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The first time Hawke sees Anders he's at a political rally yelling his lungs raw. He's the most passionate one of the group, brandishing his sign heavenward, spurring the others on with his restless enthusiasm. His hair is messy, tied in a ponytail, and the rest of him perfectly fits the first impression in her mind - hipster hobo.
Hawke licks her lips and wanders over, pushing past the sweaty, gross, screaming mass of people until she's next to him. She's his height; he doesn't need to tilt his head. She munches on her ice cream cone.
"Anything interesting?" Hawke asks.
Anders seems taken aback. He stutters for words, his grip on the sign going weak. "I - we're - um - protesting the Chantry's newest bill."
Hawke hums, sarcastically drawing out the sound. "Political major, then?"
"College of Healers, actually," Anders admits, somewhat shyly. His arms tremble a little from the strain and he lowers them, grateful for the momentary distraction she provides.
Her lips form a shapely 'O', wet with cool chocolate. His gaze is drawn to them. "Have fun changing nothing," Hawke says.
His jaw sets into a tight line; he's annoyed, maybe angry. "I will."
She sticks the ice cream out to him as an offering, but he's too slow and she drops it on his shoes.
---
Hawke sees him nearly every morning on her way to University. The protest lasts a week and he's always there first, a loyal little soldier setting up food and drinks for freedom fighters. She decides to skip her first class of the day to go sit with him. It's not as though the professor is worth listening to anyway, he's incredibly self-absorbed.
Anders lifts his eyes slowly when he spots her foot as it taps an impatient rhythm against the pavement. He finishes tying his shoelaces rather slowly.
She wants to cut his hair.
"Shouldn't you be learning how to actually help people?" Hawke rubs her neck. "You know. Heal them and everything."
Anders scoffs, stretching and popping joints. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
Ah. Touché. Here's the fire at last. She likes it. Hawke cracks her knuckles. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall. Whether I like it or not, I'll be on the school bench for many years to come. I'm allowed to indulge my fancy once in a while."
Anders doesn't look impressed. "Look who's snagged a cozy scholarship."
"Nice ass," Hawke comments, undisturbed. She chips off black nail polish off her thumb, fascinated by the flakes as they're carried off by the wind.
Anders goes through thirteen different shades of red before clearing his throat.
She walks away then, allowing him to admire her own posterior, purposefully swaying her hips.
Behind her, she hears his choked voice as he calls out, "My name is Anders!"
"And I'm the Champion," she throws back at him.
---
The third time she meets him, they're at a bar. She spots him first, but he's the one who comes over with two beers. She doesn't like pale ale, only red, and tells him so. For a moment he's gripped with disbelief. But then he rolls his eyes, offers the half-pint to a random girl who giggles as she takes it, and braves the crowd to get her what she wants. It takes him a while to get the bartender's attention; she enjoys watching him sway back and forth on the balls of his feet, exasperation rolling off him like a warding aura.
When he comes back, Hawke's already drank half of his glass.
"Hey Champion," he says, settling across from her.
His mouth closes over the edge of the rim where her own resided mere moments ago. It's still sticky with gloss. He doesn't seem to mind; she smiles.
Hawke's kicked off her shoes a long time ago. One of her socks is gone for some reason. Her bare foot crawls up his ankle under the table and he draws in a shaky breath.
"Hey Anders," she returns, grinning wider. She knows she has pretty teeth - perfect, pearly, ideal - and bares them as a prying animal might.
"So," - there's foam on his upper lip - "is that what I'm supposed to call you?"
"Yeah," Hawke says simply.
Anders nods. "I can do that." He toys with her fingers, meeting them in the middle of the table. She's still smiling, but her hand is a dead thing in his grasp and it confuses him.
Her foot lands on his thigh and rubs a provocative circle. "You can do me too."
He swallows. "I was actually going to ask you out for dinner."
"We can still go to dinner."
Somehow, they make it upstairs, groping, panting, kissing. She's happy she chose to rent this cheap place. The noise is eternal and even the walls reek of beer, but it's lovely in a rustic sort of way. Anders presses her against the wall and kisses the line of her throat for the longest time. Drags his mouth from her cheek to her collarbone in a wet, hot trail. Her hips buck against his until he's sweaty and she maps his own throat with her tongue, the salty residue deliciously exciting.
She could have him here as they stand, against this very wall, so paper thin her neighbors would bear witness to their tryst, but Hawke is suddenly preoccupied with how much she wants to see his chest. It feels nice under his shirt and she sprawls her hands over his stomach, finding it warm.
The bed is too small and she has to climb on top of him. Hawke slaps him on the wrist when he attempts to flip her over. Instead, she drops between his legs and digs her nails into his thighs - hard - as he shudders and groans and tells her to crawl back up. A last teasing little kiss on his knee, only once she's done making him twitch, and she slowly slithers up his body to indulge him.
Anders rests his back against the wall - why would she have a headboard after all - as he draws her into his arms. His thumb brushes over her lips and he gasps when she bites it. She still has her shirt, but he's lost every piece of his arsenal, which is fine by her. What isn't fine is that he finishes before she does; Hawke rolls over to her side of the bed with a frustrated groan, though calling it an actual side is being kind. He presses against her back, embracing her from behind.
"Sorry," he mumbles into her ear, but he's laughing, the bastard is laughing.
"Whatever," she says.
He stays the night.
And in the morning it's better.
---
She's aware that Anders is watching her intently.
Isabela kisses her softly on the lips. The door is still open; he can see everything. Hawke laughs against her mouth, stealing that precious taste of Antivan spices from her tongue. A little secret which leaves her craving more.
There's a knowing glint in Isabela's eyes. "Good night?" Her fingers brush against the underside of her jaw, drawing that pleased hmmm which belongs to her alone.
Hawke shrugs. Isabela ruffles her hair and retreats to the kitchen, chanting an old song. Her voice is too beautiful.
She returns to Anders and throws his shirt back to him. When she sits on the side of the bed to pull on her socks, he hoists himself up and rests his chin on her shoulder. Hawke is somewhat irritated by the intimacy of the gesture, but allows it to persist.
"Who was that?" he asks.
