[ That is the kind of parting-line-that-isn't Hawke hasn't heard from Anders in what he thinks might be literal years, with its little kite tail of humor and uncertain lilt in the middle. Unusual, but not unwelcome, although his eyebrows do march toward his hairline, expression snagged somewhere between pleased and surprised. In the end it meets itself midway, highlighting why he grew a beard in the first place. Because without one he looks Carver's age. ]

When I'm done, he says, as if I was enjoying it before. Can I still say I enjoy watching you leave? Or have we passed that milestone?

[ His flirting remains ridiculous, and doubly so out here, on the pitted, pockmarked surface of a world so empty of life even echoes die quickly. Maybe he wasn't, per se, enjoying the scenery, but there is something mercilessly satisfying about it. Hawke always feels more sure of his feet when he knows where the bottom is, that flat place where things can't get any worse: he is, for all his hangman's humor, an optimist.

Regardless. Since Anders let him get close and isn't moving, he sees absolutely no reason not to exist in extremely close proximity. ]

You want the version I've heard, or the version I've understood? If you're pressed for time I can assure you one's much shorter than the other.