He wasn't supposed to come back.
She hadn't been able to kill him. The first time, sitting with his back to her and his head bowed, he'd waited and begged and snapped that she should just- get it over with. She'd always wanted this, right? And he'd been wrong, she'd known it even then, but her biting response couldn't find her lips to pour out from. So she'd crouched down behind him, pushing the pommel of her dagger against his spine, and whispered, "Start running."
He'd nodded, once, and whispered something about love, like always, and left.
The second time, she'd led the charge into the Gallows, sending down a rain of arrows onto the mages marshaled along the walls and steps to stop her. She'd shot down so many people fighting for their freedom, their home, and her eyes and heart had been as rock. She'd felt nothing. She was a mercenary, she was cruel, she was a highwayman. She was not a hero. She was not a Champion, not really, not ever.
She had left none standing.
And then Anders had appeared again, walking down those flame-wreathed steps and staring her down. Run, you idiot, she'd thought, face contorting in rage and anger and disgusting, and she'd nocked an arrow. But she hadn't been able to pull back.
"I suppose," she'd said, voice raw and uncertain for the first time in years, "that reminding you of all the good times we've shared wouldn't help?"
"Only if it changed your mind, love."
That word again. That Maker-damned word that he always used and she never returned, and she drew back and let fly her arrow. It struck him in the shoulder. He'd begun to cast, and she'd seen in that first instant that he wasn't healing himself, that he wasn't drawing the arrow out. She'd rushed him with a scream, pushing through fire and spasming at the touch of electricity to flesh, and then she'd fallen on him with fists and blade. She'd beaten him until he ceased to move, breathing only faintly.
She had stared down at him and cursed his name.
The others had all turned away. Sebastian had withdrawn back to the courtyard to inform Meredith, no doubt, of Anders' presence and seeming death. The others stood with their eyes averted, unwilling to intrude. Merrill, though- Merrill looked over with the most uncertain, heartbroken expression as she lifted the staff of a young apprentice who had died in the rush.
She beckoned the girl over and spoke softly, urging her to find a place to hide, a way out. To take Anders far away.
And two weeks after Meredith's death and Theodora Hawke's rise to the viscount's seat, she'd received a letter from Merrill telling her that Anders was safe- and gone, again.
That had been six months ago. There had been sightings of Anders since, rumors, but he never came close to Kirkwall. Sebastian sat in Starkhaven, beginning to draw together his army. Aveline stood guard still. Varric had left Kirkwall. The others- well, she rarely saw them now, holed up in Viscount's Keep, staring at the work before her and asking the Maker (who never listened, she was sure) why she'd ever thought that this was what she'd wanted.
There were a few things she was still certain of, at least. Alcohol still tasted blessedly numbing. Aveline still hated her with a fierce and loyal passion. She made a horrible viscountess.
Anders was not supposed to come back.
And yet, as she washed up before bed, she swore that she could taste him on the air. Lyrium and herbs and the dead and dying, blood and anger and I would drown us both in blood to keep you safe. Passion sparking on the air. The entirely scentless but overpowering sense of what had to be Veil, something she could never feel unless he was there. She splashed cold water onto her face, dragged calloused fingers down her scarred skin, tried to put it out of her mind. She stepped away from the basin. Anders would not come back- he had no reason to. She'd broken his heart too many times over and gleefully danced on the wreckage. She'd cast him aside for the promise of rewards for protecting the status quo, but before that, she'd cheated on him, insulted him, hurt him. She'd pushed him to respond to her and he'd responded with more and more exhaustion until, finally, only Justice would yell at her while Anders retreated and said absolutely nothing. He was not coming back.
There was a shift of shadow in the corner of her eye, though, and she paused. She did not turn. She bowed her head, shook it, sighed. An assassin - had it really taken this long for death to come for her? Had it taken the people of Kirkwall this long to understand that no, she was not their ruler, that Aveline Vallen was right in calling her a highwayman, scum, opportunistic? At least it had taken this long, and no longer.
She felt for the dagger at her waist. She would fight, of course; Thea Hawke did not stand by and surrender. She survived. She fought and killed and blackmailed and threatened and, by Andraste's lousy knickers, she survived. But she would survive a little slower, this time. Be reminded of death, just a little. Be-
She'd been expecting a blade or an arrow, whistling and sighing through the air, not the sudden thrum of magic through her that knocked her to her knees. Somebody was on top of her, then, pinning her wrists behind her back, using the weight of their body to immobilize her. Thea thrashed while her head spun and her ears rang, but there was another pulse of power and she couldn't move.
The assassin bent down close.
"Thea," Anders breathed, his voice rough, ragged, and full of some mix of anger and deep, deep longing.
"Have-" she coughed, trying to get her throat and tongue to work, trying to get her head to settle back on straight. "Have you come to kill me?"
"I-" He hesitated.
"If you did, then do it," she growled out, pushing, pushing, always pushing.
He did nothing except let out a long, shaky breath. But then his fingers closed around her throat and every nerve in her body screamed at her to move, to fight, but the glyph still glowed faintly beneath her. He bent close and she could feel the tip of his nose brush against her long, brittle red hair.
"You deserve to die. You do," he whispered, and she realized, faintly, that he was trying to convince himself. Arguing with himself. "You stand- in the way- in the way of Justice- Thea-"
And she laughed, the sound bitter and angry. "Oh, making this about him again?"
"He told me you need to die. And he's right-"
And she laughed again. His fingers tightened and she heard what sounded like a sob.
"No," she said, finally managing to shake her head just a little. "No, that's you wanting revenge. Just fucking say it, mage boy-"
"I have a name!" he shouted and for a moment, his fingers clenched enough that she couldn't breath. She gasped, trying to suck in air, trying to fight, but it was only his self control (what little there was, what little there had always been) that released her.
