bakerstreet | On Your Doorstep

On Your Doorstep

They ended up on your doorstep, quite literally. Bloody, possibly. Bruised, most definitely, though the wounds may be mental. You probably don't know them from Adam, yet you couldn't find it in you to turn them away - whether they wanted you to or not. So you opened up your home, just for a little while.

But it's getting to be more than a little while. Both of you are finding a comfort zone, because you didn't simply open up your home. Admit it or don't, but you've opened up your heart all the same.

Their's is slowly following, if its reluctant at all.

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[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.

[Hawke had put him in this situation and would put him here again. Anders would be ready to help her when it happened - there was no question about if - and he knew it already. That doesn't make him any happier about it.]

That was a close one, Hawke.

[He wasn't about to say what would happen next time; he wouldn't let that happen. It would just help if Hawke would let him help her instead of coming after the fact. There was only telling her so much, and anyhow he'd do as much for her as he could.]

Good thing I'm here now.

It was, wasn’t it?

[That only makes her puff up with pride, as if it’s an accomplishment to be proud of. Not the response he was hoping for, more than likely. Clashing philosophies hard at work. It doesn’t slow her pace down at all, her footsteps staying sure in spite of the minor ache hounding her movements.

A slight pause has Hawke leaning her head against his ruffled shoulder, giving his arm a squeeze. Obviously the only way to fix this problem is through smothering him with affection and needling with a sing-song voice.]

Guess you’ll have to stick around in case it happens again.

[Fix the problem? Absolutely not. Unless Hawke took a vow of violence celibacy, he couldn't stop worrying. And even then it would be unlikely. But it helped, being near her, knowing that he's there if anything happens.]

I'll stay by your side for as long as you want me. [Which in retrospect sounded better than how it came out but was no less true. He quickly changes subject.] The Carta won't know what hit them.

[The thought of their magic blending together on the battlefield - or a Darktown sewer, it was just as apt - is enough to give him chills though.]

Mm, that might be longer than you bargain for. [And suddenly Hawke is very glad that her current position hides her face rather well, though she goes on to amend her own statement. When in doubt, make yourself the punchline.] I mean, I’m not even paying you to do it. Surely your charity can only run so far.

I think the Carta have scattered for now, at any rate. It looks like they even cleaned up the bodies. [Their progress through Darktown demonstrates as much, a distinct lack of corpses paving their way. The usual grime is present as always, of course, but at least there's no signs of a massacre dampening the mood.] Left some of the smaller chunks, though. I think that’s someone’s pinky...

[Anders chuckles, casting a soft smile her way, and uses a tone just as amused.] All those sovereigns I could have made by now!

[But no, there's no dwelling on it on it now.] Good thing for you, the cost of living in Darktown isn't as much as you'd think. And with the help of my secret benefactor, I'm not about to start charging now.

[He owed as much to Hawke as the refugees who donated what spare clean rags and crusty bread they had. Varric's and Hawke's connections mean security to carry on helping people who truly needed it, though. That was worth more than any money he could have made.

It would have been nice to have that money if for nothing else than to clean Darktown up a bit, though. Anders sighs as the finger and a chunk of unidentifiable flesh.]

I take it this is where it all went down?

More or less. A bit over here, a touch over there... But I’d say this is where the gist of it occurred, yes.

[Hawke’s relieved there was someone to clean up most of the mess, and the relief only runs deeper at not having to thank whoever was responsible. As much joy as she gleans from procuring evidence of her conquests, this is one story she can afford to spare the physical proof for. Comedy is tragedy plus time, and until said time has settled, she’ll only succeed in adding to Anders’ worries. The bragging will have to come later.

The usual teasing, however? That waits for no man.]

Would you rather stick around for a healthy debate over which pieces are what body parts, or hurry along home so I can properly express my gratitude?

[So Hawke isn't the most subtle person in the world. Anders knows this. He also knows her clumsy flirting is one of the most endearing things he's ever encountered and that it's becoming harder and harder to refuse the part of him that enjoyed it, hoped for it.

The urge to lean in and flirt back is strong, but he doesn't want to lead her on unless she's ready to commit to him and only him. Still, smiles at her fondly, not stupid, and uses that knowing tone of his.]

Hm, that depends. What are you suggesting?

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On Your Doorstep

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