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[To say he was tired was an understatement; he felt like the energy had been sucked out of him, like someone had deliberately gone through every part of his body until they were sure there was nothing else. And he felt like he was still being sapped dry. He'd cast more spells today than he had since defending the Keep, and that time he'd had thick walls and further allies to rely on. This time he had barely had enough lyrium potions; and he'd still drunk too many, but the dangers be damned. After what had happened, he could give nothing less than everything, and he still owed so much more.

And yet, he was wired, on edge. The others were busy setting camp - they had finally found what looked to be a safe place, after fleeing Kirkwall - and for a change, no one was saying much. They must be as exhausted as he was, he realised. They glanced at him, occasionally, though he avoided looking back. Instead, he spread out a bedroll for himself, and then sat down, staring at the ground.

He knew he shouldn't be there, and he knew they didn't want him.

He also knew that once Hawke had made up his mind, there was no arguing. And he didn't have it in him, either; he never had. But he couldn't - couldn't face this. Them. Anything.

There was literally no fight left in him, and for a moment the old Anders was back, the one who just wanted to flee.

He rubbed at his face, then reached for his pack. It was nearly empty.]

I'll gather some herbs.

[It was an excuse, but a good one. They were all hurt, and he had nothing left for another healing spell, and all their bandages were used up. They couldn't risk any infections setting in. And he owed them that much, didn't he?

Not that he expected a response, or any acknowledgment, or an objection if he left without a word. He pulled himself to his feet, using his staff as support, and made his way towards the trees. It had been an excuse, but he should do this. They might not be his friends (he might not even like them), but--

But they deserved better. Maker, he'd made a mess of things.]

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[To say he was exhausted would be an understatement. Physically, emotionally, magically; Hawke felt utterly drained in every respect possible. He simultaneously felt as though he might fall asleep on his feet and as though he may never sleep again. He knew once he stopped moving that everything that had happened - the Chantry, Orsino, Meredith, Anders - would catch up with him. The thoughts would emerge from the corner of his mind where he had shoved each of them, would push aside the curious numbness that had descended after slaying the thing that Orsino had become, and proceed to plague him. The fight with Meredith after that had just been the icing on the cake, one more facet to what, in hindsight, had been a perfectly inevitable nightmare. Those thoughts on their own would be enough to occupy his mind and prevent sleep, but when combined with a much more personal nightmare...

...He'd been keeping an eye on Anders as the party had made their way out of Kirkwall and into the wild lands of the Free Marches beyond, half afraid that he might just disappear, half afraid that one of his companions -- as much as he loved them and as much as he trusted them to respect his wishes -- might do what he had not been able to and slide the blade of a dagger between Anders' ribs for what he had done. As conflicted as he was feeling, Hawke did know one thing with certainty; if Anders were to die, Hawke would have nothing left.

Which was stupid. He had his other companions, and -- miracle of miracles -- his brother, but in the past six years, and the past three especially, Anders had taken and filled a place in Hawke's heart in a way no one else ever had, or could. Which made his manipulation, his emotional blackmail, all the more painful. But as hurt and as confused as he was, outside in Hightown, with ash and debris from the Chantry raining down on the chaos in the streets and Meredith preparing to invoke the Right of Annulment on the Circle, had not been the time to have a deep, personal heart to heart.

The brief time he'd had to talk to Anders in the short calm before the storm had been reassuring, but it hadn't been enough. The possibility that one or both of them might die had been high; what was good enough for the short term was laughably lacking for the long.

So when Anders announces that he's going to gather herbs, and disappears into the surrounding woods leaning heavily on his staff, Hawke puts aside the supplies he was sorting to take up his own staff and follow after.]

[Anders does, after just a few minutes, find some herbs. It's luck, although he nearly misses it, caught up in his own thoughts; still, there's a gathering of elfroot right there.

He kneels down to collect it, and nearly collapses onto the ground. He has to cling to his staff to keep from falling on his face.

