#post-da2

“So, do I get a reward for behaving, or…?”

Fenris didn’t bother looking at him from where he stood near the mast, arms folded, “You managed an entire two days on land without starting a bar fight. Truly, a remarkable achievement.”

Adrian placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “That’s something. You could at least acknowledge the effort.”

From across the deck, Isabela’s laugh rang out, sharp and knowing. “You stole someone’s hat, Hawke.”

Adrian scoffed, turning to face her with a scandalized expression. “Alright, first of all, it was a terrible hat. I was doing them a favor.”

Fenris sighed, shaking his head, already regretting indulging this conversation. “And second?”

Adrian grinned, eyes glinting in the afternoon sun, radiating pure, unrepentant mischief. He reached up, adjusting the very same stolen hat atop his head, tilting it at a rakish angle before flashing Fenris a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

“I look amazing in it.”

Fenris turned away—quickly. But not quickly enough. Adrian caught it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the barely concealed effort to suppress a laugh. The way his shoulders tensed, the slight shift of his weight, the unnecessary nudge at a coil of rope with his foot as if it had suddenly become fascinating.

Adrian’s grin sharpened.

Victory.

"So," he drawled, eyes bright with amusement, "about that reward…"

Fenris, arms crossed, gave him a slow, measured look.

"You did not behave."

Adrian gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "I absolutely did. I didn’t start a fight—"

From across the deck, Isabela’s laugh rang out. "Because I dragged you out before it became a fight."

Adrian waved a casual, dismissive hand. "Details."

Fenris sighed, "You are not a child. You should not require a reward for meeting the barest standards of civility."

Adrian gasped again—louder this time— staggering back as if mortally wounded.

"Barest standards? Barest?" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "And here I thought you were proud of me. I was heroic."

Fenris’s ears twitched—drooped, ever so slightly.

He turned to Isabela, beseeching. "Can you not order him to be quiet?"

Isabela grinned, "Oh, no. This is far too entertaining."

Fenris turned back, leveling Adrian with that flat, unimpressed stare that Adrian loved so much.

"Stealing a hat is not heroic."

Adrian grinned. "I disagree."

"You would."

"Exactly."

He could see Fenris’s patience fraying at the edges, could feel the weight of his stare—the slight, telltale twitch of his fingers.

Adrian smirked.

Then, before Fenris could prepare himself, Adrian was suddenly very close.

Not touching, but just past his personal space—a threat more than an action, an invitation more than a challenge.

"You know," Adrian murmured, voice dropping into something much too smooth to be trusted, "if I had started a bar fight, would that have been worse? Or better?"

Fenris’s ear twitched twice.

Adrian grinned.

There it was.

"If me behaving gets me nothing," Adrian continued, entirely too pleased with himself, "then really, what’s the incentive?"

Fenris turned his head, met his gaze with a slow, measured look.

Unreadable—except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Adrian felt it.

The weight of Fenris’s stare, the way his jaw flexed, the way his fingers twitched at his side like he was holding himself back.

Restless. Calculating. Debating.

Adrian’s smirk deepened. "No answer? Interesting."

Fenris shifted forward—just enough that Adrian had to shift slightly to maintain the distance.

Adrian’s pulse jumped—but he held his ground, tilted his chin up in challenge.

"You want an incentive?"

Adrian’s grin widened. "Well, when you say it like that, I really want one."

Fenris moved.

Fast—too fast.

Adrian barely had time to react before his back hit the nearest mast, Fenris’s hand bracing against the wood beside his head.

Adrian swallowed.

Alright.

So that was not the worst outcome.

Fenris leaned in, voice low, steady. "Your reward," he murmured, "is that I do not throw you overboard."

Adrian grinned. "Aw, you’d miss me too much."

Fenris hummed, gaze flicking between Adrian’s eyes and his maddeningly smug mouth. "Would I?"

"Devastatingly."

Fenris’s fingers curled slightly against the mast.

Adrian heard the movement, caught the way his weight shifted forward, the sharp, assessing gleam in his eyes.

Almost.

Just a little further—

Fenris struck.

His hand shot up—quick, smooth, effortless—and before Adrian could process what had happened, the hat was gone.

"HEY!"

Adrian blinked, momentarily thrown.

Fenris tilted his head stepping back, inspecting the hat with faint distaste, turning it over in his hands. "You were correct," he said idly. "It is a terrible hat."

Adrian lunged. "Excuse you, that’s my hat."

Fenris took another step back. "No. It is stolen."

Adrian lunged again, but Fenris twisted out of the way, expression infuriatingly impassive.

"Give it back," Adrian demanded.

"Why?"

"Because it’s mine."

Fenris arched a brow. "You said it was terrible."

"Yes, but it’s my terrible now."

Adrian lunged again, but Fenris sidestepped, still keeping the hat just out of reach.

He stilled.

Fenris watched him.

Adrian smirked.

Plan B.

Deliberately, he tilted his head and let his expression shift into something far too pleased.

Fenris’s eyes narrowed.

"Alright," Adrian drawled, slow and dangerous. "You win."

Fenris’s ear twitched.

Suspicious.

