Chapter Text
It was a beautiful day for a protest. Sun pounded down on the forecourt of the Viscount's Keep. Even the statues, intimidating bronze behemoths depicting hawks (because Sergeant Hawke just loooooved a bit of irony) glistened in an almost cheerful manner.
In comparison with the heavily armed and armoured riot police and the stolid, pedestrian local police, the protesters looked positively vibrant. Elvhen and human youths wore bright, delicate clothes which left little to the imagination. Pipes, hookahs, bongs and even needles were flaunted wildly, as if to say "you can't arrest all of us!". Hand-lettered signs ranged from the mundane ("Free the Weed!") to the mysterious ("Cannibalise Legalis").
And standing aside from the others, in her own little world, was the most... thingy woman Carver Hawke had ever seen. Thingy. She was elvhen, obviously there for the protest - unless wearing a t-shirt saying "Help End ALL Drug Prohibition" in bold black letters was something she did every day, and Carver wouldn't have put it past her - but there was something that set her apart from the other protestors, some inner quality, some... sense that Carver wanted to sweep her up, lay her down on the Viscount's many steps and fuck her until her teeth rattled. But besides that! She looked focused, determined to do her own thing in her own way, and oh Maker she was walking right towards him.
Forgetting to breathe, Carver shoved one of the community policing pamphlets clumsily at her. Strictly speaking, he wasn't supposed to be handing out the "Know the Laws of Protest" pamphlets - the riot police were here to put the frighteners on, to remind the stoners who was in charge - but Captain Vallen had slapped a handful of them into his chest and said "Here. Make yourself useful." And even if Aveline hadn't been a close family friend, his inclination to defy her was remarkably low.
The thingy woman suddenly stopped and stared at the pamphlet he was holding out. Her already huge eyes got bigger and bigger. Then, Maker save him, she beamed a thousand kilowatt smile and thrust out her own pamphlet.
They stood like that for several seconds, him gawping, her beaming, until she finally spoke.
"Respect and repatriation," she said brightly, and oh god trilling Dalish accent that's so bloody unfair.
"I, um, I can't take your pamphlet," Carver stuttered authoritatively. Yes, THAT was going to let the stoners know who was in charge. He took a deep breath and tried to sound stentorian. "Know the laws of protest, miss. I'd hate to see a, uh, you get clobbered." He thrust (don't think about thrusting!) his pamphlet as emphatically as he could without touching her breasts.
She looked at it like it was an asparagus croissant. "Oh no, I'll be fine, I know what I'm doing. Thank you so much. Support the Dalish?"
She held up her pamphlet, which had an awful lot of small, tightly-written text.
"I'm a police officer. I can't take your - "
"I'll swap you. Your flyer for mine."
Her eyes were huge and green and innocent, but they were also not going anywhere until he had taken her damn flyer. Carver was briefly reminded of Mother Ermenegild back in Lothering.
He slapped "Know the Laws of Protest" into her hand, discreetly thumbing her pamphlet into his palm and stuffing it underneath his own pile.
"So, er..." shit shit shit, how to keep her talking? "Look after yourself, don't try anything funny..." Fucking brilliant. "Uh, those tattoos then. They Dalish?" He held his breath, waiting for a diatribe about elves or the Dalish or trees or something.
“Oh yes! We all get them for our coming of age. Mine represent the Alerion clan, you can tell by the antlers across the forehead”, drawing her finger across her fine eyebrows for illustration. “Do you have tattoos? Or maybe a clan tartan?”
Relief – this was safe-ish territory. “Oh yes, I’ve got a mabari. For strength. Because mabari are really strong.” OK, maybe not as safe as he’d hoped.
“Can I see it?”
Oh fuck. “Um… no.” Oh Maker yes. With your tongue.
She looked blank, not expecting to be blocked on such an innocent request, and then her whole face crumbled as she realised. “Oh! Oh I’m so sorry… I should have realised… oh dear…” Her hand covered her face, failing to hide the redness creeping to the very edges of her hair.
“Carver! Harassing innocent protestors now? Going to take her back to the precinct for some in-depth questioning?” A firm hand clamped on Carver’s shoulder, not a common occurrence for a six-foot-four brawler who was about two axe-handles across the chest. Carver groaned. “Garrett. Take this, you’re going to need it.” He slapped Know the Laws of Protest into his brother’s face, the better to not endure his smirking.
To Carver's unsurprised horror, the thingy woman brightened at his brother's approach. "Hawwwwke!" she sighed happily, throwing her arms around his neck as Garrett lifted her off the ground, surprisingly strong for such a scrawny asshole. Carver smiled thinly. "Friend of yours, then?"
"Friend of mine, yes." Carver couldn't tell if the hard look Garrett was giving him meant "strictly platonic, you fucking loser" or "yes I'm shagging her, you fucking loser".
"Oh! You know each other? I'm Merrill." She turned back to Carver and stuck her hand out, stiffly, as if it was a strange new custom she'd just learnt. He took her hand and, oh god, so soft, such dainty little fingers, oh shit I'm holding her hand for too long shit briefly shook it, hoping he wasn't crushing her with his massive paw. She didn't seem to notice how gobsmacked he was, but Garrett did.
“Do be a good brother and let us know when the skull-crushing starts,” he said, sliding his arm around Merrill’s tiny waist, knowing from long experience that steam would start hissing out of Carver’s ears any time now.
“If you obey the bloody pamphlet there won’t be any skull-crushing,” retorted Carver, but his brother was already guiding Merrill over to the speaker stand, where a blonde man with a pony tail was making noises through a megaphone to get the crowds’ attention.
It wasn’t until the crowd had started chanting that Carver realised that he hadn’t told her his name. Fuck.