"My roommate," she says dismissively.
His breath is hot against her skin, a little moist. "I wish I had roommates like that."
She's done rolling on her socks. It took too long. "Yeah well, not everyone wins the lottery."
---
Hawke needs to take another class to be considered a full-time student and keep her scholarship, reap all the benefits. She browses through the online catalog, her eyes tired and watery.
She is definitely dropping Ancient Elvhenan. The professor is new and usually it guarantees a good grade since newcomers are always fidgety and eager to earn their students' favor. But this is just an elective, one picked during a dare with Isabela. She won't actually put herself through this hell.
Hawke signs up for pottery and calls it a day.
---
She aces pottery.
She aces everything.
The A's make her want to retch.
Hawke banishes her report card under the bed and sleeps.
---
The fourth time she meets Anders, it's snowing. His nose is buried deep in the collar of his coat and he barely looks ahead as he walks. He kicks every hard lump of ice in his way with determination. The tips of his ears are red, and his hair is still that aggravating length so it looks like he's forsaken showers and social customs. She wonders why he's not wearing a hat.
Hawke catches up to him and bumps his shoulder with her own.
"Hey," she says.
He startles, but recollection quickly washes over him. His smile is warm enough to make her forget the cold weather for a short instant. Hawke shifts from foot to foot. Hops a little.
"Champion," Anders says. "How are you?"
She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Want to come in for a hot cup of coffee?"
He carefully studies her expression. "Just so we're clear - are you really talking about coffee or is it sex?" He actually jiggles his finger at her as if that would drag the truth out.
"I can be your coffee." Hawke is already tugging at his hand.
He follows her somewhat reluctantly - but eagerly at the same time. It's an odd combination. She likes having this power over him. Their hands exchange heat, palms soon becoming clammy from rubbing together.
"I couldn't find you," he says. "And you didn't give me your number. We never grabbed dinner."
Hawke makes a dramatic sound in her throat. "What a tragedy indeed."
He's the one to initiate the kiss this time. Anders bites her lip so hard it starts to bleed. Hawke punches him in the chest and while he's wheezing wipes the blood away with her sleeve. She ponders whether kicking his legs out from underneath him would be going too far. A swift blow to the back of the knees would send him crashing face first into the snow.
Anders is breathless. "At least now, you'll have something to remember me by," he snickers.
Hawke kisses him so hard that his mouth goes red and she tastes copper on his breath. Her fingers curl into the lapels of his ugly coat and she pulls him toward her. His back snaps as he straightens up, angles himself just right so their heads are aligned and his exhale morphs into her inhale. Her tongue flickers over his bottom lip, smudged with her own blood.
It's amazing.
---
She sits in his lap while he's reading. Or pretending to read. Or trying to. Either way it doesn't really matter. There are scissors on her nightstand and she grabs them before he has the time to move on to the next chapter. Anders rubs thumb and index together, preparing to change pages, but she licks them for him. He hums his thanks, barely acknowledging her and using the moisture to better grip the paper. It sticks to his fingertips.
"I am going to cut your hair," Hawke happily singsongs. Nip, nip, nip near his ear to scare him. Nip, nip, nip.
Anders undoes his disaster of a ponytail - or is it a braid this time? Slides the tie onto his wrist and it becomes lost amid his sea of woven bracelets. "Do your best."
She does, and by the end of it he looks nearly presentable.
Anders says he's got an examination in the morning, so she makes a nuisance of herself until he abandons all pretense at reading and kisses her throat.
---
She stops counting the times they meet.
---
"Hawke," Isabela calls. "Your brother's on the phone."
"Mhm," she says.
Anders cups her face, drinking in her features, as if trying to decide what exactly makes her worthy of her name. "Hawke?"
"Hawke."
He goes back to reading. "It suits you."
Oh well. She couldn't be his Champion forever.
---
They wander off and find themselves standing before a bar somewhat farther from campus than usually. The crowd is different here. The streets aren't packed with hot dog vendors, prying on drunk undergrads looking for greasy foods to pacify the onset of nausea.
"The Hanged Man," Anders reads. The sign swings dangerously under the wind's guise, threatening to make a full circle and drop on someone's head. The hinges look like they're about to give way. "Blight it, let's just go in. I'm tired of walking."
The bar isn't a bar. It's more like a pub. A band plays somewhere in the corner, their faces obstructed by smoke. Band - such appellation is being generous. More like a badly tuned guitar and someone coughing insistently, determined on making a human metronome out of themselves.
All the places are taken. All except for a table for four but at the head of which only two occupants reside. As Hawke squints, she recognizes one to be a dwarf and the other an elf. Peculiar sight. She can't help but think there ought to be a Qunari in the mix, just for the sake of cultural diversity.
Anders laughs when she tells him.
They look slightly older than them and maybe this is a bad idea, maybe it will make for awkward conversation, but at this point her legs ache and she couldn't care less. She and Anders are the only students here. Perhaps they'll annoy them enough to leave.
Anders says, "Mind if we join you?" to the strangers and waits for their approval.
Hawke says, "Just sit down," and does exactly that.
The tall one, the elf, quirks an eyebrow before quickly losing all interest. His gaze shifts downward. Hawke isn't shy. She leans back in her chair and watches what exactly it is that he's doing under the table.
He's sketching, hands dirty with charcoal.
The dwarf, however, has already made it known that his name is Varric and appears more than willing to divulge his social security number as well. His openness makes her giggle. Hawke decided she'd rather be sitting next to him and kicks Anders in the shins, forcing him to switch seats. He grumbles, but doesn't protest.
There's not enough space. Hawke's legs intrude onto Varric's lap. He throws his head back in laughter. Next to Anders, his companion perks up, disapproving of her sudden familiarity. He's wiped his hands clean on his jacket - it's beige, it's a bad move, he looks like he took a tumble in a heap of coal. He shoves his crumpled sketch into his pocket.
"What are you doing?" she asks, fingers crawling over the leather binding of the journal Varric is clutching.
"Writing," Varric answers, cheeks flushed with drink. "What do you do?"
There's no pen in sight.
Hawke sticks her thumb into her mouth. Chews on her nail. "Accuse."
