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The evening started off precisely like most evenings: Aveline was out on patrol and everyone else was gathered in the Hanged Man, gradually drinking themselves under the table and losing all their coin to Isabela. Normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary.
And then Merrill set down her cards, revealed an absolutely horrible losing hand, and opened her mouth.
“We should have brunch sometime,” she said.
The game came to a stuttering halt as everyone exchanged doubtful glances. Had they heard that right? Brunch? Them? But before anyone had time to point out just how ridiculous that sounded, Merrill continued:
“I've heard lots about it but the Dalish don't really do brunch. So I thought maybe we could all get together and make a meal together! Doesn't that sound like fun?”
“It sounds...interesting,” Varric said, shaking his head. He looked like 'interesting' might not be the first word that came to mind. Hawke crinkled her nose in agreement.
But Isabela beamed and waved a hand, brushing off every unspoken objection. “I think that's a splendid idea, Kitten. Brunch is my favorite meal—breakfast with alcohol.”
“That sounds like breakfast,” Fenris said at almost the exact moment that Anders said, “So, just breakfast for you, then.” The two men exchanged sudden, sullen glares, looking furious to be caught making the same joke, but Merrill was too distracted by Isabela's encouragement to pay any attention to their bickering.
“Lovely! Hawke, we can use your kitchen, can't we?” Merrill leaned forward and widened her eyes in that summer-sweet way that softened even the hardest of hearts. “Please?”
“Not to be too pessimistic,” Hawke said, shaking her head, “but can any of us cook? There's a reason we keep coming back for Corff's Mystery Meat of the Day, and it's not the mystery meat.”
That managed to bring the proceedings to a crawl for a moment. Anders furrowed his brow, scratched his chin, and muttered that it was a fair point. Even Fenris nodded in agreement. Varric looked sheepish and mumbled something about how the mystery meat wasn't so bad.
But Merrill looked heartbroken, and there was absolutely no way that Isabela would let that stand. She tossed one affectionate arm over Merrill's shoulders and seized control of the conversation: “Aveline cooks! She keeps inviting us to dinner parties, at any rate. She can boss us around and we'll get a meal out of it. How does that sound?”
Hawke still looked skeptical. She rubbed her jaw and shrugged. “It seems like there's a lot that could go wrong. And I'd have to be out of bed before noon.”
Isabela let out a frustrated huff. She'd never been a very patient woman, and when verbal persuasion didn't work, well—she knew what did. “Come on, sweet thing,” she murmured, reaching over to slide a hand up Hawke's thigh. “It'll be...fun.”
Too easy. When Hawke's cheeks lit up cardinal red and her mouth dropped open, Isabela knew that she had won.
“Next Sunday, then. You'll all be there. No excuses.” Isabela stood, scooped up the pile of silver that she had won, and sauntered out the door, hips swaying and coin clinking. Hawke followed half a second behind.
*
And so that was how Hawke ended up with a kitchen full of all the most useless chefs in Kirkwall. Isabela had shown up first thing in the morning, Merrill at her side, with a sack of aprons and floppy white hats (which she insisted had been legally acquired). Varric had arrived a few minutes later, still looking half-asleep; Aveline had marched in with a grim frown that seemed more suited to the battlefield than the kitchen; and Fenris and Anders had arrived at the same time, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to be the first through the door.
Once everyone had assembled, Merrill and Aveline were put in charge of the shopping—no one had quite recovered from the last time Merrill tried to cook, and Aveline was there to make sure that no one tried to convince Merrill that times were tough and eggs were a sovereign apiece these days. They returned with armfuls of overfilled sacks, spilling potatoes and apples and loaves of fresh bread out onto the floor. Aveline set her bags down, wiped off her hands, and crossed her arms.
“Let's get started,” she declared. “Who wants to do what?”
“I'm going to decorate the dining room,” Merrill announced, and she skipped out of the kitchen, beaming bright as the sun.
“I'll make cocktails,” Isabela offered. She opened a bottle of liquor, took a long swig, and grinned, looking far too pleased with herself. “Done. What else can I do?”
Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose and drew a deep breath. It was far too early in the morning for this. She should have stayed home; when she and Donnic cooked breakfast, everything was far less complicated than this. No drunk pirates wandering around in their kitchen, for one thing. “Go over there and...make toast. And try and stay out of my way.”
Hawke picked up the bottle Isabela had left behind and took a sip. She coughed at the cheap burn, grimaced, and immediately took another swallow. “What about me?”
“Go...I don't know, go help with the toast. Do something harmless.”
“It's my kitchen,” Hawke said indignantly, but Isabela had already caught her by the hand to drag her off to the corner.
“We'll wow them with the best toast in Kirkwall,” Isabela declared, sounding absolutely certain. “They'll weep with joy.” She paused. “So...how does one go about making toast, exactly?”
When Aveline was sure that Isabela wasn't looking (she was, of course), she picked up the abandoned bottle and took a gulp. This was going to be a long morning. “Varric, what do you want to do?”
He grinned and hefted a blackened frying pan, swinging it around like a battleaxe. “I'm thinkin' bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.”
“I can make eggs,” Anders offered. He tossed an egg back and forth from one hand to the other, nearly dropping it twice in two seconds.
“And I can make potato pancakes,” Aveline decided. That would be simple enough for her to keep an eye on the rest of them. “Fenris, would you like to cut the fruit?”
Fenris was resting against the doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in suspicion as he watched things unfold. He cast a glance at the bottle Aveline had just set down. “Perhaps my time could be best spent acquiring more alcohol. I think we may need it before the morning is over.”
Aveline was about to object—someone had to wash the strawberries, after all—but Hawke, Isabela, and Varric all sent up simultaneous affirmative shouts at the suggestion. Fenris chuckled, pocketed the extra coin left on the counter, and sauntered out the door. He preferred to remain a few steps ahead of chaos.
But perhaps there would be no chaos after all. Before long, the kitchen was full of all the divine aromas of a meal in the making: Varric's thick, sizzling slabs of bacon, the handful of garlic Anders was sautéing, just a hint of maple. Aveline broke out her very best guard captain voice and kept everyone in line with clear commands that no one dared ignore—calls of Behind you! and Anders, add the cream now, you twit! rang out loud above laughter and chatter, and the meal was coming together far better than she ever could have hoped.
Everything was going smoothly, until—
“Isabela!”
At Aveline's accusing shout, Hawke and Isabela immediately froze, trapped in more-than-slightly compromising positions. Relegated to the corner, out of Aveline's sight, they had become caught up in their own little world—and their own little world involved Hawke shoved up against the counter, raspberry jam smeared on her neck, and Isabela doing her very best to lick it off. Aveline could only gape in scandalized (but not all that surprised) horror.
“We're making toast,” Isabela explained. Her thigh wedged between Hawke's legs appeared to contradict her claim.
Aveline let out a strangled moan. “That is not how you make toast.”
“Well, to be fair,” Hawke said, with that infuriating, charming smile creeping across her face, “neither of us have ever made toast before.”
“Oh, for—you know what, forget about the toast. Go help Merrill set the table or I'll have you both arrested for indecency.”
Hawke widened her eyes innocently. “In my own home? Is that legal?”
Aveline brandished a wooden spoon like a sword, no trace of humor lingering in her eyes. “It's legal if I say it is.”
Isabela and Hawke fled the room hand in hand, their cries of “despot!” and “fascist!” echoing through the kitchen. Aveline transferred her glare to Varric, who was bent over laughing with his hands on his knees. “Knock it off or you'll burn the bacon. When is Fenris going to be back? Everything is almost ready and he still hasn't—”
“I am here,” Fenris announced as if on cue, stepping through the swinging door. He set down two slightly-suspicious unlabeled bottles and a handful of change. “I am pleasantly surprised to see that Hawke's estate has not yet burned to the ground.”
“You and me both, Broody.” Varric plucked a piece of bacon from the still-hot pan and took a bite. “Mm. Glorious. Hungry yet?”
