After three years matching his steps to Anders' is ...more or less just the way Hawke walks, when he has the luxury of casually travelling from one place to another. Usually it's more for reasons like 'a sudden incursion of shades.'
Regardless. Hawke's never really thought about it to notice; there must be a hundred (or a thousand, or countless) little ways their lives tangled, invisible until a person starts looking for them. Which he does, even if--he doesn't know what he's trying to see, but he knows the same way he knows where to put his feet that he'll know it when he does.
Or doesn't.
In the present what this has the effect of doing is making Hawke quiet for a good....minute, enough that Anders speaking startles him a little. (That, too, the sudden reminder that he was good at being quiet, with Anders; sometimes it was a relief. He loves the sound of his own voice more than uh, anyone should, really, but even the Champion of Kirkwall gets tired.)
Fighting their way out, that's--well, Maker knows it isn't unreasonable, just--Hawke tips his chin down, meets this with the sardonic drop of lashes over his eyes. "Not usually my first recourse, is it?"
He's certainly no pacifist, and would make no attempt to claim the title, but talking his way out (or sitting back and listening to whatever fantastic weave of bullshit emerges from Varric's mouth) has always come first. Words and what they can do are their own kind of magic, as infinite and as malleable.
"Anyway," once they're on more or less stable ground (if ...on the ceiling), "it doesn't work. I mean, if you threw a fireball at this table--" Hawke raps on it with his knuckles, then takes the opportunity to like, actually sit down, knees apart with his elbows on them, "it'd burn, sure. But in a minute you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference."
He makes a bridge of his forefingers and rests the on either side of his nose, chuckling into his hands. "I have tried! Any excuse to fling fire at things, really."
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Regardless. Hawke's never really thought about it to notice; there must be a hundred (or a thousand, or countless) little ways their lives tangled, invisible until a person starts looking for them. Which he does, even if--he doesn't know what he's trying to see, but he knows the same way he knows where to put his feet that he'll know it when he does.
Or doesn't.
In the present what this has the effect of doing is making Hawke quiet for a good....minute, enough that Anders speaking startles him a little. (That, too, the sudden reminder that he was good at being quiet, with Anders; sometimes it was a relief. He loves the sound of his own voice more than uh, anyone should, really, but even the Champion of Kirkwall gets tired.)
Fighting their way out, that's--well, Maker knows it isn't unreasonable, just--Hawke tips his chin down, meets this with the sardonic drop of lashes over his eyes. "Not usually my first recourse, is it?"
He's certainly no pacifist, and would make no attempt to claim the title, but talking his way out (or sitting back and listening to whatever fantastic weave of bullshit emerges from Varric's mouth) has always come first. Words and what they can do are their own kind of magic, as infinite and as malleable.
"Anyway," once they're on more or less stable ground (if ...on the ceiling), "it doesn't work. I mean, if you threw a fireball at this table--" Hawke raps on it with his knuckles, then takes the opportunity to like, actually sit down, knees apart with his elbows on them, "it'd burn, sure. But in a minute you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference."
He makes a bridge of his forefingers and rests the on either side of his nose, chuckling into his hands. "I have tried! Any excuse to fling fire at things, really."