Author's Note: As of right now, this is the last chapter I have written for this story. It's been a while since I've played DA2 or dabbled in US History, so I'm afraid my muse is a bit…stunted. If I can find the will to continue, I will, but until such a time I want to apologize to those who have read and enjoyed this story. Honestly, I enjoy reading it as well (even if the little mistakes I keep finding are driving me up a damn wall) but writer's block is a bitch and apparently has decided to censor stories which means the full extent of my story (mature content and all) can't exactly be realized.

(Oh, and the A/N at the end was written a while back. It sounds a bit ramble-ish, but I'm not sure how to change it. I just know I was trying to make a point…oh well, hehe.)

Six

West Downtown Tenements

October 22, 3:27 AM

There was an ugly anger gaining strength within Garret, punctuated by an anxiety that seemed to throb in time with his frantic pulse. Had he paused to think about it, Garret might have wondered why it was that these emotions afflicted him so strongly; after all, he hadn't seen Anders in nearly a month. Hadn't spoken to him. Hadn't dreamt of him after that first week of absence. Perhaps it was simply because he was tired or that Zevran had woken something in him. Whatever the reason, Garret knew that the longer it took for him to see Anders for himself—to make sure that he was alive and well—his anger would continue to grow.

God help any who got in his way then.

The halls leading to Anders's apartment seemed to stretch on into eternity; Serendipity's steady pace was maddeningly slow. Garret wanted to shove past the fairy and run the rest of the way, but he held himself in check. He didn't know what had happened, but this man was willing to help him now and that might be his only key into Anders's home.

When they reached Anders's room, Serendipity softly knocked on the dilapidated wood. Garret fidgeted behind him, subconsciously wondering how much force it would take to kick the portal down. Probably not much considering how damaged it already was. A well-aimed boot or a heavy shoulder, and he—

The door cracked open and a pair of red-rimmed blue eyes peered out at them. Beneath the haggard lines and sunken flesh of exhaustion, the face belonged to a fairy who was probably quite fetching when properly cleaned up. Light red hair fell in ragged lines around a slender face full of weary annoyance and suspicion.

"What do you want?" The hoarseness of the voice nearly overshadowed the lilting charm that lingered just beneath the surface.

"Anders has a visitor," Serendipity said.

"He's not taking visitors. Go away."

The last vestiges of Garret's patience snapped and he quickly surged forward as the door began to close, using his superior height and strength to keep the portal open. The haggard fairy tried to shove him away, but Garret easily forced him and the door aside as he strode into the room, anger burning in his wake.

"How dare you!" the redhead shrieked. "Get out! Get out now!"

"Jethann…"

That voice…so familiar, and yet so wrong. Garret's gaze fell on the little bed he had once woken up in so long ago and his knees suddenly felt week as his fury faded. Anders sat up, though it was an obvious effort; his face was a mass of ugly, purpling bruises; his nose was askew, broken; and his eyes…one was swollen over while the other stared at Garret without really seeing him.

"Jethann, what's going on?"

"This brute forced his way inside! Don't worry, hun, I'll—"

"Brute?" The man's good eye squinted, trying to focus. "Garret?"

Garret took an unsteady step forward.

"Yes." His voice sounded meek even to his own ears.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" Garret didn't really have an answer. Instinct had blindly led him to this tenement and anger had fueled his path to this room. Beyond that…the young man truly didn't know why he had chosen to come. But he knew it wasn't to see Anders like this.

"Nevermind." Anders shifted, wincing. "Jethann, you can go. Get yourself some rest."

"Anders, are you sure?" Jethann stood just behind Garret, gaze flickering between intruder and friend.

"Don't worry. Get some sleep."

The redhead hesitated a moment longer before grudgingly heading to the door where Serendipity waited, emerald eyes smoldering as he stared at Garret's muscular back. Jethann grasped his friend's arm to lead him away, gently closing the door behind them.

Garret continued to stand in place, not sure what he should do. A part of him wanted to go to Anders's side; a much larger part of him wanted to rip apart whoever had committed this crime. For the first time since the night he had rescued Anders from the hoods in that alley, Garret wanted blood.

"Make yourself at home," Anders said. "And please excuse the mess. I…haven't had time to straighten up. Jethann's a good man, but not a good housekeeper." He smiled slightly beneath the bruising.

"What…happened?" His voice was still meek and halting.

Anders waved one hand in a noncommittal gesture. "Don't worry about it. Bruises and bones will heal. If you'd like, though, you can fetch my first aid kit. In the kitchen, right cupboard above the stove."

