"Hey!" Leaning against the bar, Isabela rapped her knuckles on the sticky wood. "Hey! Is my coin not good enough anymore?"

The barkeep spared her only a brief glance over his shoulder. "Go to sleep, Isabela. You've had enough."

"Those little shits. They've complained again, haven't they?"

He ignored her, returning to polishing his glasses as she turned and leaned back against the bar. She had seen the figure slip into the Hanged Man from the corner of her eye but at her open gaze he flushed, shuffling quick toward the exit. Isabela grinned.

"Oh, no you don't." She darted cross the room, grabbing Carver by the collar and hauling him bodily to the bar. Again, she leaned across the wood. "Hey! Do you know who this is?"

The barkeep arched a brow. "No."

"Perhaps you know his brother? Goes by Hawke?"

"Hawke... the one that went into the Deep Roads with that expedition?"

"That's the one. This is his little brother. Would you really refuse drinks to the potentially richest little brother in all of Kirkwall and his companion?"

"Who said you were my—?" Carver straightened, pulling out of her grip, but she stomped down on his boot.

"Come on. Give us a drink."

With a sigh, the barkeep pulled a pair of cups from beneath the bar.

Isabela glanced sideways at Carver. "Better make it the bottle."

He seemed to lack the energy to protest further, returning to his polishing as she snatched the bottle from his hands. Scooping up a pair of shotcups, she made for the nearest table. Carver, though, did not follow.

"Are you coming?"

He seemed to debate for a moment before trailing after her and sinking onto the opposite bench. "I do so appreciate being used."

"I'm glad."

"Are you at least going to tell me what that was about?" He watched her warily as she poured a round and slid one of the tiny cups across the table.

"Some of the men complain that I drink too much."

"Imagine that."

"Not that propriety has any place in the Hanged Man. But a woman that can drink the lot of them under the table? That's just embarrassing." She shrugged. "And so they complain."

"Well, in that case, I'm glad I could contribute to your..." He waved a hand. "Whatever this is."

"Thanks." Raising her cup, she threw back her head and drained it.

Carver watched her from beneath lowered brows. After a moment, he did the same.

"A man about his business." She nodded, refilling them both. "But what does bring you here?"

He turned the cup in his hands. "I... I was hoping Anders might be here."

"Anders? Did you try the clinic? Darktown? Some other depressing hole?"

Carver smirked, letting his gaze sweep the bar.

"Alright, point. So you were hoping Anders would be here. But you knew I would be."

He flushed, glowering down into his cup as though he wanted to hit something. Instead, he again threw back his head and took a long pull.

Isabela chuckled. "Impressive, Little Brother."

"Please don't call me that."

Draining her own cup, Isabela poured another round. She raised it with a smirk. "To being left behind."

Carver's head jerked up.

"Oh, come. That's why you're here, isn't it? Looking for company while Big Brother's off on another of his grand adventures?"

"And what about you?"

Isabela drank. "What about me?"

"It must get to you. You've been my brother's shadow. Literally. I've watched you fight, seen the way you protect him."

"So you have been watching me."

He ignored her. "I have to wonder why he left you behind."

Isabela flopped back in her chair with a shrug. "He has Varric. Fighting, lockpicking... and that Bianca can be a bloody bitch."

With a snort, Carver took the cup from her hands and refilled it for her. She watched him with a bemused expression. He looked as though he would speak again, but only lapsed into sullen silence.

Isabela smiled. "I saw you, you know. At the Rose."

"I... what?"

She tsked. "What would your brother think, I wonder?"

Carver's hand tightened round the cup as he drained it. "I could give a rat's ass what my brother thinks."

"Of course you could."

"Is that what you think?" He slammed the cup down on the table. "You think everything's about him, don't you? You think just because he's away our lives are supposed to stop? That just because I'm here, drinking with his... his, whatever you are..."

Isabela arched a brow. "His what?"

"Oh, come off it. I've seen the way you two look at each other."

"Am I not to look? I quite enjoy looking." She let her eyes roam over him, over the broad chest and heavy brow, the long and well-muscled expanse of his exposed arms. He shifted uncomfortably and she chuckled.

