TITS MCGEE.

wow idk who my special question anon is but i love you so much :>

genre in this sense is i think a bit badly-defined. from my 15 (oh my god) or so years of reading fanfic, all things being equal, it seems like there’s a cultural understanding that, say, ‘fluff’ is an indicator that a given fic is happy and free of what troubles lie elsewhere in the source.

and i don’t like that.

idk, i’m always kinda of the opinion that fanfiction, like a truly good piece, should run narratively parallel to or be in some sense a microcosm of its source.

say you write a fic of, idk, hawke and tragic love interest going kitten shopping. it’s cute, solid prose, maybe you’ve even got the voices down. that’s good exercise, sure, but what gives it merit? what elevates it from words and actions with familiar backdrops and familiar names to hawke and tragic love interest go kitten shopping, and everything that entails? i’m not saying every da2 fanfic ever has to end with a knife in the back or two wounded people running from a burning city, but what have you given us that remembers that that knife, be it stayed or bloody, is part of their reality? what do you have that remembers and respects the journey they take?

the same goes for angst or any other ‘genre’ of fanfic. you’ve got the sad bits, right, but what of the bits that aren’t sad, the bits that are just as important to the story?

it’s like, you bake a pie, and you want me to taste that pie, you cut a slice of it, but all the slice has is apples. it’s a slice, sure, but it’s not representative of the whole pie, and those apples may be fine on their own but we’re missing out on everything that pie is.

the other day i said something about ‘fucking refusing to write straight-up fluff’ for hawke/anders, and this is what i was getting at. okay, they have their happy moments, they have their heartbreaking moments, they have their passionate and pained moments, and all that together is what makes them them in the first place.

the easiest way to answer your question is to say that i love anything that takes the heart of its source, reduces it to its most basic level, a distilled idea, and never forgets that idea.

…failing that, i don’t like slavefic.

Earth. (ao3)

Bloody batarians.

That was who’d done it, Hawke had found out later, while they were trying to beat the evacuation efforts after the industrial district went up in smoke. That was who’d sabotaged the moon base, the bastards.

Hawke fidgets in his dress blues, stiff things he hasn’t worn in literally years and was really putting his money on never having to wear again, but it was bound to happen sooner or later, getting caught. At least Aveline hadn’t had to make good on her keelhauling promise—it was Captain Stannard herself who slapped on the cuffs.

Cuffs he did his damned best to make necessary while Anders and the other deserters got off site.

He checks his omni-tool again—still nothing but the settling pit in his stomach, comm buoys down since they’d landed in Sol. Two days he’s been here, and he’s not sure what’s eating him more, Anders, thoughts of his future—their future, everyone’s future, or the dread behind it, an instinct rising in the back of his throat every time he lets his mind wander. His instincts are usually right.

Three minutes. Hawke bangs his head against the wall. “You think they’d want me out of here enough hurry it up,” he says to the empty cell around him. “Next time I get put on trial, I might just have to skip the party.” He shuts his eyes, bangs his head against the wall again, and breathes.

Two minutes. “At worst,” he’d told Anders, when they got the evacuation order and cobbled together some patchwork contingency plans, “they kick me out and slap me with a fine I’ll do my best to never pay.”

Anders didn’t laugh at him, but he wasn’t laughing at much these days. “I’m still coming for you,” he’d said. Hawke hadn’t argued it.

At least there was some kind of fun in being back on this rock, twiddling his thumbs for court-martial, at the same time as the Shepard. Also ironic, since he’s heard it was her who saved their asses.

Hawke taps his foot impatiently, catches himself, taps again anyway because why not, and because time must be crawling. But when he glances back at his omni-tool—they were due to pick him up three minutes ago. He powers it off and back on—ANN is still down, but the clock is right. Stannard had seemed pretty hellbent on taking him down, and he could only joke so much at the walls before his own nerves caught up to him. He just wants to get this over with and get out of here, and every tick of seconds is like a pounding in his gut.

Suddenly, everything shakes.

Hawke rises, slowly, hand on the wall for balance, and the shaking stops for just a second before it starts again, lower and steadier. Not an earthquake.

“First Lieutenant Hawke to First Lieutenant Vallen,” he radios. She’s on the base for his hearing, she should be in range, but all he’s getting is static. “Hawke to Vallen, sorry for comm conduct, but I’m still in this cell, thanks for that—what’s going on out there?”

