[ Hawke's set up in the kitchen, a bath towel rolled out on the table with scavenged bowls, one half full of warm water and one of suds. He's rounded up whatever hand towels and clean rags he can find and set them alongside a roll of cotton gauze and two thick glass bottles small enough to fit in his palm and filled with a viscous silvery liquid. Lastly lays open a small leather book, beaten to hell but still somehow holding together and open to a page of notes scrawled in his own messy script.

He's kicking himself a bit mentally for his haste. He could have taken a moment to retrieve potions from the Sanctuary or salves he has piled away at home, a small stockpile as leftovers from various of his own escapades that have left him in a state. Or a needle and thread. Anything that shows he had any foresight at all. But he doesn't have any. He has bandages, towels, two sad mana potions that are only half as effective as lyrium, and his own meager healing ability. His notes are there, things to remember from Anders trying to teach him a half a dozen times at least, and he kicks himself again for not being able to read his own bloody handwriting.

When Chris returns with Amelia, Hawke immediately looks up, pushing his sleeves again to his elbows, or at least making the motion of it since they're already in place. His posture shifts, looking more natural and at ease. Far more confident than he feels but there's a determination there too that sits in him defiantly. He smiles to Amelia softly, a hard edge to it that mirrors hers that's gone in a flash when his gaze turns towards Chris, all confidence and care and he hopes none of the worry and roiling anger that had threatened to choke him when he'd arrived showing through. ]

I'll need you to sit up at first so I thought it best in here for the initial healing. The couch will be more comfortable after and I won't need you to get up again so you can just relax.