bakerstreet | On Your Doorstep

[The door to Anders’ clinic is kicked open by a heavily armored boot with little to no warning, save for the weighted footsteps that led to the entrance with labored breathing trailing behind. Once the door is no longer an obstacle, the offending party is made obvious: One Marian Hawke, absolutely drenched in the blood of her enemies and herself alike. She leans against the doorway (supports her weight with it, really, but who can tell), and the grin that stretches across her face is wild and abandoned, even as crimson drips from those very same lips to stain the ground.]

You will not believe what just happened to me.

[HE HAS TO REPAIR THOSE DOORS, HAWKE. oh well. he'll just fit the door into its hinge and board it up with something rotting he has laying around... again.

truth be told, anders seriously needs to teach marian how to knock. every time the wood cracks and the hinges squeak, his rushing blood thrums in his ears, pulse all but still from how fast it races, and justice attempts to surface with the fear that today, today will be the day templars drag him to the gallows.

luckily today isn't that day. he releases the tense breath he didn't realize he was holding at the sight of hawke, and the cracks of blue subside. the edge remains, but his instinct to tend to hawke's wounds immediately kicks in. he hardly has time to mourn his door, not with hawke all bloodied and smiling. truth be told, he believes in hawke's ability and the possibility that most of that blood is most likely not her own, but the sight of hawke drenched in blood still overwhelms him when his mind jumps to the worst.

anders instantly begins to wipe at the blood, frowning, while channeling mending creation magic into her with his other palm. it's sloppy and impulsive at first, practically bursts of blunt healing energy, driven by his worry rather than professionalism, but it begins to shape into neat and precise waves as he assesses the damage. as loathe as he is to neglect his clinic, he worries for hawke's safety. at least he can do this for her.]

It wouldn't happen to involve a certain patrol of templars now, would it?

[now that would truly be unbelievable, though his spitting but hopeful tone suggests it wouldn't be unwelcome either. his nose wrinkles, in part because she certainly smelled like she was covered in them and part from the beginning of a smile. it's just like hawke to come in one step from death and a grin on her face.

once he's sure hawke can take another step without completely collapsing, he shuffles her in like a mother hen toward a cot.]

A tale Varric is sure to tell for ages, I'm sure. I don't want to begin to imagine what the other party must look like.

[If an innocent door must be sacrificed in the name of dynamic entrances every now and then, so be it. Plus, it was easier than knocking with bruised and bleeding knuckles. Mostly for style, though.

The hint of lyrium blue crackling at his eyes would raise cause for alarm, were she not in such a sorry state. As it is, she’s focusing her efforts on standing, thank you very much. The damage is extensive, but as long as she can retain consciousness she can make light of it, crack a joke and wave it off. That’s what she tells herself, anyway. The fact that she’s at Anders’ door (or remains thereof) and not trailing blood all the way to Hightown speaks volumes, more than she’d ever admit.]

No, but I’ll add that to the to-do list. Before dealing with the Dog Lords, but after telling Madam Lusine to stop sending me Carver’s bill for the Blooming Rose.

[Hawke rambles while he works with unfocused eyes and a voice that warbles every time she nearly loses her footing. The humor hides the pain, the words give her something else to concentrate on besides the worried hands and magic stitching her flesh back together and making her whole again. If his technique is lacking, it escapes her notice. The concern evident in his actions, however, does not. Her smile softens at that, the bold and brash nature of it relaxing into something more tame, just barely. Or maybe that’s from the blood loss?]

It was the Carta. There I was— Oh, should I do this in Varric’s voice? No shit, there I was— [She mimics his speech for a few beats, all gravel and scarcely concealed laughter] Minding my own business in Darktown. Which was my first mistake, really, because Darktown is full of people minding everyone else’s business. Due to a decision born of only the best judgment, I was alone. One of the little buggers noticed and knicked my staff to level the playing field. Smart plan, in hindsight, taking advantage of the fact that I was not paying attention to anything or anyone below knee-level.

What they didn’t account for was my right hook. Or the amount of knives on my person. Or that I can do magic without a staff, albeit not particularly well. Take your pick. I’d tell you all the gory details, but I’m sure you can see them just fine.

[She makes to gesture to the liberal coating of blood marking her from head to toe, only to realize Anders successfully cleaned her up while she spun her tale. And that she’s been led to a cot, and that she can feel her right arm again. Huh. The fight muddled her sense of awareness more than she thought.]

