Notes: Written for minorearth's "Quiet Revolutionaries" fanmix, as part of the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2013 challenge. (Please see my profile page for a link to the Challenge.) The fanmix was described as "[one for] a Hawke/Anders friendmance; a Hawke who supports Anders' cause, who stands by him even when the worst has come to pass. Love isn't always pretty, and it almost never comes easy, but this is a mix for a relationship that will survive past the end of the game."

Set sometime after the "Justice" quest in Act 3.

The toll of the Chantry bell drew Garrett's gaze away from the rain falling on a tall statute in full-plate armor and carrying a sword made of flame. He turned and looked up at the Chantry, from the grand staircase and golden statues, past the flapping red banners emblazoned with the sun insignia, to the citadel itself. Towers stretched out like stone fingers, reaching high into the murky green-brown sky toward the floating Black City in the horizon. The Chantry bell tolled twice, thrice, as if calling out to it, the echoes vibrating down to Garrett's bones.

Garrett grew more and more confused the longer he stared up at the Chantry. What was he doing here? he frowned. How had he ended up here? He couldn't remember — why he had came to the Chantry, or even what he had been doing before this. He closed his eyes as he tried to recall, memories coming back to him slowly. There had been someone singing...

"Garrett, love," a voice called from behind him. Garrett's breath caught in his throat, his eyes snapping open. "Come sit down."

He whipped around, but it wasn't a dream or a trick. Down the hill, sitting on a blanket spread over a large patch of green grass, was his mother. Garrett drank in the sight of her — her smile warm and bright like sunshine; her golden hair and the purple and pinks of her dress — before his heart leapt again. She wasn't alone: next to her was Carver, with his permanent scowl, big arms folded across his chest. and it took him a moment to notice Bethany next to her twin. She laughing at Dog, the mabari rolling around in the grass. Garrett could scarcely believe his eyes.

It didn't seem real — his family here, together again. Garrett almost didn't want to believe it, for it was too cruel a jest otherwise. But that feeling faded when he felt warm hands settle on his shoulders, a familiar chuckle mixing in with the pulse of arcane warmth and spirit coolness.

"Come on, Son," his father said, Garrett swallowing around his suddenly tight throat. "Let's not keep the family waiting."

His father pulled away after squeezing his shoulders; Garrett watched him pass, his golden staff with Andraste's form bright against the reds of his coat. The magic that followed in his father's wake — that world-changing, unstoppable magic — beckoned Garrett forward like his mother's smile. Garrett's heart swelled, and he huffed out a laugh. His family was waiting for him — he had been waiting for them. He didn't want to wait any longer.

Garrett made to follow his father, but halted before he even managed a step. There was someone missing on the grass, he realized. Mother, Father, Carver, Bethany and Dog were here, but they weren't all together yet. Who was missing? Garrett struggled to think. Who was it...

The knell of the Chantry bell pierced through his heart. Garrett's gaze swept back toward the sound, only to catch on the sight of bronze and iron. The bell tolled twice more as he looked over the tall statues that lined along the grass like prison bars, hands cupped over faces of bowed heads. They were strapped to pillars of rock connected by thick iron pillars, long rows of chains attached to the statues' collars leading up and up, to the top of a tower high above. Directly across from them, the same statues mourned against their own tower, the shadows of the two towers like long limbs that stretched toward the Chantry.

"The clock is ticking down."

Garrett frowned, looking over to the man standing beside him. The wind ruffled his gray feathers along the man's shoulders; his honey-colored eyes on the Chantry towering above them. They flashed white-blue once.

"It will be midnight soon." His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

The words were meaningless, but Garrett knew the man. Recalling his name, however, was like recalling something from a half-remembered dream. "Anders," he murmured slowly, but as soon as he said it the spell was broken. It was Anders, his love. Anders, his family. How could he forget him?

It didn't matter: He was here now, and Garrett was thrilled to see him. "Anders, I'm glad you came," Garrett said with a grin, reaching for his lover's hand. "Hurry, everyone is here! Mother and Bethany and Dog — and Carver and Father! You have to meet them! We can't keep them waiting."

