. “By the way, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these hips.” She smooths her thumb over the dip of Hawke’s hip bones, sending a shiver through her. 

“ Glad you like them.” Hawke smiles at her. She twists below Isabela in the bed, reaching for the nightstand. 

“What do you need? I can get it.” 

“I’ve got some toys. From Rivain, actually. Allegedly, anyway. I don’t know if they’re really… But they’re definitely enchanted, and they definitely work.” 

Isabela’s face lights up. “Really? Nobody has those here.” She reaches down, opening the drawer. Hawke holds onto her tightly, keeping Isabela from rolling off of the bed. 

“I learned about them in the navy.”

Isabela cackles. “ Ha! I bet you did! Not a lot of women in the navy. You were probably as pent up as the men were.”

“Only on the ship,” Hawke teases. “Shore leave was another story.”

“What a pity we never ran into each other,” Isabela sighs. 

“I’m glad we didn’t. I don’t know if I would’ve had Delia if I’d gone running around after you.” 

“I don’t know about that, sailor,” Isabela retrieves a dildo wrapped in softened leather, along with a jar of oil from the drawer before righting herself on top of Hawke once again. “ You haven’t seen how good I am with one of these.” Hawke’s heart races, and she can feel her face flushing. 

“Is that really possible?” Hawke raises an eyebrow. Isabela snorts.

“No, kitten. But if someone invents a toy that can get you pregnant, I’ll be the first to let you know.” She opens the jar of oil, dipping her fingers into it, then spreading the oil over the toy. Hawke can’t help thinking of her own fingers, still sticky from fingering Isabela. Isabela covers the oil jar, placing it back on the nightstand. Isabela taps the rune at the bottom of the toy, setting it vibrating. “We’ll start slow, then speed up. Sound good to you?” Hawke nods. Isabela kisses her on the mouth again, then drags the toy across Hawke’s lower belly. Hawke’s skin gets that electric feeling again. She needs Isabela’s touch. She needs Isabela to stay on top of her. She needs Isabela to shove that thing into her and fuck her senseless. 

“ Put it in me,” Hawke breathes. “ Please. ” 

“Are you ready?”

“ Yes.”

“Good,” Isabela slides the toy into Hawke’s pussy. Hawke moans. The feeling of fullness, the feeling of the vibrations, the feeling of Isabela, as she works the toy, thrusting against her — it’s better than Hawke dared to imagine it would be. In this moment, she realizes she’s never really enjoyed sex before. It’s never been like this. It’s never been everything she wanted, like this. “ Take it like a man, sailor. Take it like my man.” 

“I wish you could actually get me pregnant with this thing,” Hawke pants. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she can hardly believe she’s said them. But now that she has, she can’t help trying to explain, “I did it with a man for so much less. Not a bad man. But not you.” 

Isabela laughs sharply. “You’re insane.” 

“I know.” 

Isabela kisses Hawke, then increases the speed on the toy. Hawke’s muscles grow tighter, and she grinds against Isabela’s touch, against the toy inside of her. “Maybe I’d do it, if I could. Delia’s gorgeous. I bet our kid would be pretty damn cute, too.” Hawke moans, riding the toy in Isabela’s hand harder. Isabela chuckles. “I’ll be honest, sailor, I didn’t know this was how you get off.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know, either.”

“Don’t be. It’s cute. You’re cute.” Isabela continues to fuck Hawke with the toy until Hawke comes, crying out Isabela’s name as she does. Hawke rests her head back against the pillow once the orgasm finishes washing over her, trying to catch her breath. Isabela wipes Hawke’s brow, kissing her forehead. “That’s my man.” 

“Isabela, wait,” Hawke calls. “Please don’t go.” Isabela stands near the edge of the bed, finishing putting on the last of her jewelry once again. Isabela tries to school her face, but Hawke can see it — Isabela’s panicking after being so vulnerable with Hawke. Hawke’s heart aches for her. She knows exactly what that’s like — didn’t Hawke leave their first date after talking about her own abusive marriage? And all this time, Isabela has been carrying the same weight on her heart as Hawke, but she just wouldn’t admit it. She’d let Hawke talk about how raw and broken she still feels from her husband’s cruelty, and all the time, Isabela felt it, too. Hawke realizes now that she could hear it in flashes of anger in Isabela’s voice, even as she’d tried to feign nonchalance. She’d seen it in the way Isabela looked like she might be sick the whole time Hawke recounted the details of her marriage. 

Isabela can’t leave. Hawke knows that if she leaves after this, if they stop talking about it now, some part of Isabela will be closed off to her forever. Hawke’s head spins. Why did she say all that shit about how people can’t just stop themselves from falling in love, immediately after they had sex? Why did Isabela open up to her about all of this in response to Hawke doing that? What the fuck is going on right now? She feels like the earth has shifted beneath them, and she doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Are you afraid of how she’ll feel if she leaves right now, or how you’ll feel?

“Look. I know this stuff is weird. It’s upsetting, and humiliating, and it makes you feel like shit when you talk about it. You know that I know that.” Hawke’s voice sounds so raw and desperate that it makes her own stomach turn. “But you didn’t deserve any of that, Isabela. You deserve to be safe and cared for and loved.” Hawke can feel tears stinging at her eyes. What does it matter? It won’t be the first time she’s embarrassed herself in front of Isabela, and it won’t be the last. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me about this. That means so much to me. Just… please. You don’t have to go.” 

Isabela swallows hard, turning towards the door. “Don’t tell Varric, alright? He, ah,” Her eyes drift down to one of the golden bangles on her wrist. She twists the bracelet idly. “I told him some story about how I was the one who killed my husband. The truth didn’t seem like any fun for a conversation over a game of Wicked Grace. I… haven’t actually told the truth to anyone before.”

“I won’t tell him,” Hawke breathes. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. It’s… your story is safe with me, Isabela.”

Isabela takes one last look at Hawke. Her expression is strange, almost ill. “Goodnight, Hawke.” 

11. Isabela

“ Maker’s tears, Hawke.” Anders races down the stone steps of the Viscount’s palace towards Hawke. “Everyone, get away from her! Let me through! Just… someone, help me lay her down. Everyone else, get back.”

“Hmm?” Hawke mutters. She looks dazed as she stares at him. Her dark eyes shine with a kind of startled animal wildness, like a deer who’s just spotted a hunter in the trees. The cheering of the crowd around Hawke, which had begun as soon as Hawke’s final shot had sent the Arishok’s body crashing to the ground at the end of their duel, suddenly falls deathly silent.

“Hawke, you’re hurt,” Anders explains. “And I know you don’t feel it yet, not after pounding healing potions like water in that fight. But that won’t hold for much longer. Not with the kind of injuries you’ve sustained. All those potions did was stop the bleeding and dull your pain. You’re still…” He grimaces, and the panic on his face sends a wave of panic through Isabela. “Just try to stay calm and listen to me, alright?” Isabela can’t stop seeing the Arishok’s giant sword skewering Hawke like a kebab, Hawke’s body twitching in the air as her bright blood soaked through her armor and ran down the Arishok’s arms, coating the stones of the floor beneath them. Even now, her body is drenched in blood from the waist down. Isabela can’t bring herself to look into the giant wound in Hawke’s abdomen. Could Isabela see through her, if she did? No, that doesn’t make sense. But you could probably see through to her guts, maybe her ribs. Isabela doesn’t want to look. She can’t look. So she keeps her gaze on Hawke's face. Hawke stares back at her. She looks strange — pale, confused, no longer flushed and sweating like she had been in the fight. She begins to shiver. 

“ Shit,” Aveline calls, running to Hawke’s side. “You said to lay her down, Anders?” 

“Yes.”

Hawke looks down at her abdomen, and Isabela can’t stop herself from following her gaze. Blood rushes from the wound, pouring over Hawke’s leather gloved hand as she presses her palm to the wound. In a second, Isabela realizes it’s not just blood — Hawke cups a part of her intestine in her hand. Isabela feels faint, but so does Hawke, judging by the way she sways on her feet. Isabela forces herself to step forward, forces herself to take Hawke by the shoulders. 

