#shaw.

" oh is that SO? "

What a bombastic and joyous laugh to follow such an outward response. Bought. Now why would Nathaniel Essex need to be bought out by Sebastian Shaw? No, no, why, he wondered--or perhaps was it possible that...?--would Shaw debate such a thing. If anything--if anything--Nathaniel would find far more of a benefit in buying Shaw. Not the other way around. No amount of monetary value could be enough for Essex, not truly.

Not that he ever needed it. His ambitions in sight, just in reach. How he could hold them in his hands, tightly and never let go. Nails like claws digging into them, refusing to loosen.

" no, no, i'm afraid i can't! but why would you want that, shaw? do you? do you want me? do you want my help, perhaps? have i sparked your needs! have you finally seen my usefulness? "

                           REBOOTING ... ... ...

                                    PLEASE WAIT ... ... ...

     ERROR: ASSET_UNKNOWN.

                      the mirror shatters under the heel of her palm and spiders outwards. there’s a buzz in her head that won’t lift, like a cloud that masks the steaming shit that lies underneath it -- static, cold, her fingers feel numb and her palms are sweating all the same, and the blood dribbles from a deep cut across the breadth of her knuckles. (you’re going to kill them. semper fi. be a good little soldier. where is the machine?)

the knock is timid, shallow, and shaw can only imagine the barest brush of root’s index knuckle cracking against the door. she doesn’t sleep much, and nor does root, but the heavy THUMP followed by the shatter of glass into the sink is enough to wake the fucking dead. wake me up. wake me up. wakemeupwakemeupwakemeup. 

she blinks at the blood and watches it drip down the peaks of her fingertips into the bowl, and it still doesn’t hurt. (it must be the drugs, she thinks. or the buzzing in her head.) the door opens slowly.

@quiprava​ | non-sexual acts of intimacy: accepting!!

They were travelling light to see Avernus. Shaw preferred it that way. After so long as a fugitive or trying to avoid Darkspawn, any group larger than ten set his teeth on edge. Being around the mage again, travelling through the cold rain, it almost felt like back then. ( how wretched was he that he looked back to the Blight and felt nostalgia? )

Soren Amell, a proper lord now, Warden-Commander of all Ferelden, had his own tent. But Shaw didn’t think- he rarely thought- before he ducked under the sturdy canvas flap. Privacy was as foreign a concept to him as peace; luxuries meant for other men.

So, Shaw did not ask permission to enter the tent. It all felt too familiar to their past, when they shared a tent or close enough, when the world needed to be saved and it felt impossible. ( It was impossible. ) But they did it, led by the young mage who now sat on his cot with his head in his hands, chest heaving in sobs.

Shaw had never run from anything in his life-

No, that’s a lie. 

He ran to the Anderfels. He ran from facing his shattered homeland and own broken heart. He ran and left the Warden-Commander with no one to watch his back, and the young mage faced impossible odds- again- and this time utterly alone.

What was it, then, about Warden-Commander Amell that made him want to run? He wanted to turn heel and leave the tent without letting the Hero of Ferelden knowing he saw this moment of weakness. He wanted to forget the way his stomach dropped at the soft sound of the mage’s sobs. He wanted to hate the man who shared the final night with the woman he loved, the damned maleficar- - 

Maybe it was his own cruelty that made him step into the tent and close the distance between them. Soft, his armor off and only a small blade on his back. It was late, the rest of the camp asleep except for the man on watch. Shaw should have been, too, but- - well, it didn’t matter.

Shaw didn’t think- he rarely thought- when he took a knee before the damned maleficar. ( A half foot right before Soren. It was cramped in the tent, Shaw couldn’t stand fully, he- - ) 

“Soren.”

you hear the roll of duct tape as you skrrrrrrch it apart and wrap it around the width of your thigh through your jeans. you’d take them off, but you don’t want to give root the satisfaction. finch keeps her boarded up, locked in a prison cell of her own making -- there are books around her, anything she might want to read, but there’s still a metal cage and a quickly-grabbed bottle of whiskey between them that you don’t want to think about.. you vowed you’d shoot her -- hard, fast, and not in the leg, and whether she’s in and out of institutions or not, you don’t trust a word she says. 

bullshit connection with a goddamn computer aside, unless root is a secret doctor, you’re more qualified to deal with the through-and-through shot to your thigh. (missed anything major -- no arterial spray, that’s a good thing, no numbness in your toes, another good thing. everything’s coming up roses and you’re a shot of whiskey away from dousing the hole through your leg and raising it ‘til the ebbing throb of pain leaves you alone.) huh. you thought she’d be into this shit.

             “paid a little visit to your friend.”    paid a little visit. you should see the other guy reeks in her words, and you might hear the splatter of liquor slapping against the cold, hard concrete of the floor beneath your leg, and you might wince, letting out nothing more than a sharp breath between your teeth because holy fuck that hurts, but you don’t let on much more than that. you’ve been in worse positions. you’ve fucked up worse and came out fighting even better. 

Shaw was... different in Denerim. It was subtle at first. He took point as soon as they were within ten leagues. He pointed out landmarks, then told their stories. Then his postured changed- his chest puffed out a bit more, his scowl softened by degrees. 

By the time they made it in through the gates, he was near unrecognizable as the sullen Warden who would glare at anything that was unfortunately enough to get his attention. There was some discussion, started by Shaw, about how to handle it if he was recognized. “I’ll need you all to just let me handle it.” 

“Sh-shaw?!” One of the guards recognized him from his youth, another child of the gutter who took up arms to find a better place. “Linshaw Frain!” He left his post and scampered to stand before the warrior.