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“I need your help.”
Anders paces as he speaks, hands tangled in his hair and words spilling over each other. Back and forth, back and forth, like he’s trying to carve a trench in the moldering wood planks half-covering the floor of his latest clinic location.
“Time for Hawke to come to the rescue again?” Hawke teases. Anders’ flinches, shoulders tightening, and Hawke regrets the words immediately.
It’s not that he can’t joke with Anders. Maker knows the mage is almost as irreverent as Hawke some days. But Hawke’s known Anders long enough to know how he cycles. Light words and cheerful recklessness one day, listless melancholy the next. Moods like this, he’s gathered, are the worst of it, filled with directionless, overflowing agitation and snapping at the smallest things. “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best,” Hawke offers conciliatorily.
“I’m being watched,” Anders says. “I’m being watched, I can feel it, they’re tracking me-”
“The templars?” Hawke asks. Stupid question - of course it’s the bloody templars. “Do you have more to go on?” he follows quickly.
“I’ve seen them,” Anders tells him. “They’ve been following me.” He tugs at his hair. “I don't know how long. I just noticed it, but I think maybe weeks now. There was - there was one in Lowtown, I had to get reagents and he was watching me. Then there was another one in Darktown. I managed to give her the slip before I got to the Clinic, but...”
“There’s more than one?”
“Three. At least.” Anders pauses briefly in his pacing, staring at the wall like he’s no idea where it’s come from, then shakes himself and resumes the agitated movement. Hawke wonders if he’d sit if asked. (Hawke wonders if that would actually help.) He’s too choked by panic to be of any information, he knows, and Hawke can offer no aid without more than this.
He still remembers the years on the run before Lothering, the large family hiding in clearings and outbuildings. He remembers Bethany’s muffled half-sobs. Carver sharpening the sword he was too young to carry (rasp rasp rasp). His mother’s quiet fretting, head whipping around like a deer caught scent of wolves. Hawke’s own voice, younger, higher, proffering calculated jokes and quips still too callow to carry the absence of his father’s humor, the elder mage pacing, staff in hand, and sitting here now it’s all Hawke can do to shake the ghosts from his eyes.
“Point the way and I’ll start stabbing,” he offers at last, voice as light as he can make it. Anders’ shoulders twitch again, like he’s trying to shake something off. When Anders doesn’t respond, Hawke continues, “Anders?”
The mage whips around, like he’s only just remembered Hawke’s there.
“Why don’t I get us some tea?” Hawke says slowly.
Anders’ hands are trembling.
The surface of the liquid is rippling, sloshing and jostling like little tides in the chipped, stained mug in his hands. He swipes a thumb across the nearest crack, feeling the rough surface and jagged edges notched into the smooth surface. There's the slightest of noises as he drags his nail over it, once, twice, the faintest hint of relief as the sensation eases the race of his mind.
This is the worst of it all. This panic clawing through every thought, screaming from every corner of his mind, too fast and bright and loud to be ignored. He's always been like this on and off, he knows, or at least has been since his first few years in the Circle, but Kirkwall makes it worse. The templars are everywhere, and he has nowhere to cannot will not run and Justice...
Justice is no help in moods like this. In lows, at least, he is there, filling Anders with strength enough to move when the energy of his own fails and countering his doubts with mantras of justice and certainty. And in highs, he is focus, euphoria, the two throwing themselves from task to task in perfect unison for as long as they can last.
But now, exhausted, anxious agitation tense in every muscle, it is all he can even do to keep the spirit under control, Justice as desperate to lash out at his pursuers as Anders is to run.
He hates this. He hates the tumbling tumult of fear and energy coursing through him, hates the way it blocks him from rest and turns his thoughts from any diversion he attempts, hates this damned city and the Blighted templars and their spies who've driven him to this, and hates, hates that he cannot deal with this alone.
Hawke is sitting across from him sitting waiting and Anders shakes himself, glances back at his hands as he sloshes liquid onto them. He dries them on his robes, hating the feel of the warm wet against his skin.
"It might work better to drink it," Hawke says, eyes crinkling at the sides, and Anders winces at the reminder. Maker, what a fool Hawke must think him. Anders doesn't even know why he's here, aside from maybe some misplaced sense of debt over a set of maps and some spells long since repaid, and here Anders is asking him for more. He almost tells him to leave, go away, he's wasting his time, but he remembers the cut of shadowed eyes through the dark and feels fear choke at his throat again.