“It’s going to be alright, sailor,” Isabela offers. All the while, all she can think is, Hawke’s going to die. She’s going to die, and it’s your fault, Isabela. She’s going to die right here, in front of all these people, while Delia’s still asleep in bed. She loves you, and now she’s dying for it. 

“That’s my intestine,” Hawke breathes, her voice so thin and confused that it makes Isabela feel physically ill. “I don’t… I don’t think it should be there.” 

“It’s alright, kitten,” Isabela assures her. “Let’s lay you down and let Anders work his magic on you, alright?” Hawke searches Isabela’s face, as if taking a moment to process what Isabela is saying. Aveline and Anders don’t wait for her agreement before lowering Hawke’s body to the ground, and Isabela helps. She kneels down beside Hawke, taking her free hand as Aveline takes the one grasping Hawke’s organs. Aveline gently pries Hawke’s fingers off of her own guts, and holds Hawke’s hand out of the way as Anders begins to inspect the wound. “You were so brave, kitten.” Isabela kisses Hawke’s knuckles. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry I stole that stupid book. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry for everything, Hawke.” Hawke stares back at her blankly. Andraste’s tits, she’s really going to die. She’s going to die right here, holding Isabela’s hand.  

“You came back for me.” Hawke’s chest heaves, and she grits her teeth. Don’t cry, Isabela thinks. Please, don’t let her cry over me. It’s obvious that breathing hurts Hawke enough as it is.

“Too damn late. I shouldn’t have left in the first place. I should’ve just told you about the damn book. I should’ve—”

“ I love you so much ,” Hawke breathes. She swallows hard, then winces in pain at the movement. “ You don’t have to say it back. It’s alright if you don’t… But I do. I love you.”

“Don’t start with that, sweet thing.” Isabela insists. Tears start to blur her vision. “You’re not dying, so I won’t have any big last speeches. Save your energy.” The weight of Hawke’s words suddenly hits her. Hawke’s dying in your arms. She’s telling you she loves you in front of everyone. She’s dying because of you. She’s dying because she loves you. Everyone knows it. And when she’s dead, everyone will know your love did this to her. You let her get close, and look what she got for it.

“I don’t want to die,” Hawke admits. The words are like a Qunari blade of their own speared through Isabela’s insides. Hawke’s breathing grows ragged, and Isabela can feel Hawke’s blood spreading across the floor beneath them, soaking through the knees of her pants. Still, she doesn’t turn her gaze from Hawke’s face. “I just think… It just feels like… maybe…” 

“I need you to hold very still,” Anders instructs. He uses the voice Isabela has heard him use on patients before — the one that tries to calm them by seeming calm himself, no matter how dire the situation really is. “If you can’t, I need you to tell me. I’d rather not put you to sleep under the circumstances, but I’ll have to if you can’t keep still while I work.”

“I’ll try,” Hawke promises dryly. She turns her attention to Aveline. “Will you take Delia? If I—”

“Yes.” Aveline assures her. “Yes. Of course, Hawke. Don’t worry for a moment about that.”

“I love her so much.” Hawke begins to weep. Anders groans in frustration, glancing up at her as sobs wrack Hawke’s body. “ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But just— tell Delia I love her every day. All the time.”

“I will. If that’s necessary. But you’re not dying, Hawke. Not today,” Aveline insists. 

Hawke turns an apologetic look towards Anders. “I’m sorry, Anders. I don’t think I can stay still.” 

Anders nods. “It’s alright.” He reaches up, brushing his thumb tenderly over her forehead. It leaves behind a streak of blood, but she doesn’t seem to care. “I’ll do everything I can, Hawke. If there’s any way to get you home to Delia, I’ll do it. I swear it.” His hand begins to glow pale blue as he waves it above her face. In just a moment, Hawke’s eyes close, and the tension fades from her body. Her hand goes limp in Isabela’s, though the skin remains warm. Anders’ hands return to Hawke’s wound. “I’m going to repair the major organ damage as well as I can here, then close the wound,” Anders explains. “She’ll need more complicated healing, and I’ll need to be able to clean the site and work a spell to prevent infection. That can be done at her home. I’ll need to stay with her after, too, to help her rebuild her blood supply, treat her pain, ensure she’s recovering properly. But she can’t be moved in her current condition. She’ll die before we so much as reach her street.”

“Understood,” Aveline nods. “Thank you, Anders.” 

As Anders resumes his work, Isabela removes the red scarf Hawke gave her from its place around her arm, wiping the blood off of Hawke’s forehead. “We’ll get you back home, alright? You and Delia will be chasing each other all over the Wounded Coast again before you know it. You and your little Rook, right? Birds of a feather and all that.” She takes Hawke’s hand again, kissing her fingers. Tears begin falling down her cheeks. “You’re not allowed to die for me. Do you hear me? Least of all over a stupid stolen book.” 

“Can we assist in any way?” Orsino calls from the steps above them. 

“Are you joking?” Isabela snaps, before Anders can respond. “You think you haven’t done enough to her?” Her blood boils in her veins. 

“I don’t know what you mean. I only wish to help. Your friend was very brave. She saved the city. I could assist your… surgeon friend.”

“Could you?” Isabela scoffs. “Like you assisted the deranged apostate who murdered her mother?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Orsino repeats. “That was a terrible tragedy, but it had nothing to do with me. Your friend is dying. Would you really deny her—”

“Maybe he can help, Isabela,” Anders says quietly. 

Isabela looks down at Hawke’s sleeping face. Her teeth clench. “No.” Isabela snarls. “You don’t get to do that to her. You don’t get to knock her out and let some man she hates paw all over her. I don’t care what the reason is. I know she’d rather die than let that motherfucker touch her.” 

“Isabela’s right. For once ,” Aveline meets Anders’ gaze, before turning her attention to Orsino. “I saw the letters in Quentin’s hideout. You were friends with the man who killed Leandra Hawke. You encouraged him. You don’t get to play hero with her daughter. I wouldn’t trust you with a potted plant, let alone my best friend.” 

“Fine. Suit yourself. But her death will be on you and your damned ego,” Orsino huffs. 

Isabela releases a breath, then kisses Hawke’s fingers again. “I’ve got you, sailor. I told you I did.” 

12. Hawke

“It’s alright, Hawke. I know you’re confused, but I promise, you’re alright,” Anders insists. Hawke tries to sit up in her bed, but immediately cries out as debilitating pain shoots through her entire body at the movement. “You should try to stay still. I still have some work to do, but you don’t have to be asleep for this, if you don’t want to.” 

“ Mummy! Mummy!” Delia screams from the hallway. Hawke’s brain stops working at the sound of her daughter crying just outside the door. 

“Your mummy is getting the care she needs right now,” Aveline’s voice is kind, though strained, from the hallway beyond the bedroom. “We need to let her rest.”

“ Mummy!” Delia screams at the top of her lungs. 

“ Delia!” Hawke screams back. She gets up from the bed, gritting her teeth at the excruciating pain. 

“Hawke, I haven’t finished—” Anders sputters. Hawke isn’t listening.

“ Delia!”

The door cracks, and Delia rushes in. “ Mummy!”  

“I’m sorry,” Aveline sighs, following behind her. “I’ll get her out.” 

“ Delia!” Hawke sobs, partly from pain, partly from relief at holding Delia in her arms again. She hugs her daughter tightly as she cries, Delia crying into Hawke’s nightgown, too. Some distant part of Hawke’s mind registers that someone changed her out of her ruined armor and into a cool linen nightgown. She’s glad that Delia didn’t have to see her drenched in her own blood, at least. 

“ I thought you were dead,” Delia chokes. “ I thought you were dead, just like grandmother. I thought you were dead, and I was all alone.”

“ No, baby girl,” Hawke breathes. “I’m not dead. I’m here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“ I love you,” Delia sniffs. 

“I love you, too. More than anything. Mummy loves you so much.” She kisses Delia’s hair, even as the movement of bending down to do so sends a fresh wave of agonizing pain through her. She picks Delia up for a moment, holding her above her before her back explodes with pain. “ Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Hawke cries out. “ I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she pants, putting Delia back down. Hawke hugs her tight, trying to drown out the excruciating pain in her back, her abdomen, her shoulder, everywhere, with love for Delia. 