He tugged on Anders' hand to lead him to the grass, but it was like pulling at stone.

"I cannot go, Love," Anders said when Garrett looked back to him. His smile was sad as he shook his head. "The war is happening soon."

Garrett frowned. "Anders, what are you talking about? What war?" he asked. But like Anders' name, he knew he knew. It was just a matter of remembering it. Garrett struggled to, though it was harder this time, with his family's laughter and the Chantry bell distracting him. He ended up shaking his head, wondering why it was important. Was it even important? His family was waiting after all — and there was nothing more important than his family — Garrett tugging on Anders' hand again. "We need to go, Darling," he said, smiling as he glanced back at his family. "They're waiting for us."

"Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders asked, Garrett hesitating before looking back at him. He was lost in the sense of déjà vu, of a conversation he and Anders had before, but also hadn't had.

Anders lifted his hand and cupped Garrett's cheek, arcane warmth and spirit cool in his touch. He brushed Garrett's lips with his staff-calloused thumbs. "Do you believe mages deserve to be free?" he asked. Garrett frowned again. "Do you believe they deserve to never have Templars tear them from their sobbing mother's arms? To never hear their father call them a monster, a sin against the Maker? To have a family, willing to love them for who they are, and protect them from those who'd hunt them down and tear them apart?"

Of course Garrett believed that. That was who he was. He had spent his entire life protecting his family from the Templars who would take his father and sister away and punish the rest of them for trying to keep them safe. Garrett wanted and believed in the world Anders wished to build, where they were all free. "I do. You know I do, Anders," Garrett said, confused. "Why would you ask me that?"

The sadness that grew in Anders' eyes stretched the length of Thedas itself. "Because you'll have to let me go, Love," he whispered.

The Chantry bell tolled again; his family called out to him, but their words were drowned out in the echo. No, don't do this, were words Garrett had wanted to say, but like then, he found he couldn't speak. You can't say that to me. You say there are some things more important than your life, but your life is important to me. (He had made a joke instead, hadn't he? Why was he always making jokes...)

That was all forgotten the moment he heard Bethany scream.

Garrett whipped around, his blood running cold at the sight of full silver armor and the sun-and-sword shields. Templars were swarming the clearing like locusts, pouring out from the towers by the dozens, the hundreds. Garrett watched in horror as one swung his sword at Dog, the marabi's pained yip lost over the another toll of the Chantry bell. A Templar had was holding Bethany to his chest, his sister sobbing as she struggled to free herself. "Garrett!" she screamed, hand outstretched for him.

"Bethany!" he yelled, scrambling down the hill after her. He didn't make it far, stumbling over something solid and landing hard on his hands. As he lifted his head, his heart stopped in his chest when he came face-to-face with his mother. She was strewn on the grass like a broken doll, gray dress matching her gray eyes and gray skin and gray hair. There were dark stitches that crossed her neck, her warm smile frozen cold on her face. "My little boy is all grown up," she whispered then. "I'm so proud of you."

Garrett let out a sob and twisted away, only for his hands to connect again with a solid mass. He looked over, and his vision swam with the sight of Carver, veins in his white skin throbbing black up twisted limbs and bleeding out from his murky-brown eyes. Garrett gagged on the smell of the darkspawn taint coming off him, and he tore his eyes away.

He didn't look far, his eyes settling on his father's body lying next to the others. His father's golden staff was leaning into the air, the bust of Andraste dripping blood. A single red droplet slide down the gold, he felt hands settle on his shoulders. You have to take care of them, Son, he heard his father whisper. Garrett could remember those same words from what seem liked millennia ago. You have to protect them.

The Chantry bell rang loudly, Garrett's blurry gaze was drawn to the sunlight that suddenly streamed through the rain. The Templars had parted down the center, a figure striding through in the wake. Sunlight caught on a golden crown, the folds of a red hood, the glint of silver armor. Pauldrons were lined with long spikes of metal near his shoulders, armor reminding Garrett of layers of dragon the figure's face was cast in shadow, though the light revealed the sword-and-sun symbol stamped on the armor's breastplate.

