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Hawke downed her third tankard, the rich ale warming her from the inside. Isabela clapped her on the back and Varric gave an approving grin at her persistence.
She set her tankard down and noticed Fenris at the far end of the table, half-lurking behind the bottles of wine he had been nursing all night.
“I don’t see how you can drink that swill,” he said, his face surly as usual. He shook his head, staring suspiciously at her mug.
“You dare insult this? This is proper Fereldan ale, I’ll have you know!” Hawke said, narrowing her eyes. “You would insult the libations of my people, would you?”
“If they were that awful – and they most certainly are – then yes. Tevinter may be terrible beyond measure,” said Fenris, ”but they do know wine there.”
Hawke stood up, leaning over the table and glowering at him. The elf infuriated her sometimes, that sardonic voice, the edge of bitterness in every word, the grim look in his eyes… A brilliant idea struck her. “You just don’t know how to have a bit of fun, do you, Fenris?”
“She’s got a point there,” said Varric, shrugging his shoulders. “If you and Blondie ever had a brood-off, Kirkwall might explode.”
“You. Me. Fereldan ale. Drinking contest,” said Hawke stubbornly, moving around the table and taking the bottle of wine out of Fenris’ hand, their fingers curling around each other’s for just a moment. His hand was calloused, warmer than she would have guessed, and she felt a brief thrill that had nothing to do with alcohol. Hastily she moved her hand away, but not before she noticed a faint flush to Fenris’ cheeks. She rarely stood so close to him.
“All right,” he said, giving her a wry look from beneath the hair falling into his eyes. “You’re on, Hawke.”
***
Hawke slung an arm over Fenris’ shoulders, avoiding narrowly the sharpest bits on his armor, tugging him closer to her so their cheeks were pressed together. He squirmed in her embrace, but made no serious efforts to extricate himself. She liked how he felt against her, even through the way her head swam.
“Had enough, Fenris?” she asked playfully, poking at his side with her free hand.
He chuckled. “The ale’s still awful, but does seem to get the job done,” he said, a rare smile stealing over his face. “I’ll grant the Fereldans that.” His breath tickled her cheek, soft and close.
“We should do this more often, you know,” Hawke said. She glanced around, saw Varric and Isabela at the bar fetching more drinks. “You. Me. This.”
Fenris stopped trying to get out from under her arm, resting his face against hers more deliberately. She felt very, very warm.
“I – might not be opposed to that,” he said, his voice a low thrum in her ear, and she turned her face and kissed him on the cheek.
He jerked away from her, suddenly scarlet. She felt herself blushing as well. They stared at each other for a moment with widened eyes.
“I – I should be going,” he said abruptly, getting to his feet and throwing a handful of coins onto the table. She opened her mouth to protest, and before she could speak he bent down and kissed her, his lips brushing against hers quickly, clumsily. He straightened back up, the blush now reaching all the way down his neck, and reclined his head toward her in a painfully restrained nod.
“Until next time, Hawke,” he said stiffly, and made his way to the exit as if a dragon were after him.
Hawke watched him go, unable to keep an enormous grin from her face. Varric and Isabela returned, drinks in hand, Isabela trying not to giggle.
“Well, that wasn’t the worst attempt at seduction I’ve ever seen, Hawke,” said Isabela, smirking.
“Shut up and give me another drink,” laughed Hawke. “I think I won this one.”