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A series of loud, guttural choking sounds roused Garrett from sound sleep with a start. He was bolt upright in a daze before his brain was even fully awake, groping beside him for purchase—for Anders—with blind instinct before he could think or rub the sleep from his eyes, but his hands grasped at nothing more than empty space and a familiarly-shaped indentation that still radiated warmth, but only just.
He pulled his hands back from the rapidly-cooling sheets, bringing them up to his face and pressing the flats of his palms against his tired, bleary eyes before reaching back down on his own side of the bed to toss aside the coverlet. A light chill immediately bit straight through his smallclothes and into his flesh, and though he grumbled at the discomfort as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he was grateful for the fact that it made him a bit more alert.
He silently thanked the Maker for warm, thick rugs as the bottoms of his feet touched the floor. He rubbed roughly at his chin as he began blinking rapidly, trying to force his eyes to adjust. The room was not pitch-black but it was close—a sliver of flame danced weakly back and forth amidst a mound of charred wood and ashes in the fireplace—so Garrett tried to concentrate on the tiny flickers of light that splashed against the walls as he softly called out Anders’ name.
At first there was no response, and though Garrett searched his sleepy brain, he could not seem to come up with a good, logical reason for Anders to leave the room in the middle of the night. Nature could call at any hour, of course, but that was what chamberpots were for—the luxury of not having to stumble out in the cold to visit the privy in the middle of the night. Still, Garrett was not really worried—it was not particularly unusual for Anders to wander restlessly from time to time, he knew, wiping at his gritty eyes once more with a sigh.
There was still the issue of whatever odd noise had stirred him from his sleep, however, so he stood wearily and cocked his head, straining his ears for something—a sign from Anders, a repeat of the sound that had woken him—anything at all. He heard a single, pitifully weak crackle from the fireplace; He heard the soft rush of air in and out of his own lungs as he breathed; He heard the soft fall of rain pattering dully against the roof above his head. He did not hear Anders.
And then, suddenly, after a moment of almost pristine silence, he heard it again—the gulping, choking, gut-wrenching sound. It was much clearer to him this time, and he froze in place as he trained his ears on it, trying to place the source and direction. Another heavy block of silence followed, but he swore he could hear strained, ragged breathing underneath.
"Anders?" Garrett called, a bit louder than before. He was greeted immediately this time by the soft sound of rustling clothing and a sharp hiss, followed by a pause, and then a deep, heavy gasp.
"I’m…here…" a pained, broken voice that Garrett immediately recognized as Anders’ choked out, from across the room, somewhere near the opposite side of the bed. Garrett edged himself carefully around the bed’s large frame, and came to a sudden stop when he could finally make out the shadowed shape of Anders in the dark, hunched over with his forehead pressed against the wall, sitting on his knees on the floor only a few feet away from the bed.
Now he was worried.
"It’s all right," he murmured in a low, gentle voice. Even this was not all that uncommon—though in this case familiarity did little to lessen Garrett’s concern. Anders frequently had terrible nightmares and woke in a half-conscious furor or frenzy, sometimes even forgetting where he actually was. Over the last three years Garrett had soothed and coaxed Anders through more night terrors than he could count—not that he cared about the numbers, anyway.
"It’s all right, Anders," he repeated in the same soothing tone, hoping that saying his name might bring Anders back around to himself more quickly. "You’re home and you’re safe, and I’m right here with you."
Anders did not reply, only sat there hunched over tightly on his knees, hugging himself and pressing his head harder against the wall with his full weight behind it as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. He wordlessly opened his mouth, and for a moment Garrett thought he might be trying to speak, but all Anders could manage was a shallow croak before clamping shut again to quell a terrible, heaving groan that nearly became a retch as he struggled to choke it back.
Garrett’s throat tightened with concern as he moved to step closer, to determine the severity of this particular situation and offer what comfort he could, but after a single step Anders grunted and shook, his muscles visibly tensing as he clenched his fists and jaw.
"Don’t—" he muttered, pushing the words through his gritted teeth like they were boulders weighing him down. Garrett froze in place immediately as Anders swallowed hard, forcing out a weak, wavering, "please,” to try and soften the harshness of the protest after a long, uncomfortable pause.
"All right," Garrett replied matter-of-factly, sliding back a step. He knew it must have been a nightmare, but he was not about to push Anders into divulging details or forcing him to talk, especially when he was clearly having so much difficulty speaking at all. At the same time, just silently leaving him there was no real option, either.
