Prompt: Carver Hawke holding a baby.
“Okay, okay, easy now,” Dev says, carefully cupping his hands over Carver’s. “She’s not a sack of flour, Carver, now– Look, support her head, alright? There you go…”
Carver has never felt fear like this. He’s in his thirties, he’s been hunting down darkspawn since he was barely a man, he’s seen things he could never describe, horrors he’ll never forget. He’s cut down ogres, dragons, gone toe-to-toe with forces easily double, triple, his own. He’s seen friends and compatriots fall long before their time, heard the darkspawns’ haunting song in his nightmares. His heart’s never pounded like this, his hands never shaken or his palms sweated like this.
He has to hand the infant back to his brother so he can furiously wipe his hands on the coarse material of his pants, and he glares at Dev when he laughs.
“I can’t believe you’ve never held a baby before,” the elder Hawke teases, cradling the tiny thing in the crook of one bulging arm, her head pillowed comfortably on his bicep.
“Shut up, Deveraux,” he snipes back. “Unlike you, I haven’t been vacationing in Rivain playing nursemaid for the last six years.”