obsidianmichi asked: One night in the Hanged Man, Hawke gets incredibly drunk. Sebastian is the only one left standing and she insists on him taking her home (who wants to sleep in Varric's bed?). There may be wandering hands and huggy drunkeness.

"Sebastian. Sebastian, I have something very serious to ask you."

"I can see that."

He cleared his throat and shifted his legs to better accommodate the woman currently straddling his thighs.

"No. Serious." Hawke captured his face in her hands, and he wasn't sure if it was to ensure that she had his complete attention or to stabilize her own balance. Her breath was heavily perfumed with wine; she'd received a case of a respectable vintage from a nobleman as thanks for a favor, and decided to share it - all of it at once - with all of the companions she could manage to drag into Varric's suite of rooms.

He tried to look meaningfully at their host to ask for his assistance, but Varric only smirked and mouthed "good luck, Choir Boy" before Hawke yanked his face back to attention.

"Varric's bed is too small," she insisted. "And he snores. And every time I sleep here I end up with my feet hanging off the end which is bullshit, Sebastian, bullshit."

"It sounds uncomfortable," he managed through fingers that were not his own covering his mouth. "But you said you had something to ask?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes." She poked him in the chest.

"I need you to take me to bed."

They chantryman swallowed hard, adjusting his hips.

Hawke.

"You might want to reconsider your phrasing," he began, but she interrupted him with an almost-knee to the groin, which he narrowly avoided.

"You don't understand," she slurred. "I need to be half-decent tomorrow for mother's thing, and that means sleep and that means getting into my own bed and -" She leaned in, loudly whispering. "I think I might need help."

Oh, Maker, Hawke.

It took all of his self-control not to shove her off in an act of self-preservation, and he instead settled for firmly grasping her shoulders and putting a bit of distance between them.

"Aye, that you might," he conceded with a nervous chuckle. "Let me excuse myself, and I'll gladly walk you back to the estate."

Grinning, she slunk onto the floor. "I'm being responsible," she declared proudly.

Then she reached for the nearest bottle.

It was a warm night - fortunately for Hawke, who apparently felt no need for boots as they trekked back through the streets to Hightown. She was mostly capable of walking, though the odd stumble or miscalculated step often was enough to completely shatter any remaining sense of balance.

After she nearly went careening into a collection of potted plants, Sebastian caught her about the waist, pulling her arm around his shoulder for support.

"Thanks."

He offered a smile, tentatively resuming their walk. "Here to help, aren't I?"

She snickered, rolling her head against his shoulder lazily. "Had a feeling you would be."

"If I may ask," he managed, sidestepping a wooden post. "Why me?"

"I trust you," she answered simply, without a moment's hesitation. "And the Chantry is a hop-skip from the estate."

Despite being unsure of exactly how long a 'hop-skip' was, Sebastian found himself with a tightness in his chest. "You trust me, Hawke?"

She stared up at him, frowning. "What?"

"No, I - " He cleared his throat. "You'd never said as much."

They had stopped moving, and Hawke extricated herself from his arms. " 's it make you happy?"

"

I - " He thought about how best to answer, but considering her sobriety level and the potential such a conversation would have toward the philosophical, he kept it simple.

"Yes."

He was met with the solid feeling of a chest nigh-crashing into his, and Hawke's arms slinging themselves around his neck.

"Then I'll say it as many times as you want," she murmured, syllables rolling and poorly formed, but still very much understandable. "I trust you."

She repeated it a few times, face pressed into the fur at his collar and voice muffled. But it warmed him each time, and he reached down to return the gesture tightly.

It had been long, far too long since he had heard those words both directed at him and meant in earnest. For small tasks, perhaps, but coming from someone as unforthcoming and well-defended as Hawke, it was recognition, it was sincere -

It was confirmation that the man he had become was worthy of trust.

He had so lost himself in thought that full minutes had passed and they remained as they were, embracing in the middle of Hightown, still a ways from their intended destination. As he moved to reclaim his arms, he was met with some resistance, and a smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Are you holding me to better convey your feelings," he asked, "or because you are currently unable to stand?"

Hawke hesitated.

"Why can't it be both?"

He laughed, patting her on the head and pulling back.

"Come," he said, "we can talk about this in the morning."

She grudgingly let him go, swaying into balance. "But we won't."

"No," he smiled, propping her back up and guiding her toward the stairs. "We won't."