“Your spine was injured, Hawke. I repaired the structural damage as well as I could before we left the Keep, but you’ve got to let it heal.” 

“ I know that, now. I’m sorry. Just… give me a minute.” Hawke holds Delia close for a few seconds, until Delia suddenly pulls away. Delia stares down at her own dress, and then at Hawke’s nightgown. 

“Mummy, you’re bleeding.” Delia’s dark eyes are huge and frightened as they lock onto a spot of blood on Hawke’s white nightgown. 

“ Damn it,” Anders hisses, hurrying to Hawke’s side. “The wound must have come open.”

Delia begins to cry harder. “You are going to die, aren’t you?” She stomps her feet, screaming in anguish. “ I knew it! I knew it! It’s not fair! You can’t leave me alone! You can’t leave me alone!” 

“What ?” Hawke blinks, staring down at herself. “No, sweetheart, I’m not dying. I don’t think so . I just—”

“ Get her out of here, Aveline, ” Anders snaps. 

“I’m on it,” Aveline assures him. She picks Delia up over her shoulder, carrying her out of the room and shutting the door as Delia kicks the air and punches at Aveline with her tiny firsts. Anders helps Hawke back to bed. It’s harder than when she got out of bed, without the motivation of seeing Delia to give her strength. 

“I’m not actually dying, right?” Hawke asks. “I mean, I’ll be honest. I thought I was, earlier.” She meets his gaze, and doesn’t need him to tell her what he’s thinking. “ You thought I was dying. But this isn’t that much blood.” 

“No, it doesn’t look like it. It’s likely not as deep this time. Can you unbutton your nightgown so I can—” Hawke nods, opening the gown to let Anders inspect the wound. “You’ve got a small amount of wound dehiscence. Too much strain on a freshly closed wound from picking Delia up, I’m guessing.”

“That was stupid. I’m sorry.” 

Anders sighs. “It’s alright. Just, you know, no more picking anyone up for a while, okay? I’ve spent the last day and a half trying to put you back together, so I’d really appreciate it if you stayed that way.”

Hawke lays her head back on the pillow, wincing at the pain in her torso that comes as she sighs deeply. It’s like an excruciating ache that extends all the way from her collarbone to her legs, though it’s worst around her abdomen. “Am I on anything for pain?” Hawke asks quietly.

“Yes,” Anders nods, his fingers smoothing over the corner of her abdominal wound that reopened. The flesh closes behind his fingers. “But I can do more. You were asleep, so I couldn’t ask you—”

“Where’s Isabela?” Hawke interrupts. Anders hesitates, and Hawke grows anxious. “Did something happen to her?”

“No,” Anders shakes his head. “No. Nothing like that. She’s just… not here. She left once we got you home.”

“Oh. Could…” Hawke feels mortified at even asking, but she can’t stop herself. “Could someone send for her?” She remembers the feeling of her hand in Isabela’s on the floor of the Viscount’s palace. Isabela’s touch was such a comfort, even as Hawke teetered on the verge of bleeding out.

Anders grimaces. “Varric tried. You were calling out for her in your sleep while he was on watch. He thought you might want her here when you woke up.” I do, Hawke thinks. “She just… she isn’t coming, Hawke.” 

Hawke stares at him, unable to breathe. “What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know why, Hawke. She just… she isn’t coming.”

“Could someone tell her I want her here?” Hawke asks weakly. “She probably feels bad, after everything with the Arishok. But it’s alright! I don’t— I’m not upset. I just want her here. Tell her she can come. Tell her I want her. Please. ” Hawke can’t stop herself from feeling frantic. Isabela is her closest friend. She’s her favorite person. She needs her here. 

“Hawke…” Anders shakes his head. “ She’s not coming . Varric asked her, Aveline asked her, Fenris asked her, Merrill asked her… I would’ve asked her, if I wasn’t here, watching you. She won’t come.” Hawke feels like she’s going to throw up. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I don’t know what’s…”

“ It’s because I said I loved her. ” Hawke whispers.

“No,” Anders assures her. “It’s not your fault. You fought the Arishok for her. You nearly died for her. She’s just being an asshole. Even if she doesn’t feel the same way romantically, you’re her friend. I mean, I had feelings for you once, and you didn’t—” Hawke sees Anders stop himself before saying whatever he was going to say, to avoid embarrassing her even worse. It doesn’t work. “I don’t see how that’s an excuse.”

Hawke stops listening, burying her face in her hands. She wishes Anders was gone. She wishes she wasn’t sitting here with her nightgown open, with her stupid broken body torn open. She wishes she wasn’t such a complete fucking idiot. She wishes Isabela was here. She wishes she didn’t want Isabela here. She hates Isabela. She’s glad Isabela is alive because of her. She can’t believe she almost orphaned her daughter for someone who won’t even come see her. Who won’t even tell her why she won’t see her. She has to stop thinking about goddamn Isabela. 

“I need that pain relief,” Hawke admits quietly. “And I want to go back to sleep.” 

“Of course,” Anders nods. He takes her hand, and she feels his magic flowing through her like cool water through her aching, burning body. It takes the edge off of her pain, at least. “Did that help?”

“A little.”

Anders squeezes her hand before letting go. “Alright. Let me get you a potion, and then you can get back to sleep.”

“No,” Hawke swallows hard, feeling that ache again in her collarbone and abdomen as she does.  “I want you to put me to sleep again.”

Anders furrows his brows. “You’ll probably sleep well enough from the pain potion. It tends to make you drowsy.”

“ Anders… Please.”

13. Isabela

“Leave me alone, would you?” Isabela seethes as a familiar dwarven form approaches her from the dark alley. She presses her forehead against the cold stone of the outer side wall of the Hanged Man. 

“Hawke’s alright,” Varric announces. Isabela’s heart nearly stops in her chest. “Not that you asked.” Isabela would have, for what it’s worth. Which is nothing, really. 

“ Bugger off, Varric. ” Isabela’s stomach churns, her head still spinning from the wine. And the liquor, and the…

Isabela can still hear Delia’s high, terrified voice screaming as they’d brought Hawke into the house, bloody, unconscious, and pale as death. It mingles with the memory of Hawke’s voice in the palace. ‘ I love you so much. You don’t have to say it back. It’s alright if you don’t… But I do. I love you.’ She can see Delia’s little face, red from screeching and weeping as Bodahn held her back at the top of the stairs. She was supposed to be in bed, wasn’t she? But Isabela had been a damned fool to think a child would sleep through a Qunari invasion, even in Hightown. The image of Delia’s face blends with Hawke’s as she’d clutched her Leandra’s body, not letting anyone move either of them, not letting anyone touch Leandra for over an hour after her mother’s passing. When Leandra died, Isabela had seen something break inside of Hawke, something Isabela knew at once could never be repaired. She saw it last night in Delia’s face, when they brought Hawke home. 

It was too much. 

Isabela takes another swig from her bottle of whiskey. It’s not good. It turns her stomach. She’s probably going to puke like a new sailor in a storm in a matter of minutes at this point. She doesn’t care. 

“You’re being an asshole. You do know that, right?” 

“I don’t need you to tell me that, Varric.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t! ” Isabela shouts. She thinks about how Delia had escaped from her bedroom after they’d finished cleaning Hawke up, after she and Aveline had left her to rest while Anders monitored her condition. Delia had run up to Isabela in tears, hugging her close.

‘ Mummy’s going to die. She’s going to die, just like Grandmother.’

‘No, sweet thing. She’s not. Anders is going to take good care of her.’

‘Why did someone hurt her?’  Delia had stared up at Isabela with those beautiful brown eyes. Hawke’s beautiful brown eyes. ‘ Did she get in a fight because of me again?’

‘Maker, no,’ Isabela had insisted. ‘ No, sweet thing, it… it was my fault.’ Isabela’s voice had broken, and she’d felt like the most wretched, useless waste of space in Thedas. 

‘What? How was it your fault?’

‘I have to go. I’m sorry. Someone else can… I just… I have to go.’

Isabela presses her forehead harder against the stone, trying to chill her burning skin. It’s no use. 

“Shit. You’re really drunk, aren’t you? Not just fun, Isabela-drunk.” 

