Eta Carinae

Anders' words have so much weight to them. Granted, the man's an hour out of mercy-killing his own friend, his friend who'd already undergone a fate worse than or at least comparable to death. But every word from his lips seems to carry all the burdens of the world. Garrett's never dealt with anything quite like it.

Kirkwall has not been easy, but tonight, slammed with the harsh reality of what fate might await his little sister, it seems darker than usual.

Not least because they're in a place called Darktown.

"He is no longer my friend Justice," Anders says, haunted and heavy. "He is a force of vengeance, and he has no grasp of mercy."

The dim light hits Anders' face just so, and the air is oppressive. It's not even approaching appropriate, but Garrett can't help himself, he never can, it just slips out.

"So that explains your whole sexy, tortured look."

And now he feels like a bit of a prat, which is unusual in itself, but Anders smiles softly, almost appreciatively, certainly not pissed off-edly, and Garrett shoves the relief that threatened to flood him back bloody down.

At least this time, after a few days have passed, Anders nods when Garrett enters the clinic, which is a big improvement over his first 'greeting'. He's in a good mood, or what Garrett assumes is a good mood for Anders.

Under that mirth, though, there's still a boiling righteousness.

Anders talks about Justice again, and it's surreal, not just because he's a willing host to a bloody spirit, but because he's both so sad and fond of it. It's a strange, fascinating dichotomy, so of course Garrett can't help himself from another terrible flirting decision that Anders pointedly ignores, apparently opting instead to say words like Karl and first and legitimate implications of sticky-icky.

"You... and Karl?" Garrett asks, and Maker that comes out much more dismayed than is strictly tactful. Not that being Tranquil ever did anything for anyone's looks, but Karl was so... Karl. And Anders is so not.

"...Does that bother you?" Anders asks. "That I've been with men?" Garrett can hear it now, no longer buried beneath the muck of personal tragedy, the hinting, testing. He knows this delicate game, but he's shameless enough that he hasn't bothered with it in years. Maybe Anders isn't ignoring him as much as he thought.

Garrett grins as some part of his soul pulls those rusty boots back on; he can play, too.

"I'm just glad it didn't take me any longer to find out."

Anders smiles, tacit yet warm, and short-lived.

It's remarkable - and a bit unsettling - how quickly Anders makes that shift from righteous blue rage to incorrigible charm and back again. Training about all things demon-y went to Bethany, so too any ethics lessons about spirits-versus-demons, but Garrett still grew up with an apostate father, apostate little sister, and a healthy respect for the dangers of magic.

Cracks of the immortal realm itself open in Anders' skin, and his voice is tinged with fury but also compassion for the families like Garrett's, like Father's, always on the run for the reprehensible crime of wanting to be free, to be together.

This is too much. He's weighed down, and anyone who's ever seen him fight knows he relies on being light, and he just can't deal with this.

"You're starting to glow again," Garrett says, and that's all it takes for the quake of the Fade to dissipate, leaving only Anders in its wake.

Anders closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Yes," he says. "And since yours is the only head here, and I don't want to rip it off, I should stop." He sighs. "Sorry."

Yes, he should, and Garrett is glad that he does, and they have so much to do before the expedition, but the hint of dejection lingering on Anders' face is... distracting.

"Anders," he says, stopping before they can leave the clinic. He fixes him with rare, practically fabled Garrett-sincerity, and it has to be more than adequate recompense for his normal bullshit. Maker, but he'll feel bad if he doesn't get this out.

"For what it's worth, you did the right thing, with Justice and all. He was your friend, and you tried, at least."

"You know," Anders says teasingly, his eyes crinkling, "underneath that scruffy exterior, I think you've got a bit of a soft heart."

"You wound me," Garrett says, clutching at his chest. "Just don't go around telling everyone, they'll all start coming to me with their problems." Then he winks and bounds on ahead, eager to get out of Darktown.

Anders can't concentrate on writing. It's the first time in months, since his Joining of a different sort.

His eyes keep panning over to his coat, still airing out from the dank slaver cave, and he knows he's still flustered from before.

Aveline and the elf, Fenris, had both vehemently protested it, and Anders has been so full of rage and despair lately that he genuinely expected Hawke to agree. His sister is a mage, true, but he is not, and hypocrisy is not exactly beyond the ken of humankind, or really any kind.

So, then, when Hawke told Feynriel he could go live with the Dalish, that he'd help escort him up there, that he'd do his best to reassure his mother this was the only real solution...

Quite frankly, Anders is surprised little hearts didn't float out of his eyes and pop like bubbles on the stalactites.

Hawke is something special. Anders has known this since that first day, when he looked him in the eye and fired off a magnificent mini-speech on mage rights that might as well have been the manifesto's preamble. And then he followed it with a joke, something crass about templar skirts, because Hawke has the worst case of lack of tact Anders has ever seen, except for maybe Oghren, but as a general rule dwarves do not count.

Anders smiles to himself.

The twinges of foreign doubts, doubts about distraction, doubts about trust, doubts he knows he would never have had before, but doubts that are correct, flare up, and Anders dips his drying quill in ink.

Unfortunately only literally.

A week after they escape the Deep Roads, Hawke is still inconsolable about Bethany. Inconsolable in the sense that, if anyone mentions the Gallows to him, he shoos them away with a wink and a nasty joke. For all his talk, or perhaps because of it, Hawke seems to be masterclass in deflection.

He's all but shut himself up with Varric for the past few days, no doubt working out the logistics of who gets which gold crown or shiny string of pearls, but ultimately, Anders suspects, distracting himself from thinking too deeply.

It's a bit of a surprise, then, when Hawke shows up at the doors of his clinic, all swagger but beard tellingly unkempt, and asks him if he's too busy being a noble knight of the poor to talk for a minute.