… Or not. That was fast.

[Count on Hawke to joke about taking care of Anders' templar problem and assume Varric's voice while beyond the point most would have simply passed out, if not worse. Hands hovering and now setting to work, Anders smiles fondly as Hawke recounts her fateful tale. Well, smiles as much anyone can while distressing deeply and wishing Hawke would bother to pack a health poultices or two.

Her chattiness is one way of monitoring her health, at the very least, and in truth he'd rather have a lively Hawke than a silent one. She's cohesive, for the most part, and her breath quickens, which is enough to allow Anders to breathe normally again. He works to the rhythm of her breath though it doesn't do much for his concentration, imbuing her wounds with warm creation energy and patching the flesh together in smooth, sweeping tides.

By the time Hawke finishes her story, Anders has her all patched up, excepting a few areas he double checks - triple checks - and nitpicks. Better to be extra careful than allow a small oversight to develop into a worse injury later on. He carefully places her demonstrative arm back to a relaxed position.]

And so our hero lives to fight another day.

[He teases but sighs deeply once his task is completely finished, weariness noticeable. It was indeed a quick job and he poured all he could muster into it. This time it's him swaying to get a steady foot.]

Does it hurt anywhere else? The soreness might last until tomorrow. You'll need plenty rest and fluids in the meantime, so do try to take it easy. Absolutely no more Cartas for tonight - doctor's orders!

[Though knowing Hawke, taking it easy is the last thing she'd do.]

[With her wits no longer confined to a clouded stupor, Anders’ own exhaustion registers on Hawke’s radar clear as day. It hardly comes as a surprise, considering the level of damage he had to reverse to get her in working condition. The expectation does little to diminish her underlying discomfort, however, and while she won’t voice any unease or guilt over it, she will tug at his sleeve, patting the space next to her on the cot.]

And if our hero can do it sitting down, so can you.

[She’s lucid, eyes sharp and head clear, and that’s more than enough. There is fatigue set in her bones, a dull ache thrumming under her skin, but the creation magic did its job. The wounds are mended. Her body is simply protesting being torn asunder and then forced together again in such a short amount of time, that’s all. Hawke holds out both her arms, now, splaying her fingers wide, turning them this way and that. (Sorry, Anders, staying still is not her strong suit.)]

If anything else hurts, the tingling sensations are completely drowning it out. Is that a thing they advertise when you learn healing? The tingling? Because they should. It’s nice.

[She moans in an exaggerated fashion when he chimes in with his reprimand, as if being told to take it easy was paramount to a demand to do her chores or eat her vegetables. Taking things seriously is yet another talent she lacks. Luckily, her flair for the dramatic more than makes up for it, as she demonstrates with a hand coming to rest on her forehead, looking up at the ceiling.]

I’ll try, but it won’t be easy. I still have to get home, somehow. Who knows what kinds of characters I’ll come across on the way there?

[A gust of wind could push him over as easily as Hawke kicked in his door, so he gives easily. He'd protest that he's no hero but he's too busy laughing nervously. It was something he intended just to lace it in to take the edge off the dull recovery pains, but it seems he went a bit overboard.]

The apprentices would have had a much better time if they did. Let's just say I picked it up along the way. Gives the patients an extra spring in their step.

[Anders would offer one of his cots until he trusts she's well enough to fight Carta thugs, a coven of blood mages, and a pack of Crows on her way home but, well, between Kirkwall's sewers and Hawke's estate, it's kind of a no brainer. He fixes an unimpressed gaze on her dramatics, but matches the tone of her banter.]

Too bad there's not a wanted mage around to make sure you get home safe and sound. [His tone relaxes, as he gives her a cheeky grin.] You didn't think I would send you off alone all a-tingle, did you? I happen to be more considerate than that.

[She rewards Anders’ jest with a good jab to his side, hand-delivered by a knobby elbow. It’s light-hearted and good-natured, mirroring the tone of talks of tingling, and if the lack of force behind the prodding doesn’t convey as much, the mirth in her eyes certainly does.]

You’ll have to teach me that one. I bet I could put it to good use. [Her lip curls, gaze gleaming at what comes next because she is incorrigible, this one] Or bad use, depending on your definition.

