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Hawke, when not with Varric, largely keeps to themselves at Skyhold. The Champion seems wary of Inquisition forces; likening them to circling wolves.
“We helped the mage rebellion.” the Inquisitor points out.
Hawke just smiles in a way that looks more like baring teeth.
“Still a lot of ex-templars around here.”
Hawke's not a mage, they point out, but the Champion just shrugs.
“Still don't trust em.”
Sometimes, they'll drink alone in the tavern. Seated at the bar with a mug of ale between their gloved hands. They're much quieter than Varric made them out to be. Eventually, Cole offers some insight.
“They're thinking.” he says, then adds, “Their thoughts sound like poetry. Blue, warm hands, soft voice, golden hair. I like it best when they think of freckled noses and feathers.”
“Who are they thinking about?” the Inquisitor asks.
Cole shrugs. “No one here.” he says, “That's why they're quiet.”
A full week passes without incident. Hawke is civil—even helpful. They offer to assist training the Inquisition mages and join in on a Wicked Grace game. Things feel easier all around but then, one evening, the Inquisitor stops by the tavern just in time to watch a soldier sidle up to Hawke.
“So, Champion, what ever happened to that bastard apostate you knew?”
Hawke grips their mug a little tighter and Bull and the chargers pause to look over. The Inquisitor and Bull exchange glances, then they return to watching Hawke.
“Pardon?”
Venom oozes from Hawke's very being. The soldier clearly isn't picking up on it—too wasted from cheap ale.
“Got rid of him, yeah?” he asks, leaning heavily on the bar, “Fucker's lucky I couldn't get at him.”
In one fluid motion Hawke reaches up and grabs the man's shirt, jerking him forward into the bar. His balance breaks easily and his face collides with the counter. Hawke lets go and he flails backwards to the floor, clutching a bloodied face. The whole bar watches as Hawke takes a long swig off their ale before getting up and leaving.
Hawke becomes a small obsession of Cole's. They think in poetry about scratchy chins and purring cats. He finds a gray tabby kitten in Redcliffe and brings it back to Skyhold in his pack for them. They hold it, little paws reaching for their kaddis-swiped nose, and almost cry.
A few days later the solider is back with a friend. They hound Hawke with questions. Where is he? You can't really want to protect him, can you Champion? On and on.
Hawke keeps their composure a little longer this time. It's only when one uses the word monster that both men end up leaving with busted lips and a bill for a broken table.
Cole makes his way down afterwards and sits at the bar with them. Hawke orders him a glass of juice and they sit in peaceful silence.
The boy finds them the next day in the garden and they sit together in the shade. Hawke seems almost comforted by him at this point.
“He misses you.” he says and touches their arm.
“Who told you?” they ask, smile tugging at their lips.
“Justice.” Cole replies, then smiles, “He misses you too. It's a different kind. But he thought you should know.”
Hawke smiles, a sad little thing, and spends the afternoon teaching Cole how to make flower crowns like Merrill taught them. By the end of the day he's hooked on it.
The trip days later to Adamant, through the Fade and back, leaves Hawke bruised in many ways. Among more obvious concerns it dredges up old memories. Cole senses it easily.
“Safe. Not him but still safe. If they were here, things wouldn't have been so scary.”
Hawke nods and presses their knuckles against Cole's arm playfully.
They leave a day later for the warden base of operations. When they finish hugging Varric senseless, Cole pulls him aside.
“Will they see him there?” he asks.
The dwarf shrugs.
“Blondie's already waiting on them, kid. I'm sure of it.” he replies.
Hawke gets to see him in the main hall of Weisshaupt weeks later and instantly poetry blooms on their lips and in their heart, this time joyful and not melancholy. As they bury themselves in warm arms and a feathered cloak, they think of the quiet boy—or spirit, they can't say—and smile.
If he could have heard the poem now, he would have cried.