Toolkit

Varric laughed triumphantly. Hawke laughed along, but there was nothing triumphant in it.

"You cheat!" she declared, throwing her cards on the table in defeat.

She should have won. It was the best hand she'd ever had, but somehow, Varric trumped her with the best hand in game.

"Now, now," Varric said, raising his hands in mock innocence. "You wound me, Hawke. A liar, me?"

"But you are," Fenris said dryly.

Varric grinned. "I don't need to lie or cheat when Lady Luck is on my side."

"Don't make Bianca jealous," Anders added with a laugh.

Varric flicked a coin into the air and caught it easily. "Some men are just burdened with too much charm."

"And now you're burdened by all this coin," Hawke said, eyeing the pile that had once been hers. "Anyway, Varric, you're buying our next round of drinks."

Varric sighed, placing his winnings into his pouch. "If the winner has to pay for drinks, then what's the real value of winning?"

"The honour of making your friends happy," she said, leaning back in her chair. "With full permission to gloat while doing so."

The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Hawke's library, casting a soft glow on the scattered cards and the last crumbs of breakfast. It had been an unplanned gathering. Varric and Anders had arrived first. Hawke suspected Anders had dragged Varric along to ensure she was doing alright. Fenris had turned up not long after.

Their laughter faded when a soft knock came from the doorframe.

"Excuse me, Miss?" Orana stood there, holding an important-looking letter in both hands. "This just arrived for you."

Hawke sprung to her feet. "Thanks, Orana. And please don't call me Miss."

"Alright, Miss... Hawke," Orana quickly corrected before retreating back into the hallway. Hawke glanced at the letter in her hand, and immediately, her heart sank. It was stamped with the city's crest.

"Looks official," Varric noted. "The arrest for your unjust accusation of me, I presume?"

"I bet someone needs your help again," Anders suggested.

"Obvious, that," Fenris added.

Hawke scoffed. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the Seneschal had sent it. The thought sent an unpleasant twist to her stomach. What would he even write? A cold, impersonal summons? An acknowledgement of what had happened?

It was four days since she told herself she should retrieve her toolkit from his office.

Four days that she hadn't.

Was this about that?

She didn't want to open the letter here, where her friends would ask her about it. Only Anders knew the bare minimum, but she assumed he hadn't told anyone else. And he didn't even know who she'd slept with. He was still under the impression she hated the Seneschal.

Which, of course. She did. Obviously. Absolutely. It wasn't a question.

A lapse in judgement. That was all it had been. Because she was drunk and his hair had the same colour as the whiskey.

She turned to letter over, her grip too tight. But she saw the handwriting. It was elegant, bold, and mercifully unfamiliar.

It was also not his.

She let out a quiet, relieved laugh and broke the seal.

Lady Rose Marian Hawke-Amell,

I write to you regarding a matter of urgent importance to the City of Kirkwall. Your assistance is once again requested. Please present yourself at the Keep at your earliest convenience, where Seneschal Bran will provide the necessary details.

Your service to Kirkwall is greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

Viscount Marlowe Dumar

Hawke read the words again, slower this time. The letter might not be from the Seneschal, and yet it was still about him.

Maker.

Perhaps this was a good thing, she reasoned. A forced meeting meant they could get it over with. Pretend like it had never happened.

"Hawke?"

She jolted and realised she had been staring at the letter for too long. Varric, still on his chair, pointed at it. "You planning to share, or is this a private love letter?"

Hawke scoffed and rolled her eyes. "The Viscount needs me again."

Anders took the letter and scanned it. "Told you."

Hawke groaned. "Well. Just so you know, you're all coming with me. I need mental support. The Seneschal is just so... so boring."

If she wasn't there alone, things couldn't get awkward.

"Bran's okay," Varric said as he grabbed the letter and read it.

Anders smiled broadly. "You're still not over your grudge from when you lost your comb? He did return it to you, didn't he?"

"At least he's efficient," Fenris reasoned. "If a little pompous."

Hawke stared daggers at all of them. "Well... Efficient is not the word I'd use. But I'll give you all a quarter of whatever reward I get, as always. Shared work, alright?"

Varric snorted. "Oh, you'll pay us peasants for our contribution? How noble." He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you fetch your court gown first, Lady Rose?"

