driftfleet | (no subject)

[ It's still deeply weird to have this confirmed beyond the possibility of all but the most deranged of coincidence; as such Hawke's eyebrows make a determined break toward his hairline, but drop before they can get a much of a running start. Remember that "nothing surprises me anymore" is a line from Act I of his canon; he can still be surprised, it just ...doesn't stick. Sure, Anders is a decade too young and not, apparently, burning between twin candle ends of compassion and rage, sure he--is that an earring? Maker's breath.

At this point surprise just seems like valuable time he could spend doing--well. Anything else. Actually growing the tubers that just will not get out of this narrative seems like it might be a better use of his time. ]

Only vaguely degenerate? [ :{ ] I'm losing my touch.

[ They can shake hands, if Anders is, you know, not too put off by the prospect of doing so with the future. Imagine the terrifying symbolism. Either way Hawke's hands are exactly what one might expect of a person who has been doing with his life the things Hawke has, which is to say: battered, but sturdy. ]

My name's Hawke. We're friends. Or - [ he considers ] - will be, if you rather, I don't know how it works. You'd think people could just leave time lying right where they found it, but no, no, someone's got to bollocks it all up, like everything else.

[ SIGH. ]

Edited (editing BEFORE hitting post? psh.) 2015-03-18 13:06 (UTC)

[He does shake, after a moment, even if it's with the same hopeful wariness that someone might pet an unfamiliar dog. (Someone other than him, that is. Dog smell is impossible to get off.) Friends is not something he expected. Jove has the excuse of not having known him personally at the time, and Steffa is in the pitiable position of having befriended him before all this madness, but there hadn't been many warm feelings from the others.

Maybe it hasn't happened yet by Hawke's time, the disaster in Kirkwall. That's a possibility. Presumably Anders must have been doing something other than plotting nefariously during those ten years, which may or may not have included making friends, though he can't be certain.

He wants to ask. But more than that, he really doesn't want to ask. Sorry, Jove; it'll have to be another day.]

Well. I couldn't be fully degenerate before I'd even gotten your name. I'm not sure what sort of man you take me for, Hawke.

[His way of saying that "friends," present tense, is all right.]

[ It belatedly occurs to Hawke he probably could have thrown 'Garrett' in there too, but psh. Anders only uses one name as well! Basically it's like Cher and Madonna meeting here. If ...one of them had previously exploded a significant institutional structure--never mind.

Meanwhile he's unconsciously glad he's not being asked; someone with such a smart mouth is always thinking in about eight different directions, the most significant of which here is that he doesn't exactly envy himself for the position he now seems to be in, one that makes no sense from any perspective logistical or otherwise. What he concludes currently is that he would much prefer to be solicited for information than volunteer it.

'Lonely.' Is the sort of man he'd have taken Anders for before. Naturally that has nothing to do with what he actually says. ]

I don't know, I do come part and parcel with seven years worth of exposure. You might have to demonstrate quite a lot of degenerate behavior before I can take you for anything else.

[ Science informs us that the human body is approximately 60% water. If there were any justice (HAR) in the world, Hawke's remaining 40% would be entirely shame. ]

[There are some things that didn't really change at all, between then and now (however you want to define those two time frames). As much as he is desperately separating them in his mind—himself and that Anders, the one who is singlehandedly ruining his life, at the rate things are going—the reality is that they are, at the core, the same person.

As it happens, the idea of a seven year friendship he has no inkling of does make him feel, for a moment, incredibly lonely.

Which is why, of course, he laughs.]

I'm sorry, that sounded distinctly like a challenge.

[He sets the heel of his hand into the space between them on the bench and lets his weight cant forward, effectively nullifying it. The effect might be sullied a bit by the fact that he has a very small cat riding shotgun, but no one can say he didn't try.]

He must have set the bar rather high, if he's anything like me. I might have my work cut out for me.

[ Hawke considers, stroking his (defiantly beardless) chin just to be theatrical, doing that one-eyed, skyward squint people affect for the same purpose. If his motivation ever appears unclear 70% of the time it's 'because someone's paying him' and a good 15% further is 'for his own entertainment.' The rest might actually be trying to help the helpless and all that shit, but don't tell him that. ]

Well, there was all the political dissidence. That's pretty degenerate, I suppose, speaking one's mind in an ostensibly free society. In Kirkwall, anyway.

[ Maker he misses Kirkwall. ]

Sometimes I'd make up excuses to come by and y--he'd bat his eyelashes a bit before remembering he wasn't allowed to have nice things.

