driftfleet | (no subject)

[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)

[He makes a face at the mention of the Deep Roads that is not unlike the one he makes when he drinks any amount of the liquid in his glass. One of those things that didn't change at all: he really does hate the blighted Deep Roads.]

Yes, all right, yes. It'll be better since you know him, that means you'll be able to picture the exact faces he was making while I tell it. We need more alcohol for this.

[And it isn't as if he's planning on spending his money on anything else. He swings his arm in the direction of the nearest barmaid, and in the middle of it launches into the story with the air of someone telling the very most exciting story they have.]

You've never been to the Blackmarsh. I know, because no one with a half ounce of sense and no eternal contract to struggle against darkspawn for the rest of their natural lives would ever set foot in a place called "the Blackmarsh." But the Warden-Commander points and we follow, so it goes.

Since you seem the reasonable sort, I'll go ahead and spoil it for you: the Blackmarsh is exactly what it sounds like. Gloomy and mucky, outrageously haunted, everything you'd expect. So, with that in mind, picture this: there's me of course, the Hero of Ferelden, one very drunken lump of a dwarf, and our mutual friend Nathaniel Howe, all marching into the Blackmarsh together. Only a matter of time before one of us gets stuck in the goop and the grime. It's just that the rest of us know better than to go diving into it looking for footprints or darkspawn droppings or whatever it is rogues do sneaking around the bushes.

[And here more alcohol arrives. He leans forward eagerly, palming the glass between both hands, now fully entrenched in telling his story.]

So of course, he gets stuck. Right in the middle of our very serious Warden business, too, it was terribly unbecoming. [beat] Or it would have been, if there were any living souls there besides us to see it.

[ Hawke manages to quell most of the smile that's happening to his mouth, mostly because yes, his memories of Anders' distaste for the Deep Roads have remained appropriately vivid. Of course, he also went on three separate excursions to their various corners at Hawke's behest, a thing he elects not to mention to mention just now.

By rote he's pretty predictable: if the situation is serious he'll tell a joke; if it's dire he'll tell ...a worse joke. Consistencies like that. The surprising thing in this situation, however, is that he's actually a good listener, active in the sense just recently mentioned. When more alcohol arrives it takes him a few seconds to notice, which is probably the highest compliment he can give anyone, short of 'all right, I'll fight the enormous Qunari with the even enormouser spear for you, but only because he refuses to fight you for some reason.' ~~And because love.~~ ]

I can't say I have an answer to that; all the rogues I know would be dead in twenty minutes if you shoved them into the wilderness. Probably of sheer horror.

[ Listen to Varric in Inquisition though, is he wrong?

Anyway! Hawke is what a person might call a professionally functional drinker, so he'll be well into the second glass of authentically awful shoe polish here before he even starts feeling a change in temperature. He's not drinking as fast as he might be either, busy leaning toward Anders on one folded arm with the other propped under his chin. ]

I do hope freeing him involved an elaborate system of winches and pulleys. Or a sled pulled by small animals.

[Anders is, by contrast, probably already a little pink in the cheeks, at that early stage of intoxication where he hasn't quite noticed yet. He's the sort of drinker who tries to maintain heavyweight status by telling everyone about it, and then getting completely smashed the next time anyone turns around. Right now he's a bit louder than he needs to be, maybe, and a little more expansive with his hand gestures than he might otherwise be, but that's just the beginning.]

No, no. [The drink goes down smoother the more he drinks it. He's almost at a stage where he doesn't have to shudder every time he takes a gulp.] I'll do you one better. We had the presence of mind to bring Oghren, you see—that's our drunken dwarven friend, to keep you up to date on the names. I'm not going to go after him, of course, seeing as I'm not completely insane, and we couldn't ask the Commander to do it, what with her being so busy killing darkspawn and rescuing the trapped souls of the village or whatever else. But Oghren is just mad enough and just drunk enough that he offers to give it a try.

But he's, well, you know. He's a dwarf, they aren't exactly known for their wingspan, are they? So he looks to me, he says [and here he imitates Oghren inasmuch he imitates "being dwarf-y"] "Oi, mage, hand over your boom stick." That exactly, I swear on Andraste's singed bloomers.