"Warden nightmares?" he asked tentatively, not knowing much about the details save the ones that were bleedingly obvious—that they were nightmares that wardens had—and that they were related to darkspawn. For a moment he thought Anders was simply unable or unwilling to answer, and was mentally going down the list of things he could say or do next when he heard the rough, wheezing sound of Anders trying to clear his throat.
"No," was the weak, but clear reply that followed. Garrett sighed in relief.
"Creepy Fade dreams?" Garrett verbally prodded again, gently, almost lightly. If Anders was answering, that was a good sign. If Garrett could keep him talking, he could distract him enough to get his erratic breathing under control, and it would be much smoother sailing from there.
"No," Anders replied again, more quickly and with noticeable improvement. Garrett swallowed and took a deep, full breath. It was progress. Slow progress, but progress just the same. The room was still dark, but his eyes had partially adjusted to the dim firelight and he could see Anders beginning to unfold himself just a bit, his jaw relaxing, his fists unclenching and falling limply at his sides, his chest heaving with a deep, shuddering breath.
"Templars?" Garrett asked again, pulling the next logical choice from the mental list of things Anders was likely to have upsetting dreams about—and immediately thought better of it the moment the word passed his lips, hoping he had not just stupidly set them back at square one.
The next few moments were heavy with dark, almost funereal silence, and Garrett held his breath for what seemed like forever. He saw Anders stiffen, but only a little, and his hands remained limp. He could hear Anders’ breathing, could hear the effort Anders was putting into forcing himself to try and breathe with normal cadence again to avoid making himself dizzy and sick. A hard knot of tension between Garrett’s shoulder blades spasmed and then relaxed as he exhaled in a rush.
"I’m going to re-start the fire," he finally said, making sure to keep his voice as steady as possible. He was utterly grateful that his misstep had not caused more damage, and had to fight off the urge to apologize, at least for the moment, since apologizing just make Anders feel guilty and defensive while whatever pain he was in was still that raw. The least he could do was make himself useful and keep quiet now until Anders was ready to talk. "I’m still right here if you need me, all right?"
Garrett did not wait for an answer this time, and quickly turned to tend the fire as Anders coughed and cleared his throat again. He was not sure how long he had been fussing with the kindling and the logs and the poker when he finally heard a reply.
"No," Anders’ voice was soft, but without a trace of unsteadiness. Garrett’s head popped upward from the fireplace with a frown spreading across his face, trying to decipher which of the unanswered questions Anders was actually answering. Fortunately, Anders caught himself. "I meant… no templars. ‘Yes’ to… you," he added wearily, his voice faltering for a beat at the end.
"All right," Garrett nodded with a smile and an immediate change of subject. "I’ll have this fire restarted in a moment before we both freeze to death. It’s colder than a High Dragon’s tits in here."
Anders coughed again at that, and Garrett swore he could hear a choked-back hint of a laugh. He was not terribly prone to casual vulgarity most of the time, and it was really not all that chilly in the bedroom, but he absolutely despised the cold. True, Kirkwall had nothing on Lothering in terms of offensively cold, wet winters, but cold was still cold, and he hated it.
Garrett began to hum softly under his breath as he fussed with the fireplace for a few moments more, and then smiled brightly as fire burst up from the kindling, stepping back from the enticing warmth on his skin only after the flames began to lick at the thin sleeve of his plain linen nightshirt. Setting himself on fire might have been a good way to get Anders’ immediate attention, but immolation seemed a bit of an overly dramatic starting tactic, he thought as he stood and brushed his palms against his knees to shake away bits of ash and half-burnt slivers and chips of wood from his skin and clothing.
Anders had been oddly silent the whole time, Garrett noted; He turned and cocked his head with a small soft smile, and was almost overwhelmingly relieved to see a familiar pair of warm brown eyes looking back at him, even if they were bleary and reddened and ringed by dark circles. It only lasted a few moments, however, before Anders looked away again, focusing his gaze on the floor as he rubbed his cold, clammy palms against his arms to try and generate some small amount of body heat.
Cutting the distance between them with a few slow, careful steps, Garrett expected to hear Anders protest against his presence again, but as he continued to move closer, no such verbal rejection came. A few moments later he was close enough to comfortably kneel beside Anders, and did so, reaching out to tug one of the blankets from the bed on his way down. Garrett could feel Anders shivering as he slipped the blanket onto his back and around his shoulders, trying to tuck it in around him to keep the cold from the air and floor from seeping in.
