lana

You clutch at your chest, the shock of finding an entire person standing behind you making your skin feel like it teleported 1cm to the left without you.

“You weren’t hearing me,” he says by way of an apology. You snatch the earbud back.

“That’s the POINT.”

“You said that info was on a thumb drive?”

“I said it will be,” you say, frazzled. “I’ve got like twenty balls in the air right now, Leon. Don’t break my concentration.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“Respect the status,” you snap, referring to the Do Not Disturb designation that he had bypassed by showing up in person.

Your tone echoes back in your ears and you shut your eyes, sighing and rubbing at a spot on your forehead. You can feel a monumental headache building, but that’s no reason to be nasty. Leon’s under the same tight deadlines.

“Sorry.”

“I get it,” he says, picking up the empty wrapper from your breakfast bar and transferring it to your trash can. There’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures.

“I’ll have it ready by EOD,” you say, pronouncing the acronym like it’s a word. Ee-odd. It’s an olive branch poking up through the hellfire: an inside joke between the two of you. The corner of his mouth stretches into that half-smile.

“Roger, Earworm.”

The bastard thinks it’s a funny nickname: always the voice in my ear. And it is funny, because it was never mean-spirited. Some of the other field operatives get borderline malicious with their interpersonal nicknames.

You toss a balled-up paper at him; he twists and it bounces off his hip.

“So fuck off, Toothskin.”

When you’d first thrown that one back at him you’d won one of his genuine laughs, the kind you only got when you really surprised him. Always making it by the skin of your teeth.

A trainee had said once that your nicknames sounded mean, that they made you sound like unhygienic trolls or rotted goblins. They’d suggested something like Angel and Lucky instead, because it was sentimentally the same thing and positivity would strengthen your team dynamic.

Three guesses if they’d ever completed the program.

You’d never told Leon about that lunch room conversation. You didn’t need to watch him die laughing.

In your cubicle, his smile stretches a little wider, then he glances at his watch. Cursing under his breath, he leaves at an urgent clip. You’re already facing your computer again with your stolen earbud crammed back in.

The silent ticking of the clock remains deafening.

You love the sounds of coming home after a long day, but tonight it all sounds especially serene.

The thump of your shoes, kicked off carelessly in the foyer.

The shf of stiff fabric shed from your tired body, the blissful whisper of well-worn, downy-soft pajamas slipping over your skin.

The delicate clink of a wineglass; the full-throated cascade of a generous pour.

You take a heavy sip and lean against your kitchen island, closing your eyes and releasing a long breath. God. Trapped at your desk all day and then six hundred interceptions when you were finally allowed to leave? You felt like a fucking running back making a mad dash for the endzone. The night air had never tasted so sweet, once you'd finally made it through the doors.

Your oven makes a series of quiet clicks, coming back up to temperature. Even if dinner’s just thawed leftovers, again, you’d set yourself up for something fresh, too, because you fucking deserve it. You’re already starting to smell it. You take another sip of wine and smile.

And then you remember. It strikes you like a horrible bolt of lightning.

At the same time, your phone starts ringing on the countertop.

Incoming Call Toothskin

“Fuck!”

You want to throw your wineglass. How the fuck did you forget? > Answer

“Fuck, Leon, I’m so sorry, I completely fucked it–“

“Hey, whoa,” he says, but you’re still talking.

"It’s in my fucking bag, I was on my way to drop it off and I got–“

He says your name; you barely hear it.

“Fuck! I can’t believe I just fucking walked out– I’ll come drop it off, okay? I can– I’ll just … shit, the fucking oven–"

"HEY," he says, raising his voice. "I’m already in the car. What’s your location?"

When Leon knocks at your door, you swing it open and then hurry back into the house like a reverse doorbell-ditch. He blinks, hand still raised in a frozen knock.

“Just come in!” You shout over the beeping of the kitchen timer.

Leon steps inside and closes the door softly behind himself, looking around.

You hadn’t turned on any lights in the front hall; the kitchen sits as a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Leon clocks your tumbled shoes under your hanging coats, the splay of your keys on the side table where you’d tossed them. Ready to be fucking done with the day. Despite the dark, the front hall is cozy. Your coats hold whispers of your perfume. There’s a hint of clean laundry and an undercurrent of something more complex, almost earthy; the house smells lived in. By you.

It also, overwhelmingly, smells like fresh bread.

You’re setting the steaming, crackling loaf on a cooling rack and slapping the oven gloves off of your hands when Leon wanders into the light of your kitchen.

"I didn’t know you baked,” he says, eyes on the dark golden crust, split open where you’d scored the dough.

"Not really mission-critical information," you say, and pull open your work bag that you’ve hauled onto the kitchen island. Digging around, you find the thumb drive, but it’s tumbled into the bottom next to another thumb drive that looks identical.

Neither are labeled.

"Of fucking course," you mutter, pulling out your laptop with jerky, frustrated motions. It clacks against the countertop; you stab the power button to boot it up. “What’s ten more hours, right?”

Leon doesn’t respond. He’s assessing: you, first and foremost, strung out and self-disparaging; the kitchen, dishes in the sink, scattered messes all over; the fridge door, covered in novelty magnets and a dry-erase calendar; the corkboard on the wall.

His attention snags.

Among photos and receipts and postcards (two are from him, brought back from some vibrantly unpleasant mission locations, as a joke), incongruously, there’s a large champagne-gold envelope with a broken wax seal, clearly torn open with some violence.

It’s stabbed into the corkboard with a paring knife.

You toss one of the thumb drives back into your bag and shove the correct one towards Leon across the kitchen island.

"Bingo," you say, then catch what he’s looking at. He gestures to it.

“Jury duty?”

You know he clocks your dark expression before you 180 into something that matches his jesting tone.

“Yeah the circuit court jumped on the discounted stationary when Party City closed.”

“You hate weddings that much?”

“It’s my fucking ex,” you say venomously, picking up your wine glass. “I almost have half a mind to show up just to congratulate him on the brass cojones. Maybe give him a swift kick in them.”

“Sounds like you should.”

“He’d get too much satisfaction from my missing plus-one,” you mutter. “Like aw, your job couldn’t make it tonight? Dickknuckle,” you add under your breath.

Leon’s watching you, a faint crease between his brows.

“What?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, and your brow creases. “Do you want a plus-one?”

You chuff a laugh, but he doesn’t smile, so you drop yours.

“What, like you know a guy?”