"Har-dee-har," Hawke said, devoid of amusement. Anders stifled a laugh.

Varric just grinned outright. "You were at that ball a few days ago, right? That Isabela invited herself to? You lost the bet. What did she make you wear?"

Hawke considered it for a moment, when she gestured at Varric's shirt. "Like you, Isabela understands the unstoppable power of showing your tits."

He placed a hand on his chest, looking mocked-scandalised. "You make it sound like I have control over this. As if this raw, untamed charm could be contained."

She grinned. "I believe in you, Varric. Just try a button or two."

"And deprive the world?" he replied, lowering his hand. "I wouldn't be so selfish."

Fenris huffed from the doorway, and they all turned. He stood there, arms crossed. "Are we leaving, or will we be discussing fashion all day?"

All armed and armoured, they made their way outside. The weather was surprisingly nice, with a cool breeze but sunny. A normal spring morning. Guards at their post, people strolling the square, the laughter of children chasing each other.

Whatever the Viscount needed help with, wasn't obvious on the street.

"How's your cat?" Hawke asked Anders as they turned towards the stairs. "Still there?"

"Yes, and officially named Miss Claws-a-Lot!" he declared.

Hawke threw a fist into the air and cheered. "I knew you had taste!"

"Claws?" Fenris repeated, unimpressed.

Sighing, Anders dragged his sleeve up again. Next to the almost-healed scabs were fresh scratches. "She still needs to get used to her new home. She still thinks she needs to fight for her food."

"Not the best place for a cat, Darktown," Fenris replied gruffly.

"Oh, well? It's a better place than–"

Their voices faded into the background as the Keep loomed ahead. The last time she walked these stairs...

Don't think about it.

Business. That's why she was here. Viscount's request, no less. A matter of duty, nothing else.

She should just calm down. Not think about that last time. It didn't matter. It meant nothing.

She inhaled deeply.

Professional. Calm. Maybe even dignified?

They reached his hallway.

Dignified? Who was she kidding? There was nothing dignified about standing outside the office of a man she had... Kissed? Fucked? Nearly cried on? His hands on her skin, lips on her, the pressure –

"Problem?" Varric asked.

She looked beside her and saw his amused smile. She shook her head, a little too quickly. "Nope."

"Alright," he concluded, clearly not believing her.

Fenris made an impatient sound. "Are we going in?"

Hawke eyed Varric. "You knock."

He raised an eyebrow. "Your name was on the letter."

Maker's balls.

Fine. It was fine.

Before she could reconsider, she knocked. Two quick taps.

"Yes?"

His voice.

She fought the urge to turn around and flee back to Ferelden.

"It's ehm. Me. Hawke. And... friends," she said.

That was bad. That was so bad.

Varric raised another eyebrow.

"Come in."

She took another deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Bran wondered if Hawke was at home. If she was, she would likely be here soon. If she wasn't, it could take hours before she got the letter, and longer still before she came.

That was an unpleasant thought.

Maker knew he had enough work to occupy himself with, but the uncertainty of her arrival left him in an undesired state of vigilance. Anticipation. If he had to sit here all day, expecting the door to swing open any moment, he might actually lose his mind.

Four days. It had been four days since he'd seen her last, when she had been on the desk that held his current work. Four days since the two of them occupied the chair he now sat on.

The nib of his quill scraped over parchment as he worked on calculations for tax reports. It demanded just enough of his focus to keep Hawke in the background.

He finished two files before he heard faint words on the other side of his door. A few seconds later, two quick knocks.

"Yes?"

"It's ehm. Me. Hawke. And... friends."

Bran exhaled, and placed his quill away. At least the waiting was over.

"Come in," he said.

The door swung open, and they entered. Hawke first, her eyes anywhere but at him. Her friends followed. Varric, Anders, Fenris. A familiar group. Sensible really. They worked on jobs together, and she was here for a job.

She was wearing armour. The sort of thing he expected her to be in.

Except it wasn't old, or scruffy. The leather looked supple, nearly spotless. Muted dark colours edged in blood red. Not overly stiff like new armour could be, but moulded to her movements. Custom-made, likely. Apparently, she had followed up on getting a new set.

It didn't matter.