So, anyway. I'm there, Oghren has been laughing for the past fifteen minutes or so, and Nathaniel is making this face, you know the one. [He copies it for demonstration's sake, an overexaggerated frown not unlike >:C.] I did it, too, I gave my staff to them, because, you know, teamwork and all. And also I wanted to know what it would be like to watch a dwarf try to pull a man twice his height out of a goo swamp with only a mage's staff and his own insobriety as leverage.

And it worked! Which is the really incredible part of the whole thing, if I had to pick something. It took ten minutes, but he popped right out. Fell face-first into the mud and smelled vaguely like fish for the rest of the trip, but [he snaps his fingers] rescued all the same.

[ Predictably, anything resembling slapstick sends Hawke into paroxysms of amusement, so he laughs - chuckles, more accurately, low in his throat and sandpaper rough - in more places than he doesn't. He's actually starting to feel the whiskey just a touch by the time Anders winds up; the deceptive uptick in his body temperature has the effect of making things like 'oi, mage' even more spectacular, and it was already pretty great. ]

Sounds like he got off easy. Maker knows what other odors you could pick up in a place called Blackmarsh. And on purpose, no less.

[ He's definitely still shuddering after every swallow, much like dogs shake off water. Because he is the most Ferelden. Back in Kirkwall he'd gotten into the habit of actually exercising a modicum discrimination when it came to what he drank, but this entire situation seems to call for the most rotgut awful stuff available. ]

Is your Warden-Commander an Amell, by chance? If so we have,in fact, found the missing branch on someone's family tree.

Edited 2015-03-24 15:55 (UTC)

[He chokes, half on whiskey, half on laughter.]

No. [He sounds appropriately appalled, despite the grin that's threatening to crack the edges of his face.] You and the Warden-Commander? Unless there's some very important information you have to share with me about my lineage.

[He doesn't actually think that's possible; he knows exactly who his parents were, which is a luxury not many mages are afforded. Which, ironically enough, almost makes the staggering number of coincidences that are now piling up almost too much to take.]

How bizarre. Am I going to have to fight her for your honor, now that I've discussed phallic tubers with you? Because I don't think I could win, to be perfectly honest.

[Some jokes just don't end. Now we have both of them together.]

Oh, yes. [ He is one step away from literally rubbing his hands together Bond-villain style at Anders' appalledness, meaning he is going to capitalize on it within an inch of his life. ] And not on the Ferelden side, either. The filthy Free Marchers.

Not that I mind, I'm half and half myself. Half Ferelden - [ he holds up one hand, flat, knuckle side facing toward Anders ] - half Marcher [ making a mirror out of the other, fingers pointing toward one another, but not touching ]. I was almost half Orlesian! Can you imagine? Cheese and caviar stuffed up just one nostril, congested and lopsided all the time...you'd have to look sideways at lesser beings just to look down on them.

[ Right, that bit of sensible speculation established, he appears to be giving due consideration to whether or not Anders will have to engage Steffa in like, staff-to-staff combat. Mostly this means he's drinking more. As if this will help his thought process. ]

Hmm. We've only discussed them, so I don't believe any of Ferelden's ancient barbarian customs dictate an immediate call-to-arms. She may want you to declare your intentions, though.

[ :D? ]

[He laughs out loud at half Orlesian, startled and endlessly amused by the mental image. He forgets entirely to temper the reaction, and hardly cares when he does remember.

Hawke is, as it turns out, a little bit delightful, on top of everything else.]

Mm, my intentions, is it.

[He rises up on his elbows, shifts his weight forward. For all their individual none-too-subtle shuffling, there's probably not much distance between their hands now. He's tipsy enough to take advantage, fingers reaching to play idly at the edge of Hawke's sleeve.]

We've known each other a very long time, she and I. If I had to guess, she probably already knows that the answer to that question is best not mentioned in polite company.

[ Hawke observes this sleeve-spindling progress through his lashes; someone with his general proclivities enjoys both watching and being watched, surprising absolutely no one with an ounce of deductive reasoning available. On someone else this might imply passivity, but Hawke would probably not know passivity if it hit him in the face. Which it wouldn't, being passive and all. The point is that he leans forward enough to be encouraging, a/o enough that individual concepts of personal space are ...pretty much the same space. ]

I've known her for about twenty minutes, so it's a good thing one of us could tell. That said should we find ourselves in polite company you'll be the first to know.

