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Hawke is… very crass.
Evelyn tells Varric as much after she leaves Hawke to his thoughts on the battlements.
“That’s putting it delicately,” Varric chuckles. “He’s got a filthier mouth than Isabela. He drove Seneschal Bran up the wall every single time we went to the Viscount’s Keep.”
“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?” she muses aloud. “I mean, he’s the new Lord Amell, isn’t he?”
“Hawke was never one for all that crap,” Varric says, waving a hand dismissively. “He was only ever in it for the estate. As far as he was concerned, the rest of those poncy Kirkwall nobles could drown in their fancy wines that tasted like ennui while he went for good, strong ale in the Hanged Man.”
“Charming,” Evelyn says, in tones that indicate she finds it charming in the same way Corypheus is charming, which is to say, not at all.
Varric snorts. “Don’t let the potty mouth fool you, Inquisitor. Hawke’s a good sort.”
“Is this before or after he helped blow up a Chantry?” she asks skeptically.
“Oh, no,” Varric says. “That was all on Blondie. Hawke’s a big softie. You’ll see.”
Evelyn hums. It is not a very convinced hum.
---
Hawke grows bored of simply lazing around on the battlements, and soon he takes to imposing his company upon her and her party whenever she goes out to the field, especially if Varric is accompanying her.
As… indelicate as Hawke can be, Evelyn can’t deny that he is a rather good fighter.
He hits enemies over the head with his staff just as often as he throws spells, and she finds it impressive, to be honest, that he’s so very different from the slim, willowy mages she usually encounters. More than once she finds herself staring at the muscles bunching on his arms as he twirls his staff, or the way he sprints and ducks and rolls around the battlefield, charging into the fray instead of casting from the fringes.
“You fight very well, Serah Hawke,” she tells him after one altercation in the Exalted Plains, as she wipes her daggers clean with the cloth she keeps tucked in her belt.
Hawke twirls his staff, cocky, shaking off most of the blood on the blade before wiping it on the grass.
“I know, I’m bloody brilliant, aren’t I?” He grins at her, sidelong, and it’s a handsome grin, but Evelyn Trevelyan was not raised to swoon over every handsome man who gives her the slightest bit of attention.
She stares at him, her face carefully blank.
“What?” Hawke asks.
“I take it back. You’re absolutely insufferable.”
He sticks out his tongue. She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, and makes off to search the bodies.
“Bit of a cunt, isn’t she?” she hears him whisper in an aside to Varric.
“Well, you’re a bit of a dick, Hawke,” Varric whispers back in what she assumes is her defense.
“Is that you saying we’re perfect for each other?”
Varric laughs. “Don’t even go there, Hawke.”
---
She’s sparring with Cassandra in Skyhold’s courtyard when Hawke saunters up to them, confident as you please, and hands her a spray of crystal grace.
“I think we got off to a bad start,” he says. “So here. Hi, I’m Garrett Hawke. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Trevelyan.”
Evelyn takes the flowers. She says: “These are from the garden.”
“Yes.”
“My garden.”
“Er… yes.”
Evelyn looks to Cassandra, who has been watching the exchange. “I’d give him a five out of ten,” Cassandra says.
“Well pardon me,” Hawke snaps, “if there’s a bit of a shortage on flowers on top of a fucking mountain—”
Evelyn hides a delicate laugh behind her hand.
“Thank you, I suppose. It’s a lovely thought, Serah Hawke. I appreciate the gesture.”
“So…” Hawke says, rocking on his heels and grinning. “We can be friends, then?”
“Only if you promise to watch your language,” she teases.
“Well, damn,” Hawke says, and at her raised brow he adds: “I mean— of course, my lady.”
And then he bows to her, an outrageously exaggerated sketch of the typical Marcher court greeting, and grins when she responds in kind with a perfect little curtsey.
---
Hawke’s attempts at curbing his swearing habits aren’t very successful, but Maker does that man cut a fine figure in formal wear.
“You clean up nicely, Serah Hawke,” she whispers as she passes by him on one of the many occasions she slips through the Grand Ballroom, pausing for a moment of levity as she conducts her investigation.
He laughs. As distinctly un-charming as he is, Hawke, she’s noticed, has a very charming laugh. “Nice enough to convince you to dance with this lowly Fereldan refugee, I hope?”