“No. Like I am a guy.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“You want to attend my ex’s wedding.”

“If it means mission success in the swift-kick department, sure,” he says. You narrow your eyes.

“You don’t even know the guy.”

He glances at the stabbed envelope on the corkboard. The blade is lodged; you'd used some force.

“I trust your judgement.”

You cross your arms, searching for a teasing twinkle in his eye, a telltale twitch of his mouth, but he’s just gazing back at you levelly.

“You’re serious,” you realize.

“Always am.”

“Please,” you scoff, but you uncross your arms and reach for your bread knife, throwing him a sidelong glance. Considering. “I’ll think about it.”

He picks up the thumb drive, tosses it in the air and catches it.

“Do that,” he says. “I’ll let myself out.”

“Wait,” you call after him, and he backs up to lean through the kitchen doorway. Wordlessly, you hold out a thick, steaming slice of the fresh bread. “For the trouble.”

He takes it.

He’s halfway to the front door when you hear him groan loud, almost obscene.

“Fuck that’s good.”

The front door closes.

His voice echoes in your ears for a while. Your cheeks are only pink from the heat of the kitchen; you turn and shut the oven off.

Earworm The mission, should you choose to accept it:

A photo loads into the text thread and Leon taps it open.

It’s the wedding invite. There’s a narrow slit bisecting the date, the same width as a paring knife blade.

He skims the details.

Mid-July. Out of state. Outdoors, in a nature preserve. Strictly formal, but no black or white dress.

He eyes the font, the thick textured paper with raw, ripped edges, the embossed leaf detailing.

It’s a vegan menu, isn’t it, he texts back.

Earworm Pescetarian

He snorts. Another text drops in from you.

Earworm You can plant the invite. Grows forget-me-nots

Of course it does.

Earworm Thought about wearing white but they might have me shot

There’s strength in numbers.

Earworm Enabler

Is this not Operation Rock The Boat?

Earworm Can’t rock it if we’re kicked out. Game plan is malicious compliance

… you’re putting me in a dress, aren’t you.

Earworm Hmm. Tempting.

There’s a fucking chandelier in the fitting room.

Under the sparkling, crystalline light, surrounded by three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you take in your chosen battle dress from every angle.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you say out loud.

“You’re done already?” Leon’s voice is muffled, closed in another cubicle across the wide, thin carpet.

“It’s a slip dress,” you call back. “Not many fastenings to tangle with.”

It’s an avocado green slip dress, silky and alluring, with thin shoulder straps and a scoopy cowl neck. It’s definitely your shade. It highlights your freckles and your eyes; it shows off your arms, your collarbones, your neck. What it doesn’t reveal, it hints at, like a prize behind a curtain.

You turn again to admire the back. It’s a lot of cake to be bringing to someone else’s wedding, but he invited it.

You step out into the main space. There are more chandeliers overhead and a mirrored sort of apse at the end of the carpeted runway.

You can hear clothing rustling behind the door of the fitting room directly across from you.

“Sure you can manage all those buttons?”

The door opens and Leon’s there, looking down to fix the lay of his lapels.

“Not quite my kryptonite, but thank–“

He looks up and forgets what he's saying. Forgets where he's going, too. He stands frozen outside his fitting room, just staring at you.

That’s okay; you’re staring at him, too.

The last time you’d seen him in a suit, you were behind a desk watching a grainy, quarter-screen, black-and-white camera feed. That had had very little impact.

This? This has impact. It’s punched your stomach into a somersault.

This suit is camel-brown, the dress shirt a pastel green. The cut of the suit accentuates his broad shoulders, his tight waist; the pants make his legs look longer. The shirt brings out the green in his grey eyes, makes his skin – his lips – look a little pinker.

You were already well aware of how handsome he is, in a rugged, untouchable, dangerous Special Agent sort of way. But he’s standing here in the suit that you picked to compliment your dress and you can’t remember anyone looking more fucking attractive ever in your entire life.

And the way he always carries himself with that self-assuredness, like nothing could ever bowl him over?

He’s staring at you, and he’s looking a little bowled over.

The moment is gone just as quickly as it arrived. He pushes his hand through his hair and the unflappable Leon is back.

“Don’t you clean up nice.”

You shut your mouth with a click.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, heading for the mirrors at the end of the runway. He follows you, standing just behind your shoulder.

The two of you are a fucking one-two knockout. You look so good together, you can’t face it for more than a few blinding seconds before your chest starts feeling tight.

You sit down heavily on one of the velvet chairs between fitting room doors and manage not to put your head in your hands. Leon looks down at himself, smoothing a hand over the buttons of his suit.

“You don’t like it.”

"No, it’s fucking perfect," you bite out.

"What’s wrong?"

"This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous." You're short on breath. You can feel panic rising, tight bands around your lungs. You do put your head in your hands, clutching at your hair to stop the tremble in your fingers.

"Hey," he says, crouching down in front of you. "Where’s this coming from?"

"Why am I dragging you into this? I don’t care about him or what he thinks! I don’t care!"

"I volunteered," Leon reminds you.

"Why?"

He does the facial equivalent of a shrug.

"No bioweapons? Open bar? You tell me.”

You unclench your fists from your hair and sit back to look at him, your head against the wall. He meets your gaze, calm and even.

He’s so fucking beautiful. You can’t let on about the gymnastics routine your stomach’s doing.

“If his brother's there, don't rule out bioweapons,” you say.

“Mm. BO?”

You shake your head. “GI.”

“Noted. Book of matches for a quick escape.”

You close your eyes, huffing a little laugh through your nose.

“We’re not locked into anything,” he tells you quietly. “You’re calling the shots.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge, and take a deep breath. “Just another mission.”

“With free dinner.”

Something lands on your knee and you open your eyes; it’s Leon’s hand, palm-up. A question. An offering.

You give him a pained look.

“It’s pescetarian.”

“Could be a red herring.”

Your gaze goes wooden. He raises his eyebrows, innocent.

“Ugh, I hate you,” you say, but clap your hand into his waiting palm. He hauls you to your feet. And he’s not done.

"A bait-and-switch?"

"Stop," you groan, shoving him towards his fitting room.

"A shell game.”

"Ignoring you!" The door to your fitting room shuts and you start wriggling out of the dress.

You almost rip it when Leon yells FISH from across the way and you fall into helpless laughter.

Toothskin Have you checked the registry?