Still static, like it’s overloaded.

Hawke takes another breath, and then another. He’s stuck in a locked cell, comm is completely out, and something is bloody happening. “Hey!” he yells, pounding on the door. “Let me out!” He’s pretty sure the things aren’t soundproof. “I’m an Alliance marine!” At least until the end of the day. “I can help, let me out!”

Banging on the door isn’t doing anything, so he steps back, bounces on his toes, cracks his neck and stretches. The shaking is getting stronger. There’s nothing in the cell he can really use as a weapon, unless whatever’s going on reacts badly to bolted-down benches, and Hawke’s halfway to contemplating pulling it out of the wall when the red hololock on the door fizzles before it smashes open.

Anders.

Anders, looking shaken and pale, glowing from where he’s just blown the lock, with blood trickling down a cut on his brow.

“You’re here,” Anders gasps, short on breath.

“What—”

“We have to leave,” Anders says, throwing Hawke an SMG before grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the cell. “I don’t know what it is, but we have to leave.”

He sees it through the window, just for a split second, about half a kilometer away—big, brown, surrounded by fire. Then they both run.

The holding cells are quiet as they dash through them, but the main auxiliary base is screaming, klaxons blaring for lockdown. A few people are left, but it’s eerily empty for all the noise.

Anders runs straight for the main door as Hawke grabs a few spare thermal clips. “It’s locked!” he yells, mashing the open button.

“There’s a back exit,” Hawke says, jamming a clip into his gun and the rest in his pockets. “It’s got a lot of stairs, though.”

“We won’t have time to get down before they get here.” Anders looks back down the hall the way they’d come. “They’re moving fast, and there’s lots of them.”

“Shit,” Hawke swears, then he looks at the observatory window, four stories off the ground overlooking the parking lot, and grins. “Quickest way through is a straight line,” he says, and despite the monstrous fear both of them are using at least half their energy to fight back, the other half for actually fighting monsters, Anders can’t stop a little laugh.

Anders lights up, pulsing a powerful blue Hawke will be sorely sorry if he never sees again. “Hold on,” he says, and then he smashes a glowing fist through the window.

They grasp hands, and behind them the ground trembles. They leap.

*

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega.
Erinle. Watson, Part 1. Hekate.
Partholon. Aegis. Watson, Part 2.

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega. Erinle. Watson, Part 1. Hekate. Partholon. Aegis.

Watson, Part 2. (ao3)

Anders slams their door shut behind him, and Hawke at least appreciates the drama of having one of the only analog doors he’s seen since basic back on Earth, much more effective than pissily tapping in a close command.

“I can’t believe he’s acting this way,” Anders says, not a petulant pout, but real fire and anger. “I can’t believe he’s got so much support!” He rips the tie out of his hair and flings it across the room. “Niall’s always been soft,” he growls.

Hawke collapses onto the bed they shared, sneezing when dust kicks up from months of disuse. He rolls his shoulders, muscles still sore from the blast he took on Caleston, and lets himself fall back onto the musty pillow.

“Of course I support reformation—hmph, revolution!” Anders continues, lost in his own fugue as he rips off his armor piece by detached piece. “That was the point of all of this, to make a world for everyone, and not just the strays we round up. That was the point—” he says again, and when he looks at Hawke, the desperation sucks the air out of him. “…right?”

Hawke tries his best to smile, but it probably doesn’t come out right. “Something like that.”

Anders deflates, sinking down into the desk chair.

“The draw-down on Alliance recruits is what concerns me,” Hawke says after a moment. “That’s economics 101, population’s got to increase. Niall’s scared, but Orson’s not stupid, he knows better than that.” He frowns. “They can’t just live in a bubble—that’ll depress the whole settlement.

“Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Oh yes, being a dissenting normie in a room full of angry biotics is definitely on my ‘good idea’ list.”

Anders rolls his eyes, not in the mood, and Hawke sighs. “Fine,” he relents, “I’ll bring it up tonight.” And then he grins because he just can’t well help it. “As long as you promise to protect me.”