Chills ran down Garrett's spine. He could feel the power coming off the Templar, so much like his father's magic: world-changing, unstoppable. All that power was directed toward the hill, Garrett's heart dropping like a stone when he followed the Templar's gaze and caught sight of Anders.

No, Garrett thought, panic pushing him to his feet. Without a doubt, he knew the Templar would kill Anders. He was too powerful — a Templar Knight straight from Garrett's nightmares, come to take his family away, and there was always nothing he could do.

"No!" yelled over another bell toll, charging the Knight. They couldn't have Anders too, Garrett thought. He wouldn't let them—

The Knight paused, turning to regard him. Whatever sight Garrett made, he wasn't bothered, merely lifting fingers to his temple. Garrett couldn't even try to avoid the sudden snap of power in the air, the blast of energy hitting him full force and sending him flying.

He hit the ground hard, tumbling over twice and sliding to a halt. Time seemed to slow while the world spun around him, vision swimming in and out of focus. You have to protect them, you have to protect them, Garrett heard in his head, his fingers curling into charred dirt. Lyrium sang to him as it danced on his skin and browning grass; the toll of the Chantry bell made the ground vibrate.

Garrett lifted his head, and in his clearing vision he could see he was at the feet of the statue with the glowing sword. His eyes shifted away, catching on the bronze of the tower statues on both sides of him. With their hands clasped over their faces, it was if they couldn't bear to watch, the reason for their fear appearing with a glint of silver in the corner of his eye.

Garrett's heart spiked. He was surrounded by Templars, the Knight at his side. Garrett tried to push up, but another snap of power pinned him back to the ground. The lyrium's melody began to crescendo in another ring of the Chantry bell, Garrett felt another stab of panic. He couldn't move. The Knight's gauntlets creaked as he lifted his sword above Garrett's neck. Panic swelled inside Garrett: Maker, the Knight would kill him, and then go after Anders and Bethany, and Garrett couldn't let that happen. He had to protect them, he thought frantically, fingers clenching into the dirt as he struggled against the power holding him down. He had to protect them—

White-hot lightning slammed into the Templar and threw him back, the air sizzling in the spell's wake. The attack was followed by a wave of blue flames that sent the other Templars scattering. The song of lyrium died off, and Garrett found he could move again, shifting to his side to find the source of the attack.

From the flames, Anders strode through, his eyes flared with light, cracks of blue ripping up and down his skin. As Garrett watched, the greens and browns of his clothes began to bleed black and gold, ending at the fluttering feathers of his pauldrons.

One of the Templars ran toward him, only to be blasted back. Anders' magic rippled the air, the light streaming from his eyes and body flaring as he launched wave after wave of spells with his hands alone. Garrett's mouth dropped in awe as a sheet of ice froze several Templars in place, the earth rumbling before rock shot up in a shape of a fist to shatter them to pieces.

Anders thrust a clenching fist in the direction of a Templar, whose scream cut off as he exploded in a gush of blood. Skin and eyes flashing again, Anders' entire body swayed as magic traveled from his torso up to his hands spread high in the air.

The sky spread open in a flash of colors, and from its depths, blue fireballs hurtled down and slammed right into the Templars. Heat and wind whipped over him with a roar, Garrett covering his eyes.

He lowered his arm when the rain suddenly returned, Garrett seeing the wind batting at black feathers, water sliding down the golds of a black coat. He looked up, meeting Anders' eyes, the agony and ache was so vast it could have swallowed Garrett whole.

"Do you believe in me, Love?" Anders asked again, Garrett's heart clenching tight.

"No," he whispered. He knew what Anders was going to do, and he started to shake his head. "Anders, no. Don't, please."

The Chantry bell tolled once more, sunlight bursting through the rain and shining on them. The Knight was nothing more than a blur as he streaked from the light, straight toward Anders. Flaring with his own light, Anders barely dodged the attack, stumbling back. The Knight spun around, lyrium humming in his wake; Anders' hands sparked with lightning. Garrett yelled, but the sound was lost as the two behemoths clashed: Anders shooting the lightning just as the Knight launched another attack.