[Hawke is a hero born of humble beginnings, and she holds an absurd fondness for even the deepest recesses of Darktown in her heart, crime and grime and all. But, you know, cushy bed. Warm blankets. These things tend to win out. The idea of the clinic’s patients ogling her in all her vulnerable glory doesn’t exactly sit well, either. She meets his offer with skepticism and a quirk of the eyebrow, though there’s relief in it, too. And is that a hint of gratitude? Maker forbid.]

Well, I’m sure there’s at least one working pair of legs between the two of us. I’m willing to give it a shot. We’ll need to come up with a good story, though. One that involves less dwarves. Maybe more Qunari?

Can you have one without a little bit of the other?

[His grin manages to split just a little wider before he looks away, a pink dusting his cheekbones. He wasn't helping his whole don't get attached to people lest it come before the cause of mages thing, was he? Right, back to work.]

Oh, I think we can manage. [He groans a little while standing up, a distinct crack of his back, and extends a hard to her.] It's no Arishok but you can't go wrong with the Qunari. You are the champion, after all. Just so long as we don't encounter any more "Qunari" on our way.

Touché.

[The reaction that elicits is positively wicked, leaves her lingering on the word for longer than necessary with that same lip curl etched in deeper like a tease, and if her own cheeks are tinged red, well. That’s a trick of the light and nothing more.]

Once they see I’m in good company, I imagine the mindless beasts will think twice. And the Qunari, too. [Hawke takes his hand, pulling herself to a stand in one fluid motion, and… Proceeds to see stars, vision swimming. She does it too fast without paying mind to her condition, and the result leaves her overcome with vertigo, tumbling forward rather than upward as her breath catches in her throat. Smooth.]

[The same could be said about Anders, really. He knows it's dangerous to flirt freely like this, but he'll stop. Eventually. So he says to himself.

Anders was expecting some light hearted banter on the way, but instead he catches her before she can fall face-first to the ground, eliciting a startle. It's only when he's steadying her in his arms that he thinks of that eventually. He attempts to move her upright but refuses to let her go until he's absolutely sure.]

Hawke? No, don't you dare!

[He feels frustration at her stubbornness but is unable to criticize it. His only priority is ensuring her safety, and he clasps a palm to her jaw, shooting a burst of rejuvenating magic into her. His frenzied remarks are more a matter of reassuring himself more than they are actual encouragement of Marian.]

Come on, Hawke! What's a few carta to the Champion?

[It doesn’t take her too long to right herself with Anders’ help, and she regains her footing with trepidation, even if she has to all but cling at his robes to do it. It does take longer for her to gather her bearings enough to speak, as she has to ignore the ground lurching at the corners of her vision to do so. Her voice wavers slightly, conflicting with the meaning of the dismissive message, but she is nothing if not determined.]

Don’t get your knickers in a twist. A bout of dizziness never killed anyone... Probably. I just need to stop seeing two of you.

[The surge of magic sends her eyes widening, blinking rapidly to adjust. Hawke wants to claim he’s overreacting, though the bloodstains she so kindly left at his doorstep beg to differ. She decides to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze to demonstrate that she’s fine, instead— It only takes her swatting the air first once or twice to make it there.]

See? Good to go.

[Yeaaaahhhh... He's so totally not convinced. He sits her down again, and honestly he'd be lying if he said he didn't stumble down beside her as well.]

Let's not make today the day we find out whether or not it's possible. Why don't we take a moment? At least until the world stops spinning.

[The last thing they needed was for some rogues to spring on them with his mana reserves drained. When he's sure he can walk without falling, he shuffles to a corner of his clinic/luxury Darktown residence. Anders returns with two poultices, offering one to her. He has to be careful about giving out his reserves with as many patients as he sees, but they can both agree this is an exceptional case.]

Here, this should do the trick.

[He downs his poultice with a slight wince. The reserves he keeps stocked are potent and not nearly as delicious as others, but they get the job done. Even if it does come with head throbbing.] Still seeing two of me?

I’m beginning to think you just want to keep me here. But fine, fine— If you insist. Let it be known that this was your idea.

[Hawke follows his lead regardless, easily corralled into staggering to a more stationary position. All bark and no bite seems to be the theme of the day, at least where her exhausted state is concerned.

For once in her miserable life she’s content to let silence reign, hushed save for measured breathing, in and out, in and out. She leans heavily against Anders up until she doesn’t, tilted off-kilter by his sudden departure, and she sits up straight at the realization with no small amount of discomfort. The spell is effectively broken when the poultices are produced, her face puckering before he even offers one. Such maturity, such wisdom.]