Isabela can’t answer. A wave of nausea washes over her, so intense that she’s sure she’ll vomit if she tries to speak. It doesn’t matter; a few seconds later, she gags, then throws up on the street. 

Varric gestures at her. “This shit is pathetic, Rivaini. The woman you love just fought an entire Qunari army for you. She almost died for you, but she didn’t. And now she’s alive, and she told you she loves you, and her kid is crazy about you, and you’re crazy about her, and this is what you’re doing about it. Get a damned grip.” 

“Getting relationship advice from the man who fucks a married woman once a year is pretty rich. Don’t you think?” Isabela wipes her mouth with the bottom of her tunic. Varric looks stung for a moment, before forcing his face back to an expression of calm judgement. It was a cruel thing to say. Isabela knows Varric doesn’t tell almost anyone about Bianca, and that it’s nasty business to use something like that against one of her closest friends. Good. Look what getting close to her has done for people lately. 

“Do you know what I think, Isabela?” Varric demands. 

“No, and I don’t care.”

“I think you’re going to look back at this as the worst mistake you’ve ever made. I think you’re going to think about the time you threw away the only real love you’ve ever had because you were too much of a chickenshit coward to accept it, and you’re going to be miserable about it for the rest of your life. I think Hawke is a beautiful woman with a good heart, and that she’s going to find love again. Even if you set her back with this bullshit, she’ll do it. But you won’t. And it’s not because you’re not loveable, or you’re not beautiful, or you’re not charming. You’re all those things. But right here, right now, you’re making a choice to ruin your own life. I don’t know why you’re doing it, because you won’t tell me. But it’s what you’re doing. You could stop it at any time. You could sober up, march into that house, and tell Hawke how you feel. But it seems like you refuse to do that, and you’re just fucking yourself over. So someday, you’re gonna see Hawke and her kid walking down the street with some other woman who loves her, someone who could tell her how she felt about her and who loves her the way she deserves, and you’re going to feel even worse than you do right now. That’s what I think, Isabela. That’s my advice, from a man who fucks a married woman once a year.”

“I never said I love Hawke. You keep saying it. I never have.” 

Varric looks disgusted. “Are you going to try and tell me you don’t?”

Isabela hesitates, licking her dry lips. She can’t decide how she wants to answer that question. It would be her first time saying it out loud, if she said yes. It feels like one last insult to Hawke, after everything, to say no.

“No. I don’t. I don’t love her.” 

Varric scoffs. “Bullshit. Andraste’s ass, Isabela, don’t you get tired of your own bullshit?”  

“Takes a bullshitter to know a bullshitter. Doesn’t it, Varric?”

Varric just sighs, then starts walking away.

“You’re wrong, by the way.” Isabela calls after him hoarsely. He stops, turning to look at her. “When I see Hawke and her kid with some other woman on the street… I’ll be happy for them.” 

Act III

14. Hawke

“Oh, sweetheart, wait,” Hawke sputters. Delia goes chasing through the Hightown marketplace after her ball, laughing like a madwoman. Hawke chases after her, quickly apologizing to all the poor market goers as they race past them. Of course, because all of Kirkwall is ever so slowly sinking into the sea, the ground in the Hightown marketplace is slightly slanted. The ball gathers more and more speed as it rolls, and Delia goes faster and faster as she chases it. Damned thing is leather wrapped around cork, and moves much faster than you’d expect. Delia narrowly dodges an alarmed older man, while Hawke stops short, trying not to crash into him. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “Forgive us. She’s nine, and she’s completely insane.” The man says nothing, only staring at Hawke blankly as she races after Delia once again. 

“ You’re so slow,” Delia cackles, glancing back at her. “How’d you ever outrun the darkspawn?” 

“I didn’t. I shot them,” Hawke yells back. “You think we outran anything with you screaming in your grandmother’s arms? No way, kid.”

“Yeah. Well. You’re slow now.” Delia teases. Hawke groans, speeding up as she follows Delia through the crowd. 

“I’m about to take that blighted ball away from you. This is the third time this week—“

“ No! And besides, you can’t catch me anyway!”

“You’ve gotta stop sometime. Can’t run forever. And I’ll be there when you give up: your joyless, evil mother, ready to steal your ball.” 

“ No!” Delia screams, running faster. Hawke can’t help cackling, too. 

Finally, as they reach the edge of the market square, Hawke nearly catches up with Delia. Hawke’s eyes lock onto the ball just as it collides with a woman’s black boot. 

“I am so sorry ,” Hawke offers immediately, a second before she processes just who it is Delia’s ball ran into. Isabela bends over, picking the ball up. She flashes a bright smile at Delia. 

“Can you catch?” Despite everything, Isabela’s voice is so warm, so sweet, so sexy that it ties Hawke’s insides in a tight knot. Delia nods enthusiastically. Isabela tosses the ball to her, and Delia catches it eagerly. 

“Isabela!” Delia squeals. She shifts the ball into one arm, wrapping the other tightly around Isabela. “You’re back from travelling all around the world?”

Isabela’s eyes lock onto Hawke’s. Hawke’s jaw clenches. Is Isabela surprised that Hawke lied about what happened? What was she supposed to say? That Isabela spent three years weaving herself into Hawke’s life — into Delia’s life — until Hawke was close enough to die for her, before just… leaving? Without a word, without an apology, without anything, while Hawke was knocked out cold? That Isabela had been avoiding her on the street, avoiding her in the Hanged Man, until Hawke couldn’t bear to set foot in Lowtown anymore, never mind the bar that had once been her escape from constant pressure from her family and her work? That Hawke can’t even go watch ships at the harbor anymore — the one thing that made her feel young again, free again — because she knew Isabela might be there, too, acting like Hawke had the plague? 

“I am,” Isabela assures her, hugging Delia back. Hawke’s blood boils. Who is she to just put her hands on Hawke’s daughter and act like nothing happened in the last three years? Fuck her. Fuck her! Isabela makes eye contact with Hawke. She must see the rage in Hawke’s expression, because she lets go of Delia, taking a step back. “Tell you what, kitten.” Isabela reaches into the coin pouch tied to her belt, then presses a silver coin into Delia’s hand. “You see that baker’s stall right over there?” She points to a nearby merchant’s stall with cookies in a variety of colors on display. The buttery, sugary scent carries on the breeze. “I want you to go get a dozen to split with your mother. Pick out any kind you want. Alright?” Delia nods eagerly, then hurries off to the stall.

“You look good, Hawke.” Isabela flashes a sheepish half-smile. Hawke glares back at her.

“I’m sure I do, compared to the last time you saw me.”

Isabela grimaces. “How have you been?” 

Hawke can hardly breathe. “You don’t get to ask me that.” Maker, how many times has Hawke dreamed of this conversation? Dreamed that they’d reunite like nothing happened, or that she’d shout Isabela down? But as she sees the hurt on Isabela’s face, the guilt on her face, all she can think is, ‘ You’re pathetic, Isabela. You’re completely pathetic.’ Hawke feels insane. If Isabela is pathetic, isn’t it because she endured so much of what Hawke did as a young woman? Isn’t it because she learned to run, while Hawke always just stood there and took it? And isn’t Hawke pathetic, too? How many times has she wished Isabela would just come back, would just want her back, would let Hawke offer her heart and body up again, even if Isabela might shatter them all over?

This is bad. Isabela was right. They just need to avoid each other. It would be one thing if it was just Hawke and Isabela. But it isn’t just Hawke and Isabela. Hawke’s gaze drifts to Delia, who chats happily with the baked goods merchant as she looks over his display of cookies.

“You’re right,” Isabela breathes. The sudden, slight fragility in her voice catches Hawke off guard. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I, um. Delia is beautiful.” Isabela looks ill. “She’s getting so big.”

“She’s short for her age,” Hawke snaps. Alright, she’s being a huge bitch. She has a right to, doesn’t she? “She’s an elf. She’s the smallest kid in her classes. You just haven’t seen her in three years.” 

