A/N: Read this note before going further. "A Century is All We Need" is a loose series of moments/scenes based on my custom Femhawke and rivalmanced!Anders. It starts in early Act II, jumps around a lot chronologically, and will continue on 'til I run out of ideas XD Enjoy my disjointed ficcing, if you dare, and as always, reviews are appreciated.
Scenario: Hawke and Anders get stuck in a cave when it's storming outside.
"It looks like we'll be staying the night here," Hawke announces grimly. "Or at least until the rain lets up."
Anders curses under his breath and plops himself on the ground, rubbing his arms. "Outstanding."
"It could be worse." She glances at him. "We'll need a fire. Do you have enough mana for that?"
"Barely," he replies, feeling as hollow as his voice. "Let me see." Stretching his hand out to the area in front of him, he concentrates on feelings of warm and heat, slowly pulls up the last dregs of his power, and—with a grunt and wince—manages to conjure a small clutch of flames that sputter and flick erratically with every shallow breath he takes in the aftermath.
A bit disappointed with his creation but still pleased at having pulled out something, he looks up from his work to see Hawke staring at him and clears his throat. "Well. There you go. But you should know that I'm officially useless now until I've replenished."
The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Could be worse. I'm going to go look for more materials. I trust you to take care of that"—here, she gestures towards the fire—"while I'm gone."
"No problem," he mutters as she walks away, the greatsword gently clinking on her back. She always cuts an imposing figure for people to stare after, and he just so happens to be one of them; and now they're stuck in a cave for tonight due to inclement weather of all things. Whatever possessed him to collect herbal reagents in the Sundermount caves with only Hawke for an escort has thoroughly fled him at present, leaving only a peculiar uneasiness to swirl around in his gut.
It's only for a few hours, he tells himself, a few hours alone with Hawke is nothing—except that these days it's the farthest thing from nothing that he can get, and Anders isn't sure what a prolonged exposure to this woman will bring out in him later. He can still count on one hand the number of times Justice had made himself known during his interactions with her, and while each instance had resulted in nothing more unpleasant than an abrupt end to their debates, they are thoroughly trapped together this time.
He scoffs at himself. Here he is, a grown man whose stomach is doing somersaults because he can't make it through a single night with Hawke.
"I didn't find much, but this should help anyway," she says suddenly, and Anders silently praises the Maker for finding the steel not to jump at her voice. She arranges the sticks and straw around the fire, setting aside an even tinier ration for later.
The mage huddles closer to the flames and blows on his fingers. "I feel better already."
Hawke shakes her head. "Not quite." She pulls off her gauntlets and carelessly drops them on the ground. "We're completely drenched; you'll catch a cold or worse if you keep wearing those clothes." The shoulder guards are next. "We'll need to be close to each other to maximize body heat and generate optimum warmth."
Anders blinks owlishly at the growing pile of armor next to him, determined not to raise his head. "Wait, you're not suggesting…"
"…exactly what you're implying when you trailed off," she continues, tugging off her boots, "As a matter of fact, I am."
This is a dream. This is all simply a ridiculous dream because he hasn't been sleeping as often as he should. He scrambles for words, anything to prevent this horribly clichéd situation from happening. "I don't think that's such a good—"
"If you're not comfortable stripping, that's your prerogative," Hawke states firmly, "but I doubt that you'll be in fighting shape tomorrow, which, considering that you're the only healer around, would be mildly inconvenient."
"Alright already," he finally snaps, "I am, I am."
They undress without another word, the sounds of their clothes being peeled off echoing strangely against the cavern walls. Anders grits his teeth when his fingers keep slipping on a particular coat fastening and quickly glances at Hawke to see if she's watching his laughable attempts to remove his clothing. Her head's turned away, but the rest of her isn't, and Anders can hear the swallow he makes at the sight of her newly exposed flesh.