Anders frowns. No one is in need of immediate care, but the weeks he's spent in the Deep Roads have left him with a welling need to work. He wants to tell Hawke no, or at least some part of him wants to, but he can see the defeated anger hidden deep in the lines of his face, wrinkles like cracks in a mask, and he gestures him to a table in the back.

Hawke sits with a heavy sigh, deflating, and he anxiously runs a hand through his hair. "How bad is it?" he manages after a moment. "In the Gallows... or," he corrects himself, "in the Circle?"

A torrent of conflict swells in Anders, but he will not stay his tongue, not even now. "Terrible," he says. "Oppressive. Lonely. Dangerous."

"Embittering," Hawke adds, and Anders' frown deepens.

"Full of templars who react at the slightest misplaced suspicion. Especially here in Kirkwall."

Hawke nods silently, straining to hold something back, probably biting words, maybe a breakdown, but Anders isn't sure and either way he doesn't want to exacerbate it. With great difficulty, he relents.

"Bethany's a smart girl, Hawke. She'll keep her head down and... comply," he spits. "I can't promise no harm will come to her, but she's got a decent chance at least."

He's thought about using the Underground to free, maybe even recruit Bethany. She could do so much good, and she wanted to help. But springing an un-Harrowed mage, so newly imprisoned and already a foreigner of dangerous influence... Meredith would destroy what's left of Hawke's family, Hawke himself. As much as Bethany doesn't want to be locked up, he suspects she wants that even less.

Hawke opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, opens it again, and his voice is detached. "I should have - "

"No." Anders cuts that path of thought off immediately. "It's not your fault, it's the templars', and it's always been the templars'."

Andraste's tits, he'd already lost another sibling, hadn't he? A year ago, Bethany's twin brother. The fury over Bethany, over all mages, subsides, and there's nothing Anders can do now but reach across the table and squeeze Hawke's gloved hand.

Hawke's eyes close as he brushes his thumb over Anders' palm, and time sort of slows down for a second, but then Hawke pulls free to stand, that roguish smile back on his face. "I should get moving. Varric's trying to cheat me out of a marvelous set of bangles."

"You can talk to me," Anders says.

"He's been bloody slippery about this whole thing," Hawke says, and with a little salute but not another word, he leaves.

Anders doesn't watch him go.

The stairs to Hightown feel absolutely endless when Garrett's drunk. Which he is. Frequently and currently.

He's stumbling up to the Amell - no, the Hawke mansion, that's still so bloody hard to get used to, one arm dangling around Isabela and the other around Anders as they help him along the stone steps. His hand lingers tantalizingly at the curve of Isabela's breast.

"Oh, serah," she purrs. "Is that how we're playing tonight?"

He grins at Isabela, who by all accounts should be equally tossed but somehow isn't, which is a good bit of bullshit. The world seems like colors, sort of spinning all over the place, but at least Garrett can see the both of them clearly. "Sometimes I think," he slurs a bit, "I think, it's like I attracted all the attractive friends in the world."

She laughs, and the sound is gorgeous as always. "Between me and Sparkly over there, you might be right. All we need now is a surly elf and we'll have the whole set."

Anders laughs, but even to Garrett's fuzzy mind it seems subdued. "If I'm involved," he says, "you might have a rough go of it convincing Fenris."

"He's not invited anyway," Garrett scoffs, and he's far too gone with whiskey-dick, or whatever swill the Hanged Man serves-dick at any rate, to do anything more than slide his hands down both their chests in response, though with Anders it's mostly pauldrons. Some part of his mind knows he's acting asinine, or maybe just an ass, but it's a part of his mind he's used to ignoring.

When Isabela's hand squeezes his arse, he nearly loses his footing. "Quit trying to tempt me," Isabela cackles, "You're already helpless as a kitten, and where's the fun in that?"

Garrett almost misses how Anders' mouth tightens so slightly. Almost.

"You know," Anders says, and his face is just ripe with irritation, "I'm still not sure why I'm here."

"You're protecting me," Garrett says with a sloppy grin, swaying a bit as they reach the top of a set of steps, which is good, because his legs are beginning to burn.

"I'd say Isabela can do a fine job of distracting any wayward bandits."

Garrett stops dead, throwing everyone off-balance, and reaches over to brush his fingertips over Anders' cheek. "No, no no, you've got to protect me from her. From Isabela. That's the point." When Anders doesn't shy away from his hand, Garrett winks and turns to Isabela. "I know you, you pirate, you'll rob me blind."

She runs her tongue along her teeth. "Well, I'll do something that'll leave you blind, sweet thing."

Anders sighs with a frown. "Is this going to happen every time you get a letter from Bethany?"

That's a low blow, and judging by the immediate regret on his face, Anders knows it. The world suddenly seems darker, but it's probably just his mood. He toys his fingers through the golden hairs at the base of Anders' neck, watching with a bit of mean joy as Anders tries not to squirm and make himself even more bloody obvious by staring decisively at the wall.

It takes Anders a second, but he finally pulls away, dejected. "I'm sorry," he says softly, but leaves it at that. The moon hangs at... sweet Maker, almost pre-dawn, it's far too late and Garrett doesn't currently possess the cognitive capacity for self-reflection, but if Anders is done being a brat, so is he.

Garrett rubs at his nose, swallowing down a wave of sharp nausea. "I..." he fishes, but Anders knows him too well for any bullshitting, and he's so drunk right now, but at the very least he can save face with Isabela and by extension everyone else they know, so Garrett waves her away. She looks put out, but she's a big girl, and she can deal with it.

"I'm being a blithering idiot," Garrett says finally. "I don't know why - or, well, I know why - but I don't know why I'm taking it out on you specifically." He sort of collapses against the carved wall of the steps, gazing up at the stars and vaguely trying to map them in his head. "It's just - it's been six bloody months, and this is the first letter they've let her send, and I see them, the templars, in my mind when I think about her, like hovering nannies watching her write." He's babbling, and he takes a deep breath. "I can see why Father never liked the skirted bastards."