“Alright,” Isabela frowns, folding her arms over her chest. “Fair enough. But she looks healthy. Happy. You’re doing good with her.” When Hawke doesn’t answer, Isabela sighs. “Look. I’m a big girl. I made my bed, and I’ll lie in it. I know I don’t have any right to bother you. But I just want to know… did you ever get on that ship?” Hawke stares back at her, her chest aching. She hadn’t thought about that in a year, at least, though there was a time where she thought about it every day. “The one that wanted you as their navigator?”

“No, Isabela. I didn’t.” Hawke’s heart pounds in her chest, the beating nearly drowning out the normal hum of the busy marketplace. “I got stabbed through the rib, intestine, kidney, and part of three vertebrae two weeks before. You seriously think I made it onto that ship? I was in bed for two months! I mean, Maker, the fact that I can walk at all is a combination of Anders’ skill and sheer dumb luck.”

Isabela looks as though she might cry, and Hawke’s anger ebbs. “I’m sorry, Hawke. Damned stupid thing to ask. I guess I just hoped that maybe you’d—” She bites her lip, forcing a smile as Delia bounds back up to them, a striped pink and blue bag neatly tied with a small pink ribbon in her hand.

“I got strawberry cream cookies for me, and Ferelden spice cookies for you, Mummy.” Delia beams. “Thank you, Isabela.”

Isabela nods. “Any time, kitten.” 

“Isabela was just telling me she’s got to get on another ship,” Hawke says coolly. “Say goodbye, sweetheart.” Delia rushes up to Isabela once again, giving her a quick hug before letting her go again. 

“Promise you’ll come see us when you get back?” Delia begs.

“I—” Isabela begins awkwardly, meeting Hawke’s eyes. 

“I think Isabela’s going to be gone for a long time.” Hawke interjects. “She usually is.” 

“I’ll miss you,” Isabela breathes. She purses her lips, nose scrunching like she’s fighting to keep her composure. She turns her gaze down to Delia. “Both of you. I… I’ve missed you both.” 

“Bring me something back from wherever you go,” Delia demands. “And bring Mummy a pirate map, if you find one. She loves maps.” 

“I’ll try,” Isabela offers. Hawke groans in disgust. 

“Come on, Rook. Time to go home.” 

15. Hawke. 

Hawke pulls Isabela closer to her as they kiss, hugging her as tightly to her body as she can. “ I missed you every day.”

“I missed you, too, sailor.”

Isabela thrusts her strap-on into Hawke again and again, firmly stroking Hawke’s clit all the while. Never too rough — she knows Hawke doesn’t like it rough. Hawke writhes beneath Isabela’s touch within and without, moaning as she rocks her hips in time with Isabela’s thrusts. Hawke feels her body building up to a climax, and she digs her fingers harder into Isabela’s back. 

“ I love you.” Hawke breathes. “ I love you so much.” 

“ I love you, too, sailor.” 

Hawke comes against Isabela’s hand and against her strap at the same time. It feels like all the tension she’s carried for years melts away as her dual orgasms wash over her. She kisses Isabela hungrily, desperately. Isabela lingers on the kiss, taking Hawke’s lip in her mouth and gently play-biting it before letting go. She pulls out of Hawke, then rolls onto the bed beside her. Hawke wraps her arms around her, holding her close. It occurs to Hawke that she’s going to have to explain to everyone that she and Isabela are back together, three years after Isabela humiliated her by leaving her gravely wounded and unconscious. Three years after Hawke humiliated herself by admitting she loved Isabela in front of their friends. Quite literally, Hawke had spilled her guts in front of Isabela, and Isabela hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a goodbye. She doesn’t know how she’s going to justify what they’re doing. She doesn’t know how to explain it to Delia. She doesn’t know when to explain it to Delia. But in the hazy glow of Isabela’s love, of her bed with Isabela in it once again, she doesn’t care. She’ll figure it out. 

“ I’d do anything for you, Isabela. You know that?” Hawke breathes. 

“I know.”

“I don’t care how pathetic I am,” Hawke admits. “I want you, no matter what. I would be your dog. I would be your doormat. I don’t care.”

“Come now, kitten,” Isabela pouts. “I would never ask you to be my doormat . And I’ve got plenty of things I want to do to you that I’d never do to a dog.” 

“I’d let you do anything to me,” Hawke insists, curling a lock of Isabela’s hair around her finger. “Hit me, kiss me, kick me, fuck me, kill me.” She lays her head against the pillow. “ Anything. Anything. Just as long as you stay with me.”

“I would never hurt you like that, kitten.” Isabela frowns. “You must know that.” 

“I know. That’s why I’d let you.” She sighs, closing her eyes tight. “ I know there’s something wrong with me. And I know what it is, I just… don’t think it can be fixed at this point. But I love you. I just want you to love me, too.” She takes Isabela’s hand, drawing it towards the off-white scar on her abdomen from the Arishok’s sword. Isabela’s fingers trace the edges of the scar delicately. “I don’t know what else I can do.”  

Hawke wakes to the sound of birdsong outside her window. It’s so high, so sweet, so utterly irritating that Hawke impulsively wishes she had her bow and arrow in the bedroom with her to shut the thing up. She listens carefully for a moment for the sound of little feet or Delia’s voice. When she hears nothing but that damned bird, she lets out a breath. Alright, at least Delia isn’t awake yet. As Hawke moves in the bed, she feels a slight chill between her legs. “ Shit.” She hates her stupid fucking body for getting wet in her sleep over a stupid fucking sex dream about stupid fucking Isabela . 

There was a while where the dreams came every night. In them, Hawke does every sex act imaginable with Isabela, grovels in every way humanly possible, takes Isabela back over and over without apology, without a fight, without any concern for the last three years of Isabela making her feel like a disgusting pariah. She thinks it’s because, like it or not, saving Isabela’s life forged a bond between them in her stupid, broken brain. Isabela's not the only person Hawke’s ever had sex with. She might be the only person she’s really loved romantically, but she's not the only person Hawke’s told that she loved them. But she is the only person whose life she saved within a few days of having sex with her, and who wanted nothing to do with her within 24 hours of doing so, all in a span of two weeks after the two of them found Hawke’s mother mangled body minutes before she died. Apparently, going through all that does something to your psyche. Who knew?

Still, it’s been months since Hawke’s last dream of Isabela. Of course their chat in the marketplace had kicked the hornet’s nest of Hawke’s feelings about Isabela once again. Hawke wishes that Isabela had been a giant bitch to her, that she’d fought back when Hawke took her shots at her. Isabela hadn’t. She’d been as sweet as she’d always been to Hawke. She’d been far nicer than Hawke had, even when Hawke pushed and pushed for a negative reaction. Isabela must feel guilty. Good! She should! 

The other problem is this: Isabela is still so beautiful. With all that gorgeous skin in the afternoon sunlight, with those cute freckles like constellations on her arms, her breasts, her collarbones, that Hawke had covered in kisses the one time they’d had sex, with those beautiful brown eyes like a shot of whiskey by firelight, with her black hair thick and shining as it flowed over her shoulders… it would be so easy to hope Hawke had misremembered how pretty Isabela was in the haze of falling in love, three years ago. But she hadn’t, and time had only made Isabela more breathtaking. 

Hawke’s stomach twists. Yet another thing about their run-in at the market: Hawke had realized for certain that Isabela loves her. All those years ago, Hawke thought Isabela loved her. She thought so when Isabela shared her deepest secrets after Hawke admitted that she might be falling in love, right after they’d had sex. But this time… it wasn’t anything Isabela said. It wasn’t anything she did. Hawke just knows it. 

Unease gnaws at the edges of her mind. Is she being self-obsessed? At her lowest moments, she thinks about everything that passed between Isabela and herself, wondering if it was all just a one-sided obsession. Isabela never said she loved Hawke. She barely even wanted to stick around after they were done having sex. Did Isabela leave because she was disgusted by Hawke’s affection? 

‘Disgusting woman. Freak of a woman. No one else would ever treat you as well as I do. Mind yourself, and do as I say.’ Hawke’s husband’s voice rings in her ears again. Her stomach suddenly aches, and she curls on her side in the bed. ‘ No one else. No one else.’ She had tried to drown out his voice in her head almost a decade ago now with that kind elven stablemaster at her brother-in-law’s estate. The one who had asked her about her childhood on a farm, who had talked to her about horses like she was already an expert, who had made her feel desperately wanted for a little while every time he’d taken her to bed. But that connection had been fleeting, even if it sent her back home with baby Delia on the way. She had faked her own pleasure with him, glad to be wanted, glad to be in bed with anyone but her husband. 

