Chapter Text
Need skilled individual for private security work. Must be able to lift >100 lbs. Experience with computers, surveillance a plus. Discretion required, sense of humor appreciated. Contact [email protected] for details.
It was the first ad that had caught Hawke’s eye. He had skills; the ad didn’t specify what kind, but Hawke could read between the lines. He could carry his mabari all day long, and Wrex had to weigh at least a hundred pounds. Somewhere in a cardboard box, still in the envelope it came in, sat a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science, and Hawke knew his way around video equipment. Discretion was no problem. It felt like he hadn’t talked to anyone but his brother for three months—I really need to get out more. And his sense of humor spoke for itself. He checked all the boxes.
“Private security?” said Carver, squinting over Hawke’s shoulder. “Sounds sketchy.”
Hawke just smirked. “I like to live on the edge. What do you say?”
“I say you can go right ahead and get yourself stabbed. I’ll stick to legitimate work.”
“Right,” Hawke drawled. “Because the job prospects for first year college students are so lucrative.”
“Oh, like you've done anything with your degree,” Carver shot back. He had a point there. “Do you even know where this so-called job is? That’s just a free email address. I don’t need to tell you that it could be anyone.”
“That’s why you need to contact them for more information.” Hawke rolled his eyes. “I’ll send it from a dummy account on a proxy server if that makes you feel better.”
“Garrett, you know I don’t know what that means.” Carver heaved a sigh. “What does it matter? You’re just going to do it anyway.”
“You worry too much. Anyone who values humor can’t be all bad,” said Hawke. He started to draft his response.
“If you believe that, you should take a look in a mirror.”
Hawke couldn’t help but laugh at Carver’s retort, but he kept on typing.
To Whom it May Concern,
I would like to request more information regarding your intriguing solicitation for private security work. My particular set of skills aligns closely with your needs, and I would be delighted to provide several references for my superb sense of humor.
Warmest regards,
GH
Carver, now in his work uniform, came in right as Hawke hit Send. “You’re not actually replying. You are, aren’t you?”
“Already did,” said Hawke with a grin. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, I didn’t agree to anything.” A new message appeared on the screen and he clicked it.
Color me interested, read the reply, followed by a phone number.
“I've got a good feeling about this,” Hawke said.
Carver rolled his eyes and grabbed the car keys. “Just try not to get killed. I still expect you to pay your half of the rent.”
“That's exactly why I'm taking this job, dear brother.” Hawke pulled out his phone, trying to decide if he should text or call.
“So you're taking it now?” Carver shook his head. “Don't expect me to bail you out of jail. I've got class after work.”
Hawke clutched his shirt over his heart. “Oh no, Carver, I don't need a ride, but thank you for offering. I will take the bus.”
“You knew I needed the car today,” Carver said. “You know, it’s a good thing you never unpacked. Makes it easier to rent your room out.”
Carver did have a point. It was probably time to unpack. Or move. But maybe Hawke would try and get the job first.
“Love you, too, little brother.”
Carver just sneered at him and slammed the door.
Deep down, Hawke knew Carver had a right to be annoyed.
Their mother had asked for two things before she passed away: she wanted Hawke to live his life, and she wanted him and Carver to get along. Hawke thought about it a lot, and he assumed Carver did, too. For a while, they had both made an effort for her sake. In their shared grieving, he had taken pity on Hawke and made room in his small Lowtown apartment. Hawke couldn't bear staying in Lothering anymore, and he would always be grateful to Carver for taking him in.
Caring for their mother had taken so much of Hawke’s time that he didn't know what to do with himself now, but he was sure he had used up most of his goodwill with Carver. Even doing most of the housework (it was what he was used to) wasn't enough to make up for the close quarters. He and Carver got along best when there was some distance between them. Plus, he didn't want to be left without any savings.
It was beyond time to start working on their mother’s wishes.
He made the call.
“Varric Tethras at your service.”
The voice on the other end sounded good-natured. “The name’s Hawke, and I’m at your service.”
Varric chuckled. “You don't beat around the bush, do you?”
“No need. I'm the man for this job.”
“I like your confidence, but let's discuss the details first.”
Hawke straightened and searched for a pen and paper. “Name the time and place.”
“You free today?”
Hawke smirked. “I've got a lot of competing offers, but I'll make time for you.”
Varric gave him the address of his shop and they hung up. If Hawke wanted to make it in time, he'd have to leave now.
In the corner, Wrex grunted in his sleep. Hawke needed a bigger place, if not for himself then for Wrex. Keeping a mabari hound in such a small apartment just wasn't fair.
It had been a long time since he'd had an interview, but he had a hunch this wasn't a suit and tie scenario. He brushed his teeth, ran a hand through his hair, and was out the door in ten minutes.
Varric’s shop was on the edge of Hightown, and if Hawke was in peak form he could have jogged there and made it in half an hour without breaking a sweat. He'd have to work himself back up.