Anders looks over at him, finally, where Hawke’s laid back on dirty sheets, and when he speaks his voice is soft but with a hint of that old humor. “You know that’s disgusting,” he repeats. “Were you raised by wolves?”

Hawke’s laugh is half a gasp, because Maker that feels like so long ago, a different lifetime, or maybe the start of a new one.

He shifts his legs invitingly, but the effect’s probably dampened by the clacking armor so he throws his arms out as well, just to be perfectly clear. “Come ravish me.”

“That’s not going to be very comfortable for me,” Anders says, skeptically eyeing the striping and hard ceramic.

“But I’ll be plenty comfortable,” Hawke says. “There’s lots of padding in these things. You should have kept yours on, love, then we could bump ugly suits instead of just—”

Anders finally cracks a smile. “Stop, please” he laughs, and when he crosses to the bed Hawke pulls off the chestplate and gauntlets and dumps them on the floor, then takes Anders into his arms. He can feel the heat radiating off his skin beneath the thin underarmor, beneath his hands.

The buzz of insects and trickle of water and occasional weird animal noise drift through the window, where everything feels alive instead of the hum of a ship or dead of space, and Hawke’s honestly not sure which he prefers. Whichever isn’t trying to kill him at the moment, he supposes.

Anders slips his arm over Hawke’s ribs, massaging idly at a spot on his back that’s been sore as long as he can remember.

“I was right to worry,” Anders says, soft enough only for them, fingers still dancing over Hawke’s back. “It’s never going to change, is it?” Hawke wants to shut his eyes and just kiss the top of Anders’ head, but he fights through it. “Nothing has changed, and we’re all too cowardly to face our injustice.” Anders’ fingers still, and his brood is deepening. “I’m sorry, love,” he says, “for everything I’ve brought into your life.”

Hawke smirks, enough that Anders can’t see the grinding teeth behind it, teeth practically wearing down to little nubs, and he says the most honest thing he can think of:

“Don’t worry about it; the tortured look is sexy.”

Anders wears a look on his face that Hawke hopes more than anything he’ll get the chance to understand one day, and he’s silent for a long moment before he rolls over and straddles Hawke and kisses him hard, tongue in his mouth, breath on his face, hands in his hair.

“Anders,” Hawke groans between kisses, “I didn’t know you had it in you today.”

“You did tell me to ravish you,” Anders says, not going for the obvious set-up, because it was just too easy.

Hawke nips at Anders’ lip. “Get to it, then.”

Anders does, dragging his tongue along the roof of Hawke’s mouth, stretching deeper, and Hawke moans and clutches the meat of Anders’ ass where he’s spread out on top of him, then rolls their hips together.

“How quick do you think you can get out of that underarmor?” Hawke says when he can feel them both getting hard. “I think the record’s seven seconds.”

Anders’ lips are kiss-bruised and wet, wild hair falling over his face, and he opens that fantastic mouth to speak—

—and someone knocks on the bloody door.

Anders swears and quickly disentangles himself, wiping his mouth and trying to smooth away the beard-burn, and Hawke is just glad for once that he’s not a young man anymore, and also that he’s wearing thick trousers.

Hawke clears his throat. “Who is it?”

The door opens timidly, with a shock of fair hair and an even fairer face behind it.

Hawke blinks as the recognition hits. “Feyne?”

Feyne’s either nervous enough that he doesn’t catch the rumpled bed and rumpled Anders, or good enough that he doesn’t call it. “I’m sorry I didn’t buzz or anything,” he says, fidgeting.

“It’s fine,” Anders says, and he’s already slipping into the doctor look. “We didn’t get to see you when we landed. How’ve you been settling in?”

“We’re alright,” Feyne shrugs. Hawke can’t help but think he’s too young for all of this. “I never got to thank you. Both of you,” he says, nodding at Hawke. “For what you did for me and my mother.”

Hawke leans back. “It wouldn’t be a very good rescue mission if we’d left you there, would it?”

Feyne laughs a little, then tugs errantly at his braid. “That’s why they got tense, you know,” he says. “Because when we got here, everyone thought they’d left you behind.”

“No,” Anders says darkly, “we were just relaxing on the beach.”

Hawke elbows him, because Anders had been making fine progress on that funk, and damned if Hawke would give up the good fight. “Not every day. Some days we took down slave rings.”

“We didn’t get back soon enough.”