Weak mortal. Is it how you've always imagined she would look? No, Anders replies dazedly, it's even better, before he angrily shoves Justice back down. The damned spirit may have interrupted more than a few sessions with him and his lonely hand, but he won't ruin this, definitely not this. Eyes hungrily drink her up, sear the rippling lines of muscle on her back the near-invisible scars on her arms the generous curve of her breasts into his memory so he can hold them close inside himself when he's alone again.
And this is how it will always be, he thinks with his chest wound tight, looking looking looking but never touching. Or at least not in the way he wants, he realizes as she lets her dark hair down and shakes out the raindrops. He tears his gaze away. What he wouldn't give to hear her thoughts right now.
What he wouldn't give to have her feel the same way.
He has to break the silence eventually. "Don't you have a blanket or something in your pack?"
"Oh." Hawke rummages around in the bag and drags it out. "I nearly forgot. A bit damp, but it'll do for when we're drier."
"It looks small," Anders points out and immediately wants to punch himself for sounding so petulant.
"It's big enough as long as we huddle together."
"Right," he agrees, his mouth going dry. Restrain yourself. Why you insist on mooning over this woman is beyond me. She would turn you in to the templars without a second thought if she could—but she hasn't! Maker knows she's had every opportunity, and it can't be easy resisting the encouragement from that beast of an elf Fenris (may the blight take him), but here he is, and here she is, and Anders still hasn't figured out what to make of that single, contradictory fact about her.
"Anders? Still with me?"
A breath catches in his throat when he blinks away his umpteenth mental conversation to find Hawke pressing a hand to his forehead, then on the side of his neck. Her fingers are deliciously cool against his skin, and he fights the urge to grab her hand and bring it down lower past his chest, his abdomen, to other parts unknown. Heart thudding, he dares a glance at her face that betrays nothing (as usual) save for the tell-tale set of her jaw.
Ah. For all the gentleness in her execution, the gesture is clinical and detached, and he knows better than to pretend some ulterior meaning behind it. Hurt and annoyed at his sudden launch into romantic fantasy (yet again), Anders jerks away. "Yes," he says flatly, "no need to coddle me."
Hawke doesn't nod so much as slightly incline her head in his direction and returns to wringing the water from her leggings while Anders attends to his own clothes, chest burning, head swimming. Damn her. Damn her and her false concern and her quiet, self-assured ways.
The hour passes by unnoticed, with the two companions getting up periodically to feed the fire and check outside conditions as the storm rages on unabated. They don't exchange words unless absolutely necessary and Anders can barely breathe under the suffocating quiet. At random intervals throughout the evening, he had opened his mouth, ready to snap about something—anything, to make her talk—only to reel himself back in at the last minute. Let her speak first. Let Ms. Stoic Stone-Face make small talk for once.
Naturally, another hour goes by in silence. Every so often he sneaks a glance at her, but she always looks as lost in thought as he does. Even when he begins to shiver, she merely sits beside him and wraps the blanket around them both before directing her gaze back to the fire that has miraculously endured thus far. The entire lengths of their arms are touching, and soon enough Anders shivers for another reason. Of course, Hawke merely draws her knees close and continues to stare straight ahead like this is nothing, like stripping naked beside a teammate in a cave while it's storming outside happens all the time, and how he's reacting isn't professional at all.
Bitter? Hardly.
At some point in the middle of what can be only be called his broodfest (and there's enough of his old self to find the humor in calling it such), Anders senses that nightfall has arrived despite there being no sudden drop in temperature or lightness in the cave and dully concludes that they will indeed be spending the night here. Terrific.
As if she has read his thoughts (and it wouldn't surprise him at all if she can in addition to her other godlike talents), Hawke smiles reassuringly. "We'll leave as soon as the rain stops. We haven't been gone long."
"You don't have a horde of patients waiting for you."
"No, but I do have people lined up outside my door with new troubles every week." She shrugs. "Best to enjoy this 'break' while I can."
Anders laughs humorlessly. "Tired of solving everyone's problems already?"
