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There are no quiet days in the Hall of Fortune. Bela herself made sure of it. The waves hitting the rocks outside, the bustle of the tavern, the ring and roar and crash of the Valor spirits in the arena - all of it makes for the best kind of music.
That, and the clink of coin in her lap after a good series of bets. Varric's little protégé has turned out to be a hell of a ring fighter, and Bela’s made a tidy profit off the people who didn't think Taash could wipe the floor with a bunch of shades just because their backup was an elf and a dwarf. Taash, who’s never liked the noise as much, has wandered off somewhere - probably to check in on their birds or cats or whatever wildlife they’re rescuing these days. But the other two have grabbed themselves a table and settled in with drinks to celebrate the win.
Or rather, she corrects, looking over the balcony at them, they were celebrating the win. Now they’re on their feet. The dwarf - Harding - looks to be panicking, pacing back and forth. Rook stands in front of her, hands upraised, and Bela's suddenly reminded of nights in the Hanged Man, with Hawke talking Fenris down from one angst-fuelled precipice or another.
Rook steps forward. Harding slows. Stops. When she looks up at Rook, it's as if she's entranced. Her eyes have gone fetchingly wide. Bela grins when she finally reaches out; there's been a betting pool on when these two would finally make out, and she looks set to make her second round of winnings for the day.
Their lips meet. Harding looks like she's glowing. No, she is glowing, like Fenris mid-battle, only her light looks messier. More alive. And then it traces out over Rook's face, too, which Bela is fairly sure she's never seen on Hawke.
Huh. What kind of weird dwarf shit-?
The kiss breaks apart. Rook staggers, takes a half step back, and falls like a rag doll. Bela leans further over the balcony - that, she's definitely never seen before. Harding crouches close. Her hands reach out, then pull away, then back out again. Maker, does every idiot in love do this kind of fluttering nonsense?
“Rook? What's wrong?”
The elf props herself up on an elbow, giggling. “You make the world spin, Lace Harding,” she says, sounding dreamy. Or very drunk.
Harding’s eyes go wide. She stares down at her hands like they’ve betrayed her. “Lyrium. Fuck, it’s like I’m infused with lyrium!”
She doesn’t seem to have noticed the eyes of everyone in the bar are now fixed on the two of them. Bela grins; forget bards, this is the best entertainment they’ve had in weeks. Though if the lyrium thing was meant to be a secret, it’s wide out in the open now.
“Yeah,” Rook breathes. “I noticed it when we touched. The other night, when we talked about your dreams?”
Bela’s eyes widen. When they talked about the dwarf’s what now?
“You knew?” Harding leaps to her feet, backing up and pointing at Rook accusingly. “You knew, and you still kissed me?”
Rook tries to stand. Fails miserably. It’s a good thing she’s got a nice plush arse to fall back on. “Wow,” she giggles, “I feel drunk.”
“Yeah! Because I turned your brain into mush!”
“Or,” Rook counters, “it's love. I've fallen for you, Lace Harding.”
Aww. She's as suave as Hawke after seven beers - which is to say, not at all. Her would-be lover has gone as red as her hair.
“You boob!” she squeaks, backing away as Rook crawls towards her with the grace of a beached seal. “That isn't funny!”
“It's a little funny,” Rook wheedles. “Laaaace. Lace. Lace, Lace, Lace.”
She almost, almost manages to catch her by the ankle, but ends up just shy of a faceplant as Harding scrambles back and away. “I’ll fix it!” the dwarf says desperately. “I promise, I - I’ll find a way, and I’ll fix it!”
The dwarf runs - actually runs - from the bar, leaving Rook on the floor doing her best kicked-mabari-pup expression behind her. It makes her look a hell of a lot like Hawke.
Maker’s saggy tits. Bela ought to leave her to it, but instead she finds herself neatly vaulting the balcony to land next to the poor sop. “Hey. No throwing up on my floor,” she tells her.
Rook barely seems to notice her arrival. Her big brown eyes are still fixed on the door Harding had fled through. “M’not that kind of drunk,” she mumbles eventually. “Probably. I don’t think.”
“They all say that, and then they all hurl in the worst possible place.” Bela narrows her eyes at the nearest table of patrons until they look away, then bends to wind a hand under Rook’s armpits. “C’mon. Up you get.”
Rook whines but lets herself be lifted. The trouble with trying to walk a drunk elf somewhere, though, is that Bela is rather taller, even before you take her heels into account.
That’s definitely the only reason she picks the girl up. Just that. She’s not getting maudlin in her old age, because she’s not bloody old yet. Rook blinks in surprise, then settles in with a sigh, resting her head on Bela’s shoulder. “She’s so pretty,” she mumbles. “An’ nice. Wanna kiss her some more.”
Bela rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve got you right next to my tits and you’re talking about another woman,” she teases. “You’ve got some cheek.”
“Oh. I mean… they’re very nice tits?” Rook says slowly. “Bigger ‘n Lace’s. But I still like hers better. I mean, I think I’d like hers better. I haven’t seen ‘em yet.”
"But you've been imagining them?"
Rook hums. "Uh-huh."
"Think she's got freckles on them, too?"
"Yeah. Probably. M'gonna find out." Rook leans closer, as if imparting a grave secret to Isabela as they duck into Bela's rooms. "She makes me weak at the knees."
Bela snorts and dumps her down on the bed. “Please tell me you’re better at cracking jokes when you’re sober.”
“Nope,” Rook tells her, popping the ‘p’ in her mouth before yawning broadly and snuggling down amidst the blankets. “Lace thinks I’m funny,” she mumbles.
“When she’s not worried about accidentally poisoning you, sure.” Bela resists the urge to stroke her hair. The girl’s fine. She just needs to sleep it off. If she’s not awake in the next hour or so, then Taash can take her back to their Lighthouse thingy when they get back from the coast. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
And if pulling up a chair at her rarely-used-for-writing desk lets her keep an eye on Rook in the meantime, well. Nobody else needs to know. It’s only because Varric would come back and haunt her if Bela let the kid choke on her own vomit. No reason other than that.