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“Hawke, come away from the window.”
Anders holds out a hand to lead Hawke back to the party she specifically asked them not to throw. If there’s anything she doesn’t want to celebrate this year, it’s her birth.
“Sitting here won’t make the elf appear,” he tries, though admittedly not very hard, not to show his delight in Fenris’s absence.
With one last glance, Hawke sighs and changes the subject, “Everyone better keep an eye on the weather because if you get stranded I won’t put you up.”
Anders chuckles, seeing straight through Hawke’s faux crankiness.
Compared to the dismal view out the window of blistering winds blowing icy snow across dark cobbled streets, the warm glow of the hall and her friends is welcome.
The estate has been too full of ghosts in recent months; it is good to see it filled with life. Even it that life is the drunken shenanigans of four tipsy criminals and a disapproving Aveline.
“You found her!” Merrill cheers. Her wine splashes over the rim of her glass as her arms fly up in the air.
“Easy there, Daisy.”
“Sorry, but Isabela was just saying she wanted to give Hawke her birthday present –”
This time Merrill’s hand flies up to her mouth as though she gave the game away. As if Hawke couldn’t guess what sort of a present Isabela has in mind.
“Not to worry, kitten. I can give it to her later.” Isabela gives Hawke a wink.
Her message is received with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
Aveline’s disgust is plain from her disapproving pursed lips.
“There’s some for you too, big girl.”
Isabela dares climbing into Aveline’s lap and it is a test to see how long before either Aveline throws her off or she falls off from laughing too hard. In the end, it’s too close to call. Aveline shoves at exactly the same moment Isabela starts to lean a little too far to the side. Isabela continues to cackle even as she rubs her ass and leaves in search of more rum.
The room settles down. Hawke takes up a hand of cards with Varric, Aveline, and Anders while Merrill plays on the floor with Stinky. When Isabela returns, a bottle of rum procured from the cellar, she too sits on the floor and postures what it would be like to have a canine crew member.
And quiet falls over them, save from the occasional boastful shout over a round of cards. All in all, a more tolerable evening than Hawke expected from her last few birthdays.
Orana interrupts their evening with dinner.
Never one to miss an opportunity for displaying his oratory, Varric raises a toast, “Twenty-nine years ago –”
Hawke coughs loudly. She doesn’t care that her friends know how old she is, but it has been a good evening thus far – without much mention of the particular day of year. No need to spoil it.
Varric pouts slightly; no doubt, dismayed he’ll have to discard his prepared speech. But he is nearly always better on the fly than rehearsed, coming across as natural and honest rather than stiff and unbelievable.
“To Leandra.” His voice takes on a warm tone; Hawke sits up straighter to listen. Gone is the wry note of the roast to come, Varri has nothing but generosity for mother. “Never was there a more kind, brave, and romantic soul. When she saw a chance for happiness, she took it. And this day, twenty-nine years ago, she brought our Hawke into the world. I can’t imagine Hawke made it very easy for her poor beleaguered mother, but Leandra has our thanks.”
He tips his glass and sips, the others following suit with a call of ‘Here! Here!’ from Aveline.
Hawke drinks too, pausing only slightly as the rim hits her lips in an extra act of reflection.
There have never been many constants in Hawke’s life. No home. No friends. Her family has disappeared faster than snuffing out a candle, though she thought she could always rely on them.
She chides herself because mother was right; the only constant there will ever be in her life is trouble. How long before it finds her again? Before it drives all her new friends away?
The whiskey trickles down her throat as the door slams open, startling Hawke to choking.
The fire roars, both fueled and fighting the wind gusts forcing their way into the estate. Snow piles in the entryway as a lone cloaked figure is blown in and struggles to latch the heavy door.
One last burst wind of as the door shuts blows the hood off the unexpected guest’s white hair.
Hawke swallows, the whiskey finally finding its way down her throat into her summersaulting stomach.
“Fenris!” Merrill cheers.
“We were beginning to think you stood us up,” Isabela crooks her brow in Hawke’s direction.
“Hoping – more like,” Ander mutters, only audible to Hawke.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
He is stiff and uncomfortable. A result of certain company or reentering this house after that night, Hawke cannot tell.
Varric waves Fenris to the table, “Stop apologizing and eat – have a drink.”