"No," she replies without a trace of irony.
"Condescendence, that's new for you," he goads further. It's an incredibly stupid idea, but he wants so badly for her to crack and let him see past the mask she wears for Kirkwall's populace.
She raises an eyebrow (a start.) "I enjoy helping others." I thought you knew that about me. I thought you would understand. I thought we had that in common at least. It all goes unsaid, and he ignores it because he's trying to get a damn rise out of her, but her last statement is too much for Justice to stay silent on. Anders fights hard, but he can already feel the familiar surge of rage fit to burst under his skin.
"Right, like you 'help' the mages."
She turns to look at him. "I am," she replies carefully, which pisses Anders off to no bloody end.
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm not someone whose boots you're usually falling over to lick."
The temperature in the cave seems to plummet several degrees. Anders should want to take it back, but he feels nothing but wild anticipation as Hawke blinks once, then twice, and now he can see the cracks forming on that perfectly composed mask.
She closes her eyes and exhales. "This again."
"Yes," he grounds out, "this. Again. And again and again until you see how warped your views are."
"Oh, I'm warped," she says so quietly and quickly under her breath that he almost misses it.
"What was that?" he asks loudly, "I didn't quite hear that. Why don't you speak up and have an actual conversation with me?"
"Because they're never just conversations with you," she responds evenly.
"Because you walk away before they even start!"
"Or maybe it's that Vengeance makes an appearance and renders the entire attempt pointless."
"I've told you, he's the spirit of Justice."
She rounds on him then, her grey eyes reflecting something more genuine than that perpetual, maddening calm. "Don't try to dress it up, Anders," (and he's not too ashamed to acknowledge the thrill he gets from hearing her husky voice say his name), "I stand for justice as much as the next person, but that's not what he is."
"So sending mages to the Circle to be used and abused by their templar jailers is justice then? Tearing a child away from his family, never to see them again simply for whom he is, is justice? Telling someone who can shoot light from his fingertips that his gift is a curse, that everything about him is an affront to the Maker is the right thing to do?"
"I never said any of those things. I have no doubt practices within the Circle need to change, but the institution itself is necessary. The Circle provides guidance and instruction for people whose powers would otherwise spin out of control—"
"Naïve sentiments from a naïve fool," he snarls and yanks the blanket to his waist because what with the fire, the argument, and the sheer nearness of her Anders' blood is running molten hot. "Thank the Maker Bethany joined the Grey Wardens after all, or you probably would've thrown a bloody going-away party after turning her in to the Circle—"
Hawke's face goes white. "Don't," she warns.
Bringing up her sister is the lowest of blows, but he's far past caring. "Don't what? Tell the truth? Admit it, her magic's always been a liability to you; everything you ever did was to hide her from the templars—"
"Anders," she repeats.
"And Stroud was just a convenient solution. I'll bet you felt so relieved after saying goodbye too; I didn't see much of a reaction in the Deep Roads otherwise—"
"Enough," Hawke growls and slams him against the jagged cavern walls, Anders choking back a gasp from the shock of it.
The flames from the fire jump and flicker behind her, cloaking the thunderous expression on her face in an eerie silhouette. "I put up with a generous amount of bullshit," she says, biting off every word, "but there are some things no one is allowed to touch." She swallows. "Like Bethany." She presses him harder against the wall. "Especially Bethany."
His breath coming in light pants, Anders winces from the uneven stone digging into his back, but the rest of his attention is focused on the woman in front of him who has suddenly, wondrously become alive.
Hawke hasn't completely lost control (yet), but this is already more than he's ever born witness to. There's a tightness not only to her jaw, but to the set of her shoulders that bleeds into the vice-like grip she has on him. Anders forgets from time to time that she can easily overpower him if need be though he has often wondered what it must be like to be on the receiving end of her sword during a skirmish, and figures what's happening at the moment should feel pretty similar. She's even close enough for him to spot the beginnings of crow's feet on her eyes, eyes that hold him in place like chains—but his tastes have always ran kinkier than most.
