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“All right, I think I've got it.”
Hawke looks idly up from her book, a large compendium of plants and insects Anders had acquired for her as a gift (definitely not a bribe) in return for agreeing to help him this evening, and stretches her hand out for the parchment. Anders carries it to her and tries his best not to look like he's hovering beside her as she reads, an anxious schoolboy wringing his hands before a revered mother as she judges his recitations. When she hands it back, her mouth is pursed and Anders's face falls.
“What's wrong this time?” he asks, not bothering to hide the agitation in his tone.
“Your language is still too...” she gestures with her hand, searching for the right word. “Aggressive.” Is what she finally settles on, standing up and stretching. Her back pops audibly, making her wince before continuing. “You're never going to sway the opinions of any noble in Hightown if you go around talking like this. They're going to laugh in your face, or sic the templars on you before you can say 'Andraste's holy knickers'.”
Anders frowns and re-reads over his own words.
“Well then, what do you suggest?”
Hawke sighs, steepling her fingers over her lips as she gathers her thoughts. “Threats and guilt won't get you anywhere with them. If there's one thing nobility hates it's being told what to do. The best way to get to them is to simply sow the seed, and make them think the idea was theirs all along. Eventually some will come around,” she replies, tapping her fingertip briefly against his forehead to accentuate her point.
He seems ready to argue with her for a moment, the expression on his face one she is lately all too familiar with. They had disagreed on things like this before – Anders hadn't always approved of her methods, frequently calling her too soft – too willing to wait, to play into The Game. She steels herself for the inevitable berating, but it never comes. Instead he seems to deflate with a huff, shoulders slumping.
“I suppose you're right,” he says, letting his stern face melt into a much softer expression, complete with a rare, small smile. It suits him, she thinks; smiling. She wishes he had cause to do it more often.
“Do you still have that book I lent you?” he asks suddenly, hand already twitching for his pen. “The one with the blue cover? I'd like to go over it once more for reference before I start over.”
Hawke returns his smile, patting his arm gently as she moves past him, intent on getting herself a glass of wine from the kitchen.
“It should be on the bookshelf somewhere, help yourself,” she calls out over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
-
When she returns, goblet in hand, she expects to find Anders back at the writing desk or possibly having purloined her most comfortable reading chair, but he's in neither spot. Instead she spies him still lingering near the bookcase at the top of the stairs, staring down at the book in his hand with obvious distaste.
“'101 Uses of a Phallic Tuber'?” he muses aloud upon her return. “Is this the sort of thing you're reading these days? I wish I'd known, I would have brought you something more exciting.”
Hawke's cheeks flame with embarrassment.
“Isabela bought that as a joke, you know how she likes to tease.” If she closes her eyes, she can still see the all-too-pleased-with-herself glint in Isabela's eyes upon handing it to her; the way she'd laughed until tears sprang to her eyes at Hawke's expression when she'd suggested they try a few of them out, and then kissed the horrified look from her face. “Just- put it back where you found it?” she asks meekly, clearing her throat.
He sticks it back rather haphazardly across the tops of the other books on the shelf, and descends the stairs with his own book clutched white-knuckled in the other hand. He returns to the desk, setting the tome down with more force than Hawke thinks is entirely necessary. Hawke stays standing, a sinking stone-like feeling in her gut, watching him flip pages so hard she fears he might rip them, until she can't bear it any longer.
“If there's something you'd like to say to me I'd prefer you'd just get it over with.”
He stills. Even through the thick fabric of his robes she can see the set of his shoulders tense, wonders if she's really ready to have the conversation she feels sure is coming.
“What exactly is it that you see in Isabela?” he asks finally after an uncomfortably long stretch of silence, eyes trained on the desk in front of him. Probably for the best, because he misses the way her body jerks as if the question had been a physical blow. Even anticipating it, her insides go cold; reminiscent of the time Bethany accidentally hit her with an ice spell when they were children; a heavy, unforgiving chill that creeps all the way deep into her bones.
“Excuse me?” she asks at last, because they're the only words she's able to force out. Anders stands and turns to face her at last, his expression stormy, unreadable.
“She makes it no secret that she doesn't care about anyone or anything but herself.”