[ As much sardonic as it is suggestive, given the lazy drawling tone that encompasses either. ]

I hate to puncture the element of surprise, but you should know in advance I'm pretty sure crushing your little passenger would ruin the mood.

[ The mood established via phallic tubers and the scummiest bar in all Dirkwall, yes. ]

Hmmmm?

[This may be the portion of the conversation where it's revealed that Anders is not an especially great listener... or at the very least that he's well and truly distracted by the curve of Hawke's mouth at this distance.

When the rest of his brain catches up, his chin drops towards his chest, like he's surprised to remember where he keeps his cat on a regular basis.]

Oh. [The kitten mewls irritably when he hooks his hand under his collar, effectively scooping her out from her comfortable nest of heavy padding. If the suggestion of accidentally crushing a small kitten didn't ruin the mood, it's possible Anders's baby talk will, because that's what's coming up next.] Hush, you're fine. Anders would never hurt you, would he? No. Or let you set one little padded foot on this table, blech.

[He bends, holding the kitten high up over the table in one palm while he feels around his feet for his pack with the other, carrying on talking like this isn't strange at all. The kitten, now awake, is choosing his moment to meow like the world is ending.

Helpfully:]

I don't think she likes you.

[ No, in order for the mood to be ruined Hawke would probably have to be derailed by the babytalk, and he's too busy being utterly flabbergasted. He can't imagine Anders babytalking anything; even his bedside manner is pretty no-nonsense. As Hawke is well aware from the millions of times he's required healing or stitches or uh, whatever addressed the giant spear wounds from the Arishok.

Then again - all of this crossing his mind in seconds - he'd never seen Anders around an actual cat, just their absence. Although there's absolutely no way he's bringing this up now (that would be the real moodkiller) it's easy to imagine this man just inside the one he knows, under the weight of Justice and the mages' plight. It takes a complete absence of caring what anyone else thinks about your priorities to coo over a kitten like this in public, after all.

So Hawke finds himself gazing in a kind of charmed stupor when these terrible aspersions are cast upon his character. ]

She can tell I used to have a dog. Or all Fereldens smell the same no matter how long they spend in the Free Marches.

[ He does not, for the record, smell anything like dog at the moment. In case Anders needs to check. ]

Edited 2015-03-26 02:33 (UTC)

[He swings his pack up onto the table. Before this, it was mostly filled with poultices and bandages and other healing-type things, with occasional room made for his cat, when things in the Deep Roads got particularly dicey. Now, it's mostly just for his cat.

He undoes the laces one-handed, and then deposits her front-paws first into the slouched mouth of it, so that no delicate kitten paws touch the veritable stew of filth this table has probably become. She goes easily enough, away from the noise and the clamor and the dog smell, just a pair of big round eyes beneath the lip of the bag.]

You be good, now. No running off to have adventures without me. [He reaches to scratch her once under the chin, before the lilt drops from his voice.] Perhaps she's defending my honor from you now. I wasn't told there was a possibility of dogs being involved.

[He clucks his tongue, trying to maintain his air of faux disappointment even as he's drawn back towards the center of the table.]

Also, I'm fairly certain this makes us sworn enemies of some kind.

Are you quite sure? You did just put away your kitten on my behalf. In Anders speak that seems more like a declaration of eternal fealty than drawing staves at dawn.

[ He spread his hands out anyway, palms up. At this proximity their shoulders are pretty much aligned, a state of affairs more or less an accident on purpose; Hawke is definitely not going to complain. ]

But look, as you can see, no dog. Your honor remains intact. Although your virtue might be in question now that you lack feline shielding.

[ Disappointment, even the faux kind, rolls idly off his shoulders like water from a duck. If Anders had ever met Leandra Hawke he would understand the Big Leagues of Disappointment. As it is Hawke can't understand how nice this entire state of affairs actually is. The whole past present future kerfuffle aside, it's been ages since his life was simple enough to revolve around drinks with a person whose rapport feels this easy. Some of this must show on his face, since he can feel the corners of his mouth doing something idiotic. ]

I have to ask. What's this about?

