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"Do you think we'll do it?" Varric says finally. It's two in the morning and the Herald's Rest is finally emptying, the upstanding members of the Inquisition one by one finishing their final drinks and wending upstairs to bed. It's not the first bar they've closed down together. It's not even the tenth. Well, maybe the tenth, Kirkwall didn't actually have that wide a selection…
"Do what?" says Hawke, breaking in on his thoughts. She's sprawled on the bench next to him, her feet idly kicking at the bear head on the wall. "Finish this drink before Cabot throws us out on our handsome arses?"
"No bet. When you start chugging--"
"Druffalos fear to tread. So then, will we… oh, Varric." Hawke leans her head back outrageously far and bats her eyelashes up at him. "I thought you'd never ask."
Varric rolls his eyes. "Take Adamant Fortress. Take out the big guy. Save the day."
"Oh." Hawke uncranes her neck. "That's three different questions."
"I'd take a good guess on any of them."
Hawke shrugs. Her tankard is slipping out of her fingers. "First one, maybe. If the Wardens are feeling unseduceable by the forces of evil. Second one-- whoops!" She makes a dive for it as it hits the floor. "Ha. I don't know. With skills like that. What was the third?"
"Save the day."
"Right." Hawke laughs at that. It's a very Kirkwall laugh. "Wouldn't know."
"Yeah," Varric sighs. "That's what I keep thinking."
The tavern is empty now. Just the two of them and Cabot, who starts to move towards them and then shakes his head and waves it off: take your time. One of those perks you get when you're leading a strike force into semi-certain death. Just them and the scent of smoke from the dying fire, the drift of dust, the memories.
"I would, you know," Hawke says, and he glances down at her. Her eyes are closed. She sounds mostly asleep. "You wouldn't. Bit rude to remind me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he tells her, the fondness in his own voice startling him. "Come on, Hawke. Do you need me to try and haul you to bed?"