That's unfortunately a sentence more than he meant to share about himself.

But Anders looks so annoyingly sincere, like he sees right through his every word, Garrett's every vulnerability. He nods, and this time it's his hand on Garrett's shoulder. "I understand," he says, and even in his mental fog Garrett knows he does.

They ascend the rest of the stairs in silence, and the next day, when Garrett's finished fighting a raging hangover, his heart's not as heavy as he expected when he tells Isabela he isn't interested.

Anders wakes suddenly in the night, eyes creaking open, though it's so dark he might not have even bothered. The air is stifling, uncomfortably warm, and his ears ring in the dead silence of the clinic's stone walls; Darktown at night sometimes feels like a coffin, unfortunately apropos.

The cot in his clinic's supply room offers limited comfort, but in the isolated black and quiet, the scrape of rough burlap against his skin is the only anchor Anders has to the physical world.

He massages an achy temple covered in a thin sheen of sweat - shit, but this had been a bad one. Two bloody years he's been a Warden now, not in practice, of course, but the nightmares aren't getting any better. At this rate, he doesn't know what will drive him mad first, his life in sleep or wake. At least the buggers in his dreams are finally being driven off the surface, and most importantly, he's not the one who has to do it.

With a grumpy groan, he turns over. It's rare Anders can snag a full night of sleep, and after a solid week of nearly-all-nighters with the Underground, he's fighting fatigue as much as nasty beasties. There's an ever-present nagging in his head, no wearier for his own wear, that he should be out there tonight, too, and he wants to, but when it became clear that all the magic Anders could manage without shaking were weak wisps of smoke from even weaker sparks, his contacts sent him home.

He's still exhausted and needs at least another few hours, but now he can only hear his own breath in the dead quiet, and he's sweated down his back and through cotton, and Maker take this heat.

He tugs his thin undershirt over his head with as little movement as possible and flings it onto what he hopes is a dry shelf, and the feel of the air and scritchy cot on his bare skin stirs something he really doesn't want to deal with right now.

Later, when he manages to fall back into tentative sleep, Anders can't say he's surprised that he dreams of strong arms and a cheeky smile instead of darkspawn and Deep Roads.

He's not sure which he'd prefer.

It takes all of Anders' effort to control himself when they're in the Gallows. He knows the templars are watching his every move, and even with his staff left inconspicuously in his clinic or Varric's suite, it only takes one mistake for them to descend like dogs. He knows just as well that with only a whiff of effort, he could destroy them all and spring every imprisoned, oppressed mage in this horrible place free. They hate everything he is, everything he represents, and the feeling is so very mutual.

Garrett knows this because Anders finally tells him so, in hushed, fraught tones, sitting next to him on the ferry back.

"Why do you tell me these things?" He manages to sound weightless, laughing, but if they weren't on a tiny boat he would have staggered under Anders' quiet voice, fallen right off and sunk to the bottom of the sea, an aural anvil chained to his ankle, dragging him down down down.

Aveline, across the boat, scowls. "Yes, why do you tell us these things? Have you not realized I'm Guard-Captain now?"

In the scowling department, Anders can give as good as he gets. "The way you go on about it in every conversation, it's rather hard to miss."

"Well, I don't think you're exactly one to talk." She crosses her arms over her heavy armor.

Their snotting at each other pulls Garrett back from the precipice. "Keep an open mind, Aveline!" he grins. "Who doesn't love a good templar massacre in the morning? It can't be any worse than what passes for breakfast in the Free Marches." He's not even making fun; Garrett hasn't had a decent sausage in almost two years.

"It's not a joke, Hawke," Aveline says sternly, though she loosens a bit, staring out at the surf as it crashes against weeping statues.

A salty, too-cool wind rushes the cove, and Garrett bumps his shoulder against Anders'. "I guess I can always leave you in the sewers next time, if that's what you really want."

"Careful, people might start to think you're a feeler." Anders' smile is tight, but at least it's there.

Something catches in Garrett's stomach; he's not about to fall into that trap. "Not everything's about you, you know. If you get all... blue and glowy, can you imagine the kind of trouble I'd be in?"

"At least they won't make you Tranquil," Anders says, a dark look passing over his face, and he's clearly not in the mood for much banter.

"I don't know," Garrett says lightly, "if I had you at my whim, that wouldn't be my first choice." That's a terrible flirting segue, the Tranquil are horrifying, and Maker, he really is a wretch.

Anders turns a bit pink, emphatically not looking at him, but Garrett can see from the strain on his face that he's trying not to smile again.

Autumn passes quickly that year, and winter is colder than it has any right to be. It's forced Anders to master of the art of setting safe fires in his clinic to keep the cold of the Darktown stone at bay.

Maybe that explains why Hawke traipsed down here just after sunset on solstice, knocking though the lanterns aren't lit because Anders is exhausted from healing frostbite and wagon overturns all day.

They're sitting by the small fire now, side-by-side, soaking up its meager warmth while Anders' eyes sting with the effort of keeping them open.

"I just..." he says, "I don't quite understand why you have to come to Darktown to avoid a party."

Hawke unsheathes one of his daggers, twirling it on its point in the dirt. To anyone else, he might just look bored. "It's all about appearances up there. I told 'em I'd be out, so now if I don't busy myself, Mother will never let me hear the end of it."

If Anders times it just right, maybe Hawke won't catch him rolling his eyes. Hawke hasn't been down to this festering hole in a few months, preferring to just send the occasional letter when he wants help, so maybe this is just the start of one of his spells, where the man vacillates toward being a real person in a real place instead of his usual incredibly frustrating self.

Anders leaves it alone. He likes the visits.