"Fine, Anders," she whispered. "Martyr mage boy."
"I- this isn't- about revenge, Thea. You sided with the templars. You- you wouldn't kill me. You left me alive to know what you had done-"
"I left you alive because I couldn't kill you," she snapped, and the glyph faded enough that she was able to thrash, buck, nearly knock him off of her. But he shifted, body moving more quickly than his words, stretching out on top of her and keeping her still. The warmth and weight of him, the familiar press of body to body, sent a jolt of pain and longing through her that left her reeling, uncertain, confused. He wasn't supposed to come back.
"You sided against me," he whispered, his own voice shaking and soft, his lips moving just behind the shell of her ear. He was shaking. She could see faint pulses of blue, knew he was struggling, knew that in an instant it might be Justice snapping her neck- and he would not hesitate. He'd never liked her, after all.
But she'd been sitting six months on a throne that she no longer wanted, sitting in a city that had somehow grown empty and uncertain. In the mornings, now, she woke aching for Anders beside her- but that she would never admit. She would, though, set the record straight.
Because she hadn't sided against him.
"I sided with power," she said, and quickly pushed on before he could interrupt. "I sided with my future, Anders. Remember all those times you told me that I was weak, that I was blind, that I moved only to benefit myself? Did I ever say that you were wrong? Did I ever fucking deny it?"
He was silent.
"I didn't side with the templars, I sided with the one way I could sit on this throne and have- everything. Every-" And she stopped there, then growled, pushed up against him. He shuddered but kept her down.
"You're fucking Knight-Commander Cullen," Anders whispered. "I know. I heard about it. The first day I'm back in Kirkwall and I hear, 'Don't you know, the viscountess has the knight-commanders cock on a leash'. I know. I know you are-"
"It's none of your fucking business, Anders-"
"Of course it is!" he shouted. "I- why, Thea?"
"... It was only once," she whispered, sounding far more vulnerable than she had wanted. "Weeks ago. Just once- to ensure I had influence over him. Just once. To make sure that-"
"To make sure what?" Anders pushed, one hand leaving where it pinned her shoulder to slide into her hair, tangle there tight.
Her muscles tensed. She didn't want to tell him, didn't want to hear, feel his reaction, knew it would be too much. He wasn't supposed to come back. He wasn't supposed to ever know. She was never supposed to see him again, face him over the burning wreckage of her 'good deeds'.
But he was here and his voice was so broken, so pained, in a way that it hadn't been in so long. It was like he'd never given up on her. It was like he'd never been consumed with his conspiracies, his plots. It was like the best moments of their three years together, when she'd put him through hell and watched him struggle to remain with her.
"To make sure that he wouldn't oppress the new Circle."
Anders stopped breathing. His hand clenched then loosened, fingers untangling, retreating. "What?"
"You heard me," she growled. "You heard me. I'm not about to- the mages can make their own decisions. I'm not- he won't be another Meredith. I'm making sure of that. So just... just, fuck off, Anders. Either kill me or fuck off!"
"Thea." He sat up and she turned. He was staring down at her. She could see the barest line of his nose, his chin, but the rest of him was shrouded by a dark cloak. He stared. And then, slowly, he stood up. "I didn't-"
"Look around the city some more, then, Anders. Look what I've gotten myself into. Look what I've done. Then tell me I need to die- and I'll listen, I guess. But maybe I'll run, first." She stared up at him, mouth set firm. She watched as he backed away with slow, uncertain, almost stumbling steps.
"You betrayed me," he whispered. "You left me-"
"I told you to run."
There were sparks of light, magic on his fingertips, and a rush of drowsiness. She fought against it. His hands glowed brighter. Before she slipped down into the dark, she thought she heard him whisper, "I'm sorry, my love."
A week later, Isabela stole her out of the Keep for a night at the Hanged Man.
Isabela would have joked that she was dragging Thea along, but there was no dragging or force involved. Simply an invitation and a shadowy slip out one of the windows, dodging one of Aveline's guard details, and a nostalgic waltz into Lowtown. She'd been cooped up for too long. Aveline kept a tight watch on her and Thea didn't know where she would go if she got out. Most of her drinking had happened in her office or her room or sprawled out in the middle of the audience hall after everybody had left. Everything had changed, after all- she was the viscountess, not just the Champion, and Kirkwall was still reorganizing itself.
It was good to know, though, that she could still buy opium at the corner with the house that was missing two of its six windows and had a sign with a mabari fighting a snake (and losing) above it.
Isabela teased her about her habit the rest of the way to the Hanged Man, and Thea eventually returned the jibes, focusing on the persistent shit quality of the ale that Isabela drank so much of. It was needed, this old back and forth, these jokes and barbs and shared experiences. Varric had been wrong; Theodora Hawke was not built for sitting on her ass and eating bonbons all day. No, she was made for brawling and shanking and drinking and fucking: a harder, less amused version of Isabela. She was sarcastic and teasing with friends, harsh and cruel with anybody else. She'd only just released Thrask from their arrangement where he paid for her silence. She still remembered leaving that little runner of Athenril's to his fate in favor of getting paid.
She was corrupt enough to be a politician, to be sure; she just wasn't lazy enough.
And in the background lingered the memory of Anders pressed hard against her, threatening her, voice broken and angry and full of the passion that he'd once had for her and lost in his obsession to destroy any chance of compromise- compromise that she had, for a moment, brought back.