I’m liking the 200-year-old sourdough starter

Toothskin Old yeast… what milestone anniversary is that?

200th. Keep up

And then the day arrives.

Leon puts the Porsche in park and you both sit back, observing the battlefield.

The nature preserve vista stretches vast beyond the front bumper, all dappled sunlight and swaying greens with scatters of bright, energetic color. The sky is a vibrant blue and dotted with cotton-puff clouds, the birds are singing, and there’s enough of a breeze to prevent stagnant air without upsetting meticulous hairstyles. It’s a perfect day in a gorgeous setting.

You’re clutching the invite, unawares, and the heat and moisture from your hands has warped the textured paper. Leon glances down and gently tugs it from your grasp.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m just… trying to remember the last time I saw him.”

“On the Save the Date.”

“Heard him, then. I’m trying to remember what he said to me.”

“Do you think he remembers?”

“No.”

“Blank slate, then,” Leon says, glancing in the rearview. Guests are meandering towards the gap in the low, rustic wooden fence, trickling into the sanctuary. “What are your boundaries?”

“What?”

“As your date. We covered our story; what’s your stance on PDA?”

“Oh.” You wave it off. “I don’t expect you to do anything.”

He scoffs, incredulous. “We’re at a wedding, as a couple, and you look like that,” he says, indicating your whole look with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “You want people to think you’re dating a eunuch?”

You stare at him like you’re going to fire something back, but there’s nothing in the chamber. He’s disarmed you. Maybe fried your circuitry a little.

“Here,” he prompts, and holds his hand out over the gear shift. “Do you like holding hands with a partner?”

You can’t be this flustered. He’s just gathering intel for the undercover operation. This is tactical.

You take his hand, feigning nothing but mild agreement while your traitorous pulse picks up.

“Sure, it’s fine.”

He adjusts, lacing your fingers together, watching your face.

“Still fine?”

“Still fine.” His palm is warm and rough, callouses at the base of every finger from intensive strength training. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.

“If I touch your back?”

You tamp down a shiver, keeping your voice neutral.

“Fine, from the waist up.”

“Your hair?”

“Why my hair?”

He gently frees his hand, brushes his fingers over your ear like he’s fixing a windblown lock.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”

He traces his thumb from your temple down to your jaw, delineating the side of your face.

“Is this okay to kiss?”

Despite the car still running and the AC blowing, your skin is hot and buzzing and you’re feeling that tight panic start to threaten your lungs again. It’s too close and intimate in here. You swat his hand away.

“Look, I know you’re good at reading a room, okay? So I’ll trust you. Just don’t fucking grope me in front of the bride’s grandma and I think we’ll be fine.”

“Killjoy.”

You sharpen on him. He just blinks at you owlishly, unthreatened.

You poke him in the side, where you know he’s sensitive. He clamps his arm down and jerks away.

“Alright, roger! No show for grandma!”

It pokes you back, right in the funny bone. You collapse into laughter, forehead pressed into his shoulder, and the bands around your chest loosen.

When you recover, he’s still smiling quietly, smug. You give him a shove, then double check your makeup in the visor mirror.

“Alright, let’s go, before all the worst seats are taken.”

The ceremony is gorgeous.

The altar stands under the strong, reaching branches of an ancient oak, in a serene forest clearing bordered by flickering tea lights in pristine mason jars. The bride looks Barbie-perfect in her flawless bright white dress, and the groom – your ex – is practically glowing himself. She’s probably got him on a juice detox, yoga regimen and seventeen-step skincare routine. But it’s working.

They look beautiful together, and hopelessly in love.

Your hands have knotted in your lap and your jaw is clenched tight.

You’re not jealous.

Well. You’re not jealous of her for who she’s marrying. You might be jealous of… everything else.

Something touches your wrist. It’s Leon, and just the warmth of his fingers on your skin dissolves your acidity.

Your hands unknot as Leon slips his fingers in with yours, his palm a warm and comfortable weight. You hook your free hand loose at his elbow, hugging his arm, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into it.

At the end of the ceremony, the freshly-minted husband and wife make a bottleneck that guests have to pass through on their way to the reception tent. You’re in line, wondering when ‘congratulations’ will stop sounding like a real word.

There are only seven people in line ahead of you. You’re breathing even, because you’re not anxious. You’re fine.

“Should I tell him he’s got a seed in his hair?” Leon’s speaking low right next to your ear, his eyes on the man in front of you in line. You refocus; it’s the type of seed that travels on the wind with a bit of fluff, like a dandelion. The guy’s hair is dark enough that it’s not hard to spot.

You turn your head to speak in Leon’s ear.

“No. Ten he’ll never notice.”

He smirks.

“Fifteen his wife won’t, either.”

Five people ahead of you.

“Bad bet, she’s hardly looked at him since they stood up. Twenty it’s a random stranger that tells him.”

“Bad bet, you’re a random stranger,” he says, his breath tickling your ear.

Three people ahead of you. You’re biting back a smile.

“Damn.”

Leon’s hand hasn’t left your waist.

“You came!”

Your ex lights up when he sees you next in line, and you’re even more surprised when he goes in for the hug. Leon feels you move towards it on rote and lets you go; the hug is light and short-lived. Your ex’s frame seems smaller than you remember, but maybe that’s because you’ve had Leon glued to your hip. He’s taller than your ex, maybe all in the swoop of his bronze hair, but he’s definitely… bigger.

“God, you look incredible,” your ex is saying, but there’s no depth or heat to it. It sounds just like it would if you were two former friends that hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade, and that hits you… strangely. You were lovers, for fuck’s sake, you were together for more than three years! Why did he invite you here if it wasn’t to gloat? To rub all this in your face? You hadn’t separated on good terms, but there isn’t a shred of animosity you’re getting from him right now. He truly just seems happy to see you.

And, annoyingly, that comes as a relief even while it stumbles you. It’s like you were holding the end of a wire at tension only to find it wasn’t attached to anything. You can’t help but feel a little childish about it, but in your defense, the wedding invite completely out of the blue? That was a crazy thoughtless move. How many other exes had been invited today, and how many had shown? How many other invites were still stabbed into a corkboard somewhere?

So maybe you’ve stretched your legs for nothing. His cojones aren’t brass, he’s just kinda dumb. And you know what? Good for him.

You return to Leon’s bubble and his hand is right back at your waist, casually possessive. You wind your arm around his back while you enthuse – and it is genuine – how stunning and happy the bride and groom look together. Your ex pulls his new wife close and kisses the side of her face, then gestures to Leon.