"Why exactly do you want to avoid them in the first place?"

Hawke shrugs. "I don't think the nobility likes me very much."

"Can't imagine why, you're so tactful. And new money, to boot," Anders says, the disdain practically dripping from his teeth.

"That," Hawke agrees. "Also, disgraced family of magic, Ferelden trash, smells of dogs."

Anders smiles at Hawke with fondness, and the warmth in his chest can't be just from the fire. "Such problems."

"The worst." He pauses, stares off in thought for a second, then regards Anders with renewed interest. "So, care for a trip out to the Injured Cliffs tomorrow? I know I said I don't do anything with children, but if someone's lost theirs, I suppose I can allow an exception."

"You'll never stop being a mercenary, will you?" They both know that half of these little missions Hawke takes never pay in anything but goodwill, but Anders just smiles, not willing to shatter Hawke's delicate self-image as a rugged rogue.

"It's my primary source of income - not all of us can be born merchant-princes, you know." Hawke scratches at his beard. "Will you come, though? The boy might need a healer, and you know I'm rubbish at first aid. I'm as likely to kill the poor bastard as fix him. He'll wind up with a foot for a hand under my watch, and that would make eating terribly unpleasant."

Anders chuckles quietly, head heavy. "Why not? The clinic load has been lighter lately, I can find the time."

While Anders regrets what his friend Justice has become, he's never regretted the decision to join him. But if he was going to, if there was ever one moment in his wretched life when he could wonder what it would be without Justice, it would be right now.

Without a thought, Anders rests his head on Hawke's shoulder. It's got to be the sheer exhaustion that allows him to do it, because it's certainly not Justice.

They sit there in long, comfortable silence, and Anders is starting to nod off when Hawke finally breaks the quiet. "So..." he begins, and Anders remembers himself, sitting up. "So, why do you do this? Practically kill yourself helping the refugees?"

He's silent for a second, thrown by Hawke's willingness to ask a serious question, but when he answers, it's instinctive, and with a truth he knows to his core: "I am one of them, as are you. And Kirkwall's treatment of us, like so many other things, is not just."

Anders blinks, and his next words are more tentative. "It's not any different from what you've done for them, really." It's nearly imperceptible, but Anders doesn't miss how Hawke pulls so slightly away.

Garrett is more than satisfied with his destruction of the practice dummy when he hears Mother returning to the estate, home from the market with the colorful spring flowers, baubles and whatnot that she uses to brighten up the place.

Maker knows it needs it; even with the recent addition of Bodahn and Sandal, it's so oppressively lonely here sometimes. Though, really, Sandal isn't helping the case. Between the weird dwarf and Garrett's own boredom-borne people peeping, the Hawke estate must be the creepiest in Hightown.

It's not like it's his fault the Tevinters built everyone in so close.

The adrenaline of exercise wears off midway to the bath, and Garrett can't pull his grimy trousers off fast enough.

He stays in for dinner that night, too tired and in too decent a mood to go out looking for adventure or escape, a fact that apparently hasn't passed by Mother unnoticed.

"You're not preoccupied tonight," she remarks after a delicate bite of vegetable.

"I've got to give my body a break from drinking and whoring sometime."

"Oh, you're awful," she says, and then she stares at him with that exasperated, faintly disappointed stare that Garrett can't help but flinch away from even though he's a full twenty-four and owns a bloody mansion.

"Mother," he insists.

"Garrett," she insists back. "Dear, are you alright?"

"Why, do I look pale? I had the sweats earlier, but I think that was all the running and stabbing." He's not going to get away from this, though. His mother is his sister, vigilant and persistent. Garrett's food is so much less appetizing when he's under scrutiny.

She shakes her head at him. "You seem different lately. I try not to pry into your life because it scares the grace out of me, but dear - "

"Mother," he stops her. "I'm fine. More than fine. I don't love Kirkwall, though I think you'd have to be a cloistered Chantryman or a right prat to actually love it here..." he babbles, catches himself, "but the point is, I'm living well, a damn sight better than any other refugees, and Bethany is doing as well as she can in the blighted Gallows, and you're happy, at least I think you're happy, and - "

Still babbling. "I'm fine," he repeats. "We could be doing a lot worse."

"And this is why I worry. You haven't been this honest with me since you were a child." She smirks. "Which is ironic, because if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're growing up."

He knows it, too. He knows it, and he has no sodding idea what to think of it.

"Oh, don't say that, don't ruin such a lovely dinner. Bodahn worked so hard," Garrett says, because he's got to stay true to himself, or at least his words, as apparently the rest of him is sliding out of control into some dark cavern of seriousness and intensity and other such daunting adult things.

Maybe this is a step forward, maybe this is okay. Maybe all of this is okay.

When Garrett gazes out the window tonight, he's just looking at the stars.

Lowtown is lit by only lanterns and moonlight, yet the street is oddly crowded. Their eyes follow his group across the hex, but by the time they've oh-so-shadily drawn their weapons to ambush, Garrett's dagger is whistling through the air, burying itself in the chest of a thug. This isn't his first dance.

Aveline charges with a yell, drawing their horrified attention while Garrett rips his dagger from the dead man and pounces on his next target. A thug rushes him before he bursts into flame, screaming in pain, and Anders' magic really is quite scary, isn't it?

His adrenaline's pumping as their bodycount stacks, muscles screaming as his blades tear through flesh. Blood splatters the streets, his armor, the air itself, and he grins wider.

Garrett hears the archer's string from behind, where no one is standing or fighting, which can't be good -

And then the arrow tears through his throat, nearly severs his head from his damn shoulders. He's down before he can even think to panic, thoughts hazy and blood spurting and squishing underneath his armor, and he can't breathe. His eyes are wide but he can't see.

Through the pain, quickly fading, and his own gurgling he hears it, like someone's physically wrenched the cry straight from his lungs: "Hawke, no!"