What mattered was that it was practical. That it covered her well. That it followed the lines of her body. That it –

Bran looked away.

Varric sat first, claiming one of the two visitor's chairs. He greeted Bran with an easy familiarity. Bran returned it politely enough. Would he know?

Fenris remained in the back, standing. He gave a quiet nod. Bran returned it. It sufficed.

Anders filled the silence with empty chatter. Something about the weather in a cheerful enough tone. Bran did not respond. Two greetings were enough.

Hawke dawdled.

It wasn't too obvious, perhaps, but he had seen her walking into this office often enough to notice the difference. Her gaze drew to the bookcase. The shelf was repaired, the folders back in place. She didn't comment on it.

When she was in front of his desk, she stopped. He saw her gaze sweeping the surface. Tidied, but with the same flowers, the dish of his inkpot cleaned, and everything in place. No trace of what they'd done.

She was looking for one.

Bran clenched his fingers. Not enough to be visible, but enough to steady himself.

Hawke hesitated. She half-turned, glancing at the last chair, but Anders moved first, sitting before she could. He grinned at her, wide and a little smug. It had something carefree. He didn't know.

Bran released a quiet breath. There was no reason to feel relieved, and yet he did.

Hawke rolled her eyes at Anders, and stepped closer to the desk. Her hand hovered just above the surface. She hesitated again, a flicker of indecision.

She decided against it. Instead of perching herself on the edge of the desk, she stepped back and settled herself on the armrest of Anders' chair. The man wordlessly shifted, adjusting to allow her more space.

Bran caught it, the flicker of his glance, the upward curve of his lips. A glance, a smile, and something unspoken.

Hawke didn't notice.

She leaned slightly toward him, bracing a hand against the backrest. She tilted her head, looking at the papers on his desk.

The sunlight from the window behind him highlighted the angle of her jaw.

He tore his gaze away. He exhaled once, and forced his attention to the documents in front of him. "So you have received the Viscount's letter," he started. "He would appreciate discretion in this matter."

Varric grinned. "And he decided to ask Hawke?"

Bran expected her to deflect immediately or make some irreverent joke. But instead, she only made a quiet, noncommittal noise.

"Hmmhm."

If she was trying to act natural, she had already failed.

She seemed to realise it too. Her gaze shifted up, catching everyone's eyes on her. "Oh, did I miss my cue for a joke? Give me a warning next time. I wasn't ready."

Varric snorted. Anders shifted slightly.

She rubbed her neck, and addressed the inkpot instead of looking at Bran.

He considered shifting the inkpot just slightly to see what she'd do. He decided against it.

"I can be discreet," she said, her voice a little too airy. "If, you know. I care. If it's about Kirkwall, I think we all care. If it's about some missing trinket, we care... significantly less."

The smile she gave the inkpot was quick, but not genuine. He could see the strain at the corners of her mouth and the tension in her jaw.

He sighed. "I might have preferred not involving you at all, but it has already happened. The matter concerns the Qunari."

That got her attention.

She finally looked at him. Eyes bright blue in the sunlight. Her shoulders straightened. She was listening now.

In a sense, this started with Hawke. This current incident. She had given him the idea. And it had gone so well.

Until it hadn't.

"It has already escalated," he continued. "We invited a Qunari delegate and entourage for a diplomatic meeting. We discussed their needs and wants. It was civil, bordering on hopeful. They left the Viscount's chambers with precision, but were not reported by the outer guard. They are missing almost literally from his doorstep."

Hawke's brows raised. "The Arishok must not have been happy."

Bran leaned back and clasped his hands together. "We did not tell the Arishok. I'd be signing the messenger's death warrant."

Her expression hardened. She leaned forward, her defiance less silent than before. "Did you think he wouldn't have noticed his men missing? Perhaps honesty and transparency are exactly what's needed here."

Bran pressed his lips together. This. This was precisely why he had wanted to keep her out of this. She didn't understand, or refused to understand, the delicacy of politics. The balance of power, the important of keeping the peace and the reality that some situations had no ideal outcomes, only tolerable ones.

"I must think of what is best for the Viscount's office," he countered. "Bringing attention to such an incident benefits no one. There is no relationship with the Qunari to be salvaged by… overextending ourselves on their behalf."

