DA2 Fic - Holding Pattern

[miri1984]

Also, seriously people, I fell down our stairs today. My BRUISES have bruises. WORST EASTER EVER. 

Title: Holding Pattern
Words: 1300
Characters: Saoirse, Anders
Summary: Musings on the nature of Anders and Justice.
 

 

Anders slung his staff on his back and watched her methodically loot the bodies. She reminded him of Alim, with her constant need for coin. He supposed she was still a long way off the fifty sovereigns she needed to finance the trip to the deep roads. The ever present problem of needing coin to make coin frustrated him almost as much as the plight of the mages. If the refugees in Darktown had a sovereign between them there was a chance they could get back to Ferelden.

If they had anything to go back to.

She sat back on her heels with a piece of paper in her hands. "Maker's Breath, why do they have receipts for these things?" she said, a faint look of disgust on her face. It was a slaver invoice. "Looks like they took him to some bolt hole in the Wounded Coast." A smile played on her lips. "I wonder if that's near the injured cliffs?" She looked up, hopefully. Fenris was scowling at the body of the slaver mage and Varric was polishing the stock of Bianca - the dwarf was obsessed with keeping the crossbow clean. Anders was the only one looking at her and he had to confess, he was distracted by the way her robe clung to her hips and behind as she crouched. "Or the limping hills? Massive head trauma bay?"

His lips twitched, but it was difficult to laugh when Fenris was standing so close to him. Maker, that lyrium had flared in battle and it had been like Pounce screeching in his head. Justice said he liked the sound Lyrium made to him. Maker knew why, it just gave Anders a headache.

"Just me?" she sighed and got to her feet, dusting off her knees. "Forget I said anything."

As they walked out of darktown together (it was early enough that getting to the Wounded Coast wouldn't be a problem before lunch) he sidled next to her. "I thought it was funny," he said softly.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You thought something I said was funny?"

He blinked. "You were making a joke, weren't you?" he felt wrong footed suddenly. Surely he wasn't that far removed from social situations that he misread her?

The grin that flashed made him sigh in relief. "Of course!" she seemed delighted. "It's just that mostly people groan. Or hit me. Or ignore me completely." She tilted her head on one side. "Father used to laugh, though. Mother says I must have got my sense of humour from him. Maker knows Carver doesn't have one."

"What happened to him?" he asked softly. "Was it Templars?"

She looked sad, but the smile remained. "No. Damned fool got hit by a tree he decided he could log himself. He was tired of the local woodcutter putting him off, and he decided to do it himself."

Anders spluttered. "He tried to chop a tree down?"

"Oh, he managed to get it down all right. Just didn't get out of the way fast enough when it fell."

"Why didn't he use magic?"

She didn't seem to be able to repress her grin. "My father was the most stubborn man who ever existed," she said.

"You sound like you loved him very much," he said, unable to keep the crack of bitterness out of his tone.

"I did," she said softly. "He was a good man, and we had a good life." She snorted then. "Even if Carver doesn't think so."

"I don't think many people would be willing to do what your family did," he said. "And fewer still who'd do it as successfully. Most mages would kill to have someone like your father protecting and teaching them."

"They took you from your family," she said after a short pause.

He suddenly regretted starting the whole conversation. "Yes," he said. His stomach flipped and he felt the edges of his control fray a little - thinking about his family always did that.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," he said shortly.

"I'm getting the impression you don't want to talk about it," she was grinning again and he felt the surge of anger receding. She hadn't done it. She wasn't Ser Harley, or Ser William. And she would never have to face a Ser William, not if he had anything to say about it.

The fierceness of his sudden urge to protect her almost left him shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It wasn't pleasant."

"Did they try to keep you?"

He laughed. Short and bitter. "My mother might have wanted to. But my father…" He shook his head, remembering the clink of coins. "Look… talking about this isn't…" he took a deep breath. "Justice isn't used to human emotions. Any of them. If I… get…"

He felt her hand on his arm and she stopped. He turned to face her. All trace of humour was gone. "You're crying," she pointed out. Her voice was rough and blunt. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the wetness there, flushing with embarrassment.

"As I was saying," he said, giving her a rueful smile. "Justice isn't used to human emotion. It's… much harder to control than it used to be."

"You speak about him as though he's separate from you," she said.

He shrugged, overwhelmed by the inability to explain. "He was, when I met him. It's hard to talk about what we are when I can remember what both of us were."

She looked curious then, but Varric was calling for them to get moving and she patted his arm absently. "I have more questions," she said, smiling slightly. "Hold that thought."

He watched her go ahead of him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, remembering then the first few weeks of his new existence. On the ship to Kirkwall he'd nearly gone catatonic in the hold when they'd tried to keep him there, paralyzed by the claustrophobia he'd spent years overcoming. In the early days in the refugee camps he'd spent hours clamped around himself trying to stop crying after dreaming of Karl.

He should have thought of it, of course. There were so many things he should have thought of. Justice even knew parts of his story, but he'd never felt them the way Anders had, he hadn't had to live through it, experience the helplessness. And Kristoff's body had been dead. All the regret and gentle longing, the innocent envy the spirit had for human emotions had been no way of preparing him for the visceral reality of human feeling, hate and anger and hurt and lust…

Maker's breath. He didn't need to be having that thought now. Not when he was walking behind Hawke. Those damned robes of hers were far too body hugging and he couldn't help but imagine what it might be like to rest his hands in the delicious dip between waist and buttock, feel the splay of those hips under his hands without the robes, just skin on smooth, warm skin.

His mouth had gone dry. Not… just not helping, he thought. There were so many things wrong with where his mind was going. A list would take up all his meagre paper supply. Warden, apostate, abomination. Not even in that order.

When he finally tore his gaze away he saw the elf, Fenris, looking back at him, big green eyes narrowed.

Oh wonderful, he thought. Let's add jealousy into the mix. That will make things so much easier.

He shifted his shoulders and started walking, hoping they'd get to kill more slavers on the Wounded Coast. At least then he could vent some frustration.

If we had a giant rock to push uphill, he thought to himself, that would perfectly describe my life.