The premise of the meme is simple. Two characters, lovers, have been separated for a time. How long is up to you, as is the reason for the separation. Was it unwilling - an imprisonment, a required journey - or because of a choice one of the characters made? The reason may, of course, color the reunion, and somebody may be pretty miffed, with good reason. Still, the theme is the same: intimacy after being apart.
This meme is mostly geared towards being a smut meme, but nobody will judge you for just doing so heavy fluff.
Marian Hawke had never intended to be away for so long but the work of the Inquisition seemed to never be done and their need of help spurred her to action. Varric had always kept her informed while she travelled, finding news of Corypheus and trying to figure out the best course of action, especially with the Grey Wardens going missing (and going crazy). She never wanted to be too far from Anders, they had been through too many things to name together but with what she now knew as the fake Calling and the mere fact that he had blown up the chantry in Kirkwall, she thought it would be best if he laid low for a while.
So when all was said and done, Stroud gone, Corypheus dead and the Inquisition celebrating, she knew it was her time to go. Varric would always know where she would be, she couldn't leave him in the dark for too long. He was her best friend, it would be unheard of but she wanted, no, needed to get back to Anders. Marian made the trek back in haste to their home. By the time she arrives, she's exhausted and pushing open the door with a bit of effort because she shuts it behind her a little harder than intended.
Life without Hawke is as dull and dreary as life before Hawke seems to him, now. He would have gone - should have - had she not decided for both of them that it was better he didn't. It's the first thought in his head every morning, the last at night, and it occurs three or four times (at least) throughout the tedium with which he fills his days. Before, of course, he found some worth in tending the house, its small garden plot, even in looking after Hawke's aging bear of a mabari (an unadmitted amount, but still). Now it all feels like nothing more than going through the motions. Like that last year in Kirkwall, only with a needle of anticipation caught in his gut, that waiting feeling, to accompany the helpless dread. The not knowing.
He alternates days, hoping for word and praying for none, by bird or messenger or familiar faces alike. That can only go one of two ways, and the worse he believes less by the day he could ever bear. He writes a few letters, himself - because writing is easy to fall back on, a good enough way to fill the time - but none of them are sent anywhere but into the basket with the rest of his scraps, crumpled pages, and old notes. Every time he comes close to making up his mind about contacting one of them, Hawke or Varric or whoever will tell him what's going on, the idea suddenly seems silly with the certainty that any letter he might send now, after so many weeks already gone, will surely miss Hawke on the road. She'll be back the next day, bright and early, with no idea that he's even missed her. Or she won't, and then he'll have twice as much to agonize in waiting over.
In the end, somehow it's easier to stay caught, invisible to the outside world and beyond any significance of days passing except that it brings him a little closer to knowing. He leaves once or twice, makes it as far as the next village - a good distance, as secluded as they've made "home," now - but each time he does, better sense settles in before he can move on. He trusts Hawke; he promised Hawke. And who else'll look after her damned dog, anyway?
Though that last sentiment he occasionally regrets. Like now, with said snoring behemoth sleeping on one of his feet, where it's crammed itself beneath what passes for a desk (one-third of the furniture taking up space in the cabin's cramped, spare bedroom). He'd do something about it, really, but he's rather busy at the moment, himself, trying to remember what he sat down for. To jot something down, presumably, but the blank scrap of ink-blotted paper in front of him holds no clue. And even less so, when he adds another wasted jag of ink to the page, as the house rattles around him with the force of - the door slamming?
Anders all but leaps out of his chair, reaching for his staff in the same second he realizes he can't blame the dog (who's only just now startling awake with him). A whole host of other possibilities (bandits, thieves, some wayward traveler sans manners) flit through his mind before his fingers so much as graze the worn wood of his staff, but that's as far as he gets before the sound of Hawke's voice interrupts.
It's a near thing, whether he or the dog makes it to the bedroom doorway first - but the mabari bullies past him effortlessly, forcing Anders to clutch the door frame to keep from spilling out across the floor as gracefully. Not that he might have kept his legs under him so easily, anyway, at the incredible, dizzying wave of relief that crashes through him when he sees Hawke, alive and well and looking like she might have just walked the whole way back in one go.
"Hawke! I— You're really here?" Because he might be dreaming. She might just be an exhausted mirage.
She certainly tried to walk the whole way back in one go but even she couldn't pull that one off. Hawke's done many outrageous things in her lifetime (more than what's normal really) but even her legs wouldn't let her do that, no matter how badly she wanted to get home to Anders and her dog. She's laughing when the mabari all but knocks her down, stubby tail wagging as fast as it possibly could before she could gently push him off. Glancing up at Anders at the doorway to their bedroom, Hawke simply offers him a tired grin from her spot on the floor. She props herself up a little, not ready to quite yet get back up onto her feet. Sitting down or getting knocked down rather felt rather nice.
"I mean, I could've done some blood magic, conjure up a twin or something but that's just so much effort." The grin grows a bit bigger and then she finally gets back up onto her feet, picking up her staff and setting it against the wall. Hawke makes her way over towards him, reaching out and touching his cheek gently and running her fingers against the scruff of his face and then lightly tapping his nose. "I don't even know if blood magic could even do that really, I don't really want to find that out either so let's assume that I'm really here."
Hawke leans in close, brushing her nose against his before pulling away after the brief touch with that same grin on her face and taking a step back to stretch out her arms. There's a few satisfying cracks and pops and then she slips past him into their bedroom as she begins to take off her armor piece by piece.
There are a thousand things he wants to say to her - more he wants to ask, still caught under that crushing wave of warring relief and disbelief, even when she touches him, real and solid and warm - but what comes out, instead, is a mildly exasperated, "Please stop talking about blood magic, Hawke."