She hadn’t faked anything with Isabela. She hadn’t hidden anything from her, hadn’t lied to her, hadn’t been anything but herself. Her attraction was real. Her pleasure was real. Her love was real. It’s why she almost died for Isabela. It’s why her heart still swells when she remembers that Isabela is alive and free because of her, no matter what’s passed between them. But none of it was enough. Isabela had seen all Hawke had to give, and wanted no part of it. 

Isabela has her own problems, Hawke reminds herself. She has her own difficult past. Maybe she has her own evil husband’s voice in her head. Maybe whatever Isabela has going on isn’t about her. 

But it is, though, isn’t it? Hawke nearly died to save her, Hawke told her she loved her, and Isabela proceeded to ditch her while she was out cold, then avoided her like a plague rat for the last three years. How is that not personal?

A tear slips down Hawke’s cheek. She doesn’t want to think about this. She lays still in the bed for a long moment, nothing but her breathing interrupting the heavy silence of the room. She moves her leg slightly. The motion of her underwear against her skin sends a shockwave of arousal throughout her. She’s forcibly reminded that her useless body is still turned on from the dream, even if her mind is elsewhere. She lies still again, hesitating. She listens closely to the hallway beyond the bedroom. Delia still doesn’t seem to be awake, and she can’t hear Sandal or Bodahn running around. Finally, she slips her hand beneath the sheets, then down into her underwear. She begins to stroke her clit. Slow at first, then faster, faster. She remembers Isabela on top of her, doing this with one hand as she filled Hawke up with the dildo in the other. She remembers Isabela’s touch on her face in real life, Isabela’s fingers on her scar in the dream. ‘Hit me, kiss me, kick me, fuck me, kill me. Anything. Anything.’ Her face heats, and she begins to sweat as she grinds against her own hand, feeling her body open up with frantic desire.  

‘That’s my man.’

Hawke comes within two minutes of starting, crying out as the muscles in her legs and feet nearly cramp with the exertion. Her physical tension melts away as her orgasm rushes through her. Once it’s over, she lays motionless in the bed, trying to slow her breathing. She remembers how she thought Isabela was pathetic when they’d met in the market yesterday. But no. As Hawke lays in her own sweat, fingers sticky and smelling of sex after fucking herself to the thought of telling Isabela there are no boundaries to her love for her, after everything Isabela’s done… Isabela’s not the pathetic one here. It’s Hawke, by a country mile.  

16. Hawke

“If you were such a piece of shit, you wouldn’t have to try so hard to seem like one, and you’d be lot less fucking annoying!” Hawke snaps. She doesn’t care if the other scattered patrons of the bar stare at them. Isabela’s already humiliated Hawke in front of all of Kirkwall, in front of all of their friends. Hawke’s been living with that for three years. She has nothing to lose. Isabela sets her drink on the bar, smirking a little as she stares up at Hawke. Hawke groans in frustration. This is just what Isabela wants — for Hawke to push her away. For it to be Hawke’s fault, not hers. For Hawke to tell her she’s worthless, so she never has to act like she isn’t. 

“Why are you here, Hawke?” 

“I’m here to meet Varric.”

“ Bullshit ,” Isabela spits the word out. “You haven’t set foot in this bar in three years. Then we run into each other in the marketplace, and here you are, finally yelling at me like you should’ve three years ago. Spare me the pretense. That’s not an accident.” 

“What do you want me to say, Isabela? You’re the one who left me! Am I supposed to cry at your feet for you to come back?”

“No. You should find someone else, someone who doesn’t piss you off this badly. You’re a sexy woman, it shouldn’t be hard. Isn’t that obvious?” 

“There’s no one else!” Hawke seethes. “There’s never been anyone else! You fucked me up so badly that I can’t be with anyone else!” Isabela seems genuinely taken aback by this. She stares at Hawke breathlessly, frozen on her barstool. “I’m a human being, Isabela! I have feelings! I’m not immortal! ‘You and Aveline could’ve taken the Arishok on your own?’ That’s bullshit! ‘Just go find someone else, you’re sexy, it shouldn’t be hard!’ Yes, it is! That’s such bullshit! Same as, oh, did you make it onto that ship with your guts hanging on by a thread? You’re a single mother, all your family’s dead or in the Circle, but did you leave your daughter like a selfish bitch for two weeks to go feel like a sailor again? No, I fucking didn’t! I know it’s easier to sit in your fantasy world and pretend that you’re the only one with Big Sad Grown-Up Feelings, but you’re not!” 

Isabela blinks. “That isn’t what I meant. Hawke, I didn’t—”

“Save it! Enough with this bullshit! You know why I didn’t come here for three years. You’re the reason why. I loved you, Isabela! I told you that! I almost died for you! And you left me behind! You pop back up in my life and act like you’re sorry, and then you act like I’m disturbing you by trying to talk to you! You can’t keep doing this, Isabela!”

“What do you want me to say, Hawke?” Isabela demands. “That I love you, too? Would that make you happy?”

“No!” Hawke snaps. “Not if it isn’t true! Are you insane? Maker, I’m not even a person to you, am I?” 

“What if it is true?” Isabela demands, standing up from her stool. “What if it’s true, and I’ve thought about it every day since I left you? What if it’s true, and I don’t deserve another chance with you, and I sure as hell don’t deserve to be around you and your daughter again? What does it matter? What does that change? It doesn’t change the last three years. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Is that true?” Hawke asks, her heart beating so loudly in her chest she can hardly hear herself think. 

“Yes.” Isabela says quietly 

Hawke buries her face in her hands, groaning deeply. “ Fuck, Isabela. ” The whole bar is staring at her now, but she can’t calm herself. She can’t make herself behave. 

“I know.” Isabela’s voice trembles. “I know.” 

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” Isabela insists. “I don’t know! That’s why I wasn’t going to tell you.” 

“Are you serious?” Hawke asks, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. She meets Isabela’s wide eyes unflinchingly. Isabela nods. Hawke groans again. 

“I know. I know!” Isabela repeats. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know!” 

“I can’t do this right now. I have to go. We’ll just… talk about this later. I can’t do this right now.” Isabela nods silently, and Hawke storms out of the bar, her hands and knees shaking like a leaf. 

As soon as Hawke steps outside of the bar into the cool night air, she stops in her tracks. Hawke takes a deep breath, running her hands through her hair. Isabela loves her. After all this time, Isabela loves her. Try as she might, Hawke has never gotten over her. She’s never healed like her friends said she should. She’s never moved on. Isabela has always been Hawke’s broken bone that never healed right, something jagged and aching when she moved the wrong way. 

Hawke knows, objectively, that she shouldn’t go back into that bar. She shouldn’t forgive the woman who nearly got her killed, and then ignored her for three years. But whatever broken parts Hawke is made of, she knows that Isabela is her other half. Three years of avoiding each other didn’t work. Who is she kidding? She doesn’t know how she’ll explain herself to anyone else if she walks back into that bar and takes Isabela back. But she doesn’t know how to live with herself if she doesn’t. 

With a deep breath, Hawke turns on her heel, heading back inside the Hanged Man.

Isabela’s eyes light up from across the bar as she sees Hawke return. Hawke strides over to her, stopping just short of running into her. “I don’t want it to be like this between us anymore.” Hawke’s breathing is shaky, and her voice trembles, but she forces the words out. “Haven’t we both been through enough? I am so tired of cruelty. Can’t things just be good? Can’t something just be good?” 

“Can I kiss you?” Isabela breathes. Hawke freezes, then nods. Isabela kisses Hawke, pulling her in gently, running her hands through Hawke’s hair. Hawke kisses her back, fighting the urge to cry as she’s overcome with years of pent-up longing. Isabela kisses deeply, desperately, like she’s trying to make up for three years of neglect in one kiss. Impossibly, it’s working.

“ I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Hawke pants between kisses. 