Carver hunched his shoulders, letting his head sink. "I'm grappling with problems of my own, you know. But you wouldn't understand."

"About grappling? Trust me, I could show you a thing or two."

He snorted. "Why do you always have to do that?"

"What?"

"Make it about sex."

"Because it's always about sex."

"Not everything."

"Everything." Laughing, she refilled the cups again. "But you're Madame Lusine's favorite new customer. You tell me."

"I'm... considering something."

"Experimentation, is it? That would explain the grappling. Please, continue."

Carver only shook his head, staring into the bottom on his cup. "It doesn't come easy for all of us. We're not born knowing what we're supposed to be. Not like the mages, like my brother. And we can't all just meet friends, companions... women." Timidly, he raised his eyes.

"I wouldn't worry about it. When your brother returns, you'll have coin enough for all the whores you want."

"To the Void with my brother!" He slammed both palms flat upon the table, his nails digging into the wood.

Isabela rose smoothly, snatching up the bottle as she turned to make her way back to the bar.

"Did I ask you to leave?"

She stopped at that, at the gruffness of the words, at their desperate and unbidden hitch. Slowly she took her seat, tilting her head as she studied him.

"I'm sorry. I... I think I'm drunk."

Chuckling, Isabela slid the bottle toward him but Carver held up a warding hand.

"You know, you remind me of a man that I once... knew."

"Lovely."

"He was young, awkward, one of those weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders types." She leaned forward with a wistful smile. "He went on to do great things... and not just between the sheets."

"Oh yeah? And who was this man?"

"The King of Ferelden."

Carver snorted. "You did not... with the King of Ferelden?"

"Well, he wasn't king then." She smirked. "The Hero of Ferelden, too. And three greased nugs, if you believe the rumors."

"You're a liar." But there was a smile tugging at his lips.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

His eyes found hers as he sighed. After a long moment he flushed again, turning them instead to his hands. "But I'm no king."

"No, you aren't. We have yet to see what you will be, I think."

He smirked for the strange solemnity of her tone. "That was a bit… poetic."

"Hm?" She poured herself another cup, raising it in a mock salute. "I meant... sex."

"Right." He clinked his cup against hers. "But thank you. You make not knowing sound... hopeful."

"Don't get too excited. We haven't yet seen what color your underclothes are either."

"If I'm even wearing any."

Isabela arched a brow. "Well, look at you. Those new friends of yours are teaching you some new tricks."

"Maybe." He sat back and folded his arms, but again the color in his cheeks betrayed him.

She studied him for a long moment, smiling as if to herself. Coming smoothly to her feet, she strode around the table and grabbed his hand.

"What are you—?"

Without another word, she pulled him to his feet and led him toward the stairs.

"Isabela..."

Her fingers laced through his as she mounted the steps, but she did not turn round.

"Isabela!" He slammed his free hand against the wall beside them, leaning close to block the path and pin her there. His face twisted as he looked down at her, chest heaving with a breath he had not known that he was holding.

She seemed to take him in, letting her eyes wander slowly upward. With a whispered chuckle, she ran a finger along his chin.

He was on her then, pressing her back against the wall, nearly sending them both toppling back down the stairs. The kiss was rough, unpracticed, but his hands were sliding lower, lifting her with ease as she leapt and wrapped her legs round his waist.

"Last room on the left." Her whisper panted breathless against his ear before finding his lips again.

He carried her without seeing, finding his way by will alone. They fell hard against the door, stumbling as it gave beneath them, tearing at each other as they collapsed against the bed. But Isabela swung her leg round, straddling him to pin him there. Prying rough fingers from the laces of her tunic, she smirked. Slowly she moved away, sliding down to kneel beside the bed and tangle her own fingers in his belt.

Carver sagged, letting his head fall back against the bed with a groan. But again Isabela took his hand in hers. "On your feet."