The first time Garrett’s callused fingertips brushed against the side of his neck while arranging the blanket, Anders’ body snapped taut, flinching hard as he sucked in a breath between his teeth and held his self-defense instincts at bay. The second time it happened, however, there was no flinch, no tightening of muscles, no hissing breath, and his cramping, aching muscles began to relax.
Once Garrett was finally satisfied that Anders would be warm enough, he shifted and settled down on the floor beside him, trying to find as comfortable position as could be found while huddled together on the floor. He leaned back, but found out quickly that the cold was barely mitigated at all by the coverings on the wall, and decided he would rather sit up than freeze.
He avoided pushing himself any closer to Anders until he felt a sudden soft pressure fall against his shoulder. He turned to respond in kind by slipping his arm around Anders’ back—both to comfort him and to share their warmth—and saw that Anders’ eyes had wearily drooped shut. Garrett could tell he was not asleep—his breathing was still too rapid and erratic—but the fact that he was able to close his eyes and lean on Garrett for rest and relief made his level of worry drop down several notches, back to a level he felt much better equipped to handle.
Garrett felt Anders press just a bit closer, just a bit more firmly against him as his arm slid gently around the curve of his blanketed, still-shivering back for support. Sharp, warm puffs of air brushed against his neck as Anders breathed; It was a comforting sensation, and the irony of that fact was not lost on Garrett. A small wave of frustration welled up inside him—but it was frustration at the situation, not Anders. Physical threats, they could handle without question, but these painful and poisonous things that existed entirely within the confines of Anders’ own head were simply impossible to protect him from.
An insidious twinge of self-doubt began to creep through Garrett’s thoughts, but he pushed it back before it could wage a full-scale invasion. There was nothing to doubt, and it was hardly an appropriate time to feel sorry for himself. He could not protect Anders, but he could support him, which was almost as good and equally meaningful.
He turned his head just enough to press his cheek against the top of Anders’ head, gently nuzzling the tousled strands of his reddish-blond hair as they glinted dull orange in the firelight, their usual brightness tarnished by the shadows and the sweat on his brow.
Suddenly, Anders’ fingers clamped around the hem of Garrett’s shirt, his hand shaking—whether it was from the tightness of gripping the cloth in his fist or from the cold air around them or from fear, Garrett could not tell. He wanted to ask what was wrong but he could not think of a way to do so without sounding either insultingly clueless or equally pushy. Instead, he lifted his free hand and gently placed it atop Anders’, covering the hard, quaking bumps of his knuckles with a warm, wide palm.
Anders stopped shaking.
His hand loosened its grip on Garrett’s shirt and fell to rest limply against his upper thigh. His hands were damp and clammy, and Garrett rubbed his palm gently back and forth over the top of Anders’ hand to warm his cold, stiff fingers.
"Better?" he asked softly, just above a whisper, turning his head with a smile as he spoke. Anders tipped his head up, to look at Garrett, visibly trying to manage a weak, watery smile in return but clearly failing miserably. He let his head sink back down, turning away with a strained sigh and a weak nod.
"A bit," Anders finally breathed, the words nearly lost in a heavy rush of air as he exhaled. His fingers twitched beneath Garrett’s, but another calming brush of his thumb over the back of Anders’ hand seemed to settle him.
Glancing down at their hands where they lay, feeling the gentle pressure of Anders’ palm pressing gently down against his thigh, Garrett tried not to think about the three years’ worth of nights that he must have spent alone in his clinic before moving into the estate.
It proved to be a futile endeavor. He couldn’t help but picture Anders again as he had been earlier—curled up in the corner, hugging himself pitifully—except this time Anders was in his clinic instead of their bedroom, with only the sharp scent of smoke and medicine in the air, the endless snapping and crackling of the fires in his ears, and the unyielding, ice-cold press of stone beneath his knees to calm him.
The freshly-stoked fire burning in their bedroom was not nearly as large as the ones in the clinic, but just about everything else was an upgrade, as far as Garrett was concerned. The corners of his mouth began to dip downward into a scowl as he wondered why Anders had not come to him for a place to stay earlier—at least to sleep, if nothing else. Even before they had acknowledged their mutual feelings. Garrett had never been anything but open and willing to help him—and before he could even finish that train of thought, he realized that was exactly why Anders had tried to hold him at a distance for so long, only finally coming to him when he felt desperate and completely out of options.
The idea that he had been Anders’ ‘last resort’ could have been offputting—and truthfully, he did feel a tiny, fleeting flicker of dismay at the thought—but knowing why Anders had seen things that way put things into much less negative perspective, and he just couldn’t be angry at Anders for wanting to ‘protect’ him—even if it seemed like a ridiculous notion. It would be enormously hypocritical for him to get upset at Anders for doing the same exact thing he was trying to do, even if their methods were at complete odds with each other; Anders had tried like mad to push him away to keep him safe, while everything Garrett had done involved trying to bring Anders closer and more fully into his life.