Adrian stepped forward—not lunging, not reaching, just… slowly closing the space.

Deliberate.

Casual.

Fenris didn’t move.

Didn’t back away.

Adrian took another step.

Then another.

Fenris held his ground.

Adrian stopped just close enough to barely brush against him.

Not touching—but almost.

His voice dipped, low and effortlessly smug, as he leaned in—lips grazing the barest whisper against Fenris’s ear.

"You… should probably give that back."

Then, in a move too fast to track, Adrian snatched the hat right out of Fenris’s hand and bolted.

"HA!"

Anders gazes at me for a moment, the silence stretching onward, adding distance between us despite our lack of movement. Then his eyes flick to my right arm. “You’re bleeding.”

I glance down. “Still?”

“Shit.” He exhales heavily. “Sit down.”

There’s a small wooden stool nearby, and I take a seat to begin dismantling my armor. The undead managed to slice its weapon across the less-protected underside of my arm—I’m not sure when that happened—which explains how much I’ve bled, though I’m slightly alarmed that my arm was dripping throughout our conversation. When did the bleeding start again? Or had it never stopped? Is this why I’m feeling dizzy?

“Drink this.”

I didn’t hear Anders approach me. That’s concerning. I cautiously sniff the clay cup he offers; it smells, well, medicinal.

“It’ll help with your blood loss. You haven’t changed, have you.”

I don’t dare meet his eyes. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here accepting treatment.”

He grunts and reaches for my now-bare arm, the exposed gash angry against skin smeared crimson with blood. It’s worse than I expected. A thrill runs through my entire being when his fingertips make contact. He gently applies pressure to the wound while cleaning the skin around it with the damp cloth in his other hand. The faintest trickle of magic warmth flows from his touch; by the time he finishes cleaning my arm, the gash appears less fierce.

As I force myself to finish drinking the incredibly bitter concoction, Anders applies a poultice and wraps it with cloth to secure it in place. “Treat your arm gingerly for the next day or two. If you can.”

I finally meet his gaze, finding his eyes ringed with dark circles. “I will. I promise.”

Surprise darts across his face before wariness returns. “What will you do now?”

“Find a place to camp for the night. Unless this village has an inn of sorts?”

“The tavern keeps a few rooms. They’re less keen to take on strangers these days, though your aid to Corin on the road changes things.”

“Would you prefer that I leave the village tonight?”

A muscle flexes along his jaw. “You’re wounded and there’s undead about. Camping alone isn’t a good idea.”

He still cares enough to say that. “I’ll visit the tavern. I appreciate the advice.” I push myself to my feet with my good arm and wobble once upright, waving him away when he looks like he’s about to support me. I can’t accept that yet. Not with this maelstrom of feelings threatening to burst out of my chest.

He hands me the blood-stained pieces of armor we removed from my forearm. Great. I need to clean those the first chance I get. I nod once in gratitude and turn to the door.

“Thanks. For looking for me.”

I glance over my shoulder, unable to hide my astonishment. A new softness has eased the lines on his face. I manage a weak smile before I step outside.

The Warden-Commander was one of the very few people in Thedas who could make Anders feel even slightly sheepish.  He stuffed his hands in his pockets.  “Eight.”

“Eight. That’s perfect.”  He held up a box emblazoned with an illustration of topsy-turvy glassware.  “Would you have liked an alchemy kit?”

Anders simply stared.  Dae looked at the box.  “No?”

“What are you on about?” he asked, patience running dry.

“I’m trying to buy a birthday gift for an eight-year-old mage.”  He tilted his head.  “Well, overwhelmingly likely a mage, in any case.”

“What, some kid trapped in the Circle?” It wasn’t that he thought child mages were undeserving. It was that he couldn’t imagine Dae knowing one well enough to undertake this errand.  The Circles were a mess these days, anyway.  Breaking down right and left.  It was what he’d wanted, but at the same time, somehow not.  Hawke had been right about that—nothing ever fell out the way you planned.  It just kept going.

Dae scoffed at that idea.  “You clearly haven’t met his mother, if you think she’d let him end up there.  She grew up luring templars to their deaths for kicks.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never introduced me to to this charming lady.”

“I would, if I had the faintest idea where she is.  You’d like her but she’d surely hate you.  You shouldn’t feel badly, though.  She hates everyone.”  He turned towards a shelf stacked with games, each piece carefully stained or painted. “A chess set is boring, right?”

“If she hates you, why are you buying her kid a gift?”

He smiled, to himself more than anything.  “Because she was one of my dearest friends.”

His brow furrowed. Verbal fencing wasn’t much like him, either.  “Come to think of it, how are you going to deliver this gift, if you don’t know where she is?”

“I’m not.”  

“That makes no sense.”

He shifted his weight, picking up a chess piece, contemplating it without really seeing it. “I’ve never met him.  His birthday would be sometime this month, so I just… get him something every year.”

“I don’t—”  Then he really saw Dae, staring down at the rook.  Oh.  Oh.

He put the piece back.  “Don’t think I don’t know how stupid it is.  There’s… simply not anything else I can do.”