His skin feels cool, then featherlight, and for a brief moment Garrett knows he's dying - but then color returns to the world. Suddenly he recognizes that calming cool as Anders' magic, and his feet gently touch the ground. Sensation floods his mind, and with it, pain. He's too weak to stay upright, knees threatening to buckle, but Anders has already rushed to his side, and Garrett is all too happy to plant his face in feathers.

Blue light surrounds him again when Anders places a hand on his back, and that pervasive, overwhelming weakness feels like it's being pulled from his body. He feels spent, like he's just had mindblowing sex. Fingers still hooked in Anders' coat for support, Garrett chances a glance around - Aveline's long killed everything in sight - and tries hard not to think about the skinny frame he feels under that coat, trembling a bit with what has to be concern, because some musty, ill-used part of his mind tells him that would be just so inappropriate.

Garrett's neck still stings like bloody vengeance, which is funny because he's probably drenched in blood, but he's not going to complain in the face of near-death. Yet.

The arrow's broken in two in a pile at their feet.

He stares at Anders, so close he can see the wrinkles at his concerned eyes. He smells like Darktown, with an undercurrent of something much, much better.

"...Garrett," Garrett says.

The concern just turns to confusion. "What?"

He laughs. "You don't really have to call me 'Hawke', you know. Unless there's some family name mandate in Kirkwall or Hightown I don't know about, Maker knows it wouldn't be the first."

"I don't think knowing you're not supposed to get completely pissed at the seneschal's dinners counts as a mandate."

The dreams - both sorts - are getting more ridiculous.

Darkspawn loot through improbably large tunnels like they always do, with increasing frequency, but now they've retreated far enough to bring the blighted broodmothers back into the mix. More than once, Anders has woken up wanting to retch.

More troubling are the dreams he likes.

Garrett's managed to infiltrate what should be Fade and Warden space at least once a week, and while Anders has never been a big one for shame, it's really quite pathetic. And ridiculous. Always ridiculous. He has no time to be dreaming about Hightown mercenaries.

That, he knows, for once, is indisputably Justice. Garrett is charming, funny, kind, when he thinks no one's looking, but Anders is always looking, and he gives almost as much of a toss about the mages' plight as Anders does. He's dashing, which is a ridiculous word to use, but these feelings are all ridiculous, especially from someone nearly thirty bloody years old.

Maybe Justice is right, maybe those sharp shoulders that go on forever are a distraction, but it's gone deeply beyond that now, and Anders doesn't want to live in a world where... feelings... for someone as ridiculous as Garrett are mutually exclusive to his life's work.

When his fingers brush against the laces of his trousers, and he rather aches to run them through shaggy black hair, Anders feels that familiar reluctance, not the shame of indulgence, but something more decisive, more assertive. For the first time, he ignores it.

Shit, he's stepped in it now.

It was supposed to be a routine rescue, inasmuch as breaking into the Gallows to rescue mages could be considered routine. But their two charges and their chattering mouths had turned into four, which was more than they'd ever attempted in one go; damned if Anders was going to leave bright-eyed, freedom-hungry mages to the mercy of their captors any longer. One of them, a blond boy in his mid teens who couldn't bear to leave without his girlfriend, reminds Anders of himself like a punch to the chest.

The Gallows are dark so late at night, well past curfew, almost completely silent save for their hushed whispering.

"Look," Jarad says, "we don't have enough disguises, and I don't know if we can protect four un-Harrowed through the tunnels." He fumbles with his knife, anxious. "The smugglers..." Jarad's a decent man, a sympathizer, non-mage, which against templars makes him indispensable in battle, but he doesn't understand.

Sometimes it's hard to imagine anyone else can.

Matthias, an apostate, growls. "So what, you'd rather leave them here, with knowledge of who we are - "

Anders shakes his head. "No. We're not leaving anyone, and we need to move now."

They both nod with something of a reverence, which Anders normally eschews but tonight thinks must be grace. Being both a Grey Warden and possessed of a physically-manifesting bad side still carries weight, then.

Jarad motions the refugees over, whispering instructions while Matthias returns his attention to the phylactery vault door. He's not yet met an enchantment he can't handle, but they take longer to break each time, and every second spent in the Gallows basement decidedly not fleeing sets Anders' nerves even more on edge.

A templar crumpled in a chair stirs, and with a wisp of concentration Anders puts her back to sleep. It's better than she deserves.

Too many minutes later, they've broken through the safeguards, and Matthias lights a torch to pick through the tiny phials. Anders wants to destroy them all, let the blood wash the prison walls clean, but it's a delicate scale Meredith and the First Enchanter balance, one they don't have the manpower to afford tipping.

Footsteps echoing in the distance tear Anders from his thoughts; someone - no, several someones, are coming down the stairs. Shit.

Jarad frantically motions from the chamber entrance where he's standing guard.

"What do we do?" one of the girls whispers, panicked.

Keep quiet, Matthias mouths back, gathering and replacing the phylacteries they've managed to locate as Anders ushers them all out.

The blond boy doesn't follow them, still desperately searching the calligraphic labels on the phials. "I can't find mine!" he says. Anders and Matthias exchange a glance, The templars cannot find the tunnels, and Matthias tosses Anders the torch before he goes; Anders is not leaving this boy behind, and escaping with the phylactery still intact is tantamount to delivering him to the templars with a pretty bow on his head.

Microseconds tick by as Anders and the boy scan the names, finally finding the right one and shoving it into his pockets, but the basement door is creaking open, no time to replace it with the decoy, and suddenly Anders realizes he can't extinguish the flame with magic.

Shit!

He stuffs the torch under his robes to put it out, and the the memory of the lit room is enough to grab the boy and in the dark guide him out of the phylactery chamber. The tunnel entrance is close, but it's right in view of the door, and they'll never make it in time.