He brings his cup to his lips. Forces himself to breathe, in through the nose, feeling the warm steam against his face before taking a long, slow sip.
"They're disguised, I think," he manages at last. "Or maybe they're just hired spies. I don't know."
"You mean to say they're not in uniform?" Hawke asks. "How do you - I mean, what gave them away? As watching you?"
"It happened," Anders snaps, a burst of irritated defensiveness welling in his chest.
"I'm not doubting you!" Hawke exclaims hastily, hands out. "I'm just asking - look, you're not giving me a lot to go on, okay? I don't know what you want me to look for."
"Just-" Anders breaks off in frustration. Moves to run a hand over his face, before he remembers the weight of the mug in his hand. "I need to go to the market. I need to - I'm out of dawn lotus, I need it for - please, they're going to be there. I need someone to come with me, you'll see them and we can track them and-" he stops again, the words spilling out too quickly. He inhales sharply, trying to order his thoughts enough to continue, only to be interrupted-
"All right. Ready when you are," Hawke says. Just like that. And Anders doesn't know why that hits him, suddenly, why he feels so relieved and foolish all at once. He doubles over, curls in on himself, trying to breathe against the fresh wave of tangled feelings. Hawke agreed. Hawke hadn't written him off, left him to fend for himself. He hadn't ruined it.
Yet.
"Anders?" comes Hawke’s voice, making him jump again. He glances back at the man, who just smiles at him. "Your tea's getting cold."
Hawke's gotten pretty damn good at keeping watch by now.
The twins had barely been born the first time Hawke had really understood the meaning of the word templar, realized the crushing urgency in his parents' voices as they ushered him out of sight. It had taken him years after to come to terms with the sheer vulnerability of it all, to understand that his father, the tall, good-humored mage with lightning in his hands, could be so easily made powerless by these men in armor.
In a way, it had been easier for him when Bethany’s magic had come - this, at least, was the way it should be. Elder protecting younger, the quickly growing young man ready to take on anyone after his sister.
Of course, the templars had taken Bethany in the end, hadn't they? He'd let his guard down, trusted the city to keep her safe, and for it he'd been forced to stand and watch her abductors walk away with her.
He will lose no one else to them. He won't.
So he walks Anders to Lowtown, chattering distraction the whole way there. So he follows Anders through the market, the pair keeping a wary eye on the crowd surrounding them. So he waits, watches, until finally Anders' voice comes-
"There."
It's been many, many years since Hawke has been foolish enough to turn and stare. He glances out of the corner of his eye, a practiced movement, making sure not to alert Anders' - their - pursuer.
She looks nothing like a templar spy. Which, he supposes, should be the point, but the sight is still strange to him. Just some little old housewife, by all appearances, starting to grey, lines around the edges of her eyes. She has none of the muscle of a templar, or the tremors of lyrium usage most would have by her age - a civilian, then. He wouldn't put it past the templars to hire help, but...
"One of the ones from before?" he asks.
Anders shakes his head, winding fists into the fabric of his sleeves. "No. A new one."
Hawke's eyes dart again, assessing. "Quite a lot," he mumbles.
"I saw it," Anders snaps. He's done that a lot over the course of all this, and the more he does it the less certain Hawke knows he is. Hawke looks the woman over, thinking of a 6'4" apostate with a feathered coat and a reputation, the kind of man anyone might stare at; thinking of their last village before Lothering, eyes cutting across the market, a knock on the door and five Hawkes clambering out a window; thinking of a sister in chains and a mother weeping into his shirt.
'You know, it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you,' his father used to joke, wiping a hand over his forehead after another false alarm. It would be years before Hawke would understand the fragility of the laugh that followed.
"What's next?" Hawke asks.
"I need to find where she reports back," Anders tells him.
"Then we should take backup," Hawke says. They're already taking no chances, after all.
They're not taking this seriously.
Anders bites back the wave of Fade-tinged irritation, arms crossed over his chest. Hawke’s not mocking him openly, at least, but the others don't understand.
"So remind me again why we're tailing some little old lady?" Isabela asks, twirling a bored knife in her fingers. “This isn't just payback for the spiders thing, is it?”