Hawke tilted her head slightly, assessing him. With a natural ease, she propped an ankle on her knee, maintaining an effortless balance. And just for a moment, Bran fully appreciated how dangerous she was. Not with her speech, but in the way she carried herself.

He remembered her quick movements and feints as she duelled Ian, the way she rolled her hips, here, on this chair –

"And yet the Viscount wants to involve me," she said.

Bran forced control back into his voice. "By solving the disappearance," he said evenly. "Not by involving the Qunari."

Her eyes lingered on him just for a second too long.

A sensation tingled somewhere in his neck. It was not quite irritation, and not quite fascination, but somewhere between the two. Familiar in the way she looked at him and tested his patience.

Her gaze dipped, slowly. To the space on his desk just in front of him. Where she'd been. Where they'd –

She looked back up and a small smile curled at her lips. A genuine one.

He saw it for just a second, before she shook her head and tore her gaze away.

Bran let out a slow breath and moved his inkpot. Just a little to the left. A pointless adjustment, but it nagged at him.

She didn't notice.

Varric laughed, the sound filling the silence. "Luckily for you, Bran, we're excellent at finding things. Exits, for one. Owners of discarded objects. The Viscount's wayward son. And we've got our finest specialists on the case: Diplomacy and Tact."

He stressed the last words, and glanced expectantly at Hawke. But she was staring at a buckle on her boot, absentmindedly twisting it back and forth. If she had heard him, she gave no sign.

Varric sighed. Hawke still didn't notice.

He raised his hands, and clapped. Once. Loudly.

The sound echoed through the room like a whip, louder than Varric likely intended. Everyone startled. But none flinched as hard as Hawke.

She gasped and nearly slid off the armrest, her foot falling from her knee and scraping gracelessly across the floor. She clawed her way upright, shooting her friend a withering scowl. "Maker's flaming left... Varric! Are you trying to kill me? Should I be running?"

Varric eyed her. "You said you needed a warning. There it was. Your cue."

She stared at him, her scowl still sharp, clearly uncertain what she was supposed to joke about.

Varric's eyebrows shot up. "Diplomacy and Tact?"

It took her a second. The scowl softened. And finally, she laughed. A little nervous at first, but it turned sincere.

"Diplomacy and Tact," she repeated, lifting a shoulder just enough to draw attention to the weapons on her back. "My new daggers," she added with pride. "A good weapon needs a good name. A good weapon completes you. And well…" She flashed a toothy grin. "Figured I'd name them after my most lacking qualities."

Bran could only see the grips of the daggers, beautifully wrought, almost elegant, one with a red pommel stone, the other black. Of course, she had named them. Of course, she chose those names. He wondered which was which.

But the humour didn't linger in her face. Not really.

Varric cleared his throat. "So, Hawke. Just checking. Are you actually here right now, or did we lose you in the Fade somewhere?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Are you alright? That's twice now you've missed your cue."

Anders frowned at her.

Hawke chuckled softly and picked at a bracer, clearly stalling for time. But the moment she glanced up and locked eyes with Bran, the laughter died at her lips.

Bran wasn't able to look away.

For a second, she looked… Small. Not in her stature, really. Perhaps only in his memory. In the way she had clutched at him, here, right on this desk, when he was still partly inside –

She averted her gaze. A little too quickly, she forced laughter. "You know me, Varric. I'm always alright. But perhaps I should have had coffee this morning, instead of tea."

And when Bran lost her gaze, he had gained Anders'.

Anders' brow furrowed slightly. Something flickered in his gaze. A thought forming, a dawning realisation. The man's fingers clenched around his knees.

Bran ignored him, refusing to acknowledge it. "If I can have all of your attention again, we still have a matter to resolve."

Fenris made a low sound of agreement. His eyes hadn't left the back of Hawke's head. "We need clues," he said.

"This could not have escaped the notice of the city guard," Bran continued. "Unless they were involved. And several have failed to report. You should start with one of them. Although, where you find a swordsman so eager to sell his honour and duty, I'm sure I don't know."

"The Hanged Man," Varric said.

"Hanged Man," Fenris agreed.

Hawke, catching up this time, grinned broadly. "Yep."

Anders didn't say anything.

Bran sighed, wishing for the first time that Anders would just speak, if only to stop staring at him.