Anders drags the boy to an alcove, surrounded by storage crates, pulling them both as tight against the wall as he can. Dim firelight bounces off the walls of the large basement, they're barely hidden, and it's deathly quiet. He clamps one hand over the boy's face and the other over his own, muffling every panicked breath they take. Sweet Andraste, he hopes the others have gotten out.

There's scuffling, a groan, and then a scaly voice fills the room, cutting through the silence. "Wake up, you lump. You were supposed to report five minutes ago."

"Ser Alrik!" the templar in the chair apologizes, "Maker forgive me, I just..." she fumbles, "I suppose I've been tired lately."

They're silent for a moment, but someone is moving, and Anders thinks he can hear the clatter of the templar's dropped torch, then the superior, Alrik, that name ominously familiar, says, "Search the room."

The bottom falls out of Anders' stomach.

"Come out, magey," Alrik slimes, his voice closer, and Anders squints his eyes shut as a tremble of fear wracks his body. He hears the low groan of the vault door, so they must have noticed it was ajar. "Naughty," Alrik says. "Do you know what Chantry law dictates for mages who tamper with phylacteries?" He leaves the question dangling in the air, but his ever-nearer drawl is far more terrifying.

Every breath Anders takes beneath his hand is slow and calculated, but it doesn't matter because Alrik is going to hear the pounding in his chest, he's sure of it. Distantly, he feels the boy shuddering against him, and his grip around him tightens, a warning.

Anders reaches for his magic, but it's still cut off, like he's lost an arm. Alrik must be going through lyrium like bloody smalls to keep the wards up this long, but he has to eventually give up, he has to, but not fast enough.

And then they hear it, a feminine shriek. "Ser Alrik, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she cries, and Anders realizes with horror that it's the boy's girlfriend.

She must have torn away from the group, come back for her lover.

The boy tries to jerk away, but Anders digs his nails into his cheek, clamping down harder as he presses his lips to the boy's ear and whispers, so soft it's almost inaudible, Don't move, you cannot move, you cannot be caught, you cannot be caught... and it's a mantra, distracting the boy whose wet tears he can feel on his hand.

This, Anders thinks, is why love can't exist in the Circle. Or why the Circle can't exist.

"Annelise," Alrik says amidst the sounds of struggle, and his tone makes Anders' skin crawl. "What a shame, someone like you using blood magic to open the doors. We'll have to draw lots for your ritual."

Justice, or at least Anders' desire for it, is screaming, and the boy is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. They're far outnumbered and even with his unbridled power they'll all be killed or worse if he loses control.

"Please, Ser - " she begs, desperately, but they're already dragging her off.

The door slams, leaving them in dark and silence, and Anders can feel the boy collapsing in his grip but he's already pulling them both to the tunnel trapdoor.

Later, when the sun peeks over the horizon, and the city begins to stir, and he finally wrestles his fury and still-hammering heart to calm, Anders realizes he doesn't want to do this alone anymore.

He can't.

When Anders tells him it's getting worse, that the templars are sniffing their lyrium-caked noses too close, it's all instinct to promise he'll protect him and every hair on his pretty head.

But he's incensed, speaking to Garrett with renewed passion. To Anders, it goes beyond his own safety; his conviction extends to Darktown, to the Gallows, to Meredith, Kirkwall, all of Thedas.

And, Garrett knows, to Garrett himself.

Anders meets his eyes, and for all his evasion Garrett couldn't look away if someone ripped his eyes from their sockets. He would drown them both in blood to keep him safe, he says, and Garrett can feel the air sizzle with Anders' raw energy, magic and something else, something older, and it's all directed at him. This dedication, this devotion - he's never felt anything like it before, but it's exciting, and Garrett likes blood, or at least the fighting that draws it, so that's fine too.

Justice lingers beneath the surface, like Garrett suspects he always does, and if he's totally honest with himself the spirit still mildly scares the shit out of him. Unless he's glowing, which does no favors for Anders' otherwise charming face, there's no way of telling where Anders ends and Justice begins, or if they're even really separate at all. Because the winsome humor and the indomitable, sometimes terrifying zeal - they're all part of Anders, and they're all part of this... thing Garrett's been trying so hard not to acknowledge for so many years.

Anders tells him Kirkwall needs to see someone taking a bloody stand for mages, help build a world predicated on freedom and choice, and that someone is him. It's a rush, hearing this potential, a solid thrill, and what's worse is that he wants to help build that world, and years ago that might have had him shaking in his boots, but time and suddenly-elevated status have him actually thinking. He's no longer just Hawke the Helper or Garrett the Giver; he's got a sense of real purpose around Anders.

And, about half the time, the threat of half-chub.

This wasn't what the old witch dragon lady, asha'bellanar, meant, it couldn't be, but Garrett has never felt so close to the edge.

It's been a few days since they talked, and this time the templars are actually on Anders' doorstep, or will be, tonight. It takes far too much effort to quell his rage as they preemptively clear out anything incriminating, anything magical from his magical flaming clinic, leaving enough medical supplies to not look suspicious. When Jarad suggests he go topside for the night, he's got no room to disagree.

The Hanged Man is as good a place as any to get lost for a night, in just so many ways, but only one of which Anders will be partaking, thank you. He slips under the giant swinging stuffed-man-doll-thing and through the door, glancing around the fairly full tavern, eyes adjusting to the sudden dark. Varric is across the room, deep in conversation with a pair of shadow-enshrouded breasts Anders can only assume is Isabela.

Next to him, in the light, is a shock of shaggy black hair.

Varric sees him first, ever omniscient. "Blondie!" he calls, gesturing Anders over, and Anders can't help but follow. Garrett turns to meet his eyes - the look he gives him is positively glowing, and Anders slides into a seat a little less wearily.

