6. The Best Day

or, in which we finally get to the action, and Skrybble thanks you for your patience.

Disclaimer: Don't own DA2.

What makes it worse is that he's really trying to be stealthy as he checks both ways and ducks through the clinic door. The entrance to his clinic is well-hidden as it is, tucked inside the mouth of an alley and nested in shadow, but it doesn't hurt to be careful right now. Yards away, late-afternoon sunlight is falling sideways through the cluttered shacks of Darktown, and the chatter of a dwindling crowd fills in the air. He breathes in and tastes salt air. For all that Anders hates about this city, there's nothing quite like Darktown at sunset, the way the city stills for just a moment. It's not quite dark yet, that nice time of day when the sun flares gold along the horizon and no one's too drunk yet, and another moment he might pause to savor it.

Right now, though, he's moving fast. The bowl in his hand is full, and almost sloshes over as he bends down quickly. On one hand, this is a waste of good milk that any of the street vendors charge a fortune for, but on the other, that tabby who lives on this street is a very good kitty, yes he is, and might show up tonight if Anders just leaves this out right here—

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

Goddammit.

He freezes. His gaze darts to her muddy boots and moves slowly upwards, and he grins hopefully as he meets her eyes. "Depends on what you think is going on here," he hedges, raising an eyebrow. "Because I assure you that whatever you're seeing, it's actually much more masculine than that."

"Oh, really."

"Cross my heart."

"And it certainly wouldn't involve kittens."

"Er…" He glances away. "No. No." Cats, he reminds himself, aren't technically kittens.

"Or Ser Purrcival?"

"How do you know about—?" he begins, and then is cut off by a giggle that worms its way through her teeth. Their eyes meet, and when she sees his scowl she bursts into laughter. "Oh, enough," he huffs, setting down the milk and straightening up. "It's really not that funny."

"Ah, you know I love you," she answers, lightly as ever. His head snaps up, and for a moment he can't hide the surprise, but she's just grinning at him. The smile is there to play it off—both her words and his reaction—and he can't tell how much of that line was a crack at his expense.

Of course, she makes a lot of those, so it's best to assume. "Get in line behind the Darktown strays," he replies, deciding to take it as a joke. Too much to hope for anything else, he muses without quite meaning to, and then isn't quite sure where the thought came from.

Damn right it'd be too much, Justice mutters. Don't even think about it, buddy.

I wasn't, Anders protests feebly, convincing no one. Justice doesn't have eyes to roll, but the effect is the same.

"Damn," Ariadne laments, bringing him back to the conversation, "didn't realize I had so much competition. Not sure I can match up to Ser Purrcival."

Anders chuckles. "It's a rough life, isn't it?"

"Tell me about it." She arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a smirk. "Especially when you make the trek all the way to Darktown to visit your friend and he won't even invite you inside."

"Why bother, when I knew you'd invite yourself?" She sticks out her tongue at him, and he grins and steps to the side, motioning her in. "Clinic's closed for the evening," he informs her, stepping into the house and kicking the door closed, "so you're welcome to come in, since you asked so nicely."

"You're so sweet sometimes." She saunters across the room and hops cheerfully up onto the operating table, either not put off by the various fluid stains on it or deliberately not looking. "Hey, since you're already in such a good mood, you wouldn't feel like helping a friend out, would you?"

"Helping a—oh.Oh. Really, Ariadne?" he mutters as he understands, and she shrugs sheepishly. He rolls his eyes, following her over to the table. "At least want to tell me who it was?"

"What."

"I said, at least—"

"No, no, no. I heard you. I'm saying that you mean what it was. Not who."

"Ariadne…"

"Ever heard of a varterral?"

"A var-what-al?"

"You haven't?" Her eyes are wide and mock-serious, but there's still a glint of humor in them. "Good. Don't."

"You never come visit me with good news."

She holds up a hand to cut him off, shaking her head. "I came to tell you about Donnic and Aveline," she reminds him. "That was good news. That was great news." This smile won't stay down for long—even as she speaks now, it's bubbling up again to the surface. "Nice night for an evening, isn't it, Anders?"

He laughs quietly. "Stop stalling. Let's see it."

Ariadne nods, for the first time looking less than pleased. She shucks off her coat, wriggling awkwardly to tug it off her shoulder, and Anders winces. For the first time he sees the mess of bandages engulfing her shoulder. "Really?" he asks, shaking his head, and she gives him a stiff, one-sided shrug. He steps closer, starting on the bandages, but it takes him a few seconds even to find a loose end. "Who wrapped this, a blind cripple?"

She swells indignantly. "I did that myself!"

It's not really that funny, but she sounds so offended that he lets out a soft laugh. "Maker's sake. It's an insult to perfectly good bandages."

"Go to hell," she mutters with no bitterness. "Considering I'm one-handed like this, it's not bad."