"Right," he concluded. "Then you know what to look for."

"Let's check in with Aveline too," Varric suggested as they all got to their feet. "Thanks, Bran, we'll be right back with you."

Bran gave him a nod. And just before they could leave, he hesitated. That night, four days ago, had ended messily, leaving behind loose ends. Bran did not like loose ends.

"Hawke, a word before you leave?" he asked.

They all turned. She looked as if he'd handed her a death sentence.

Varric glanced at her, and back at Bran. "Is she in trouble?"

"Nothing of the sort," Bran reassured.

Hawke shrugged, feigning indifference.

"Will you be fine?" Fenris asked.

She turned around, clearly not expecting him to be the one to ask.

"I think I can manage him," she said with a wide grin.

"Hawke…" Anders started quietly, reaching out a hand.

She jerked her arm away before he could touch her. "I'll catch up with you. You go find Aveline."

Anders lingered, his eyes darting between Hawke and Bran. Reluctantly, he stepped back, but not before granting Bran the foulest of looks.

Bran met his gaze evenly. He would not let himself be intimidated by anyone, mage or healer or otherwise.

Varric seemed less concerned. "Alright. Let's leave them to it. I'm sure it's strictly professional."

The door swung shut behind them.

Now, it was just the two of them.

And the silence.

It settled differently in the absence of the others. The office was emptier, but it felt like she filled more of it. Hawke edged closer to the desk, her gaze cast downwards. Her steps were quiet, inaudible. Good boots for sneaking, he reasoned.

Her eyes darted to the vase. "You've had better flowers on your desk," she said, nodding at the chrysanthemums.

Bran studied, letting those words sink in. He saw her frown, the brief moment of self-awareness of how it had sounded.

She gave a quick scoff. "I mean – If you're going to bother putting flowers in a vase, at least pick some that do something. Tulips grow, roses open. Chrysanthemums are just… There. And so yellow," she added as if that was the worst crime of all.

"Not your colour?" he asked, wondering why he was indulging her.

"No," she said simply, glancing up.

He saw the defiance in her eyes, the glimmer of a challenge. The barely-there lift at the corner of her lips. She was bolder without the others around. Less guarded.

But there was no point to dwell on it. He was here to clean up loose ends. So, he knelt down and opened a cabinet under his desk. He withdrew a bundle of leather and placed it on the desk, between them.

Hawke eyed it. It was her toolkit.

The thing that started it all, that made him imagine taking it off her leg before he had the chance to do so. He wished his memory was worse, so he couldn't remember the sensation of the soft skin of her inner thigh.

"You could have sent it to my home," Hawke said after a moment. "It isn't far."

He met her gaze steadily. "You could have retrieved it from the Keep. It isn't far."

Her wry smile of defiance grew even bolder.

"Hawke."

Her eyebrows shot up. He wondered how she would have reacted if he had called her by her first name.

Likely the same.

"Seneschal," she said.

He took a moment. He should have let her take the kit and leave. And yet, he opened his mouth to speak. "Can you handle this job?"

Hawke let out a short, sharp laugh of disbelief. "Maker's ball, that's what you care about? If I can handle a fucking job? Shit."

Bran pressed his lips together. "The Viscount requested your aid. It is my duty to ensure you are in the right mind to provide it."

She leaned in, resting her palms on the desk. She shifted her weight forward as if she could loom over him. But he stood straight, just a fraction taller than her.

"Oh, I see," she said. "You think my delicate sensibilities cannot do this. That I'm too distracted. Do you want me to confess I spent the last few days singing at the clouds in happy memories? Or would you prefer I said I'd already forgotten it?"

Her tone was taunting, but he refused to let himself be dared. "It's not a strange question to ask, Hawke. This is a sensitive matter."

She scoffed, tilting her head in that irritating way of her, as if she didn't take him seriously. But the sunlight behind him highlighted the angle of her jaw again. "Yeah. I can deal with sensitive matters. I can handle danger. I can handle the Qunari. I thought I had proven myself by now."

He sighed, wondering if he ought to address how distracted she had been earlier. This job was the Viscount's orders, a delicate matter that could have the city's safety at stake. His own comfort in asking questions shouldn't matter.

"Hawke."