Light flashed, blinding Garrett, magic and lyrium crackling in the air. Something hit the soil, Garrett's vision clearing enough to see it was the Knight's sword. He looked back, seeing Anders' lightning charging up for another attack. The Knight wasn't deterred, merely streaking forward and catching Anders by the arm when he went to cast the spell. Sidestepping behind Anders, the Knight reached behind for something on his belt. Garrett saw the glint of a knife from the Knight's hand, right before he thrust right into Anders' back.

Anders' light blinked out in an instant. Over the thump of his body hitting the ground, Garrett heard his voice echo, Do you believe in me, Love?

Garrett's scream was drowned out by the toll of the Chantry bell.

Garrett woke up gasping, skin still crawling with the hum of lyrium and blood. No, no, no, he thought, twisting as he tried to claw the feeling out of his flesh, only to find he was trapped in some sort of binding. He tore at it mindlessly until he was free, stumbling away. There was a glint of light out of the corner of his eye, colored gold or silver Garrett didn't know or care; he lashed out. Only the sound of splintering wood snapped him out of his panic.

His vision slowly came into focus on the sight of his hand smashed into the side of his wardrobe. Garrett stared at it, trying to understand what he was seeing, and why it was so confusing. What was he doing here at home? Hadn't he just been at the Chantry? (Or had it been the Gallows?) He had been with his family — Father, Mother, Carver, Bethany, Dog, Anders — and there had been Templars...

There was a pressure against his other hand, something moist nudging at it and whining softly. Garrett looked down, seeing Dog at his side, the mabari bumping his nose into his palm again. It slowly it dawned on Garrett that the mabari was there, not lying in a pool of blood on charred grass. Dog was in the estate, they both were, Garrett's hand in the wardrobe and his bed a mess of rumpled sheets and pillows. Rain drummed on the roof and window panes, the fireplace popping and crackling warm and inviting as always.

Only a dream, Garrett realized.

What kind of dream had that been? he wondered as he gently freed his hand from the wardrobe. It had been too vivid, too real, Garrett remembering almost every detail: his father's hands on his shoulders, the ache in Anders' eyes, the Templar's power, the way the earth shook when Anders and Templar had fought. His skin still hummed with the lyrium's song, and the feel of Anders' thumb brushing his lips.

But there was something solid in Dog's soft fur that hadn't been there in the dream, and the way pain shot up his arm when Garrett flexed his hand was far more focused. His hand wasn't broken fortunately; broken bones would have required a healer, and Anders' side of the bed was empty. It would have also required an explanation as to why he tried to break his hand in the first place, and Garrett had never been good at explanations.

He wasn't sure how to explain this one either. He had always had his share of violent nightmares, but they were nothing compared to Anders', his lover often times spending half the night whispering and tossing and turning. He had never taken much stock in his dreams though, as Anders sometimes did in his wilder moments when he woke up convinced darkspawn were near. But there was a key difference between those moments and Garrett's.

"Neither of us have woken up in the middle of trying to murder our wardrobes before," he muttered to Dog, who licked his shaking hand.

His humor didn't last long, Garrett's eyes settling on the empty side of the bed.

He had watched the Templar stab Anders in the back, and Garrett had been too weak and powerless to help his lover, or any of his family. Perhaps, he thought, that was why it felt so real.

He shook off the chills that followed, looking away from the bed. It was only a dream, he reminded himself, vowing not to think about it anymore. He turned back to Dog, and forcing a grin. "Come on, boy, let's get some food."

Dog didn't let out his usual excited woof, merely whined sadly. Garrett tried not to think too much on that as he left the room.

Despite his promise, breakfast was a miserable affair, Garrett's eyes on the empty chair next to his own. It wasn't unusual sight to see it so, Anders up at the crack of dawn, meals tucked into his satchel as he headed out for the day. Garrett normally didn't mind either — they had busy lives, after all — but lately he'd hated it more and more. He swallowed, his fingers twitching against the table.