“And who’s your lucky gentleman?”

Leon lets you introduce him – you're calling the shots – shaking hands before settling in against you again, and you can feel his attention’s on you. You can see them seeing something on his face and you look up at him.

Your tummy backflips.

His eyes are so soft and fond, looking between yours. There’s a shade of something that looks like pride, too, and you wonder if he can feel that the fight’s left your body.

He kisses your forehead, then offers the bride and groom another congrats and beautiful ceremony and we’ll see you inside, opening your exit. You walk out together from the shade of the forest, into the July sun, and the light breeze greets you smelling sweet and hot and floral.

When you’re out of earshot, he speaks.

“What’s our sitrep?”

You sigh, defeated.

“You wanna go, don’t you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You signed on for violence.”

“Maybe at first.” The two of you have to break to walk apart on an uneven stretch of path, so he takes your hand instead. “We leave now, what’re the optics?”

“A shellfish allergy.”

“Weak,” he heckles. He’s right. Leaving now would look suspicious.

You tug his hand, grimly indicating the reception tent when he meets your gaze.

“That’s the hot zone. Last chance to run.”

He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, tightens the lace of your fingers together.

“I don’t give up that easy.”

“How did you two meet?”

Of course, as soon as the seat beside Leon vacates one ass, this one drops into it. You remember her from Thanksgivings and Christmases with your ex’s family, and here she is again with that ominous glint in her eye, wine glass already in hand. You grip Leon’s thigh under the table in warning.

“Hi, Auntie.”

“Hello, dear. You’re looking so well," she says, scrunching her nose condescendingly. "So how’d you dupe this one?”

Leon straightens from his casual lean, facing her better while resting his arm over the back of your chair.

“Aren’t we charming.”

Wine Aunt sets her chin in her hand, one eyebrow cocked as she looks Leon up and down, indiscreet. He’d abandoned his suit jacket a while ago, sleeves rolled up his arms, tie stuffed into his pocket so he could unbutton his collar a little. He does look fucking delicious, but you want to scoop out her slimy eyes for ogling him like that.

“Mmm. Certainly,” she purrs at him. So she’s forfeited her tongue, now, too.

You see Leon give her a subtly disgusted up-down in return before he turns his full attention to you instead.

“Met you at work,” he says to you, and you’re obsessed with the way he’s effectively answering Wine Aunt while also cutting her out of the conversation. He glances up at your hair, brushes it back from your forehead. “It was just your voice at first, lots of phone calls. And then I got to meet you.”

Your tummy’s not just fluttering, it’s kicking you. He’s too good at sounding like this, warm and fond and genuine. It’s starting to pinch behind your ribs.

It’s just a show. You’re playing in it, too.

Wine Aunt’s bringing her glass to her lips, muttering something like isn’t that sweet, expression fully soured. You can see she’s turned away, scanning the tables for her next victim, and your quiet smile at Leon grows a sharpened edge of victory. Then she leaves without another word and you have to bite back a full grin.

“Did she really just try to come on to me?”

“She’s notorious.”

“Mm. I thought about saying we met at an AA meeting, but she wouldn't know anything about that.”

Your eyes sparkle with dark delight. “Leon Kennedy. You are here for violence.”

You both jump when the speakers give a sudden feedback screech, the DJ raising his arm in apology before checking the microphone again. He announces it’s time for the speeches, and Leon exchanges a harrowed glance with you before grabbing both your empty drinks glasses.

“Same again?”

“Stronger.”

You haven’t been to a single wedding where the speeches didn’t set your teeth on edge.

Tonight might be the worst yet. You’re glad, at least, that there’s a literal spotlight somewhere else in the tent, leaving your table in heavy shadow. Both you and Leon look like you're on trial awaiting a heavy verdict rather than listening to weepy, heartfelt sentiments and weak jokes that rarely land.

Your fingers draw aimless lines up and down your drink glass, smearing through the condensation. Your eyes are on Leon’s back; he’s hunched forward, elbows on the table.

You listen to different iterations of the same gist, hear the same buzzwords, over and over.

Proud. Deserve. Love. Peace. Safety. Long life. Happiness. Together.

They all land like darts, piercing you.

Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, Leon gets up, unreadable. He sets his hand on your back and leans down, his voice low and even.

“I’ll be right back.”

It’s calm, casual. Normal.

The giveaway is when his whiskey goes with him, and the direction he heads.

Not for the bathroom. Not for the bar.

The exit.

The reception tent is set up next to a huge, beautifully manicured garden courtyard, all high shrubs and fragrant bushes and bursting clusters of flowers lining stone paths that stretch and curve and cross over each other, a loose labyrinth. In the middle of it all stands a large stone fountain, its cascade a gentle burble rather than a showy spray, its wide pool full of blooming lilypads and the white and orange flicker of koi fish. Above it is a massive circular pergola, a slat-wooded ring dripping with cafe lights and vining flowers like a great wild halo.

The loudspeakers in the tent become just a shapeless thrum once you’re past the first wall of shrubs, and the summer chorus of crickets and frogs work to drown it out entirely. The sun’s almost down; fireflies are flashing and flickering in the dense foliage as you navigate the paths, heading for the sound of water.

And that’s exactly where you find him.

Leon’s sitting on the edge of the stone pool, head down, whiskey glass hanging from loose fingers. For a moment you just stand quietly and watch him breathe.

“Hey.”

He looks up; straightens and clears his throat, casually sipping at his drink.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, moving in closer. His eyes reflect the cafe lights like little stars as he looks up to meet your approach. There’s a subtle tightness to his expression, a shadow lurking, but if you didn’t know him like you do, you’d never recognize it. He’s too well trained.

“Do what?”

“Hide.”

He doesn’t deny it. He lowers his gaze and downs the last of his drink.

“You’re missing the speeches,” he says instead.

“Chad has the microphone."

He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. A breeze meanders through the gardens, stirring through his hair. Not really thinking about it, you trace one finger lightly across his forehead, back over his ear, his hair falling softly back into place. He meets your eyes but your gaze is distant.

The both of you have sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for your line of work. That’s why it’s not you at the sweetheart table tonight, and why it probably never will be. You’ve learned how to ignore the empty spaces, to close them off within yourselves so you can keep moving forward, because you can both see the bigger picture and your places within it.

What you do creates space for happy endings, fights to maintain that space. Tries, every day, to broaden it.

