Who: Hawke & Wisdom, with a darling performance from Gamlen and the Hawkes What: Wisdom brings forth food and...well, legit wisdom When: Tonight Where:Low Town The Ghetto Hawke Estate Rating/Warnings: Mentions of the Kardashians, approach with caution Status: Complete!
The world must have been ending (again), because Pete Wisdom arrived at a friend’s place and, for once, didn’t have a bottle of booze so strong that it could double as a paint thinner. He was downright domestic tonight, it was bloody adorable - but all in an affort to help Lina actually keep food down, he’d been attempting to make healthy things, right there at home, rather than rely on the specific takeaway menu drawer in his kitchen. Because those days of bachelor-dom had long since passed; his girlfriend being knocked up was the last official nail in the coffin.
So, casserole dish being carried by those helpfully too-warm hands to keep the meal nice and hot, he arrived at the flat Hawke called his - well, the one he shared with his dipstick of an uncle and the rest of the family. Wisdom was debating whether or not it’d be worth it to off the deadbeat Gamlen in order to claim the life insurance money or not - if he even had a policy, probably doubtful, but still. Overall, he was just another mouth to feed. And poor old Hawke was working his fingers to the bone to do that - at any rate, Wisdom would also do what he could to help. He was a decent mate to those he allowed into his elite inner circle, believe it or not.
Arriving at the right door, he knocked carefully, performing an intricate balancing act with the Shepherd’s pie. And waited for someone to answer, though he couldn’t guarantee what he’d do if it was Uncle Douchebag.
The homicide was seeming more and more tempting because this building looked to be falling apart. Hm.
Oh, it was falling apart, never doubt that. This complex was the definition of ‘questionable’ with its dozens and dozens of stray felines lying about, yowling, sleeping on vehicles like they owned them. Something was always leaking, there was always that background sound of drip drip drip. A rusted pipe ready to burst, the smell of growing black mold somewhere in the deepest and darkest and moistest crevices of this vermin-infested place. There was a wasp nest too, a big one - try not to be too loud, they liked their sleep.
Fortunately for them, the floorplans were surprisingly spacious but the maintenance and overall safety of this structure was particularly lacking. The important thing was, though, that it was affordable and they could keep their electricity running, so to it wasn’t the worst thing that could ever happen to them.
Voices increasing in volume were heard from the other side of the door. A man and a woman engaged in a verbal kerfluffle, things like that cheese wheel has been in the fridge for probably a year and my children are not your drug connections. It was evident, however, the man screaming was being the utmost whiniest of bitches, so when the door was finally answered, Pete Wisdom was greeted with a man that’d been aged by his vices, a scowl, and a receding hairline.
“Who the bloody hell are--” Gamlen growled, then yelled into the apartment,. “Garrett! I get your mail and I’m your butler now? It’s your friend.”
Fortunately for all of them, the endearing uncle didn’t stay for long. He shoved by Wisdom and disappeared into his car, all while Hawke approached the doorway casually with an air of nonchalance. In the background his siblings were present, rolling their eyes - his mother was there, too, shaking her head and looking fully exasperated.
“Welcome to our family sitcom,” Hawke greeted, flashing a brilliant smile, dimples and all. Family affairs were exhausting to deal with, he looked exhausted (worn, torn, tattered around the edges some), but the distraction was most appreciated. “I see you met my uncle. He’s not having the best of days. Seems to have run out of, well…” He made an exaggerated sniff of his nose, then swiped his nostrils. “You know. Anyway, come in side.”
Eyes that were sharp as icicles, and just as blue, followed the trajectory of Gamlen’s path when he shoved past Wisdom - who turned and nearly shot daggers from his pupils rather than his fingers. What a bloody waste of space. But rather than fry Uncle’s internal organs and render him a flaming lump of charred flesh and fat, he simply turned back to step across the threshold into a mold-infested shithole.
Seriously, black mold. It was doing worse things for their lungs than that pack a day Pete used to smoke.
“I’m sure he’s gone out to get more, maybe will come back in a better mood and with a fresh case of the clap,” Wisdom snorted, then handed over the casserole dish. “Here, my famous staple. There should be enough to feed all you lot.” He’d made tonnes, just in case. And the townhouse he’d left smelled like deliciousness to boot - at least not pumpkin spice for fucking once.
Tensions still ran high, though most of those waves of uuuugh came from the second Hawke brother, thick arms crossed with a perpetual scowl on his face. He didn’t stay longer - rather, he turned to his twin, mumbled something that sounded remarkably similar to ‘so we’re taking charity now?’ before disappearing into one of the rooms. It was his mother that politely excused herself to follow her disgruntled son for a little chat, and it was Bethany whom stayed behind. Cordially greeted the guest, of course, before turning her attention back to news of the night - something about coke and the Kardashians and brothels.
