Varric opened his eyes just as the door clicked shut. He'd decided not to follow Hawke.

If she needs some space, I need to respect is no way we can go on pretending nothing meaningful happened between us last night. She can kid herself all she wants that all we did was let off some steam.

He rolled over, letting his arm rest over her side of the bed—it was rumpled and still warm. She's fixated on Bianca despite any reassurances I've offered her. She can be so… stubborn? Old-fashioned? About certain things…I can't chase her, as much as I might want to, he decided. But…Damn…I don't think I can wait for a final resolution with Bianca. That could still take months and months…

He scratched his stubble, mired in thought.

Maybe Hawke won't be able wait that long, either. Varric grinned slightly, recalling the previous night.

Patience, he thought, remembering his book's fortuitous quote. He let his mind roam for a bit, sleepiness slowly encroaching upon him. What do I know? I never expected last night. She might be back for more.

He exhaled loudly.

This waiting game is about to get really interesting.

Hawke stared at the uneven edge she had gnawed along her nail.

Stop, she ordered herself.

Every little noise unnerved her while she soaked in the large tub. She found herself teetering between wishing Varric would stomp across the hall, burst through the door, and drag her back to his bed to ravage her for the remainder of the day… and the more somber and definitely less fun wanting to proceed with the day's business with nothing more than a conspiratorial wink to acknowledge the night's previous…events.

I shouldn't have done that. That was really impulsive and brash of me. She let herself sink deeper into the tub. But was it really such a terrible thing? I think we both needed that. She smiled, remembering how he gazed over her with a wolfish expression, and his hands—Maker, his hands were large and strong; he'd held her so tightly against him…But he was gentle, too— he knew just how to make her melt when he—

Okay! Moving right along! she commanded herself, plunking her soapy washcloth into the water.

What about those lips? She wiggled her toes gleefully. He likes to kiss, she thought giddily. He really knows how, too, the devil. A small shiver ran up her spine when she thought of those full, soft lips against hers, his stubble lightly prickling her cheeks…her thighs…

"Gaaah!" Hawke threw the washcloth across the washroom in frustration.

I have to think of other things, or I won't make it through the morning!

Think of an unpleasant thought…but not something too depressing. There's a buttload of those.

Bran! She decided triumphantly. Fucking Bran to the rescue. Pompous, smarmy bastard—who'd ever think you'd be useful for anything?

The pleasant tingle that memories of the previous night had aroused in her subsided swiftly at the thought of the unyielding, sycophantic seneschal.

Remember! she encouraged herself: Bran turning us away time and again from speaking to the Viscount.

A surge of anger seized her, and she welcomed it gladly.

Then there was the time Bran informed her and Varric that the Viscount was not available for an audience with anyone and minutes later allowed some ass-faced noble who stopped by without an appointment waltz past them as they gaped in disbelief.

She wanted to punch Bran in the nuts just as badly at that moment as had wanted to back then.

This is awesome, she decided.

So many memories of Bran looking down on her, making veiled, derogatory comments about Fereldans!

And what about Bran clapping his hands and shooing them from the landing at Viscount's Keep that one time they'd hurried over to report a plot against Kirkwall? He hadn't been the least bit interested in listening to their warnings and pleas for backup! Their dripping sweat and blood on his precious marble floors had been far more threatening. They'd had to get poor Aveline to rally the guards, even the ones who were off duty, to go foil the attack. Varric had been furious. That had also been the first time she had seen him shirtless—Hadn't it? Yes—it had been that night: they had hobbled back to the Hanged Man after that shit fest, all battered and sore, and she vividly recalled his tearing off his tunic in front of the mirror and hissing at the deep bruises on his torso. She'd been mesmerized even back then not only by his muscular, compact physique but by the lush ginger-colored hair growing over his taut chest.

It's so wonderfully soft, she thought, slipping down into the water again, a goofy grin on her lips. It had felt divine to run her fingers through it, nuzzle it, to feel his chest heave at her touch, his heartbeat and the tickle of the hair when she rested her cheek on it…

She ripped the stopper from the tub in exasperation.

Fuck, Bran! Some help you are: you can't do anything right!

Hawke nearly hollered with surprise when the knock came at last: a steady, persistent knock. She briefly inspected her image in the large mirror over the dresser, trying to flatten wayward wisps of hair over her head.