In the end, what they wanted was the same, and they eventually found common—if shaky—ground to stand on.
He hadn’t really been prepared for what living with Anders on a permanent basis would be like, but he wasn’t certain that there really was a way to be completely prepared for something like that. Any leap into a new relationship required some amount of blind faith, and he’d willingly taken that nosedive. Even though there were a number of important things that he had known about Anders in advance, knowing them and actually living with them were entirely different things.
He had known about the nightmares and the insomnia, the mood swings and the restlessness, the anxiety and depression. He had seen how they affected Anders, but only from an outsider’s perspective, and not how they worked their effects into every aspect of his life. He hadn’t been prepared for bloodcurdling screams that woke him with a start in the middle of the night, or for getting up in the wee hours to stoke the fire or relieve his bladder only to find Anders pacing back and forth across the room, breathing erratically and mumbling unintelligibly to himself, or standing in the middle of the room and staring into space, half-clothed and shaking from more than just the cold.
He hadn’t been prepared for the times when Anders would force himself to stay at his clinic all day and half the night until he was ready to drop, somehow managing to get himself home through sheer force of will before all but collapsing into bed, barely noticing that Garrett had been waiting up for him, worrying whether or not he was safe, and he hadn’t anticipated just how distant Anders could be at times, even though he more than made up for it when he was in a loving and affectionate mood.
And that love and affection was more than enough to make all the challenges seem like nothing at all.
It was Anders who was there when he came home from an evening of rubbing elbows with Kirkwall’s elite, bored to tears and exhausted mentally, if not physically, with blisters in at least three different places from the very fine but excessively impractical clothing he didn’t think he’d ever fully get used to. It was Anders who massaged the knots from his neck and shoulders, sometimes with a warming salve or cooling wisp of magic, and it was Anders who helped him undress and turn down the bed while listening to the same pedantic stories Garrett had been forced to sit through all evening.
It was Anders who so often had a smile and a kiss ready for him even after a long, tough day in the clinic. It was Anders who sat quietly beside him and held his hand through his occasional bouts of grief for his mother and his siblings, when he didn’t feel like going out or seeing anyone, or doing anything at all save shutting himself away from the world for a few hours. It was Anders who reminded him of how far he’d come in just a few short years, and it was Anders who reminded him of all the good things he’d done and all the people who would have been worse off without him whenever his sense of self-worth began to flag.
Of course, there were times when they argued, or avoided each other, or danced around subjects that neither of them wanted to discuss even though they knew that they really should, but it was always temporary, and the damage done was never irreparable. There were occasions when Garrett shut himself in his bedroom and went to sleep alone, and times when Anders said that even the comfort of the estate was beginning to feel oppressive, that it made him feel anxious and trapped, and he stormed out to spend the night in his clinic, but after a little bit of space and time, things between them were as good as they had ever been.
Garrett sighed and closed his eyes as a vague, fuzzy memory resurfaced from one of the deeper recesses of his mind, a memory of Anders telling him that his clinic was the only place in the entire city that he felt safe. He hadn’t paid it much mind at the time, but suddenly felt a sharp twinge of guilt at the fact that he’d never really spent much time there—whenever he had gone it was always with some specific purpose in mind that had little to do with the clinic itself. Of course, that was long before Anders had moved into the estate, and as he let his memories continue to drift back through the years they had spent together, the fact that Anders had been the one to focus in on the idea of actually living together seemed to hold more weight behind it now than it did before.
The complacency and contentment that came with true safety was a luxury that neither of them could afford, but at the very least, relatively speaking, if he couldn’t use the power and position he had acquired to protect the person he loved, what use was any of it? Of course, he had felt the same way about his mother, and even his pigheaded brother, and if those examples were indicators of just how much his ‘protection’ was actually worth… Garrett couldn’t allow himself to finish that thought. It was something that bothered him frequently, but he couldn’t allow himself to believe it—he’d be as good as giving up, and giving up was the absolute furthest thing from his mind.
It was not until he felt Anders squirming uncomfortably against him that Garrett became aware that while his mind had been wandering, he had wrapped both arms around Anders’ chest and was holding him almost painfully tight. He quickly released Anders from the crushing hug and pulled back from the embrace, and a sound escaped Anders’ mouth that was neither a laugh nor a sigh, but something somewhere in between before righting himself and settling back against Garrett’s shoulder.