There were whisperings, of course, that the Circles across Thedas were plotting rebellion. There were whisperings that the peace she'd managed to force upon Kirkwall wouldn't last much longer. The mages brought in to restart the Circle in the Gallows were wary, angry, unpredictable, and it had taken all of her money and charm and terrible force to convince Cullen to look the other way, to allow more freedom than Meredith had in ages. And she'd done it all to try and keep off the war just a little bit longer. She'd done it all to keep choice in the game. Choice was something she could champion. Taking a side was not.
She'd done none of it because of all the long days and nights Anders had spent trying to convince her that the mages were in the right. None of it. She told that to herself over and over again and tried to forget the sound of love on his lips.
"Well," Isabela said, leaning forward, breasts rising high and pulling Thea's attention back to the present. "At least I'm not addicted to the stuff, Miss I Almost Died From Withdrawal A Few Months Ago."
"I did not." Thea lit her pipe, bringing it to her lips. "This shit is not going to fucking kill me. You on the other hand- your booze, you know, that can take you down as sure as an arrow."
"You lie," Isabela laughed, waving a hand dismissively. But then she paused, expression growing nervous, and she peered at Thea. "... You are lying, right?"
"Not a fucking chance, Isa. I mean- hell, you're a sailor, you've seen it. Haven't you? People just- croaking, the ones that drink a lot?"
"Oh, something else usually takes us out before then- and besides, that's not the drink."
"Yes, it is. I did learn a thing or two from hanging around hi- the clinic, you know." She took another drag. "And it's even worse if you try to stop. I know there was at least one guy-" She hesitated, then looked down. "He told me about one guy."
Isabela fell quiet, nursing her cup. They didn't talk about Anders. Thea had told nobody about her encounter with him the week before, not wanting anybody to give chase, not wanting to stop him from running. He wouldn't be back, though, she was sure. He'd been too confused. He'd run. He had to.
But even before that, they never spoke of him. Thea had started never using his name, rarely referring to him. Isabela had picked up on it quickly, after a few harsh looks and one instance when Thea had sent a dagger flying past her head. It wasn't that it was painful (Thea maintained, still, that it wasn't); it was that there was no reason to talk about him. Over, done, gone. She had to deal with his mess every day at work. She didn't need to be reminded of the three years he'd kept her bed warm at night. Nobody dared mention him around her.
This time, though, Isabela dared. She fixed Thea with an almost solemn gaze and asked, softly, "Do you ever miss him?"
"All the time," Thea heard herself saying. She took another long drag, then stole Isabela's cup without any pretense of subtlety and drank deep.
It was over and Thea was, just like Isabela, a big fan of moving on. But it was hard to move on from whatever she'd had with Anders. Three years of passionate, often angry sex, in her home, his clinic, everywhere the mood struck her, most places where it struck him (though he was far more shy than she in public). There had been times after battles when she'd dragged the mage into an alley, thrown him up against the wall, made him scream her name so everybody could hear. She'd devoured him for three years. They'd burned together, bright and hot, fighting and shouting and fucking, him claiming love and her deflecting (want a sandwich?) and him letting her. Him following at her heels, her pulling him close and speaking with her body when their words would not agree. He'd never convinced her. He'd never understood her. She hated his politics, but that hadn't meant they had nothing else in common.
She'd made sure to let him catch her fucking other men and he had been so hurt and angry that he'd taken her hard the next time they were alone in order to reclaim her. She hadn't stopped drinking or smoking or getting into brawls, and he'd catch her as she staggered into his clinic. He healed her every ache and pain and then gave her new ones in their place. He had not been a gentle man; she'd reminded him each time that he'd always promised to hurt her. He would ask her as the dawn spilled over them, sprawled on her bed or a couch or the stone paths of Sundermount, why she did it. She always responded that she was selfish. He said he loved her, no matter what, and she had only ever replied I know.
They hadn't gone out in a bang - that had happened long after, the explosion, the red. No, they'd sputtered and died out, Justice consuming him and taking him away, and no matter how many times she flaunted her affairs, her brothel adventures, her bruises and love bites, he'd done nothing but say, You deserve to do as you will.
But she missed it all, now, missed every betrayal and pain and shout, missed every awkward, fumbling attempt of Anders reading his manifesto to her, missed every morning where she woke beside him and realized that no, he still hadn't left.
And worst of all, she hadn't been able to keep it up after he had left.
"Maker's hairy balls," she moaned into Isabela's cup when the silence and the memories stretched for too long and the pirate said nothing, "I'm so horny, I think I might explode."
That drew a laugh out of Isabela, who leaned back and stretched. Thea's eyes danced up her body, remembering briefly how the other woman had tasted, felt, sounded that night they'd shared before Anders had finally said yes, yes, come here. Isabela quirked a brow once Thea managed to meet her gaze.
"I'm always here, love," Isabela purred, winking. Thea laughed.
"Tempting," she admitted. "But aren't you and Fenris...?"
If Thea hadn't known the woman better, she would have sworn that there was a blush creeping across her cleavage and up to her face. "It's not like it's exclusive."
"It's not?" She was fairly certain that the rumors she'd heard were that Isabela wasn't quite the prowling wildcat she used to be.
"We haven't talked about it." Isabela shrugged, pouting. "Can we change the subject? I don't-"
"For fuck's sake, yes, Isabela, you do kiss and tell," Thea laughed, sitting back, and even though Isabela rolled her eyes and protested that really, why did they ever go out drinking together? Thea relaxed as the tension between them lessened.
They stumbled out hours later, arms around one another, heads delightfully spinning. No more talk of Anders, only a little of Fenris, most of other men and other woman and other times, old adventures and plans for the future (Isabela was insisting she'd leave soon, Kirkwall just wasn't fun anymore without her favorite bird of prey to tromp around with, and it just didn't sound the same without- well, no, she hadn't said what she'd been thinking then, but Thea knew she meant without the sounds of Anders groaning and crying out and later yelling Thea's name to get her to listen). Thea felt considerably less unsettled and considerably more at home in the world.
