Garrett doesn't actually make ganache in this, but I was working on streamlining a stream-of-consciousness drabble I wrote earlier in the day while simultaneously fretting over a split ganache-it was at the forefront of my mind.

I am happy to report that i think my ganache came out okay, ready for me to make macarons later this week. Garrett fares equally well in his baking endeavours.

-Originally posted on Tumblr-

Garrett's pretty much an average, red-blooded man in most respects. He yells when he's angry, laughs too hard and too long but without any self-consciousness when he's drunk, and gets in fights when he's got too much nervous energy, too many thoughts weighing on his mind. Sometimes it's just a brawl in the Hanged Man, fists against fists when a patron gets too handsy with one of the girls; sometimes it's a sword-and-shield kind of night, and he'll kit up and head down to Darktown, or to the Docks, and see if there aren't some gangs of thugs in need of a solid bruising.

Sometimes, though, he's got a head cold, or the wound in his thigh is acting up and he can't stand for long, much less fight-or Aveline in her endless wisdom has expressly forbidden him from going out and taking law enforcement into his own hands, "for just a couple of weeks, Hawke, please!", because, apparently, it's taking all the work away from her new recruits. And he gets it, it's fine, it makes sense, but if he doesn't have that outlet to work off his anxiety and his nervous tension?

He bakes.

After a half hour of pacing restlessly back and forth along any carpet in the mansion long enough to hold his strides, he shoos Orana out of the kitchen. She always hovers nervously outside, because she still can't quite believe that Hawke isn't going to burn down his nice lovely mansion-she's talked to Bodahn, found out what Hawke had to go through to get to where he is today, and she doesn't wish a modicum of ill fortune on her strange but kindly employer, especially not at his own (meaty, sluggish, less-than-dextrous) hands.

But while she frets outside, Hawke just runs about the kitchen, gathering tools and ingredients, whisking and mixing and measuring. Sandal likes to sit in the kitchen and watch, and sometimes, Hawke will send him out for supplies if he needs-like a dozen eggs from one of the farmers at the edge of the city, a quart of milk. He doesn't really know how Sandal manages, given that he only ever speaks that one single word, but somehow he must make himself understood because he's always back with exactly what Hawke asked for. Always quickly, and more often than not, with more coin to return in change than Hawke had expected from the silver sovereigns he's given the boy.

(He thinks back to the ogre in the Deep Roads, and decides that he won't question Sandal's numerous, enigmatic gifts.)

He'll emerge a few hours later, flour dusted all the way up to his elbows and streaked through his hair, looking a little winded, a little blast-shocked, and sit heavily on a chair in front of the fireplace. He'll just stare and stare into the flames for an hour, sometimes more, waiting for some signal he's set himself-something none of the others can hear, and they've tried.

Fenris will come by, or Anders, or Varric, inviting him out to various things-a fight, a meeting, a game of Diamondback at the Hanged Man-but Hawke never answers, just keeps staring into the fire, and Bodahn quietly shoos them away with a pointed look and a muttered, "I think it might be biscuits, today." They've learned to just turn around again and leave if they see Hawke in his armchair with his hair more white than black.

Bodahn isn't sure how he does it, but Hawke always seems to know exactly what he needs to make, exactly what will take the time in preparation and in baking that will allow him to deflate, to dispel his anxiety and nervous, high-strung tension. Without fail, almost exactly five minutes before he gets back up and pushes through the door into the kitchen-Orana scurrying out the side door, leaving behind the evidence of whatever cleaning she's managed to do in the meantime-he'll suddenly slouch, boneless, into his seat with a heavy gusting breath. His eyes will slide closed, and a smile will appear on his face, and when he does get up, his limbs are loose and relaxed, tension bled out of his muscles.

He washes up while the baking cools on a rack, puts away the dishes and the spoons and the jars of powders and herbs; Orana hates it, but he says it's the least he can do after making such a horrid mess of her kitchen without any fair warning. And when that's done, he puts his creation on a plate and brings it out into the main hall.

The mansion always smells divine for a few hours after he's done, and Sandal will run out, without being asked, to fetch as many of Hawke's companions as he can find. (There's a certain way he says, "Enchantment!", a excited lilt to the syllables and a shine in his eyes, that makes it very clear just what sort of enchantment he's talking about).

And they'll gather in the mansion, along with Orana and Bodahn and Sandal and whoever else happens to be visiting, and share in an hour or two of friendship and camaraderie over warm, fresh bread, or biscuits, or cake, or, if it's been an especially harrowing week, pie.

It would be a cruel irony if Hawke had no talent in the kitchen-but he knows what he's doing, after careful hours spent under Leandra's tutelage, and his baking is always divine.