Garret quickly moved to obey, hands shaking as he opened the specified cupboard and lifted down a small wooden box. He was shaking so badly that the box slipped from his grasp and hit the floor, opening and scattering little vials of ointment and bandages every which way. Cursing, Garret knelt down and began gathering the supplies together. Only one vial had broken; the rest had merely rolled every which way across the floor. Anders was beside him then, wincing as he knelt down and picked up a little tan bottle that had made its way on the other side of the table.

"Y-you shouldn't be up. I'm the idiot who dropped it, let me—"

"Shut up."

Garret's jaw snapped closed. They finished gathering the supplies in silence, Garret accepting the little vials that Anders handed him and carefully returning them to the box. When they were finished, Anders tried to stand back up only to stumble. Garret quickly moved to his side, not sure what to do but anxious to help.

"Would you…help me get back to the bed?" Anders's breathing was ragged now, body trembling in pain.

Carefully, Garret lifted one of the blonde's arms over his shoulder. His movements were slow and steady as he levered the man off the floor and even slower as they made their way to the bed. Anders sagged against him, panting. It was obvious from the way his feet shuffled that his legs, too, were in great pain. With each labored, shaky step, Garret felt his heart breaking.

When Garret finally lowered Anders back into his bed—drawing the covers up over his trembling body—the man was only half-conscious. Garret returned to the kitchen to collect the first aid kit, making certain that he had a firm hold on it as he made his way to Anders's side. There was a little chair next to the bed—probably where Jethann had been keeping vigil—and Garret lowered himself into it. He opened the box and looked around at the supplies, wondering what ointment would help the badly injured man.

"T-The…white one," Anders rasped. "It's a…bruise salve."

Garret procured the proper bottle and handed it to Anders. The man attempted to unstopper the vial, hands shaking. After a moment of watching the struggle, Garret gently took the bottle back, opened it, and poured a small amount of cool ointment into his palm. He forced his own hands to stop shaking as he reached forward to softly spread the concoction over Anders's ruined face. The blonde winced a bit, but otherwise stayed silent, good eye closed as the medicine worked its magic.

"Thank you," Anders said when Garret had finished; his voice was beginning to even out once more. "There should be a little tan bag in there full of herbs." Garret located it and lifted it out of the box. "Yes, good. Would you mind mixing that with some hot water? The kettle should be on the stove. I think Jethann filled it."

Time passed as Garret followed each of Anders's careful instructions, administering the aid the blonde desperately needed. After a while, Anders drifted off and Garret was left alone to sit a silent vigil at the man's bedside. Exhaustion lingered at the edges of his mind, but he found that he couldn't sleep just yet. He was afraid that Anders might wake up and need something; he was afraid that the peace of the little apartment might soon be interrupted by someone looking to finish the cruel job they had started.

The latter was also half a hope for Garret; his fury had receded for now, but he could still feel it burning deep within. There would be no mercy for this. No mercy.

7:34 AM

Anders awoke to a throbbing skull and a burning pain deep within his body, stemming from the junction of his legs. He remembered what had happened, of course—how could he forget?—but as far as anyone knew, the trauma had affected his memory. Jethann had an idea, but he would not hear the affirmation from Anders's lips. This was a danger of their occupation and one could either accept it or try to make a living another way.

He tried to shift only to be stopped by something heavy resting on the right side of his bed. Anders opened his good eye and looked over to where Garret was slumped down on the edge of the bed, snoring softly. His back was contorted in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable; his girth dwarfed the little chair he sat in and the ridiculous sight made Anders smile.

The memories from earlier that morning eased back into his mind from Garret's noisy arrival to the gentle treatment he had provided. Anders reached over and ran a hand through the young man's dark hair with sweet fondness. He had distanced himself from Garret and the Hanged Man after that last night, believing that it would be best if the young bartender forgot all about him. For a while there, Anders thought he had. Secretly he had hoped that Garret might appear at his doorstep, ready to reconsider his position and give in to the feelings Anders knew lingered beneath the surface.

Now Anders's wish had come true, only at the worst possible time.

Garret began to shift and Anders withdrew his hand, watching as the young man's eyes fluttered open. Groaning, Garret straightened his back and twisted his neck from side to side, wincing as his joints popped and the muscles stretched. His gaze swept back down to where he finally noticed Anders watching him, smiling slightly.

"Good morning, Garret," Anders said.

"G-good morning. How are you…feeling?"

Anders shrugged. "Better. And you? I can't imagine sleeping in that chair was very comfortable."

The man's face was a still a mess of bruises, though there was a slight improvement from earlier that morning. Whatever ointment Anders had had him use obviously had worked quite well, though it would still take another week or two for the wounds to heal completely. But his nose would forever be slightly misshapen, giving Anders a more rugged look at the cost of his once-perfect appearance.

"I'm fine." Garret shifted nervously. "Do you…need anything?"

"Some more tea would be nice."

"Sure. I'll go turn the stove on."