Hm. Gamlen could stand to learn a thing or two.
“Don’t mind anyone but me, you domestic goddess,” he chuckled, dressed casually in jeans and a buttoned shirt (stain free, mind you), shaggy hair and a recently trimmed beard. The dish was gratefully taken and set on the counter. Everything on their end was clean, but it didn’t really matter, it wouldn’t shake off that sense of dingy that this place relentlessly carried. “Good to see you, and thanks for mustering the courage to actually stop by. It’s one of those neighborhood where getting shanked seems to be something of a common occurrence.”
Well, he’d be damned - the food smelled good, and Hawke curled some of the tinfoil back to take a better whiff.
Fine, Carver, no food from the homeland for you, then. Wisdom didn’t pay the angst-ridden twin much mind, though he did offer charming smiles to the brave lady who had birthed the Hawke clan, and also Bethany. “Romany says hello,” he told her, before she got sucked into the world of trash television featuring the ‘inspiring’ story of a too-rich cunt who had destroyed himself with cocaine and herbal Viagra because the former sadly affected his ability to get it up for those brothel ladies. Boo, hoo. “Hopes you’ll come by the bookshoppe soon. And you too,” he added, turning that searing cobalt stare back onto his scruffy friend.
Romany had also been extra busy lately - something about Halloween, it always tended to be that way for occult places - so she probably would gladly take on extra hands too; at least it’d be honest work. But her reasons for wanting to see Hawke probably had to do with things Pete would rather not think about.
“And no worries about getting shanked, mate. I can hold my own in a fight. Which brings me to my next point...” He’d given some contracts to Wash, but some he’d saved for Garrett - if he was still interested. “Give any thought to my precious suggestion?”
Ah, dearest Romany. Hawke felt so dearly missed. Visiting her had been on the top of his list once there was a free moment to breathe - and once that free moment wasn’t ensnared with some kind of pointless family drama. Gamlen this, Leandra that, Carver’s pissing angrily about this. It was an endless onslaught of family tension. It was a blessing in disguise he was usually working; his patrons were much more pleasant.
“Your sug--oh, yes.” Right, right, he did toy with the idea, but Bethany was in the room and while she seemed pulled into whatever reality TV show drama was currently airing, he knew she was keen enough to pick up on their conversation. So Hawke plated himself a portion of Wisdom’s culinary delicacy, grabbed two cheap beers (bud lite, bottled, he apologizes in advance), and motioned his old friend to a set of sliding doors.
They had a balcony, how nice! It was an extravagant view of a pool riddled in all sorts of green growths and there was art to admire. And by art he meant graffiti, but Hawke was particularly fond of the Thug Life Tweety Bird that covered the sidewalk. “I have, actually. Though if you don’t mind I’d prefer to go with you on one.” He sat, plate on his lap, bottle caps twisted off and one drink handed over to him. “All these contracts--they’re fairly local, yes?”
Wisdom followed, enjoying the grand view of a literal cesspool - bless it, the radioactive green looked like it would either suck you into its chlorinated depths forever or kickstart something like the spawning of extra limbs. He sat nearby, cracking the top off the beer and taking a long swig - didn’t matter what kind it was, booze was booze. And there wasn’t much that Pete would turn down.
“Of course, you can be my shadow for a night,” he promised, good-naturedly clinking his bottle against Hawke’s. Cheers to bringing scum in - funnily enough, no contracts for the likes of Gamlen yet but he was more like useless scum. Not really committing the hard felonies, that one. “And they’re all local, yes. Perhaps a couple will pop up here and there on the outskirts of the county - but it is a big county, and loads of criminals jump bail all the time.”
Another swig of the beer, and he eyed Hawke curiously. “Have you got a gun?”
Back in the day of roaming around like a free spirit, Hawke hadn’t necessarily been a stranger when it came to sketchy situation. He was well rounded in his experiences, mind you, though most of them he just somehow always...stumbled into, in a sense. Odd jobs for people with peculiar backgrounds. There were plenty of people with plenty of problems that apparently did not know how to solve them. It was actually mind-boggling.
“No gun,” he admitted - with regret. “A bit hard to bring that on an international flight, and I think the one my Uncle did have, well. Let’s just say it’s at a pawnshop somewhere and he bought himself something nice. Probably something that carried a fresh case of the clap, like you said.” Gamlen was a trainwreck. Guilt had kept this family around him; his mother being a mother felt the need to help take care of her trainwreck sibling, something to do with whatever tragic family feud happened with the Amells in the Queen’s Land. “Unless you’ve got the kindest of hearts to loan me one. I promise I won’t shoot myself in the bum on accident. I know you’ve got your…”
He motioned to his hands. “Heat thing going on. Fingers from hell, basically? Explains why this food is still taking forever to cool, then.”
