“If I can help it, definitely no one touches your muffins…” that sounded a lot more innocent in his head and quickly cleared his throat to continue, hopefully Hawke won’t make fun of him… but what was he really thinking? That’s like saying Varric will never blow his stories out of proportion… “… because I brought chocolate ones and one peanut butter one. But that’s carefully separated from everything else with many layers of cloth… Varric packed it… don’t tell him I told you, I just didn’t want to go near peanut. But I know you like it.” Anders gave her a small smile.
“Grease spell, ha?” he grinned. “I’m sure seeing darkspawn fall on their arses is quite a satisfactory view.” he glanced around one more time to make sure there is no imminent danger threatening the picnic, then finally took a seat opposite Marian, legs crossed, stomach rumbling at the sight of sandwiches. “There is cheese and ham, or chicken with some salad… Varric said these are fairly acceptable combinations.” definitely no word about the dwarf’s teasing about offering candle light and booking a harp player for the ‘date’. Anders swore that it is nothing but a casual friendly lunch but Varric’s ‘Sure, understood, Blondie.’ said anything but the fact he believed that.
It would be a blatant lie saying Anders didn’t hope for something date-ish, especially now that he was looking into those radiant blue orbs of hers. But he can’t offer his heart, it is hollow as everything else in him, a shell for a cause, there is nothing else left but pain, and her brilliant cheeky smile. “So… which one would you like?”
Anders was rambling, but Hawke didn’t mind. In fact she found it quite charming, enough to let the muffin-defending thing slide. For the time being.
“Varric?” she heard herself ask. Had Anders gone to him for advice?
This was a date.
“Let’s halve them,” she said sunnily, pleased that he’d seated himself as close as he had. Hawke slipped a dagger from somewhere within her sleeve and spun it in her palm. After a few cuts, she’d rendered their lunch into those little wedges mother sometimes brought to the chantry, the kind that made it easy to lose track of how many you’d had, and to creatively reposition on the tray so no one would notice.
She breathed deeply of the sea air, letting it clean her lungs. “This is nice,” she said before taking another bite of ham on rye, then speaking around it in her ladylike way. “D’we haff’ to go back to Kirkwall?”
Remembering the bottle of wine – or ‘crying juice’ as Isabela liked to term it – Hawke picked it up. Dessert, alcohol…Anders really had outdone himself, obvious nudges from her best friend or not. The cork came free with a pop and Hawke gave the contents a sniff that made the scar on her nose twitch. “You didn’t steal this from Fenris I hope,” her lips curved against the mouth of the bottle. The contents were dry, but velvety, perhaps Orlesian and yet no hints of hopelessness: the last thing Anders needed more of in his diet.
When she was finished, Hawke angled the bottle his way in offering, taking private satisfaction in the knowledge her lips had grazed it first. “Or maybe you did and that’s what’s got you smiling."