“ Don’t mention it. I deserved it. ”

“ No. You didn’t,” Hawke insists. “If we— if we do this, it can’t be like that between us. I just— I want you to be nice to me. And I want to be nice to you. I know that sounds childish, but I can’t take anything else.”

“ Maker, Hawke. That’s all I want, too.” 

17. Isabela

Isabela runs her fingers through Hawke’s hair as Hawke lays her head against Isabela’s heart.

“You kept the haircut, all these years.”

Hawke looks up at her, her expression so sweet it gives Isabela butterflies, just like the night Isabela saw her. “It makes me feel like myself.”

Isabela kisses the top of Hawke’s head. “I love that, sailor. And it’s sexy, to boot.” Hawke breathes a small laugh, then grows quiet for a long time. 

“Isabela?” Hawke asks softly. Isabela meets her eyes, stroking Hawke’s cheek with her thumb. “Can I just ask…” Hawke closes her eyes for a moment, frowning a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to keep harping on this, so I’m just going to say it once, and then I’ll never ask again.” She opens her eyes again, staring Isabela down. “If you’re not sure about this, if you can’t commit, or you don’t want to stay — That’s fine. I understand. But I need to know… are you serious about this? About being together?”

“You want to know whether to let me around Delia or not.” Isabela feels a pang of guilt. Hawke frowns, but doesn’t answer. “Well, first of all, sailor, I don’t want you to be sorry. It’s a fair question. You’re a good mother. You don’t have to apologize for that.” Hawke’s expression softens a little. “But I’m all in. I promise you, I’m going to prove it. To you, to Delia, to our friends, to Bethany, to anyone who cares to listen.” She kisses Hawke’s cheek. “I thought I was doing you a favor by staying away. But it turns out, I managed to fuck things up for you, whether I’m around or not.” Hawke looks physically pained at the that, and Isabela’s face heats with embarrassment. “So, I may as well stick around, I guess.”

Hawke takes Isabela’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of her fingers. “I don’t want to live like there’s some… debt between us. I don’t want you to feel guilty. I don’t want to have to keep reliving that shit with the Arishok. If you’re with me, if you’re serious — you have to let it go. I promise, I will too.” A lump forms in Isabela’s throat. “You and I both know what it’s like to live with a bully. That’s not how I want things to be between us. I don’t want to lord your mistakes over you. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” Hawke looks like she might start crying again. Though the feeling’s mutual, Isabela is damned tired of making Hawke cry. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Hawke,” Isabela offers quickly. “I love you. I trust you. Maker, I trust you more than anyone, Hawke. You must know that. ” Hawke nods. 

“I just want to make you happy. I just want us to be happy together. I want to be good to you, and I want you to be good to me. I want us both to feel safe, and happy, and loved. I can’t take anything else.”

“That’s what I want, too, sailor.” Isabela cradles Hawke’s face in her palm. 

18. Hawke

“Give me the documents, and you can have the ship. And you will never hear from me again,” Castillon purrs. 

“ Swear it, ” Isabela demands.

“I swear it. Give me the documents.” 

“Are you insane?” Hawke’s heart pounds. Her blood boils. “No. No deal.” Hawke interrupts, glaring into the pirate lord’s icy blue eyes. 

“ What are you doing?” Isabela hisses. 

“No deal,” Hawke repeats. “We let you go, and you get to sail all over the Free Marches enslaving people? Are you planning to strike the elves, because they’re poor and vulnerable? Or is it the same as it was during the blight — men, women and children, humans and elves? You don’t discriminate.”

Castillon flashes a chilling, wicked smile as he draws a step closer to her. “Ah, yes. I have heard of your companion, Isabela. The great Champion of Kirkwall, who kills slavers in the undercity, who sticks up for the elves because she keeps a bastard elf child at home.”

“ Shut up, Castillon,” Isabela snarls. 

“We had no designs on your daughter, Champion. Not until now. But once I put you down like a dog, perhaps we will start our operation in Kirkwall with your daughter. Show the people what will happen if they stand against us.”

“ Not on your life, fucker,” Isabela hisses. She launches a dagger through the air, slicing a ribbon of blood into Castillon’s cheek as he barely manages to dodge it in time.

“I’m still sorry about your ship, Isabela,” Hawke says softly as they walk through the quiet late afternoon dockside streets. Her face still stings from getting grazed by Castillon’s blade — an answer for Isabela’s cut across his face, she supposes. At least she’s the one who got to walk out of that warehouse alive. 

Isabela sighs. “You were right. You always are.” 

“Not always.”

“Alright. Usually , then.” Isabela smiles, though it fades as her eyes lower to the cut on Hawke’s cheek. “We’ll get that cleaned up and healed back at your place.” Hawke nods. Isabela reaches out, taking Hawke’s hand in her own. Her fingers stroke the back of Hawke’s knuckles. “But you were right about Castillon’s slaving.”

“So were you.” Hawke tilts her head, frowning sympathetically. “You’re the one who freed that slave ship. You’re the one who finally killed Castillon, not me.” 

“He deserved it,” Isabela’s jaw clenches. “That shit about Delia… Nobody gets to fuck with that little girl while I’m still breathing. I promise you that, Hawke.” She stops walking, and Hawke stops with her. Isabela kisses Hawke, first tenderly, then desperately. When they pull away, Isabela breathes, “ You’re my girls, Hawke. Nobody gets to fuck with my girls.”

“ I love you, Isabela,” Hawke pants, pressing her forehead to Isabela’s. They’re both sticky from cooling sweat, but neither cares. 

“ I love you, too, Hawke.” 

“You will get a ship,” Hawke assures her. “I promise. I’ll help you. Anything I can do, I’ll help.”

“ I don’t care, ” Isabela insists, kissing Hawke again.

“Yes, you do.” 

“Yeah, well. I want a ship. I need you and Delia to be alright. I need you to stick around.” Isabela frowns, pushing a dark curl of Hawke’s hair behind her ear. “You know what I thought when you started getting into it with Castillon?” Isabela asks softly. Hawke shakes her head. “I thought… You know what my mother would have done? She would’ve handed over those papers, gotten the ship, and gotten out, no matter what it meant for anyone else. No matter what it meant for Delia, or you, or anyone who might get caught up in Castillon’s slaving.” 

“You’re not your mother, Isabela.”

“No, I’m not.” Isabela’s expression is almost painfully soft. “I have you to thank for that.”

“No way,” Hawke shakes her head again. “That’s all you. You made the right call, in the end.” 

“I don’t know. But I do know that I’m better when I’m with you,” Isabela’s expression softens, and she kisses Hawke once more. “You’re my navigator, Hawke.” 

“Yeah. Well,” Hawke’s mouth grins against Isabela’s lips. “You’re my captain.” 

19. Isabela.

Hawke is still shaking violently as she staggers out of the Gallows courtyard into a dark alley. Isabela and Bethany follow close behind her. The sky still burns orange overhead, the billowing flames from the Chantry burning up the night. “Hawke…” Isabela begins.

“We have to leave. Now. ” Hawke’s voice is thick, though Isabela isn’t sure how much of it is from fear and how much is from smoke and exhaustion. “I have to get Delia, and we have to go. Bethany, you… you have to come with me. They’ll kill you if you stay. We have to—”

“I know,” Bethany nods. “I’ll help you pack some things for Delia.” 

“We need to find a boat out of here, quickly, before the Chantry arrives. They’ll probably shut down the harbor.” Hawke draws a ragged breath as she meets Isabela’s gaze. Her black hair is slicked to her face with sweat, and her eyes are wild, terrified, like a prey animal. “You don’t have to be a part of this, Isabela. You didn’t know anything. You weren’t the one who stuck up for Anders. You could—”

“No way, sailor,” Isabela insists. “Are you kidding me? You think I’m leaving you now ?” She takes Hawke’s trembling hands in her own, holding them tight. “ No way,” she repeats. “You’re stuck with me.”

