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Somewhere along the line, and he's not sure when, Garrett starts watching the way people use their hands. It probably has a lot to do with that first year in Kirkwall and working for Meeran, and how if you kept a wary eye on a man's hands as well as his face, you'd know a second before everyone else did that he was definitely going to pull a knife. But after a while, when he has friends at his back, it isn't about making sure that he doesn't end up with a blade in his chest anymore.
Take Anders, for example. Anders' hands are perpetually stained with elfroot, his fingers long and thin and his nails chipped. "Darktown isn't exactly the cleanest place," he jokes when he picks dirt out from under his nails while they're loitering by the docks. But they're always clean when there's surgery to be done-- except for the bit of elfroot that never quite goes away, the stain too deep under the skin to come clean no matter how hard Anders tries. His hands are always gentle when someone needs healing, warm and full of fade-glow that doesn't quite remind Hawke of coming home.
And Varric. Varric has crossbow callouses and golden hair across his knuckles, and a spot of ink on his thumb. He uses his short, thick fingers to weave his stories just as much as he uses his words. And he always has his trigger-finger quick and ready on Bianca when Hawke needs him, just as Varric himself is quick to use those same hands to scoop up his winnings on Wicked Grace night with a flash of a smile.
Aveline has freckles on her strong hands, not that anyone ever sees them after she joins the guard and dons her uniform. Her gloves make sure of that, thick leather covering up every last speck when she grips on her shield, adding layers for protection, for defense. But when Donnic slips a ring on her finger, he sees them and smiles.
Isabela's hands are rough and worn from the sea and sun. But they're just as nimble as the rest of her when she teases and strokes one clever finger up Hawke's thigh under the table, making him blush and choke on what may or may not be whiskey in his tankard. Her hands are always teasing like that, appearing out of nowhere like the rogue she is and disappearing just as quickly. Isabela isn't shy, and neither are her hands, tossing challenges to Hawke's enemies just as easily as she tosses back Corff's brew with a hearty laugh.
Merrill bites her nails. "It's a habit," she says quickly, whenever Hawke catches her doing it. "It's just, oh, they're there, and well. You know." Hawke teases her mercilessly about it. Her palms are littered with scars. He never mentions those. He just grasps her hand tightly and makes her skip along with him through the Hightown market, scandalizing the well-to-do nobles and making her laugh until her sides ache. It isn't quite the same as skipping through meadows, but it'll do.
Mother's hands are long and thin and warm, but horribly Ferelden until they move back into the family Estate. Then she takes great pride in making them look nice and soft with all sorts of silly Orlesian lotions and salves. With a good helping of Lady Elegant's finest creams and far too much of Hawke's coin, she makes her hands look like she was never a poor apostate's widow, but they're still just as warm.
Carver's hands are big, like the rest of him, ruddy and cracked from standing too long in the cold while Hawke is busy with what Carver calls, "charming the Dalish, of all people, up on sodding Sundermount." He whines and complains and sneaks a bit of lotion from mother's precious stash when they get home, rubbing it in and complaining all the more when it stings where the skin's broken.
Bethany has dainty hands, small and clever like she is. Hawke watches as she grows callouses from using her staff during their mercenary days, and then later, when he's running errand after errand trying to dig up money for the expedition. Her hands are still small and clever then, but they're also strong, and when she ends up with pollen streaking her fingertips from weaving daisy chains for him and Carver to wear, that's when he likes her hands the best.
Sebastian doesn't quite have the hands of an archer. The callouses are there, in all the right places, but his hands aren't as worn as the rest of them-- he's still a prince and a priest first, for all the hours he puts in next to Hawke. It shows in the way he holds onto his candle in the Chantry during services, holding it desperately and reverently like flickers of the flame are Andraste herself as he bows his head and prays, prays.
Hawke hasn't seen Fenris' hands, only the glint of the dark, sharp tips of his talons and the smallest glimpse of light beneath the joints that bursts through the metal when Fenris carves his way through slavers in Lowtown. But that's what Fenris is, all sharp edges covering up the light that seems to shy away the minute you catch sight of it. By the end of a fight, Fenris is usually left with blood dripping from his gauntlets until Hawke tosses him what's left of a moth-eaten scarf. Collecting junk is worth more to Hawke than all the treasures in the Deep Roads then, just for the quirk of a not-quite smile that Fenris gifts him in return.
Garrett himself has big hands. "Big enough to strangle a dragon," Varric would say, "and then a bit bigger, because he's Fereldan and he's Hawke, and Hawke doesn't do small." Garrett's got dirt under his nails, same as Anders, from working hard for every scrap of coin and bread he can get, and callouses too, just like Bethany, lining his palms from twirling his staff.
There's a scar on the back of his hand from falling out of a tree in a tussle with Carver, and maybe a dozen freckles from standing out in the hot sun on watch with Aveline for Meeran, back in the day. Isabela tends to draw constellations with them when they've had too much ale and then laughs at him when he wakes up with ink smeared across his face in the morning. When he takes Merrill shopping, she always stops to stare at his hands because, she says, "Well, they're so much bigger, aren't they, human's hands. Though it's only the men, isn't it. And Aveline. But hers would have to be big, wouldn't they, carrying a sword like that."
The only time Fenris mentions Hawke's hands is when he reluctantly admits that not all mages are evil. "Magisters only use their magic for themselves," he growls, wine slurring his voice just a bit. "But with your hands, you help others. That is not a small thing." Mother, however, mentions them at least twice a week, fussing over him when he walks in the door, telling him to go wash up. Then she forces a little pot of lotion into his palms, saying that he's a noble now, so he ought to look the part and take care of his hands, because he can't exactly shake hands with the viscount when he has hands like a miner. Really, Garrett doesn't think the viscount would mind. As long as Garrett continues to keep the shaky peace they have with the Qunari, the viscount really, really couldn't care less what Garrett does, dirty hands or not. But it's for mother, so he does what she says. Carver teases him for it, and Garrett sticks his tongue out at him like they're still children.
But all of that isn't important.
What is important is that Garrett's got a daisy-chain courtesy of Bethany atop his head, and it clashes horribly with his beard and armor and he doesn't care in the slightest because his baby sister made it. He's got Isabela's ink constellations smeared across his nose from last night's game that he barely remembers, a beardless dwarf humming a tune next to him while coins clink cheerfully in his pockets, and a scrap of a moth-eaten scarf in his pocket for Fenris.
But the most important thing of all is that Garrett has planned a day-trip with his merry band of misfits to the Wounded Coast to keep his hands busy, and that's all he really needs.