Hawke sputters, the sudden and unexpected turn in conversation still throwing her somewhat off-kilter. “That's not fair,” she argues. “You hardly know her.”
“And you do? I know her better than you think, and I know you, Marian.” Andraste's blood, when was the last time anyone besides her own mother had called her that? “You're a passionate, thoughtful woman. You deserve to be with someone who understands that- who supports you and the things you believe in. A true partner, not a- not a simple distraction.”
“Someone like you, you mean,” she replies cooly. It's a cruel thing to say, really, to dredge up now when their parting had been so shockingly... amicable but his words had cut her deep, and Marian Hawke could give as good as she got in a fight.
Anders visibly bristles but doesn't pretend to deny it, his gaze shooting downwards for a moment in what looks like shame – or possibly regret.
“I just don't want you to get hurt,” he says quietly, and Hawke represses the urge to roll her eyes.
“So you always say,” Hawke says under her breath, and then louder, “I'm a big girl, Anders. Mine and Isabela's-” could she really lie to herself – to him – and call whatever it was between them a relationship? “Arrangement, is none of your concern.”
“It is when it affects your dedication to our cause.”
The accusation startles an incredulous laugh out of her, bordering on hysterical. “What?”
“Come on Marian,” he says as though it's obvious. When she simply cocks an eyebrow at him he sighs. “Don't try and deny it, Mistress Selby hasn't seen hide nor hair of you lately, you haven't been down to the clinic in weeks. Did you even bother to order those potions from Elegant I asked you for?”
She feels herself flush with sudden guilt. Had it truly been so long? She hadn't even realized... And perhaps that was the problem, wasn't it? She remembers the slip of paper too, the one Anders had handed to her with a list of potions for the clinic that needed restocking soon. She had meant to take it to Lady Elegant immediately, but once she'd gotten to Lowtown she'd run into Isabela leaving the Hanged Man and had stuck the scrap into the pocket of her robes – just for a moment – and...
“Shit,” she curses quietly. Anders at least has the decency to not look smug. She leaves her all but forgotten wine on the closest table and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until she sees spots. “All right, I admit I've let my- my selfishness distract me as of late, for that I apologize. But it's not Isabela's fault, and it doesn't give you the right to come and chastise me. That's not your place.”
“It's not my place to worry about the well being of someone I lo-” he catches himself too late, and they both know it. He bites his lip and steps forward, placing his hands gently on her biceps. His eyes are so earnest she has to look away. “That I care about? Isabela isn't good for you. I know her type. She's going to chew you up and spit you back out without a second thought, and I refuse to sit idly by and watch it happen.”
Hawke shakes her head, pulling away from his grip and wrapping her arms around her middle. Anders's hands fall weakly to his sides.
“I'm not one of our causes, Anders. My life is not some injustice for you to right it's, I just-” She feels completely at a loss for words, a feeling she does not relish in the slightest. And what is there to say really? Could she tell him that being with Isabela made her feel more alive than she'd felt since before the blight? That Isabela was the one who picked up the pieces of her Anders himself had left behind? Tell him that underneath it all, her traitorous heart still whispered to her, Perhaps you're right but I'm too stubborn to admit it to myself?
Rather than face him, mouth gaping, she turns and crosses the room, collecting the book and parchments he'd left from the desk into a haphazard pile, and brings them back- holding them out to him. He takes them gingerly, staring at them as though they were suddenly foreign and about to spontaneously combust. “It's late, Anders. I think perhaps you ought to finish the rest at home. There isn't much more to tweak, you should be fine without me.”
Anders swallows. “Yes. Yes it's late. You're right. I'll go.”
They don't speak again after that, but she walks him to the cellar door, shuffling a few feet behind him. She can feel the need to say something, anything else, in her chest like a physical thing, but she bites her tongue. The door opens with just a small click, the damp, slightly fetid air coming up from the Darktown tunnels turning her already queasy stomach.
“So I'll see you at the clinic tomorrow morning then?” she asks, the words finally spilling out when he's nearly halfway through the doorway. It freezes him, and when he turns his head to gauge her expression she tries to give him a smile. A peace offering of sorts, though she isn't sure how well she actually fares at it. Well enough apparently, because Anders nods, just a single dip of his head.
“Tomorrow,” he says simply, before he pulls the door closed behind him and disappears.