The bus got him there in 20 minutes. From the want ad, Hawke was expecting a shady warehouse, so he was shocked to find himself in front of what looked like a bookstore.
“Potent Prose,” he muttered to himself. Was it some sort of speakeasy? A front for a mob operation? You really need some excitement if you're wishing for mob connections, he chided himself.
He double checked the address and pushed the door open. A bell rang and a dwarf with a roguishly handsome face and long, blond hair on his head and chest looked up from behind a coffee counter. Hawke figured it must be some sort of bookstore/coffee shop/spy network headquarters.
“You must be Hawke.”
Hawke recognized the husky voice immediately. “And you must be Varric Tethras.”
“You certainly look the part.” Varric looked him up and down, but he seemed to be sizing Hawke up rather than checking him out.
“If you're casting a movie, you should know I'll only do a nude scene if it's essential to the plot.”
Varric laughed. “My books haven't made it to the big screen yet, but I'll keep that in mind.”
“Books?” Hawke asked. “You're a writer?”
“And you were doing so well,” Varric said with a wince.
“Sorry, I'm not much of a reader,” Hawke admitted. “But your ad didn't mention anything about an attention span.”
“Fair point.” Varric gestured at the empty store. “Welcome to Potent Prose, my coffee shop, bookstore, and writing studio.”
It was clearly a labor of love—shelves stacked with books of all sizes and conditions, done in tasteful earth tones with pops of bold colors here and there—but impressive as it was, it didn't look like the sort of place that needed a security guard. Maybe the books were very rare, or maybe it was a very expensive espresso machine.
“It's rustic, but refined. I like it.”
Varric's lip quirked up and Hawke could tell he had said the right thing this time. “My pride and joy, after Bianca, of course.”
Hawke didn't see a ring. “Girlfriend?” he wondered.
Varric shook his head, smiling like he had a secret. Hawke could tell he made that face a lot. “No, she's much more special than that. I'll introduce you sometime."
“Isn't that a bit forward?” said Hawke with a grin. He was curious, but he had more pressing matters.
“You're right. Where are my manners? Let's talk about the job.” Varric locked the door, drew the shades, and flipped the Open sign to Closed.
Hawke raised his eyebrows, heart quickening just a little. He was ready. “Let me guess. You're a rare book smuggler.”
“No,” said Varric, chuckling. “It's more the other way around.”
“Sorry?” Hawke didn't follow.
Varric sighed. “You see, Hawke, I’ve got my fingers in a few pots. I'm a businessman, a storyteller who occasionally puts those words to paper, and I know a good cup of coffee when I taste one.”
“Not to mention you possess devastating wit and humility,” Hawke added.
With a smirk, Varric went on. “And since you're not familiar with my novels, you should know that the majority are crime dramas inspired by events around Kirkwall.”
Hawke was beginning to piece things together. It might not have been a spy ring, but it was close. “So you're privy to information of interest to certain unsavory types.”
“Exactly,” said Varric, his smile widening. “But worse than that, my last novel hit the bestseller list.”
Hawke frowned. “Are you in witness protection or something? That doesn't seem like a bad thing.”
“Oh, it's not.” Varric walked to the register and pulled out a thin book from under the register. “Some hack writer stole my unfinished manuscript and made their own counterfeit sequel.”
Hawke didn't see how a fake book could be worse than possible threats on Varric’s life, but then again, he wasn't a writer. “So you got hacked by a hack?”
“Basically.” Varric let out a bitter laugh. “I need someone who can improve my digital and physical security.”
“What about lifting over a hundred pounds?” An image of carrying Varric out of a firefight flashed through his mind but he ignored it.
Now Varric looked sheepish. “I also need someone to help cart stuff around. My old guy quit on me.”
Boxes of books were no problem. But one thing still bothered Hawke. “How do you know I'm not the hack, or someone with an axe to grind?”
“Garrett Hawke, 24 years old, moved from Lothering a few months ago? Your father was the lead guitarist for Blood Mage—I'll admit it, Grave Robber was pretty catchy. One brother, Carver Hawke, and I'm guessing you have a dog.”
Hawke blinked. “Well, that's just cheap. Everyone from Ferelden is in a metal band.”
At this, Varric laughed out loud. “So should we discuss compensation?”
“You sure you need a techie? You seem to do just fine.”
“Access to a reverse phone number look up and a search engine doesn't make me a security expert. You've got the degree and the work history.”
Good thing Hawke hadn't bothered with a resume. Varric probably knew he'd been out of work a while, too, and he graciously hadn't mentioned Hawke’s mother and sister.
As it happened, Varric was offering a lot. Hawke wondered what kind of business the store pulled in—no one was lining up to get in—but Varric was the businessman, and he had his publishing profits. Most of all, Hawke needed connections in Kirkwall, and Varric seemed like the sort of person who was worth knowing.
“All right, Varric. When do I start?”
Varric grinned. “Hawke, I've got a new shipment in back with your name on it.”