"A lawyer then?"
She likes him. "Not yet. Soon."
Anders has jumped on his prized pony again, riding it for all its worth. He's off prattling about politics, a subject Hawke passionately doesn't care about. "...and it amounted to nothing. I'm just saying - "
Varric nudges his friend. "Chuckles, isn't Vivienne giving a seminar on Criminal Law or something soon?"
Chuckles cringes. Raises his finger, bidding silence as he waits for Anders to finish speaking. Then he's shaking his head and leaning on his elbows toward him. "I know. There's been a significant increase in Templar patrols on the streets. They must think us utterly daft to hope we'll buy into the nonsense that it's for our own protection." Finally, turning to Varric, "Yes, I believe she is, although I am not aware of the details."
Anders throws his arms in the air. "That's exactly what I've been saying."
"The protest - "
" - I was at the protest - "
" - what a failure - "
" - you went? It didn't - "
" - I contributed to it - "
" - well, your cash bought sandwiches - "
Varric rolls his eyes. Hawke imitates him. Anders is too in love with his new friend to pay attention to his drink so she steals it, emptying it in one, greedy gulp. A shiver runs through her blood before settling in her stomach like a hot stone.
Chuckles stands up, producing a cigarette seemingly out of nowhere, and sticking it between his lips. He has to throw his long hair over his shoulder, thick, dark dreadlocks tied neatly with a band that reminds her of Anders' bracelets. The sides of his head are shaved - vanity, odd sense of style? She finds it weird. He offers Anders a smoke in complete silence, and the two escape outside. She can see them huddle in a corner by a streetlight, leeching off its insubstantial warmth, attempting to evade the biting cold, through the fogged window.
Varric can't stop laughing. "I don't know what the fuck just happened," he admits.
Hawke groans. "He likes politics. I don't."
"No," he says, "I didn't peg you for the type. Chuckles teaches at the University, though he's better known as Professor Solas there. His interests are, shall we say, more cultivated than mine."
She's glad then that hers aren't since it means staying with Varric.
Hawke is already eying his drink. He hasn't touched it in a while. Laughing, he slides it toward her. The condensation makes the glass slippery and the contents threaten to slosh over. She steadies the amber liquid with her lips. A solitary droplet dribbles down her chin.
She doesn't want to pay for drinks.
"You know you can just bat your eyelashes and any straight guy in here would empty his pockets for you, right?" he says.
"Intro to Ancient Elvhenan," she replies instead, the name mentioned minutes prior sparking a distant memory. "I dropped his class."
"Atta girl!" Varric boasts. If he wasn't so comfortable in his chair, she's sure he would have patted her on the back. She returns the sentiment by poking him in the ribs with the dirty sole of her shoe.
"I love you, Varric," Hawke says.
He has a hand over his heart, fingers fiddling with the thick gold chain that drops down his chest. "We are not losing contact," he declares and it's not a matter for debate. He calls the bartender over and demands a pen, using it to scribble his number on the back of her hand. The tip he gives him is generous enough to excuse her barbaric behavior.
Hawke snorts. "I'm not going to sleep with you."
He shoots her a wounded-puppy look. "Aw. Oh no. Whatever shall I do. If only I wasn't married then I might actually give a damn."
She writes her number on his wrist in a large, bold script.
---
Isabela is busy kissing a path down her body when she gets the call. She growls into her stomach when the cell phone vibrates, gripping and tossing it at Hawke perhaps a tad too violently. It hits her in the forehead and she knows there will be a bump there tomorrow.
"Hey mom," Hawke says.
"And on this note I'm done," Isabela says with a huff, scurrying off and pulling her robe around her tan form.
Her mother asks if everything is well, if she is happy, if she likes her classes.
Her mother tells her how proud she is, what a good example she sets, that she couldn't ask for a more perfect daughter.
Hawke rolls onto her stomach and buries her face into her old pillow. That pride will haunt her at night, she knows, it already does. It makes her sick, conflicted, elated. She wants to be good, she is good, but not the way her mother envisions it - not like her father would have wanted.
Isabela finds her vomiting her heart out in the bathroom. She sits by her, absentmindedly stroking her back while she trembles, getting rid of the last of the pride still in her gut. It tastes and looks like bile, but it's out.
In the morning, she goes to class and daydreams about running away.
In the evening, she comes home and catches a glimpse of a naked Isabela as she sticks her hand down the pants of a man she knows only as Zevran. Hawke walks by them and into the kitchen to grab a sandwich.
"Hello there, Hawke."
"Hi, Zevran."
She shuts her door - it has no lock - and curls underneath the blankets, a tiny flashlight between her teeth as her fingers furiously flip through an old dog-eared copy of her father's last novel.
---
Anders waits for her class to finish and hands her a bouquet of flowers. Hawke wrinkles her nose at the sight.
"Let's go on a proper date," he says.
"No," she answers.
His face falls.
---
Hawke passes Solas in the hallway. They never acknowledge one another, but this time he's caught off guard by the massive bouquet she's still dragging around and rare puzzlement fights past his mask. It could make for a good broom, Hawke supposes. Isabela would find it entertaining.
"Hey Solas," she says, still walking.
He's still walking too. "I'm your superior here; address me as such, if you please." Hands clasped at the back, heavy boots thudding against the floor.
"Hey Professor." The bouquet cuts through the air like a sword, narrowly missing his shoulder. It may have been an accident; no one will ever know.
They go their separate ways.
---
They end up settling on a road trip instead. Anders' car threatens to break down halfway through so they pull over. It's dark and the streetlight is broken so they make out in the backseat. There's nowhere to run. His fingers are intertwined with hers and there's absolutely nowhere to run.
It feels so delightfully wrong. She wants him to stop - she wants him to dig his nails deep enough to draw blood, to find bone, to stay in those wounds forever.
Anders gently kisses the corner of her mouth, and the gesture spooks her more than if he'd unexpectedly shoved his tongue down her throat.
"I like your fingers," she whispers beneath him.
That's good. It's the right thing to say. He's no longer holding her hand. His fingers travel elsewhere and Hawke forgets herself.