"Yes?" she managed to utter sultrily as she let the door swing open.

"If you don't hurry, they're going to stop serving breakfast," Anders announced peevishly. He contemplated her for a moment. "Well! You are looking more rested for once. Even got some of your color back!" he concluded.

"Where's Varric? Is he up yet?" She craned her neck in an attempt to glance past Anders even as her cheeks flushed crimson.

Anders grimaced.

"Oh, is he ever! He's already gone into town and is currently with some associates downstairs." He crossed his arms. "Come on—I am afraid of being alone with him when he's being so efficient and I haven't even had a proper mug of tea: he's already found me an errand to run after breakfast."

Her heart was pounding when she made her way down the stairs to the inn's dining room. An assortment of fresh-baked pastries awaited them on a long table. Fresh bread had been stacked artfully in a large basket and ubiquitous "pots-de-beurre" had been laid out for guests. The room was virtually empty at that point—servants had begun the tedious chore of busing the tables. Varric held court further inside the room, accompanied by two dwarves. One of them wore the usual formal finery she had learned to associate with the merchant guild while the other one wore high-quality leather armor. She plucked some bread and a small ramekin of butter. Anders stepped up beside her, his plate holding a small mound of pastries, bread, and fruit.

"Wow—sure you got enough there? I think you forgot to claim the table ornaments. But I suppose you can always come back for seconds," she provoked.

"I have an insatiable hunger, my dear Hawke." Anders cocked an eyebrow at her.

Hawke smirked and glanced at Varric. He was engrossed in whatever one of his associates was telling him: he wore a somber expression and a deeply furrowed brow. She decided not to interrupt their meeting, but before she walked by their table, one of the chairs slid across the polished floor to block her path. She startled for a second, before realizing that Varric had pushed it out with his foot, aware of her presence, after all, even if he hadn't made eye-contact with her. With a firm pat to the chair's seat, he invited her to sit beside him.

She and Anders joined the group, exchanging perfunctory greetings with the dwarves.

"I should head back to the docks. I don't want to attract anymore attention to my ship than necessary." The merchant dwarf pushed away from the table.

"How many trips do you think it will take?" Varric leaned forward.

"Only one. More than that and we push our luck. The cargo has been divided between the Ciriane and the Lady Perendale." The dwarf grinned conspiratorially. "The Lady shipped out last night. It succeeded in avoiding Orlesian customs."

"I would expect no less." Varric grinned back.

Hawke and Anders proceeded to eat, with the dwarves fairly oblivious to their presence. She allowed her eyes to occasionally wander from her dish to Varric's face: he'd swept his hair into a half-tail and she admired the strong, square jaw and the broken nose that had never set properly with a lusty affection. Further examination inevitably led to his chest beneath the revealing red tunic he wore. He was also wearing his thick gold necklace. She liked teasing him about it: she called it his "Do-you-know-who-you're-talking-to?" necklace.

"Hey," he teased in a low voice, catching her shameless ogling when one of the dwarves addressed Anders. "My face is up here, you know."

She suppressed a grin, meeting his warm golden eyes.

"The good news," Varric explained as they walked down the hill from the inn, "is that no one has seen Bartrand in Kirkwall. Not only that, he hasn't attempted to move funds from any of our business or personal accounts."

"Hm," Anders puzzled.

The three of them were walking down the hill, toward the trade quarter in Jader.

"Do you think Bartrand's dead?" Anders wondered.

Varric shrugged.

"From your mouth to the Maker's ears." He peered at the water beyond the sea wall further down the road. "He certainly is, to me. I am making sure he has no more access to any of the family's business accounts." He rubbed his forehead. "Once I return to Kirkwall, I'll have to take over…everything."

Hawke caught the tone of resignation in his voice. She knew how much he hated that aspect of his life and all the bureaucracy that came with it.

"He had to pull this shit right before the biggest haul our family has ever taken in. And now? I have to manage everything alone. Bartrand may not have been good for much, but he certainly was great at being deshyr and handling all the bullshit. Great timing to become a backstabber, brother. You could have at least figured out the taxes before losing your shit."

They strolled until they reached a row of doorways facing the sea. Hawke took a deep breath of misty sea air.