He’s probably fighting a losing battle.

Feyne shakes his head. “I don’t know if it would have mattered. Mum tells me it was a power vacuum, and they’re all scrabbling like varren to meat scraps.”

Anders scoffs. “I expected that out of Bancroft, even Orson, but not Niall.”

“Niall’s just keeping peace—he’s scared. It’s Orson pulling the strings,” Hawke says.

“I don’t care what it is,” Anders says. “We won’t compromise.”

As the silence falls from the weight of Anders’ words, Hawke hears something in the distance—sirens. Sirens from the main EU colony. Anders and Feyne notice it, too, Feyne opening the door to hear them better.

Anders activates his omni-tool, and while he scans, Hawke hears someone outside shout.

“Missiles,” Anders says, almost too quiet to hear, and he looks up at Hawke with disbelief and fear in his eyes. “Missiles,” he says again, louder, “from the base on Franklin. They’re headed here.”

“What?” Feyne gasps, at the same time Hawke asks, “How long?”

Anders takes a breath, and then he takes Hawke’s hand.

“An hour.”

*

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega. Erinle. Watson, Part 1. Hekate. Partholon.

Aegis. (ao3)

“I do like to talk,” Hawke says, hands empty at his side as Anders and their backup skid to a halt behind him. “So let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t know what we have to talk about,” the man across port says, his gun still trained on the shaking boy’s head. A few of his ugly friends are helping out. “You get off my ship, and maybe you live.”

Hawke’s been smirking since the moment he walked through the door, and he brushes hair from his eyes with an easy swipe. “Surely you can be more imaginative than that,” he says. “And you’ve got no sense of continuity, man! If we’re off the ship, seems like we’re living just fine.”

The man falters, because an Alliance spec ops uniform and an actual sense of humor apparently wasn’t what he expected.

Hawke grabs the chance. “Where’s the mother?”

“In the hold with the rest,” the slaver says, the he catches himself. “She’s not hurt, yet.” He presses the gun into the boy—Feyne’s—temple, and he whimpers.

“So tell me, what’s the going price on Trident for a half-starved colony boy?”

Hawke can see his sneer from across the room. “Biotic colony boy. Fresh implants,” he slimes. “It’s enough.”

Hawke cracks his neck once, twice. “So enough that you know I won’t believe you’ll kill him,” he says. Anders and Niall suddenly glow with biotics, and in the split second it takes for the slavers to turn and look, Hawke quickdraws his pistol and shoots the main one through his throat.

Anders throws a barrier around the boy as Hawke drags him down into cover behind some cargo crates, and the smell of ozone erupts into the air.

“Feyne!” Hawke yells, “get over here before that barrier falls!”

It’s been a while since they’ve danced, but the obviously lethal but completely nonthreatening pew-pew-pew of gunfire makes him feel like he’s right back at home. The shots stop for just a second, and when Anders hurls a singularity it’s pure muscle memory to roll out and fire at the men dangling helplessly in the air.

Feyne’s staggering across the floor, barrier still strong, favoring one leg but making progress.

Hawke ducks back down to load a thermal clip and grins over at Anders, who looks almost as exhilarated as Hawke feels. “When we get back to Watson,” Anders whispers, waiting for his next opening, “you’d better make sure you don’t have night watch for a week.” The shots cease again, and Anders hurls a blast through the air.

Kerr takes another down, and Hawke’s lining up the shot on that bastard with the rifle keeping them pinned down, waiting for when he dares to pop his little head back out—

“Lieutenant, on your six!”

Hawke whips around just in time to see the flanking slaver’s gun before his chest and leg explode in pain. He smashes back against the crate, vision swimming but not enough to keep him from shooting back. The slaver goes down.

“Shit,” Hawke gasps, and Anders is suddenly above him, must have crawled over, inspecting the burns on his armor.

“Shit,” Anders echoes, that face gone from dirty promises to so much concern. “Hold on, love,” he breathes. Hawke nods, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists before the orange glow of Anders’ omni-tool overcomes him and the screaming pain fades to a moderate ache.

The fight’s died down, and Niall is tending to the shaking Feyne while Kerr scouts the room and loots the bodies. Operating was expensive, and dead slavers wouldn’t miss it and didn’t deserve it.

