SANCTUM AND HEALING (21/?)
anonymous
November 30 2011, 22:00:59 UTC
‘It’s a tabby.’ Anders brushed its tiny head with the tip of his forefinger. ‘Do you know, I have a tabby. His name’s-’
‘If you’re hungry,’ Hawke said, turning away from him to shrug out of his pauldrons and drop down to his bed, ‘there’s food on the desk over there. Leave your staff where I can see it, and no sudden movements.’
‘Not even if I really like the chicken?’ Anders asked.
‘I doubt you will,’ Hawke replied, leaning back against his arms. He kept his eyes trained on Anders like an expert marksman, or like the sight of Varric’s crossbow earlier, his own staff resting by the pallet and the furs, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. ‘Food’s terrible here. Keran might be good at carving but he’s no house dwarf, and the things he does to bacon are almost criminal.’
‘Oh goody,’ Anders said, and returned Hawke’s kitten to him with an awkward toss, to pick at the offered food and wonder if he’d last the night.
*
It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, but considering the agony he’d imagined-long stretches of silence, punctuated by Hawke taking offense at Anders’s demon-breath, attempted murder at least once before sunrise-that wasn’t saying much.
Hawke carved for a while and Anders suffered the injustice of Keran’s culinary failings until, without warning, Hawke stretched and left the bed, gesturing for Anders to take his place.
‘Get some rest,’ he said. ‘Unless you want me to believe you’re a morning person.’
‘That would be a lie,’ Anders admitted, shuffling toward the pile of furs-without-pillows, the threadbare blanket tossed carelessly on top. He nudged one of the animal skins with his toe, and Hawke offered him a hard grin, one that didn’t touch his whiskey-colored eyes. ‘And I don’t lie to you. I’m painfully honest, and I have…the Warden Commander says it’s no fewer than sixteen obvious tells by last count. So when you’re doomed to that kind of failure from the start, is there even any point?’
‘Get some rest,’ Hawke repeated. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow at dawn.’
Varric had guessed right. Anders decided not to mention it as he settled himself onto the uncomfortable bed-if it could even be called a bed, when that would have been an insult to beds everywhere. It smelled of rain and of dirt, of the cold mountain walls and hard earth rather than soft mud; it was a nicer scent than everything Anders was assaulted by on the regular, Oghren’s cacophony of stinks and the blood and rot and wretched darkspawn filth of the Deep Roads. But it still didn’t smell right, not anything like what Anders was expecting. He didn’t think he’d get much rest no matter how concerned Hawke was about grumpiness in the morning.
Anders set his staff down by the bed where Hawke’s had been-Hawke was holding his between his knees, resting his jaw against the head, sitting in the rickety chair by his desk. He’d stopped his carving, perhaps having realized he wasn’t any good at it, so the knife and the wooden kitten rested beside him, while Anders met his eyes across the distance.
Sometime after that-Anders couldn’t recall when-he must have fallen asleep, since he was jostled awake before he knew it, hand shaking his shoulder as he squinted past the prickles of sticky sleep in his eyes.
‘Whossat whatsit?’ he asked. Shadows above him blotted out the pale light, accompanied by the sound of distant voices calling, the creaking of wood and the slapping of canvas on canvas, the quick shift of the wind. When Anders’s vision cleared, he realized the tent was being packed up from around him, broken down into transportable pieces and carried away by enterprising mountain madmen.
‘Words to live by,’ Hawke’s voice said. A moment later, Hawke helped him to his feet, sticking his staff into his open hand. ‘Well said, Anders.’
‘Not a morning person,’ Anders reminded him, stumbling out into the fuzzy haze of mist and dawn. ‘It’s indecent to wake a person this early, you know.’
‘In the back with the others,’ Hawke replied. He shoved an armful of dew-damp canvas into Anders’s chest. ‘And hold onto this, will you? That’s the roof of my tent. I’ll be so cranky if it goes missing.’
‘If you’re hungry,’ Hawke said, turning away from him to shrug out of his pauldrons and drop down to his bed, ‘there’s food on the desk over there. Leave your staff where I can see it, and no sudden movements.’
‘Not even if I really like the chicken?’ Anders asked.
‘I doubt you will,’ Hawke replied, leaning back against his arms. He kept his eyes trained on Anders like an expert marksman, or like the sight of Varric’s crossbow earlier, his own staff resting by the pallet and the furs, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. ‘Food’s terrible here. Keran might be good at carving but he’s no house dwarf, and the things he does to bacon are almost criminal.’
‘Oh goody,’ Anders said, and returned Hawke’s kitten to him with an awkward toss, to pick at the offered food and wonder if he’d last the night.
*
It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, but considering the agony he’d imagined-long stretches of silence, punctuated by Hawke taking offense at Anders’s demon-breath, attempted murder at least once before sunrise-that wasn’t saying much.
Hawke carved for a while and Anders suffered the injustice of Keran’s culinary failings until, without warning, Hawke stretched and left the bed, gesturing for Anders to take his place.
‘Get some rest,’ he said. ‘Unless you want me to believe you’re a morning person.’
‘That would be a lie,’ Anders admitted, shuffling toward the pile of furs-without-pillows, the threadbare blanket tossed carelessly on top. He nudged one of the animal skins with his toe, and Hawke offered him a hard grin, one that didn’t touch his whiskey-colored eyes. ‘And I don’t lie to you. I’m painfully honest, and I have…the Warden Commander says it’s no fewer than sixteen obvious tells by last count. So when you’re doomed to that kind of failure from the start, is there even any point?’
‘Get some rest,’ Hawke repeated. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow at dawn.’
Varric had guessed right. Anders decided not to mention it as he settled himself onto the uncomfortable bed-if it could even be called a bed, when that would have been an insult to beds everywhere. It smelled of rain and of dirt, of the cold mountain walls and hard earth rather than soft mud; it was a nicer scent than everything Anders was assaulted by on the regular, Oghren’s cacophony of stinks and the blood and rot and wretched darkspawn filth of the Deep Roads. But it still didn’t smell right, not anything like what Anders was expecting. He didn’t think he’d get much rest no matter how concerned Hawke was about grumpiness in the morning.
Anders set his staff down by the bed where Hawke’s had been-Hawke was holding his between his knees, resting his jaw against the head, sitting in the rickety chair by his desk. He’d stopped his carving, perhaps having realized he wasn’t any good at it, so the knife and the wooden kitten rested beside him, while Anders met his eyes across the distance.
Sometime after that-Anders couldn’t recall when-he must have fallen asleep, since he was jostled awake before he knew it, hand shaking his shoulder as he squinted past the prickles of sticky sleep in his eyes.
‘Whossat whatsit?’ he asked. Shadows above him blotted out the pale light, accompanied by the sound of distant voices calling, the creaking of wood and the slapping of canvas on canvas, the quick shift of the wind. When Anders’s vision cleared, he realized the tent was being packed up from around him, broken down into transportable pieces and carried away by enterprising mountain madmen.
‘Words to live by,’ Hawke’s voice said. A moment later, Hawke helped him to his feet, sticking his staff into his open hand. ‘Well said, Anders.’
‘Not a morning person,’ Anders reminded him, stumbling out into the fuzzy haze of mist and dawn. ‘It’s indecent to wake a person this early, you know.’
‘In the back with the others,’ Hawke replied. He shoved an armful of dew-damp canvas into Anders’s chest. ‘And hold onto this, will you? That’s the roof of my tent. I’ll be so cranky if it goes missing.’
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