"Say, Hawke," Varric called to her as he checked an address off a crumpled wad of paper. "Did you sleep well last night?"

She briefly narrowed her eyes at him, wary of Anders' presence.

"There's something…different about you today," he continued roguishly. "Don't you think, Anders?"

"I know! I noticed as well!" Anders seconded. "I even said so when I met her this morning—there's color to her complexion again."

"I slept…very well!" she managed to say, growing agitated. "How about you? Did you sleep well?" She widened her eyes at him in exasperation.

"Mmm…You have no idea—best sleep of my life," he teased, casting her a sly grin.

They halted before a weathered wooden door, its decorative metal scrollwork crusted heavily with salt and rust.

"All right, Blondie: it's all you now. I promised my associate a healer, no questions asked, in exchange for some timely oversights from Orlais' Society of Antiquities and Historical Artifacts before we embark home."

"Just what are you involving me in?" Anders shuddered.

"Just a little exchange among old friends. My associate eases our way home and I offer him the medical aid he needs for one of his top agents, who was injured in the field. The nature of the injury would have definitely drawn the local authorities' attention had they gone to a local healer."

Anders winced.

"Sweet barefoot Andraste, what kind of injury does the man have?"

Varric cleared his throat.

"It's not a man, you see: it's a woman."

"Ah."

"And you better help her. If you fail, we might have to walk to Kirkwall. And carry all our cargo."

"Oh?"

"See, the agent in question is my associate's mistress. Hence the additional need for discretion." Varric rapped on the door, while both he and Anders exchanged tart grins. The door opened slightly and Varric slipped in after peering about, ensuring they weren't being observed by curious eyes. A few moments later he ushered Anders in.

Hawke sat on the sea wall, waiting, watching the foamy waves lap hypnotically at the shore for several minutes. She'd been distracted by a flock of sandpipers when she caught the tail end of Varric's conversation further off, behind her.

"He's the best—don't worry about a thing."

The door shut behind Varric and he crossed the narrow road. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey."

They looked at each other until they both cracked grins, both a little tongue-tied. He finally leaned closer, speaking softly, close to her ear.

"I was yanking your chain a bit earlier, but I meant what I said: there's something about you today. You look…so beautiful."

"Could it be because I bathed this week?" she joked nervously. He grinned again and shook his head slowly, sitting beside her.

"All right: why can't you just take the damn compliment?"

"Well, what—what about… you?" she began, flustered.

"What about me?" he was enjoying their little awkward exchange. He loved that she was in a tizzy and that he was the reason behind it.

"You look…" She halted, searching for the right words. She found herself floundering. All she could do was smile at him. "I don't even know where to begin," she admitted.

Varric let his hand travel to the back of her neck and began rubbing it gently.

I know what you mean, he thought tenderly.

"What are your plans today?" he asked.

"I was planning on visiting Bethany for a bit— I also want to see if I can meet with Stroud."

He rested his hand palm up between them and glanced at her tentatively. She immediately understood and slipped her hand in his.

"What are you hoping to learn from Stroud?"

"When they are leaving for Amaranthine. What he foresees for my sister in the near future. I need to ask if there is any way he would consider stationing her in Kirkwall."

"You know the Wardens aren't very well-liked by the Templars at Kirkwall," he reminded her. "The Wardens have interfered too often in mage-related matters. Notice there haven't been any Grey Warden headquarters in Kirkwall in a very long time. If there are plans for one any time soon, it would be a very sensitive and strategic post—and I doubt the Wardens would be sending any mages to represent the order."

"You're right… But I thought…Maybe she'd be somewhere close by. At least back in the Marches. I just…I don't like this. I wish she were coming home with us."

"Look, you said so yourself: she's alive. This is the price to pay for that boon. You need to give her time. Let her sort through all these changes a bit and get comfortable with who she is now." Hawke was glancing down at their hands, their fingers entwined. "She'll get there, Hawke. Trust her. Let her know you care—but also let her decide for herself what she wants, what direction she wishes to go." She nodded sadly. "I think she's going to amaze you."

"What are you up to today?" she finally asked.

"Let's see: finalizing a deal with a couple kalnas representatives of the Shaperate… You're still ok with my handing over the official records we found in Valdasine, right? And the two gold paragon statues?"