Everything around them suddenly hums as the ship’s engine jumps to life.

“They’re moving—we’re still docked, and they’re moving.” Niall’s normally calm voice flits with urgency. “We have to get back to our ship before they tear it apart.”

Anders looks back at Hawke. “What about the boy’s mother? There might be other prisoners on this ship. We aren’t going to just leave them here?”

“No, please!” Feyne pleads, finally shaking out of his shock. “You can’t leave her with them!”

Garrett hauls himself up and scavenges the pistol that shot him. “Take him,” he says to the other two. “Get back to the ship. We’ll try to take down anyone else and get the survivors to pods.”

Kerr looks skeptical, but Niall nods. “There weren’t that many energy signatures on the scan. If some of them are prisoners, there’s only a couple slavers left.”

The ship creaks as pressure drags against it.

“We’ll catch up if we can,” Hawke orders. “Just go!”

*

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega. Erinle. Watson, Part 1. Hekate.

Partholon. (ao3)

Hawke never thought he’d be happy to be back in the Terminus; say what you would about them, but at least when the Blue Suns hijacked a freighter they had the decency to board and let you shoot them in the head.

Geth just lurk, and then you die.

Isabela takes another swig from her bottle. Rum, it smells like, the real stuff from what’s left of the Caribbean. “That was fun,” she says, “but let’s not do it again.”

Anders is still gazing out the window at the brand new set of stars. “Why don’t they follow us?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” As she types commands into the console, she expertly balances the open bottle between her bare legs. “And as long as they stay on their side of the Veil, I don’t care.”

She glances back at them both, eyeing up Hawke. “So, do you want to help me unwind or go make yourselves useful somewhere else on my ship?”

As much as Hawke is curious what ‘unwinding’ entails, and as much as he’s already sure he has an idea, Anders is already stalking out of the cockpit chamber.

The rest of the ship is used, sparsely crewed, with low industrial lights and nothing but tight walls of gray and monitor panels before everything gives way to empty space. Already he can hardly remember the smell and feel of the ocean spray, but the vibrant gold of Anders’ hair is like the horizon in the evening.

The small mess hall is empty—no peering, heavily-shadowed eyes—so Hawke just sits on the table itself. Anders pulls off one of his armored gloves and tosses it next to him before dropping into a chair. It’s petty, and it makes him look lighter than he is.

“Fine company we’ve managed to pick up,” Anders grouses as he tugs at the other glove.

“I don’t know,” Hawke says, leaning back on his arms and gazing down at him. “I like her.”

Anders huffs out a grouchy breath. “Of course you would,” he says. “I’m right here, you know.” Hawke just nudges his shoulder with his knee and laughs.

The door slides open, and the most curiously-dressed asari Hawke’s ever seen walks in. She’s covered in beads and scarves and worn leather, her fringe unkempt but not unclean, more like a romantic human than elegant asari.

“Oh!” she exclaims when she notices them. “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here!” She clasps her hands together in obvious excitement. “You’re the stowaways, aren’t you? I’m Merrill, the First. Mate, I mean—” she fumbles, “not that we’re mates, not like a joining, not really—”

“I’m Hawke,” Hawke simply says, because it’s been at least a year since he forgot himself and used his rank, and Merrill’s too nervous for much else anyway.

“Oh, I know,” Merrill says brightly. “Isabela told me.” She smiles, as big and honest as her eyes. “She’s more excited for new company than she lets on. Especially if you’re helping with the raid tomorrow.”

“Raid?” Hawke asks.

Merrill covers her mouth. “I probably shouldn’t say anything more about it. Isabela can tell you everything.”

He can’t bring himself to interrogate her, not least because getting spaced’s not on his agenda today or really any other day, but also because Merrill’s just too bloody likable.

“I don’t see asari under human command often, “Anders says, fortunately going with the subject change.

The smile on Merrill’s face wilts, only just enough for Hawke to know it was never fully there. “My people didn’t understand,” she says. “And they don’t look kindly on a pureblood barely in her eighties trying to make them understand.”

Anders looks like he wants to ask, but Hawke puts a hand on his shoulder and neither of them presses it. “How’d you manage to wind up here?” Hawke asks instead. “Did you stow away in the shipping crates or the escape pods?”