How incredibly not surprising that Gamlen had pawned something actually useful for a chance to plant a flag on Mount Gonorrhea. Pete snorted, rolling his eyes, a laugh at Uncle Deadbeat’s expense - but he would definitely help a friend out, and when Hawke could fit a bit of bounty hunting into his schedule, it paid well. Maybe he could even start saving for a place that wasn’t so...teeming with contagion.
“I’ve got you, mate, don’t worry. Friend of mine who moved away used to own a gun shoppe - well, technically a pawn shoppe, but...” He shrugged. “That was merely a cover. She saved the best pieces for a rainy day, backup stash, so consider one a gift from me to you. To commemorate your entrance into the world of tracking scum.” A lot of this would be under the table, really, but that was how Wisdom operated - it was also what paid. Granted, what he was trying to get away from since fatherhood sort of meant he should be legit (he wanted a child of his to actually have parents with actual careers), but Hawke was in an entirely different situation and at a different point of his life. This would work for him, for now.
As for the fingers from hell, Wisdom smirked. He held up his hand for a demonstration, the knives beginning to protrude from his fingertips - which seemed to extend into searing blades of heat and energy. He looked like Edward Scissorhands for a moment, only far more deadly. Then they receded - he didn’t throw them at anything, since this building was rough enough. “I’m constantly absorbing heat,” he explained. “If I don’t expel it every so often I might explode, we’re still debating that.”
A cover up pawnshop, for what? Maybe it was best for Hawke to strap down on the questioning; surely he’d learn as the times rolled whether he liked it or not. Such was the nature of this place, he gathered, and things could always be worse. But if they decided to be better at some point for one reason or another, he wouldn’t mind that either.
“You’re the best girlfriend a bloke like me could ask for,” he grinned, eyebrows waggling at him in infuriating playfulness. He was grateful. For the food, for the opportunity for something to earn income that wasn’t relied on the kindness of strangers. Tips worked a bit different on this side of the water and it wasn’t as if he had the proper education for a high-paying career. Letting pride get in the way of a friend helping out would be pointless. And downright silly, but there was a certain Hawke inside that would piss otherwise.
Then he started to shovel the shepard’s pie into that ravenous hole in his face when Wisdom chose to show off. And no, Hawke didn’t choke, but he paused to stare with a full mouth and slowly blink. A couple seconds later he swallowed. “Well, that’s something I don’t see everyday. Have you tried holding it in for a certain amount of time? To see what happens? Or is that just an experiment you’d rather not toy with, as I perfectly like this place not set ablaze or anything.”
“Not really.” Wisdom’s contemplation of what would happen if he did that, and musing, carried a bit of amusement in his words. “It might get messy, and I’m perfectly fine with throwing fire here and there to ensure I don’t go out in a blaze of glory. My dream self can technically emit heat energy from any part of his body, he’s used it to build up shields around him and such, or as a thermal updraft when jumping from windows, but always goes with hands for the knives which is what I do here. It’s better than bombs of knife-blade flatulence, I suppose.”
Though Lina would probably find that entertaining.
“At any rate, I’m a mutant who defies laws of thermodynamics,” he shrugged, taking another sip of beer from the bottle. “But that’s me. You’re still not on the dream train of doom, or have you boarded?”
Bombs of knife-blade flatulence. Sounded utterly dangerous, and he might have been both morbidly curious and disturbed on how that could - ah, nevermind, best to not think too hard of it and continue to devour the sustenance before him. Which was actually good, by the way, who knew Wisdom could cook? “A terrifying skillset,” Hawke scratched an itch on his beard after a minute. “But I’d imagine with your line of work, effective.”
Though now the whole ‘powers carry over’ pattern was even more apparent now. His discussion with the currently-possessed Anders (what the bloody fuck) had been the tip of the iceberg. Wisdom’s demonstration was damning enough. In these so-called dreams there was magic in his blood. In his father’s, in Bethany’s, and it was viewed as a curse to possess such a thing. “I’ve boarded. Something about magic, something about a zombie-like plague.” Well, proper term for it was The Blight, but zombie-like plague was more explanatory to someone who wasn’t aware of what it’d mean. He sighed, sipping his beer slowly. “Though a friend of mine dreams of a female version of myself. Tits and all, it’s confusing. Apparently different versions of the same world exist and it’s already causing headaches.”
More people dreamt of Thedas but he hadn’t reached out to them. It was best that way; Hawke would rather see the big picture before putting out feelers. Something told him caution was a wise route here.