"Sorry, love," Garrett mumbled with a sheepish half-smile, "I was just… thinking."
"Oh?" Anders’ voice was soft and weary, but not without interest.
Garrett shook his head. “Nothing important. I’m just still half-asleep is all,” he replied, hoping Anders wouldn’t press him for more in his current state.
"You’re a terrible liar," Anders sighed, pressing his fingertips against his temples and rubbing in small circles.
"It’s not like I do it all the time," Garrett frowned, though he did note that it was the most that Anders had spoken since waking from whatever had plagued his sleep.
"I beg to differ," Anders replied, with a bit more energy and lift to his voice.
"Name one time I’ve lied to you,” Garrett scoffed.
"How about… every time I come home late from the clinic and find you waiting half-asleep sitting up in your chair, insisting you aren’t tired," Anders offered without even needing time to think, lifting his head from Garrett’s shoulder and turning to look directly at him, pressing his lips together for emphasis.
"That doesn’t count," Garrett argued.
Anders continued, again without missing a beat. “Every time you say you’re not hurt after a fight beacuse you don’t want me to ‘waste my energy’ healing you unless you happen to be unconscious or bleeding out your eyeballs?” his voice had a oddly sharp edge to it that Garrett knew was not anger, but couldn’t quite seem to place.
"That’s not a lie, it’s…" Garrett fumbled for a word that he could use to support his semantics argument. It was true, but he didn’t think it was that big of a deal. So he let a few cuts and scrapes heal on their own, "It’s a misdirection,” he finished, knowing it was a terrible attempt, but Anders seemed to humor him anyway, and fell silent. There was a very small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he turned away again before Garrett could tell if it was happy or sad, fixing his gaze at some random point on the wall as he folded his hands in his lap. The firelight flickered bright and warm against one side of his face, leaving the other side—the one closest to Garrett—hidden in cold shadow.
"I meant something important,” Garrett said after a moment, breaking the silence. He was still a bit playfully miffed, but he was certain he had Anders beaten beyond a doubt on that particular point. He knew for certain he’d never lied to Anders about anything important.
He waited, but the admission of defeat never came. Anders sat still and quiet and continued to stare at the same random fixed point on the wall. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Garrett might not have been able to tell that he was moving at all. After several minutes, he began to wonder if Anders had fallen asleep sitting up, but he’d never known him to sleep with his eyes open, so that didn’t seem likely.
Garrett was about to reach out and touch his shoulder when Anders finally spoke, softly and in an unnaturally measured tone.
"Every time you say you don’t believe I’d ever hurt you."
That was something Garrett had definitely not expected to hear. It was an issue they had discussed—or at least, attempted to discuss—many times in the past, but Garrett didn’t really think there was much let to be said.
"I’m afraid you’re wrong this time," he replied.
"Believing in something doesn’t make it true."
"Not all truths are absolute."
Anders frowned. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”
"I know you’re determined to make me think less than the world of you, but that isn’t going to happen, now or ever, so you might as well save yourself the trouble and just accept it," Garrett’s voice was mild, but firm. "I’d be happy to sit here and continue listening to you chastise yourself over things you haven’t done yet, but I’d much rather be up off this cold floor and back in my nice warm bed. You’re welcome to join me." He pushed himself up off the floor, pausing to see if Anders would follow suit.
Garrett knew that things were difficult for him, and he would listen to impassioned rants about templars and the Circle until the mountains crumbled if that was what Anders needed from him, but the one thing he simply would not encourage was pointless wallowing. He had quickly learned that arguing about it was pointless, and that sometimes, the best thing he could do was simply walk away.
Anders did not move, did not rise, even after Garrett held out his hand. When it was clear that he was getting nowhere, Garrett drew his hand back slowly and retreated to the warmth and comfort of his bed. He straightened the blankets and sat down on his side, but before he could pull his legs up from the floor and roll back under the blankets, he heard soft shuffling noises on the other side of the room and caught the flicker of Anders’ silhouette out of the corner of his eye as he crossed in front of the fireplace and headed toward the bed.
Garrett did not turn his head, but the gentle sag of the mattress beside him and the sound of his breath let him know that Anders was sitting there beside him just a few moments later. Without speaking, Garrett reached over and took his hand, gently locking their fingers together, and was relieved when Anders made no move to pull away, and even reciprocated with a slight squeeze.