[ One shoulder lifts in a shrug, lopsided smile tipping up the same way. Using 'he' rather than 'you' clearly feels bizarre, which means because Hawke and 'tact' do not live on the same continent he's going to end up swapping sooner or later. Sooner. ]

Other than that it was mostly delivering babies and bandaging orphans. [ A pause. ] Slaughtering the occasional bandit or skeleton as well, but that's my fault. I did say we were friends. Do you know there's a cat in your shirt?

Edited 2015-03-19 15:08 (UTC)

[He sets his free hand gently against the ball of fur under his collar, and it rumbles in that annoyed, revving sort of way cats do when they're touched without permission.

Distractedly, like he gets that question a lot:]

She's sleeping, it's fine.

[The truth is, the more he hears about this version of himself, the more muddied the picture becomes. He certainly doesn't consider himself to be that stupid (there's no 'free society' for mages in southern Thedas, not unless you count hiding in someone's hen house, and speaking out against that in Kirkwall of all places is a deathwish, not bravery) nor that selfless (orphans make him uncomfortable, and pregnant women even more so).

He goes through that entire thought process while Hawke is still speaking, listening intently enough that the facade cracks, just a bit. Even if it's a joke, they're details the others hadn't bothered to give him.

He can't help but wonder if they're not the same person at all. Just two extraordinarily similar faces and the shared genius idea to take on a home country as a replacement name. That would be nice. He's sure they'll all laugh, when this is done.]

I hate to be the one to break this to you, but it sounds to me like he was holding back on you. [A beat, for effect.] I for one very much enjoy nice things. And, specifically, having them.

[ Hawke sighs, a whole-bodied, wholly unnecessary motion that starts at the top of his head and wobbles the entire way downward. ]

Fortunately for everyone I'm not actually very nice. What do you do with nice things if you don't intend to have them, anyway? Just stare at them in a cupboard going 'Oh, you're quite nice, aren't you?' Where's the fun in that?

[ He is never allowed to use the verb 'have' ever again, and definitely not 'to have'. For all the obvious innuendo-laden reasons. That aside, an actually considered pause sneaks its way into the quagmire of ridiculous here, Hawke pushing all four fingers together in an inadvertent imitation of piety before his wrists drop, hands dangling loose between his knees. ]

Maybe you'd better tell me what you've actually heard. I mean if I'm honest I'm just as happy to banter - happier, probably! - but... [ a shrug, for once imbued with meaning as opposed to silliness ] for what it's worth you're not going to find anyone closer to the whole mess. Or anyone less interested in mounting a rescue.

[ Shit, he'd better find something ridiculous to do immediately. ]

Edited 2015-03-20 18:18 (UTC)

[Oh. That part of the conversation already, is it? If everyone is happier with banter, which everyone obviously is, it's a mystery to him why so many people seem to zero in on this, like hearing or knowing changes anything. In the time since Jove told him the whole story, he's mostly spent it alternating between drunk and miserable, with some wiggle room for overlap in between.

He withdraws with a sigh and turns his face away, pretending to study some crumbling architecture or blossoming flowers or something else inconsequential. It may only partially cover the way his expression collapses into something pinched and unhappy.]

Does it even matter what I've heard? Really. Most everyone seems to have their minds made up about me regardless of what I have or haven't done, or do or don't know, or... whatever. Hashing out details is hardly going to help with that. I know it's grim and terrible, isn't that enough?

[ Hawke would at no point pretend to know the whole story, because he isn't Anders; even Anders isn't ...actually Anders. He just knows enough that people keep asking him to make judgments, which is in his estimation a truly stupid position to be in. ]

There are some mitigating circumstances.

[ That with a special kind of dryness; there is tragically no punctuation mark to denote possession, though it seems like in Thedas there sure should be! Regardless Hawke only catches Anders' mostly-hidden expression at this point, before he was watching his fingers lace and unlace. ]

As to the rest of it, it's--look. You're a mage, you must be used to people having made up their minds before they've ever met you. That's Thedas. If you're born with magic you probably know that before you can talk.

[ Unless you're him, but his own mitigating circumstances were exceptional, he knows that. ]

Of course it was grim and terrible. It's still pretty damn grim and terrible in Kirkwall, and it's been years since it happened. But if that's enough--if I ever have an answer to that one you'll be the first to know. I know all you've talked about since I've known you is changing things. I know you spent seven years killing yourself trying to find another way.

I could tell you what the cost is, but I'd imagine you already know. It matters. I have to think it does or-- [ or nothing, that's none of anyone's business ]. Whoever you are now, whoever you become, you're not a monster. I don't know if knowing that makes a difference, but--yes. It matters. I know that.

