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“You could always get him a collar and leash.”
Hawke looked over to see Isabela leaning over him. When he raised his brows in a silent question, she pointed at Anders, at whom he had been lately staring.
“The Qunari do it. Plus it’s kinky.”
Hawke laughed. “I’ve seen. And, ah, no. I don’t think that would solve anything. Although he does have a thing for…” He caught himself as a wicked gleam entered her eyes. “…Never mind.”
“Spoil sport,” Isabela said, pouting.
They watched Anders pace back and forth across the far end of Hawke’s sitting room below. His hands clenched and unclenched, and sometimes his lips moved, silent and brief.
“He’s been getting worse,” Hawke said, in a low voice. “And nothing I do seems to help. Yes, I’ve tried ‘distracting’ him,” he added, as Isabela opened her mouth. She shut it with another pout. “But I can’t exactly compete with a Fade spirit joined to his soul, can I?”
Anders paused to pick up a pen. Bending over his manifesto, he muttered, then threw the pen aside and resumed pacing. His thumb ran restlessly over his knuckles. A moment later he stopped, looked into the fire, grabbed one of the manifesto pages and threw it in. Standing there, he muttered again as he watched it burn.
Hawke frowned and he began to push back from the library railing.
“I’ve got a nice thick leather collar if you want to borrow it,” Isabela cooed. “Supposedly once belonged to the Hero of Ferelden’s mabari.”
Anders resumed pacing, having resolved whatever had annoyed him so. Hawke sighed and leaned against the rail again. “So, what is it I can do for you, Isabela? Is there something that needs killing?”
“What, I can’t pay a friendly social call on a dear friend without him questioning my motives?”
“No.”
“Hm. I don’t blame you.” Isabela laughed. “But for once, you’re wrong. I was just in the neighborhood. Sort of.” She gave a little sigh. “Dear Fenris gets so grumpy when you help yourself to a bottle of his wine…” She raised a half-drunk bottle, still thick with dust, and tilted it at Hawke.
“So you’re using my home as sanctuary?” Hawke raised his hands before she could answer. “Lovely. If he comes here after you, I’m dragging Anders upstairs and you’re on your own.”
“You know he never comes here. Especially when he knows your mad little friend is home.”
“He’s not…” Hawke sighed again. “He’s been doing so well.”
“Tell yourself that often, do you?” Isabela turned, so that her back was to Anders and the railing. “Maybe you just need more of a distraction. I could always… give you a hand.” She gave him a greedy smile.
Hawke couldn’t resist sneaking a look down her shirt, but he hastily turned his eyes back to Anders.
Isabela gave a little shrug. “Maybe if you made him really jealous.”
“I don’t think that would help anything,” Hawke said, arching his eyebrows, “Fun as it might be.”
“Fine,” she said. She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Tie him up, throw him on a ship and sail him away from all this. Surely there’s somewhere with no mages and no Templars.”
He snorted. “If only. I doubt Justice would let me get away with that.”
“But it would be fun to try, wouldn’t it?”
“Until I was being smeared across the deck by a glowing blue Fade spirit, yes.”
“Such an optimist!”
“I am, aren’t I?”
Isabela blew air between her lips, stirring the locks of hair framing her face. “Sell him to the Blooming Rose and get fat and happy off the profits?”
Hawke laughed. “I wouldn’t make two pennies to rub together.” He shook his head and stepped away from the railing, stretching. “I’ll manage somehow. Or not. It doesn’t matter.” He looked down at Anders, swallowed the pain of seeing him struggling and not being able to help. After a moment, he said,
“You must know the saying: ‘Love like the sailor loves the sea—moment by moment, fiercely, and truly.’ It’s Rivaini, I believe.”
“Ah,” Isabela said. Her features softened briefly, and then a frown twisted her lips. “But you know the rest of that saying, don’t you?”
Hawke nodded. “‘…And foolishly, until you are dashed upon its rocky shores.’”
“You’re a bit mad yourself, Hawke,” Isabela said, appreciatively.
“Isn’t that why we’re friends?” Hawke flashed her a grin. From somewhere deeper in the house a bell rang--Orana, with the evening meal ready. “You’re welcome to stay for supper, if you like. I’ve got better wine than that vinegar Fenris drinks.”
Hawke didn’t wait for her answer. He headed down the half-flight of stairs to the sitting room below; as he neared, Anders stopped his uneasy pacing, freezing. Conflict was sharp on his face. Hawke smiled at him, easily, as if he didn’t see Justice glowering at him from behind his lover’s brown eyes.
“Isabela’s come by,” he said. “Thought the three of us might have supper, then get out of the house for a while. What do you think?”
Hawke slid an arm around Anders’ waist. He watched the demon retreat, until there was only Anders, who smiled crookedly at him, as if he had just appeared. “We haven’t seen Varric in a few days…”
Hawke laughed. “Oh no. You already owe him ten sovereigns!”
He guided Anders out of the room, glancing back to see Isabela following. By her expression he thought she understood: he had won this battle, at least, and that was enough. Another day might bring the fatal storm, but he would weather it until those rocks came at last.