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There is a reason Hawke doesn’t actually run errands. Like, ever. A very good, legitimate reason. Several, even. It’s just… hard to explain those reasons to her mother.
It wasn’t like this had been a problem back in Ferelden. They stayed away from the cities, grew their own food when they could; she and Carver would go out in the woods and see who could gather the most berries and roots. And she’d show him hunters’ tracks and tell him they were darkspawn, coming to eat his brain.
It was… not very funny in hindsight.
They had a farm in Lothering?
The point was: she never used to have to go grocery shopping before Kirkwall, and it probably wouldn’t have been a problem if she had. But Kirkwall is not Ferelden. Kirkwall is… well, it’s fucking Kirkwall. She doesn’t know how normal people manage to go about their lives here, let alone someone like her who… attracts attention? That’s a fair way to put it, right?
So really, when it comes down to it, the body at Hawke’s feet is Not Her Fault.
Neither is the one pinned to the wall behind her by a dagger.
“Aveline does not need to know about this,” she tells the mabari snuffling through the dropped bags of food and gets a bark in response that sounds suspiciously insincere. Mother is going to take one look at these and start crying or something. Fuck.
She takes the beat-up and dust-encrusted food down to Anders and only has to fight off two half-hearted muggings on the way. He looks a little confused, but somewhere along the line had apparently decided it was better not to ask questions.
Actually, most of her friends seem to have that philosophy. It’s a good thing she attracts lunatics who keep following her around anyway.
The grocer gives her an odd look when she gets back up to Hightown and buys the exact same thing she left with an hour ago, but he blessedly keeps his mouth shut and accepts her coin and only stares a little bit at the slight blood splatter on her clothes.
She’s two blocks from home— two blocks— when the yelling starts. It’s the usual snotty Hightown fare: “Thief!” “Stop!” “Guard!” “My jewels!” “Damn Fereldans/elves/peasants/kids/pirates!” “Blah blah!” Hardly the sort of thing she usually gets involved in— Well, unless she’s the Damn Fereldan Thief. But she’s not this time. So really, it’s none of her business until someone starts waving coin around.
Except it becomes her business when the Damn Amateur runs smack into her, scattering her new purchases around worse than the last batch and dropping his own pouch of really not even very good jewels. Like, mediocre-at-best, hardly-nice-enough-to-even-be-sold-in-Hightown jewels. And really? She lost another bunch of nice quality produce for this crap? The complete failure of a thief tries to scramble away, but she trips him back down and considers having her dog sit on him for the few moments it takes, but decides she wants the satisfaction of doing it herself.
“Serah Hawke.” Right on time.
“Guardswoman Brennan! Not your usual venue. Is it punishment? What did you do, flirt with Donnic in front of Aveline?”
“Most people don’t actually like to taunt death, Serah Hawke.” Then what are they doing in Kirkwall? Hawke wonders but doesn’t bother asking. She’s pretty sure no one actually knows why they’re in Kirkwall. It’s not a place people choose to live, it’s just… something that happens to people. “I was ill, that’s all. Healer’s orders, I’m on light duty for the next week.”
“Glad you’re doing better then. Want a terrible thief? I seem to have sat on one.”
“That would be… much appreciated, Serah. I’ll give the Guard Captain your regards.” Even Aveline’s people don’t question the situations they find her in anymore. Maybe the guy in the Hanged Man is right and there’s lyrium in the water.
“Please don’t. I’ll end up getting another lecture about hypocrisy or something,” she says as she gets up and casually slips a couple average gems in her bags along with the food that she once again can’t bring home. They’re shit, but there’s still no sense in letting them go to waste.
Anders at least looks like he wants to ask the second time.
Hawke leaves Darktown by way of the docks and figures she can at least get some fresh fish before heading back up to the Hightown market. It’s early enough in the day that the flies haven’t started swarming too badly. A couple fish, wrapped and stowed away, and maybe her mother won’t actually notice how long this “quick hop over to the grocer” is taking. Add a small, misappropriated one slipped to the dog and maybe he won’t tattle.
“You are Hawke.” Fuck. She turns to find a Qunari, staring at her intently like they always do. Why do they have to stare?