[ At this point he is making what little eye contact is possible, a rarity even when the conversation is normal. In a second he'll realize he's being like, earnest, and start looking for a spike trap on which to fling himself. ]

[A difference, yes. He wishes it didn't, wishes that he could be as detached from all of this as he wants to be, but you're not a monster sits like lead weight on his chest. One would think he would feel better after hearing something like that, not worse, but it doesn't happen like that at all, because of course it doesn't.

All he'd ever wanted was to live somewhere quiet and unbothered, to not constantly worry about what might behind the next door. He'd accepted that the Wardens were maybe the closest he would ever come to that, signed on to the lofty and melodramatic price tag if it meant familiar, friendly faces and no templars nipping at his heels.

But this is something else. This is massive, personal, a vendetta that he never thought to let himself pursue. Changing things. Like the Circle isn't already rotten to the core, like it would ever bend to become anything other than what it is, like revolution would bring anything besides abject slaughter across the continent.

It sounds foolish. It sounds reckless. It sounds noble. He doesn't know who this person Hawke is describing is, except for that it's certainly can't be him. Not any more than he could imagine Cullen's thoughtless, vicious monster being him, either.]

Well. That was... inspiring. [His voice is weak. He tries to clear his throat. It doesn't really help.] They should pay you to give pep talks to victims of time distortions, you'd make a fortune.

[A pause. Leave it there, he thinks, leave it there and get up and walk away and never speak to anyone with anything even approximating a Fereldan accent ever again.]

Listen. It's... nice, all of that. What you're saying. But I can't be him, this— person that you think I am. Will be. I don't know. Twenty minutes ago I wanted to be anything but him. Now.... [He falters.] Now you've gone and... mucked it all up.

[ Hawke ...laughs, because the alternative is kind of horrifying to contemplate. ]

Usually my pep talks are just promising to get the next round. Of course, I was pretty sure we were all going to die. Hard for anyone to make you pay up in that instance.

[ He thinks of every living person he loved inside a tight ring of Templars, and the moment it opened. Thinks he saw more abominations that day than in the whole rest of his whole life combined. Of Varric later, in the back of some bar in the middle of nowhere, finding out how many people had died. Anders quiet on that box, shoulder blades like wings tucked in a coffin, and Justice, for the moment, finally silent.[ ]

Mucking it all up does sound like something I'd do. Imagine, if you'd just tried to chat up the next person over.

[ Right. No. He should say something not entirely stupid, except he suspects that was about all the inspiration he had left in him for the next year. But maybe this will make a difference, and then he can say out of all the things he ever did, something mattered. ]

If that's who you decide to be you don't have to do it alone, that's about all I've got. I should offer to get the next round, but I'm afraid having been whisked off to galaxies unknown and everything, I'm lucky to be wearing my own underwear.

[Hawke is one of the very few who have framed it like a choice, like the future might actually still be something that's his instead of a slow march of inevitability. Hawke is, so far, the only one who has suggested that there might be some other valuable choice besides "avoid it at all costs." Something about that hits harder than all the rest of it. The idea of choosing, maybe, or the idea that this person he barely knows might be willing to support him still, even after living all the things Anders has only heard about.

It's a lot to take in.

Anders has decided he doesn't want to think about it any more today.]

Oh, that's all right. [He's recovering old levity.] There's nothing I'd like more than to be well and truly drunk right now, and it would be rude to deny you the same after you've gone out of your way to give me a speech and everything.

[The kerfluffle with Cullen a couple weeks back had been, apparently, dramatic enough to net him enough money to drink his way through Dirkwall. That's one benefit to all this mess: it gave him the necessary means to cope with it.]

You can owe me for next time.

[ Levity! Thank the Maker. ]

If I made any speeches we'll attribute that to recent head injury.

[ Dry, but containing at least a kernel of seriousness amidst constant snark. No one must know he sometimes has real feelings! Quickly, change the subject even further! ]

I've never seen you drunk! This should be novel. What kind of drunk would you consider yourself to be?

[ You know, does he just fall asleep, does he get maudlin, does he drape himself over the nearest warm body, etc. Details are important. ]

[Not acknowledging that a speech was made means that they also don't need to acknowledge that he may have been affected by it. With that in mind, Anders is happy to comply.]

Now, now, that would be telling. I intend to keep at least some of the mystery alive, thank you very much.

[A lightweight. A noisy one, and a clingy one.]

Fine, have your mystique. I'll draw my own conclusions.

[ You know, with evidence to support and all. His shiny grin is audible as well as visible, and he sounds entirely, easily, like the previous segment of conversation either never happened, or barely registered on a scale of 1 to arresting. To say which is the more accurate lie Hawke would probably have to know himself.