"It is a bit weird," Varric adds.
Anders just grits his teeth, already regretting bringing them. It had been Hawke's idea. He'd wanted backup in case there was trouble, and Isabela and Varric had been best suited for stealth like this - not that there were many other options in the first place, Fenris and Aveline being right out and Merrill having the subtlety of a foghorn.
At the time it was proposed, Anders had gladly accepted, relieved to have others at his back. But now he can feel their eyes on him, and he feels angry and foolish both at their doubts.
He has to be right. He - he'd seen it. These weren't just passing stares. He'd escaped the damned Circle seven times, he knows what to watch out for by now. Just because they didn't see it...
"She's been nosing around Lowtown," Hawke explains. "We want to make sure she's not on to any of our resident apostates."
Something about the words makes Anders' stomach twist. Hawke's not wrong, technically, but the way he'd said it... he'd left half of it out. He didn't mention the others, or that she was reporting to-
She is reporting to the templars, isn't she? He'd been so certain, but sitting here trying to slow his thoughts enough to hear he can't... he can't remember why.
But no, there had been others, that was it. Why would there be more if they weren't a group? Why would there be a group if the templars hadn't put them up to it? And of course the templars would. They've been doing everything to find the mage underground, and Anders' clinic makes him a target for that. Anders can spot a templar miles away - they'd have to send spies instead.
That's it. He's not crazy - it all makes sense. He just has to keep going. Then they'll see.
"I still don't see why this needs four of us," Isabela mutters.
"Yes, you're very good at figuring out how many people to bring," Hawke snarks.
"This is about the spiders! I knew it!" Isabela proclaims.
"Will you shut up?" Anders snaps, then regrets it as they both glance at him in alarm.
"Anders-" Hawke begins, but the mage shrugs him off.
"Let's just go," he mumbles.
Maker, he can't wait for this to be over. Maybe once they've found whoever’s behind this he'll finally be able to think again.
Night's almost fallen now, the sky streaking red in the west, and the woman's still wandering aimlessly. Anders lets that hearten him - everyone with legitimate business is starting to trickle home now, after all, and yet she shows no sign of packing up. Like she's waiting for something.
“What's she doing?” Varric asks, eyes narrowed in thought, and the tightness in Anders' chest eases, just a little.
"Maybe she's looking for someone," Isabela adds. "I don't know that it's a templar, though. She'd be headed to the Gallows, wouldn't she? Are we sure this isn't just your garden variety shadiness?"
"Well, that's what we're here to find out," Hawke says. "Keep - hang on, who's that?"
Anders feels his pulse quicken as a figure approaches from the other side of the street, moving towards the woman. A tall man, features indistinguishable from this angle, but Anders can tell he has the tread of a fighter. A templar, he must be. This is it. This is it, he was right, and Anders tightens his grip in his staff, ready to move.
The man draws closer, and closer yet, and... shows no sign of slowing as he continues on, barreling straight into the woman, knocking her to the ground.
"Oh, I'm sorry-" he hears them both say, pushing and pulling themselves up. Anders doesn't understand. Passing messages undetected, maybe? He doesn't know how they could have realized they were being watched, but it-
Nothing else makes sense. None of this makes sense, and now the woman is groping, hands stretched out to find the wall as the man helps her up, and he hears the hiss of Hawke's breath beside him.
"Uh, Blondie," Varric says slowly. "I'm not sure what you thought she saw, but I don't think she's watching anybody."
… she’s blind.
She’s blind, she’s blind, she’s blind and if she wasn't one of them, if she wasn't even looking at him then maybe the others weren't -
Anders is an idiot and-
"Right. So now that we've watched some little old blind lady get robbed, I think it's time for a drink, yes?" Isabela asks.
And she thinks he's an idiot, and Varric thinks he's an idiot, and Hawke is just staring at him and his voice is too loud when he asks "Anders?"
"I - need - to go," Anders manages, mind racing and stomach lurching and Isabela turns to him and Varric turns to him and -
"Blondie?" he asks. "What's wrong? She didn't see anything, that's good news-"
"I need to go," Anders half shouts, and he doesn't look at the others as he runs, mind racing recriminations, all the way back to Darktown with the rest of the broken things.