They were almost into Hightown when the bandits set upon them, and then they were fumbling for weapons and staggering out of the way of attacks, long-honed skills supporting them where their minds couldn't. It was a small band, something that wouldn't have posed any trouble six months ago, even intoxicated as they were. Now, though, there were times where Thea fell to the ground and almost didn't get out of the way in time, times where Isabela missed a landing and crashed into an assailant instead of deftly stabbing then bouncing back again. Once, Thea was sure that they had lost- and then one of then men stumbled and fell, cursing about how his feet had just stopped working, and the women were back on top again.
They dragged themselves across plazas tired and a little beaten and a lot amused after that. Thea snorted and impersonated Aveline and Isabela nearly doubled over with laughter. The guards hadn't come at all, didn't seem to see them as they passed. Strange, but Thea took it as a blessing.
She kissed Isabela at Fenris's mansion, the two of them ending up in a heaving, laughing mass up against the exterior wall. Thea ached to be touched but she finally edged Isabela away, banging on Fenris's door. Isabela fell into the elf's arms happily when the door swung open, and Thea winked at him before staggering off towards her Keep.
She stumbled in to the sound of Aveline's hurried, angry shouting, and then her fellow Fereldan had her by the collar, dragging her up and holding her close in an attempt to force her to meet her eyes. There were threats, chastisements, reminders of the day that Aveline had thrown her down and beaten her for daring to taunt her one last time. The buzz in her head and the ache in her limbs was worth it, though, worth every admonishment to always take the guard with her, to never wander alone in Lowtown. Thea just teased her that her guard hadn't even heard the attack on her, and then Aveline was letting go of her and stalking off to bash heads together in the barracks, look at watch lists, fix problems.
Thea made her unsteady way upstairs to the part of the Keep that housed her private quarters and ran into a dark-cloaked figure as soon as she passed into the first shaded hallway.
He reached out and caught her as she stumbled and lashed out, and she felt her hand connect with an all-too-familiar jaw. She laughed, leaning against him.
"Anders," she said, grinning. "You came back."
Thoughts of he's not supposed to come back had faded as the drifting euphoria had taken over, and now she couldn't think of anything she wanted more than to hear his voice.
"Are you going to run?" he asked, quietly, and she felt the familiar thrum of healing energy sliding into her from where his hands touched. It cleared her head a little. She pulled back abruptly, not wanting to lose her high.
"Mm, no. Not going to run. Fucking hell, why would I run from you?"
"Because I might be here to kill you." He stood still as she came close again and pushed his hood down. He watched as she drank in the sight of his face, six months gone now, welcome and needed. He couldn't read her expression, though, didn't remember how to. Not quite.
"Fuck if you'd do that. Don't think you would. Might be fun, though, if you tried- somebody else did, earlier tonight."
"I know. I saw. I stopped him." He had been too frightened to do anything more than paralyze body parts but he'd panicked, unable to look away, unable to let her get hurt. He'd watched from the shadows, twitched his fingers, relaxed and nearly collapsed only when the bandits were left dead and Thea and Isabela had wandered off again.
"Oh," Thea said, humming thoughtfully. She stepped closer and reached up to push her fingers into his hair. He wore it long and loose, now. He shaved, too. It made him look just a little bit different, a little bit harder to recognize. In some ways, it made him look a little wilder. "You were there?"
"Yes." He looked down, away, but his eyes traced back up the lines of her body, legs covered in tight leather, hard, narrow waist accented by the nip of her vest. Her hands were on his face, now, and he leaned into the familiar touch. She grinned up at him, licked her lips. Her terrifying bright green eyes danced and flashed in the dim torchlight.
"You were following me?"
"Yes," he repeated, voice dropping in pitch and volume. "I-" He cleared his throat. "... I think I heard you mention that you were so horny you might explode," he finally managed. He'd followed her from the Keep when she'd left with Isabela, sat in the darkness, watched her never noticing him. He hadn't wanted to be noticed. He'd just wanted to see. And when she'd said that-
Thea laughed and pushed her body up against his, nuzzling at his cheek, lips barely brushing his. He groaned and she kissed him, then, both hands in his hair, pulling hard. His hands found her waist, her hips, grasped and pulled. They stumbled back into one of the walls and he turned them, trapping her against him. She nipped at his lips, plundered his mouth, and his hands began fumbling with her clothing, trying to get her out, make her his again. She arched and sighed, reaching for him, hands skimming along his chest, his waist, looking for the fasteners of his clothing. He didn't wear his old coat anymore and she didn't know what he was wearing by feel. She swore and he nipped at her throat.
Somehow, he pulled away from her enough that she could stumble out of her boots and pants and he could free himself from his own clothing. She looked up at him with a feral grin the moment before he had her against the wall again, and it was her who positioned them and, writhing and whimpering and whispering things he couldn't quite make out, took him inside of her with one determined motion. He growled and pushed deeper, shuddering and whispering her name over and over again. She wrapped her strong, finely-muscled legs tight around his hips, her hands again tangled in his hair. She cried his name and rolled her hips.
It started a chain reaction, like lightning jumping from target to target, where she pulled him close and he pushed closer, where she nipped and kissed and he bit and suckled. They were all old, familiar moves that had lost some of their magic all those months ago but now were roaring back to life. They were reimagined. They were remade, and Anders buried himself into her, unable and unwilling to let go. She smelled of booze and the sickly scent of poppy juice and sweat and need, everything he'd told himself he didn't want, everything he'd given up and left, everything he'd sought out again before a year was out. He smelled of lyrium and magic and the Veil, desperation and that same need that clung to her. She devoured him as if she'd never encountered him before and as if he'd been away for years and years. Her hands delved beneath his cloak, his shirt, while his braced her as he pounded in and out so hard and fast he could barely think.
