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Aveline isn't as surprised by the question as Hawke thought she would be. She leans forward in her chair, folding her hands on her desk; her elbows fit neatly into just-noticeable dimples in the wood, and the look she gives Hawke is as thoughtful as it is long. Eventually she says, in a tone of heavy finality, "New boots."
Hawke's brow crinkles. This was, perhaps, not entirely what he was expecting. "What?"
"Everyone can always use new boots," Aveline says firmly. "It's a good, hearty, practical gift."
"I'm not sure practicality is what I'm going for here," Hawke says, after a pause. "More... you know... Copper marigolds."
The Guard-Captain's heavy sigh is the stuff of beauty. "Are you ever going to shut up about that?"
"Probably not," Hawke answers cheerfully, and pours them both another glass. One down.
"Cash."
"Well, that's romantic."
"Romance is all well and good, Hawke," Varric says, glancing at him over the top of his reports, "but Blondie lives in a sewer. Listen to the dwarf."
"He sleeps at the estate now," Hawke protests. "At least five nights a week!"
"Uh-huh." Varric folds one of the letters, reaching for the wax. "Cash isn't the most sentimental gift, but it'll allow him to get what he needs. It’s functional. For romance you can always send it with flowers."
"I'm starting to see why there aren't more dwarven writers," Hawke says. "The epic ballad of the fair and fiscally beneficial courtship just doesn't seem like something that'd catch on easily outside Orzammar."
"Now I know you haven't met many dwarves," Varric retorts, grinning, and stamps his signet ring into the viscous wax seal. Hawke sighs heavily. Maybe he'll have more luck elsewhere.
"This is so sweet," Isabela proclaims, "I'm going to pinch your cheeks." And she does, too, just hard enough to hurt.
"Thanks," Hawke says drily. "I just want something fun, you know? Something that shows him how happy I am he's with me."
"Hmmm." Isabela swirls her drink thoughtfully; whiskey sour, the same gold as her eyes. Hawke had caught her on the way down to the bar, having only just woken up, and her hair is still somewhere on that delightful spectrum between wild and bedhead. "Flowers not an option?"
"Bit... transient for what I'm going for," Hawke says. "I want something more long-lasting, something that will make him happy."
"Ah," Isabela nods. "I understand. You need a toy."
"A toy...? Oh. Oh. What, really, Isabela? That's where your mind went?"
She laughs, a low sensual thing emitting from somewhere deep in her chest, and drains her drink. "Trust me," she says, "Use them well and you'll find there's very little out there that can make you happier, Hawke."
Hawke signals to Corff for a refill. It's ten bells in the morning, but who cares about that, anyway? "I'll take your word for it," he says, grinning despite himself.
"A gag," Fenris says shortly, turning the pages of their latest book, a copy of a history of Kirkwall by some Chantry scholar or another.
"Maker, you too?" Hawke sighs. "I already asked Isabela, and I'm... not into that sort of thing. In the bedroom. And neither is Anders." That last part may be a lie, but there are some lines no amount of friendship should cross, and Hawke would rather keep some details private. Bad enough his mother had caught...
Fenris' cough draws his attention. His friend is peering at him over the top of the book, his lip curling; despite his aura of careful disdain, his green eyes are sparkling with poorly-concealed mischief. It's an odd duality that Hawke likes to see in his friend, a reminder that Fenris can be plenty playful when he's not being consumed by the whole horrifically cruel past and all. "Who said anything about the bedroom, Hawke? Just put it on him before you bring him to Wicked Grace next."
Hawke coughs and tries to push the mental image cleanly out of his mind, and catches Fenris's lip quirk. "... Forget I said anything."
"That would probably be wise," Fenris agrees, and they return, rather hurriedly, to the book.
"I'm not quite sure I understand," Sebastian says, rather carefully.
"Me either," Hawke sighs, "But I asked four people and nobody gave me any decent suggestions. I'm starting to think the boots are the closest thing to reasonable, you know? And that's a dreadful thing to think. It's our first Satinalia. I'm not getting him boots. My mother would - " His throat closes, he pushes through it - "My mother would never forgive me. Nor Beth, actually, come to think about it."