Fenris hesitates to take a seat, opting to pour himself a glass of wine first. He touches very little of the meager portion on his plate, Hawke notices, but the emptier the glass becomes, the more he seems to relax and enjoy himself.
The others have no trouble resuming their merriment and lead on from the table back to the hall for more Wicked Grace. This time, Fenris, Isabela, and Merrill are dealt in.
They play several rounds before Aveline blows Isabela’s cheating out of proportion.
“Stop looking at Merrill’s card, wench,” she spits through gritted teeth.
“I’m looking out for her best interests.”
“You’re not even helping her. You’re using it as an excuse to glance at Anders’ hand.”
On Merrill’s other side, Anders clutches his cards to his chest, “Hey!”
Isabela shrugs, “It’s not my fault you hold your cards out for everyone to see.”
The game dissolves into a shouting match, so the others find alternate means to occupy themselves. Varric absorbs himself in the nearest book. Merrill seems interested in playing with Stinky some more, but compelled to defend herself when Anders suggests a blood mage would use their magic to cheat at cards. He’s as sore a loser as Aveline. Fenris draws away from the table entirely, retreating to the window with a bottle of wine.
And the pleasant part of their evening, it would appear, is over. Hawke rubs her temples as the two arguments unfold before her.
She looks to Varric, but he’s no help, content to let things play out.
Frustrated, she huffs, but no one notices. Hawke thinks it’s just about time they all left. But a tap on her shoulder diverts her from kicking them all out that minute.
Fenris silently beckons Hawke to follow. He’s made himself cozy in the armchair bedside the window, having acquired an unopened bottle. Hawke snatches it for herself.
“Maker, this stuff is awful,” she gags, but takes another swing anyway. “So did you want me for something?”
Fenris avoids eye contact, “You looked like you needed rescuing.”
The wine goes down easier.
They sit, not able to look at each other for any more than a moment, so they watch the snow fall and pile on the eaves and in the streets. Against the wind, heavily bundled lamplighters set the world outside aglow.
In the corner of her eye, Fenris shivers. Hawke never really considered Free Marches’ winters to be harsh, not when compared with the brutal blizzards seen in Ferelden, but the mild Tevinter climate will do nothing to thicken the blood.
Whenever mother was cold, father would wrap an arm around her and hold her close. Hawke fights the urge to do the same for Fenris. She desperately wants to; these distant months of glances and silences have been unbearable. Hawke shivers.
Another still comes over the estate. Without Hawke’s notice both arguments die down. Varric and Merrill take up new positions beside the fire, exchanging stories. Aveline roughhouses with Stinky, leaving Isabela to badger Anders.
But when the winds rattle the windows, it causes a stir among her friends. They move to gather their cloaks and scarves and Hawke suddenly regrets their leaving.
“I would hate to find you all frozen on my doorstep. There’s plenty of space – stay.”
The group is flooded with relief, but Hawke has eyes only for Fenris. Their gazes finally lock and he agrees to stay too.
Everyone gathers back around the fire, pulling more armchairs and sofas around to feel the heat. Merrill snuggles in next to Hawke, taking advantage of the empty seat, but Fenris stays close.
Drinks are filled once more, but nobody empties their glass before drifting off, the fire dimming as well. Hawke’s eyelids grow heavy, lulled by Merrill’s light breath.
When her eyes are closed, she can imagine it is Bethany beside her and Aveline’s louder snores are Carver. Isabela could almost be mother, not so long gone; she pretends the combined sounds of Varric and Anders are how she remembers father asleep.
For a change, she is grateful the house is filled to the brim – warm and cozy, everyone together.
There is one sound Hawke can’t place in her childhood – only a far more recent past.
Fenris rasps in his sleep; it resembles nothing, but his voice. It resonates in Hawke’s ear and rumbles in her gut, and she wishes it were closer.
Turning without disturbing Merrill, Hawke whispers, “Fenris.”
“Mmm,” he hums, still half-asleep.
“Thanks.”
“Mmm?”
“For staying.”
“Mm-mm,” he nods.
And Hawke rolls back over.
“Hawke?”
She cranes her neck to see Fenris.
“Happy birthday.”
Hawke’s face burns and Fenris buries his into the back of the chair, but they say no more. They fall asleep as gently as the snow.