Standing in the middle of the shop, comparing various toys and hunched in on himself with a feigned nonchalance so unlike him, Dae didn’t look so much like any of the things he actually was.  Just a shorter than average elf in worn armor and mud on his boots, staring down a hopeless task.

Dae backed him against the templars when they first met.  Barely knew him, no questions asked, just handed him a permanent way out. Like it was nothing.  He mentioned the dumb story about Mr. Wiggums, exceptionally careful to not make a big deal of how he was his only real friend and how hard it was to lose him, and the next thing he knew Dae somehow found a kitten and told him to take care of it, as if it were a big favor.  Come to that, he never saw him angrier than when he got back from being frog-marched to Weisshaupt after years of avoiding it, only to find the stand-in they sent had made Anders give him up.

When he and Briar fled Kirkwall, not a friend left in the world and and any number of people wanting them dead, Dae welcomed him back like he’d never left, greeted Hawke like an old friend, and stated flat out that the templars hadn’t managed to take the Keep yet but they were welcome to try.

A noise of disgust escaped the man’s throat, “Why did I agree to come again?”

Despite the frown, there was a distinct light in Anders’ amber eyes, a newfound brightness that Wyatt had not seen in their years spent in Kirkwall. Perhaps it was simply the sunlight reflecting in his honeyed gaze, but the healthy flush in his cheeks suggested it was more than that. 

The crunch of gravel under their boots as they walked was swallowed by the cacophony of voices, of doors opening then closing, and of wooden wagon wheels hitting the stone as they raced past. Tall shadows cast by market stalls and by the surrounding structures of Denerim’s village loomed over the center square and provided enough shade along their path to avoid much of the harsh rays and the bright glare of the sun, or at least for his fair-skinned companion. He chuckled, low and sincerely. 

“It was your idea, love. Remember? You said Denerim would have a wider variety of supplies and better quality. I wasn’t about to argue.”

“Well, you should have.” He replied, flatly with lips pursed and eyes narrowed as they observed the gathering crowd around the main thoroughfare.

He followed Anders’ glance towards the closest outcropping of stalls and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know about that. Could turn into an adventure of sorts!”

The heavy sigh he received in response said enough, but it was followed by words Wyatt knew were coming. “What if someone recognizes us? What-”

“What if the templars see us? What if they turn us in? What if, what if - honestly, Anders. If I worried about all that every time I so much as thought about stepping outside-”

“Yes, alright. Shut up. I get the point.” His voice betrayed his words as it cracked with the threat of a laugh and then a groan. “You’re right. Again. And it’s starting to get annoying.” 

Wyatt snaked an arm around his beloved’s narrow waist with practiced ease but he continued looking and walking forward. “Never. Now let’s go.”

It was seamless the way they slipped into the teaming group of milling bodies and moved with the flow of the crowd along the stretch of stalls. Fine silks gleamed in the light of the sun hanging high in the horizon, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafted through and settled in the market center and merchants continued shouting about their trades, yearning to be heard over their competitors. At some point, Anders strayed from his side, though not far, to peruse the wares of one stand in particular. Wyatt was content to let him browse, finding nothing of use for his own needs among the present offerings. Truly, just seeing the man excitedly spun up into a mumbling frenzy over things that only a healer would appreciate, made his heart thump in his chest. 

This is how it should be - he thought, relishing in the simple joy - not cowering in fear or hiding away in some remote village hoping they won’t be discovered.

It was a sharp peal of excited laughter that drew his attention away from the stalls in time to see a family pass by in the gap between the two of them. He let his eyes linger only briefly on the smiling face of the father, a tall weather-worn man with crows feet around his eyes and creases at the corners of his lips from smiling often. 

Broad shoulders supported a child with wild dark hair and eyes as blue as the sky his small hands reached for. A girl darted out from behind the tall figure with bouncing black braids and a smile to match her brother’s, staring down at her from up on high. Her giggles only increased as she careened into a taller boy with a mane of russet red and a face not unlike the others. They joined hands and trotted after a woman just ahead with a heaping brown basket on her arm and a gentle smile on her face. 

“Careful you two, do watch where you’re going!” She called as they continued their path around her in circles with the older child as the pursuant. Gravel sprayed from where their footsteps landed. And his father deflected with one arm while holding on to the boy riding his shoulders with the other. The warmth never left his eyes, their color a deep brown, like the rich Fereldan soil beneath their very feet. 

Pressure on his shoulders jerking him backward sharply pulled Wyatt from the glimpse into the past and he watched the strangers continue their journey through the market, no longer the vision of familiar faces he remembered. A rickety carriage noisily hurried by, narrowly missing him. “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t dabble in necromancy and I cannot heal you if you are a messy smear on the pavement.”

“Oh. Sorry!” He quipped with embarrassed laughter. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Anders snorted but pressed against his shoulder affectionately. “Cooper for your thoughts then?”

“Mmm, make it a sovereign and I’ll tell you my deepest fantasies.” Wyatt leaned into his lover, nuzzling against his neck playfully, causing Anders to sigh and swat at him with the arm that wasn’t cradling a sack overflowing with purchased goods.