---
They have breakfast outside, lying on the grass. It's junk food, but they're both magnificently broke so that's excuse enough.
Anders shifts his weight on top of her. Her brows knit into an annoyed 'V'; she isn't done eating.
He traces the bulging, red scar across her nose with clinical interest. Asks, "What happened?"
Hawke kicks him in the side and it's sufficient convincing to make him understand she wants him off. "I was in a knife fight."
He 'ooh's' next to her. "Seriously?"
"No, you moron. A swing broke my nose and left a souvenir."
They laugh until the cows come home. And there really are cows. They drove so far into the country that nothing but farms pop up on the horizon. The air smells different while Anders smells familiar.
It shouldn't be this way.
---
He likes anchovies on his pizza.
She hates them, but keeps silent for once. It's a rare occurrence in her life.
---
She ought to be studying, but she can't. Going out with Varric is more important. She's as giddy as a child, dancing an uncoordinated and wild dance. Perhaps she even looks savage, plays her part well, as she jumps and twirls and shakes her hips. Her hair is nothing but tangles, sticking to her sweaty back as she's dipped backward by someone she doesn't recognize. Hawke can't see much of anything.
"Let's go play cards," Varric calls.
So she follows him, realizing only minutes later that she was dancing alone in his living room to nonexistent music. Whomever touched her is long gone.
Hawke trembles with excitement. Varric bets too much money. Anders keeps losing. Solas barely spares a glance to his hand, yet keeps winning and winning and by the end of the night a man named Blackwall is left naked.
"Please, I don't need to see your junk," Varric says, giving him a blanket.
Solas is gone by the time she looks up. Anders is at her side. She leans into him and he crosses his arms over her middle. Her vision is foggy. Are those hearts or diamonds? Are those even cards she's holding or pieces of cardboard? They feel sticky.
Her drink has trickled into her lap. Her pants are wet.
"I think that's about it for us," Anders announces over her head.
He has to pull her up which is quite a challenge since she's determined to remain down. When he lifts her in his arms, she feels his muscles strain and it's both insulting and hilarious. She's his height, she's strong, she runs every morning if she's not hangover. It's to be expected, but a girly part of her mind wants to ask him if she's fat.
The outside air punches her in the face like a dose of clarity. Her prideful, stupid common sense rushes back full force. Then again it doesn't feel like common sense, it's too corrupted to be. Hawke scratches Anders' neck and he yelps in surprise, sounding very much like a dog. He nearly drops her.
"Don't decide shit for me," she says. "We're not together."
"Fine," Anders snaps and then he really does drop her.
It's on soft grass, but the ground beneath is rocks and pebbles. She groans in pain, her scraped hands patting around for support. She watches his shoes until they disappear and realizes he drove them here.
---
Hawke fails her final exam.
It sets her back a semester.
She laughs.
She doesn't tell her mother.
---
Anders is close to graduating. He's interning at a nearby hospital. She knows he had his fair pick, but settled on that one. The technology is lacking and the man he desired to study under isn't there, he's too far away from Hawke, but Anders still smiles every time he goes to work.
"Convenience," he tells her, shrugging. "I don't have to wake up too early."
But Hawke knows how deep his passion runs. It isn't about convenience. Not even close. This is about taking all the steps she's unwilling to and thus lifting the burden off her own shoulders. It's kind, it's considerate, he doesn't ask for anything, but Hawke feels trapped.
She likes it when he wears scrubs - those are easy to take off. It's a pleasant side benefit.
It seems like all they do is have sex.
She loves it.
He always scans her face for something more after they're done.
---
Anders is the one making all the sacrifices.
---
Hawke stares at the letter in her hand. It's already been opened. By her. She's read it. Thrice. Nothing registers. Her mind is blank. She should be happy. She thinks she is.
The envelope from Orlais sits on the kitchen table for hours until, at last, Hawke acknowledges its existence.
She calls her mother to relay the news and she is happy. Terribly excited, even. Ecstatic. In the background, her brother's gruff voice congratulates her because custom demands it, not because he means it.
Well if her mother is happy then Hawke decides that yes, indeed, she is happy too. That's the feeling clawing its way out of her chest with violent intensity. Definitely.
Anders arrives two hours later with take out and a rented movie. It's a horrible drama, the type they love to make fun of. He goes to get utensils and finds the letter instead.
"What's this?" he asks, throwing his voice.
Hawke fiddles with the remote. The television won't turn on. "A letter."
"From Orlais?" Skepticism creeps into his voice.
She can see him from the corner of her eye, leaning on the door frame, peeking out at her. "Yeah. I got the internship."
He turns dreadfully affectionate, going to her and decorating her face with kisses. "Cheers! Mustn't have been easy to edge out the competition. How do you feel?" His hands rub her shoulders in support.
Hawke gives the remote a solid whack. "I'll be gone for two years."
His hand suddenly feels very cold; it was hot against her skin, seconds ago. "I - it's all right - I - I'll visit."
"Nah," says Hawke. The television finally comes alive and that's what makes her smile, not the man tenderly holding her. "Don't trouble yourself."
They eat in silence.
---
Hawke fucks Isabela before departing for Orlais.
---
It's not satisfying.
---
Leliana is a fox with very sharp teeth. Such a pretty fox. Such an unassuming fox.
Hawke observes her rip through the defenses of her client's wife. He's seeking a divorce and she's seeking compensation. In Hawke's mind, she deserves everything and more but Leliana reduces her to a sobbing mess and she admits to adultery. Her voice never wavers and she walks away massaging her palm, making sure her nail polish is intact.
She says, "Want a coffee? I wonder if my show is on tonight."
Hawke gets sick in the bathroom while Leliana is off ordering them lattes, cinnamon sprinkled on top. She's a great boss.
Outside of the courtroom, she stops to give a little girl a chocolate wrapped with a scarlet bow. Leliana bumps her nose. "Thank you, pretty bird," she says, and Hawke recognizes her as the daughter of the woman they just took everything from.
She drinks her latte to settle her stomach.
---
The call comes in the middle of the night. Hawke doesn't want to answer because it's her uncle's number that lights up on the screen, and he's an unwelcome presence in any shape or form, but answers because she's groggy from sleep and why not.