“Find me the assassin and I might consider it,” she says, smiling.
Hawke pulls himself up – he is taller than most men she’s met – and grins at her. “Challenge accepted, my lady.”
She’s only half surprised when, after she flies into the Grand Ballroom haggard and bloodstained from closing the rift, Hawke beats her to the Empress, charging forward in a hulking blur and tackling Florianne to the ground before the duchess could strike the killing blow.
“One assassin, found and caught, just as you asked,” he tells her as the guards lead Florianne away. “Do I get a dance now?”
But Celene is already motioning for Evelyn to follow her onto the balcony. “Find me later,” she whispers, and moves to leave with the barest glance over her shoulder, but not before Hawke throws her a grin that promises trouble.
He does find her, after, but instead of the quiet, private dance on the balcony she’d expected, Hawke drags her to the dance floor as the band strikes up a familiar, lively tune.
“This is a Marcher reel,” she says incredulously as he takes her hands in his and leads her through the steps.
“I know!” he says excitedly. “It’s usually the opening dance of the Grand Tourney’s after party. I attended once, you know, when it was held in Tantervale. It was bloody brilliant! All that food and ale and—”
“Hawke,” Evelyn hisses as she fumbles through the familiar steps. “We’re in Orlais!”
“So?”
“There are Orlesians watching!”
“Let them watch,” he scoffs. “Maybe they’ll learn something new about pulling those sticks out of their asses—”
“Hawke—”
“Oh, come on, Evelyn,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you aren’t ridiculously proud of the Grand Tourney traditions. And you could use a bit of silliness after everything tonight, don’t you think?”
She looks up at him nervously; she can hear the incredulous whispers floating along the edges of the crowd – A Marcher dance? In Halamshiral? and, Is she dancing with that Hawke fellow? Wasn’t he a Fereldan refugee? and, He’s a Marcher noble now, I heard. A peasant becoming a noble, imagine that! – but she looks into Hawke’s face and all she sees is his expression, earnest and kind.
“One dance,” she says, relenting. “And that’s Lady Evelyn to you,” she teases.
“As my lady wills it,” he says, but one dance becomes two, then three, until she throws caution to the wind as they twirl laughingly across the floor, dancing the night away, and he never does call her Lady Evelyn after that.
---
They’re in the Fade, and Cole is panicking, and Cassandra is on the verge of breaking down after seeing the spirit, and Hawke won’t stop swearing.
“Fucking spiders,” he bites out. “Always with the fucking spiders. You’d think they’d come up with something else in the bloody Fade, like pride demons or desire demons, but no, it’s always fucking spiders—”
But then the Nightmare starts talking, teasing out their fears, and no one worries about spiders after that.
“Insufferable,” the smooth, disembodied voice calls. “Crass. Peasant. Your mother would be absolutely appalled.”
“Damn,” Varric says, shooting at a rage demon. “It’s like Cole, but evil!”
“And what would your father say?” the Nightmare continues. “His little girl consorting with a lowly Fereldan commoner? He’d sooner send you off to the Chantry.”
She glances at Hawke, watches as it dawns on him just who the Nightmare is talking to. She turns away, her expression carefully neutral, but she still feels Hawke’s eyes boring into the back of her head.
“Yes,” she says, and tries to ignore the telling little intake of breath that she knows comes from Hawke. “I suppose he would.”
No one talks after that, save for Cole, who fills the already-heavy atmosphere with his uneasy chatter, his words even more jumbled in his nervousness.
“He’s a good man. But ladies don’t go for good men, only for rich men, powerful men, titled men. Riches. Power. Titles. What are these worth? What is he worth?”
“Enough, Cole,” she says – begs – as they slog through the maze of the Fade.
“Enough, enough,” the boy says, his eyes darting wildly between the two of them. “What will it take for him to be enough?”
At the end, when her companions have gone on ahead and she’s left staring down the Nightmare with Hawke on one side and Stroud on the other, the question comes back to her.
Is he enough?
---
Her weary army marches back to Griffon Wing keep, victorious but silent.
She can feel Hawke staring at her as she bustles around, checking up on her companions, encouraging the soldiers, and generally trying to keep busy. But he doesn’t approach her, not once during the long walk, or even before she retires to her quarters. He holds himself aloof, quiet, his eyes cold and hard when they meet hers.
