#Kiera be nice to Cole or I will turn this Inquisition around

[gayhawkelatehomicide]

Alike In Sorrow pt. 2

Here's the next section of this! This one's a bit chonky but yanno. We're doing our best.

***

Words: 1646

Rating: T for alcohol and swearing

Additional Tags: some Isabela lovin' in here, also Varric being the world's best bestie, more questionable coping mechanisms though this time there's less murder, Kiera be nice to Cole or I will turn this Inquisition around, brief cameo from my Trevelyan tho he's got his own problems

***

     "Liquor and laughing, sea salt spray and spices. She dances through the dark, daggers darting, dangerous and daring. Glint of teeth when she grins, leather boots and spilled ale, gold gleaming and her voice soft in the early morning. She misses you." 

     Kiera scowls at the kid. This time, he's materialized sitting on the other end of the table, feet on the bench. She's had about four drinks too many and was getting close to comfortably wasted, listening to the Chargers' raucous laughter and slowly relaxing into her corner chair. The noise and the smells are almost right, just missing the faint fishy tang you can never escape in Lowtown, and the sound of Norah complaining about the customers. Hawke was beginning to feel vaguely at home; any minute now someone would burst through the door with a problem only the Champion can solve. 

     Trust Varric's little mind reader to show up and ruin a decent drinking session. She's really going to have to have words with him about the kind of people he decides to adopt. First it was her—probably the best thing to ever happen to him—and his judgment has gone downhill from there. Merrill was kind of a mutual mistake, but Cole is a different issue entirely.

     "Do you ever ask before you go rooting around in people's heads, or is that too much effort?" She asks, finishing her drink because if she's going to have a conversation with the spirit kid, she'd like to be drunker than this.

     "I can only hear people who need me," he explains. She's not sure how she knows, because the hat still obscures most of his face, but he's watching the drinking with concerned disapproval. It's uncomfortably similar to how Varric used to watch her, in the months after the fight with the Arishok and Isabella's disappearance. 

     Hawke quirks a sardonic eyebrow at him, not feeling quite up to her usual witty repartee. "And I need you?"

     "You're... sad. Hurt and hurting. Waiting, weighed down with wars you didn't win, too heavy to fly. People who need protecting. A hall with a hundred doors, each one locked by loss. A tower deep in the ground with barriers built by blood. Father's voice in the shadows. Some doors should stay shut. You think you let the darkness out, but it isn't your fault. None of it was your fault." 

     Kiera looks at him for a long moment, trying to summon up the energy to get mad. Her analogy about the closed doors in her heart isn't one she's ever spoken out loud, not even to Varric, and they haven't told anyone the details of her father's work with the Gray Wardens to bind Corryphyus. If she had any doubts that the kid was reading minds, they're gone now. She wants to be pissed that he's sticking his nose in her head and looking for the really painful stuff she locked away, but her own Maker-damned sense of fairness intrudes. He's only trying to help. And hell, maybe she needed to hear some of this shit. She sighs.

     "So Isabela misses me, huh?" 

     "A swagger in her step like the swell of the sea, eyes distant as the horizon and just as beautiful, freedom feels like my ship under my soles and her sword-rough hand in my hand, Maker bring her back to me." His voice is rhythmic, like he's reciting something he memorized, but Hawke recognizes her lover's sentiments all the same. Isabela rarely says such things aloud, of course. The two of them don't need romantic words to understand how much they mean to each other. She knows Isabela worries when they're apart, because Hawke's conscience drives her into danger wherever she goes, but worrying has never been a good enough reason for either of them to change how they act. Still, she appreciates hearing it.

     "I miss her too," Kiera hears herself mumble into her drink, which has been refilled by a passing barmaid. She didn't mean to say it. Something about this kid inspires her to uncharacteristic honesty. Better figure out how to quit that before someone notices. 

     "I know."

     "She's not even here," Hawke rallies, sitting up straighter to squint curiously at Cole. "How can you read her mind from all the way in Llomeryn?" 

     He shrugs, a gesture which looks a little too stiff to be natural for him. "Her hurt touches yours."

     "Huh."

