Anders dragged himself wearily up the stairs. He tugged at the bandages round his wrists, fingers plucking at a loose, bloodstained thread. He felt old, worn and tired, the stink of blood still in his nostrils and the dying man's moans still echoing in his ears. He shook his head, shoulders slumped in dejection as he approached the door to Hawke's bedroom. He sighed, tugging off the feathered jacket; the soft blue suede was hopelessly ruined with blood. It was a shame. He'd loved that jacket.
He pushed the door open and stumbled into the semi-dark room, slowly peeling off his patchwork leather tunic and letting it fall to the floor before tugging the bloodstained shirt over his head, making his way towards the bed. He ran his hands over his face and sighed tiredly, his eyes on the soft inviting coverlets.
Something black caught his eye, and he frowned, narrowing his tired eyes to focus on the objects folded at the foot of the bed. He stumbled closer then stopped, staring down.
It was a jacket. Black suede, clean and new, fine pale gold stitching. And feathered pauldrons - like his old, ruined jacket, but these feathers gleamed in dark rainbow hues, like oil slicked over dark waters, black and iridescent. His hand trembling a little, he reached out to stroke them - oh, so soft. So very soft. He lifted up the jacket wonderingly and noted there was more underneath. A long black leather tunic - just like his old brown one, but again new, clean - something not borrowed or stolen, but never worn and pristine. And a clean white shirt; the linen crisp and new.
"Go ahead. Put them on," said a quiet voice behind him. Anders turned, startled, only to relax as Hawke stepped out of the shadows with a smile. Anders glanced back down at the clothes and shook his head.
"Hawke, you really shouldn't-"
"Nonsense," said Hawke gently, coming to rest his hands on the slender mage's shoulders. "You deserve good things, love. Your old clothes are ruined; it's time you let me treat you. Please." He gestured to the clothes. "I want to see how you look."
A little shyly, Anders drew the shirt on over his head, smoothing it down over his torso, the fabric soft against his hands. Hawke lifted the tunic and helped Anders into it before holding up the jacket for him to shrug into. Anders tugged the tunic straight, slowly doing up the top two buckles then brushing down the sleeves.
"What do you think?" asked Hawke as he tugged the mage over to stand in front of the mirror. Anders stared at himself in the glass, fingers lifting to touch the feathers, a look of quiet wonder on his face as he turned himself a little this way then that, drinking in the sight of himself in the new finery.
"Anders?"
"This... this is lovely," he breathed quietly. "Thank you, love." He smiled, tired and yet enchanted. He couldn't remember ever having something like this before - something new, made to fit him perfectly, not something stolen or cast off but his, really his. "How can I-"
Hawke laid a finger over Anders' lips. "Hush. No words."
Anders smiled as he slipped into Hawke's arms. He was sure he could find a way to show his gratitude...