“It’s not going to be mansions and sex and adventure anymore!” Hawke steals a sheepish glance at Bethany, who seems generally too shaken up to react, before returning her gaze to Isabela. “Don’t you get that? It’s going to be a life on the run, probably in rented rooms, with my sister and my daughter and me. That’s not what you signed up for. That’s not a life for you. You don’t have to—”

“You’re wrong.” Isabela stares intently into Hawke’s eyes, her dark brows furrowing. “I signed up for a life with you, Hawke . And with Delia, and with Bethany, because they’re your family. I know you’re a package deal. And yes, ideally , I would like to stay in your big sexy mansion and live in the lap of luxury, because that’s pretty damn nice. But I don’t love your house, and I don’t love this city. I love you , Hawke. I’m not going to cut and run.” Hawke bites her lip, frowning deeply as she begins to cry. She removes her hand from Isabela’s grasp, instead throwing her arms around Isabela. Hawke pulls her in tightly, kissing her deeply. 

“ I love you so much, Isabela.” 

“I love you, too, sailor.”

20. Hawke

Hawke and Isabela walk side by side through the Rivaini market, holding hands as they watch Delia try on a rainbow of sashes from a silk stall with Bethany’s help. Delia drapes a peacock patterned scarf over Bethany’s arm, and Bethany turns in a circle, modeling the garment for Delia.

“You did good, you know,” Isabela assures her, grazing Hawke’s shoulder with a quick kiss. “Six months out of Kirkwall, and you’ve got all your people together, in one piece, in our own house, without the Chantry breathing down our necks. I mean, damn, look at Bethany. She’s happier than ever.”

“I know,” Hawke agrees. Her stomach clenches. “I hate thinking of her in the Circle all those years. I’m just… really glad she’s happy here.” Hawke stares at Bethany’s radiant smile as she helps Delia untangle herself from the scarves and place them neatly back on the shelves in the merchant’s stall. 

“She’s not the only one,” Isabela grins. “I’m afraid you birthed another little seadog, kitten. You can hardly keep that kid out of the water. You’ve both got saltwater in the blood.”

“I know,” Hawke grins back. “She can be your first mate when you get your ship.”

Isabela laughs. “I’d love that, kitten.”

“It’s going to happen, you know,” Hawke rubs the back of Isabela’s hand, lowering her voice. “I promise. I know that… everything that happened burned through most of my savings. But I promise you, we’ll make it back again. And I’ll get you that ship. I’ll be your navigator, and you’ll be my captain.” Hawke kisses Isabela hungrily, not caring if any of the other marketgoers stare at them. Let them. Hawke and Isabela have earned this. “And the first thing we’ll do is break in the bed in the captain’s quarters.”

“I like the sound of that, sailor,” Isabela purrs. “I’ll be your captain, and you’ll be my man.” Hawke feels her blood rush straight from her head to the spot between her legs. Her skin heats, and she needs Isabela desperately. “But it’s alright, you know. You won’t catch me complaining that we spent that coin upgrading from rented rooms for the family to a house on the beach with enough bedrooms for us to have some adult fun in private.”

“It was an investment,” Hawke grins.

Isabela cackles. “You’ve got that right.” Isabela squeezes her hand. “Good things are coming, Hawke. I truly believe that.” 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got Delia. I’ve got Bethany. I think things are pretty damned great already.” 

Isabela’s eyes shine with affection. “You’re the heart of this little family. You do know that, don’t you? None of us would be anywhere without you.” 

“Yeah, well. You’re my heart, Isabela. You and Delia both, in your own ways. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you. ” 

Isabela sighs, returning her gaze to Delia. The little girl has turned her attention to a stand full of puppets on strings, eagerly investigating a griffon puppet. She makes the wings flap and the legs dance through the air, holding the puppet up as high over her head as she can. “Do you want more children?” Isabela asks. The question makes Hawke stop in her tracks. 

“What? Why? Do you?” 

“I just want to know what you want,” Isabela insists, raising her eyebrows. “I don’t know. You just seem like you love being a mother.”

“I do,” Hawke admits. “But I don’t know.” She looks at Delia, then sighs deeply. “There was a time when I did. I had her so young. Things seemed so dire when I was pregnant, and even when she was very small. I wished I’d gotten a chance to raise her with more time, more money, more… security, I guess. But I never wanted to be with another man. I just—”

“Oh, you don’t need another man, kitten,” Isabela interrupts. “Rivaini healers aren’t bound up in Chantry bullshit about marriage and propriety. Women can have children by themselves, or with other women here. That doesn’t have to hold you back.” Hawke blinks. She’d heard of that kind of magic before, although she hadn’t thought about it in years.

“Is that what you want?” Hawke asks again, raising an eyebrow.

“Like I said, sailor. I just want to know what you want.”

Hawke frowns. “It’s just…” Her face burns again, this time for far less fun reasons. “I worry about my back.” She’s thought about this for the last three years, but never admitted it out loud. She’s struck by the enormity of the idea as she hears her own voice saying the words. Her eyes sting, and she knows she’s draining the fun and romance from the moment completely. “I mean, I thought it didn’t matter, because— I forgot about the Rivaini… baby without a man stuff. I guess — I think I could get pregnant again, technically, physically. But I’m afraid of what it might do to my back. Ever since the—” She hates to bring up the fight with the Arishok in front of Isabela. It feels like poking a stick into an open wound, but she doesn’t know what else to do.

“The duel with the Arishok,” Isabela says softly. “Your back injury.” Hawke nods. 

“I worry about another pregnancy. I worry about picking up another child. I don’t know if I could carry a toddler around. I don’t think I can.” Hawke lets go of Isabela’s hand to wipe away her tears. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m getting upset about this. It’s fine. It’s—”

Isabela’s expression is achingly tender. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I didn’t realize— I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject. Honestly, I only wanted to know what you wanted.” 

“Do you want more children, though?” Hawke sniffs. “I mean, I don’t know. If you want to carry them, maybe—”

“Oh, fuck no ,” Isabela scoffs. “I got the old baby maker shut down for good by a healer back when I was married. But if you wanted another… I just wanted to make sure you get what you want.”

“So you don’t want a baby, but you wanted me to have one if I wanted another.”

Isabela huffs. “Well, it sounds insane when you put it like that. I suppose what I mean is… I love Delia. I love being part of your lives. And I just wanted you to know that if you wanted more children, I don’t want to stand in your way. But I don’t want you to do anything that hurts you. Not on my behalf, especially. So I suppose my point is this… I know you’re trying to build a life for everyone else. Me, Delia, Bethany. I just want to make sure you’re getting everything you want out of life, too. No matter what it is that you want.” 

Hawke wipes the last of her tears, and Isabela laces her arm around her waist. “The three of you are all that I want,” Hawke murmurs. “Delia is enough for me. I got a perfect kid on the first try.” She flashes a small smile. “No need to push my luck.” 

“You really did luck out with her, you know,” Isabela agrees. “I thought I didn’t even like children, before I met the two of you. Now, I’d kill a man for looking at her wrong.”

“And he’d deserve it!” Hawke chuckles. Hawke leans her head against Isabela’s shoulder. “You are a good stepmother to her. And Delia loves you. You must know that.” 

Isabela bites her lip, nodding. “Feels good, you know? I never thought I’d be a mother. Stepmother. Whatever. But it feels good to look out for her. Like, you know, I’m not my mother. I don’t have to stand back and watch another little girl get chewed up and spat out by the world. Not that you were going to let that happen either, but—”

“I get it,” Hawke assures her. “Trust me, I do.” 

“Mummy, mummy, mummy!” Delia goes running through the market towards them, Bethany hot on her heels. 

“Where’s the fire, sweet thing?” Isabela asks. 

“They have a stall with paints for wood.” She glances up at Hawke, rocking up onto her toes to get closer to eye level. “I thought maybe you could carve a model ship, and I could paint it, and we could give it to Isabela as a present. That way, you can have a little ship for now, until you get a big ship.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Hawke pats her shoulder. 

“Oh, I’d love that, Rook,” Isabela beams. “Maybe I could help you make it, too?”Delia nods excitedly. 

Hawke retrieves a few coins from her purse, pressing them into Delia’s hand. “Go get three colors to start, alright?” Delia nods again, then rushes back into the fray. 

“Like I said, Hawke. Good things are coming.” 

Hawke kisses Isabela once more. “Like I said. Good things are already here.”