Chapter Text
“Hawke, where are you going?” called a happily drunken Fenris from the stairwell of ‘his’ mansion, the words slurring into an incoherent babbling only a person just as drunk would understand.
Hawke paused at the base of one staircase and spun around way too quickly for her current state. The large room spinned and blurred around the edges, becoming a bit tilted as she soon realized it was her head that was doing the tilting. She straightened up and hazily place one hip on the handrails, crossed her arms and looked back up to Fenris who was doing his best not to fall over the handrails onto the hard marble floor below. “I… Fenris?” She thought she heard him mumble in response and continued, “Tell me I’m pretty.” She barked out a laugh.
“My dear,” he was interrupted by a hiccup, “you are beautiful. Come back… join me, my pretty little bird- hawk,” another hiccup, “It’s so lonely in this mansion- have I ever told you that?” The one good thing about seeing Fenris this way, drunk and way too friendly, was that his lyrium tattoos echoed his pulse- a gentle blue emitting from his skin every time his heart would beat.
But this time all she could see when she looked up was an oblong blue orb-thing speaking from the top floor. Curious, she thought to herself. How many bottles of wine had she downed that night? Two? No, Four. Wait. Three-and-a-half? She noticed herself leaning backwards too late as she flailed her arms in a vain attempt to find the handrails finding only the cold hard floor with her tailbone. When she was able to find her feet again she slowly and clumsily stood. When she was upright her body let her senses concentrate on more than removing herself from the ground, and she heard laughing- no guffawing. Cacophonous laughter was coming from that blue orb and she decided it wasn’t as nice as she had thought it was.
When Hawke finally made her wobbly way to the front door the laughter subsided into giggling and she started giggling herself, how stupid she must have looked flailing her arms like a chicken trying to fly. She sighed and shut the heavy door behind herself and began to adjust her weapons- wait, where were her weapons? Oh. They were beside Fenris’s door, just on the other side, but she had somehow locked the door behind herself. She knocked for a few long moments before finally putting her ear to the door and after a few seconds she heard singing- in a different language and maybe a chair falling over- maybe Fenris did choreograph dance routines in his spare time.
Where was she going? Home was… there… she thought. But there was no one to spite there. Hawke always loved pestering people when she was heavily intoxicated to see how far they’d let her push them, after all she could always blame it on the alcohol later- if she remembered. But that just made the bits she did remember all the more enjoyable… and valuable she thought hazily.
She began considering her options. Varric? No far too tolerable to drunkards- as was Isabela. Anders? No she’d have to count on his icy little fingers to quell the impending hangover, best not to irritate him. Sebastian? She guffawed at the thought- her wobbling into the Chantry, Sebastian rushing to her aid “Hawke!” he would exclaim, “What’s happened?”
“You’re voice… is so pretty… it seems to have melted me.” She responded out loud to the lonely dusk time Hightown. Lonely! Fenris! She paused in an attempt to find her bearings and the best way to his ‘rightfully stolen’ mansion. She paused letting her surroundings fade in order to concentrate fully on the elusive string of thoughts forming in her head. Wait… she was just at his side, it was his wine that got her here, yes? Her surroundings came slowly back into focus once more and she turned and placed two hands on the door behind her. Ah, she thought, still here. She had no one, she quickly derived. A devilish smirk crawled its way onto her face. No one she knew.
So, who better to aggravate than the short-tempered, eight foot tall, four-horned, ash-skinned, snow-haired, warpaint-streaked, battle-axe-toting warlord who could snap her in half with a flick of his wrist. She sighed contently, clearly at peace with her decision- poor little voice, drowning in finely-aged wine. Not the worst death one could wish on their subconscious. The docks it is then. She turned left, walked a few paces, hiccupped then turned around, spying the exit to the courtyard- maybe ‘spying’ isn’t the correct word- ‘stumbled fortuitously in the right direction’ being far more accurate. Perhaps the Arishok would even crack a smile at ‘the one person of worth in the cesspool that is Kirkwall’ stumbling into the Qunari compound with smug mask on her clearly half-there face. Ah, the Arishok.
So it was thought and so it shall be done… with drunk determination. She giggled so he shall be done. She almost punched herself for the thought… though she could always blame her failing temptress ways on the obvious intoxication she was suffering from. Though the truth is he would be the only one suffering, but for how long would he allow it? “Those horns,” She thought aloud “I’ll be damned if I don’t touch them before the night’s through.”