Hawke feigned deep annoyance.

"How dare you! I wanted those dwarven statues standing on each side of my bed."

Varric chuckled.

And I'd actually prefer to have this dwarf IN my bed. She bit her lower lip.

"Going for the Antivan merchant prince look? Some say it's gaudy, but why not flaunt your assets if you have them?"

"Well said by the man who lives in Lowtown, upstairs from a tavern," Hawke ribbed him. "Tell you what—we'll go halfsies on the statues. You can have the bearded lady one."

"It's not a beard, you nut: it was the fashion back in the day—women gathered their braids and fastened them right beneath their chins."

"I believe that trend coincided with a vertiginous drop in birth rates." Hawke declaimed.

"Works with the saying about Orzammar, right? 'Where the men are men, the women are men, and the nugs are scared.'"

She snorted, amused.

"Anyway, I also need to begin penning the motion I have to present at the next merchant guild meeting. If Bartrand continues to give no sign of life, I will push to be made sole deshyr of our house until Bartrand's legal claims expire, in about a year."

"I'm so sorry you have to deal with all this now, on top of everything."

He couldn't resist. If he couldn't actively pursue her, he could at least let her know how he felt.

"Yeah—almost everything went wrong." He lowered his eyes. "But last night, Hawke—it makes all that more bearable."

"Are you referring to the dinner we had? Or to me? Because—" she began nervously.

He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, planting a kiss over her fingers.

"Can you just stop right there and accept the fucking praise?"

"I'm not used to this," she protested.

"You'll have to get over it because I adore you."

"Ok: now you're being unreasonable." But she was smiling broadly. "Because I adore you more," she offered in a soft voice, her eyes lowered and her cheeks flushed.

Does she have any idea of how fucking seductive she is when she says adorable things like that? Just bares her emotions to me this way? Prove it, he thought headily. Show me—come back to my bed tonight, he wanted to tell her. He shooed the impulse away. Careful—if you say anything, she'll just dig her heels in. It's almost as if she needs to punish herself if the world isn't doing it already.

"And there you go competing with me again." He was smiling as well.

"Last night was…like a dream. It almost doesn't seem real, does it?" she murmured.

"So: you practically become a wealthy woman overnight and are in the process of restoring your family's name and estate in Kirkwall…but what you can't believe is that you successfully seduced me?" he teased.

"Well, what I can't believe is…how EASY it was!" she joked.

"You ass!" he laughed. "And you'd imagine I'd be inured to a woman walking into my room naked, given that Isabela does it all the time."

Hawke's eyes actually widened.

"What the fuck!"

He chuckled.

"Not much of a story, actually. It was only once. And she was drunk off her pirate ass. I gave her a blanket and she unceremoniously fell asleep right on my table. Kept yelling, 'Fire the cannon!' every once in a while. I suspect she was having a dirty dream." He gripped her hand tighter. "You're not seriously worried, are you? I was just joking."

"I know that. I trust you, Varric," she stated earnestly.

You slay me, woman, he thought, his heart full. I love this side of you—and I love that I am the only one who gets to see it, he realized.

In the nearby distance, a bell tolled. All the day's business was tugging him away—as usual, he realized guiltily.

"Hawke, you won't like to hear this—but we need to leave Jader soon. Once the last cargo ship is allowed to embark, we'll have to head back."

She pressed her lips tightly.

"There is so much you need to be at the helm of now," he explained. "You need to understand what is happening at your mine so you aren't taken advantage of, you need to make sure the proceedings for the Amell estate are moving forward, and you need to safeguard your wealth."

Hawke had that telltale panicked expression she tended to display anytime he needed to talk about finances and business with her.

"Tell me something: did anything I just say register in that hard head of yours?"

"You lost me the moment you mentioned the mine: I started thinking of Hubbert, the human air freshener, and, I'm sorry, I missed all the rest.

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, I thought so. Please tell me you're going to follow the advice I give you, at least."

She linked her arm in his as they prepared to walk toward the center of town.

"Don't worry: everything will turn out all right. I think the worst is behind us. Has to be, no? I mean, Andraste's tassled titties, what else is lying in store, right?"

He dearly wanted to believe she was right. For her…For all their sakes.