Work Text:
Once upon a time when he was still in the Circle, a newly-Harrowed mage who refused to wear the ring and the horrendous mustard robes, Simon had called Anders a soft-touch.
He had, in that moment, scoffed and threatened to set the edge of the apprentice’s robes on fire. An empty threat, all things considered, given at the moment he couldn’t so much as light a candle with his magic. There had been an… explosion, a mishap really, a fireball cast a little too close to a grease spell during training, sending everything up in sticky flames. Mage and Templar alike had needed healing from that, and as the strongest Spirit Healer in the tower the duties had fallen to Anders. Not solely, there were other healers, and maybe he had taken it upon himself to work until every single person had been seen to but—well, Simon was right, maybe he was a bit of a soft touch.
Anders didn’t like to see people in pain, consider it a coping method but he couldn’t control his own suffering so he constantly sought to ease theirs. In that moment, when he chased away burned flesh and mended broken bones, he could forget about the claustrophobic press of the Circle walls, the sharp, indifferent—sometimes malignant—watching of the Templars. People were grateful to healers, were grateful when they were healed, and he could almost, almost, pretend that the world didn’t hate him for being born as the Maker intended.
Which was why, a few years and a few more fireballs later, he pushed himself up at the soft knock at his doors, in spite of the fact that the clinic was closed.
It wasn’t particularly late in the evening, and he never turned away emergencies—emergencies didn’t knock—but it had been a very slow day. No injuries, no illnesses, no birthing mothers with complications, Anders had decided to use the time to catch up on some busy work. There were salves and potions now cooling in their jars, newly sterilized bandages folded and stored, and his laundry hanging up to dry.
A brief respite to work out some of the ichor, mud, and blood that had become commonplace since he’d come to Kirkwall.
Everything had been blissfully quiet, for just a breath of a moment and then—
“Hawke?” Amber eyes scanned the long, lanky figure standing in the doorway, confusion pulling at his brows when he realized there was no blood, no cuts or scrapes or even bruises. “What can I…?”
It took him a moment to realize that the archer wasn’t really paying attention to him, dark eyes wide and a slight bloom of color across his the bridge of his nose. He fidgeted, his hands clutching at the strap of his bag before reaching up to adjust his glasses as his eyes drifted. It took Anders an even longer moment to realize why Cooper wasn’t paying attention to him—it was laundry day, and all of his shirts were currently hanging up to dry.
Surprise flashed through him at that, followed by a small curl of pleasure at the attention. Years on the run had worked off any softness from life in a Circle, and his time with the Wardens, with fighting and fixing any and every little problem the Hawke twins found, had done the rest. Anders didn’t consider himself ugly, though he had his insecurities—everyone did—but there was something utterly thrilling about Cooper’s attention.
Justice gave a pulse of disapproval, though he ignored it.
“Anders!” It was sort of endearing the way the man stumbled over his name, loud and a little jarring as his dark eyes snapped upwards. “Sorry, I’m not—it’s a social call, not a healer call.”
He blinked, stepping to the side on instinct to let the archer in. “Oh. Okay, right, sorry about the mess. I’m catching up on things.”
“Please Anders,” Cooper seemed to recover quickly, though the blush seemed to spread across his brown skin, to the tips of his hears and the back of his neck. “You’ve seen where I live, a little mess isn’t a problem.”
Gamlen’s house, if it could be called a house, certainly showed its lack of care. It didn’t help that there were now five adults and a fully grown mabari in it—Bethany and Leandra did what they could, but there were years of grime that not even the strongest scrubbing could work out.
“I’ve started to think Hayden had the right idea in moving out, but you know—I can’t leave.” He shrugged.
“Someone’s got to keep Carver from throttling Gamlen.” Anders chuckled, his attention returning to the clinic, or rather the state of it—things needed put away. “And strangely enough you’re the best person for it.”
Out of the corner of his eye Anders could see the face Cooper made, a grimace that tapered off into a slight smile. “Carver’s just going through a lot right now. And with the deadline for the Expedition approaching, everybody is a little stressed.”