"I’m sorry," Anders said, and it wasn’t the weariness in his voice that worried Garrett as much as how painfully hollow it sounded. His head was at an angle, his gaze pointing downward and focused on the floor; Several loose, tangled locks of hair framed his face on either side.
"Don’t be," Garrett replied, unclasping his fingers from Anders’ and sliding closer. He brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes, tucking it gently behind one ear. "Being sorry should be reserved for stepping on someone’s foot or spilling your wine someone’s new shirt and for children who don’t know any better." A second loose strand of hair joined the first before Garrett let his hand fall away, brushing the side of Anders’ rough, unshaven jaw with the backs of his fingers on the way down. "Otherwise, ‘sorry’ is a pointless state of being. It doesn’t right wrongs or fix mistakes. All it does is weigh you down."
Anger and frustration flickered in Anders’ eyes. “That’s the problem,” he muttered, “They do treat us like children who don’t know any better.”
"But you’re not in the Circle anymore," Garrett replied as he turned toward Anders, cupping his face in both hands and rubbing his thumbs back and forth against the stubble on his cheeks. Even though Anders had technically ‘escaped’ the Circle, there was still some small part of him that seemed to remain, and would probably never be free. Whatever had happened there was beyond his comprehension, and he knew it, but that didn’t make it any less painful. He couldn’t wipe those memories away or replace them completely, nor was it his place to do so. All he could do was try to avoid contributing to it, be there for Anders when he felt overwhelmed, and, on occasion, try to distract him from all the unpleasantness he kept bottled up so tightly inside.
"You’re here with me," he said, refusing to allow Anders to look away. He looked utterly distraught but said nothing, remaining silent even as Garrett leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth.
It was nothing special at all—just the barest, softest brush of lips. It was not full of passion or heat or want or need, and it was over so quickly that Anders didn’t have time to think, let alone reciprocate.
It was so very nearly nothing at all.
But the gesture was so openly and undeniably loving, and that was what completely did him in.
The tension in Anders’ body began to ebb away the moment Garrett’s lips left his. The stiff lines creasing his forehead softened; The angry line of his brow eased itself back into a shape far less severe; The grim, straight line of his mouth relaxed, curving gently at the corners; His head drooped ever so slightly and tipped wearily to one side.
"I wish it was that easy, love," he sighed, his body folding as though the weight of his existence and all the obligations associated with it were simply too heavy to bear on his own. Garrett saw the weariness in his eyes and fading tension in his limbs, and rather than wait to see if his strength would truly fail him, he reached out to take Anders in his arms.
"I know," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper, pressing his cheek against the top of Anders’ head. He heard Anders draw a deep breath and let it out again, accompanied by a strange noise that sounded like something halfway between a gasp and a sigh.
Rather than taking the opportunity to let himself go completely as Garrett had hoped he would, the embrace seemed to energize Anders instead. He slid his arms around Garrett’s broad torso and curled his arms up around his shoulders, hugging him back tightly, his palms flat and open and sliding gently back and forth against the firm contours of flesh and muscle. Garrett turned his head to nuzzle the side of Anders’ neck, but pulled back quickly when he stiffened and nearly jumped at the touch.
Garrett could hear Anders cursing under his breath—cursing at himself, primarily—as he pulled away, and he tried to interrupt the stream of barely-intelligible self-deprecating obscenities before things got really out of hand.
"Anders, it’s all right."
It worked, but not entirely as intended. The litany of curses stopped abruptly, but instead of falling silent or pausing to think or trying to talk, Anders moved on to frantic, broken babbling, struggling for words.
"Hawke—Garrett, love, I’m sorry. I’m not—I didn’t… Maker, I don’t even know—-"
"Anders," Garrett repeated, his voice hardening to a steeled edge. "It’s all right. You don’t have to explain—"
"Garrett, please,” Anders begged, though Garrett wasn’t exactly sure what he was pleading for.
"I didn’t ask you to live here just to have you at my beck and call to warm my bed, you know."
"I know," Anders replied, his voice low. "I wouldn’t be here if you did."
Garrett flashed a genuine smile. “Good,” he said. “You’re better than that.”
Anders tried to smile back, but only succeeded halfway. Rather than try and force it, he reached for Garrett’s hands and clasped them lightly in his own. “It isn’t you. You’ve never been anything but gentle with me.”
The skepticism in Garrett’s expression was clear as day. Several of their arguments-and other interactions of a more private nature—had been anything but ‘gentle’.
Anders caught the look and nearly smiled again. “You know what I mean,” he chided, straightening his jaw. “I’m not afraid of you hurting me.”
"Always good to know," Garrett nodded.