Her nails, longer than she usually kept them but still jagged from being broken instead of clipped, raked down his back as she threw back her head. She would have screamed but his lips were on hers, drinking in and swallowing the sound while she writhed and pulsed around him. He smothered his own sobbed groan against her throat when he came, a hundred hammering heartbeats later, slamming her into the wall with a force that he felt even in his bones.
She just laughed, voice softer and more distant, and he prayed to Andraste that this wasn't a trick of some desire demon lurking just around the corner.
Thea twitched, muscles and back beginning to ache as she came down, and he stepped away, helping her back to her feet. She pursued him when he tried to turn away, fingers lacing with his, hands tugging insistently. He followed her as she swayed and stumbled, legs exhausted and quivering, head foggy and drifting, through halls and her study and finally into her bedchamber. She kissed him again, then, and finally let go. She walked backwards, slowly, to her bed, watching him.
He followed.
She woke to warmth and familiar smells and the feeling of fingers trailing down her belly and then along her thighs. Thea hummed and stretched, parting her legs to the searching hands. She opened her eyes and watched as Anders kissed at her navel, the sharp jut of one hip bone, a scar that ran the length of her leg. He didn't look up, focused on the expanses of tanned skin and the way he was sliding his fingers against her and then into her.
She let out a sigh and arched. Her head hurt faintly, but that faded as she felt a healing spell worm its way into her from where two of his fingers thrust lazily in and out of her. She'd woken up this way before, though it had been rare; usually, Anders left long before she woke, returning to work in the clinic. And even that had been over half a year ago-
Oh, Anders was in her bed. Was still in her bed.
The night before was hazy at best. She remembered the delicious swell of Isabela's breasts against hers, the long-missed taste of cheap Hanged Man ale and more expensive opium, the giddy adrenaline rush of a fight she'd almost lost. And she remembered with increasing vividness the feeling of Anders's hands on her again after so long, his lips, his cock inside of her-
"Good morning," she mumbled. He rubbed at her clit in response and she moaned, toes curling. She thought she could feel him smile against her leg- but knowing him, it would be a sad, distant smile.
"I always wanted to ask," Anders murmured as he began kissing his way back up along her body, eyes still on her skin and not her face, "if you ever woke aching for me. But I was afraid of the answer."
"Sometimes," she said, and she wondered distantly if that was one of the first times she'd given him a straight answer. "Not all the time, but sometimes."
"Since I left?" He took one nipple with its broad, dark areola into his mouth, fingers twitching inside her just enough to make her squeal.
"Yes," she breathed, arching against him, eyes fluttering closed. It was oddly relieving, to tell him like this, without mocking or teasing or taunting. She couldn't remember why she'd always been so evasive, not with how he felt against her now, not with what his tongue and teeth were doing.
He paused, though, and finally lifted his head. His fingers stilled. She could barely read his expression; it was dark and withdrawn but a little hopeful, a little searching. "... Do you remember," he said, slowly, nervously, "how you woke me up after that first night?"
"You tasted good," she said, smiling down at him. "Took care of that ache of yours, didn't it?"
"Oh, Maker's mercy," he breathed, closing his eyes and burying his face against her neck, his forehead pressing against the puckered and scarred skin of her jaw. His fingers slipped from her, splaying instead on her stomach. The muscles of his back and neck were tense and he shook just a little, just enough to make her wonder if he was crying.
Slowly, she wrapped an arm around him. He stiffened. She did the same. He pulled away from her just enough to look at her and was about to say something when Aveline's voice, angry and loud just outside the door, startled them both.
"Theodora Hawke, get your ass out of bed this instant and start ruling this Maker-forsaken city of yours! I swear I will break this door down-"
It went on and Anders, spooked, stumbled from the bed and began gathering up his clothing.
"Where-"
"She can't see me," Anders said, looking over his shoulder at her. She was still lounging in bed, sprawling, all long wiry limbs, small breasts, firm waist, damnable smile. He stilled, all his willpower focused on not falling right back into bed with her. They needed to talk. They needed-
"I want you to stay," Thea said, sitting up and running her hands through her hair. It had grown longer since he'd seen her. Usually she kept it hacked off at her shoulders but it had somehow gotten down past her collarbones. He'd always wanted her to grow her hair out and she'd always laughed and told him to stop being so ridiculous. His heart thudded in his throat. He forced himself to turn away.
"I'll be around," he said, softly. "I'll be here. But nobody can see me- especially not Aveline. I don't really want to get thrown in jail, Thea."
"But you'll be here," she repeated. He heard her bed (her bed, brought from the Amell estate- no, their bed-) creak as she stood up, and then her bare arms were around his waist. "Tonight?"
"I-"
"Please."
It was the first time time she'd ever asked anything of him beyond shut up and fuck me or calm down, I don't give a flying darkspawn shit that he could remember. He shuddered and she pressed a kiss to his throat, then dragged her teeth down along his shoulder. His hands clenched into fits. He could hear Aveline banging on the door but it seemed so far away.
"Or I swear I'll fucking hunt you down and rip your dick off," Thea added, as if to assure them both she was still the same obnoxious, violent git she'd always been. He exhaled. He nodded.
"I'll be here," he said. "But we need to talk. I need to talk."
Thea laughed and stepped away. "Yeah, yeah. Of course. 'Talk'."
"Yes, Thea. Talk. It's this thing, where people say what they actually mean instead of-"
"YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS, HAWKE."