Anything to keep him from asking, to keep him from knowing. That was what Anders was doing. Garret knew what he did—who he did, rather—but this…having the young man know this awful truth was too much. Anders rummaged through the first aid kit Garret had left sitting on the little night stand next to his bed, pulling out a few items and slowly administering some quick healing to himself while Garret waited for stove's fire to warm his kettle of water.

What am I doing here? It wasn't the first time he had asked that question, and yet Garret knew it would persist until an answer was found.

But then, it wasn't as if anyone was waiting up for him. He'd told Mother that work would keep him late and that he might not make it home; this was his well-deserved day off so no one at the Hanged Man would be expecting his arrival; and…well…the only other thing Garret normally did in his free time was try to find out where his brother had ended up. It seemed strange that he'd had no word or sign of Carver since that day Garret had nearly ended the boy's life in a fit of rage. Not that Garret expected a letter or even forgiveness for his actions, but surely someone would have noticed the young Hawke out on the streets.

There wasn't a day that Garret didn't wake up consumed by guilt. Anger had always been his worst enemy, in a sense. It was the one thing that—when unleashed—he had little control over. In public, Garret always kept a smile on his face and a witty quip on the tip of his tongue in an attempt to hide the beast that lingered within.

Malcolm Hawke had noticed the "disease" within his son at a young age and had tried to help him find a means of power over it. But then he had been killed during the slaughter of the Great War and Leandra had taken her young children back to America, hoping to escape the carnage. They had traveled across the faces of several states looking for a home—always in poverty—before Leandra had finally managed to make contact with her brother in New York. It was then that they learned her parents were dead but that she and her family were welcome to return home.

Garret had been sixteen by then and well-immersed in gang politics; Carver had been thirteen.

Bethany had still been alive then, too…

The kettle began whistling angrily, shattering Garret's train of thought. He quickly turned off the fire and poured a cup of steaming water before adding Anders's special herbal mixture. Turning back to the bed, Garret carefully walked across the floor and set the scalding mug down on the nightstand.

"Thank you," Anders said, setting a vial back in his kit before closing the box and leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

They sat in silence for a little while, Anders staring at the ceiling while Garret stared at the floor. Garret wanted to ask for the names so he could have an outlet for his anger, but that seemed churlish. The last thing Anders wanted to think about, surely, was what had happened. Once the man was healed, though, Garret swore that he would find them, no matter who they might be.

"So how have you been?"

The question took Garret off-guard. Or perhaps it was more the tone of Anders's voice, so calm and natural, so far removed from this room as if he was just meeting an old friend on the street rather than a crazed young man breaking into his apartment; as if he weren't lying in a bed full of pain.

"I…can't really complain, I guess." The question And you? almost slipped out, but luckily Garret realized how absurd that would be to ask.

"I trust the Hanged Man is still in one piece?"

"Yes. We've got a new…business partner and things are turning up a bit."

"That's good. Mr. Tethras owns one of the last good bars in the city. I'd hate to see it get shut down."

"Yeah…me too."

"And your family?" Anders continued, good eye watching Garret.

"M-my mother is…well, she's all right. A bit depressed, I guess. Not sure what I can do, though."

"Depressed? Why?"

"Well, I have a little brother, you see, and he…well…he left under…tense circumstances."

"Oh?"

Garret sighed; the last thing he wanted to talk about was the beating he had given Carver when the man next to him had undergone something very similar. But Anders's gaze was relentless and Garret knew that he hadn't changed. He would do anything those eyes asked of him.

"I…lost my head. I don't remember everything that happened, but I know that I bloodied him pretty badly. Mother was forced to knock me out to get me off of him and when I woke up later, he was gone. Went off to join one of those corrupt detective agencies. I tried to talk him out of it, but…well…my brother has a stubborn streak."

Anders smiled softly. "Seems like that's a familial trait."

Garret couldn't help but return the gesture. "I guess so."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Give him some time and I'm sure that he'll come to his senses. He can't be a complete idiot—I mean, he's related to you after all."

"Does that make me only a part idiot?"

Anders's smile turned wolfish. "I'm sorry my friend, but yes."

Garret started to laugh only to find that he couldn't stop. It felt as if it had been such a long time since he had done so and the floodgates had opened wide. After a moment, Anders joined him and the last vestiges of Garret's anger were snuffed out.

RIIB Main HQ

7:45 AM

Carver's jaw popped as his mouth opened in a huge yawn. Nearly every muscle in his body ached, not the least bit because he had been sleeping on a poor excuse for a cot the last month. He had once thought that his bed back home had been pathetic, but at least it had had cushions and warmth; at least he didn't wake up feeling as if someone had been dancing the Remigold along his spine.