Up she coaxed him, up onto legs that trembled despite his best efforts to still himself. The laugh bloomed deep in her throat, thickening as she pushed his breeches down around his knees. She stood then, leaving him to gasp as she stepped away. He did not realize that his eyes were closed until he heard her footsteps moving round.

"Andraste's tits! What is that?"

"Not exactly the reaction a man hopes for." Carver opened one eye and realized that she was standing behind him. "Oh. That." He reached to recover his breeches, but she swatted his hand away.

Stepping close, Isabela ran a hand along his spine, stopping just short of...

"It's a mabari. I... got it in the army. Some of the other men bet me that I wouldn't do it."

"Well, you certainly showed them." She gave the hound a firm pat. "Tell me... can you make it wag?"

He flexed, wiggling the tattoo beneath her palm.

Laughing, Isabela slipped round, pressing herself against him as she leaned to whisper cross his lips. "I knew you weren't as innocent as you pretend." Her hand trailed now across his chest, across his belly...

"Isabela."

She ignored him, moving lower still. "Hm. I wonder if that runs in the family."

Carver pinched shut his eyes. "Please don't talk about my brother right now."

"How do you know I wasn't talking about your uncle?"

His brows rose as he looked down at her. "That's just... gross."

Chuckling, Isabela trailed a kiss cross his collar bone.

"Isabela." Carver caught her wrist, pulling her hand away with a small shudder of disappointment.

"Oh, don't be so serious. The jest was in poor taste. I'm sorry."

"It's... not that."

She blinked up at him. "You... Oh, shit. You're exactly as innocent as you pretend, aren't you?"

Despite how close they stood, his cheeks flared.

"Oh, bloody— Have you ever done this before?"

"I... yes, I... not exactly." He sighed, but he did not turn his face away. "There was this girl in Lothering who let me... But I've never visited a whore."

"Then that wasn't you I spotted at the Rose?"

"It was, but I was just talking... to some of the regulars."

"You really would go to a brothel just to talk, wouldn't you?" She stepped away, but still he held her wrist.

Carver pulled her roughly back, crushing her against his chest.

"No. Oh, no." She wriggled, but he held her fast. "I am not going to—"

"Now who's being awkward?" Chuckling down at her, he ran a hand along her cheek, tilting her mouth to his. There was a question behind the kiss, soft and searching.

"Shit, shit, shit." But she brushed the words against his lips, kissing him still.

It was Carver that guided them back toward the bed, his hands surprisingly deft despite their weathered calluses, strangely certain as they worked the laces of her tunic. Isabela stiffened as it fell away, slipping into a nervous and chiding chuckle. But still his eyes held hers, the weight of them enough to shrivel the jokes on her tongue.

He pulled her to him, impossibly close and closer still, laying her back amongst the threadbare pillows. She looked away, her eyes flitting everywhere and anywhere, searching out any shadow but the ones upon his face. His own gaze she could feel, watching patiently as he leaned over her. When finally she brought her eyes to his, he only smirked.

"Oh, sod it." She pulled him to her, wrapping her legs round his, pressing one hand to the small of his back. Her nails bit at the feel of him, her surprised gasp a mirror of his own. It filled her ears as he collapsed against her and buried his face in her neck, her eyes filled now with the rhythm of straining muscle, of the arms buckling as they braced to either side of her.

Letting her head loll, Isabela twined one hand now behind his head, tangling in his hair. She moved with him, letting him lead. A strange thing, that. But it seemed Carver had surprises of his own, a furious grace that she realized she had seen before. He was a fine form of the battlefield, finer still...

She lost all thought after that, losing herself to the rhythm and dreaming of the sea. But it had been long since she'd had the urge to explain it, lying awake in the quiet after he had collapsed beside her. So many things she could tell him – and show him, too – but Carver seemed to be laying in a silence all his own.

After a long while, he rolled away, coming to his feet and tugging his breeches round his waist. "I am joining the templars."

"What?" She sat, gaping at his back "But your brother..."

"Is an apostate. I know. Trust me, I know." Slipping his tunic over his head, he strode to the door and stepped into the darkened hall. Pausing there, he glanced back over his shoulder. "But maybe it's not about him anymore."