Chapter Text
“There's a man going 'round takin' names,
And he decides who to free and who to blame.
Everybody won't be treated all the same.
There'll be a golden ladder reachin' down—
When the man comes around.
The hairs on your arm will stand up
At the terror in each sip and in each sup.
Will you partake of that last offered cup,
Or disappear into the potter's ground?
When the man comes around.”
—The Man Comes Around, Johnny Cash
**
It was a slow day at the Hanged Man.
Varric, Merrill and Isabela lounged about one of the big tables, idly playing Diamondback. Fenris perched nearby, sharpening his sword and ignoring the dirty looks Norah kept throwing him. Sebastian and Aveline had moved a little ways off to talk in quiet voices. If Anders really strained, he could hear…not a single word of it, unless they really were talking about nugshit and the price of hay.
He curled his fingers around his mug and refused to let himself watch the door. The only thing missing from their little gathering was Hawke—but then, Hawke liked to make an entrance.
“I should be at the clinic,” Anders said. They were the only ones here this early in the day. Even the Hanged Man’s most loyal drunks hadn’t swum their way out of last night’s binge to join them. “I have work to do.”
“You always have work to do.” Isabela tossed a coin into the growing pile at the center of their table. “It’s so boring.”
Anders tried not to bristle, recognizing the now all-too-familiar lunge of Justice testing his self-control. Joking. She’s only joking. “Yes, well,” he said as lightly as he could, tracing the well-worn paths of his old sense of humor. How depressing was it that the words he would have said only a handful of years ago now felt like lines in a play written by someone else? “We can’t all run around Kirkwall pantsless and fancy-free.”
“And why not?” she shot back. “It would do wonders for your glowy blue problem if you would just get that stick unjammed from up your—”
“Oh, look,” Varric said dryly, spreading out his cards. “A perfectly timed win to distract us from a brewing fight. However did I manage that?”
Merrill leaned forward. “How did you manage that? Oh, I will never win against the two of you.”
“Not until you get better at cheating, Kitten,” Isabela said. She winked at Anders before leaning in, pushing a card back into Merrill’s sleeve. “You’re flashing us, sweetheart.”
Anders let out a breath, glancing toward the main door before he could stop himself. There were a million and one things he should be doing this very moment—a million and one things they should all be doing—and yet here they were. Hawke had called and they had answered.
How very obedient of them.
“Whining like a dog for its master won’t make him come through that door.”
Anders hunched his shoulders and reflexively tightened his grip about the mug. He hated being caught mooning. “Should you really be talking about dogs and masters, Fenris?”
“I am no slave, abomination.”
He felt a warning pulse of blue-tinged fury. “And I am no—”
Aveline turned from Sebastian to level a cool glare at them. “The both of you would do well to keep civil tongues in your head,” she said. “You know how Hawke feels about you fighting.”
“We’ll not have fighting here!” Norah added. She snatched up a tankard from a pool of congealed vomit and shook it at them. “This place is already wreck enough. You want to off each other, you do it outside, you hear?”
“And, look—another well-timed win to diffuse the tension. No, really, however do I manage?”
“But how do you manage, Varric?” Merrill wheedled. “You have to go slower!”
Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, sending a burst of healing magic to his temples. Fenris was sniping at Aveline now, Isabela was leaning over the table trying to catch Sebastian’s eyes with the bared spill of her breasts, the smell of vomit and piss and bad beer was closing in around him, Justice was riled and demanding to know why they were sitting here and not doing the work they were sworn to, and—
Right, Anders thought, popping up out of his seat and grabbing his staff. Hawke can just track me down if he bloody well needs me. He turned to say his goodbyes, determined to clear out before he lost his temper, when the main door slammed open with a deafening crack.
And really. There was only one man in Kirkwall who could open a door so dramatically.
Anders’ fingers tightened about his staff at the sudden gust of cold wind and the prickle of awareness that raced up his spine. He turned, eyes drawn to the door where Hawke stood waiting, outlined by the early light. Dressed in massive dark armor, black hair pulled back into a queue, blue eyes blazing out of a devastatingly handsome—if scarred—face, Hawke looked every inch the cold-hearted, bloody-minded reaver Varric’s lurid tales painted him out to be.
And he knew it.
“Stop posing in the doorway,” Anders muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “We’ve all had plenty of time to admire you.”
“I haven’t,” Isabela purred.
Hawke’s lips twisted into a smirk as he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The sword he wore strapped to his back was nearly as tall as he was, hilt wrapped in black rawhide, flecks of dried blood visible along the pits and grooves. He unfastened his gauntlets and tossed them onto a table with a resounding bang, moving toward them with measured, tightly controlled grace.