When she exhales, he can feel her breath on his face; when she blinks, he can imagine the feather-light brush of her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks; when she adjusts her grip on him, he can feel every one of her fingers burning into his skin like a brand, and it takes all of his self-control and that of Justice's not to visibly shudder in pain-pleasure from the simple physicality of her.
Does she even know the effect she has on him? And what would happen if he were to finally reveal this confusing, all-consuming lust he has for her? (Foolish human, you know it is not merely lust.) No. He's gone through scenario after scenario in his mind, and the end results stay the same. He is left alone. The very idea of her welcoming him into her arms in acceptance makes him want to laugh—or cry. Pathetic. How much longer can he resist? Why does it have to be her, of all people?
"Ah," he retorts breathlessly, "it's about time you're reacting like a person."
"Does it make you feel better to treat me like a soulless statue?" she asks pointedly.
His eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Oh? You mean you're not?"
Hawke shakes her head. "You've already provoked me once."
"How else am I supposed to know you're actually feeling something then?"
She furrows her brow in disbelief. "Are—are you joking?"
"Am I laughing?"
"…I don't have to explain myself to you," she scoffs softly.
"And there you go," he snaps, temper flaring up again, "always rising above it all because you fancy yourself some kind of god who doesn't need feelings or maybe you're just too scared to deal with them!"
Hawke opens and closes her mouth. For the second time that night, Anders has rendered her momentarily speechless, but there is no vindictive satisfaction to savor from this particular triumph. The seconds drag by as they stare at each other, teasing apart the layers of anger and misunderstanding and frustration between them only to discover an undercurrent that is both wholly new and hauntingly familiar to those who have swam its depths.
As he watches the inner turmoil flash in and out across her features, his throat closes up with guilt. He likes to push Hawke to her limits, wants to break her if he could, all to distract himself from the cruel truth that he himself is slowly, inevitably unraveling apart in a way no one can empathize with—and a truth like that cuts him deeply.
The grip on his shoulders loosens as she begins to turn away.
"Wait," Anders begs and covers her hands with his; she stiffens. The scent of her—something woodsy, spicy—is making him dizzy. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" she questions, her voice rough with emotion.
Is he? "Yes."
The tension abruptly leaves the cave, and Hawke hangs her head, shoulders slumped. "I apologize as well."
She's apologizing to him? How much more saint is she than woman? She's too good, much too good for an ex-Grey Warden apostate on the run whose body plays host to a spirit of the Fade.
"I wish I knew what you were thinking," Anders blurts out. No one knows. For all her Hightown acts of charity and public service, and her not-so noble exploits in Darktown, there isn't a single person in Kirkwall who can reveal anything about the person beneath the warrior's plating, the serene smile, and the stoic demeanor.
A pained sort of smirk seems to tug at her mouth before she deftly wipes it away. "What goes on in my head isn't that interesting."
"It sure would help," he remarks dryly, and Hawke laughs, a rare occurrence.
She starts to move away and frowns when he won't let go of her hands. Lips pursed, she says neutrally, "It's late. I suggest we get some sleep."
Something's off here. They aren't ready to go at each other's throats anymore, but he can still feel the hairs on his neck stand on end (and unless he's suddenly regained his mana to cast an impromptu lightning storm something else is clearly at work.) It doesn't take an idiot to figure out what isn't being said (what needs to be said), but he'll be damned if either one of them will voluntarily come out and state the obvious.
Or maybe he's gone and created another elaborate fantasy, and is putting words in her mouth and thoughts in her head. He should put up a sign marked "For Rent" already and slap it on his forehead; Justice could certainly use another voice as a companion. That is not something to joke about.
He irritably shoves Justice to the side again and returns to the inscrutable woman almost in his arms. Her skin is impossibly soft. There's the slightest catch in her breath when he impulsively runs his thumbs over the pulse of her wrists, and with an audible thud in his chest Anders thinks he's dreaming again. So it isn't just him.
