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The Hawke's Nest

Summary:

In Kirkwall, there's a cocktail lounge filled with friends, budding relationships, and good drinks poured by a handsome dwarf. There's a rakish blonde on the piano, accompanied a singer with a voice like dark chocolate. Look hard enough and you can see a tattooed Tevinter elf waiting tables, and a redhead by the bar, drinking a whiskey sour. The Hawke's Nest may be busy, but they always have time for a new customer.

Chapter Text

From the air redolent with the juniper bite of gin, to the thick canopy of smoke and the wind chime tinkle of jazz piano, The Hawke’s Nest was a relic of the roaring twenties. Tucked between a popular coffee shop and a restaurant advertising “Authentic Antivan Cuisine,” it was out of place, pretentious, and the owner liked it that way. The Hawke’s Nest had class; the waiters wore tailored suits with bow ties, while the hostess and waitresses wore slinky black gowns and convincing costume jewelry. The bartender, stout and barrel-chested, with a liar’s smile and genuine eyes, mixed the best gin and tonics and martinis for miles, while the dark, dusky-eyed singer sat on the piano, making love to the microphone, holding it close to her painted lips while she sang “Summertime” in a low, slow, sultry murmur.

There were other places to drink in Kirkwall; sports bars and classy upscale clubs, even a Fereldan pub, complete with paintings of Mabari and a wall of royal portraiture, but The Hawke’s Nest had the unique ability to attract a clientele that was uncomfortable in other establishments. It helped that the owner had no reservations about hiring elves and dwarves, but there was just something about the place, some crackle of ozone in the air, some extra intoxication in the drinks that kept the little cocktail lounge busy every night.

Generally customers trickled in slow, one at a time, looking around like they didn’t know where they were but figuring that they might as well stay. Bethany always greeted them with a flutter of thick lashes and a cherry red smile, tilting her head so her hair fell just so, asking them if they’d like a table or a seat at the bar. Her sweet face was generally enough to make even the most dubious person stay. By eleven o’clock, The Hawke’s Nest was packed with quiet, contemplative customers watching the pianist as his long, delicate fingers flew across the keys. Marian Hawke, for whom the lounge was named, wound around the small tables, dressed in slinky red and sequins, dim candlelight illuminating a pretty, sarcastic face with a once broken and poorly healed nose, inspiring curiosity, comfort, and more than a few marriage proposals. She accepted one of them, and though the diamond on her finger was modest, the sly smiles directed towards the dwarf behind the bar were enough to send a message to any potential suitor.

Saturday nights always put The Hawke’s Nest into the black, but this time the lounge was so busy that the heat from the customers overpowered the air conditioning, leaving the well-dressed wait staff with sweat rolling down their necks. Varric mixed more iced drinks than usual, complaining only to Marian about the tragedy involved in watering down good scotch, and when Isabela got on stage, she was wearing a light silky gown slit up to her thigh for the comfort alone.

Sitting at the piano, honey-colored hair tied back into a stubby knot, the pianist dragged his fingers up the scales, the span of his skillful hands stretching over an octave, giving him a boost to his natural talent. He played by feel alone, his eyes half-closed most of the time, though he sometimes looked curiously into the audience or up at Isabela when she sat on his piano. She stretched out like an alley cat while she sang, one arm bracing her on the lid as she swung her legs onto it, the slit in her gown falling open to expose her thighs, her skin like bronze silk in the dim lighting.

“Let’s hear it for Anders on piano,” she said when she sat up after her first number, daintily clapping while holding the microphone in one hand. The crowd clapped, but not for him.

Bethany leaned against the host podium, smiling apologetically at Merrill when she came in looking for Carver, but she straightened up when a small, pale-eyed elf came in. He was dressed well in green and black, and specifically asked for a table near the stage. Bethany peered around the corner into the lounge to see that Jethann had just cleared a table right next to the piano, and beckoned the elf to follow her.

“How did you hear about The Hawke’s Nest?” she asked, a standard question for anyone she didn’t recognize. She pulled a matchbook out of her pocket to relight a snuffed candle, smiling as he took a seat.

“I’ve know about it for a while,” he began, his eyes flickering from her to the stage as he pushed back his long hair, gold earrings glinting on his tapered ear. “Never really had the nerve to come.” He tore his attention from the stage, where Bethany assumed he was watching Isabela writhe across the piano where she was doing an admirable version of “Can’t Take That Away From Me.”

“It doesn’t take any nerve to come in here; we’re a very welcoming establishment,” Bethany said with a professional smile, counting the hoops dangling off of his ear when he looked again to the stage. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A whiskey sour, please.” He was polite, at least, though he avoided her eyes. Bethany nodded and backed away, shimmying through the tight walkway to get to the bar.

“What’s the order, Sunshine?” Varric asked, slinging the towel he’d been using to dry glasses over his shoulder. “If you tell me someone else wants me to water down top shelf booze you might just break my heart.”

“Whiskey sour for Isabela’s new admirer,” Bethany said, nodding her head towards the table in the front. “Elves sure seem to have a thing for her.” They both glanced to the end of the bar, where Fenris was smiling uncomfortably as a tipsy patron hit on him.

“Might just be the other way around. I’ll have him send your whiskey sour out, so you’d better get back to the podium before the boss finds out you’re walking around.”

“Oooh, right, the boss,” Bethany crooked her fingers into air quotations before winking and walking off, the clicking of her heels swallowed up by the murmur of the crowd.