She falls asleep that night with tears on her cheeks. Tears for Stroud, for the Divine, for the cold, far-away look in Hawke’s eyes when she’d said enough.
She wakes to the sound of the great portcullis being raised. There’s no immediately discernable reason for anyone to enter or leave the keep at this time of night, so she rises and goes to investigate, throwing on a cloak over the dirty breeches and tunic she’d fallen asleep in.
“Who was that?” she asks the soldier standing on guard.
“It was Hawke, Your Worship,” the boy dutifully replies.
She would panic, except ladies aren’t in the habit of panicking. “Where is he going at this hour?”
“Weisshaupt, he said. Your Worship.”
Evelyn doesn’t think. She saddles two horses swiftly and efficiently – thank the Maker her family bred horses and bred their sons and daughters to know their way around them – and rides out into the pre-dawn darkness.
She catches up to Hawke some distance northwest of Griffon Wing and pulls her horse to a stop in front of him, blocking his path.
Hawke glares up at her from where he’s standing, and with an angry huff simply skirts around her mount and continues walking. Evelyn dismounts and jogs after him, grabbing his arm to halt him.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” she demands harshly.
Hawke fixes her with a cold stare. “Weisshaupt. Like I said.” He jerks his arm away and walks on, forcing Trevelyan to jog to keep up.
“Will you just—” Damn this man, Evelyn thinks, as Hawke picks up the pace until she’s almost running after him on the empty desert road. “Just stop and listen for a second, you infuriating—”
He stops abruptly, whirling around to give her a look of disdain. “What?” he challenges. “What more could you possibly call me? Infuriating, insufferable, crass, peasant; shall we add unworthy to that list too, oh mighty Inquisitor?”
“What—?”
“I’m just the backwater Fereldan who got lucky enough to strike lyrium and make it rich, right? The accomplice to the apostate who started the war? And now I’m not even good enough to leave behind in the Fade so I can maybe help fix the mistake I made of freeing Corypheus?”
“What in Andraste’s name—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he snarls. “What, I’m not even good enough to serve as a distraction while you and Stroud make your getaway, eh? Damn nightmare demon’ll probably crunch me up and throw me aside in five seconds, right? Haha, that Hawke, going up against a nightmare demon, what a joke, right?”
She’s taken aback. “You think I didn’t leave you in the Fade because I thought you weren’t good enough?” she demands.
“No,” Hawke says. “You didn’t leave me in the Fade because you don’t think I’m good for anything! And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you address me. It’s always Serah or Hawke, never Messere, and Maker forbid you ever address me as My Lord because there’s no fucking way I could ever be on equal footing with you, Lady Trevelyan—”
“I saved your life!” she shouts back.
“Why? Because you needed a glorified errand boy to run messages to the Wardens?” he challenges angrily.
“Because I like you, you ass!”
Hawke stares at her, completely stunned. Overhead, the stars wink out, one by one, as morning creeps in over the desert.
“What?” he says.
Evelyn glares at him. “You’re insufferable and infuriating and Maker, you never stop swearing, but I couldn’t leave you behind in the Fade because – nobility and propriety be damned – I like you, you big oaf!”
Hawke continues to stare at her as the sky begins to lighten, the dawn emerging as a faint strip of yellow on the horizon, casting light on his handsome face. And then, in true Hawke fashion, he says: “I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised you feel that way, or that you actually know how to swear.”
She laughs, shaking her head, and says, only a little bit desperate and incredibly exasperated: “Andraste’s fucking ass, Hawke, are you going to kiss me or not?”
He grins. “As my lady wills it,” he says, and he kisses her as the desert sky turns purple and orange and yellow above them, and the rising sun tints the endless dunes pink for miles around.
“I still do need to go to Weisshaupt,” he says as they part, a little apologetic.
“I know. That’s why I’m lending you the horse.”
“How kind of you,” he says, smiling ruefully.
“I’m going to want it back,” she says, mock-threatening. “Soon. As soon as possible.”
Hawke grins at her, taking the reins, and steals another kiss before he pulls himself up on his mount. He rides off, toward the far-away Warden fortress, but not without turning back every so often, glancing at her as morning sweeps over the Western Approach, until he disappears into the distance.