He practically melts into the table, haphazardly cradling his head in his arms with a groan, and trying not to tense when he feels Garrett rub comfortingly at his back. The brief respite of self-pity passes, and he peeks out at Garrett through his arms. "So what brings you back into the dirt?" he asks, sitting back up with a sigh.

Garrett's eyes are warm, matching his grin, and he says jauntily, "I like to think I never left it."

Isabela smirks at Anders, looking fully-recovered and fully-unashamed from her last 'visit'. "Bit more surprising to see you topside on your lonesome."

Varric rests his chin on his hands, leaning forward like his is the most fascinating story in the room. "She's got a point," he says. "I think dwarves of Orzammar see more sun than you."

Anders wants to quip about how much he missed the magnificent scent of vomit-caked air, but anger overwhelms his jokes and he's got a tension headache again. He rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"The templars are doing a raid in the area tonight. Looking for anything untoward about a blighted free clinic for refugees," he says bitterly. "I needed to get out of Darktown for the night." He forces the so very righteous anger crashing at his temples back down and attempts a half-smile. "What better place to be a fugitive than the Hanged Man?"

Varric's cracking jokes, of course he is, but Anders isn't really listening, he's too busy drowning out the sounds of the bar with his own misery, which is at least a toss better than with whiskey.

Garrett's hand on his arm brings him back down to reality. "So are you actually serious?" he says. "You've got friends, you know, or at least me, and I've got a house. A rather nice one."

"Garrett - "

"Oh, first-name basis with Hawke," Isabela tuts, "how saucy."

Anders shrugs at her, a mildly self-satisfied smirk playing at his mouth, and Garrett just rolls his eyes. There's a troupe playing tonight, and Garrett is subconsciously rapping his knuckles against the table on the offbeat, which couldn't be more fitting. "Maker, Anders," he says, exasperated, "just stay the night, if it means you're safe."

"I'm not going to impose on you," Anders says, because it's the first excuse he can come up with, and consequently by far the worst.

"Have you seen my house? Space isn't exactly an issue. We'll set up a guest room. It's got to be a good sight better than rat mattresses. If you're going to escape the sewers for a night, you might as well do it full-stop."

Varric scoffs, tossing back the last of what's left in his tankard. "That hurts me, Hawke," he says, "I've made good friends with the local vermin. I'll have you know they're excellent bedfellows."

"And we wouldn't want to make you jealous by stealing away all their attention." Garrett's hand is still on his arm, a comforting weight. He's has been so handsy lately, sneaking him glances of such affection, and this is a terrible idea.

Anders is going to do it anyway.

"Fine," he concedes with a sigh far more reluctant than he actually feels. "I suppose I can abuse your hospitality."

Garrett laughs, probably restraining himself for once from some glorious remark, which makes Anders ache in a way that is not at all conducive to focus but unfortunately all too familiar. He watches too raptly as Garrett finishes off his drink, always determined to get his money's worth, and stands with only the slightest sway. Garrett's hand on his arm doesn't falter, guiding Anders up with him, and then he slides his grip up Anders' shoulder.

It's all he can do to keep the heat from his face.

"So," Garrett announces, "since I'm no longer drinking myself into oblivion tonight, and I'm not in the mood to get mauled on the streets, we should be getting back."

Their companions are both sort of staring, and if Anders weren't suddenly so hyperaware of everyone at the table, he wouldn't have noticed the gleam in Varric's eye as he shoots a strange look at Garrett.

"Well," Varric says slowly, and his voice has a tone to it Anders can't quite identify, but then he's grinning again and the moment has passed. "Don't forget to tell me all the sordid details later, Hawke."

Isabela's grin is practically predatory. "Have a good evening," she says, but it's not at all cordial, and Anders knows he's trodden in a pile of deep mabari shit. He can't leave the bar too quickly.

The walk back to Hightown is pleasant enough as they blather about cynical Kirkwall politics and the pros and cons (mostly cons) of hound ownership, or rather why Garrett is ridiculous for owning one when there are so many good cats in the world. It's a late summer night, and the sun has just set behind the mountains, but the world is still violet and hazy and soft. A couple of times Garrett's hand brushes his, and Anders isn't sure if it's accidental, but all the same it takes every bit of self-restraint he's ever built up over the years to keep from lacing their fingers together, because Anders cannot, and surely Garrett does not want to, or at least he wouldn't when of sound mind. Which he clearly is not.

Three years, and it's physically painful.

But, Anders is quick to remind himself once they're safely through Hightown and in the Hawke estate foyer, not as painful as the Templar's brand, the Templar's hand.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Garrett interrupts his thoughts, looking thoroughly tired, probably sobering up, but not at all unhappy. "We have, er, food. Which you seem to be generally lacking, no offense."

Anders snorts, because Garrett isn't at all wrong. "When you put it like that, how could I possibly turn you down?"

"How in-deed," Garrett says, but they're interrupted by Bodahn and Bodahn's odd vacuous son person.

"'Allo..." Sandal says in his typical vaguely confused drawl. It's not the first time Anders has met someone of deficiency, but never a dwarf capable of flash-freezing an ogre. A week in the Deep Roads with the man - child? - left Anders all kinds of intrigued, but the kind of intrigue one held from a very, very safe distance.

Bodahn shoos Sandal back to his quarters for the night, which is just fine.

"Your mother's already retired for the evening, I'm afraid." he says, always polite, "She was out all day, I'm sure she was quite tired, the poor dear." He pauses from his worrying to regard them both. "I haven't cleared the kitchen yet, if you're wanting a late supper."

"I appreciate it, Bodahn," Garrett says. "Anders will be staying with us tonight, if could you ready a guest room."