He wants to cry, suddenly and almost desperately. He doesn't cry much anymore, but he's so tired, and with Justice suddenly eerily silent, all his defenses seem to be gone. He's fought so hard for mages to have even the most basic rights, but he's finally realising he's entirely neglected to fight for his own.

Like the right to be happy. To have a home, someone who accepts him and wants him, who loves him far more than he deserves. Hawke gave him these things like it was nothing, like it wasn't something he'd been denied all his life, something he'd been taught through habit and harsh lessons never to even dream of; and then Anders had proven, just like he'd warned he would, that he didn't deserve any of it.

Right now he wants to be selfish. Justice is silent, and he wants to cry, and maybe it's even for himself. But how can he; so many people have it so much worse.

That thought has also become habit over the years.

He won't allow himself the luxury of self-pity. He draws a deep, but shaky breath, and starts gathering the elfroot, carefully putting it away in his pack. He's caused so much suffering, but he can't dwell on that now. Without the spirit's encouragement, it's difficult not to doubt himself, but it's done. And it might make things worse, or it might make things better; either way, he has to fight.

He feels numb and tired, like there's nothing of Anders left, and he's definitely not paying attention to his surroundings. Even when he turns, it takes him a moment to realise someone is there.]

--Hawke?

[The surprise is obvious on his face, even as his exhaustion is clear in his voice. His mouth is still open, like he wants to say something, but he really isn't sure what. He knows what he's done; he knew he was hurting Hawke even as he was doing it. Apologies are worthless. There really is nothing left he has to give.]

[That he'd apparently crept up on Anders must be testament to the other man's exhaustion, as Hawke hadn't been particularly stealthy in his approach. Anders is always so aware of his surroundings that it's more than a little alarming to Hawke that he'd managed it. If someone else were to come upon Anders like this...

...But no one would, because no one knew they were here, and even if someone were to, they'd have to deal with Hawke first. Even if right now he feels about as capable and dangerous as an under-stuffed, over-soft pillow.

Although if nothing else such a pillow would probably still be sufficient to suffocate someone, if applied properly.

And it's telling to Hawke that his first thought in the case of danger for them both is still instinctively to protect Anders. He must be the worst kind of masochist, to still be so eager to protect the man who had not only betrayed his trust, but given him more than adequate warning that he would, one day. But. That's just the sort of person Hawke is. Loyal to, and maybe just a little bit stupid about, the people he loves.

His smile, when he smiles (of course he smiles), is a little crooked and a little tired, but genuine.]

I thought you might need a hand.

[Anders can't bring himself to return that smile. He frowns instead, wanting to look away, but Hawke deserves to have him face him. So he stubbornly holds his head up, even as he wants to sink into the ground.

He still doesn't know what to say. Hawke is exhausted; he should tell him to rest. He's also injured, like the rest of them; he should order him not to strain himself. But the words catch in his throat, seeming too familiar for someone who betrayed him in this way.

And now he really is fighting back tears.]

I'm-- [fine, he can manage, it's just a few, dumb herbs, he's gathered so many in his lifetime, it's the least he can do, he has to do something, he's--] sorry.

[His voice sounds weak, and he drops his gaze abruptly, hiding his face behind a hand. He can't do much more than whisper.]

I warned you. This is the man I am now.

[A man who looks both exhausted and filthy, his face drawn, and he's been getting skinnier under his clothes again, from stress and worry and forgetting to eat, even before all this; and he's looking small and scared (of what, exactly?), still kneeling on the ground in front of Hawke.

But that isn't what he meant at all.]

Do you believe it will end here?

...I meant what I said in the Gallows, love.

[The look on Anders' face breaks Hawke's heart. He drops to his knees almost without a thought, only half intending to. His own exhaustion is quickly catching up with him, but this is a conversation that he won't put off. Anders is too important to him, and, he thinks, he's important enough to Anders, that they need to clear the air before allowing this to drag on. He reaches out and touches the back of Anders' hand, a little tentatively, as if he's not sure he's allowed. He almost isn't.]