Also, whatever stretching he may do getting off this bench is totally necessary. ]

All right, then what kind of tavern person are you? I always seem to end up in places with more knifemarks than furniture.

[ An excess of mock-mournful theatrics, as a person who actually frequented the Hanged Man because he liked the ambiance.

PS: It doesn't matter how tiny the fake medieval town is, it has more than one bar. It could have only one resident, and it would still have more than one bar. ]

Edited 2015-03-22 04:59 (UTC)

Well, the seedier the better, obviously.

[He's much more languid about getting up, and that may or may not be because he's settling his weight back on his hands to watch, appreciative and entirely shameless.

He likes this much better, to the surprise of maybe no one. It's easy to flip the switch, to kick everything unpleasant under the rug and focus on what he can do, which is look at attractive people and talk about bad taverns and eventually get drunk on terrible ale.]

There's no point if there's not at least some chance a stranger might shank you for drinking out of his favorite mug, the way I see it. Not that I would actually want that to happen, mind, but the possibility—that's the fun part.

[A pause while he considers, swinging himself up to standing.]

I also wouldn't object to a group sing-a-long of a folk song I don't know any of the words to.

[ Well, Hawke didn't spend all that time making the Totally Necessary stretching look magnificently unstudied just so no one would watch him do it. It's been a while since he's had the luxury though, so this is already nice on the basic level of not, for instance, being constant combat; with the bar set at this level there's no way Anders can fail to prosper! ]

Naturally. And that best sung in a language you don't speak.

[ Having achieved mutual uprightness (shut up) they can begin a search for the seediest tavern possible! Unless Anders at some point in his distant past held a great interest in leading Hawke walks about half a step in front of him by rote; it's the formation he's used to, and his legs are ten miles long.

He hasn't turned on his modulator, so occasionally he's a little distracted by the passing of their fellow fleetmates, or whatever, who come in more colors and species than he is used to, but mostly he keeps passing sideways glances to Anders. Not staring, but making no particular effort to be furtive, either. While he's always been nice to look at Hawke has never seen him this--well, this young, even if he's a warden he can't be more than a year off the time they met. Spirit possession apparently preternaturally ages a person, to ...also no one's surprise. The fact that he doesn't actually seem any less tired is an observation Hawke will keep to himself, at least at this stage in sobriety.

Meanwhile, a helpful wooden placard featuring exactly the illustration one would expect indicates they are approaching (this is a real tavern name) the Vulgar Duchess. ]

Well. This looks like the kind of place your own mother'd shank you over a mug, forget strangers. Shall we?

[If he notices (he does), he doesn't say anything, and if it bothers him (a little), he doesn't show it. He can feel a comparison going on, the way everyone who knew him (will know him?) seems to do whenever they look at him, and even the idea that it might be a positive comparison this time doesn't do much to help the unease.

He'd rather just not think about it at all, which is the goal of this little excursion.

He's eager enough to swing through the door, either way. It's a truly despicable dive; Hawke is a man after his own heart.]

Look at that, they've even torn all the locks off the door. [There's like a 60/40 chance that's on purpose, and this is a show put on for tourists, but the 40%, isn't that exciting.] I should bring you tavern hunting more often.

Barkeep! [He lifts one hand, unnecessarily grandiose in a place like this.] Whiskey. The worst you have, for me and my friend here.

[ The barkeep responds, pre-whiskey, with a gesture that looks suspiciously like spitting something pulpy and horrible onto the floor, so they've either made the perfect decision or the worst one possible.

Hawke sighs contentedly, and with his entire body, so his opinion on the matter can probably be sussed out by people on the moon. ]

This is what I really missed about civilization. Where else can you get something that'll both blind you and clean your boots?

[ Come, they can sit at one of those massive scarred table things that were once giant wooden spools. That may not actually be period correct, but this narrative is a loner, Dottie, a rebel, and it will never, ever be any good. ]

Normally I suppose this would be the point in conversation where I ask what you do, but the uniform does give you away a bit.

[ See, he's perfectly capable of imitating a person who doesn't like ...already know a lot of these details. ]

What do people talk about nowadays on their way to total obliteration? It's been a while.

Edited 2015-03-23 02:00 (UTC)

Shall I regale you with stories of my heroism? [He thumps himself on the chest (careful, of course, to miss his sleeping cargo), and clears his throat. With mounting dramatism:] Getting lost down the same oozing tunnel three times, only to find out you were chasing a pack of rats the whole time. Watching Nathaniel spend a half hour trying to dig his boots out of the Blackmarsh. Trying very hard not to think about how many nipples a broodmother has.