You know you’ve both long given up on the idea that the fight will ever be over. After two decades, it’s inescapable: there will always be something lurking in the shadows, growing in labs, lying in wait. The only way this will end for you is in death; as long as you’re alive, you have to keep going. That’s your lifelong commitment.

You can train yourself to endure the emptiness all you want. It’s still fucking lonely.

But if today has proven anything to you, it’s that you’re not alone. For once, you’re not by yourself behind a desk in some dark safehouse while Leon's out who-knows-where, running with Death on his heels. For the first time, he’s here, he’s right in front of you, you can touch him, comfort him the way you’ve always wished you could, hearing him breathe brokenly down the comms on particularly difficult missions.

And what missions weren’t difficult?

“Thank you for being here,” you tell him quietly, distantly. You card his hair back over his ear, still busy in your own head, just liking how it feels. His hair is soft, and his strands of silver look like threads of gold in the warm, soft lighting.

His hand, resting on his own thigh, brushes your leg through the silky fall of your skirt. You’re standing between his legs at the edge of a bubbling fountain, playing with his hair while fireflies dance in the fragrant summer air around you.

Your fingers hesitate, starting to curl like a dying vine near his temple as the awareness sets in. But before you can draw your hand away, he dips his head to brush your fingers against his hair again.

Don’t go.

His eyes close and his head sways back when you comb both of your hands into his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp. His hands are settled on your legs now, just leaning there, still rested on his own thighs. His shoulders are loose, tension drained, and his lips are parted.

It’s such a show of trust that it almost overwhelms you. Not only are you blocking sightlines but his head is in your hands, and despite the nooks and shadows of the courtyard all around you, he's got his eyes closed. This is more surrendered than you’ve ever seen him.

You know he’s lethal, body honed not just to handle weapons, but into a weapon itself. He can snap a spine with the heel of his palm. He can crush a skull with his foot, send a body absolutely sailing with the strength of his legs.

But he’s also been one of the kindest, gentlest people you know. He cracks stupid jokes when he knows you’re wound up, but only after checking in with you. He looks at you with such adoration. He touches you with respect and care.

Is all of it really just for the role?

His lashes are a thick, dark sweep over the tops of his cheeks. You run your thumb over his eyebrow, lightly down the bridge of his nose, and he opens his eyes. You can see the green in his irises as he studies you; the dark halo of blue that rings them.

“I like this better," he tells you.

"What?"

He touches his ear, miming an earpiece, then sets his hands on your hips, light. Easily moved or brushed away. You do neither.

Your heart thumps a little faster. This touch is not waist-up.

This isn’t the role.

You lean down, speaking directly against the shell of his ear.

“Don't get used to it, Kennedy.”

You’ve barely finished saying his name before he’s turned his head and caught your lips in a kiss.

You draw back a little, startled, your lips buzzing. His eyes are half-lidded looking up at you, unapologetic.

“No one’s watching,” you check.

“I know.” He looks down at your lips.

Your hands skim his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin.

“This was never about aiding in my revenge, was it.”

He shakes his head. His thumbs are stroking your hipbones through the silk of your dress.

"I just wanted this," he admits.

Suspended within the summer song of crickets and frogs, under whispering leaves and beside softly burbling water, you lean down and kiss him. His hands slide up to your waist, mouth so tender on yours, kissing you back while the fireflies wink and dance around you.

You’re not alone.

On AO3

1. andraste as non-mage but ideal woman; bethany as mage and aspiring woman

bethany is at least a little bit drawn to andrastianism. she enjoyed listening to leliana's stories in lothering. she goes to the chantry in kirkwall to light a candle for carver. maybe leliana was only ever telling secular stories. maybe she went to the kirkwall chantry out of guilt. i think it does a disservice to her whole deal to say she isn't religious, bc religiousity (read: andrastianism) is compulsory in thedas. v few things abt bethany's whole deal are abt agency in a positive way, at least initially. whether she likes it or not, she's suffused in andrastian patriarchy.

andraste is inescapable as the ideal of womanhood. andraste, as the daughter of an extremely influential alamarri leader, is of noble blood, and i have so much to say abt alamarri culture being superseded by andrastian interpretations of alamarri culture but this is going to be so long already a;sdljf;ldask

andraste also 'overcomes' infertility, and while that's a moral framing i personally find rly abhorrent, we all live in a society. she also 'overcomes' the chronic illness that causes her infertility: second verse, same as the first, etc. there's some shit there re: values surrounding procreation and being able-bodied that i think. are in the mix. even if again this is going to be so long already.

women are mothers, and if they're sick, it's bc you can suffer your way to goodness — sometimes as an ex-slave, and sometimes as a martyr. lol, lmao even.

i think it can be extrapolated that andraste demonstrates a fidelity and patience that are supposed to be venerated/emulated, esp in contrast to her husband, maferath. maferath has a concubine named gilivhan who bears him children long before andraste does, but nowhere in the mythology does there seem to be any cruelty or resentment on andraste's part — she raises gilivhan's three sons as her own after gilivhan's death. so part of womanhood is a sort of default maternal attitude.

i do not think the presence of concubines in this instance points to a thedas-wide acceptance of, say, polyamory or even communal child-rearing. isolde is pissed by the idea that alistair is the result of an extramarital affair and takes it out on alistair. i would argue that while andrastian mores would advise her to be more tolerant of and patience with her husband's other partners or children..........................clearly the chantry is more than capable of taking over the responsibilities of raising alistair while isolde and eamon get back to their marriage and connor.

so we've got andraste as wife and mother, and let's not skip over andraste being The Bride. the ur-bride. faithful to her mortal husband and yet also some other guy's wife. CLEARLY, at least to maferath and his contemporaries, wives being another man's concubine or participating in other relationships is sufficient cause to betray whole causes, much less the wife in question. wife, mother, bride. my take here boils down to the idea that andraste, despite being a mother and married to a mortal man, kind of gets to retain a spiritual virginity.

then you've got andraste as warrior and prophet. women who fight and women who are believed. LOADED!

intriguingly, tho it doesn't seem super emphasized, there is andraste as enslaved — and formerly-enslaved. I'm Every Woman. potential for some v conflicted and guilty feelings on bethany's part there as she ruminates on her lack of freedom and also relative freedom as compared to her brethren in the circles. is it blasphemy to hate her life? idk ask teenage bethany sitting in the lothering chantry listening to sermons abt how magic exists to serve man.

last but not least, there's andraste as sister. andraste as witness to whatever mysterious accident that claims the life of halliserre, the accident that causes her chronic illness that in turn causes infertility. much 2 think abt.

bethany's not a wife and a mother, and she's never been a bride. those are def things that i think she wants to be, bc those are things women are supposed to be. she knows she's of 'noble blood' and demonstrates a genuine interest in rediscovering and reclaiming leandra's history.

bethany is not a warrior, or at least her ability to protect herself and be violent to others is not integrated into her identity — or rather it's been forcibly integrated into her identity in such a way that viewing herself as inherently dangerous or as an unstable weapon in need of constant surveillance is like. idk if i'm articulating this well, but if you're constantly a threat, enacting violence on purpose might not register in the same way as it would for aveline, for example, who can more effectively categorize and maybe compartmentalize her own violence.