“Not if it means you want something from me,” she says and sighs sadly at her new purchase. So much promise, about to be wasted. The dog knows it too, by his sad huff. The Qunari stays silent. He almost… looks confused? Is he actually— “Yes. I’m Hawke. What do you need this time?”
“One of our patrols has gone missing near your quarry—” She cuts him off before he can get any further.
“If you ask me if I killed them, I swear by the Maker I will kill you.” Apparently he has nothing to say to that. “This is the third time you've asked me if I killed one of your patrols. Why? Why do you keep asking? What makes you think “Some of our people are probably dead, must have been Hawke!”? I have never just gone out and killed one of your patrols!”
“You have killed three. And Arvaraad.”
“I have never just gone out and killed one of your patrols that didn’t attack me first!” He actually dares to open his mouth, the fucking pedant. “That’s not the point though! The point is that it sucks your “warriors” can’t manage to make it through a simple patrol around here, but it wasn’t me and it’s not my problem.” It’s really not, she tells herself as she quickly absconds. She is not Hawke: Qunari babysitter. She does not need to go out looking for more dead bodies. What she does need is to get home with actual food sometime before next week.
“You know,” she says offhand to the dog, “I think Operation Fish might actually be successful.”
The grocer spots her headed toward him again from across the square and it looks like the fucker’s laughing. Asshole. For that, her bags may mysteriously acquire some extra fruit before she tries to get home again.
Or they would, if she could make it to the grocer.
“Partner! There you are!” She could pretend she didn’t hear him, right? She could just keep walking and not look at him and pretend she never heard a thing and no one could fucking fault her for it. She dares anyone to try.
Except she still needs to get the food, which means she’ll need to stop and Hubert will catch up with her and make whiny noises for so many minutes before getting to the point. So she doesn’t actually ignore him, but she doesn’t turn around and go back to his stall either. She’s not that far away; he can come to her.
“Maker, I am glad you are here. I sent a runner to your home but you weren’t there,” he says, frazzled. When he needs to tell her something and opens with “Partner!” he’s always frazzled; which is really rather melodramatic in Hawke’s opinion. It’s not like he’s the one who has to go fight dragons and spiders and shit for the sake of not losing lives or needing to go through hiring and training new miners.
Speaking of which.
“What is it this time? More dragons? Animated corpses? Abominations? Random raids by uptight templars looking around every corner for imaginary abominations?”
“Worse.” He pauses, probably for dramatic effect. Fucking Orlesians. “Qunari.”
Oh fuck everything. Fuck Hubert. Fuck the Qunari. Fuck the piece of paper making her co-owner of a damned monster-magnet of a mine. Fuck the grocer she knows is laughing at her behind her back. Fuck you. Fuck your family. Fuck your cow.
She shoves the package of fish into Hubert’s chest, turns around, and stalks away hoping he gets fish juice all over his fancy clothes.
Conflict at the mine with the Qunari means a lot of Fereldan lives at stake, so she doesn’t really have time to go gather up a friend or two to help. In her single stroke of luck for the day, though, she runs into Isabela and Merrill along the way.
Apparently, if some rocks fall in a quarry and kill a Qunari or two, and no one is around to see it, it not only happens, but it also must be the result of underhanded tricks from honorless Fereldan bas. Even if at least one Fereldan miner is also killed. And maybe a few more from the cave-in that caused the rockslide.
Jansen, ever the spokesman for the miners, has been the one trying to argue with the Qunari until now. A futile effort if ever there was one, but at least it bought the time for Hawke to get here before the bloodbath.
“Thank the Maker you’re here,” Jansen breathes as she relieves him. “I’ve got men trying to find the bodies. We think we’ve lost six— or maybe five. No one’s seen Crankovich, but he wasn’t supposed to be in that area. Now, if you don’t mind, I think the boys and I are going to salvage what we can and run away. Good luck.” And then he turns and runs. As he does.
She hopes they find Crankovich. Hubert keeps foisting hiring and training duties on her because she just “[has] a way with, uh, [her] fellow Fereldans,” and finding five people willing to be the focus of her attention long enough to get through an interview will be hard enough. But that’s for later.
“Alright boys,” she addresses the Qunari, “I hear you lost a couple people. I also hear I lost more. Shit happens. How can I make you leave so I can get back to the very important work you pulled me away from?”