[He sips daintily, makes a show out of considering the ceiling.]

No one ever mentions those things when they talk about the Wardens. I wonder why?

[ Hawke tilts his chin down, eyebrows arching the opposite direction. Since he looks perpetually amused by ...everything it's sometimes difficult to ascertain what he finds genuinely funny, aside from 'himself,' but the uh, rising tide of colorful description does eke out a genuine laugh, mostly through his nose. He leans forward on arms crossed over the table, idly spindling his (mildly filthy, for the tourists) glass in one hand. It takes about ten seconds to work out that if he's not engaged in about six physical or verbal things at once at all times, he collapses like a flan in a cupboard. ]

My brother's a Warden; those are the kind of stories I usually hear. I think he saves the heroic ones for people prettier and less related.

Well. Less related, anyway.

[ Because like, who could find prettier, obviously. ]

[He brightens, encouraged. Whoever said the Wardens never did anything for him were... right, most of the time, save for a handful of moments that happen to include this one.]

Ah. Well, in that case I'm clearly going about this all the wrong way, aren't I? I wouldn't want to suggest that I don't think you're pretty. [A beat.] Or that you're related to me.

[Nailed it.

There are actual stories he could tell, of course. Like that final night at Vigil's Keep, when Amaranthine stayed standing, at the cost of reinforcements for the Wardens. How he very easily could have shimmied his way over the fence and been gone before anyone was the wiser, but instead held his ground and fought for something important to him for the first time in his foolish, cowardly life.

But that would be such a downer.]

I could tell you about how I helped Nathaniel dig his boots out of the Blackmarsh.

[ Hawke's lashes drop shamelessly to half-mast, eyes glittering, speculative slits. ]

I do seem to have distant relations appearing from every angle. Be a pity if you turned to be one though; not even Fereldens ascribe to the whole 'kissing cousins' thing.

[ Nailed it twice. Insert nailing joke.

...insert insertion joke. But meanwhile:

A downer that would net like, +15 Hawke Approval, but he'd probably keep it to himself for the same reason Anders isn't telling that story. Though it's notable Hawke already believes him to be the kind of person who'd do exactly that, stand his ground until his legs wouldn't hold him up anymore--or that at the least that man exists, a lot closer to the surface than Anders might think.

Or want, for that matter! Hawke knows the feeling.

Meanwhile he knocks back the opposite of a 'sip' of whiskey, the tacit implication being that he will need it. This is probably true. ]

Maker that's terrible. [ Therefore: perfect. He hasn't been this relaxed since he died! ] Are we thinking of the same Nathaniel? About so high, wears both a bow and terminally dour expression?

[ 'Resting bitchface' has not yet been invented. ]

Edited (way to eat half my tag, dw?) 2015-03-23 20:10 (UTC)

[That is, apparently, his cue to do the same (knocking back the drink, that is), because really. Is there nothing in his life that's safe from these people? Did the him-from-the-future also chatter on about the time he rearranged all the books in Kinloch Hold's second floor library, in addition to Justice and his cat and apparently, now, Nathaniel?]

The one and only. Do I want to know how the two of you know each other? If I was going to leave Vigil's Keep, you'd think I'd at least bring along someone who's laughed at least once in the past decade.

[He does say "Vigil's Keep" and not "the Wardens," because that's something else he's stubbornly not adjusting to, the idea that sometime between now and whenever, the Wardens are going to stop being the gloomy and awkward haven of contentment they've become for him.]

If it turns out he's somehow the unfortunate link between our sprawling family trees, I'm going to be so disappointed.

You can relax, any involvement on your part was purely incidental. His sister asked me to look for him, after he got waylaid on some Warden caper in the Deep Roads. A few years ago that was happening to me three times a day! 'Hawke, my brother is missing, Hawke, my basement is full of ghasts, Hawke, I've left my beloved Laborer's Guild ceremonial hatpin in a pit full of corpses,' on and on.

[ His put-uponness is so exaggerated as to mean nothing; that time was probably the best of his life, as hideous a prospect as that is. He likes helping people, for all his dramatic couch-fainting, and it was nice to be busy as often as a person with such an active* mind requires. ]

Anyway, I already knew the area - though I could've never laid eyes on it again and died happy - so! Hawke to the rescue.

[ Whiskey? yes. ]

Come on, I'm waiting for this boot story and we don't have all night.

[ Gently goading. If distraction is the order of the evening he's at least going to be dedicated to the proposition. ]

[* like squirrels are active ]

Edited 2015-03-23 23:53 (UTC)

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this was /completely unrelated/ to the journal making i swear

i don't believe you

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