Wisdom nodded, lifting an eyebrow. “Magic, fair enough then,” he said - because he was quite familiar with such things. Perhaps more intimately than he would have liked, due to the storm of complete and utter chaos that took a shit on everything before clouds parted to make way for the sun. “My girlfriend’s a sorceress. And I’ve got magic in my own world of dreams, though granted, I don’t practise myself. Since I’m a mutant, it’s genetic, means some of us are in for a lifetime of discrimination and superpowers that sometimes aren’t even worth the trouble.” But that was simply the pessimist talking - a whole different discussion, for a whole different day.
“Different versions of the same world’s not too surprising though, mate. It’s happened with mine too - people are the same, same names, but different events, different personalities, different appearances. I file it all under the umbrella of ‘not my specialty,’ but I will tell you one thing,” he shared. Perhaps it’d be uplifting, or not, or perhaps it could be viewed as a warning - but Wisdom was merely speaking the truth and nothing more. “You’re going to dream of some godawful shit, and some of it will cross over to this life, some of it won’t. Then on top of that there will be things like giant spiders or turning into a woman or what have you, and overall you’ll wonder why the fuck you ever moved here in the first place.”
He might even want to leave - Wisdom himself had contemplated it, more than a few times during those dark weeks where Lina was gone. “But you’ll stay.” More of the pisswater went down his throat - hey, you know, the view from up here wasn’t so bad after all. “Probably because of the people, but you’ll stay.”
“I’d rather the tits and womanly ass much more over witnessing the rise of another giant spider,” grumbled Hawke, this time with an edge of grouch. According to Anders there was plenty to fight in Thedas. He’d rather have uncontrollable diarrhea and wear adult diapers on a 24 hour basis, but alas, that was neither here nor there. “Such wise words for you, Wisdom.” Hah. See what he did there? Ohhh, he made himself laugh so hard sometimes. “I’ll keep them in mind.”
Puns aside, the topic of discussion had him craving something terrible for the lungs. He quit the habit, mostly, but times like these made it difficult to completely kick the habit. Out came a growly sort of sigh, his palm scrubbing over his eyes. “Though I’m going to relate to your genetically bestowed gift part. Turns out the magic I dream of is a genetic thing. And viewed as something so terrible every person and child exhibiting such a thing must be tossed into what they call a Circle, which is a nice way of saying prison. Torn from their families and monitored on a daily basis. Routines harshly controlled. Very little personal freedom and then some. I got lucky; half of my family there all have magic in their blood, so we tend to wilfully live as mage outlaws, in a way.”
Apostate was the correct term. Better to live like that than as a circle mage. Hawke seemed to be very appreciative of his freedom there and probably wouldn’t bode very well if a Templar was ordered to follow him even to the shitter. Let him dispel waste in peace, thank you.
Wisdom would have passed over a cigarette, but his own quitting triumph meant that he didn’t have a pack on him now. Alas. He could give...candied cigarettes? Still had some of those, and he offered the box of them, slid from his jacket pocket, with a half-smirk, half shit-eating grin.
“Oh, I understand that all too well,” he sympathised, sighing. “Our powers typically don’t emerge until puberty, but there’s been the whole ‘forcing mutants to be slaves, branding them on the forehead, using them to ensure economic prosperity because as you know, slave labour is cheap’ sort of thing.” It was bloody frustrating how mutants could never catch a break, and then you had twats like the Avengers thinking they knew what was best for the world - after that, if you didn’t agree, to hell with you. “Sounds like you’re in for a ride, Hawke. I’ll be here to make sure you don’t drink yourself to death.”
Hey, someone had to.
What in the - oh, that was rich. Hawke had seen these before. Never tried them, but those tired eyes recognized the box. “What has this relationship done to you,” he chuckled roughly, taking one for himself. It smelled sweet. Nothing like tobacco but he supposed it helped with the ‘oral fixation’ (how dirty) habit.
Tasty. It’d hold him over for now.
“Assuming I can afford to drink myself to death, not a whole lot cheap Yank beer can really do to me.” Lucky him he wasn’t the picky sort. Give him anything, from wine to mixed cocktails, bitch beer to liquor. Anything with alcoholic content would be embraced. Lovingly. He grinned around the candied stick. “Looks like we can bond properly about unfair treatment. Right after I find solace in your sister’s arms; she does remember how I prefer to be the little spoon, right?”
Ah, one day Wisdom was going to whack him in the nads. Or set them on fire. He preferred the whack, though. Less chance of permanent damage.
In response to that, Wisdom gave this cheeky bastard the finger. Because there was no better response, when it came to committing the sin of discussing his sister getting down and dirty, than to flip the bird - well, besides incinerate the fucker’s goolies, but he might need those someday. Stranger things had happened.