Right, the reason that they had met in the first place—Anders had stolen maps when he’d left Ferelden, maps with good entrances into the Deep Roads, and Cooper had come looking for them. Whether it was luck or circumstance that had been behind that first meeting, the mage had to admit he was grateful that he’d met the archer.
“You’re right, of course.” The blonde admitted with a smile. “But you have to admit, you and Bethany are just about the only people Carver actually likes.”
It wasn’t entirely obvious, but Carver was just a little less argumentative with his twin or his older brother. It was obvious that the boys lacked that ever constant friction between him and Hayden.
“You just have to get to know him.” Cooper chuckled, setting his bag down. “Do you need any help?”
Anders blinked again, somehow surprised at the offer even though he shouldn’t be. Perhaps it was conditioned in him, used to working alone, being alone for the past years. The Wardens had been a welcome relief to that, had slowly helped him learn how to rely on other people, but it had been short lived before necessity had driven him from the safety of Amaranthine. And yet Cooper seemed just as helpful—if not more so—than his cousin. Certainly, the archer had a tendency to tease him far less than Simon or Nim would.
“You got lucky.” Anders laughed, “Caught me just as I was cleaning up. I’ll make tea.”
Cooper nodded as he wandered a little bit, still adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulders and looking around. It could be considered nosy, the way the archer would sniff at the different jars and bottles on the shelves, but Anders couldn’t find it in himself to feel any annoyance.
Especially given the adorable way Cooper would rear back, nose scrunching up and looking as though he’d just been pinched on the nose if he found a scent he didn’t like.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the clinic this empty.” He offered, nervous and searching for a topic. “Are days like this common?”
“Not usually, no.” Perhaps Anders should feel some level of self-consciousness—here he was, holding a conversation in only his boots and trousers after all—but any sense of modesty had long since been beaten out of him in the Circle. “It’s a rare day, usually spent catching up on things.”
“Right, right…” They drifted into a slightly awkward silence as Anders set about preparing the tea, carefully rationing out his honey and arranging the mismatched and chipped mugs.
The healer let it be for a moment, noticing the increased fidgeting of the archer as he eventually ran out of things to expect. Cooper stood off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, but close enough to lend a hand if need be, and Anders fought back a smile. It was painfully obvious that he had come for a reason, and yet now that he was here the normally self-assured man was being uncharacteristically shy.
Eventually Anders took pity on him, straightening as he carefully poured the hot water into the tea pot. “So, social call?”
“Social… oh! Right! Yes!” He gave a weak laugh. “Yes, yeah, there was actually a reason I came.”
Cooper dug around in his bag, pulling out a few crumpled pieces of parchment. “I found your manifesto, back at the house. I wasn’t sure if you left it the last time we had you for dinner, or if Bethany had been reading it, but I wanted to talk to you about it.”
It was his turn to be nervous, and Anders tightened his hold on the kettle considerably as he carefully returned it to its place by the fire.
“I… left your sister a copy, yes.” He answered carefully.
Cooper had claimed to support mage rights from the very beginning, his actions going so far as to prove it, but Anders still couldn’t help that tremor of trepidation. Couldn’t help the swell of anxiety that pooled in his stomach, ran down to his knees, and the fear that he had just made himself a target. That the archer was about to rebuke him, be angry, hate him and…
“Well, I read it, and I was wondering—who’s your intended audience?” Except when Anders turned to look back at Cooper, the archer was flipping through the pamphlet with a thoughtful frown on his face. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, your passion and emotion are clearly tangible through the writing, and the language evokes a strong reaction but I have to wonder.”
Surprising. Unexpected. Anders didn’t think that Cooper would have bothered to read his manifesto, let alone to read it enough to offer suggestions.
“I… Kirkwall is my intended audience.” He answered. “Anybody who will read it.”