Hawke was feared almost as much as he was loved. He’d cut a bloody swath through the city and won the respect of a Qunari Arishok before butchering him for the freedom of Kirkwall. Anders didn’t know anyone outside of this small circle who didn’t whisper Hawke’s name as if saying it aloud could call down the wrath of the Maker.
None of them knew the real man. The fact that he did—better than anyone—never failed to send a ridiculous thrill through his body.
“You’re late,” Anders scolded, propping his staff against the post again. He reached out when Hawke neared him, absently smoothing his palms over the black fur bristling between gaps in his armor. A very different thrill sparked in his blood when big hands closed around his wrists, just shy of too tight.
Hawke tipped his head down to look at him, faint smirk growing into a warm smile. Maker, it did something to Anders’ insides to see that huge, intimidating warrior smile so sweetly. “I ran into some trouble on the way,” Hawke said, turning his face to kiss Anders’ fingers. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Will I have to handle it later?” Aveline moved to take a seat, Sebastian at her heels. “Or did you take care of the cleanup, too?”
Hawke’s grin widened. “I wouldn’t want your guardsmen to feel left out, Aveline,” he teased. “I’m not half so cruel as that.”
“Maker preserve us from the day you decide to actually be cruel,” Varric said dryly. “Norah! Bring our barbarian friend a pint. If I know him—and by now, I’d say I do—he’s got thirsty work convincing us to follow him head-first into some bad idea or another.”
Merrill rested her chin in her hands, offering Hawke a bright smile. “I like your bad ideas!”
“Thank you, Merrill.” He squeezed Anders’ wrists before letting go, moving to take his seat at the unquestioned head of the table. Anders blindly followed, drawn like a lodestone. Justice had gone skittering back to wherever he waited when Hawke was around; Anders barely noticed the withdrawal anymore. He knew it should have scared him how easily he gave himself over to this huge, magnetic man. Sometimes, when Hawke wasn’t around, he was a little afraid. Not even the Warden-Commander had been able to cow him so easily.
Glancing around the room, seeing pairs of eyes fixed on Hawke, he had to admit that he wasn’t the only one willingly in his lover’s thrall.
He was just the only one who got to see him without all that armor.
“I don’t know that I’d call it a bad idea,” Hawke said, settling in, comfortable as always being the center of attention. “Gutting a den of slavers strikes me as a particularly good idea, actually.”
“You’re taking me,” Fenris cut in, leaning forward. His eyes practically glittered in his eagerness.
Hawke’s jaw tightened. “I’m taking whomever I damn well please,” he growled. Then the corner of his mouth curled. “But as luck would have it, you were the first to occur to me. Varric, I’ll need you to come along. Bring your lockpicks—we’re going to dig for treasure under a pile of bodies.”
“Bianca, my lockpicks and I are at your disposal.”
Isabela huffed an annoyed breath. “Why not me, Hawke? My fingers are just as deft as Varric’s. Maybe more so. Did I tell you about the time—”
Hawke cut her off. “You complain every time I ask you to pick a lock. I’m not in the mood to be called a slavedriver when I’m knee-deep in actual slavedrivers.”
“Oh balls.”
“We’ll need a mage,” Hawke continued.
Anders struggled not to volunteer himself like Fenris had. Hawke was a benign dictator, but he hated to have his will questioned. He joked and parried, but only a fool could miss the warning light in those lyrium-blue eyes.
He couldn’t even say why he was so desperate to come when just ten minutes earlier he’d been ready to heed Justice’s desire to leave. It was stupid to be worried about a man as powerful as Hawke. It was just as stupid to feel somehow less when he wasn’t around.
Hawke glanced at him, reaching out almost absently—as if Hawke did anything without the full weight of intent behind it—to press calloused fingers against the small of Anders’ back. “Merrill,” he said, ragged fingernails tracing a pattern down Anders’ spine. “How do you feel about taking point on this?”
Anders bit the inside of his mouth. Merrill beamed. “I’ve been working on that new spell you like,” she said cheerfully. “Soon I’ll be up to casting a death cloud, I’m sure of it.”
“That’s our Kitten,” Varric said.
Hawke’s hand remained heavy and grounding on him. “They’re hiding out in the northwestern stretch of the Wounded Coast,” he said, idly unsheathing a dagger as Sebastian spread out one of Varric’s many maps, fetched up from his room. “Along this bit of cliffs here. I’m expecting them to be dug in and waiting for attack.” Hawke dragged the tip of his blade lightly along the coast, mapping out their plan of attack. Everyone listened carefully, even the companions elected to remain behind. It was how things were—how they’d always been. It paid to be ready to step in for a last-minute substitution should they be needed.