But he couldn't let himself think about why he hated that empty chair. Wouldn't let himself acknowledge the pit in his stomach that was starting to feel endless.

Garrett felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise suddenly. He glanced over, seeing Sandal standing beside him. Sandal merely stared at him for a long moment, until his lips slid into a smile.

"You have to let go now," he said.

Garrett felt his heart stop in his chest; the world tilt on its axis. "What?" he whispered.

Sandal blinked once, his smile fading. "Enchantment?" he offered.

"Not now, my boy. Messere Hawke is having breakfast!" Bodahn chirruped from the other side of the room. Garrett glanced at him, and then back at Sandal, the young dwarf scratching at his bum absently as he stared blankly into the distance. Had Sandal said what he thought he said? Garrett wondered, but the very notion left an ache in his stomach that was almost as bad as the pit.

And that was enough thinking for the day, Garrett thought, pushing up from his chair. He did his best to ignore Bodahn's worried look from the side of the table. "Was breakfast not to your liking, Messere?" he asked, sparing a glance for the eggs and ham Garrett hadn't even touched. "Perhaps Messere would like something else?"

"No," Garrett said, his eyes having found the burning fire from across the room. It took some effort to turn back to Bodahn and force a charming smile. "It's a lovely day, isn't it, Bodahn? A nice day for a picnic, I think. Please ask Orana if she will pack a basket for two."

Bodahn gave him an odd look. A justified look really, when it was clearly raining outside, and the entire house chilly because of it. But Garrett was a master who regularly ignored the pirate who was always breaking in, the dwarf who swung from the chandelier and the dog that gambled. A picnic on a rainy day was borderline normal in comparison. "Of course, Messere," Bodahn said slowly, reaching the same conclusion judging by the way his nose wrinkled.

Garrett favored him with another charming smile as he headed for the stairs. "Good man, Bodahn. Good man."

He had a quick bath, nothing more than a sweep of a wet sponge over his body. He dabbed cologne on his neck; dressed in simple clothes. By the time he finished up, his picnic was ready to go, Garrett taking it before heading for the cellars.

Garrett's mood began to lift at the thought of seeing Anders. He had been bringing food to Anders for years now, ever since Anders had let it slip that Wardens were always hungry. At the time, Anders was lucky to get in a decent meal that wasn't sawdust bread, hardly a meal for any hungry person, taint or not. Back then, if Garrett had the coin to spare, he brought him fresh loaf of bread or a piece of fish; sometimes mutton, if a job had gone well. After the Deep Roads, Garrett had been able to bring more lavish things almost everyday: sweets and cakes from Hightown bakeries; fruits imported from Par Vollen; sandwiches Garrett crafted himself.

Most of the time, they had ended up giving all the food away to the rest of the clinic. (Anders had once joked that Garrett had single-handedly cured the scurvy in his patients with the fruits he brought.) Garrett had always saved at least one portion for Anders however, and they would sit by one of the cots, chatting while Anders had eaten. They had exchanged stories about pet cats and mabari war hounds, the sillier moments from a life on the road, comparing the terrors of growing up with twins versus adolescent Circle mages.

It seemed so long since he and Anders had last had a moment like that, Garrett thought. It was long overdue.

He stopped short when he saw the bedroll laid out on the dusty, wooden floor, a single pillow and folded-up sheet at its head. There was a single candle situated on a nearby chest, alongside papers and an apple atop of a small round of cheese. The papers revealed nothing of import — a supply list for the clinic littered with misspellings; anonymous letters signed with a single 'A' — but said everything they needed to say all the same.

It was just one more thing to add to the list of heartbreaks Anders had been exhibiting lately. Starting first with the new coat, the one that seemed to suck the light and happiness out of a room. Then there was Anders trying to give his little pillow to Varric — the pillow that Garrett (but mostly Dog) had never been allowed to touch or be near without Anders moments from snatching it away. And then there were the words, ones that sent chills down Garrett's spine: "You were the most important thing in my life. But some things matter more than my life."