He says her name like it's a prayer, as if he wants her to absolve him of some horrible sin or clear away an equally disturbing truth, replace it with a comfortable lie as she's been doing for her entire family since her father's passing. But she can't because he hasn't told her what happened and when he does, her fingers are too cold and Hawke doesn't remember how to hold a phone.
They used to be nimble, her fingers. Talented.
"Your mother," her uncle says with gripping sorrow.
"She is gone," her uncle says with disbelief potent enough to shake both of their worlds.
"You have to come home," her uncle says without meaning it.
She's the family's problem-solver first and a daughter second.
Hawke resigns from Leliana's firm that very night, writing a short email riddled with endless typos. She doesn't remember if she thanks everyone involved for the opportunity.
She's not grateful and never was.
---
Varric is originally from Kirkwall, she remembers. It's a far stretch, but she texts him and lo and behold he's there at the same time as her. His usually cheerful tone dies out once they speak on the phone, and he doesn't object when she asks - insists - him to take her out for a drink.
"I don't understand," Varric says. He massages her ankles. "You've quit your job, well, internship and now you're abandoning your studies?"
The bartender brings out salted nuts. Hawke licks her lips in anticipation. "Yup."
He groans. "Look, I can't even imagine what you're going through, but throwing it all away is certainly not the answer."
The nuts are divine. It's an interesting word, she thinks, to describe nuts. "My mother has been buried for half a year, Varric. It's not an impulse decision."
"And what exactly have you been doing in the meantime?" Varric asks. "Mopping around Hightown? Ruining your liver?"
Hawke feels like dancing, but she has no partner. She thinks she's never really had one, not ever, not truly. "Both enjoyable activities. Did you know my family apparently has ties to nobility? I've inherited a small fortune." She pops a nut into her mouth.
Varric quickly grows irritated. He sends the bowl of nuts sliding to the other end of the bar. "Yeah, heard something about it. Come home, Hawke. We miss you."
She laughs. Chokes on her on saliva and laughs some more. "We?"
"Yes," he says, pointedly, "we. You have friends, you dumb idiot."
It's interesting to hear.
She certainly has no friends in Kirkwall.
---
"Hawke," Varric says. "It's been three years."
---
Hawke does come back and this time she doesn't return to the flat she once shared with Isabela. That building is gone, demolished, a library in its stead. It's ironic in a weird sort of way. The walls retain the smell of beer, but they aren't paper thin, aren't keen to share secrets.
She rents a cozy apartment overlooking an empty driveway and it feels good.
---
The umpteenth time Hawke meets Anders, it's in a park and he's playing chess with Solas as though both are some kind of octogenarians. His hair is nicely trimmed and he wears actual clothes, not his usual combination of a cardigan and a sweater and stitched up pants and maybe a ruined shirt and why not a scarf to top it all.
Solas doesn't look, but he sees, and soon he's pointing his long finger her way while his eyes remain glued to the chessboard. He moves his queen, she notes.
Hawke considers fleeing.
But Anders turns around and the expression claiming dominance on his face isn't something she recognizes. She's good at reading people, good at making them uncomfortable by exploiting their weaknesses, but Anders has become unreadable.
So Hawke does the only reasonable thing. She starts running.
Anders takes off like a rabbit after her.
She gets winded quickly and she runs for all the wrong reasons - he's chasing, chasing, chasing. He wants to catch her. She wants him to catch her so very badly. Her tongue darts out to tease along her lower lip; the scar he gave her is still there.
The high heel of her boot breaks just as his fingers coil around her wrist, vicious, and yank her back. Hawke can't stop laughing. Anders is bewildered, breathing hard, and she molds herself against him, her body remembering him almost instinctively. They're in public, they haven't spoken in three years, but her knee sneaks between his legs and remains there.
"What is wrong with you?" is what he asks.
"So many things," she answers. "What's wrong with you?"
He shakes her. "You. You're what's wrong with me."
She pants in his face. "How about hot coffee?"
His fingers have crawled to her throat. She feels them against her pulse point as they twitch. He wants to strangle her and she wants him to do it. There's a new intensity to his gaze, but she didn't put it there. It's not that he looks older and wiser and all that nonsense, but rather committed to something she doesn't understand. He's not carefree anymore.
"Yes, coffee, yes," Anders mutters.
They walk back to her apartment almost slowly. It would be funny, Hawke thinks and then conveys aloud, to ask Solas to drive them. Oh Solas, Anders remembers, he'll be fine, he has a good car too, he's probably already gone. She doesn't much care for Solas.
Anders kisses her.
There's enough rope for her to hang herself.
She kicks off her ruined shoes once they're past the threshold and he bites her neck. She wants more scars, all given to her by him. So she tells him.
What she doesn't tell him is where the bedroom is.
Anders searches the place with his eyes for a long while before giving up and throwing her over the couch.
She fucks him then and there, and it's beautiful.
Afterward, he rests his face on her stomach - somehow. Mumbles into her skin with shame that isn't shame but happy resolution, "I'm going to have to break up with my girlfriend."
Hawke threads her fingers through his hair. "Yeah," she agrees, dreamily.
---
It doesn't mean he's not angry.
The next day he yells at her so much that Hawke goes deaf.
---
"I never grieved," she tells Anders. "She died and I never grieved or cried."
"You can cry now," Anders says.
She does and he holds her.
Hawke thinks her mother would still be proud. Not because she threw her life away and snuffed out the fire of family ambition, but because for once she isn't nauseous when she wakes up, she doesn't dread the future, and the fluttering in her chest is something very close to happiness.
---
It feels like the only indication of time passing is the occasional change in Solas' hair.
The dreadlocks disappear until they're nothing but a dark ponytail, not unlike Anders' but infinitely better maintained. That goes on for a few years before it's shortly cropped and simply brushed back.
Some more wonderful years until he shows up at Varric's divorce celebration - the man actually insisted on throwing himself a party, even though the sadness in his eyes is poignant - with a bare head. His ears are so pointy, Hawke notices, it's nearly disconcerting. He has the habit of running his hand along his naked scalp as if in disbelief. She wonders if perhaps he woke up one day and took a razor to it out of pure boredom; he's always so mild until he's not.