She knew what he meant by that and she rolled her eyes. "Balls," she cursed. "Are you really afraid that I'll pause mid-fight, staring wistfully into the distance, wondering what might have been?"

Her met gaze without flinching. He didn't react when she leaned in, closer than necessary.

She smelled of leather and steel and something indefinably her.

"There is no need to play coy," he said, refusing to take her bait. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Do I?" she asked, her lips curling. He expected her to push further and force him to say it aloud. He braced himself, readying his own counter.

But instead, she just leaned back. "Well," she said breezily. "Excuse me. I wasn't sure how you'd react. You know. After the ball. Perhaps that distracted me. But now I know. Nothing unresolved. So, full attention on the task."

Bran leaned both hands on the desk. "Good. Then I can trust you will give this your best."

For a split second, a flicker of something flashed over her face. It wasn't anger, but annoyance. She wanted to have the last word.

She reached for the toolkit, the motion bringing her close again. He felt the warmth of her, the breath of her exhale against his skin, all of it. Her fingers curled around the leather, but she didn't step back.

She paused, and smirked.

"Maker, I liked you better when you were grabbing my hair."

Bran felt something sharp coil inside him. Frustration. Irritation. And something hot.

That smirk. Maker, he wished he could wipe the self-satisfaction off her face. And before his mind could stop his tongue, he responded.

"And I liked you better when your taunts were reduced to moans."

Silence fell between them.

Hawke's lips parted. Not with shock, but with something else entirely.

Regret flashed hot through him. He shouldn't have said that. It was careless, impulsive. And he had let it slip through his restraint.

And he regretted it even more when she laughed. A bright, honest, delighted laugh.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Seneschal?" she teased, her grin wicked. "To just say what you actually think, instead of whatever little script you always follow?"

He didn't deign it with an answer. But he could feel his heart beat in slow, heavy thuds.

"That control of yours," she said, her eyes glinting. "I'm not sure if I envy it or pity it. But I will never not enjoy watching it crumble."

He clenched his jaw. Pity? What pity was there in discipline? Control was strength. It was what separated men from beasts. From mistakes.

"You've had your fun, Hawke. Now go do this job."

Grinning wickedly, she spun around, took a step, and halted again. She paused, and something in her posture shifted. The wicked amusement mellowed to something quiet. She turned back, and her expression was unreadable.

"I thought you should know something," she said. "I took witherstalk tea. If you even know what that means."

Bran kept her eyes on her, unmoving.

Slowly, his mouth dried.

He had just turned nineteen. A different woman, a different room. The mother of his son sat beside him on the bed. Not for another evening of pleasure, but to tell him their life was about to change.

She had not asked him for anything. Not for help, or comfort, or permission.

She had simply wanted him to know.

And he had been young and stupid and afraid. He had still been someone who laughed easily and made rash choices, who followed his impulses instead of his reason. But fear had a way of choking that out.

So, he had grasped for logic.

"Did you take witherstalk tea?" he had asked in a flat voice.

Her eyes had gone wide. Hadn't he been listening? She wanted this. And it was too late anyway. Witherstalk was only effective in the first month. She was going to keep the child.

He had thought he had been asking a sensible question.

He hadn't considered that it was also the wrong one. That what she had needed in that moment wasn't practicality, but simple reassurance.

Bran forced himself back to the present.

"I see," he said, hating the way his voice came out in the same detached tone it had done twenty-one years ago. "A wise choice."

Hawke's eyes snapped back to his. "Wise…" she echoed, still with that unreadable expression. It was too still, like felt like the calm before a storm.

He prided himself on learning from past mistakes. He should say something more.

"I am... glad you told me."

It still felt wrong.

For a heartbeat, Hawke just stared at him. Disbelief. She hadn't expected this from him.

She scoffed, pressed her lips together, and released a small chuckle. "Glad?" she said in a light tone. "Maker, you act like this is a grand revelation. It's just a cup of tea." She waved her hand dismissively. "Doesn't even hurt. Just tastes like old boot. Anyway... Thought you ought to know. No loose ends."

Her lips curled like she wanted to smirk, but she didn't quite succeed. She wasn't even looking at him.

Bran clenched his jaw. He had approached this with the understanding that weight must be met with weight. That this meant something. That perhaps it was difficult for her, and he appreciated her for it. And she just brushed it off. Like it was nothing. Like he was a fool for caring more than she did.