Aveline: You show admirable restraint, Bethany. Bethany: For a mage, you mean. Aveline: I could also say, "for a Hawke," but yes, for a mage. Bethany: You have a sword. Why aren't you killing someone right now? Aveline: Fair point, but I can put my sword down. Bethany: Believe me, I have tried.

bethany would love to be able to put down her sword, but since she can't, she just does her best to pretend it's not there. kind of. that said, this battle cry: 'what are you, afraid? i'm not hiding anymore!' i think reveals a lot abt how she feels abt fear and when she's allowed to not be afraid.

bethany might feel like a prophet (and it wouldn't allay that feeling, i think, to be someone who does more observing than participating), but if she's a prophet, she's a cassandra, a cassandra who feels like smth is coming for her and once it does, if she gets taken by the templars, she's relieved it finally just happened.

in the circle, bethany becomes a teacher and at least one of her younger apprentices rly bonds w her. when immersed in an explicitly andrastian environment, she conforms, not unhappily, to the ideal of an andrastian woman as much as any mage can, by taking on a position that allows her to be maternal.

bethany and freedom is p fraught, kind of its own essay, but since this is going to be a monster already, let's focus on:

2. bethany as sister

that's like her whole identity to whole hawke family: baby sister. she has to be protected, she has to be curtailed, she has to be hidden. leandra says she never cried as a child — is this bc, as is true for many girls, she understood from an early age that her emotions created the need for attention and energy that she might have experienced as equal parts smothering and exposing? is it bc from a v early age, malcolm impressed upon her the importance of her keeping her emotions in check, bc they put both her and her family in danger of demons or templar attention? what abt the pressures that come from being raised in a family that seems to have struggled w money at least periodically?

like what's the difference between being a mage and being a girl for someone living in a body where they are one and the same? how do you separate your gender from your mage-gender? i think bethany shows signs of trying to a 'normal' woman in that she's demure, polite, pacifying, etc. those things are inevitably filtered thru her identity as an apostate mage, but if she performs them well enough, then maybe she can be mistaken for a well-behaved woman first, before she's a well-behaved mage, right?

babies who are 'easy' don't cry. children who are well-behaved are quiet. bethany is always the baby sister. like she just wants to be 'good,' whatever that means. a good woman is a good wife is a good mother is a good warrior (presumably a warrior who can put down their sword as well as wield it; read: discipline) is a good sister. i am being deliberately delicate abt the enslavement aspect bc yes, if you are enslaved, you are designated 'good' if you are quiet, obedient, competent — but not too competent. andraste did free herself. mages aren't supposed to do that. one must imagine sisyphus happy and dry heaving, etc.

she would have been praised consistently for her control, and she is, in the game, even by someone like fenris, praised in absentia for her self-control, phrased as a lack of weakness. do we think bethany was seen as mature for her age. do we think the neighbors told leandra and malcolm how lucky they were to have such a helpful and sweet little girl who stayed out of the way. even her childhood friend peaches chooses not to turn bethany into the templars bc she seemed, AND I FUCKING QUOTE, 'too nice to be magic.'

the big moment in her life when she stands her ground against a bully is the incident that precipitated the family's move to lothering. do we think she learned any unfortunate lessons abt what happens to mage girls who fight back. do we think we can infer that no amount of staying quiet and nice protected bethany from the kid who bullied her so badly she threw him across the field w her magic. do we think it's a coincidence that this bully was a boy.

when she fails! as a sister! her family suffers. it is never just abt bethany's wellbeing, tho clearly she's internalized that 'other ppl' are the ones 'taking the risks' on her behalf, as if she is not herself at risk. she doesn't get to feel her own feelings abt her life. she is the vessel for everyone else's anxiety and grief, and she doesn't even get to fucking cry.

she is, in this way, way closer to halliserre than andraste. does she think of herself as andraste-adjacent? does she have enough exposure, even, to andrastian texts on halliserre to identify w her? would she, too, love to die in a mysterious accident that unburdens her family from the burden of caring for her, one that leaves her unblemished and tragic but free from the obligation to be good? i think that's what she means when she says she tried to put her sword down, yeah.

3. how much of it is being a mage, and how much of it is being a woman

ig we can get into the weeds of suffering as worship and suffering as nonnegotiable here, but that feels too thorny to actually approach in a way that works. idk man. i do think 'mage' as a gender category positions 'mage' as a failed person in a way that feels analogous to a lot of misogyny/types of misogyny. what i'm going to skirt around here is that she mentions alrik, who is a rapist who (shoutout @recents) specifically targets mages w the threat of being made tranquil and also just straight up targets tranquil mages, period.

but while i agree that this can kind of be muddied by the gender dynamics between alrik and ella during dissent...................................i am also cognizant of the fact that a circle-route bethany mentions alrik by name in her letter and that ella is one of bethany's students, the one bethany mentions in that same letter as having gotten rly attached to bethany. that is a connection that has rly horrible implications. how much bethany can protect ella is directly contradicted by how much she can protect herself.

bethany is a failed woman bc she's a failed person as a result of being a mage. i think she still tries to 'good girl/woman' herself into being a person, or at least to cancel out her mageness. but as the dialogue w aveline shows, she rly resents it when other ppl compliment her on being a 'good' (read: unthreatening) mage.

but tbh i don't think bethany rly gets to decide for herself what's going on w all that until after the end of da2. the sheer amount of sexualization she experiences even from ppl who ostensibly respect and love her is like. she simply doesn't ask for any of it (except maybe w isabela and sebastian, and wrt latter don't piss me off). but i do think that varric rly takes the cake for me in terms of benevolent sexism.