And Thea was scrambling for her clothing, shouting at the door, and Aveline was shouting back. Five seconds before the door opened (though Aveline used a key, not her fists or head like she'd threatened), Anders was slipping out the window the way he'd entered the night before when he'd come looking to see her for even he hadn't known what, except for the twin thoughts of I'm so horny, I think I might explode and Do you ever miss him? All the time pounding in his head.
He was waiting for her in her room as the sun was passing by its height, sitting on the edge of her bed and holding the worn and stained pages of the first draft of his manifesto in his hands. He'd found it in the chest she kept all her keepsakes from Lothering and her journeys in. He'd found it.
He looked up as the door opened, mouth open to say something. He knew her footsteps well, knew the sounds of her comings and goings, and he hadn't feared for more than a moment that it would be anybody but her. She was dressed in a more opulent, less battleworn version of her outfit from the night before: tight pants, high boots, large-sleeved shirt, tight vest with a high collar. She was also grinning wickedly and shutting the door behind her.
"I have fifteen minutes," she said before he could speak. "Clothes off, Anders."
Anders faltered and only barely managed to set aside the sheaf of papers before she was on top of him, straddling him and stealing hot, rough kisses while her hands went to tug up the hem of his shirt. His hands found first her waist and then her chest, but instead of cupping a breast or pushing aside clothing, he shoved at her.
"Thea, I said we needed to talk-"
"Fucking hell- didn't you hear me? Fifteen minutes. We're not talking in fifteen minutes. I'm going to ride your dick like a-"
"Thea." He couldn't push her off, she was clinging too tightly to him, too insistently, so instead he tugged her against him and rolled them over, pinning her down. He dipped his head to kiss, to plunder, to possess, then took hold of her wrists and pinned them down. He nipped and suckled at her throat just enough to make her arch and demand with his name on her lips. Then he sat back, breathing heavily and staring down at her.
"We. Need. To talk," he panted out.
She glared.
He glared back, expression turning dangerously dark. She thought she saw a bit of blue glow peek out around his pupils, at his hairline. He leaned a little closer.
"First thing's first. If you want me to stay- if you want me- you need to stop deflecting every attempt at my talking to you with sex." It came out in a rush, a little less threatening than he'd intended, but she stilled under him and frowned. Her glare fell away. "I'm sick," he continued with a brief surge of boldness, "of wanting to ask you something only to have you unbutton your shirt or- or hike up your armor-"
"You like it, though."
"But we need to talk-"
"I only have fifteen minutes, Anders. We can talk as much as you want after that. Shit, Anders, just fuck me, I've waited for six months, and-"
"No, Thea!" he shouted, then pulled away. He stood up, beginning to pace, dragging one hand down over his face and then pushing it back into his hair. "I don't even know why I'm here. I want to be dead. I want you dead. I want- but I-" He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "You betrayed me, and I came crawling back anyway."
She sat up, slowly, watching him.
He took a deep breath. Fifteen minutes. Ten, now- if she didn't laugh at him or throw him out or run before then. "All I am is the fight to liberate the mages, and you betrayed me and helped the templars, and I- I still came back."
She leaned forward, taking up his discard manifesto. She looked down at it, lips still turned down, tongue caught between her teeth as she thought.
"Justice- Justice is quieter now," he continued. "The Circles, they're rising up- you'll hear soon that Ferelden and Cumberland have lost control of the mages already. Seeing it happen is making him subside. That's why I've stayed away for so long. If I'd come sooner, he would have ripped you apart. I couldn't let him. He almost did, in that fight. At the Gallows. But I don't want him to kill you- if anybody kills you, it's going to be me. I want to know that I've done it.
"But I don't even know if I want to, anymore. And I don't understand-"
"Maybe you're not just your cause," Thea said, flipping through the pages she'd only really begun to read once he'd left. "I never thought you were only that. If you had been, I wouldn't have wanted you here. Shit, Anders- if you were just your cause, you wouldn't ever have been able to fall in love with me."
"I-"
"That's Justice talking. Don't think I can't fucking recognize his influence. He makes you think you're nothing else. I say that's a load of fucking nugshit, and you know it. You're maybe not much else, but you're... you're something else."
"I don't understand you," he said, softly, staring at her as she stood up, smoothed out her clothing.
"You forgot to start with Andraste's flaming tits," she reminded with such a faint, sad smile that it drew a pained noise from him.
"... You remember that."
She shrugged. "I remember- a lot of things. Fifteen minutes is up." There were at least five more, but she was moving for the door and he couldn't stop her. "You gonna be here tonight?"
"Yes," he admitted, head still swimming. "I- can you tell me- I don't understand what you've been doing. What's changed. Can you tell me, tonight? Something's- you're different, Thea." She was drawing him in more strongly than ever, and it frightened him; he had no idea what she'd become.
She grinned, that wicked, chipped-tooth grin he'd fallen for all those years ago. "Sure. I can try. But if you don't fuck me six ways 'til Sunday after that, then-"
"I know, I know. Some suitably horrible mutilation. Got it." He felt himself smile, just a little, a shy little movement. "... Have a- good day running the city. Love."
He watched the color spread up onto her cheeks, subtle and hard to see but very much there as she looked down and away. "Oh, pitch 'em all to the Void," she muttered.
She shut the door softly behind her and it was only then that he realized she was still holding his manifesto.
Thea lingered in the common areas of the Keep as long as she could.
It wasn't so much that she was afraid of talking (though there was certainly an element of that, an inability to communicate beyond jabs and blunt statements). She was afraid more of Anders listening. Of watching his face as she struggled to articulate just what she had been doing these last months, sitting on her ass and eating bonbons and slowly beginning to rage at the world in a way so subdued she'd barely recognized it. She settled in for a long talk with Aveline about potential reasons for the lapse in security the night before and excuses about why her pants and boots had been out in the hallway that morning, then wrote letters, read petitions, signed paperwork. She did her job with a focus that seemed to frighten her seneschal. She lingered in the kitchens, watching everything she'd never cared about before with an intensity that finally unsettled even herself.