But she didn't know that.

She wasn't there in that room, all those years ago.

So Bran let the moment slip away. "Then I suppose that's that," he said in the same hollow tone as hers.

She shrugged, the daggers shifting on her back when she did. She was already turning away when he realised he knew exactly where she was going next.

"You're going to the Arishok, aren't you?"

She stopped, and turned around slowly. Her grin, all sharp and wicked, told him the answer.

Bran's stomach churned. "You'll get killed."

She just tilted her head, amused. "That's been said many times to me. And yet, I keep on not dying."

He said nothing. Because one day, she wouldn't beat the odds. At some point, her nine lives would run out.

Her grin faded, just slightly. "Look," she said, her voice lighter than her eyes. "If you were the messenger, then sure, you might get killed. But I won't. You have to trust me, Bran. I know what I'm doing. And if things go awry... I always have Diplomacy and Tact."

He still didn't speak. He wondered if she even noticed saying his name.

And because silence was not something she tolerated, she flashed him one last smile, accompanied by a soft chuckle. It sounded surprisingly sincere. A last piece of bravado before she walked out of the door.

Bran exhaled sharply and wondered if this was the last time he'd ever see her alive.

His fingernails dug deep into his palm.

Brilliant. Just Brilliant.

Hawke shut the door behind her and kept walking, fast. If she moved quickly enough, maybe she could outpace the sheer disaster she had left behind.

She could have said thank you. Or I appreciate it. Or literally any other normal, rational thing.

But no. Instead, she had made it sound like a business transaction. No loose ends. As if it was that easy. As if she hadn't just confessed to ensuring nothing could come of it. Nothing could grow. Not between them. Not in her.

And she was an idiot, because she knew he had a child. Knew he had been young. Knew that he hadn't married the mother. And that was the extent of it.

Certainly, even someone as composed as him must have feelings about that.

She knew he must have. Because of the way he had looked at her. Like it mattered. Like she had made some grand sacrifice.

He had even tried to reassure her.

And what had she done? She had laughed it off. Like it was nothing. Because if he acted like it meant something, then it actually meant something.

And she couldn't let that happen.

She had to get out of here.

And, of course, that was when someone else got in her way.

"Hawke."

She had barely time to register Anders' voice before he stepped into her path, barring the hallway. Fenris and Varric stood somewhere behind him.

She wanted to ignore him, scurry past him and cheerfully say that they should continue to Aveline. But Anders wasn't having it.

He struck out an arm, blocking her path. She nearly crashed into him.

Hawke sighed, and took a step back. "Anders," she chastised.

"You go ahead," he told the others. "We'll catch up."

Varric raised his brows. "I thought we just decided not to split the party."

Hawke tried to circle around Anders. "Yeah, there's really no need–"

But his hand caught her wrist. It wasn't forceful, but firmly enough to show he wasn't letting this go.

"Alright," she said instead. "Seems like there is a need."

Fenris looked from one to the other. "We'll be at Aveline," he said.

The moment they were gone, Anders let her go, and gestured at her hand. "So. Are you going to tell me why you're walking out of that office with your toolkit?"

Hawke glanced down at it. Balls. She should have just tied it around her leg. Less visible that way.

She looked back up, her face perfectly neutral. "It's obvious. The Seneschal was hosting a costume party, and he needed accessories."

Anders gave her an almost dirty, unimpressed look.

"Fine," she relented. "He was throwing together a disguise to run off and join a travelling circus. He told me he reconsidered at the last moment."

"Hawke."

"What?" She shrugged dismissively. "Why do you care?"

Anders just kept looking at her. "Don't insult my intelligence."

Hawke scoffed. "Don't act like you're entitled to answers just because you demand them."

He frowned. His voice dropped lower. "I care about you."

Hawke looked away and laughed hollowly. "Oh, wonderful. And what does that have to do with this, exactly?"

But she caught his gaze again. And she knew this expression. The particular furrow in his brows combined with the tightness in his jaw. He wasn't just serious. He was worried.

Of course he knew. He was smart. He figured it out. And he did not like it.

She had barely survived the office, and now she was here. Trapped in another too-small space with another man who looked at her like things mattered.