Garrett swallowed. Who knew it would be so worrying when Anders started talking in past tenses? Out of all things to worry about when it came to Anders — a man that had a tendency to light up like a Feastday tree and continued to gamble with Gallard, even after the man had threatened to make a hat out of his ears — tenses shouldn't have been Garrett's first choice.

Perhaps his main worry should have been the task of collecting crystallized piss and shit and whatever else for Anders ended with a mysterious trip to the Chantry. Now however, it was this, a bedroll in the cellars.

Garrett had told himself many things: that Anders was on one of his Grey-Warden-fueled stamina runs where he didn't sleep for four days straight (and then passed out cold for the remaining three); that he had been sleeping through Anders' usual routine, where he left at the crack of dawn for the clinic, and returned late at night to collapse into bed. But now there were no more lies he could tell himself: Anders abandoning a perfectly comfortable bed, and the man that he shared it with, to live in the cellars. Alone.

Unless Anders was merely too busy at the clinic to make it all the way up the cellars to bed, another part of him pointed out. It had happened before — usually when a sickness broke out in Darktown, which it was the season for. Back in the day, Anders had merely stayed at the clinic, but here in the cellars, he wasn't at risk of a nighttime raid by the Templars or the guards. Garrett should have been glad he was staying in the cellars.

Garrett shook his head. Was he making a big deal out of nothing? Anders getting a new coat, and Garrett found it worrisome? One incident of Anders using the wrong tenses and his mind jumped to doom and gloom? One bad dream and suddenly he was paranoid? Anders sleeping in the cellars, and Garrett thought he had abandoned him?

He needed to see Anders. Once he saw him, Garrett would realize his worries were unfounded.

He headed off again, moving further into the cellars. It was a testament to the sturdy construction of the Amell cellar that the eye-watering stench of Darktown didn't seep up from the floorboards. After sucking in one last, clean, odor-free breath, Garrett descended the ladder to the depths below.

Halfway down, the stench grew so heavy that Garrett could feel it crawling across his skin. He fought a disgusted shudder and pressed on, moving low enough on the ladder so he could drop down safely. That turned into a bad idea the moment he landed in what was certainly not mud.

"And he says this is better than the Deep Roads..." Garrett muttered darkly, shaking off the offensive muck with a scowl.

When it rained, the heat from rotting sewage and decaying waste mixed in with the water gushing from the ceilings. The air became heavy with steam, reminding Garrett of a hot washroom, without the oils and soaps he had grown accustomed too.

Darktowners had the same idea it seemed, Garrett passing more than one group scrubbing down bodies and clothes in the free water. Children played in the small pools that were filling up in every dip of stone, for once laughter filling up the streets. Even the rats seemed to be enjoying themselves, furry little bodies plopped on rocks and pipes as they cleaned their whiskers.

Anders' clinic was only a brisk walk down a set of rotting stairs, over the legs of several drunkards passed out along the walls and a hop over a growing stream of water. No one paid Garrett any attention — dressing in plain, wrinkly clothes and a simple cap helped with that — except the usual lookouts. They were children that could find no longer find fun in the youngsters' games, but they did perk up when Garrett passed. Garrett was always impressed how fast they could pick him out from a crowd, when their usual targets wore silver armor and clanked around loudly. He pressed coin into their hands as he went by, the children making the money disappear like it never existed before they resumed their vigil.

Situated on higher ground, the clinic was mostly safe from the weather. An exposed pipe overhead dripped brown water into a puddle near the doors, the water coming dangerously to a girl that was kneeling at the clinic doors. She was a tiny thing, her black hair pulled back into pigtails, her dress merely an oversized dirty shirt. As Garrett approached, he caught her happy little hums as she wound stems lined with browning Andraste's grace flowers around the dregs of red candles the Chantry favored.

It was a shrine and quite pretty, decaying and wilted as it was. It wasn't unusual for Anders to receive such tokens of praise for his work, just as it wasn't unusual for Darktown to make use of the refuse that came from the upper levels. Garrett had never seen them something so pretty from such remains however, but the longer Garrett looked at the little shrine, the more and more it reminded him of a memorial.