But she'd run out of things to do and the promise of Anders waiting just up the stairs was too strong and too wonderful to resist.
She brought with her a glass of cow's milk and one plate of dinner filched from the downstairs tables, balancing it as she nearly sprinted up the stairs, trying not to question her sudden blossoming obsession and need. He hadn't consumed her like this in so long, since months before he'd asked her to find the ingredients to that explosive he ultimately planted. He hadn't consumed her like this since the start, since he'd warned her that he didn't know if he should kill her or not and then kissed her in his clinic. Now, though, all she could think of was him waiting, him watching, his eyes and lips and hands, his pain that she'd always waved off and soothed later with her lips and hips.
Well, that and dinner, and so she did her best to focus on the latter even as she nudged open her bedroom door and entered.
He was sitting on her bed again, watching the door expectantly, and as she entered she saw a wash of relief and excitement and just a hint of fear pass over him. She came to sit beside him, settling the plate on her knees and leaning down to place the glass on the floor.
"What's that?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. Whatever it was was pungent and acrid, some sort of pale white meat with a too-bright red sauce over a bed of some kind of grain. It wasn't anything like the Ferelden fare he'd clung too almost obsessively his entire time in Kirkwall, thick sauce over bread or potatoes, porridges, greasy stews.
"Rivaini shit. Isabela told the cooks how to make it. It's- fish with pepper sauce. On rice, I think? It's good. Here." She offered him a shallow, wide wooden spoon and he took it suspiciously, attempting to scoop up the smallest portion he could. When had the last time she'd brought food to him been? Had it really just been that sandwich, that first night? He couldn't rightly remember.
Thea watched him hesitate and nearly put down the spoon. She dug deep and pulled out her voice as quickly as she could, afraid to speak while he was focused on her, hoping to keep him eating while she talked. "So I guess I'll just... start at what happened after you left. Right?"
Anders nodded, slowly, spoon again rising (slowly, so slowly, what was he afraid of? It was just food-).
"Lots of work, that's what happened. We spared any of the mages still alive after Meredith died- she turned into fucking lyrium. Did you know she had the bloody idol attached to a lyrium sword? That was that red thing on her back. Andraste's cunt, we should have known or something. Anyway. I put an arrow through her skull-" he smiled at that, laughed, lowered his eyes- "and then I somehow managed to convince Cullen not to kill the few people still hiding. So he started rebuilding the Circle.
"Kirkwall did what I thought it would do. They wanted me in charge. So, here I am, sitting on my ass all day, Aveline watching me every hour and following me if I leave. Shit, if she lets me leave. I mean, why did I ever think I wanted this?" She frowned. "That it was worth it?"
Anders just stared at her, and for a moment, she thought she'd rendered him speechless- but then he coughed and gasped and only barely managed to swallow the bite he'd finally taken, cheeks coloring and eyes watering. He threw the spoon down onto the plate and reached for a waterskin he had at his hip. She reached over to catch his wrist.
"No, not water. Trust me, Isa knows what she's doing. Here-"
"Milk?"
"Trust me."
He watched her, dubiously, as his eyes continued to tear up, then took the cup and drained a good third of it. He gasped, panting, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"You are a horrible person," he muttered, pushing the cup and spoon into her hands.
"How many times have we had this conversation?" she returned, that grin still on her face. She, too, took a bite of their dinner and her eyes barely twitched. Anders grudgingly admitted to himself that maybe she hadn't been trying to hurt him. This time.
"Horrible person," he repeated, idly tugging at his collar now, keeping his hands occupied.
"Horrible viscountess." Another bite. "Just, shit, Anders. Biggest mistake of- of my life."
He swallowed. "Staying with me?"
"... No. That wasn't a mistake. This, though-"
"Siding with the templars." He leaned forward, hands falling to his lap and curling into tense fists, jaw tight, expression searching and dangerously hopeful. "Leaving- me-"
Thea looked away, focused on pushing food around on her plate, staining all the rice a bright pink with sauce.
"Thea-"
She took another, large bite, then squealed as she bit down on a whole piece of pepper. She swallowed through her sudden wracking coughs, then downed the last of the milk that she was holding still. She panted and put the dish off to the side, eyeing it warily even while she felt Anders do the same to her. His hand had come up to rest on her shoulder and the touch burned as hot as her mouth. She ran a hand up into her hair, tangled, pulled.
"Thea, please. Tell me. Tell me- if that's what you meant-"
Hawke had the distinct urge to push him down and kiss him, to shut him up. To remind him that she dictated the extent of their relationship, that she determined when he would speak and when she would listen- but she'd always listened, even when he'd been reduced to talking aloud to himself because she wouldn't even look at him. She'd always listened and memories and guilt at the time before had been crawling up inside of her and taking over.
She never thought she'd regret power. She felt tricked and betrayed. This must, she thought, be what victims of desire demons felt when they woke up.
She felt Anders's hand drop and the shift of the bed as he stood, slowly. Heard his footsteps as he walked- towards her window? Of course towards her window.
She listened as he said, "I can't-"
"Anders," she said, voice choked. "Don't go."
He stopped and she finally looked over at him again. His eyes were down, now. How many times had she seen that look, that pain, that- that self-loathing for what he wanted. For wanting her.