“I am,” Fenris allowed. “Has the mage ruined the eggs?”
Anders scowled. “They're perfectly scrambled. I'll have you know I'm an expert egg-scrambler.”
“Ah,” Fenris sighed, his eyes darkening, “I should have known you would prefer scrambled eggs.”
Varric cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to distract them before things went downhill. “Don't you think this argument is a little bit ridiculous, even for you two?”
Fenris sniffed and crossed his arms. “Scrambled eggs are absolutely repulsive.”
“Not with a lot of cheese and a bit of thyme,” Anders snapped back, as if five minutes of Aveline's instruction had turned him into a professional. Truth be told, he was only scrambling the eggs because Aveline hadn't trusted him to handle anything more complicated than that, but of course he would rather die than reveal the truth to Fenris.
Varric lifted his gaze to the ceiling in a silent plea to any god who might listen. “Can the two of you even hear yourselves? Andraste's saggy ass, this is absurd.”
Luckily, moments before their argument over whether rosemary or thyme was the superior herb devolved into fisticuffs, Merrill poked her head around the door. “Hello, chefs,” she chirped. “We're ready whenever you are!”
Aveline issued a series of sharp, short commands, and soon they were all spilling into the dining room, arms full of bright plates and steaming platters. Against all odds, everything looked spectacular (or, at the very least, edible). Maybe they had stumbled into an alternate dimension, or perhaps Fate herself had taken pity on them, but either way, the morning appeared to be a success so far. Everything was gorgeous:
There was a plate crowded with golden cheese, rough nutty bread, small jars of raspberry jam, and rich honey butter—a bowl full of plump strawberries, burgundy cherries, and handfuls of glistening dark blackberries and blueberries—a platter piled high with scrambled eggs that sent the mouth-watering aroma of garlic and thyme wafting through the room—potato pancakes, dripping grease and smelling of sweet and spicy leeks and peppers—a sunshine-pale bottle of elderflower cordial spiked with enough liquor to fell an army—and then, finally, the glorious plate of bacon, still sizzling.
Varric's stomach rumbled loud enough for everyone to hear. “Okay,” he said, “please tell me it's time to eat.”
But everyone was too busy admiring Merrill's handiwork to pay any attention to Varric. She had spent the morning crafting elaborate flower arrangements, and an entire garden's worth of flowers spilled out across the table. Gently arching wild hyacinth, sunset-bright zinnias, pale bundles of purple wisteria, sweet-scented honeysuckle, and twisting arms of ivy all lay tangled together.
“They all mean something,” Merrill explained, gesturing at the flowers. “Joy and goodness and spontaneity and love and friendship and—” She paused to catch her breath and then her expression shifted into a smile, lighting up the whole room. “Anyway, I thought they were all lovely, and you're all so lovely, and I'm so happy we're all here today.”
“You and me both, Daisy.” Varric set down his platter. A pleading note entered his voice: “So, what are we waiting for? Let's eat!”
Aveline cleared her throat pointedly. “We're waiting for some people to find their seats.” She narrowed her eyes at the culprits, but, unsurprisingly, they weren't paying any attention whatsoever to her.
Hawke was perched in Isabela's lap, legs wrapped around her waist, carefully weaving stray flowers into Isabela's hair. She was so focused on her task, her brow furrowed and her lip caught between her teeth in concentration, that Aveline's heart almost softened. Almost—but, well...hunger took precedence over fondness.
“Come on already, Hawke,” she said, lightly punching her in the shoulder, “find your own seat.”
“Jealous, big girl?” Isabela grinned up at her. She was the perfect picture, flowers tangled in her hair and smile spilling across her lips. For an instant, Aveline was tempted to say something about how comforting the sight was, after everything they'd all been through—Isabela and Hawke, Hawke and Isabela, fitting together so easily that they might as well be one—
And then Isabela kept talking: “Well, don't be. You know you can straddle me any time you'd like.”
The moment was officially ruined. Aveline snorted. “Only if I'm forcibly arresting you, slattern.”
