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Garrett can tell when Anders is struggling; The tight lines on his face pull just a little tighter, the angle of his jaw is set just a little sharper. He only picks at his food, and responds halfheartedly to even the most direct questions, sometimes trailing off altogether in the middle of a thought, then apologizing and flashing a watery, thin smile that neither of them truly believes is real.
It’s just after sunset when Garrett rises from his desk in the bedroom, closing his journal for the evening. He's lost track of the time, but his fingers are cramped, which means he’s written more than enough. He scans the room for Anders, expecting to find him curled up on the bed, resting in his usual place while Garrett is writing, quietly watching and patiently waiting for him to finish and once again return to his place at the center of Garrett’s attention. This time, however, Anders is not there.
Garrett finds him just outside the bedroom, staring blankly out the window, coatless and shivering, too afraid to look away from the shadowy silhouettes of templars that exist only inside his own mind. It's not that the danger isn't real, or that there aren't plenty of templars in Kirkwall who would like to drag him off to the Gallows without a second thought--Garrett knows both those things are painfully true--but Anders' sense of perception seems to be reaching its breaking point. He sees danger in every shadow and around every corner now, and living in a constant state of fear is beginning to take its toll on them both.
He always feels out of his element when Anders gets like this; Being able to smile and talk his way through whatever sticky situation he finds himself thrown into is what he's supposed to be good at, what he is good at, but when Anders is in the grip of one of his moods--and this one has been particularly insidious--he finds nothing helpful in reason or persuasion or even charm; He feels completely disarmed, knowing very well that saying the wrong thing might do more harm than good, no matter how well-meaning.
But the expression on Anders' face seems so distant and broken, so utterly lifeless and defeated that he can't help but take that risk. “There’s nothing out there, Anders," he says, as gently as he knows how. "Just a few stray alley cats and a beggar on the corner, panhandling for coin. There are no templar bogeymen lurking in the shadows, waiting for you to turn your head." He tries to be reassuring, not accusatory, but sometimes with Anders it was difficult to be one without the other.
“Maybe not today… but they won’t wait forever.” Anders doesn’t turn to look at Garrett, doesn’t look away from the window at all; His brow creases even more deeply with worry and fear. “They know I’m here. How long do you expect them to sit on their hands with Meredith chomping at the bit for the head of every apostate in Kirkwall?” Anders’ voice begins to rise as he speaks, and Garrett reaches out to squeeze his shoulder in an attempt to provide some small amount of comfort to his distressed partner. Anders is trembling anxiously; Garrett can feel his body shaking like a trapped rabbit beneath his palm.
“Maybe not today,” Anders repeats, much more softly than before. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Whenever Meredith gets tired of letting me think I’m safe… the templars will come."
Garrett doesn’t reply. He knows that nothing he can say will make any difference, that words are completely meaningless in the face of Anders’ fears. Instead of struggling to spout pointless platitudes, he takes a step toward Anders, cuts through the awkwardness hanging there in space between them, and wraps his arms around him from behind, pulling him close and resting his cheek against the top of his head.
Touch is the one thing that always seems to reach him in this state, but finding the right kind of touch each time is often little more than blind trial and error; Garrett holds his breath and hopes he's right this time.
For a moment, he's really not sure, and begins to second-guess his decision. Anders is slow to respond at first--a single, sharp intake of breath providing Garrett with the only signal that he's felt anything at all--but when he finally does he sighs, and relents, and completely comes apart.
Anders sinks backward into the embrace, the tension draining from his body until he’s nearly as limp as a rag doll, so emotionally spent that his legs buckle and it's a struggle to hold himself upright. Garrett holds him tight, tries to lend Anders some of his strength, supporting much more than just his weight. Anders closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on breathing instead of thinking, and the feel of Garrett’s arms around him instead of the lingering tension in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, his words are thick in his throat, barely audible.
“Eventually, your position won’t matter, you know," he nearly chokes. "They don’t care who they hurt to get me.” His exhaustion suddenly seems like a blessing, sapping him of what little energy he has left, leaving him so bereft of strength he cannot maintain the constant tension and anxiety, or even bring himself to cry. There is something almost peaceful, almost tranquil, in the weakness that washes over him and the monotone, colorless void it leaves behind.