I know it won't end here. I'm still prepared to stand by you, whatever comes.

[It isn't that Hawke isn't allowed to touch, because Anders has never been able to deny him. It's that Anders doesn't want to allow himself the comfort. But he doesn't - can't - pull away.

He can look away, though. He turns his face to the side, ashamed.]

Hawke-- [He draws a breath, tries to find some remaining pool of strength, but there really isn't anything left. He feels as if he might have spent all of his strength for good.

His stubbornness hasn't escaped him, though. He steels himself, as best he can, and tries to sound hard.]

Don't pretend you can just brush it off.

[When his first tentative touch isn't brushed away, Hawke slides his hand into Anders', fingers gripping almost of their own volition. He'd thought his own hands were freezing but Anders' hand feels like ice in comparison, and he increases his grip even more, just a bit, as if his own cold fingers could warm anything right now.

And then Anders has to go and say that, and it stings like a slap to the face. Hawke is silent for some time, head bowed, staring at their joined hands, as he relives the events of the past months.

When Anders had asked Hawke to help him get into the Chantry, but wouldn't say why, and had played the "I thought you loved me!" card when Hawke had hesitated, Hawke had been hurt. He'd called him out on the emotional blackmail, though it had done little good, and of course he'd helped him anyway.

And then the reason Anders had asked for his help had become painfully, explosively apparent, and his explanation then had hurt again, although in a different way. I was afraid you would try to stop me. Or worse -- that you'd want to help. Anders hadn't been trying to hurt Hawke, he'd been trying to protect him. In a roundabout way that had hurt anyway, but how could Hawke stay angry at that?]

...If you want me to leave, you're going to have to say so. You know I'm terrible at picking up subtle hints.

[Anders is staring at their hands as well. He wants to cling tight, lift Hawke's hand and press his lips to it, pull him close and hug him and be held (what is he, a child?), like they have done so many times before when they've needed it. But wanting isn't the same as deserving.

Again, Hawke has reached out to him. He's been so angry for so long, but right now, all that's left is fear. But how can he accept that lifeline?]

I could never want that.

[To break Hawke's heart with a lie, on top of everything else, would be far too low, deserving or not. He knows that the right thing to do would be to let go, to make his way on his own and continue the fight unaided, allow Hawke to rebuild his life elsewhere... But as Hawke said, they already had that conversation. And Anders is weak.]

You forgive too easily, love. I'm not going anywhere, even if you are angry.

[He's so very angry with himself.

He wants to live with Hawke, more than anything. He wants to wake up each day to a warm body and a bad joke and a smile, and he wants to be able to wrap arms around him to pull him close, to laugh at not-so-witty one liners that have never been necessary. They always joked and teased, even right in the middle of sex, even while they were touching and driving each other mad with it, because nothing was too serious for a smile.

And Hawke has the most beautiful smile. Not that he's seen much of it of late.

He can never have a life with Hawke, not like that. It's so easy to blame Templars, or even Justice now, but when has he ever proved he deserved it? He's not a very admirable man.

He really is pitying himself, isn't he?]

I'm sorry.

[He has to laugh at himself, suddenly. He's trying to pretend he's angry at himself, and all he's doing is wallowing. Hawke is right there - hurt, no matter what he claims - and he's mourning his own life, when he's the one who brought this upon so many others.

He can't stop laughing. He can't stop crying. He's shaking and he can't think. Maybe the anger (and Hawke, always Hawke) was the only thing holding him together.]

[If being too generous is a failing, then being too generous is Hawke's. Perhaps he's still numb from the shock of the Chantry's destruction and the horrors at the Gallows, or possibly it's just the intensity of his exhaustion, but he just doesn't have the strength for anger, as Anders seems to think he ought. Perhaps it will come in time, once he's rested and has actually had a chance to process everything that's happened, but he doubts it. He's never been prone to anger, and doesn't really think that's going to change anytime soon. Or at all.