"Ah," Sebastian says faintly.
"I just want something nice," Hawke says, rather plaintively. "Something for a man determined to change thousands of years of institutional prejudice!"
Sebastian opens his mouth, then closes it again. This is not an uncommon reaction around Hawke. He scratches at the back of his neck and glances around at the interior of the Chantry, Hawke following his gaze; a couple of Sisters are eyeing them both with barely-veiled disapproval, having paused from their task of tending the votaries. Not for the first time, Hawke regrets the acoustics in this bloody building. He shrugs at the Sisters, who purse their lips at him like he just dumped a Templar corpse on their carpet. If only they knew.
"... Have you tried flowers?" Sebastian says, and Hawke sighs heavily. He should've known better than to ask a Brother.
"Before you say anything," Hawke says, "Flowers are absolutely out of the question."
"Oh, of course," Merrill says, carefully using tongs to put another cube of sugar in Hawke's tea, which he didn't actually ask for but certainly won't object to. "Flowers always look better in the ground, anyway, where they belong. Nice and alive, not dead and wilting."
Hawke's brow crinkles. "Does this mean you recommend a potted plant, or?"
"Would Anders remember to water it?" Merrill counters. "He's a kind man, if... driven, but I don't think he needs any more responsibilities now."
Hawke takes the teacup. It feels very fragile in his hands, thin porcelain, patterned with gold leaf; if not for the massive chip in the rim and the snapped-off handle it could be at home quite easily on the shelf in his kitchen with the rest of his mother's formal tea service. "... D'you want a full set of these? I've got one going spare."
"Thank you," Merrill says, pouring herself a drink in an equally battered cup with a teapot from another set entirely, "But I like broken things. They have a story, and character to go with it."
Behind them the eluvian looms, crooked in its warped frame. It's as perfect an illustration as any.
The tea is sweet, and Hawke tries not to think of Anders as he takes a sip, the way he thrashes wildly in the night with his dreams, sets the dog to barking; the cracks in his skin that bleed blue, the softly desperate cast to his warm eyes when Hawke tells him I love you. "I don't know what to get him," he says, mournfully. "I want it to be perfect."
Merrill turns her teacup around with her fingers. "Hawke," she says, very warmly, "I think you do know what to get him. I think he'll be happy with anything you choose, and I think you'll choose well. I think you know Anders better than almost anyone."
Hawke looks down at his cup, at the fine fracture-lines like spider's silk, and smiles. "I should have come to you first, shouldn't I?"
"Well, it wouldn't have hurt," Merrill says, playfully, and Hawke laughs as he inclines his head toward her. Some of his friends are... wiser than others.
"Thank you," he says, "I think I've got a better handle on it now. Unlike this cup, hey?" He grins at her proudly, only for the grin to fall off when Merrill just blinks at him.
Some things don't change.
It's snowing outside, not that Hawke cares much. Anders is draped across his chest, blissfully naked and very much asleep; the lines on his brow are softer now, gentled, and he sleeps peacefully. The dog is sprawled gracelessly over the rug in front of the fire, snoring like someone sawing logs; Hawke and Anders both maintain, separately and independently, that it is the dog that makes the noise, and that neither of them snore in their sleep.
It had been a quiet Satinalia, nothing like the ones he grew up with: Bethany and Carver tearing into their gifts, shrieking with delight; his parents winding their way in and out of the kitchen, preparing for the large feast at the end of the day; his mother's yearly joke about her "special Satinalia glass of wine" as she drank directly from the bottle, their father standing behind her laughing, his arms around her middle. He gave all three of his staff the day off, and he knows Bodahn took Orana out with Sandal to visit the festivities at the marketplace. Anders came home around midday, and they shared a meal and a hot bath and spent the rest of it in the bedroom, enjoying each other's company.
Change happens. He can't hold onto the past. What happened, happened, and he needs to think about what will happen next. He shifts his head, brushing his cheek over the crown of Anders's head, and holds on tighter.
He's almost nodded off himself when Anders's eyes open, soft blue light spilling over his chest, spider's silk fractures pouring over his skin like porcelain, but the glow wakes him up. "Evening," he says, voice low and thick with a burr of sleep settled upon it.