Merrill giggles. “Nothing like that! I left Thessia, and I met Isabela on Illium when I got in a bit of trouble.” She stands and looks around at the sparse mess hall as if it were the homiest place in the galaxy. “She’s very kind and giving, you know.”

Anders snorts. “Oh, I’m sure she’s got a lot to give.”

“Anders.”

Merrill blinks between them. “Did I miss something?”

The ship comm interrupts them. “Kitten, I need you in the cockpit,” Isabela says, and she snickers before continuing. “Hawke and Anders, tomorrow we hit up Caleston for their eezo, and you two earn your oxygen.”

The comm buzzes out for a moment, but then Isabela speaks again: “Try to get some sleep.”

Merrill bounds to the door. “You know where the crew bunks are,” she says. “See you in the morning!” Then she’s gone, and everything’s silent again, save for the calming hum of the ship.

Hawke lets out a breath. “At least we’ll be back on Watson soon, if they haven’t all killed each other yet.”

“Mm,” Anders says absently, but for the first time in a month his eyes aren’t far enough away to be thinking about the colony.

Hawke pushes himself off the table to sit down next to Anders. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says, “I’d say you were jealous.”

“And they call me a mind-reader.”

“One of my many gifts,” Hawke grins with a little too much teeth, then presses his fingers clumsily against Anders’ brow. “Let me try again: ‘Garrett looks very sexy right now in his smelly armor. I can’t wait to get it off and breathe its diverse array of odors’.”

Anders can’t keep the fondness or that little half-smile off his face “Your jokes are terrible,” he says as he takes Hawke’s hand at his face, guiding it over his stubble as he laces their fingers together.

“You just don’t know good comedy when you see it,” Hawke says, and when Anders kisses him, chaste at first like he tries to play at but secretly wanting and exploring and probably about to bend him over a table, Hawke decides he doesn’t need to remember the sea breeze.

The comm buzzes again. “Anders, now you tell him how pretty his eyes are,” Isabela says, and there’s a telltale giggle in the background.

*

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega. Erinle. Watson, Part 1.

Hekate. (ao3)

“I don’t understand either of you,” Isabela says, her booted feet kicked back on the cockpit console the second she put the ship on autopilot. “Do you know how hard it is to find good real estate on Trident?”

Hawke gazes out the window at the blue streak of FTL and the stars just past it. “Apparently not as hard as you think,” he says. “Crash a merchant ship into the ocean, kill a few pirates—no offense—and you’ve got yourself beachfront property.”

“So you’re giving up rent control and great beach sex—” she pauses. “It is great, right? The new-boyfriend excitement hasn’t worn off?” She eyes Hawke carefully, the lip ring glinting from the LED. “That would be a shame.”

Hawke falters, torn between natural shamelessness and the fact that sometimes a man just needs his privacy, and Anders coughs delicately.

“You can only squat for so long before someone decides they want their house back,” he says.

“Ship captains, too,” she parries. “You’re damn lucky I didn’t space you two the second I caught you.” Above her smirk her eyes are hard for a moment, the same captain they saw blast through the engineering door with two pistols blazing, but then she chuckles, deep and sultry. “The least you could do is give me some details.”

Hawke’s not convinced.

Isabela shrugs, and the black lace of her bra spills over her shirt. “You’re no fun at all. And I still don’t understand.”

Anders smiles wistfully from where he’s got his arms around his knees on the cabin floor, his mind literally a million miles away. “There are more important things than a honeymoon.”

Hawke reaches down to slip his hand over Anders’ shoulder and into his hair, but suddenly the scream of klaxon floods the room and echoes through the ship in time with angry warning lights.

Isabela whips back into business. “Balls, she spits as she reads the monitors, “I’ve got Geth signatures.”

Anders starts out of his daze and off the floor. “What?”

“We’re sailing in their space, kitten,” she says as her fingers fly over the console, issuing commands and hopefully getting them the hell out of here. “I was hoping we’d miss them again, but no luck.” She mashes the intercom. “Merrill, prep the Thanix! I’m not taking any chances.”

Hawke draws a breath and slips that arm around Anders anyway, maybe tighter than he means to. He’s heard stories, and he’s not about to become one of them.

“Well,” he breathes, “at least it’s not boring.” Anders snorts, sort of a scared snort, but he understands.