“Oh! Very important work?” Merrill says. “What is it? Can I help?” Hey, Merrill lives in Kirkwall. Alone. She’s probably bought groceries a bunch of times, right? And manages to get them home, even!
“... Maybe. We’ll talk after.” The lead Qunari— a Karasten maybe, from what little she’s gleaned while both killing and rescuing them— does not look amused. So what else is new.
“Two of ours are dead, their swords lost with their bodies. Those responsible must be struck down.” Of course.
“As it has probably been pointed out several times now: those responsible are already dead. I’m not about to let you just stomp through my mine, killing my workers left and right on some quest to avenge people who died in an accident.” Qunari always have such rigid posture. She wouldn’t have guessed they could puff up like this. “Look. My men will want to find their friends’ bodies first, but I will have them try to dig up the swords and I’ll bring them to your compound myself. Acceptable?”
It actually looks like it might be. Except there’s this one guy in back who keeps glaring at her companions like he’s about to do something very stupid and counterproductive. And there’s a growl from her side, so she’s not the only one who’s noticed. And now his hand is on his sword. And—
Well—
Look, technically she doesn’t attack first.
Isabela does.
And the first Qunari to swing at Hawke does so before she’s even gotten her daggers fully unsheathed. So, really, she still hasn’t just gone out and killed a Qunari patrol that didn’t attack her first.
And there are no survivors to contradict her.
So there.
Still, this means she’s going to have to gather up all these swords and lug them all the way back to the compound and say “Remember how I said I didn’t kill your patrol? About that—” Because everyone deserves whatever kind of weird funeral their people hold and also the Viscount really wants her to stay on the Arishok’s good… ish side to be their liaison. She’s accepted that, somehow, admitting to slaughtering his people is more endearing to the Arishok than just bringing the swords and lying by omission. And yeah, none of her people are going to spread around that they’re responsible, but dead men in Kirkwall seem to tell a shitload of tales.
It’s still light out when they get back to the city, but the shadows say sunset is threatening. By now, any respectable shopkeep in Hightown has packed up and headed home. Isabela abandons Hawke to go drink her daily dose of shit in the Hanged Man, but sweet, lovely Merrill waits for her while she delivers the swords.
“You said there was something important. Can I help? Is it exciting?”
“I really, really hope you can, Merrill. I have a very serious question for you. How and where do you get groceries?” Bless her. Bless Merrill’s precious heart. She is without a doubt the only one of Hawke’s friends who wouldn’t and doesn’t laugh at the question.
She even takes Hawke to her Lowtown grocer herself. And they’re not Hightown-quality, but they’re good enough Hawke wouldn’t rather give them to Anders and his patients again than bring them home. Merrill even offers to help her carry everything back.
It’s not ideal, but it’s achievable. And after she gets home and puts everything in the kitchen and maybe curses Bodhan for taking a vacation or whatever, she is going to give Merrill the best bear hug she can possibly manage. And maybe cry on her a bit. The dog will definitely tell Varric, but it’s not the kind of thing Varric would tell stories about, so Hawke can handle the teasing she’ll get from him.
She can do this.
Kirkwall 100%, absolutely has a templar problem. Not everything Anders preaches about is based in paranoia. There are injustices abound and way too much power given to people who are supposed to try to protect people they’re taught to hate.
But… there are times Hawke can kind of understand where they're coming from. She won’t say it out loud, especially around Anders, but—
As she watches her food fly through the air, some of it a little on fire… she gets it.
What is a day in Kirkwall without abominations, though, is she right? She lets Merrill take care of the rage demon. The dog pounces on the one blood mage who hasn’t turned yet. Which leaves two for Hawke. Part of her thinks, if it was someone else getting attacked, she might not even get out of bed for two abominations. It’s not like the templars compensate her every time she does their job for them. Meredith might not be able to wear such fancy, shiny armor and what would they do then?
“I’m sorry, Hawke,” Merrill says when the demon is dead, patting her on the shoulder a little awkwardly. Hawke can’t blame her, though. They probably don’t teach you how to comfort someone crying over singed vegetables in Orlesian society, let alone Dalish.
Anders looks almost angrily confused when he takes the third batch from her. Or— angry at his confusion. Or— something. Hawke is so tired.