But everything else can wait. Probably. At least until Hawke's got her armor off and settled in. With which Anders is eager to help, at least as much out of genuine concern as for the simpler desire just to grasp at that fleeting contact again, as he turns and follows her back into the bedroom, joining the effort to unbuckle and unfasten the complicated mess of Hawke's armor. It might've been daunting, once, but it's been years since then, and his hands are quick and sure between hers, now - even if it still feels more than a little like he's floating in a dream, just waiting for the strange-familiar fog of the Fade to creep in at the corners of his vision.
...Then again, if this were a dream, the dog wouldn't be stepping on his feet, that knot of tension wouldn't still be twisting relentlessly around in his stomach, and he wouldn't be so acutely aware of how he must look - yesterday's dirt still caught under his fingernails, sleepless dark circles ringing his eyes, more like he's the one just returned from some beleaguering journey. And he'd have something smarter to say than the obvious fretting that spills out of him, instead.
"Do you need anything? You must be hungry. And tired. And what about a bath? I wanted to have something ready, but... I had no way of knowing when you'd be back." Or if she would— but that's better not dwelled upon, now.
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bakerstreet2016-06-16 03:59 pm
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So when all was said and done, Stroud gone, Corypheus dead and the Inquisition celebrating, she knew it was her time to go. Varric would always know where she would be, she couldn't leave him in the dark for too long. He was her best friend, it would be unheard of but she wanted, no, needed to get back to Anders. Marian made the trek back in haste to their home. By the time she arrives, she's exhausted and pushing open the door with a bit of effort because she shuts it behind her a little harder than intended.
"Anders?"
no subject
He alternates days, hoping for word and praying for none, by bird or messenger or familiar faces alike. That can only go one of two ways, and the worse he believes less by the day he could ever bear. He writes a few letters, himself - because writing is easy to fall back on, a good enough way to fill the time - but none of them are sent anywhere but into the basket with the rest of his scraps, crumpled pages, and old notes. Every time he comes close to making up his mind about contacting one of them, Hawke or Varric or whoever will tell him what's going on, the idea suddenly seems silly with the certainty that any letter he might send now, after so many weeks already gone, will surely miss Hawke on the road. She'll be back the next day, bright and early, with no idea that he's even missed her. Or she won't, and then he'll have twice as much to agonize in waiting over.
In the end, somehow it's easier to stay caught, invisible to the outside world and beyond any significance of days passing except that it brings him a little closer to knowing. He leaves once or twice, makes it as far as the next village - a good distance, as secluded as they've made "home," now - but each time he does, better sense settles in before he can move on. He trusts Hawke; he promised Hawke. And who else'll look after her damned dog, anyway?
Though that last sentiment he occasionally regrets. Like now, with said snoring behemoth sleeping on one of his feet, where it's crammed itself beneath what passes for a desk (one-third of the furniture taking up space in the cabin's cramped, spare bedroom). He'd do something about it, really, but he's rather busy at the moment, himself, trying to remember what he sat down for. To jot something down, presumably, but the blank scrap of ink-blotted paper in front of him holds no clue. And even less so, when he adds another wasted jag of ink to the page, as the house rattles around him with the force of - the door slamming?
Anders all but leaps out of his chair, reaching for his staff in the same second he realizes he can't blame the dog (who's only just now startling awake with him). A whole host of other possibilities (bandits, thieves, some wayward traveler sans manners) flit through his mind before his fingers so much as graze the worn wood of his staff, but that's as far as he gets before the sound of Hawke's voice interrupts.
It's a near thing, whether he or the dog makes it to the bedroom doorway first - but the mabari bullies past him effortlessly, forcing Anders to clutch the door frame to keep from spilling out across the floor as gracefully. Not that he might have kept his legs under him so easily, anyway, at the incredible, dizzying wave of relief that crashes through him when he sees Hawke, alive and well and looking like she might have just walked the whole way back in one go.
"Hawke! I— You're really here?" Because he might be dreaming. She might just be an exhausted mirage.
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"I mean, I could've done some blood magic, conjure up a twin or something but that's just so much effort." The grin grows a bit bigger and then she finally gets back up onto her feet, picking up her staff and setting it against the wall. Hawke makes her way over towards him, reaching out and touching his cheek gently and running her fingers against the scruff of his face and then lightly tapping his nose. "I don't even know if blood magic could even do that really, I don't really want to find that out either so let's assume that I'm really here."
Hawke leans in close, brushing her nose against his before pulling away after the brief touch with that same grin on her face and taking a step back to stretch out her arms. There's a few satisfying cracks and pops and then she slips past him into their bedroom as she begins to take off her armor piece by piece.
no subject
But everything else can wait. Probably. At least until Hawke's got her armor off and settled in. With which Anders is eager to help, at least as much out of genuine concern as for the simpler desire just to grasp at that fleeting contact again, as he turns and follows her back into the bedroom, joining the effort to unbuckle and unfasten the complicated mess of Hawke's armor. It might've been daunting, once, but it's been years since then, and his hands are quick and sure between hers, now - even if it still feels more than a little like he's floating in a dream, just waiting for the strange-familiar fog of the Fade to creep in at the corners of his vision.
...Then again, if this were a dream, the dog wouldn't be stepping on his feet, that knot of tension wouldn't still be twisting relentlessly around in his stomach, and he wouldn't be so acutely aware of how he must look - yesterday's dirt still caught under his fingernails, sleepless dark circles ringing his eyes, more like he's the one just returned from some beleaguering journey. And he'd have something smarter to say than the obvious fretting that spills out of him, instead.
"Do you need anything? You must be hungry. And tired. And what about a bath? I wanted to have something ready, but... I had no way of knowing when you'd be back." Or if she would— but that's better not dwelled upon, now.