She did not want this.

She folded her arms, steadying herself. "You have an aggressive way of showing concern."

His brow twitched. "Hawke, if I didn't grab you, you would have walked past me and never let me address this."

She didn't say anything. It was true.

"You hate him," Anders continued quietly. "Those were your words."

She exhaled slowly and glanced at her hands. "Well, Anders, people say a lot of things."

He took a step closer. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He hesitated. Nearly whispered. "...Did he force you? Use his position of power?"

That made Hawke look up again in laughter. But Anders was deadly serious, she could see that.

The laughter died on her lips. "Maker, that's what this is about it? I'm not some poor, fragile woman who doesn't know what she's doing."

"Anyone can be a victim–"

"Maybe," she cut in. "Just maybe, I did this because I wanted it."

Anders looked at her, open-mouthed. "He really didn't force you?"

Hawke shrugged noncommittally. "He's an attractive man, okay?"

She regretted it instantly, before she had even finished saying it.

He blinked at her. "Attractive...?" he repeated in slow, horrified disbelief. "He's what, fifteen years older than you?"

"Twelve," she muttered. Maker, why did she correct that?

Anders just stared at her, as if she had confessed to dancing naked in the Gallows.

She tried to wave it off, but the words just kept flowing from her. "You know, he has a good voice. Compelling. And kind of... commanding."

What?

Anders' eyebrows slowly lifted.

She looked away. "Nice hands," she reasoned. "Good smell."

Stop talking.

"Good... posture?"

A memory flashed before her eyes. Him, on his chair. The way he had casually leaned back, perfectly composed, utterly confident. His legs slightly spread, the fall front of his breeches –

Something hot and completely unwanted curled in her stomach.

Nope. Absolutely not. NO.

"Perhaps it's just his I'm-not-impressed face," she blurted, her voice getting higher with each word she spoke. "Maybe I just like a challenge, and..."

But Anders wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze had shifted to a spot over her shoulder, his mouth drawn. Almost out of reflex, Hawke glanced around, trying to see what he saw.

Maker's flaming ass.

He was right there. The Seneschal walked from his office, straight down the hall. Just a few feet away...

What had he heard?

He would be close enough to touch now, if she just... reached out...

Maker's balls, no. No, no, no.

But he walked past them without so much as a glance. No satisfied smirk any reaction at all. Just a slight nod.

"Anders. Hawke."

That was it. Not even a pause. And then he was gone.

Hawke released her breath. That... could have gone a lot worse.

But then she looked at Anders. And his wry grin.

"So..." he said, crossing his arms. "You hate him, right?"

Hawke shut her eyes. "What's the chance he didn't hear any of that?"

"Zero," Anders replied. She could hear his grin through his tone. "He exited his office the moment you started to wax poetically about his voice. What was it you said? Smells good? Something about his posture?"

"Don't."

"And his hands," Anders continued. "I do remember you mentioning those. I think you forgot his cheekbones. Sharp nose. Anything else you want to add?"

Hawke groaned and buried her face in her hands and glared at him through her fingers. "I will end you."

He looked entirely unbothered. "No, you won't. You like me. Though liking and hating might mean something else to you, clearly."

She dropped her hands. "We were drunk, alright?"

No, you weren't.

"I kind of bumped into him."

No, you didn't.

"One thing led to another."

That part's true.

"And now I'm sure we both want to forget."

Maker's balls, please let that be true.

Anders just looked at her, a full look of amused disbelief on his face. "Hawke. You are almost a bigger mess than me."

Hawke sighed, staring miserably at the toolkit in her hand. "You're okay, Anders. And I was a mess long before any of this."

Anders grinned and clapped her on the shoulder as he walked past her, towards the others. "What better than a few messes to clean up Kirkwall's mess? Try not to bump into anyone else on the way, yeah?"

Hawke considered the nearest window.

Jumping seemed reasonable.

Note: I hope you liked this chapter! It belonged to one of the first I wrote, 2 years ago (mostly the end bit)! I love writing arguments. Also, the witherstalk thing is sort of hinted at in codexes (its sap) but I'm just going to run with tea.

The next chapter is going to be called "Blood". Eh... DA2 is a tragic story, with many tragic events. Poor Hawke.