"You look horrible," Hawke informs him.
In the distance, Varric roars that he should perhaps burn his wedding ring. But then he recalls that metal melts rather than burns, and he doesn't have a lifetime to sacrifice to watch it come undone.
"Thank you kindly. Your opinion is duly noted," Solas answers and escapes to the other end of the room with his ever haughty air.
She finds Anders and pinches his cheek.
---
Varric scratches his jaw. "Shame," he says. "They're closing down The Hanged Man. The owner lost his fortune at cards."
"No they're not," Hawke says and buys the ruined pub.
That's how she squanders away the remnants of her inheritance and becomes the world's worst bartender.
---
"That's now how you make a martini," a large Qunari tells her.
Hawke pins him down with a glare but his will is a worthy equal to her own and eventually she's forced to blink.
"Think you can do better?" she snarls.
"Move your pretty ass," he says as he invites himself behind the counter.
She's insubstantial next to him, but Hawke shadows him as he expertly maneuvres himself about the narrow space. He seems to know where everything is without asking. Also, he makes one hell of a dirty martini.
"Want to work here?" Hawke asks, kicking her legs up on the counter, her shoes coming to rest next to his discarded beer. The foam has already receded.
He's been mending the bar for a good half hour now. "Yeah, sure."
"Hawke."
"Iron Bull."
She often catches him slipping free, expensive drinks to a Tevinter man. He comes in unusually early, always on the same weekday, before it's crowded, and pretends he doesn't live off the attention. His mustache is a work of art; his flirting game is on point. He assures her he drinks only the best there is to offer, but he's a sham like the rest of them and gladly gets drunk on any vile swill if his favorite brandy is unavailable.
"Vishante kaffas," he exclaims, grimacing, staring down at his phone as though his heated hatred could beat it into submission.
"Is that a curse?" Hawke asks. She pretends to wipe down the counter.
"Most certainly," he replies.
"I love how it sounds."
"I think I'm going to stay here until the Imperium dissolves," the man sighs and shuts his eyes, using his arm as a pillow.
---
Anders' gifts are thoughtful, but they always differ. She likes to be kept on edge.
One year, he reminisces and takes her back to that very spot on the road where she shared the story of her broken nose and ugly scar. His car doesn't die - a testament to how well he's done for himself. He has a nice watch, expensive clothes. She wears a dress and high heels. They fit.
There are lines by her eyes. Hawke traces them with one finger, dipping her nail into the light crease. Anders has a matching set. It's all right then. They fit.
Another year, Anders goes out of his way and acquires a Mabari puppy. Hawke coos and frets over it. He's a playful little thing, not one mean bone in his body, and Anders' cat rises to the occasion to swat at him whenever he comes too close. Even when he's large enough to comfortably tackle a horse, he still hides under the coffee table whenever Ser Pounce-a-lot goes on his everyday stroll about the living room. They fit.
Once, Hawke isn't even sure what the gift is supposed to be. Anders crowds her into a room and locks the door. Then goes to the window and does the same.
"So you don't jump out," he explains. "I wouldn't put it past you."
Anders takes her hand and then he's down on one knee and slipping a ring onto her finger.
"So?" he asks, looking up at her.
"Fine," Hawke says back.
He kisses her and it's soft; he's always been soft unlike her - he's softened her own ragged edges throughout the years. Hawke smiles; before, she wouldn't have. The ring doesn't burn, doesn't feel like a trap or a promise. Just a gift. One of his thoughtful gifts.
"I can do that," Anders says. "I can do with fine."
His fingers weave with hers and this time there's no brutality in her blood. The need for him to claw off her skin so she can enjoy his contact - without going mad analyzing it - vanishes. It doesn't matter. They fit.
---
At some point in time Varric becomes a professor too.
It's weird.
He gives everyone A's.
---
"Nice rock," the Tevinter man comments, the corner of his mouth rising in a lopsided grin.
Hawke makes a show out of rubbing the ring against her shirt, as if the diamond could get any shinier, and raises it high for all to admire. "I suppose so," she says with practiced insouciance.
"Good for you," he says. "Refill?"
She loves the ring. She loves it so so so much.
---
She marries Anders without witnesses. Varric kisses her cheek when he finds out. Her family receives the invitation - deliberately sent at a later date, after the wedding has passed - and her uncle takes weeks to mutter something incomprehensible.
As always, her brother grumbles in the back ground.
Her mother cares, though. When Hawke brings flowers to her grave, she feels at peace.
---
The day Hawke loses Anders is the day he starts his new job.
He's in a position of power now, the head of an entire department, and has only Solas to thank for that. She never knew the man's reach to be that wide, but she supposes it makes sense. His words have swayed many, he's an expert in more than one field, has if not friends then useful acquaintances here and there.
At first, Anders is enthusiastic. He works too much, too hard, and often comes back with hands so dry that Hawke has to stay up at night to rub lotion into them. He starts talking to people she doesn't know. His opinions get louder.
Once, he actually throws a plate at the television. Thankfully, the screen doesn't crack. Hawke finishes her tea before quirking an eyebrow.
"The Chantry is going too far," he hisses. "This Knight-Commander is going too far."
"My brother is a Templar," she reminds him, her tone a slight warning but against what Hawke cannot tell.
Anders deflates. "Yes, I know, love." Runs a hand through his pale hair; such a stark contrast to her raven tresses.
He cradles her face with such intensity that she wants to snap and kick him and possibly bite as well - anything to break down the walls he's built to protect her feelings. But she doesn't. She kisses him, and it's nothing more than the brush of lips against lips, no blood this time, no promises.
"I have to speak to Solas," Anders says, grabbing his chessboard. "And Varric," he adds as an afterthought, perhaps to placate her.
She doesn't much care for Solas and his wide reach.
---
Anders says he's treating a girl with the blight sickness. She won't wear gloves, he says. Her hands are so cold.
---
What sets her off is the checks he keeps writing. They're not broke as they were in their youth, far from it, but it's the not knowing part that gets to her.
"Just supporting a local charity," Anders says and smiles. "I figured we could afford it."