His beard shifts with his ever-present bright smile. "Certainly," he says, "And may I say how lovely it is to have overnight guests for once." Uninebriated ones, Anders is sure he means, because Isabela has a terrible habit of making herself at home here, a fact that in the past caused Anders no small amount of the most petty irritations.

Bodahn leaves, and the full awkwardness of quiet finally gets its chance to settle in. They're alone now, or they might as well be.

"Right," Garrett says, thank the Maker, "would you rather pillow fight first or braid each other's hair?"

"Hm, I don't think I'd look exactly dashing with a braid. Or passed out on your floor, because I've gone and fainted from hunger."

The warmth in Garrett's eyes as he nods them in the direction of the kitchen makes the summer heat almost unbearable.

Bodahn said he hadn't cleared the kitchen, but it's in such neat order that it almost seems a waste to trash it up. Anders' suddenly grumbling stomach takes issue with that line of thought, though, quieting only when he shoves a piece of proffered bread down his throat. They're content to eat lightly, chopping pieces of the kinds of fresh luxury fruits Anders has never seen outside of the hands of dainty Ferelden nobles, and Garrett is Fereldan to his pointy beard, and sort of a noble. Maybe not dainty, but he does have his moments.

Garrett tosses him a bit of squash he's sliced off, and this is all leaving Anders feeling inordinately better.

Somehow, amidst the stone of Hightown, crickets chirp faintly outside, probably living in someone's well-tended garden, only emerging at night when the well-to-do retreated inside and the fear of being prissed at had properly subsided. It's calming, the night sounds in the distance and the low light of the kitchen lanterns.

"This is all right... right?" Garrett asks. "Munching on halla food, I mean. Instead of a decent supper."

Anders rolls his eyes. "You're so thoughtful. Of course it's all right," he says, smiling. Then he yawns so deep it touches his bones.

Garrett scoffs, "So much for Warden stamina, then," but he's in a generous enough mood to shut it down and guide them up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Bodahn has left the appropriate door open and bustled elsewhere, and it's mildly awkward when Anders crosses the threshold into the room, sparsely furnished and illuminated in faint moonlight and none of the warm glow from the fire. He's spent enough time in the Hawke estate for it to feel at the very least comfortable, but sleeping here, in this place where no one sleeps, is unsettling.

Garrett leans against the doorframe, starting at the clasps of his armor. "Fair warning: Sandal has a nasty habit of waking people up in the morning by staring. We're trying to break him of it."

"It's better than the alternative," Anders says darkly. His research on templar activity lately has been... alarming, and it extends far beyond tonight's simple raid of his own facilities.

It takes a second - like it always does - to undo the clasps of his coat and let it slide off his shoulders. Garrett is watching him, and because Anders is really the exact opposite of a blushing virgin in every regard, and because Anders left that life behind in pursuit of something greater, he closes his eyes and swallows.

He weighs his next words, and decides he can't not ask. "When this has blown over in a couple of days, can we speak privately? In my clinic? I need to talk to you about something."

Garrett leans back against the hall banister. "Of course," he says, and then he can't meet Anders' gaze. "Is this really what you want to talk about right now, though? The evening was so pleasant."

That hesitation is like ice cold water; Anders' mind is suddenly clear, and his thoughts are once again focused. He cannot rid himself of his affection for Hawke, but there are far more pressing matters at hand.

Ser Alrik cannot wait.

"Thank you for the room tonight," Anders says. "Goodnight, Garrett." He shuts the door.

Garrett talks him down from the edge. Garrett tells him it's going to be all right. Garrett tells him to be the example Garrett knows he can be.

Anders' doubts are shadows, and his heart is in his throat.

The smile on Anders' face as he talks about cats lights up what should be the darkest place in Kirkwall, at least according to its name.

It's been four days since Anders placed the freedom of all the Gallows mages - and his own extraordinary trust - in Garrett. It's been three days since Garrett put his hands on Anders' shoulders, Anders, whose fire was turned inward, threatening to burn him from inside out, and comforted him.

"I've been meaning to thank you," Anders says. He's still smiling.

Vengeance is as every bit as terrible as Garrett had suspected, but Vengeance is not Justice, and both are Anders, inextricable. Even after three years, it should be strange to see Anders so grateful, so happy to see Garrett this soon after he'd nearly lost control, nearly killed an innocent girl and done such a dramatic self-flagellation right after. But Anders can control it, or at least Garrett knows he can help Anders control it. The mere thought of Anders losing himself to templars or Vengeance or really any particular force makes Garrett's insides feel shifty and squirmy.

"You don't have to stick your neck out for the mages here, but you have." Anders' eyes are filled with adoration. "One day," he says, more hopeful than surely anyone's ever dared to be, because that's the kind of person Anders is, "we'll fix everything, we'll change it. We'll make a world where your sister can be free."

And, Garrett realizes with clarity like crystal, that's exactly what he wants.

Garrett smiles, and for once in his miserable life it's genuine, though he can't help but slide back into a more comfortable grin. "I've always had a thing for scrappy underdogs."

Anders falls silent, chewing at his lip, picking anxiously at a fingernail, and suddenly Garrett feels like he's on fire, and his stomach is tied in tiny knots. Anders speaks again, but all Garrett can feel is the roar in his ears.

"I'm still a man," Anders says.

"Don't expect me to resist forever," Anders says.

And it's been three years, three years longer than it should have been. Anders' voice is tinged with desperation that so parallels his own - more than that, it's filled a caring and intensity he can still barely begin to fathom. But Maker, does he want to try.

And so finally, bloody finally, Garrett says exactly what's on his mind:

"I don't want you to resist."

a/n: That's a wrap, then! Beta thanks to Elendraug and Xelias; y'all were bonerrific, thanks again. The title of this fic is the name of a star so massive and bright it began to destroy itself as soon as it was formed.

eta: Fixed some poopy writing stuff.

Totes wrote a porny epilogue, check the next 'chapter'.