"Sometimes it’s just… overwhelming," Anders said, struggling for words again. "Like there’s not…. enough of me to go around.”
Garrett was at a loss. “With Justice, you mean.”
"Sometimes," Anders sighed. "It’s… complicated. It’s not just Justice, and it’s not always Justice. It’s Justice, and the Taint, and my past, and what’s brewing here in Kirkwall—it’s everything.” A lock of hair fell loose from behind his ear and into his eyes, but he didn’t want to let go of Garrett’s hands to push it away. “But yes, Justice is… a huge part of it.”
Garrett didn’t know what to say, so he simply squeezed Anders’ hands in silent support.
"I’ve told you before, it’s not like I can… turn him off. It doesn’t work that way." Anders hands suddenly went clammy against Garrett’s, and he could feel them shaking. "We’re sharing my body, but it’s not like we take turns. He never goes away. He never sleeps. He’s never silent. He’s always present. It can be very… disconcerting.”
Garrett simply nodded again. What could he possibly say? He knew he couldn’t fully understand what Anders was going through, even if he truly wished otherwise, and he was very much afraid of saying the wrong thing, even unintentionally.
"When our desires… mesh, it makes everything that much easier," Anders continued, choosing his words carefully. "I can almost forget that there was ever a time when he wasn’t part of me.”
"And when they don’t?" The words were out of Garrett’s mouth before he could think better of it. He grimaced inwardly, hoping he hadn’t overstepped himself.
Anders laughed nervously and bit his lip, pulling his hands away from Garrett’s and wiping them on the backs of his thighs. “That’s when things get… messy.”
'Messy' did seem like an entirely appropriate way of putting it, Garrett thought. What had happened in the Chantry when they had failed to rescue Karl had been messy, to say the least, as had what had happened when they ran into Ser Alrik unexpectedly in the tunnels underneath the Gallows.
"I know it seems contradictory, but even though he’s part of me, he still has his own identity. He’s still Justice. I feel his thoughts as my own, but that doesn’t mean we always agree. I can… sense him looking out through my eyes, seeing what I see. I can sense him moving with my body when I move, feeling things I touch. And I can feel a… dissonance of sorts, when I’m doing something he doesn’t like." Anders paused for a moment to think and to breathe, and swallowed hard. "For him, being part of me means being constantly forced into doing things he doesn’t want to do. As unpleasant as it can be for me, it’s no picnic for him, either. He doesn’t understand half of the thoughts and feelings that are constantly firing around him, and he doesn’t understand why I don’t just waltz up to the Grand Cleric with a list of demands and tear the place apart stone by stone if they refuse to accept them. He sees everything as a one-step solution. He doesn’t understand that things take work, and time, and so he rails against anything I do that doesn’t seem directly connected to that goal."
An uncomfortable sensation crawled up the back of Garrett’s spine at the thought of Justice being a vicarious participant in some of their more intimate activities, but he quashed it down, if only for Anders’ sake.
"There’s a clear sense of… resistance. It’s like… holding your breath,” Anders continued, breaking Garrett out of his own musings. “That’s what it feels like, trying to hold him back. It’s… exhausting. And it’s not a matter of strength. Even the strongest person has to breathe, eventually. They might be able to hold out longer, but in the end, they have to breathe… or they die.”
Garrett flinched involuntarily at the sound of Anders’ voice choking out the word, ‘die’. The idea that the struggle with Justice might kill him wasn’t something that had ever really crossed his mind. There had been so many other potential deaths just around the corner over the years that he hadn’t really needed to think about it. Now that Anders had brought it up, though… He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything… but no words came out.
"I thought I could help him, I really did," Anders muttered, almost more to himself than to Garrett. "I thought we could help each other. Of course, I was angry. I hated the templars. I’ve always hated them, ever since—" Anders paused, as though he’d gotten ahead of himself, and sighed heavily. "So yes, anything I could do to get back at them seemed like a good idea… but that wasn’t the whole reason. I was sick of feeling helpless. I wanted to do something.”
"I know," Garrett replied, even though he didn’t feel like he truly knew anything. He felt like he’d lived a charmed existence compared to Anders. He had always feared the templars, even if more for his sister than for himself, but they had never been caught. They had never actually suffered living in the Circle. He was grateful that his parents had given up so much to keep the family safe and whole, but there was a pang of sadness and frustration inside his chest at not being able to truly understand where Anders was coming from.