Hawke chews on the inside of her cheek. "We can, but must we?"
"Yes," he says, scribbling away, gaze dropping.
"Yes," she repeats, dazed.
---
The Tevinter man waves at her to come closer. Hawke leans on her elbows; the counter is sticky, she forgot to wipe away the residue of beer left behind by an especially loud party of students.
"How long have you been together?" he asks, nodding at her ring.
"Five years," she says.
They've been married for five years. The time before that doesn't really count by respectable people standards. Because that's what they are now, yes?
"Can you be my therapist?" he slurs, but he's not drunk, not yet.
"Sure."
"My best friend spends too much money on coffee trying to get her boss to not hate her. I think she's being stupid," he confesses, giggling under his breath. Like a villain from a bad film, his fingers go to play with his mustache. Anders would appreciate it.
"Aren't you a good friend, just the very best," Hawke teases.
"I'm a delight," he's quick to assure her.
She decides to have shots with him.
---
The Chantry goes down. Hawke is mending the bar when she sees it on the news.
She calls Anders.
"Oh," he says.
Oh.
Oh, she knows.
She doesn't want to know.
He doesn't come home that night and Hawke nibbles her thumb bloody.
In the morning, Anders makes no attempt to be quiet. He throws himself into a chair and grumbles for coffee. She prepares some in silence.
"I'm treating the Grand Cleric," he says.
"Don't treat the Grand Cleric," she answers, biting into every single word. She feels like a wolf, or rather feels the wolf reawaken inside of her. Anders has pacified it for so many years, but she's always been a creature of fury. There's a chance she might shred his throat if he doesn't submit.
"It's an honor," he mumbles.
"Fuck you," she says and pours the fresh pot of coffee down the drain.
---
Varric comes inquiring after Anders.
Solas calls. She sees his number and fights the urge to toss it out the window.
---
It's a flurry.
Anders holds her all night, his face in the crook of her neck. He clings to her like a drowning man, and in the morning there are Templars beating their fists on their door. Hawke welcomes them in while still in her nightgown, her hair in a state Orlesians would consider artistic disarray, and lips curled in a clueless smile.
Together with Anders, they feign ignorance with such credibility that the explanations stretch out for an eternity. But even she can't drag this out, and he's taken away. The Grand Cleric is dead and her Anders is gone.
Hawke is alone again.
---
House arrest.
She can stay with him. She has that right as his wife. But she can't. When he says he's sorry, he doesn't seek forgiveness for the murder but for lying - by omission - and jeopardizing everything they worked so hard for.
It's not fair to her. She was never fair to him, but she wasn't outright cruel either. She played the mouse to his cat, feeding off the chase, enjoying the feeling of being so desperately wanted and loved. It was a game; painful at times, but a game nevertheless. Anders isn't playing anymore and that means she has no right to absolve him.
Hawke takes the dog and leaves. Ser Pounce-a-lot doesn't seem concerned with her absence.
She goes to Isabela, and Isabela moves in for a kiss, and Hawke has no true reason to refuse her yet she does. Isabela settles for an embrace instead and they play cards. She doesn't mind her dog as it drools into her lap, or the tears that come later. Tears that first stain Isabela's shirt and then Varric's shoulder.
She doesn't want to grieve. Grieving would be admitting to some sort of finality - and the ring is still on her finger, so they're not there yet.
In the end, it comes as no surprise that Solas is the one to break through Anders' melancholy. She learned about his desire to confess from Varric, and if Solas and she were friends, she might have thanked him. But they're not, so Hawke remains grateful from afar.
Varric's lawyers are magicians.
Anders isn't the man she married anymore, but he is still the man she loves. It's ironic that life softened her but hardened him.
When he is released, he goes back to work and Hawke walks her dog around the hospital perimeter, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He calls her just as she does, but she doesn't answer, suddenly feeling very small and very much angry. When she gets home, there's a message waiting for her on the answering machine. Anders' voice is tinted with sadness - as it should be - and she erases it before he gets to his point.
Once, he gathers enough courage and comes to see her. Hawke punches him so hard, right in the jaw, that her knuckles are torn open. He leaves without a word and she seeks out Solas. At times, it felt like he knew him more than she did, and now she's wise enough to understand that the hunch was more than that - a veiled truth. She intrudes into his office and shows him her bloody hand.
Solas sighs and fetches a first aid kid.
"I punched him," she whispers.
He sighs again and goes back to grading. Hawke just sort of stands there until she's calm again.
She can't run forever.
Oh, but she has. For so many years. Why not a few more?
She visits Anders at work, and he is so stunned he has nothing to say as she closes the door to his office. Hawke tries to remember him the way he was before, when they were younger, when her biggest concern was how to pay rent. His wrists are devoid of bracelets and his hair is cut short. He looks sad. Nothing - nothing about him is Anders.
Nothing except for the ring he wears.
And she wears hers too, a precious little relic she kisses when the world comes crashing down once, twice, thrice in a single day.
She wants it to be like the first time, so her shoes go and she's on his desk, sliding her foot up his thigh and he's kissing her neck. She scratches him, causing him to gasp and groan. He smells like medicine, like coffee, like Anders, but he isn't the same Anders and she isn't the same Hawke. He shattered them so beautifully.
His breath is mint and a subtle hint of alcohol. He was drinking the night prior.
Hawke bites his lower lip, mirroring a gesture going back a lifetime. Stills his hands.
"You killed someone," she whispers, her mouth ghosting over his. Maybe this way her words will be his and all will be better.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says, pressing his forehead to hers. "Please don't go."
"I want you to be sorry," she says and hunts for her shoes.
In the waiting room, Solas is being assaulted by Anders' enthusiastically awkward secretary who is trying to shove pastries down his throat. He ignores her as is their ritual.
She has to stop by the bathroom, but doesn't throw up. Hawke splashes cold water over her face and breathes.
---
The Tevinter man has a new problem. She puts on her therapist face.
"My friend is dating an asshole," he says.
Hawke laughs; it's good that she can still recall the basics.