It's hard to tell underneath the glow, but Hawke's a dab hand by now; those blue eyes flick upward toward him. "Yes," Justice agrees, a certain wariness in his voice. Hawke smiles ruefully despite himself.
"I'm sorry. In this case that was shorthand for 'it was a pleasant evening, wasn't it'?"
"Yes," Justice says again, but he sounds more settled by the elaboration. Hawke knows Justice is not yet sold on either his person or his relationship with Anders, but his mother always said he could charm the feathers off a goose, and he's been working at it as hard as he can. Justice seems settled this evening, bleeding spiritfire across Hawke's skin, and his tone is as measured and calm as it was when he emerged in the Fade, to help protect Feynriel. "... Anders enjoyed himself. I do not understand the purpose of the event, but it was important to him to be home with you today."
"Thank you," Hawke says, and then his ears catch up with his brain. "Wait. 'Home'?"
The spirit in his bed and in his lover tilts his head. "You extended Anders an invitation to make a home here with you, did you not?"
Hawke smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. Sorry, I just - didn't expect to hear the word. Thanks, Justice."
"I... you are welcome." Justice sounds almost hesitant, as if a spirit of the Fade could be called that; he glows a little brighter, and Hawke grins. It doesn't happen often, nights when Justice pushes through like this; Anders is too scared to let him do it most of the time. Hawke wishes he knew the magic words to help smooth things out between the two of them. He wishes he could fix it that easily. After a pause, Justice says, "Anders feels concern that he could not get you a gift. The exchange is... meaningful?"
"Really?" Hawke squints down at him; Justice is watching him with cat-like intensity, eyes shining, face blank. Hawke has to resist the urge to tickle behind his ears. "Me too. I tried to find something, but I just... I didn't know. I asked everybody what he'd like, a physical present with no strings he'd appreciate." He leans forward, daring to press a kiss to Justice's forehead, right over one of the cracks; his lips hum with the energy that runs through Justice's whole body. It is not an unpleasant feeling. "Well. Almost everybody. You tell me, what out there does Anders want?"
Justice splays a hand out over Hawke's collarbone, testing. His fingers are Anders's fingers, long and clever and strong, and Hawke has spent much too much time watching them, at work, at play, at rest.
He's aware that he's hopelessly smitten. He's not really that sorry about it.
"Compassion," Justice says, after a thoughtful pause. "That is what Anders wants. It is not my function, but you, mortal... I think this is something you can provide for him."
Hawke's heart physically aches in a way he doesn't really need to examine too closely to recognise. He grins at Justice, a little crooked, and breathes in; watches the way Justice, still resting on his chest, moves with the moment. He wonders if Anders will believe him about this in the morning. He wonders a lot of things. "Yes," he says, instead of voicing them, because a spirit of Justice isn't always equipped to understand self-doubt, and he wants Justice to know that Anders is in good hands with Hawke if nothing else.
Maker, he's not sure when this became his life, but he'll take what he can get. Justice's blue glow flares briefly and then settles down, almost but not completely extinguished; seemingly satisfied, the spirit sprawls sleepily across his chest, his expression sated and almost - smug.
"Probably a nicer gift than a pair of boots," Hawke tells his slumbering lover, watching the last pinpricks of spirit-fire fade from Anders's eyes and leaving brown in their wake; Anders blinks at him sleepily, moving his chin against Hawke's chest in a scrape of stubble.
"Boots?" Anders slurs, then yawns hugely. "Whose boots?"
Hawke squeezes him closer and grins at the ceiling beams. "Never mind," he says, "Happy Satinalia, love. Go back to sleep."
Anders grumbles into his chest, a low noise that tails off, and Hawke thinks that this wasn't a bad idea at all. It's not his childhood Satinalias. He'll never have those back again. But that's time; it moves on, and people have to move with it. He misses them all: father, mother, Bethany, Carver, all those faces - but he has Anders. He has Aveline, and Varric, and Isabela, and Fenris, and Merrill, and, in a rather unusual twist, Justice.
He'll survive.
-end