[Fair warning: This chapter includes MxM sex, so if that is not your cup of tea, just skip this interlude. It is not at all essential for plot purposes. I debated whether to include it on the site at all, but seeing what is out there I don't think it's that much worse. It is set right after the end of Chapter 1. Also, if people want it, there might be more interludes like this...]

"Are you sure about this?" Anders asked breathlessly as the kiss broke, hands tangled in Hawke's shirt.

"Not even a little," Hawke replied, his voice shaky with something. Need maybe. Anger probably. Lust definitely.

"If you tell me to go, I will," the mage said with that serious frown on his face, though he made no motion to pull away, or let go of the other man.

"We're on a ship," Hawke replied, nibbling kisses along the unshaven blonde chin. "In the middle of the ocean. You can't go anywhere, and even if you could... Maker, why do you put that decision to me, every time?" The last words were hissed angrily into the mage's ear as he tightened the embrace.

"Because I don't trust myself to do the right thing by you and stay away," Anders admitted. "I keep meaning to go, and I never get around to it. You shouldn't love me."

"Did I ever strike you as a man that did what he should?" Hawke pulled back enough so he could look Anders in the eye. "Stop trying to protect me, I..."

The winds shifted suddenly, the ship lurched, and Hawke felt himself loose balance, stumbling towards the railing and the ocean below. The terror was a steel blade to the gut, he could imagine falling, sinking, drowning... and then Anders braced himself enough to keep them from going over.

"You were saying?" the mage teased, though from the look on his face he had been scared as well.

"I take that back," Hawke replied, tugging himself free of the other man. He hated boats, he hated waves. They played havoc with his balance, and being stuck in an embrace made for difficult escapes. "You can protect me any time, from drowning, darkspawn, death and... Maker, I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"The cabin?" Anders suggested, ignoring the prattle, blonde hair nearly undone by the incessant wind, black feathers ruffled on his coat.

"Maker, yes," Hawke agreed, heading for the door. His legs still unsteady, he looked up, catching Isabela's amused wink from the forecastle. Maybe she would get off his back now.

...

"I've seen you fighting a dozen darkspawn on a narrow ledge with lava below, and I've never seen you stumble like that." Anders teased once they were safely inside, Hawke pressed between him and the wall.

"Ledges don't move," Hawke mumbled, busy trying to undo the straps on the apostate's coat. "Blast it, you don't make it easy getting into your pants, you know that, right?"

"You're thinking of Isabela," the mage drawled. "Besides, who are you to talk, serah spiky bits?"

"I was talking about the attitude, not the clothes." There, he had undone the final strap, pulling off that blasted feathered coat.

"So was I," Anders smirked.

"Cheeky apostate," Hawke muttered, pulling the mage close for another kiss. This time sans feathers.

Maker he had missed this. Had missed being able to just slide his hands under Anders' shirt, feeling his skin. Merril was right, everything in Kirkwall had been hard and cold, stones and armor, plots, fights and impending doom. He had never realized how much he had relied on Anders being there to keep him centered, especially after his mother had died. Friends were friends, but no matter how fun a round of whiskey and cards at the Hanged Man was, this was different. Different than being with Isabela even, or with what he got when he had visited the Blooming Rose back in the days. He had no idea what it was, love maybe, they kept saying that, but love was just a word, wasn't it? It was what you did with it that counted. And Hawke was not sure where they stood now by that account, him or Anders.

Well, stood, not really. The mage had slid down on his knees by now, Hawke was not quite sure where his shirt had gone, but his pants had collected in a pile around his feet since Anders seemed to be surprisingly clever with his hands. Magic maybe. Right now he didn't care, not with what those clever hands were doing. He shifted slightly so he could kick away the pants, and then leaned back against the cabin wall, bracing himself. Maker that felt good, he loved Anders' banter, but he couldn't very well complain about his silence. Not like this. Not now. He slid a hand down, wrapping it tightly in that blonde hair, pushing the mage's head down, deeper.