---
Sometimes, Hawke sits with Anders during lunch. They never meet outside of the hospital anymore; she can't stomach it. Too soon. But it's something. The first time he touches her hand she narrows her eyes and he falls back, properly chastised. The second time, his fingertips dance over her wrist. The third time she allows him to hold it, and their palms still fit, are still warm and clammy.
He spends a lot of time with a particular patient - the one she comes to call Blight Girl. Anders has more tact and refers to her as a friend. She looks horrible. Pale skin and messy hair and tremors all around. Anders says they're treating her with poison which, to Hawke, makes little sense but she doesn't question it.
She visits her while she's sleeping. Knowing that he spends so much time with her, his presence benevolent and intentions good, makes Hawke feel close to Anders once again.
Once, Anders catches her. "She's a friend, but also a favor for a friend," he says. If it's supposed to be a riddle, it's a particularly stupid one.
"That's a lot of 'friend' in one sentence," she remarks. "Who's the friend?"
"Solas." Anders rubs his bloodshot eyes. "They've been together for a little while. We really ought to cut off her arm, but she won't let us. Solas wants me to cut it off too."
"Of course he does," Hawke comments, sour. "Don't let him bully her into it."
"It's not bullying, it's for her own good. She..." Anders trails off, realizing there's no winning with her.
She suddenly respects this girl she's never even spoken to.
---
Hawke visits her once more while she's busy vomiting.
"Hey," she says and drops into one of the chairs.
There are balloons all over the room and untouched pastries one the bed stand. The girl is startled and keeps quiet until she's done wiping her mouth.
"I'm Hawke."
"I'm Lavellan." Her face is the color of ash.
Hawke feels a little old next to her, aware of the lines by her eyes, of the ones around her mouth. She extends her legs so they're propped on the bed, shoes and all; it's a habit she will never lose nor wants to. Lavellan climbs in, not bothered in the slightest. She's like a snowflake, white through and through.
"You're Anders' wife," Lavellan says. Maybe she's whispering, maybe her voice is just this tiny, maybe it's the sickness. "You're very beautiful."
Hawke chortles. "Please tell me you don't play chess."
Amusement lights up Lavellan's eyes. It's a perfect sight. "No, but I've been known to win a Wicked Grace game time and again."
"Amazing."
Hawke manages to borrow a card deck from a patient down the hallway and they play until Lavellan's hands begin to shake.
---
"Keep your arm," Hawke says. "Fight for it."
"I'm not relinquishing it any time soon," Lavellan says and proceeds to beat her with a full house.
---
Once they grow familiar, Hawke decides to greet her with a soft kiss on the mouth. The contact is brief and affectionate, but when she sits on the edge of the bed and gets a good look at Lavellan, the girl is blushing so hard it's as if she just pulled off her pants.
She understands Isabela's affinity for physical contact. There's power there. It's sweet. It's not always about pleasure.
Hawke tickles Lavellan's foot. "Easy now, I won't eat you."
Lavellan's voice carries the undertone of a joke. "You're scandalous."
Hawke laughs a little too loudly. "You fuck Solas with that mouth?"
Ah - here's the lovely blush once again. She busies herself with wringing her hands. The longer the silence stretches out, the more Hawke has to fight not to burst into a ridiculous cackle. Restraint has never been her strongest suit, and she crawls up the bed to claim the free portion next to Lavellan. They're on their sides, noses nearly brushing.
"Oh Maker," she says. "Sweet Maker. You don't, do you?"
Lavellan groans. Rolls her eyes. "I - just - no - all right." She waves her hand as if that would explain everything. "It's not - I mean - it doesn't matter - well, it does - anyway - what?"
Hawke clutches the extra pillow. Bites into it. "Do you want tips? A lesson or something? I'm dying. Was he your first?" The brief interval it takes for her mouth to open is answer enough. Hawke feels her teeth grind together; she's red in the face. "He really did take this professor thing to the next level, didn't he?"
Lavellan is not amused. She waits out her fit with folded arms and a furrowed brow, staring at the ceiling. Hawke wipes away a tear.
"Sorry," she says, breathless, "I haven't laughed in a while."
"I can see that."
Hawke kisses her sweaty forehead. "So - tips? Power to the people, I say. No use in hoarding knowledge."
"I'll manage." She sounds angry, but she's not angry. Just embarrassed.
Hawke looks at the electronic clock on the wall. Visiting hours are drawing to an end. She hops off the bed and laces her boots back up, winking at the still-blushing girl who is pretending to ignore her.
"Hawke," Lavellan calls after her at the last minute. "Are we friends or something?"
Hawke stretches like a cat by the stove. "Yeah we are, snowflake."
"You've decided that?"
"Do you object?"
"Not at all."
"Amazing."
---
Lavellan is sleeping.
Hawke is a little annoyed when she sees Solas' reflection in the window. Still, it was bound to happen eventually. He freezes in the doorway when he spots her, but for once she plays nice and kicks the free chair his way.
She tells him of Anders. He points out she still has her wedding ring. She shares the truth. They've yet to lie to each other. In that aspect, their relationship is ideal.
Solas doesn't ask what she's doing here, and a part of her suspects it's because he doesn't want to know.
His answers are clipped, but his advice is solid. He's not one to spew bullshit to get someone off his back; sometimes, he actually cares. Just like Anders.
Hawke heeds it.
He calls Lavellan 'vhenan' when she stirs and Hawke slips out of the room. She could have stayed to annoy him, but in all the years she's known the man he's never clung to anything - anyone - so much. Urgency breaks his composure. She gives him - them both - the gift of privacy.
---
A day before Lavellan is scheduled to be released, Hawke visits her a last time to steal her phone number.
"We are not losing contact," she cites Varric's words, hazy in her memory.
Solas is there soon after and Hawke winks at Lavellan as she walks by him.
"Hey Professor."
"I haven't been your superior in thirteen years, Hawke," he says. His hands are still clasped at his back, just like back then, but the army boots have been replaced by elegant leather shoes.
She's not in mismatched rags of a broke student either, but Hawke doesn't feel old anymore.
Lavellan laughs and he's confused. Hawke laughs too.
---
Anders finds her in the cafeteria. He takes her hands and she takes his. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to kiss her.
They just hold hands.