This Hawke has never loved an Anders. Or an Andy. This Hawke has no particular feelings about the dead-eyed creep who knocked on his door in the dark of morning, only to start a robotic brawl in his hotel room. He's had fights in hotels before, but nothing so kooky and unprompted as this.
He could have loved an Andy, though. He likes a little fire. He likes a rebellious spirit, even if it's a somewhat pathetic one. And he does love a blond, especially a tall one. It's ships in the night here, and it's really too bad, because when you took out the Chantry, Kirkwall, and the high fantasy morals, when you took out the possession, the knives and the constant heat of battle, maybe it wouldn't have had to be so hard. Maybe it could have been a love you slipped easily into, like other people do. Not smooth sailing, but no executions. No disagreements over political stances, over enslavement and who was wronged more, and you're making a mess of this party, Anders.
They could have hit the town and had a pint, had a roll around, had a damn good time cruising across state lines and falling into each other. Learning new things about love.
Instead, Hawke recognizes the kill shot for what it is, and the mirth starts to crack in his face. He pushes Anders off, bodily. He trips, flopping backwards into the bed, then onto the floor, holding his gut and wheezing.
There's no need to stick around. He'll be dead within minutes. It's done for.]
[ maybe. maybe maybe maybe. things don't always have to be so hard.
but without all of those layers of flesh on bone, without the politics, without the chantry, without the mages, without kirkwall, without a lifetime of violence and fury, without knives and heat and justice, is he anything at all? a healer who can no longer heal, a mind that can never stay still for long enough to settle, a bad joke or two. A fondness for cats. a coward's heart. That's about it. certainly whatever is left after all of that is not worthy of love.
(he had always called hawke the one bright light in kirkwall. but hawke was not the one who had a lit lantern above a healer's door in a place called darktown.)
hawke is done for. whoever is left in this body, the victor's, is alone. if he had any feelings at all, it's that he misses justice. they had promised each other that neither of them would ever be alone again. maybe that's what true love is.
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
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This Hawke has never loved an Anders. Or an Andy. This Hawke has no particular feelings about the dead-eyed creep who knocked on his door in the dark of morning, only to start a robotic brawl in his hotel room. He's had fights in hotels before, but nothing so kooky and unprompted as this.
He could have loved an Andy, though. He likes a little fire. He likes a rebellious spirit, even if it's a somewhat pathetic one. And he does love a blond, especially a tall one. It's ships in the night here, and it's really too bad, because when you took out the Chantry, Kirkwall, and the high fantasy morals, when you took out the possession, the knives and the constant heat of battle, maybe it wouldn't have had to be so hard. Maybe it could have been a love you slipped easily into, like other people do. Not smooth sailing, but no executions. No disagreements over political stances, over enslavement and who was wronged more, and you're making a mess of this party, Anders.
They could have hit the town and had a pint, had a roll around, had a damn good time cruising across state lines and falling into each other. Learning new things about love.
Instead, Hawke recognizes the kill shot for what it is, and the mirth starts to crack in his face. He pushes Anders off, bodily. He trips, flopping backwards into the bed, then onto the floor, holding his gut and wheezing.
There's no need to stick around. He'll be dead within minutes. It's done for.]
no subject
but without all of those layers of flesh on bone, without the politics, without the chantry, without the mages, without kirkwall, without a lifetime of violence and fury, without knives and heat and justice, is he anything at all? a healer who can no longer heal, a mind that can never stay still for long enough to settle, a bad joke or two. A fondness for cats. a coward's heart. That's about it. certainly whatever is left after all of that is not worthy of love.
(he had always called hawke the one bright light in kirkwall. but hawke was not the one who had a lit lantern above a healer's door in a place called darktown.)
hawke is done for. whoever is left in this body, the victor's, is alone. if he had any feelings at all, it's that he misses justice. they had promised each other that neither of them would ever be alone again. maybe that's what true love is.
he turns around to head back to the car. ]