     Before she can come up with something else to ask—anything so they don't have to talk about Corryphyus and all the people she made it possible for him to hurt—a commotion at the door draws both of their attention. Inquisitor Trevelyan, Varric, and Warden Blackwall come trooping in looking like they've been dragged ass-first through Darktown, which means they were probably out looking for Maker-knows-what in that awful swamp to the southeast. She has a distant memory of listening to Varric gripe about the trip before leaving, and the vague impression that his lengthy absence might have something to do with her decision to get absolutely wasted. Regardless of her motivations, he's here now, so Hawke lifts a hand to wave him over, favoring the Inquisitor with a halfhearted salute. 

     Trevelyan returns it, bemused, then follows Blackwall to the bar. Varric changes course to join Hawke and Cole. Except now there's no Cole, and it's just Hawke sitting by herself at her corner table, looking drunk and a little pathetic. Varric coasts to a stop as soon as he gets close enough to be heard, staying well out of range of any potential retribution for his obligatory quip about the number of empty mugs she hasn't let the waitresses take away. (You learn to hang onto them, in the Hanged Man, if only as a way to keep track of how many you've had. Corrf likes to charge you for at least three extras if you don't count them yourself. Hawke usually lets him—it's not like she doesn't have the coin—but it's a hard habit to break.)

     "We've got to talk about the company you keep, Varric," she beats him to the punch. Her words come out a little blurry, but she's sure he gets the gist.

     "Oh, this I've gotta hear." Varric's worried expression slides easily into a practiced grin as he pulls up a chair. "You getting on my case for hanging out with crazies. Somebody alert the Empress." 

     She sticks out her tongue at him, with great dignity. "Your little..." Hawke waves a hand vaguely attic-ward, too drunk to come up with anything more polite than 'shit' and pretty certain that she'd get in trouble for saying it. "He keeps fuckin' around in my head."

     An eyebrow goes up. "And you remember it? The kid slips through most people's memory like water."

     "Prolonged exposure to Merrill and Anders," she suggests by way of explanation, though most of the syllables get lost on the way from her brain to her mouth. 

     Varric is, by now, an expert at translating her drunken slurring into coherent speech. "That might make sense if you squint. Good enough for me, but don't let Sparkler hear it. He'll haul you off for tests." He starts consolidating the empty cups into rows to make them easier to collect. "Maybe you can help me talk to Cole sometime. I can't keep most of our conversations straight unless he's trying real hard to be present." 

     "Nah, that's part of the problem," she squints over the rim of her most recent mug as she takes another hearty swig. "Can't really keep hold of what he said, just know I'm mad about it."

     "Yeah, that sounds like you," Varric agrees in a tone somewhere between resigned and exasperated. "You know, Hawke, he's a spirit of compassion. He helps people work out whatever's eating them, and you've got more baggage than most people. A lot more."

     "What, are you trying to imply I'm not a well-adjusted member of society?" Hawke grins, settling her chin on her arms to be closer to eye level with her best friend. It's harder to see him through the mugs from this angle, but her neck doesn't ache as much.

     "No, no. I'd never spread such obvious slander," Varric assures her. "Just saying, maybe let the kid help. If he messes up too badly, you won't remember it anyways."

     This seems like a sensible approach, so she nods without sitting up again. Hawke is awfully comfortable all of a sudden—since she stopped wearing her breastplate to the tavern it's much easier to slouch against the table without the gorget getting in the way. Her eyes slide shut. She's tired and drunk and warm, and she's just going to close them for a minute. Besides, Varric is here now and she can relax for the first time in days. Varric won't let anything happen while she rests. He'll wake her up if anything comes to burn down their city. It's safe.

     She wakes up in her room, bleary and momentarily panicked, sitting bolt upright before the familiar smell of ink, leather, and Bianca's distinctive rail lubricant sinks in. Varric has his back to her—though Hawke doesn't for a moment make the mistake of thinking he doesn't know she's awake—and is humming softly to himself as he lovingly works oil into the wheels and wires of his crossbow. The windows are closed, the door is bolted, there's a fire in the grate, her boots are by the door, her armor is on its stand, and Hawke is tucked into her bed. The muscles in her shoulders relax. She lies back down, feeling the tension go out of her neck and forehead, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly a few times to force herself to calm down. Bethany taught her that, when they were very young. She's not alone.

     It is safe.