"Let go," Hawke requests, her tone deceptively light, and he shakes his head, too flooded with questions to verbally answer back. Since when? For how long? Always? Just now? Does she know about him? He's floating; he's floating up and away because this is all happening to someone else, a long way off.
Who is he kidding? She's had to have known. "Hawke," he says unsteadily and leans forward, trying to close the achingly scant distance between their bodies.
Unsurprisingly, she doesn't budge an inch. "I won't ask again," she replies in a near-whisper.
Instantly, his face is a hair's breadth from hers. "Then don't," he returns hoarsely.
She shakes her head. "I—"
"Thomas, stop fighting me—this."
The warrior goes very, very still as soon as he utters her given name—no one but her father has ever used it—and even Anders pauses, shocked by his own daring. Has he gone too far? Boundaries are made to be broken, but not when they make a person like the one struggling with them right now.
Hawke makes the decision for him. Taking a deep breath, she captures his mouth in a searing kiss, and for a brief moment in time, his mind goes completely blank: no thoughts on templars, on his clinic, on Justice, on tomorrow—nothing but the taste of her lips and the feel of her tongue sliding in, and suddenly he isn't far away at all; he's right here in this room, and he is awake, groaning into her mouth as his hands release her to span the length of her glorious back, his desire rising to meet—
And then she wrenches herself away from him, gets to her feet, and looks at him in a way that he feels all the way down to his toes.
"Someone has to," she says harshly and wipes her mouth, her hand trembling violently. Hawke turns on her heel and pulls on the first layer of clothing. "I'm going to look for more firewood," she throws over her shoulder and abruptly leaves Anders to it, his blood on fire, panting, still grasping what has just occurred.
By the time Thomas returns from her scavenger hunt, the fire is sputtering on its last bits of fuel, and Anders is still in a sitting position, snoring softly. She carefully picks her way to the mage and lays down whatever she's managed to gather for the duration of the night. After stoking the fire back to its original strength, she strips to her smalls as her under-armor had still been damp (and still is) when she had hastily thrown it on and sits beside Anders' sleeping form. Closing her eyes, her head falls back against the wall. Despite having shucked off her armor, her shoulders sag from an unknown weight.
Thank the Maker for her warrior's discipline or who knows what would have happened had she not pulled away from him. Her hands briefly curl into fists, fingers scraping on the moist dirt. She knows exactly what would have followed. And who says you didn't want that to happen instead, the rogue thought whispers into her mind, and she makes a low, wrecked sound in her throat because it was unbelievably stupid of her to agree to help Anders of all people, and they should have braved the storm and fallen miserably ill the next day rather than sit here, waiting for the rain and the knot of heat coiled in her belly to die out.
Desires are our downfall. Thomas is in the midst of finally moving into the family's former estate after weeks of negotiations, neck-deep in running the mine business with Hubert where minor crises (and new infestations) seem to pop up every few days if not hours, and still blames herself for Bethany's tragic departure even though enough time has passed that her mother no longer shoots her withering glares whenever her sister's name is mentioned. If it isn't one problem, it's another (or two or three), and the last thing she needs is a man—abomination, she corrects herself—to occupy mental space that could be used for something infinitely more productive.
And of course he would be a renegade freedom fighter (or unstable revolutionary in her more honest moments). Of course he would represent everything she stands against and secretly liberate one mage right as she turns in another for blood magic, or worse. Of course he would be possessed. She has every reason, every cause, to reveal his location to the knight-commander, but on the days she strides into his clinic with the resolve set in her bones, he's holding a newly delivered infant in his arms, or soothing the rattling breaths of an old woman, or on his slower shifts enticing a cautious tabby to the saucer of milk she knows he sets aside every week, and she delays his arrest for just a little while longer.
