Frost crystallized along the windows as Hawke sipped her tea. She could barely make out the other buildings of Hightown, the world blanketed by snow. One hand rubbed under the ear of the mabari laying across her lap on the sofa and she feels nothing but… contentment.
Pins and needles in her legs forced her upright once more. It was strange how she could lose track of time now. When the city no longer needs a Champion, there are suddenly so many more hours in a day. Especially when a certain feathered mage could now openly practice his magic, he spent most of the daylight in his clinic. Hawke spent most of her time visiting friends and then retreating back home to the den, counting down from sunset how long it will be until the cellar door opened.
As if the Maker heard her thoughts, the telltale creak that indicated the cellar opened wailed through the halls. She set the teacup on a table and ran towards the cellar, down the stairs, and into the arms of her love.
Anders lifted Hawke up until seated around his waist and nuzzled at her neck, breathing in deeply, and whispered in her ear, "But Maker, this is by far the best part of my day."
He carried her up the stairs and she hummed a tune into his shoulder. Once they reached the den, he lay down on the sofa, maneuvering her until she lay atop him. They never knew this kind of peace before, and the hours would pass before they left the haven of each other's warmth.
Hawke blinks, pulling herself from her daydream. This is how things ought to have been.
Instead she is here, shivering on the steps of the cellar, well past the time Anders promised to be home.
Waiting. For what? For her lover to be home safe, for the tension of the city to come to a head, for some sign that she's not completely lost Anders to his Spirit, for the Maker to just give her a fucking break.
She finally tires of staring at a closed door that isn't going to open any time soon and huffs one more visible breath before stepping out into the covered streets of Darktown. Her eyes fly to the lantern first and find it extinguished. She bites back the pressure pushing on her eyes.
He should be home with me, if he's at that damn table scribbling again…
Hawke stops to chastise herself. This happens more often now, this resentment. When did that feeling overpower the love she felt for Anders?
Why did I let it?
She approaches the door, testing to make sure he at least had the sense to lock it. The door moves easily and she silently curses his tunnel-vision.
She slips in quietly, casting a glance across the clinic to see if any patients remain. It's empty, not one citizen left overnight. The sound of a quill furiously scratching across parchment forces her gaze towards his desk.
Her heart sinks as she watches him engulfed not only by his manifesto but his Spirit as well. Justice guides his quill while Anders stares at his desk from behind eyes of blue. A strangled sound escapes her throat as she thinks back to when he first began this labor of obsession.
He would sit at her desk in the estate, tapping his fingers and humming, getting ink all over his face. He still took the time to stop and ask what she was doing, would leave the desk and hold her close.
And now all that's left is this...
Hawke feels the shiver crawl up her spine. She's not sure if it's from the cold or the fact that her presence is still undetected. One slow step at a time, she approaches the Spirit inhabiting the man she loves.
She is close enough to touch his face, and he still doesn't react.
"Anders." Nothing.
" Anders. " The scratching continues onto a new page.
She reaches out and pulls his face towards her until they are nose to nose.
"ANDERS."
His hands fly to her wrists and squeeze, blue light dancing along his skin and shielding his eyes.
Then all at once, the light dissipates. Justice avoids her directly now, and that worries her more than anything.
His face when he regains control, that brief moment of clarity and adoration, she holds onto that like a dying man clinging to his last breath. It's the proof that Anders is still there, the man she loves still walks on this side of the Fade. Varric jokes that she's a sucker for lost causes, and wonders if this is what he meant.
"Hawke, I.. I'm sorry." He leans into her right hand, sighing deeply. "I just wanted to get a few more pages finished before I came home, I need to bring them to the Chantry tomorrow."
His expression shifts into the guarded one he carries daily. Hawke sighs, trying to push the doubts from her mind. Lies. She wants to believe; desperately wants to know what Anders... Justice, is planning in secret. There's trouble on the horizon, she can feel it in every pore of her skin, every bone in her body.
But that's the story of my life, right?
She walks around behind his desk and makes a show of curling up in his lap. He wraps his arms around her, nuzzling her neck as he breathes in deeply. She pulls her head back to look him in the eyes but they're closed. She brushes her lips gently across his, and his eyes fly open, the look of honesty and adoration returns. It's in that fleeting moment that she knows that he still cares, that her love is not wasted.
"I love you, Hawke."
She smiles and nuzzles his chest in return, unable to say the words.
Instead she silently prays to the Maker she can weather the storm.