Varric: So... Milady Sunshine, what's your first act as a noblewoman going to be? Bethany: *giggles* A noblewoman with no fortune and no title? Looking for work, probably. Varric: Practicality is for peasants, my lady. You need to do something frivolous to celebrate your birthright. Bethany: Such as...? Varric: Come up to the Hightown Market and complain bitterly that there's no Orlesian silk that matches your eyes. Bethany: But what if something does match my eyes? What will I do, then? Varric: Insist that they're blatantly copying you, and demand royalties. A good noble always has a complaint ready, Sunshine.

this is one of the most egregious examples of somebody interacting w bethany and completely failing to retain any knowledge of her personality or wants or needs or like. anything. i get that she's giggling. i get that it's all in good fun. i get that the joke is that bethany would never behave this way, and the comedy lies in the distance between the imagined noble lady and bethany. i get that.

however what varric is failing to acknowledge here is the elephant that's in every room ever: bethany is a mage. she doesn't get to complain. she doesn't get to be frivolous. she doesn't get to call attention to herself, period. varric is unintentionally underlining how much being a mage impacts bethany's womanhood, even a newly privileged womanhood.

and yeah, bethany enjoys this bc she enjoys imagining herself as normal. she enjoys the fantasy that she gets to be the type of woman who throws a fit over silk. but even varric's nickname for bethany — sunshine — implies a life of being visible that bethany has not lived and won't get to live until after da2 best case scenario, at least within the framework of freedom that varric has. being alive and visible as a mage means either her whole world becoming the circle or the wardens.

like she's barred from most womanhood. she wants pretty dresses, and she wants princes to call her beautiful, and she wants to be a daughter the way leandra was a daughter.

she wants to be uncomplicated! she wants to not be a problem! she doesn't want to need protection! but while all of those things are abt not being a mage, i think she'd be fine with being protected by a chivalrous prince — there is a fantasy there, for sure. a fantasy that requires her womanhood being prioritized over her being a mage.

milady sunshine. blech. nevertheless, while i think varric misunderstands her utterly, he does at least misunderstand her in the way she prefers to be misunderstood. varric can construct a fantasy-bit where bethany gets to just be a woman. but it is, ultimately, a fantasy.

andraste is wife-mother-bride-warrior-prophet-victim-saint. bethany doesn't have 'aspects' except in the realm of story; bethany fumbles personhood across the board thru absolutely no fault of her own.

i think that's why she gets squeezed into boxes that don't rly suit her. there's so much unwieldy stuff going on that it's easiest to slot her into a role that coincidentally!!!!!!! doesn't have agency. baby sister. crucially, she's not sexually agentive, she's vulnerable to corruption and in need of an older sibling or guardian to make sure the baby doesn't get into trouble, and this is an established enough dynamic that she will self-police. andraste as statue and icon, babyyyyy. emotionless, motionless, and emblematic of whatever you want to project onto her.

still, there's a part of him that's clearly been struggling to reconcile itself for a while. that part takes over if you decide to annul the circle or wipe out the dalish clan. there is a part of him that can take a stand. is it abt things taking what he feels to be their natural course vs interfering? i think so. he can reflect on his own agency in those moments. he can decide it's worth it to say 'this is wrong.'

it's difficult to piece out how much of his personality comes from age 7 and younger vs over a decade of indoctrination, and that's prob up to individuals to decide, but for me, he did have some agency in the brothel. he had ppl there who cared enough abt him to tell him abt his parents and particularly his mother, ppl to give him the gloves to remember her by. ppl to locate him within a community and history that were his. he was not a blank slate when the crows bought him.

i am currently thinking abt how much he would not want the ppl who knew him as a child then to see what the crows have made him. i'm playing around w the anxiety that comes from not knowing what the actual core of yourself is but being terrified that someone else knows who you are, and will be able to take one look at you and see the damage in a way that even you yourself can't bc you're swimming in it.

like i think ultimately, is he afraid that he's a bad person? no; that seems like a moot point. is he afraid he will never be a good person? debatable. he has no idea who he is. he's afraid he'll pluck out all his feathers and find nothing beneath.

it's what's v juicy abt his role as 'black shadow', actually. taking on an identity of smth that only exists bc of smth else. a redundancy, a shadow that's black. the imprint, the silhouette, the sign & signifier of presence but not the presence itself. at once entirely legible and completely ambiguous.

at some point you have to stop going 'well i'm doomed!' sure, okay, but what are you having for dinner, you know? he has so many shifting identities and is so painfully aware at all times of the power of perception and how he can use the way ppl adjust him to fit their expectations or needs to accomplish things — which, to be clear, we all do. we are all always managing shit all the time, but when you're aware of it, it can make you feel like the loneliest outlier of all at best, an utter monster at worst.

New Ingredients:

Alubia carilla - Antivan, aka blacked eyed peas

Antivan Lemon Thyme

Apricot

Cheese Curds

Chocolate, Dark

Clinging Morsel - a hearty fungus that is common in rural cuisine

Cow Heart

Cream, Heavy

Dragon's Bounty - known for its health benefits, it has tough green skin that opens and reveals dozens of tart arils.

Dragon Pepper - Rivain

Dragon Root

Dwarf Spice Collection - contains eight different spices.

Flax Seed

Figs, Purple

Ginger Root - a popular ingredient in Qunari cuisine

Gingerwort Truffle - common in the Anderfels and the Arlathan forest. When made into a tea it can have some magical side effects.

Green Cabbage

Horned Melon

Human Spice Collection - a collection with two spices

Kale

Lineseed

Mangos - Tevinter

Melon

Nocen Bass - a hearty denizen of the Nocen Sea

Nocen Shrimp

Olive Oil - Antivan

Pineapple - Tevinter and Rivain

Potatoes, New

Potatoes, Sweet

Pumpkin, Warty

Rialto Trout - a fish featured in both Antivan and Rivaini cuisine

Rivaini Pitaya - a colourful fruit with a sweet, delicate flavor. Though pitaya refers to dragonfruit family, the fruit doesn't look like dragonfruit.