[ Is he actually just going to touch Anders' earring--yes. ]

It works for you, don't misunderstand, but really. Boredom? Interest in pirates? Emergency pawn money?

["Cat ate the canary" would be the relevant turn of phrase, for the way the smile unfolds across his face. He tilts his head toward the touch, with a confident lift of his chin.]

I wouldn't say it was just for you. Putting my cat away, that is.

[He would not, under any circumstances, call himself a selfless man, even under circumstances where there isn't any other word.

This, though, no. It's a little bit to protect his cat from being inevitably crushed, and the rest so that he doesn't have an opportunity regretfully stolen away, should one present itself at some point.]

Anyway, I wasn't aware I needed a reason. It was.... [He pretends to think.] The third escape. First time I made it anywhere worth mentioning. I may or may not have had a bit too much to drink, I may have made a bet or several, one thing leads to another, you know how it is.

[Well, maybe not, since Hawke doesn't have an earring to show for it. But it's the principle of the thing—young and dumb and free to actually do something frivolous and vain if he wanted to.]

I thought it was fetching, and the templars made hilarious faces when they found me the week after, so I kept it.

[Also: pirates.]

[ Oh yes, Hawke remembers that banter, and don't think he hasn't pictured Anders as part of Isabela's crew. Hilariously. ]

Vanity is a reason. Motivates most of what I do, I can tell you that much.

[ The deaddest of pans. It's not just that, of course; he can hear the rest in the minute spaces between each word. He may never have been driven to pierce anything, but engaging something tiny and innocuous and entirely self-centered if not selfish--Maker, yes, he can understand that. To an extent that's probably what this is, and if so it's more a compliment to Anders than is expressible in words.

Tragically he has to take his hand back after that, but look, if he touches Anders' jaw a little in passing it's obviously right there. ]

As is anything that keeps the Templars on their toes, of course.

Edited 2015-03-26 04:03 (UTC)

Ah, my one true calling in life: making the templars bang their heads together like upside-down, angry buckets. If you and I are on the same page with that, then we'll get along swimmingly. Dog or no, even.

[It's not, really; he'd be happier if he never saw another templar in his life, probably. But that's not likely to happen ever in his entire life, even with the Wardens, and so it's always been satisfying to at least make their lives as difficult as possible, whether on the run or not.

All told, he's toeing the edge of drunk at this point, warm (literally) and bright (metaphorically). He doesn't quite realize the way his hand lifts to fiddle with his earring after the touch is gone.]

I'd say we should get you an earring, but it wouldn't work as well for you as it does for me, and that would just be awkward. Cleaner look is much better for you, anyhow. Not to worry, though! We can find some other misadventure to get into, I'm sure.

[ That actually does give him a moment's pause; he's not sure what all Anders knows about the future aside from the explosive parts. But really, it can't hurt to have some good news. ]

Well. On one hand the Templar order has mostly cannibalized itself, where I'm from. Though the ones left are more dedicated, stronger and crazier than any I've ever seen, and trust me, if you'd ever met Knight-Commander Meredith you'd know that's a bit like declaring this to be the wettest water you've even encountered.

[ ...so goodish news, right? He shrugs, one shouldered; naturally for effect it is the shoulder closest Anders. ]

On the other, I don't think you can be a family of three apostates without causing a little bucket-banging. Other children had the boogieman, Bethany and I had Templars. Probably why we never got into the habit of wearing robes.

[ Because look, it's just easier to flee pursuit if you're not wearing a skirt. He realizes at this juncture that his glass actually contains a little life-altering alcohol left in it and drains that, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after. ]

For the record I can think of a number of other misadventures involving holes. If that's your selling point.

[ Because of the earring thing, right? Right. Of course. (No.) ]

Ooh, we could plant a tree. Pitch a tent. [He leans his chin on one hand, eyes alight with humor, which might be the only thing that saves the expression from being called a leer.] Raise a flag? Plow a field? The possibilities really are endless.