"I promised him,” Anders looked up, and Garrett could see the bleak and weary pain in his eyes. “I promised him my body, because why not? What did I care? Why should I have cared? It never felt like it was entirely mine to begin with, anyway. The Circle made sure of that. But I haven’t kept my promise.”
"Anders…"
"And you know, I think I could have managed—if he was still the Justice I knew. But he’s not that Justice and I’m not that Anders. Neither of us has changed for the better and it’s entirely my fault.”
"Anders, please—” Garrett begged.
Anders did not pause, he simply continued as though he hadn’t heard him. “When we… joined. In an instant he absorbed all of my memories, knew everything that I’d suffered, everything I felt.” His fingers clenched around the fabric of his worn trousers. “In an instant, my friend was gone. I had ruined him.”
"You can’t ruin me, Anders.” Garrett’s words were blunt and completely devoid of doubt.
A tiny hint of a smile touched the corners of Anders’ lips. “I’m not so sure about that.”
"I am," Garrett insisted. "Worry about Justice. Worry about yourself. Let me worry about me.”
Anders heaved a sigh so deep that it seemed as though he’d breathed every bone in his body out along with it. He slumped forward against Garrett’s chest, melting against him like his limbs were made out of jelly. Garrett tentatively ran his fingertips through Anders’ mess of blond hair, unsure of how he would react, and offering him enough opportunity to pull away if he needed to.
Much to Garrett’s relief, the response was positive. Anders slipped his arms around his chest, soaking up his warmth and comfort like a sponge. “He’s warmed up to you over the years,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. ”In case you were wondering.”
"I was," Garrett replied, sliding his hand down toward Anders’ back and dragging his fingertips back and forth in gentle strokes. "I wasn’t going to ask, but I did wonder."
"He hated you at first. For three years, you were nothing but a ‘distraction’. I even agreed with him for a while," Anders sighed, a slight shiver running down his spine at the touch of Garrett’s hand. "The distraction part—not the hating part."
"I assumed," Garrett chuckled softly, pressing his thumb against the ridge of Anders’ shoulder blade.
"There are still times when he’s not… completely on board. That’s why, earlier, when I said it wasn’t you, it was me—" Anders faltered halfway through his explanation, groping for the right words for what he wanted to say. He drew a deep breath and let it back out. "I just didn’t want you to think you’d… done something wrong."
"I knew about Justice when I signed up for this," Garrett replied, placing one open palm against the small of Anders’ back. "Maybe not every single detail, but more than enough to understand the choice I was making. I’m not about to arbitrarily pick and choose which pieces of you are worth keeping and throw away the rest. And Justice or no, you don’t owe me anything. I’m not going to kick you back to Darktown and call the templars just because you were exhausted and upset and stressed and responded less than enthusiastically when I touched you."
Anders nodded weakly against his chest. “Thank you. I know it’s asking a lot, but—”
"You’ve never asked me for more than I was willing to give. If it comes to that, we’ll talk about it. All right?" Garrett held Anders out at arms’ length, forcing him to look directly at him.
"I want you to feel safe here. Whatever I have to do to make that happen, I’ll do it. Even if I have to personally kick every Templar in Kirkwall."
That had the desired effect—Anders laughed, and the dreadful, heavy tension in the air cracked and broke.
"Now that I’d pay to see," he grinned.
Garrett smiled back. “For you, I’d do it for a kiss.”
Anders pressed his palms flat against Garrett’s chest and raised his brow. “Do you always go around trading kisses for favors?”
"It’s a very exclusive offer," Garrett teased, "only open to renegade mages living in my house with whom I happen to be in love beyond all sense and reason."
"So what you’re saying is, I’ve got competition?" Anders teased back, sliding his palms upward and looping his arms around Garrett’s neck.
"So much competition," Garrett replied with a completely straight face. "So you might want to take that offer before someone else snatches it up."
"They can try," Anders smiled sweetly, pulling himself up and playfully straddling Garrett’s lap. "They’ll have to get through me, first."
"Is that so?" Garrett smiled, wrapping his arms around Anders’ waist.
"Mmhmm," Anders murmured, finally leaning in to press a kiss to Garrett’s lips. It was warm, and sweet, and gentle, and Garrett couldn’t help tightening his arms around Anders and moaning softly against his mouth. When Anders finally pulled away, he was nearly breathless.
"I love you," Garrett sighed as Anders dipped his head to nuzzle the size of his neck.
Anders wanted desperately to respond in kind, but the words seemed to stick in his throat, so he simply pushed Garrett backward and down onto the bed, rubbed one rough thumb against his rougher cheek, cupped the side of his face with one warm palm, and kissed him again.