a cure for the itchy throated fridays
anders with a cold. no one heals the healer. except varric stops by and starts in on stories and eventually, late into the night, anders is asleep and snoring through a stuffed nose while varric tucks a blanket up under his chin.
aveline with a cold. ‘faze be! i stad for all ob us!’ and isabela can’t stop laughing; neither can merrill; neither can hawke. they’re almost killed by a pack of shrieks and it’s completely worth it.
varric with a cold. his nose gets big and red and his eyes get runny and hawke asks him who it is he’s about to kill in hard in hightown that has him so upset and he shakes hawke off, not expecting anders with a bowl of elfroot soup, cool hands against his forehead.
sebastian with a cold. ‘say duty one more time, sebastian,’ hawke pleads. because, of course, it comes out as doody.
merrill with a cold, asking the important questions. ‘don’t you think it’s strange magic can form a crushing prison and rain fireballs on our enemies and raise a fallen comrade, but there’s still no cure yet for the sniffles?’
isabela with a cold. happens during the winter. ‘might not,’ aveline points out, ‘if you wore a pair of pants now and then, wouldn’t it?’ ‘i like to live dangerously, big girl,’ isabela replies, and rubs their noses together until aveline’s is just as pink as hers is.
bethany with a cold. suddenly, she becomes more insufferable than carver.
carver with a cold. all he wants is his mother.
fenris with a cold. when he sneezes, it is deep, sonorous, mournful—just like his voice. and hawke can’t help but ask, ‘what has mucus touched that it has not spoiled?’
hawke with a cold. ‘ah, another page of anders’ manifesto… perfect for blowing my nose. maker bless mage rights.’
but hawke remembers a father’s big hands showing off tricks whenever his firstborn couldn’t sleep, feverish eyes watching a gold sovereign appear and disappear in the dwindling firelight. malcolm with a cold he caught from his precious child, staying up all night until the fever broke.