“Ooh—kinky.”
Hawke grinned and tucked one more flower behind Isabela's ear before sliding out of her lap and into the seat beside her. “Give her a break, Bela. Poor Aveline, look at her turning pink.”
“Poor me,” Varric interrupted, finally abandoning all traces of subtlety. “Can you all sit down and shut up so I can eat? I'm starving!”
At that outburst, everyone finally acquiesced. They settled into careful seating arrangements—Varric at the head of the table, Aveline as a bulwark between Anders and Fenris, Merrill on Isabela's other side—and they began to pass the platters and fill their plates.
Before long, a rapt silence settled over the table, broken only by the soft scrape of knives against bread or the clink of forks on plates. By the time everyone paused long enough to speak, the bacon had nearly disappeared, the potato pancakes were half-gone, and the pile of scrambled eggs was rapidly shrinking.
“Well?” Aveline asked. “What's the consensus?”
“I think I could die happy,” Hawke sighed. She rocked back in her chair, eyes half-closed and a dazed smile plastered on her face. “I never knew my kitchen was capable of that.”
“The eggs are...nice,” Fenris allowed, running one finger along the rim of his glass. “Perhaps you were right, mage.”
Anders looked taken aback and then, once the compliment sunk in, infinitely pleased. He grinned and triumphantly lifted up a forkful of eggs. “I often am.”
“I would not go that far. But the thyme is admittedly a pleasing addition.” Fenris paused. “I wonder if...perhaps you might teach me how to prepare this dish for myself?”
“Honestly,” Varric said, shaking his head in disbelief, “honestly, is anyone else hearing this?”
But, of course, nobody else was paying any attention whatsoever—they had all returned to their plates, and Varric let out a soft grunt of frustration when he saw that his distraction had cost him the last slice of bacon. Hawke. He glared at her; she smirked and licked her fingers. What sort of a best friend goes and steals a man's bacon? Well, he'd show her—he scooped the last potato pancake onto his plate and watched her face fall.
“All's fair in love and brunch, Hawke.”
*
Looking around the table as the meal drew to a close, Merrill thought her heart might burst. Anders was carefully scooping more eggs onto Fenris' plate, Isabela was leaning over to kiss a spot of jam off Hawke's nose, Aveline was pouring herself another drink, and Varric was laughing at his own joke loud enough to make the whole table shake.
It was all very...domestic, Merrill thought. It was perfect. It was everything she could have hoped for. And so she cleared her throat, stood up, and waited for everyone to go quiet.
“Erm,” she began, suddenly nervous with every eye on her, “I don't—I don't have a speech or anything like that. I'm not as good with words as any of you are. But I just wanted to say something. And, um—you're the very best family anyone could ever ask for. You're all wonderful. Even though Hawke and Isabela don't know how to make toast and Varric ate nearly all the bacon. Thank you for such a nice morning.”
There was a moment of silence, fragile as glass, and Merrill waited with her heart in her throat—had she said something wrong? Everyone had looked so happy, and Isabela hadn't even flinched at the word family, which had seemed like such a good sign, and everything had been going so well—
And then Isabela broke the silence. “Oh, Kitten, you're sweet as sugar,” she sighed.
“I think I shed one single manly tear,” Varric agreed. “Maybe even two.”
Fenris let out a slow, heavy breath, and then his lips curved ever-so-slightly in what just might be a smile. “This has been a pleasant morning,” he admitted. Even after he met Anders' eyes, his hint of a smile remained, and, unbelievably, Anders grinned back.
“This was amazing,” Hawke confirmed, punctuating the claim with a wave of her fork. “I'm inviting you all over to cook for me more often.”
Aveline pinned her with a piercing glare. “If you would start showing up at my dinner parties—”
Hawke cut her off with a raspberry hurled across the table; Aveline caught it and sent it flying right back to bounce off the tip of Hawke's nose and land in her lap. Above the bright, sweet sounds of laughter and clinking glasses rose three clear words:
“Next Sunday, then?”