[ Hawke actually spins on his heel, so unironically dramatic a gesture that until this second he thought such things only happened to the more hapless in Varric's more exaggerated renditions. But there he is, eyes widened, his own hands closing and opening reflexively. ]

Anders?

[ He'd like nothing better than to believe immediately, to let out the breath he's been holding for months, but--he has always reserved faith for the tangible, and if this is some dream-figment frankly he'd rather not wake up. Even though nothing about whatever version of Anders stands across from him projects details he'd invent; he matches the environment now, when in Kirkwall he'd always stood out, a bright blast shadow on charcoal black. Hawke, knowing what it was like to be professionally displaced, thought Anders never looked like he belonged anywhere. (Except with him.)

It occurs to him at this nebulous moment he's just ...staring; fortunately (or less so, uh) regardless of what his brain is doing his mouth only goes so long without treating the atmosphere to some delightful remark or other.

Case in point: ]

If you turn out to be a finely tuned hallucination I'll have a whole skeleton's worth of bones to pick with--someone. Anyone, if I'm honest. It turns out they lack much in the way of a complaint department around here.

[ His own voice sounds a lot less steady than he'd like it to. ]