River Salmon

Saffron

Sea Bass

Seere Peppers - Rivaini

Short-grain Rice - Antivan

Spearmint

Spicy Spice Collection - contains fourteen jars

Spring Onions

Striped Cod

Sugar, Brown

Sweetmelon

Tomatoes, Cherry

Vinegar, Dark

Vinegar, White

Walnut

Yam

New Foods:

Aged Antivan Cheese

Antaam Provisions

Antivan Dressing

Antivan Seafood Soup - uses sea bass, nocen shrimp, striped cod, squid, saffron, and salt

Apple Cake - Fereldan

Apple Cheesy Butter Noodles - Fereldan, a recipe made by Harding

Apple Dumplings - Fereldan

Apricot Liqueur

Armada Special - a Rivaini sandwich comprised of meat and cheese, it can have greens, pineapple, and more meat and cheese added. Or one can make it "Nevarran" meaning vegetarian.

Bran Cookies

Breaded Cheese Wands - Rivain, sticks of cheese breaded

Breadstick

Bronto Steak

Bug-cakes

Candied Sage Leaves - a popular Nevarran snack

Carta Fries - a Riviani dish, served as a side

Cheesy Toast

Chocolate Covered Strawberries

Churro - Antivan

Cider Porridge

Citrus Bagna Cauda - Antivan, a citrus sauce with anchovies

Coffee Ice - a frozen Minrathous treat, served with cream and toffee sauce on top. It is "like snow" but tastes of coffee

Cucumber sandwich

Dalish Seafood Soup

Deep Roads Crispers - a Rivaini dish

Demon-hair pasta

Eel Soup - Qun

Elderberry Pie - served in Ferelden and Tevinter

Elfroot Jelly

Fish Head Stew - Qun

Fish of the Day with Pear Slaw - Tevinter

Fish-fry

Free Marches Mash-up - a Rivaini dish

Fried Bread

Fried Bread with Herbs

Fried Leeks and Potatoes

Fried Peppers

Fry-bread - Tevinter

Gooseberry Pie

Gravy on Fish

Greens - salad

Greens with Antivan, Orlesian, or House Dressing

Griddle Cake

Grilled Fish Kebab

Grilled Halla - Dalish

Grilled Skewerd Squid

Grilled Treviso - Antivan, a fish named after the city

Grilled Treviso with Citrus Bagna Cauda

Hal's Fried Fish - Tevinter

Halla Cakes - Dalish

Ham and Herbs

Ham and Jam Slam - a Fereldan sandwich comprised of toast, butter, ham, and jam. Made by Harding.

Hazlenut Torte - Nevarran

Honey Cake with Figs - Tevinter

House Dressing - a Rivaini dressing

Isskap - a Qunari dish, that uses melons

Jam Pudding - Fereldan

Jam Tart - Fereldan

Jam, Apple

Jam, Cherry

Jam, Strawberry

Khachapuri - Tevinter, there is a three cheese variety

Lavender Cream - Antivan

Mince Pie

Mutton Stew - Fereldan

Mystery Stew

Nevarran Tomb Cheese

Non-Seafood Paella - Antivan

Noodles and Gravy

Nordbotten Cream - made of brined sheep's milk from Nordbotten

Orange Liqueur

Orlesian Dressing

Orlesian Sauce

Pasta Made of Peppers and Oil

Peanut Butter and Sausage Special - Tevinter

Pear Slaw - Tevinter

Peppered Steaks

Poached Crustaceans - Tevinter

Pork Dumplings - Fereldan

Pork Hand Pies with Fresh Herb Sauce - Tevinter

Potato Stew

Poutine

Rarebit - Nevarran

Raw Oysters on Ice with Lemon and Mint - Tevinter

Rhubarb Pie - Tevinter and Fereldan

Roasted Cabbage

Roasted Cabbage and Gravy

Roasted Chicken

Roasted Chicken Salad

Robust Loaf - a crusty, wholesome brown bread

Rolled Noodles

Salted Meat, Halla

Sauced Eels - Qunari

Sausage Sauced with Nut Butter Stuffed in a Bun - Tevinter

Savory Pie with Spinach - Tevinter

Scorpion Pasta - Tevinter

Scrambled Eggs

Scrambled Eggs and Gravy

Sea Monster Kebab - Rivaini

Seafood Paella

Seleny Ham - Antivan

Smoked Trout

Souffle

Spiced Fried Lentils - Tevinter

Spiced Porridge

Spit-Roasted Nug - Tevinter

Strawberry Tart

Street Meat

Sugar-biscuit Candy

Tarta de Limon - Antivan

Taste of Ferelden Bread and Cheese Spread

Tentacle Salad - Tevinter

The Divine's Hat - An Orlesian soft cheese molded to resemble the Divine's crown.

The Revered Mother's Knickers - Fereldan

Treviso Ham - Antivan

Turnip Stew - Fereldan

Vanilla and Nutmeg Tart

Venison Souffle

White Sauce

Wild Meat and Mushrooms - Dalish

Yam and Jam Slam - a Fereldan sandwich comprised of toast, butter, yam, and jam. Made by Harding.

Zeff's Fried Fish

New Drinks

Andoral's Breath - a type of coffee common in Treviso

Antivan Heritage Brandy

Antivan House Wine

Aromatic Coffee - Antivan

Assembly Ale - Dwarven

Cioccolata Calda - Antivan

Daisy Fun-Time Lemon Gin - Antivan, a juniper spirit flavoured with local flowers and fruit.

Dew of the Dales - Elven, Antivan. Spirits for the spirited, an elven elevation of the brewing arts only sold in Antiva.

Dock Town Homebrew - Tevinter

Dragon Piss Ale

Dwarven Stout - an Orzammar recipe, brewed by the dwarven Ambassadoria

Fire Brandy - used to flambé desserts

Ginger Tea

Gingerwort Truffle Tea

Grappling Hook - a white liqueur with hints of elderflower. Served with three coffee beans

Halla Milk

Kirkwall Select 9:36 - after the Kirkwall Rebellion, few barrels survived.

Lavender Tea

Lemon Gin - Antivan

Minrathous Red - hints of plum and spices

Minrathous White - a light and refreshing drink for humid Tevinter summers

Nevarran Red

Pomace Brandy - Antivan, brandy made from the pomace leftovers of wine making

Qun on the Rocks - Antivan, rum is matched with salt water and presumably seasonal fruit from Par Vollen.

Rivaini Moonshine - home-distilled Rivaini moonshine not for the faint of heart or stomach

Starkhaven Lager

Teven Lager - popular Dock Town amber brew

Vint-6 the common Red - thick and sweet, it is served by the sip. Tradition says that the more who partake, the greater the fortune