Something flashes on a screen, and Isabela grits her teeth and grins an ugly grin. “The relay’s aligned—I think I can make it before they catch up.”

Anders peers out the window, as if he could see them in the vastness of space, not that the blaring sound and lights don’t make it terrifying on their own. “And if we don’t?” he asks.

The excitement on Isabela’s lips finally reaches her eyes.

*

Trident. Zanethu. Imorkan. Omega. Erinle.

Watson, Part 1. (ao3)

It wasn’t easy living, literally backbreaking for Emile that one time, the poor bastard, but it was a hell of a lot better than a desolate space rock.

Sunlight and plants always did tend to help, even if that sun got too red in the day.

Hawke’s arms burn under the weight of the provisions, and even his legs are starting to feel the walk. Getting Grace and Innley hired at the Germantown grocer at least made that errand go faster, but he’s losing energy fast.

Still, this whole thing was working, amazingly, and Hawke couldn’t complain. Joe, on the other hand, is plenty proficient at it.

“I just don’t understand why we can’t stagger these trips,” he says, in the single-most nasally voice Hawke has ever had the pleasure of being forced to listen to. For hours. And hours. Jokes don’t work, and he’s tried blocking it out, but it’s like a little fly buzzing around in his head.

“Because people a lot smarter than you say we can’t,” he says.

“But it just doesn’t make any sense!” Joe whines. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to just go to a different store every day or two instead of hitting all the stores up at once. We have to look suspicious with all these bags, and I’m tired—”

“Maker, shut it.”

Joe frowns, then looks over at him. “Why do you always say that?” he asks. “What religion are you, anyway?”

“All of them,” Hawke says, and they’re blessedly coming up on the main safehouse. Joe has the decency to quit talking as he inputs a code, and the gate slides open.

“Hawke, watch it!” he yells.

One of the bags slips from Hawke’s arms, and a week’s worth of produce nearly spills onto rocky ground before the bright purple of a mass effect field suddenly grabs them in the air—it’s Anders, descending the steps of the house, glowing as he levitates the food until he can pull it to safety.

Joe moves on ahead of them as Anders brushes sweaty hair from his eyes—it’s gotten shaggy again, the way Hawke liked to wear it before the military—and smiles as he takes another bag from Hawke’s arms.

“He had you carry the bulk again?” Anders asks as they climb the stairs together. The air inside isn’t much cooler, but at least it’s dry.

The long table clangs as Hawke dumps his provision bags onto it. “I don’t mind. How else will I keep my alluring physique?” He shrugs off his jacket, or tries to, but he ends up peeling it off so flatteringly instead. Joe’s wandered off somewhere, so Hawke collapses onto a bench and lets his arms and face splay on the table, reveling in the cool metal on his sweaty skin.

Anders sits down next to him, but not so close as to be too hot.

“How’d the therapies go?” Hawke mumbles into the table.

“Keili’s not doing well,” Anders says. “The delusions aren’t getting any better. I’m going to talk to her family next week about taking donations for the L3 retrofit.” He shakes his head sadly. “Every day with her reminds me that I’m one of the lucky ones, and then I get angry at myself because it shouldn’t be this way at all.”

There’s a rant coming, maybe one strong enough to ruin both their moods all day, and when the days are thirty-seven hours, being dour for every one of them begins to lose its luster.

“Think of it this way,” Hawke says, sitting up and leaning against Anders. “If everything was different, you would never have met Joe.”

Anders laughs and slides his hand over his back, not even cringing away from Hawke’s warm, sweaty shirt. “We’d all be poorer for that,” he says softly.

Footsteps echo down the hall, and they separate as a ruddy-faced new recruit rounds the corner.

“Sir,” he says to Anders, then nods at Hawke. “Lieutenant.” He’s rigid and awkward, still stuck in those last vestiges of attention.

“Kerr, you don’t have to salute,” Anders says. “That’s sort of the point.”

“…Um, thank you, sir,” he says, probably for the tenth time since he’d arrived. “There’s been a problem.”

Anders rises, Hawke behind him, and Kerr’s omni-tool glows as he reads the report. “I already told the others. That new biotic, Feyne, the one with the instability. He and his mother were on a transport, but they’ve lost contact with the ship.”

*