"But if you'd let me come with you, I could have fixed it when it happened."

"I know," she drawls, sounding like a small child as she leans back, staring up at the ceiling. Anders tugs at the bandages, wrapping them into a neat roll as he untangles them from her shoulder. "Look, it wasn't meant to be dangerous. It was just like, all right, looking for some bloody Elvin root for the potion-maker, heading into the cave, totally fine—and then bam! Varterral!" She gestures wildly with her hands, and Anders dodges neatly. "And then there's Merrill like, ooh, a part of Dalish history, and Isabella like, kitten, might want to duck now… Maker, they're a mess sometimes."

She lets out a deep breath, going half-limp, and he sees for a moment how tired she looks. A moment's all she allows, of course. Then he pulls the last of the bandages off, and at the same moment it hits him that considering Isabela was here around noon, and that's pretty damn early for them to have been to Sundermont and back. "Did this really happen this morning?" he begins, already half-knowing her answer, and then as she tugs her shirt back to expose her shoulder, his eyes go wide.

"Ariadne!" The skin of her shoulder is patchwork-bruised, quilted purple and blue, an array of cuts and scratches sprayed across the top. That's not hours old; it's been there at least two days. "You should have come to me right when you got back!"

"I had a lot to do today." She presses her lips together. "And, um, yesterday. And also needed to verify the existence of that cat of yours." Now she tries a smile. "Worthy cause, right?"

"Now you can make fun of me for it?"

"Now I can secretly think you're adorable." She pauses, considering, and then amends, "And make fun of you. Just a little."

He sighs and reaches up, touching his fingers to the skin of her collarbone. Instantly a flicker of blue darts across the skin, scrubbing away the bruises as if washing away a particularly stubborn stain. His fingers move across her shoulder, painfully gentle, knowing she would never complain but still desperate not to hurt her. The swelling begins to deflate, and the cuts flake away into nonexistence, but there's a bone in here that's halfway fractured. He closes his eyes to concentrate, and misses entirely how Ariadne's eyes never leave his face, wide with interest and something far more interesting.

Instead he shifts his fingers against the skin: bone knits itself together, settling back into place. She lets out a long, slow breath, the expression on her face not even one of happiness so much as relief. Anders drops his hand, taking a slow, steadying breath.

"Better?" he asks, a little pleased with himself, and she nods.

"I should learn to do that," she muses, rubbing the fresh, clean skin on her shoulder. "Does it feel strange when you heal yourself? It always feels tingly for a few seconds after, for me."

Despite himself, he finds a smirk splitting his lips. That's just asking for it at that point, isn't it? "Did I hear that right?" he inquires. "I make you feel all tingly?"

And Justice has a radar for these kinds of things—there's no other way to explain it. Most of the time, he's just sullen and occasionally sarcastic around Ariadne, but now he seems to jolt awake in the back of Anders's mind, roiling all at once to near the surface. Anders, he says sharply, stop. There's no hint of humor in his voice, nothing but frustration. You said you wouldn't. You told me you wouldn't.

Anders squirms. I never… outright said that.

She's a distraction!

Well, you can't really deny it, can you? So Anders hesitates, and then agrees, rather unapologetically, She certainly is, isn't she?

Maker, Anders, what I wouldn't give to hit you.

He ignores the spirit. It's a good thing these conversations of theirs can happen in a heartbeat, because Ariadne has already met him head-on. "Chills all over," she declares, with a slightly wicked smile. "Isn't that meant to happen?"

He meets her gaze. The humor in her face is obvious; less so is the genuine interest. "All over? Not sure what that's a symptom of."

"Need to do a full checkup, Doc?"

She wiggles her eyebrows at him playfully and he rolls his eyes. "You've been spending too much time with Isabela," he chides, shifting away from her slightly. He's a little caught off guard when her smile grows even wider.

"Oh, I'm sure of that," she drawls, eyes flashing. "She mentioned something to do with a place called the Pearl. Said you liked to go there sometimes, if I remember right." She must see Anders's eyes widening, his cheeks flushing very slightly, but she keeps going. "And then she was talking about this thing you could do with lightning."

Nefarious. That is the only word for the look on her face right now. "She didn't go into detail, but if the healing is this good…" Ariadne lets the thought trail off. "Care to elaborate? Or give a demonstration, really. Either would be fine."

Don't. You. Dare. Reply.

Has there ever, in the history of Thedas, been a buzzkill like that one? It's my decision to make, he snaps. Honestly, Justice, I'm only human.

No! Justice barks, almost livid. That's the point, Anders—you're better than human. I'm not letting you give in to that side. You choose the mages, or you choose… this.