He had to look away — shake off chills that came with it too. Someone called for the girl from the clinic doorway, the girl looking up before darting over. Garrett shook his head again — he was losing his mind clearly, and he really needed to stop it, he berated himself — before following the girl inside.

The clinic was packed, but not with patients. Cots had been turned into tables, three refugees to each, making poultices or working with small orange balls. On closer inspection, said balls were actually fruits — and not just any fruits; ones Garrett knew they had a crate of at home — Garrett watching as one refugee delicately worked a large needle and thread in a cross-stitch across the plump flesh.

Closer to him, a group of teenagers were gathered around a small pot over a fire. When Garrett peered in, he saw they were boiling elfroot, one stirring the plants slowly. They all looked confused. "We don't get it," one girl said to Garrett, her cheeks streaked with elfroot juice. "If elfroot is green, how does the potion end up red?"

It was a great question. They all stared at the brewing potion for a moment until a laugh made them look over.

"That's where the magic comes in," Anders joked as he walked up to them. Garrett felt his breath catch in his throat, but the feeling deflated a little when he noticed the teenagers looked up at him with a reverence normally reserved for Andraste statues. Anders peered into their pot, nodding his approval. "It's almost ready. Great job."

He left the teenagers grinning, Anders looking at Garrett then. "Hawke, what are you doing here?"

Though Anders always called him "Hawke," in public, Garrett found that the name stung. It was so impersonal, and with the guarded look in Anders' eyes, it was made all that much worse. Garrett hadn't seen that look in years, and it took everything in him not to reach out and touch Anders to reassure him. In private, he would have leaned in to wipe away the dirt stain on Anders' cheek, or hooked fingers in the buckles on his coat to pull him close. Except the new coat didn't have the buckles Garrett loved, and he found that hurt as much as everything else. Garrett clenched his hurt hand into a fist at his side, the pain helping him keep control. He forced a smirk and an easy drawl.

"Answering scientific questions of great importance clearly. Also, discovering the gruesome fate of our fruits." He glanced over to the refugee sewing away, and then looked back at Anders. "Not making fruit pillows, are you?"

Anders' huffed out a laugh, and shook his head. "No. I've been teaching people how to stitch up wounds. One of the easiest ways to practice is on the fruit since, Maker be praised, we don't have actual patients to work on."

Garrett frowned, the "why would you do that?" on the tip of his tongue. But the answer was completely obvious to him the moment he thought of it. The only reason they would need to learn that if a healer was no longer on hand. Garrett glanced at the refugees making poultices and potions. They were learning how to run the clinic without Anders, weren't they?

To stop the oncoming swell of panic, Garrett held up the basket quickly. "I brought lunch. I thought we could have a picnic."

The suggestion didn't prompt the delighted smile Garrett was hoping for. Anders' shoulders tensed instead. "In the rain?" he asked with a frown.

"You love the rain," Garrett said, perhaps far too quickly. "And no, not in the rain. Like we used to. Pull up a cot, tell each other how our days have been."

Garrett wasn't sure if he actually saw the flash of pain in Anders' eyes or he just imagined. Anders looked away too quickly for him to read it. "I appreciate the thought, Hawke," he said, but there was a tension on his shoulders that said the exact opposite. "But I'm very busy to today.

Something inside Garrett snapped, anger and hurt mixing together dangerously. The explanations he had been feeding himself for days to justify Anders' withdrawal were slowly being exposed as the lies they actually were. "I haven't seen you in three days, Darling. Can you not spare an hour?" he asked, voice tight. When the tension in Anders' shoulders grew, Garrett's temper flared. "Maker's breath, Anders, if I knew helping you with that bloody fake potion meant I would never see you again—"

He cut himself off. He had said too much. Anders' face was pained when he glanced at him, an expression that was usually followed with I can't give you a normal life or You should find someone else, Love or I told you I would break your heart.

Garrett suddenly felt exposed, like everyone in the clinic was now looking at him. His fingers twitched. "I should go," he said. He set the basket on Anders' desk. "You should have this. There may be enough food for everyone here."

"Garrett," Anders called softly, but Garrett was already walking off.

Odd the fights he fled.