Right, and taste of deathroot all the way down. But if it does the job...

[She wraps her hand around the bottle, recoiling all the more as she does so, and swallows the contents with haste, lest she think twice. The intensity of it sends her head shaking rapidly before it snaps up, her mop of black hair settling in more of a mess than it was before. A sharp exhale, an unnecessary pause followed by eyes narrowed in a squint put on for show, and then:]

I see... Two eyes. And one nose and one mouth, which is pretty standard fare, or so I’m led to believe. [Her free hand reaches out to pat his face for emphasis. Look at all those body parts she can see. Aren’t you proud.]

[He may or may not enjoy her presence in his humble abode more than his other patients and he may or may not have tingled with every moment she leaned against his feathers, but he reminds himself this is strictly business. No time for his heart to go pitter patter when he had Hawke nearly falling over. He smirks a little at her disdain for the drink, though that might just be his face reacting to the strong after flavor.]

I never said it would be pleasant.

[Which he could say about many things, honestly. Like their current predicament. Against his better judgement, he finds himself pressing his face against the hand pawing against his face ever so slightly. His forehead is sweatier than he noticed, a realization that makes his cheeks slightly hot. He'd been so caught up in making sure she was taken care of that he hadn't thought much of himself.

He pulls away, instead placing fingertips warm with magic against her temple. It doesn't take a lot of mana to a quick check, and he'd like to be sure. After a dizzy spell like that, it doesn't hurt to be cautious. The physical contact is just an added bonus.]

And how do you feel? No light headedness? Headaches?

[Hawke almost preferred the ignorance that came with copious amounts of blood loss. Lucidity brings with it a social awareness that has the beginnings of guilt gnawing at her. He’s too selfless and she’s too selfish, which dictates that she shouldn’t care in the first place, but she does. Her greed doesn’t factor in feelings in all their complicated splendor, the affection in a touch or a smile or a face red from exertion, and as a whole it’s terribly inconvenient.

The magic should assuage his worries, at least. There is weakness there as a result of pushing her body to its natural limits, but that’s only to be expected. The cuts are closed, her blood is pumping, and oxygen is flowing. It’s the aftereffects she has to deal with. Her dismissal of her own mortality likely does nothing for Anders' nerves, of course. The bottle is dropped, the sweat is wiped off on those fluffy feathers of his (so considerate), and an expression with too much assurance for her own good is flashed his way.]

I doubt I’ll be able to take on a horde of darkspawn any time soon, but I’ll survive.

[She drapes her hand over his— the one sending magic pulsing through her brow, to be specific— and moves to pull it away.]

... Then again...

[Except that she doesn’t. Instead, she applies the slightest bit more pressure to the pads of his fingers, looking up at him through her lashes and feigning innocence while she knows exactly what she’s doing.]

You’re the healer here, not me. If you think more tests need to be run, who am I to say no?

[His feathers can take it. That's what they're there for after all...catching the sweat and other fluids of patients.

His smirk matches her coyness tic for tac.] There are a few things I could try to be absolutely certain...

[He cups her jaw, sliding his fingertips to her pulse point just beneath it. He lets his hand lingers as her blood begins to pump quicker, now somewhat torn. He shouldn't be indulging in this flirting, even if Hawke was welcoming it. She didn't know what she was bringing upon herself if she kept persisting.]

Your pulse is picking up. [He could go for it. This could be it. He could use some line about needing to do a full check up and push the tension that had been so thick between them. He'd done it before.] I... [But his hand drops and he takes a step back. Hawke is too important to have her tangled up with him more than she already is, as tempted as he is.] I have an herb for that, if you'd like.

[Now this? This she can live with. It’s different than hands of healing working their magic out of duty and concern. There’s something more deliberate to the fingers tracing her jaw, and of course it sends her heart beating faster, it’s only natural.]

Is it? I hadn’t noticed.

[She waits with bated breath, and then… Her face falters for a moment, gears turning as she processes the unexpected reaction. No, unexpected isn’t the right word, not really— it’s typical, routine. It stings anyway, pronounced as he pulls away. Hawke’s own fault for adding a dash of hope to the mix, being swept up in the moment.] An herb. Yes. Right. [She plasters on her familiar grin, muted and weary but present nonetheless. This is where it shines, after all. It’s better used to mask the emotional ache over the physical.] Unless it’s applied topically, I think I’ll have to pass. I can still taste that potion.