He was rewarded by a slight choking sound, but no protest. They were both equally hungry for this, for anything to take their minds off what had happened. Right now the future could go fuck itself, this was here. This was now. And then the ship lurched again, nearly sending Hawke off balance.

"Andraste's ass," Anders cursed, licking his lips a little as he looked up at Hawke with a smile. He seemed to be about to say something else, but instead he got distracted by the view. It was a nice angle for an ogle.

"I think the Maker disapproves," Hawke suggested, caught between need and nausea, the sea-sickness taking a backseat to the desire to have Anders lips back wrapped around him.

"The Maker disapproves of nearly everything," the mage retorted, trailing fingers over Hawke as he got back to his feet. "Haven't you listened to the chantry?"

"Not if I can help it," Hawke assured, working on stripping the rest of Anders' clothing by now. "Sebastian tried, and..." he broke off there, pulling Anders in for a kiss, half fueled by desperation. Sebastian. He shouldn't have mentioned the man that had left Kirkwall vowing to return for Anders' head.

"It's fine," Anders interjected as if he had read Hawke's mind. "Just don't... stop."

Hawke had no plans to stop. None at all. Parrying the movement of the rolling ship, he dragged Anders over to the bunk. It was either that or the floor, but Maker it was narrow. He hit his head and swore loudly, causing Anders to laugh.

"For the love of..." He rubbed his head, wincing.

"For the love of what exactly?" asked Anders, amused, sliding his hand down to ease the pain by paying attention to a completely different part of the rogue's body. Since that seemed to do the trick, he let his mouth follow.

"That. Probably. Maker, don't stop." Hawke had given up on the bed; the floor was good enough for him. His legs felt shaky for a completely different reason now.

"I have to though, if I want to talk," Anders remarked as he came up for air, pushing into Hawke's exploring hands.

"Then shut up," came the teasing suggestion.

"How likely is that?" the mage retorted, licking his fingers. "No, I think I should do... this instead." He couldn't exactly manhandle Hawke, the man was far stronger and fit than he was, but it was fun when allowances were made.

"Maker's breath, that's..." Hawke moaned, not exactly wanting to think about where Anders fingers were exploring. Or, well, his body was of a different opinion than his mind, because that wanted to know a lot more. In detail.

"Stop squirming," Anders complained teasingly, shifting his position a bit for a better angle.

"I'm the Champion of Kirkwall, I don't squirm. Much." The last admission came reluctantly, after he was proven wrong."

"The Champion does a lot of things he doesn't tell anybody about..." the whisper was hushed, filled with want.

"You're corrupting me..." Hawke protested, but weakly, coupled with a wince as the fingers were pulled out.

"Enlightening is the word I'd use," Anders teased. "Now just relax and bend over."

"You enjoy this far too much," Hawke pointed out as he moved to obey.

"I am? Then what about this?" The mage reached in and grabbed Hawke, smirking a bit as he felt the man stiffen further in his hand.

"Incidental evidence," came the quick reply. "No... proof at all." Hawke really had no idea why he was continuing to treat this as a contest. It was, as always the jokes that kept them together, both of them terrified, deep down, by the depth of emotion that came when they were serious. Now more than ever. Love was a more frightening thing than magic.

"Maybe we should keep score," Anders mused, draping himself over Hawke to whisper in his ear.

"You suggested that once, it's still a bad idea." Hawke pressed back a little against the mage, on the verge of begging him to get on with it. But he didn't. He had his dignity... so far. "Maker's breath, imagine if Varric had found that out, I'd never live that down."

"What?" Anders asked, raising his voice in concern. "That there's statistical proof that the Champion of Kirkwall loves being bent over a bed and thoroughly used by some apostate mage? I think 'Hard in Hightown' would have been a very different book then."

"You have a dirty, dirty mind. And not just any apostate mage. You're special." Hawke swallowed, steeling himself for the inevitable.

"You say that just because I can do... this." The mage tensed slightly, the pushed inside, hard. Saliva was a good enough lubricant, but it'd been a while for the both of them.

"Yes," Hawke gasped after he got his breath back. "Yes, that's exactly why. Now shut up and fuck me."

That was one command Anders seemed far too willing to obey.