He wouldn’t be needed today, Anders realized with a slowly sinking heart as the map was rolled away and a new round of drinks passed around. Hawke grinned and laughed at something Isabela said, heavily armored arm around Anders’ hips, big hand splayed possessively across his thigh—but he wasn’t talking about the mission anymore. He wasn’t turning over the details slowly, one by one. Everything was decided. Everything was set in stone. Anders would remain in Kirkwall, in his clinic, struggling not to pace as he waited for news and wondered if today would be the day the Champion of Kirkwall’s enemies got the better of him.
Stupid, besotted, melodramatic mage.
Midway through the second round, Aveline and Sebastian slipped out to take care of the bodies Hawke had left moldering in Lowtown. Isabela drifted off to find some trouble of her own. Merrill, Fenris and Varric were checking their armor and weapons and sorting through enchanted items. Only Hawke stayed still, leaning comfortably back in his seat of honor, palm rubbing a soothing circle against Anders’ hip.
Anders looked down at his lover, frustrated worry and love heavy in his chest. He reached out to brush back a strand of black hair, letting his thumb trace over the delicate shell of his ear.
“Stop worrying so much,” Hawke murmured. “I can practically feel you vibrating.”
Anders paused. Oh, Andraste’s tits. Just say it. “I wouldn’t be vibrating if you’d just let me watch your back. Take me with you.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Then, quick as a lightning chain, Hawke twisted, grabbed Anders’ wrist and yanked him down hard, sprawled across Hawke’s lap. One arm looped to catch him gently, the other penning him in tight—penning him against Hawke. It was a violent gesture tempered by great care, and Anders gasped at a sudden fierce surge of need. He twisted, struggling to get free even though he knew he couldn’t, knew he didn’t want to. Maker, he was helpless against Hawke, and they both knew it.
Hawke reached up to grip Anders’ chin, drawing his face toward him. Those intense blue eyes were fixed on his, unblinking. Peeling back layer upon layer as if he could skin him to the bone without a single touch.
Anders struggled not to arch against him, heat unspooling fast and wild in his belly. He was already hard, erection pressing hot against the drab grey of his robes. Not in front of everyone. Maker, please. Hold it together.
“Hawke,” he murmured, wincing at the way his voice quaked. Just one table away, Fenris snorted but didn’t look up from his blade. “…Garrett.”
“I don’t like to explain myself,” Hawke said.
Anders wet his lips. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”
“I don’t like to repeat myself.” Hawke dragged his thumbnail along the bristles of Anders’ stubble, up his jaw and to his temple. Anders’ hips bucked once before he scrambled for self-control. He was panting, Maker take him. One rough touch, a hard look, a warning caress and he was panting for it.
“I. Yes. I know.”
Hawke leaned closer, a physical presence that eclipsed everything else. Being near him was like staring into the sun—Anders felt blinded and dazed whenever he managed to look away. He moaned at the sudden hard grip of Hawke’s hand on his flank, Hawke’s fingers digging into his skin. The edge of the table bit into his waist and rough fingers were in his hair now, keeping him pinned. Anders twisted, thighs spreading wide in welcome, hips pushing up restlessly. He was so hard—so hard, so wet, so desperate—and he didn’t care that the others were here. Maker take the others; he needed to be touched.
Hawke’s expression didn’t gentle, though his eyes held nothing but warmth as he brushed his lips across the rasp of Anders’ chin. “Then don’t make me,” he said, nipping sharply. Anders shuddered, almost crawling out of his skin with his need.
Then hands slid out of his hair and he was being gently but firmly lifted out of Hawke’s arms and set on his feet. He swayed, catching himself against the table. He could have sworn dark motes were swimming before his eyes, as if Hawke really were the sun.
“I’ll be by the clinic when I return,” Hawke said, catching Anders’ hand to brush his lips along the inside of his wrist. Anders listed into that touch, heat crashing through his body in shocking, devastating waves. Hawke’s eyes cut to him and lines flashed briefly at the corners as he smiled.
Then Hawke lightly raked his teeth over pale white skin.
“Tonight,” he said, letting Anders go. Anders staggered back with a choked agreement, so hard he was aching. Varric was smirking down at Bianca and Fenris was watching him with a curled lip, open disgust writ clear on his face, but Anders didn’t care. Let him look. Let him judge. When push came to shove, Anders had the undivided attention of the most dangerous man in the Free Marches.
And Maker, it was going to be the death of him.