Yes, well. You could wash out the taste of deathroot with...deathroot.

[Yes, he's realizing that was a terrible attempt to pass off his mishap. It's not like he's subtle, what with all the longing expressions he's cast upon her over a game of Wicked Grace, but he still can't give into his whims if it means putting Hawke in the way of danger.

Hawke reacts as cheerfully as can be expected and he sighs a self-pitying sigh as he makes his way toward the door she busted in. Decidedly not looking at her as he sorts through the splintered pieces, he attempts to piece together a provisional replacement.]

We should go before any other stray patients decide to wander in.

[Hawke bounces back fast enough, able to stand without dizziness sending her crashing to the floor, so. Progress. This is nothing insurmountable. She prefers the looks of longing to no looks at all, certainly, but getting out of the clinic is more of an immediate priority, even if she has to deal with the underlying current of tension in the meantime. Besides, the open air can work wonders for that.

She gives him some space, wandering a few steps behind and noting the remains of her grand entrance. She should probably take responsibility for that… Although that would require some semblance of shame.]

Or before the remains of your door spring to life and run away at the sight of me.

[She kicks a stray piece of the door, sending it skidding across the floor to rest at Anders’ feet. Helpful.]

[So helpful. He grabs the wood gingerly and adds it to the pile. He can slather it with sticky gum salve all he wants but it's still a lost cause. Her little remark makes him crack a smile though.]

I'll have to warn all my future doors about you.

[He has a heavy sheet he drapes over the desk when he runs out of cots, which he ties to the hinges. It's a sad stand in for the door but makes the meaning clear enough.]

Shall we?

You haven’t been already? Well, there’s your first problem.

[Rest in peace, ruined wooden fragments. We hardly knew ye.

Hawke makes no effort to help the door situation—even if she wanted to, she would probably only make it worse. She does wait patiently, however, though the fidgeting might indicate otherwise, and by the time he’s ready to depart she’s there and raring to go, extending an elbow for Anders to take. Because walking with linked elbows is classy, and in case exhaustion takes over on either of their ends it offers some support. The proximity and potential to cut through the tension doesn’t hurt, either.]

We shall.

[Anders gives her elbow a blank stare before resigning to it with a tight but fond grin. Resigning is perhaps too strong a word given he swiftly he links his arm in hers.]

I'd almost think you wanted to take a stroll around Darktown! What would your mother say?

[He steps over a drunkard's leg. Romantic. Most of Darktown's citizens are holed up in what little safety they have - not unlike Anders had been - and those left are puttering around or passed out. The ones that attack don't have the civility to be obvious.]

It's late. What were you doing fighting the Carta at this time of day?

Oh, I don’t know. Something about parading around like a hooligan, maybe? Not behaving as a proper noble should?

[Or a million other complaints that all have merit. Hawke’s reputation is… Colorful, to say the least.

She dismisses the idea as readily as she brought it up in the first place with a flippant wave of the hand, carrying on with a spring in her step and a care-free attitude that doesn’t quite mesh with the dismal scenery. It’s easy to ignore fatigue when the conversation is good and the companionship is better.]

I’m always fighting someone at some time of day. Crime never rests, you know how it is. The fact that it’s late is the very reason I was doing it alone. I’d already seen everyone off for the day. And then they pounced, and then I pounced, and then they were no more. The end.

You could have come to me. You know I wouldn't turn you away. It doesn't matter how late it is. Justice never sleeps.

[His lips quirk at the double meaning, but he means every word of it. His tone shifts back into seriousness, arms stiffening around her elbow.]

If something had happened to you... I don't know what I would do. Knowing I was so close, that I could have done something about it... Don't make me worry like that.

I got there eventually, didn’t I? That’s the important thing.

[No apologies or promises to be found here, only subtle misdirection and ripe excuses. Reckless behavior comes second-nature to her, and it’s not an easy habit to break. She pats his elbow, all bolstering smiles lacking the serious disposition of his own projection, blasé in comparison. For someone who came so close to a brush with death, it’s a bit unsettling.]

Besides, it’s not as if I did it on purpose. That’s what the “surprise” in “surprise attack” means. Suppose I could have run off mid-battle, but then it would have been me at your door plus all those dwarves. Very messy. Way more collateral damage. I think it turned out alright.

On Your Doorstep

because this would happen constantly

literally an average day in the life of anders omg

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