It's really not in Hawke's nature to spend too long dwelling on his own injuries and disappointments, especially when someone he cares about is hurting. It's the second time Anders has apologized now, and it's clear to Hawke that he's beating himself up over his actions. So Hawke has no trouble believing, and accepting, the apology. And then Anders is shaking and crying and laughing at the same time, and what else can Hawke do but pull him close and hold him tight? His breastplate gets in the way, of course, it always does, but by now he's become adept at working around it, angling his body just so in order to maximize contact without accidentally jabbing Anders in the face or shoulder with the hard metal. As he presses a kiss to the top of Anders' head, his own eyes start to well up.]

Please...just...trust me next time.

[Anders' eyes widen as Hawke pulls him into a hug, and it's surprising enough that for a moment he almost resists. But then Hawke's arms around him, and all he can do is lean into it, turning sideways and letting his head drop onto Hawke's shoulders. His hands come up to grip his forearm tight, as if scared he'll let go again.

He's still fighting the tears. His body is tense, and he's quiet, trying to hold it back because what right does he have to be breaking down? It was his own choice. It was the right choice. It has to have been.

He can't even answer. He wipes at his face and closes his eyes, though neither does any good. He'd like to promise, but he doesn't trust himself.

It's several minute before he gets himself under enough control to say anything again.]

I tore up your life, everything that you've built, everything-- And you're the one comforting me.

[he shakes his head, drawing in a shaky breath.]

I've always been a coward. The best of me... that's always been him.

Edited 2013-05-18 12:19 (UTC)

Not everything.

[He's holding the most important part, after all, and he tightens his arm around Anders' shoulders, and presses another kiss to the top of his head.]

I was getting tired of the parties and the gold-digging noble mothers, anyway.

[he lets out a short, humourless laugh at that.]

But we'll no longer have that bath, either.

[That gets a brief grin from Hawke, though Anders probably won't see it.]

I'm sure we'll survive somehow.

[Anders turns in his arms, just enough so that he can look up at Hawke's face. He cups his jaw with a hand, just watching for a moment.]

I haven't been fair to you at all.

[Hawke would return the gesture, but the arm he's not using to hold Anders snugly against him is still armored and gauntleted, so not exactly ideal for gently cupping faces...so he leans his own face into Anders' hand instead.]

Maybe just a little.

If there's anything...

[again he drops his gaze, the shame welling up again. All he wants is for this man to be happy.]

Anything you ask, Hawke.

Stay with me.

That's not something you ever have to ask, love.

Then that's all I need.

[He relaxes a little in Hawke's arms, then turns his head to press a kiss beneath his jaw.]

You really don't know how to take advantage of the moment, do you?

I thought I was taking advantage of it.

[Now he dips his head and catches Anders' mouth with his, engaging a gentle, slow kiss.]

[Anders would respond, but he'd have to break the kiss for that, and there are some things he's just not willing to do. He leans up, shifting closer as he kisses back, trying to reign in his own desperation.

He really thought he would lose him after this.]

[He takes his time, snugging his arm even tighter, trying to match Anders' desperation with reassurance. When he finally does pull away, it's only far enough to speak, resting his forehead against Anders'.]

We've both survived worse. We'll make this work.

[He's crying again. He's been trying to hold himself together for so long, hiding his plans, lying, each day having to watch the hurt on Hawke's face as it continued. And now it's done, they're here, and it's all coming out at once.]

And the next time Justice takes over?

I'll hug him until you come back.

[He's really wishing he'd taken off his armor now, because wiping tears off Anders' face would be much easier if his right arm weren't covered in spikes and plate. Since he's not willing to let go with his other arm, he'll just have to kiss the tears away, he guesses.

So that's what he does.]

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