Who is he to barge into her life? Who is he to tamper with her principles and convictions? The tighter she reigns in her temper, the more determined he is to draw it out. For every action she performs, there is an opposite reaction. The rest of her companions wisely don't comment on the mounting tension, but she knows Varric has probably already written several drafts on the "epic romance between the roguishly handsome apostate and the noble, upstanding knight." She smiles mirthlessly. At least they would have a happy ending.
As Thomas grows sleepy, she gently tugs part of the blanket her way, and Anders stirs. Holding her breath, she watches him shift this way and that before settling back in again. At coming into contact with his bare skin once more, she involuntarily shivers and bites her lip. Her gaze guiltily travels from the line of his stubbled jaw down the narrow planes of his chest to linger on the near-invisible trail of blonde hair that dips beneath the blanket. She laughs shakily and tears her eyes away before she makes another mistake.
Still burning, she eventually falls asleep next to him. She's tired of fighting too.
Anders wakes up to several cricks in his neck. He had been ready to set Hawke on fire last night for that outrageous stunt with Justice solemnly agreeing with her course of action. She was right, of course, to move away when she did. She's always bloody right, but it didn't help his raging hard-on. Thinking he would confront her upon returning, hours passed before he grudgingly admitted defeat and promptly fell asleep with no dreams of her to torture him, thank Andraste.
After blinking the sleep from his eyes, he moves to stretch only to be prevented by a warm, dull weight. With a gulp, he looks down to see the warrior resting her head on his shoulder, her chest rising and falling with very breath, and the image pulls at his heart because he's imagined this set-up before—the both of them in bed with his arm around her as they chat about each other's day, her curly hair spread out on the pillows, their legs intertwined, his hand idly tracing patterns on her belly. She would talk like she never does in public, her voice high and soft, and he would silence her with a kiss, then another, and another until they would slowly move together in an easy, languid lovemaking that leaves the both of them breathless.
She will be your ruin. He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes her. "Th—Hawke."
"Hnn..." Her eyes flutter open, and they share a momentary gaze that she inevitably breaks. She sits up. "I'm awake," she affirms without a hitch in tone.
"The rain's stopped," he supplies helpfully.
The corner of her mouth twitches. "I should hope so."
Making a noncommittal noise, he rises to gather his things as she stretches, his brow knitted. So this is how she wants to play it. Like nothing ever happened. Fine, he can do that. Anders pulls on his coat with more force than is necessary and jams his feet into his boots. Behind him, he hears the gentle clink of plate metal being put back on, and he pictures her securing her gauntlets, adjusting her pauldrons, dusting her helmet, all with that steady care with which she treats her armor. He grits his teeth and bears it.
"Are you ready?" And just like that, there's a feather-light touch on his arm, and she never gives light, careless touches like this or rather, she does it to everyone but him and now her fingers are ever so placed on his sleeve, and he can feel the heat burning a hole through the fabric, which is why he can't quite explain how he's suddenly in her face with a death grip on her hand. Again. Justice is making a terrible clamor inside his head. Anders closes his eyes.
"Please," he begins without wavering. "Just." A beat. "Just don't."
When he doesn't hear an immediate response from her, he opens his eyes to find her looking back, her own stare liquid-dark and mesmeric. Holding his eyes, she methodically pries his hand off of hers, finger by finger until they are awkwardly hand-clasped. For several seconds, neither of them let go, and then Hawke pushes his hand back to his side, but not before curling her thumb over the sensitive skin of his open palm as she releases him. Anders doesn't remember if he's taken a single breath during this entire exchange.
"I won't do it again," she assures, and this time he feels rather than hears the fraying, raw ends of her open-ended apology. This is difficult for her too.
He attempts a smile and says gently, "Not unless you're ready for what that entails."
Hawke shakes her head. "No." Almost immediately, a myriad of emotions flicker across her face, and it ends when she bites down hard on her lip and murmurs, "Not yet."
Anders wisely does not say anything in return, and they move apart at last to begin their search for the way out, each one mulling over what the other has said.