From the piano, Anders glanced up and off the stage, beaming internally at the packed house. By the looks on their faces, most of them were just there to watch Isabela, but that was fine with him. An audience is an audience, and a good night is a good night, no matter who’s responsible, whether it’s Marian walking around making the crowd feel comfortable, or Isabela’s legs, or Varric’s drinks that drew them in, the air was still electric and full of satisfaction. On his third glance out into the crowd, he noticed that the elf sitting in the front, who had graciously accepted his drink from Fenris sometime during Anders’ second glance, was looking at him. He winked, and the elf turned away.

Isabela closed the set with “My Funny Valentine,” belting it out like her life depended on it, sliding off the piano and taking a few steps into the crowd, bending to meet eyes with patrons at the first couple of tables, including the elf who was well into his second drink. She crooned to him, pouting her painted lips and reaching out to stroke his chin with one finger, tilting his head up towards her before backing onto the stage again, leaning against the piano as she held the last note, bringing the house down yet again.

“You’re always such a showboat,” Anders said once they were backstage, peeling off his jacket and standing in front of the air conditioning vent.

“I know,” Isabela replied, her voice a husky purr as she squeezed past him, her breasts brushing his back, the chuckle in her throat shamelessly sexual, teasing both him and Fenris, who had just walked in. Her dark eyes were playful when she turned to look at him. Fenris just glared at Anders, then backed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Isabela laughed.

“You two are insufferable,” Anders muttered as he untied his tie, letting it hang loose over his shoulders as he unbuttoned the first button on his starched white shirt. “I wish you’d cut that out; he always takes it out on me when you flirt, and I really don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Oh really? Here I thought you were an elf-fancier with the way you were gawking at the one sitting up near the front.”

“What can I say? I like pretty people.” Anders slumped into a chair and stretched his shoulders, cracking them, picking his cell phone out of the drawer while Isabela changed behind one of the folding screens.

“Elf-fancier,” she said again, sing-song and teasing.

“You’re one to talk,” Anders said, scoffing, shoving his cell phone into his pocket, his mood sour now that he’d read the text message canceling his third date this month. He sighed. It wasn’t like they’d had much in common anyway, but it had been nice while it lasted.

“Oooh, she dumped you, didn’t she?” asked Isabela as she came out from behind the folding screen, dressed down in tight jeans and a band t-shirt, still wearing her stilettos from on stage. “Well, don’t worry about it. Do you want to come get some dinner with Bethany and I?”

“I don’t need to be third wheel,” Anders said, standing and taking the elastic out of his hair, combing it back with his fingers. “Thanks for the offer though. I think I’m going to go outside and have a smoke.”

“Suit yourself.” Isabela shrugged as he pushed open the door to the alleyway, tapping a cigarette out of his pack.

He leaned against the cool brick and took a long drag, exhaling through his nose as he closed his eyes to the night. Nothing like rejection to ruin a night.

“Do you have a light?”

Anders opened his eyes, turned, then realized he needed to look down to meet the gaze of the elf who’d been drinking whiskey sours near the stage. He had an accent, a light unfamiliar melody behind his words, and it took Anders a moment to answer him. The elf took the matchbook from him and struck one, holding a thin, dark papered cigarette between his lips as he lit it.

“Thanks.”

“I saw you out there; did you enjoy the set?” Anders asked. A spicy, unfamiliar scent rose from the elf’s cigarette, and Anders looked at him curiously, trying to get a better idea of what it was.

“It was good; you don’t hear jazz piano like that these days.” The elf’s voice was soft, and he spoke briefly while he smoked, keeping his gaze away from Anders’ when he did.

“I’m surprised you even noticed it with Isabela on stage.”

“She’s good too. You play every night?”

“Most nights, they have a full band come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I’m off then.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again then,” the elf said, raising a hand as he started to walk away, and before Anders could answer, light from the dressing room spilled into the alleyway.

“Come on Anders, we’re going out for dinner,” said Marian, the look on her face sweet, but no nonsense. It was not up for discussion.

“Just you and I? Won’t Varric get suspicious?” Anders asked as he flicked his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out, glancing down the empty alleyway in the direction that the elf had gone. Marian only rolled her eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming. You know, if you guys do this every time someone cancels a date on me, you’re going to spend all your money on restaurants.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Marian said, and Anders smiled. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He grabbed his jacket and followed her out of the dressing room. The lounge was empty now except for Jethann and Fenris, clearing tables and sweeping, and his footsteps felt loud as he walked towards the door where Bethany was clutching a small purse and Varric was sitting on a plush couch, counting the tips from the evening.

“So you’re all here for the pity party?” Anders asked as he slipped on his jacket. “Can’t a man have a disappointing love life in peace?”

“Not when you’re among friends, Blondie,” said Varric from the couch, and Anders smiled a little more.

By the time they were all walking to a nearby diner, Varric’s arm around Marian’s waist, Isabela and Bethany talking like excited sisters, Anders had more or less forgotten his troubles. As they pushed open the door and Sigrun greeted them with familial warmth and a smile the size of Kirkwall, he’d even pushed the elf out of his mind, content to sit with friends and get lost in their lives, even if his own wasn’t working out the way he wanted.

It could be worse, he reminded himself as he squeezed between Bethany and Marian, rolling his eyes at attempts to set him up with Sigrun.

It could be worse, and really, it’s not all that bad at all.