Hawke does not answer Isabela and Varric as he leaves. He'll have to come up with a good story later, something with just the right spin to smooth it over, but right now Anders is his concern and Maker, Hawke's an idiot.
The Clinic door swings open when he knocks. Hawke thinks it must be Anders' doing, at first, but the mage is sitting halfway across the room when it happens, looking even more surprised than Hawke, and he realizes that Anders must have just been too panicked to latch the door properly.
For a moment, they stare at each other, unsure what to say, before finally, Hawke reaches up and raps on the wood beside the door.
"Mind if I come in?" he asks, offering a hesitant grin, but Anders just drops his gaze, shrugging and jerking his head in something Hawke really hopes was a nod.
He takes an awkward seat on the cot nearest Anders, doing his best to lean back casually as he looks the mage over.
“You know," he says, "They say it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.”
Anders flinches visibly, curling in on himself even as he gives Hawke a tired, frustrated look. “Yes, yes. Mock me." His hands tighten around his arms. "I was making it all up. I-”
“What?" He feels the fake smile slide from his face. "Shit, Anders, that’s not what I -" And Maker, he's really living up to Anders ' trust today, isn’t he?
"Let me start over?" Hawke offers, which just gets him a shrug from the other man. He takes his time to think before finally, he offers, "You know, my father got like this sometimes, too."
That gets him a look. Hawke shrugs uncomfortably, eyes drawn to the wall in front of him. "Honestly, I never even thought much of it at first. I spent my whole childhood running. It was normal, really. Just a part of life. It took me years to realize most families actually lived in one place their whole lives. How strange! Aren't you worried about the templars?" He laughs, more automatic than anything. "I said that once, actually. I was four, maybe five - my parents never thought to tell me, you see, that most people didn't have to run from templars. I thought they were just your average hazards, like bears or bandits or something."
He spares a glance at Anders from the corner of his eye, watching the mage as he speaks. The other man seems to be breathing more steadily now, arms pulling his knees to his chest, eyes focused on Hawke. Listening intently. It's something.
Hawke lets out a long breath, not really sure where he's going with this even as he continues, "You don't know any better, when you're a kid. But it's easier, too. You don't have to be the one to keep watch. You don't have to make that call. And then you get older, and it's your job, too. Watch the templars, watch the neighbors, watch your sister. Ear to the ground. And then you start to notice, when maybe your father's seeing the same things you are and thinking something else entirely."
"Hawke..." Anders' voice startles him, and he turns to face the mage, but the other man just drops his gaze, worrying the bandage on his sleeve between two fingers. He says nothing more, and after a little while, Hawke just sighs.
"Then again, he spent 20 odd years looking out for all of us, himself included, didn't he? And it took me a year in Kirkwall to fuck that up."
"Bethany." It's not a question.
"Yeah," he answers regardless. "That's the way of it, isn't it? You try to see it rationally. But you just have to miss it once. Or... seven times."
Anders flinches, and this time Hawke knows he's struck home. "Maker, Anders, you're an apostate in the middle of Darktown. No one's blaming you for jumping at shadows."
"If only that were true," Anders says quietly.
"Well, I'm not blaming you, at any rate," Hawke tells him.
"Give it time."
Hawke has no answer to that. But he's hardly about to leave, either, and eventually, Anders manages - "You knew the whole time, didn't you?"
"I had some pretty strong suspicions," he confesses.
"Why did you humor me?"
Hawke rolls his shoulders, not quite looking at the other man. "Because I wanted you to feel safe," he admits. "And because... if you couldn't come to me this time, you wouldn't the next time."
Anders lets out a derisive snort. "The next time, what? I imagine some sinister plot to interrupt my shopping?"
"The next time you think someone's after you," Hawke says, "And maybe this time, they are."
"... oh." Anders drops his gaze, and they let minutes pass in silence. "Thank you, Hawke," he manages eventually.
"Anytime. You're my friend, Anders," Hawke tells him seriously. "I want you to be safe, and I want you to feel safe. No matter how silly you think it is."
"Hm." Anders gives him a tentative smile. "... so if it's not paranoia, what is it?"
"Come again?"
"If they really are out to get you."
"Oh!" Hawke scratches his nose. "Just another part of life, I'd say."
Anders' laughter rings off the Clinic walls.