[He could go on. And on. It's easier than acknowledging the issue of the templars, which he doesn't know at all how he feels about. Anything that suggests they might collapse in on themselves makes him feel delightfully, viciously vindicated—but it's hard to imagine anyone except mages paying the price for that.

Not that it matters. It's hardly his issue, ten years away. He has to tell himself that a few times and take a few extra gulps from his glass before guilt dims to a faint ache.

He's in leaning stages now, an amiable bump of shoulders turning into warm, heavy weight. The drink, probably, or maybe compensation for the small, petty stab of jealousy he feels at family of apostates.]

Your templars would have forced us to wear the really ugly robes, I'll bet. I have the utmost respect for any lady who's ever run away from a ball before, I know exactly how complicated picking up your skirts is. I dare you to race me in my robes, with or without your trousers.

[It was necessary to phrase it that way, yes.]

[ It's cool, Anders, they're all dead now! No need for jealousy. ]

Promises, promises. I bet you say that to all the boys.

[ This of that hearty stew of euphemism, though the totally silly reprimand hides none of the percolating amusement in his voice. It actually can't be overstated what a stark contrast this presents to the last few years of his life, and while Inquisition's hideous characterization aside he's retained his gently fatalistic optimism and ability to laugh, even he gets tired. In this case though, tired means mutual warm leaning, so ...he has zero complaints. They're close enough that his breath ghosts across Anders' ear, which is either totally on purpose or a nice side benefit. Who knows! ]

If I won this race, would I get a prize? A planted tree or a plowed field, for example.

Edited 2015-03-26 17:21 (UTC)

[He feels hazy and buoyant in a light-headed, happy way. He's drunk, he thinks, and it's wonderful. Between that, the seedy tavern, the awful whiskey, and the excellent conversation, it's all too easy to forget that Hawke isn't just a handsome mostly-stranger, from anyone else's perspective. It's easy to give a delighted little shiver, to sink into warmth and touch, to be, for the moment, as selfish as he wants—the person he knows himself to be, and no one else.]

Mm. I could consider it. [It's a slow creep of physical contact, with him. One moment they're shoulder-to-shoulder, and the next his fingers are curling into the fabric of Hawke's collar.] But in that case, I think we'd all go home winners, don't you?

Maker, I hope so. I'd hate to think I've left any unsatisfied acreage or forest behind me.

[ Because quipping is the name of the game, even if he's only dedicating half as much attention to his own cleverness as usual, normally crisp stream of commentary coming out in a dizzy murmur. In seven years spent running around Kirkwall he's certainly had both time and inclination to wonder what Anders would be like in this capacity, so there's a heavy bent here toward satisfying that curiosity. Hawke would like him with or without the current stream of sparks running up his clavicle, but one certainly helps the other. Thus maybe making them both motivated by selfishness, but--the intrinsic sin of selfishness is that it deprives everything around it, and in this case that's just a terrible bar.

Hawke does nothing in increments, especially not physicality. He doesn't touch often (although he remembers his parents did, remembers the usual ruckus of younger sibling roughhousing, just--somewhere between Malcolm's death and Bethany's that stopped), but when he does it's with purpose. Which is how he lines up the backs of two curved knuckles with the joint of Anders' jaw, and ducks in to kiss him like tumblers clicking in a lock. ]

[A low, satisfied hum bubbles up from somewhere in his chest. There's nothing quite like the snap of tension that comes alongside a well waited for kiss. It's one of his favorite things about kissing, just behind the way it makes his mind go blissfully, temporarily blank.

If it hadn't been Hawke, it would have been him; the first few moments are clumsy with how eagerly he returns it, lips parting, still half-smiling. Hands clutch at fabric, at the short hair at the back of Hawke's neck—anything to draw them close, closer, closer still. It's probably good that the cat got moved, in hindsight, or there might have been ages worth of trauma to recover from.

It's not a slow kiss, and not a gentle one. He revels in physical contact, drinks it in, takes every inch he's given and then some. There are any number of ways that could be explained: years spent stealing furtive kisses behind Circle library stacks, stints on the outside too brief to waste on slow burns, or a self-centered and hedonistic nature, if someone were feeling uncharitable.

Or maybe just that he's never been the sort of man who does anything halfway.]

(no subject)

no subject

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

i don't believe you

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)