“They’ve tortured my contacts inside the Gallows, threatened and hurt the refugees in Darktown to try and get them to talk…” he trails off, swallowing hard and struggling to steady himself. "They made Karl Tranquil, just to get to me. They broke Chantry law, just to lure me out. One day, when you've outlived your usefulness, your title won’t be enough.” Anders bites down hard on his lower lip, too numb to feel it--too numb to feel anything--and keeps pressing down, digging the sharp edges of his teeth into his lip until they draw blood. He clenches his fists as they hang down by his sides, tighter and tighter until his fingernails dig sharply into his palms. “They only care as long as you're worth it, as long as it's to their benefit. They're the bloody Chantry, Garrett, hey can afford to bide their time. Do you really think they’ll ever give up?” His voice begins to crack, the cadence of his speech erratic, almost frantic by the time he pauses and tries to draw a deep, calming breath.
“That’s enough.” It’s against Garrett’s better judgement to reply, but he can’t just remain silent while Anders is suffering. He brushes several strands of sandy gold hair away from the nape of Anders’ neck, lightly kissing the freshly exposed skin before its warmth begins to dissipate. Anders’ breath catches in his throat when he feels the brush of Garrett's lips at his neck.
“I know. I know, I really do, it’s just…” Anders struggles to put his feelings into words, but there are no words in any language he knows that can adequately describe the ugliness and chaos tangled up inside his guts, burning hot and cold inside him. He wasn't even sure if it was Justice anymore, or just his own base rage and fear. “The thought of them hurting you to get to me... I can't help it, Garrett. I've tried and tried and I can't and it’s killing me.”
Anders’ words send a splinter of pain straight through Garrett’s heart, because he knows, deep down, that it’s not just a figure of speech or hyperbole; Anders’ fears are eating him inside out, there’s absolutely nothing he can do but love him, and even with all his heart and all his strength behind it, it just doesn't seem to be enough.
“I won’t let it come to that,” Garrett swears. He knows he has no right to make such promises, but he’s willing to promise Anders everything short of the moon if it will bring him even just a moment of respite from his pain. Anders knows it’s a lie, that Garrett can’t possibly make good on the promise, but he feels the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He thinks about calling Garrett out on his fib, but changes his mind at the very last moment.
Somehow finding the strength to stand solidly on his own unsteady legs again, Anders turns in Garrett’s arms, grasping both his hands with a desperate burst of vigor that makes his grip almost painfully tight.
“You’ve stayed with me this long. If there’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind, then promise me one thing.” Anders’ eyes burn with quiet emotion as he speaks, and Garrett knows he’s gearing up for something important.
Garrett’s brow quirks slightly upward; A flippant comment forms on his lips, but holds his tongue in favor of not interrupting, for once.
“If it does come to that, I won’t go back. I can’t. Even if I thought I could control myself…” There is fire in his eyes, but it’s coming from Anders, not Justice.
“I will die before I let them take me again,” he growls, and Garrett knows he's serious. “I know you’re not a mage, it’s not your fight. I don't deserve more, and you... Maker, Garrett, I know you deserve so much better than... this," Anders continues, the pitch of his voice shifting in speed and timbre until he's nearly frantic again. "I've no right to ask this, no right to ask anything, I know it, but please... Even if you say no, if you love me at all, let me ask this one last thing of you. Please." He looks to Garrett for approval, for confirmation, and sees him nod wordlessly, feels the grip on his hand tighten, and he all that he needs. With or without words, he knows.
"If anything happens... if it does come to that... stay with me. Just until the end.” Anders pleads, bringing the tension in the room to an almost tangible head with a deep, shuddering sigh. "If I have to die, I want it to be at your side."
Without needing even a moment to think about how to respond, Garrett feels unexpectedly in control of the situation again. Without the slightest hint of hesitation, he looks at Anders and smiles his best, brightest, most expertly charming smile. The tension between them completely shatters, and everything suddenly just feels right.
“I never planned on doing anything else,” he answers with a grin, absolutely certain that he will never see anything else in his life half as beautiful as the smile Anders gives him in return .