“What—” She slaps a hand over his mouth before he can get any further, shaking her head.
“No,” she says, and walks away.
It’s dark, and Hawke is too ashamed that she can’t even manage to buy food to go home and face her mother. She doesn’t actually remember walking to the Hanged Man, but it’s not like she knows anywhere better to drown her sorrows. If she gets drunk enough, she can just pass out in Varric’s room and maybe do the same tomorrow and the next day and the next day, and maybe Varric won’t realize or care that she’s basically moved in and she’ll never have to go home and face her mother ever again.
It’s viable! Ish.
She orders two tankards of Corff’s strongest stuff. He calls it “swill”, serves it in these little cups, and won’t tell anyone what it’s made of, but it tastes like self-hatred and a few swallows could down a Qunari and two large mugs of it sound perfect right now.
She flops down at the table where Varric is doing paperwork or writing a story or writing a love letter to Meredith or something. The first cup is drained in a minute, the second she pushes out of Varric’s reach, and then she folds her arms on the table and buries her head in them and despairs.
“Varric? Am I a bad person?,” she asks, looking up just enough to be able to see him, and then, “Don’t answer that.”
He doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t need to. “You look like shit,” he says instead. Hawke almost thanks him. She probably looks way worse than shit. “Wait a second for me to find some blank paper and you can tell me all about it.”
She waits. He’s a good friend who doesn’t know yet that she’s planning on crashing in his room for the foreseeable future. Call it rent. She drains half of the second tankard and is pleased to find the room already starting to sway.
“How do people do it?” she asks, possibly of the swill.
“Do what?” Varric responds, and that works too. Varric always has an answer, even if it’s bullshit.
“I don’t understand. They just… go out. They leave their homes, and they walk to the shops, and they buy food— good, fresh food— and then they just… go home. That’s how it’s supposed to work right? Just, go out, get shit, go back. Quick, simple, what am I missing? Is there another step there? Do I need to wear a certain color that says: “Out on errands, do not disturb”? I don’t understand!” She stares at him intently— or as intently as she can when her eyes don’t feel like focusing right— waiting for wisdom or white lies. What she gets is a little gaping.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re telling me you look like you were pushed in front of a stampede of pissed off brontos because you… tried to buy groceries?”
“And get them home,” she adds. Because that mostly seems to be the hard part.
“So when Blondie was here earlier and told me you kept giving him food—”
“Well I couldn’t take them home! I can’t bring my mother crushed fruit and demon-burned vegetables!” It was perfectly reasonable and definitely not the thing that should be making people ask questions when things like sitting on terrible thieves and randomly falling from a roof into a super-secret Carta meeting barely raise brows.
“He said you brought him two—”
“Three.”
“You brought him three batches of technically-ruined food.” She can’t tell if that was supposed to be a question or not.
“Well, I didn’t have time to take him the fish before I had to stop the missing Qunari from killing all my miners, but if it ruined Hubert’s clothes then it wasn’t wasted.”
Varric stares at her. She finishes the rest of her swill and contemplates going to get more even though she’s not sure she can actually walk now. “Give me a minute,” he says, and leaves her alone in her misery to go talk to… some teenager? Money changes hands. Typical business for Varric, but does he have to do it now? This should be Hawke Time. And Hawke Time is supposed to come first. Who else is going to have his back and let him turn the (increasingly pathetic) fights into some ridiculous tale the next time the Merchants' Guild sends assassins after him?
She may be pouting when he gets back but fuck shame. Shame is for people who think getting food home is easy.
“Your mother should be getting a delivery within the hour,” he says as he sits back down. Oh. That— Well, she can’t help but feel a little indignant, but mostly she feels like kissing him. She doesn’t. He’s a little too far away and she’s not so drunk she doesn’t know she’s too drunk to try getting up.
Instead, she grabs his hand and squeezes and informs him that she is declaring him the first surface dwarf paragon as of this moment and if any of those uptight, stone-licking, nug-fuckers in Orzammar don’t like it they can fight her.
“I’ll be sure to let them know,” he laughs, and either pats her hand in patronizing love or tries to pry her grip from his other hand, she’s honestly not sure. If it’s the latter, he fails and pretends that wasn’t what he was trying to do at all. “Now, why don’t you start from the beginning.”