Cooper lifted his attention then, a sheepish smile on his face. “I thought that’s what you were going to say. It might be more work, but you should consider adjusting your writing; the people who find it in Lowtown aren’t going to have the same comprehension levels, and motivations as those who find it in Hightown.”
Whiskey brown eyes skittered away, the blush returning. “I could help you work on it, if you like? Help you draft versions geared more towards the different economic and social standing of the people in Kirkwall.”
Even more unexpected.
That offer of help was the last thing Anders would have expected to come from this visit. Cooper had been accepting of him, of his cause, had even been supportive of it, but Anders didn’t foresee this. Didn’t foresee the archer caring enough to actively want to help.
“I would… like that a lot, actually.” Anders nodded, a hopeful, nervous fluttering in his stomach, as though he’d swallowed butterflies. “It would be nice to get a new perspective on it.”
The grin that he was met with seemed to warm Anders to his very core; it was shy, and sweet, and he wondered how he could have ever thought Cooper was a threat. Logically he knew that the archer was dangerous in a fight, knew how to use that bow with the best of them—and oh he’d pay good money to see a competition between Cooper and Nate—but he was also soft, and gentle.
“We could start now?” Cooper offered. “Varric is tied up with the Merchant’s guild, so no drinks tonight—I’m free for however long you need me.”
However long… Anders wanted to warn him not to make such promises, it was too tempting to decide that he needed the man forever.
“Well, let’s just start with tonight, shall we?” He couldn’t help the responding smile, could puzzle out the way Justice pulsed with disapproval later.
“Okay.” And just like that Cooper seemed to relax. “Okay but you have to put a shirt on or else I’m not going to be able to focus.”
“Some academic!” Anders laughed, and it was comfortable to slip back into that innocent flirting. “Getting distracted by a scrawny mage.”
“Scrawny—“ Cooper made a low noise, sweeping a look over him—and oh how it sent heat scorching along his nerves, there was nothing innocent in that look. “Trust me, Anders, scrawny is not the word I’d use. And my focus is indomitable, when applied to the right things but I'm only mortal.”
The implied promise in those words had him sputtering, at a loss and blushing before he just— “Shut up and drink your tea, Hawke.”
Perhaps innocent was not the word to use for their flirting. And while Anders could list of several hundred reasons why they shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but stretch just a little bit more than necessary when he went to go grab one of the shirts, using a bit of magic to help it dry.
The appreciative noise was well worth it.
* * *
They stayed folded up at his writing desk late into the night, ink stained fingers pointing out different phrases, making edits and suggestions. Anders would write out a few paragraphs, and Cooper would take them and study them with that same intense focus that he gave everything.
Anders appreciated that, appreciated the way he took this so seriously, gave it his entire attention instead of brushing it off as a wasted cause. He also appreciated the fact that it gave him the chance to study Cooper’s features; his nose might have once been straight and narrow like his cousin’s, but it had been broken one time too many, giving it a permanent hook across the bridge. His eyes were dark, like chips of boulder opal—his father’s eyes, not the Amell gray—and warm, as though he were wrapping you up in a thick blanket just by looking at you.
Anders found himself focusing on his lips, almost every time he allowed himself a glance to the side—trying to gauge Cooper’s reaction he told himself—and how plush they were, an uncharacteristic slash of pink, agitated from where he’d chewed on them.
Anders found himself thinking, almost every time he allowed himself a glance to the side, about how he would very much like to kiss those lips.
A distraction. Justice insisted, irritated and restless.
Perhaps the spirit was right, perhaps it would be better, kinder, in the long run to keep the archer at arm’s length. Allowing this infatuation, the flirting and shared smiles, to continue to grow, would only cause heartache. It was a bad idea.
And yet.
That night, when he went around the clinic putting the lights out, he couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that he made a habit of his bad ideas.
As his gaze drifted over to the slightly snoring lump of blankets and body sprawled out on one of the cots, Anders couldn’t help but feel like Cooper Hawke was the first good idea he’d had in quite some time.