Bloody hell. He's so torn, Anders thinks, it's sort of amazing he hasn't split in half by now. "Ariadne…" He lifts a hand to his face, a sigh gusting out through his nose. Justice's anger is a near-tangible thing, a dangerous heat spreading through their shared mind; however flippant Anders might be in response, he still knows that the spirit is dead serious. "This needs to stop," he says softly. "I… Ariadne, you know about Justice. I know you think I can control him, but it's not… exactly what you think. I don't think I can do this—not without someone getting hurt."

She should look upset, is the first thing that hits him as the words leave his mouth. When you say stupid shit like 'I don't want to hurt you', girls are supposed to be angry. Ariadne just looks—well, faintly amused, actually. That's… good, he supposes?

"A little credit here?" She grins. "You saw the shoulder. I've got a pretty high pain tolerance."

"I'm serious!"

"Yeah." She tilts her head to the side, eyes never shifting from his face. "Me too. Anders, if this is about the mages, I want to help you, okay? I'm fine with the whole hot-headed revolutionary act." She smirks, teeth glinting. "It's almost as good as Sir Purrcival. And if I ever take it back, I-told-you-sos all round."

That's the choice you have to make, Justice. Them or her. You shouldn't even have to think about it.

And if I choose her?

You wouldn't.

But Justice doesn't sound convinced. The smile breaks across Anders's face, sick of being fought back. "Well, so long as I warned you first," he says, feeling all at once years younger, spirit-free, without any worries except maybe the fact that his dinner break ends in just a few minutes. He leans forward, and she meets him halfway, her arms winding around his neck, and sweet flaming Andraste, he thinks, he's actually kissing her, like he hasn't kissed anyone in years, like he's wanted to for longer than he's willing to admit. He can't even hear Justice any more—it's just him and Ariadne, her hands calloused against his face, and the sea breeze from the window, spinning salt air through the room, making everything taste like a fresh start.

Then, "Hawke?"

And of all the people, it would be Isabela who pushes open the door, saying, "Hawke, you done here?"

It would be lying to say that Anders notices—or, to his satisfaction, that Ariadne does either. Unfortunately, it would be wildly optimistic to think that their friends have the sense to leave quietly. "Ariadne!" Isabela crows, looking absolutely delighted. "When were you planning on telling me this?"

Ariadne jerks back, her mouth falling open at a perfect loss for words. Suddenly how they're standing—her sitting up on the table, arms around his neck; his hands on her legs; her jacket discarded on the table—seems to imply a lot that Anders can only dream about. "Rivaini?" they hear, and then, never one to be left out of the latest story, Varric sticks his head around the door.

His eyes scrunch up as, meticulously, he takes in the scene in front of him. "About bloody time," he grunts at last. "Thought I was going to have to read this out of your journal too, Hawke."

Isabela cackles. "Business, Varric. Ariadne, who went in first?"

"I…" Ariadne isn't just red, she's furiously so, red with a vengeance as her eyes dart from one friend to another. She seems to be trying to figure out which is safer, but both look equally devious, and really, it was a lost cause to begin with.

"It's Anders," says Isabela knowledgeably. "She wouldn't be this flustered if she'd started it."

Varric's eyes narrow. "Hawke? That true?"

Ariadne manages the weakest nod of her life.

"Damn," says Varric, and, reaching into his belt, flips a gold coin to Isabela, who snatches it leisurely out of midair. "Didn't think Blondie had it in him."

"Stick to betting on diamondback," Isabela chuckles, tucking the coin Maker-knows-where. She has this remarkable capacity for storing valuables on her person, thinks Anders idly, especially with how few hiding places that shirt ought to provide.

"Care to give us a moment?" Ariadne inquires, finding her tongue. It's far too late to actually salvage any dignity, but at the least she can buy them thirty seconds more on their own.

Isabela's smirk and Varric's, "You know, I've waited four years to hear you say that," make Ariadne go just a little bit redder, but the dwarf motions with a jerk of his head towards the door, and they make their exit as deliberately as their entrance. Ariadne turns back to face him, looking like she can't decide whether to laugh or hit something, but she settles on, "Are they going to save us lot of explaining, or make for a lot more?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Knowing Varric's stories and Isabela's imagination? You still have to ask?"

"Shit," she says, shaking her head in a not-really-sorry way, and then a grin curls across her face like a wisp of smoke, or a bad idea. "Easier solution—we just make all the rumors true?"

The rest of their allotted moment are really quite pleasant, until Varric bellows from outside, "First step to saying goodbye is taking your tongue out of his throat, Hawke."

Humans are disgusting, Justice finally manages, with enough venom to take down a Qunari, and Anders grins.

... but really, I hate that effing varterral.

GOOD GOD, those chapters that just keep going. At least the subject matter's fun, haha ^_^ Have you guessed that (like anyone else who's played the game) I can find no fault with Varric at all, ever?

Next chapter is, yeah, what happens when you head home after the first kiss... til then, reviews are always appreciated!