He quickly pushed those thoughts away. Whenever he thought of home, Carver inevitably felt the welling of guilt deep within his gut. Mother's face, tear-stained and tormented…Gamlen's disappointment…Brother's anger…his hurt…

Carver had wanted a life of his own, but not at that cost. He hadn't wanted to leave like that.

His face had healed from Garret's beating, but he would forever hold the scars of the conflict in the form of a crooked nose, a pale scar that stretched over his left cheekbone, and a deep resentment fed constantly by his own stubbornness. Carver wanted to talk to his brother again but every time the opportunity presented itself, he always backed out. He didn't hate his brother by any means: he just didn't want his life to be known as nothing more than a shadow.

He didn't want to die like Bethany, whose memory would fade away once her family passed on.

"You awake yet, runt? We've got work to do."

Carver glared up at the man who—officially—was his "mentor" in his new line of work. His name was Horace and he seemed to bear outright hatred for his young charge though Carver had done nothing to merit the disdain. When Meeran—the leader of the Red Iron Investigation Bureau, or RIIB as the world knew them—had agreed to hire Carver on, the young man had been ecstatic and desperate to prove his worth. It would be the first time in his life that he would have to hold his own and show that he was more than just a sniveling child huddled in the shadow of an older brother.

"I'm awake. Give me a minute to get dressed."

Horace spat on the floor near him. "Hurry up, runt. I ain't got all day."

What Carver hadn't planned on was having to deal with bastards like Horace. They were supposed to be on the same team—the "good guys"—and yet Carver found it difficult to distinguish this pathetic, embittered man from the few hoods he had met when Garret had run the streets.

But he wouldn't admit that Garret might have been right. He couldn't go crawling home now.

It only took a minute for Carver to slip into a pair of breeches and a loose shirt. Despite being an agency supposedly linked to the police department, the employees of the RIIB didn't wear uniforms. Meeran had explained once that they were investigators and not enforcers and thus it paid to dress casually: the better to blend in with a crowd.

That hadn't been a complete lie; wearing normal clothes certainly did give them an advantage of sneaking into irate crowds without instantly alerting every criminal to the arrival of authority. But so far, Carver had yet to do any actual investigating. The few jobs he had been taken on involved a club and a crowd of men—and even women—on strike. Meeran would point the way and say "Break this rabble up!" and immediately the RIIB "investigators" would wade in and start cracking skulls. Carver pulled his punches for the most part, wondering just what purpose this work served. Most of these people were just poor folk who were tired of being treated like chattel. Was that really so wrong?

And yet the police force supported them whole-heartedly—even joining in on occasion, pulling out their batons and beating the usually unarmed folk into submission before throwing them in prison for doing nothing more than publicly voicing their discontent.

A part of Carver knew this was wrong, and yet his stubbornness prevailed. He had chosen this path and he would stick with it; surely that was better than admitting his brother was right.

"What's the job today?" Carver asked.

"Some angry folk down in the Garment District. Meeran says—"

"Investigate and quiet things down, right?"

Horace sneered at him. "Right. Hurry your ass up before I tell Meeran that you're not earning your paycheck."

With a sigh, Carver buckled on his club and walked out into the cool morning.

Author's Note: Decided to write this at the end so I wouldn't spoil anything.

"Detective agencies" like the one Carver joined were, at this time, corrupt organizations. They were hired by rich business owners and politicians to break up strikes and demonstrations (amongst other things) that threatened the general order. So, in a way, my choice of name and leader for this agency are a bit obvious.

If you already know about 1920s American history, then just ignore my explanations. But for those who don't know, I thought it wouldn't hurt to explain my motives a bit. This story is by no means an accurate historical representation of the 1920s in any way, but I am trying to add certain elements while at the same time keeping enough of the Dragon Age world mixed in with the plot.

I thought it rather fitting that Carver join an organization like this as a mirror to his joining the Templars in the game. To me, Garret Hawke (as a mage, anyways) is a representation of a "good bad guy" assuming that you play the apostate as an overall good-guy who is, nonetheless, treated as a criminal by society. Carver, as the whiny little rebel that he is, thinks that joining the Templars will make him a true "good-guy" without realizing the darkness hidden behind the title and the hypocrisy laced within the vows.

I love interactions between these two because (depending on how you perceive the story) on the one hand, you have a character fighting to do right by the people and for the (often) skewed image of liberty and moral justice; on the other hand, you have a character striving to uphold liberty as it is defined by society. It's not always easy to tell who is right and it's not always easy to go against the grain and lose the comfort that society offers—along with all of its restrictions.

Ahhh, but I'm rambling again. Sorry.

To sum up, I love Garret and—despite his whiny, self-righteous little attitude—Carver. I love Bethany too, because she's sweet and intelligent, but given the choice I'd kill her off every time just to have the lovely tension between my boys no matter Garret's class.