Hawke half-expects Emmrich to politely request that he move his meaty paw elsewhere, or at least ignore what amounts to a rather tactless breach of personal space. The smaller hand that comes to rest atop his is therefore unexpected, albeit very welcome. Hawke stares at it, stupidly, then glances up at Emmrich with an expression of flustered surprise. “I like your rings.” Maker. With lines like that, it’s little wonder that his love life is drier than Meredith’s arid, mummified—
Anyway. “Perhaps you’re right. If faith brings people comfort, let them hold onto it. And yet part of me hopes that things will never go back to the way they were. Blind adherence to tradition is what got us into this mess in the first place.” He huffs a laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Maker, I sound like Anders.”
When Emmrich withdraws his hand, Hawke finds that he sorely misses the contact, but he knows that sitting there holding hands like teenaged paramours is not a strategic use of their very limited time together. Herding his thoughts back to safer territory, he allows Emmrich to help him to his feet. If he should lean on that supportive arm for a few seconds longer than necessary, then what of it?
“That sounds like quite the band of misfits. Reminds me of the old days, actually, back when Varric and I—” He stumbles onto that emotional landmine with all the grace of a blind Orlesian dowager trying to dance a minuet after half a bottle of claret. He might have broken down then and there if not for Emmrich’s deceptively casual mention of his team’s resident griffon. Hawke is so flummoxed that he forgets to be devastated. “Wait. What do you mean, a griffon?”
He’s always had terrible luck when it comes to getting men to stick around after they spend the night with him. The fact that he and Emmrich have spent the night exploring the Fade rather than engaging in more carnal pursuits evidently makes little difference. “Andraste’s tits,” he grumbles at the patch of air formerly occupied by his companion. “At least give me some warning!”
no subject
Anyway. “Perhaps you’re right. If faith brings people comfort, let them hold onto it. And yet part of me hopes that things will never go back to the way they were. Blind adherence to tradition is what got us into this mess in the first place.” He huffs a laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Maker, I sound like Anders.”
When Emmrich withdraws his hand, Hawke finds that he sorely misses the contact, but he knows that sitting there holding hands like teenaged paramours is not a strategic use of their very limited time together. Herding his thoughts back to safer territory, he allows Emmrich to help him to his feet. If he should lean on that supportive arm for a few seconds longer than necessary, then what of it?
“That sounds like quite the band of misfits. Reminds me of the old days, actually, back when Varric and I—” He stumbles onto that emotional landmine with all the grace of a blind Orlesian dowager trying to dance a minuet after half a bottle of claret. He might have broken down then and there if not for Emmrich’s deceptively casual mention of his team’s resident griffon. Hawke is so flummoxed that he forgets to be devastated. “Wait. What do you mean, a griffon?”
He’s always had terrible luck when it comes to getting men to stick around after they spend the night with him. The fact that he and Emmrich have spent the night exploring the Fade rather than engaging in more carnal pursuits evidently makes little difference. “Andraste’s tits,” he grumbles at the patch of air formerly occupied by his companion. “At least give me some warning!”