"Siding with the templars was-" Thea took a deep breath. "Siding with the templars was the worst mistake I've ever made. Not- not standing by you- was-"
It had been just a fling. Just a three year fling where every day she began to hope he'd still be there when she woke up, where every night she reminded him with lips and hips just why he stayed. Just a fling where she tormented him and reveled in how he fought back... until the day he no longer did.
Just a fling where she'd apparently fallen in love. Gotten addicted. Isabela was still wrong; the opium wouldn't kill her.
Anders, though, just might.
His shoulders tensed, then sagged. His voice was flat but firm, that voice he'd used when he called all the chantry courtyard to attention, his staff thudding into the ground and making her heart pound in time. "Do you- finally support me? This? The mages- did I finally win?"
"I-" She frowned and glared at nothing for a moment. But then she stood and walked over to the opposite wall from the one he faced. She stroked a finger along the curved wood of her bow, the bow she'd used to strike Meredith down, the bow she'd used to punch a hole in Anders's shoulder. "I'm not a revolutionary, Anders."
"No, you're a selfish, cruel, mercenary bitch," he sighed.
"But," she added, hand closing around her bow, drawing it from the wall. "But, you already started the revolution, didn't you?"
Anders was silent.
"And I'm not a rebel, not for a cause, but I am a fucking awesome fugitive, if I do say so myself. Isabela's given me all her tips, too."
She heard him inhale, sharply, then hold that breath taut.
Thea moved up behind him, free hand touching his waist. "People deserve to make their own choices. I've- always believed that. It's why I didn't tell you that you should run. And why I ignored it when you told me to. I'm selfish and sometimes I don't give a flying fuck what other people choose. But. In general. I can't lead your armies, Anders, but I swear to you that if we ever come across a mage or two, oppressed and hurt and being forced into whatever shit they're getting into- I'll stand by you." She exhaled for him, a long and shaky breath, and leaned her forehead against his shoulder.
"Is that enough?" she murmured. "Because it's all I have to give. That promise- and me."
"Thea," he whispered. She couldn't tell if he was heartbroken or elated, but his voice wavered and his shoulders shook. Her hand on his waist snaked around to pull him close, and he let her. "Are you doing this to hurt me again? Is that it? Because I don't think I could take it again, seeing you not care after a night of passion, seeing you- I don't think I could do it again. Those three years."
"Swearing less isn't the only thing holding an office has done to me."
"If I say what I said before- if I tell you that I love you, that I can't live without you, that I would drown the world in blood to keep you safe-" Anders bowed his head. "What would you say, Thea? I love you."
How many responses to that question had she given over the years? That statement? Want a sandwich? You didn't come here to talk. You're here- this is the best you can think to do? Stop being so fucking maudlin, Anders. No you don't, I'm not somebody to be loved. I'm a horrible person. Don't you want to kill me? I still have bruises on my neck from that time you...
But this time, there were no sharp answers for him. She wanted to retreat - that hadn't changed. But she didn't want him to climb out that window and be gone.
"Then I'll say, I love you, too. And that Isabela has a ship and we can leave tomorrow."
All the tension left him and he turned, catching her up in his arms wonderingly, lips parted, unsure which way to quirk. She smiled up at him, a tight, shy little smile she wasn't sure he'd ever seen.
"I blew up the chantry. Of your city."
"Fucking good light show," she said, softly, leaning in to whisper it in his ear. He shuddered. "You said it yourself; I'm a cruel mercenary bitch. I do what it takes to get the job done. I never hated you for that- I just hated that you made me actually take a side. That was a dick move, Anders."
"You had to take a side," he said, firmly, though his body trembled.
"Yeah, and I ended up picking wrong. That ended well. Ah, fixed it anyway, though." She shrugged, laughed, and began urging him towards the bed. "Come on. Haven't we talked enough for now? More than fifteen minutes, too, and you know I don't like talking about shit that matters. You should feel fucking lucky, mage boy."
He sank onto the mattress and pulled her into his lap. She straddled him easily, casting her bow aside so she could run both hands over him, feel him thrum with magic just beneath her fingertips.
"I feel luckier than you can know," he whispered, and the smile that surfaced on his face turned something in Thea's stomach, touched her heart, made her weak in the knees. She bent her head to kiss his lips, but it was light, searching, testing.
"I'm not all better," she whispered. "I can guarantee you I'll still be an ass. And I'm not giving up my habits."
"We're not going to be able to supply them out in the wilds, Thea," he muttered, but she could hear an amused lilt to his voice. "I'll just have to tie you down and wean you off of them."
"Oh. Oh. We're going that way, now. I'm sure Isabela and Fenris will be just ecstatic to join in-"
"Fenris?" He pulled back, frowning.
"They're a- well, Isabela says they're not a thing thing, but I guarantee when we leave port tomorrow, he's going to be with us."
He frowned, then sighed. "As long as he doesn't turn me in."
"I think he'll be too busy turning in with Isabela for that-"
"Oh, that wasn't even dirty, Thea. Bad form. For shame."
She grinned. There was a hint of Anders, the one who'd had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot, the one who slipped in jokes when he thought nobody was listening, the one who'd confessed late one night that yes, he could dance the Remigold if he was so pressed - and then had done it, naked, tripping over himself the whole time from how hard he'd been laughing. The one who wasn't Justice wearing an Anders skin.
She hated his politics. But that didn't mean they didn't have anything else in common.
"So," Thea said as she began to undress him, fingers eager and searching, needy, grasping. "So, if I tell you that I- love you, that I don't want to ever be apart again-"
"Do you want a sandwich?" he interrupted. She fell into his grin eagerly, her favorite fix, her first cause, her first obsession. He brought her down with him, laughing, hands roaming.
All Aveline found in the morning was a scrawled note in two hands and sheets stained pink with pepper sauce. "Well," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead, "shit."