[ Initially Hawke waves off 'it's a lot to take in,' an expansive gesture like shooing away smoke. That phrase has defined every major crest and plateau in his life; all that makes this time different is that he doesn't have to take it all in while running.
Still. When their fingers touch he pushes back, solidifying the gesture immediately, and his other hand, settling down from its tacit insistence that he is, of course, fine, lands just below Anders' shoulder with palm flat and fingers spread. Wrong side of the chest to hear the heartbeat, but that's all right. He can be comforted, he just doesn't want to discuss that it's happening. Ever.
At least he listens more or less quietly to the extension on the impossibly sprawling concept he's been processing a little at a time (relatively slow-going, considering electricity still sounds like someone's managed to jam lightning in tubes, but going nonetheless). Until Anders pauses, and Hawke tips his chin down as one eyebrow meanders the opposite direction, expression elaborate parody. ]
Anders, are you apologizing to me?
[ A thin, faint undercurrent of amusement buoys this; it's not--funny, precisely, but Hawke sounds 90% of the time like he's about to laugh at something. He lifts his hand from Anders' chest and rubs a longer piece of his wind-lifted blond hair between thumb and forefinger before it drops back again, one corner of his mouth tugging up like a marionette limb. It's far longer, and Anders far less agitated, that he would have expected given only a few months. ]
Don't. Or do if you like I suppose, but I don't need it. I-- [ He takes his hand back another moment, almost covering his mouth before he realizes he's about to pull it down over a beard that isn't there; this time when he curls his fingers into the soft, worn fabric of Anders' sweater...thing he stays there. Uncertainty only in his pauses, and the motions he doesn't make. ]
If I'm the right one [ he must be, no one could love Anders more or better than he can; they've been through too much ] the rest can take care of itself. If you want someone to shout at you you might have to have them extract Aveline.
[ An immediate wry grimace, usually mobile, articulate tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar 'extract,' the nebulous 'them.' ]
Please don't, actually. [ Something conflicted passes over his face, a shadow there and gone. ] She has a life, and she's already put it aside for me once. But...maybe you'd like to have the rest of this conversation somewhere slightly less awful?
no subject
Still. When their fingers touch he pushes back, solidifying the gesture immediately, and his other hand, settling down from its tacit insistence that he is, of course, fine, lands just below Anders' shoulder with palm flat and fingers spread. Wrong side of the chest to hear the heartbeat, but that's all right. He can be comforted, he just doesn't want to discuss that it's happening. Ever.
At least he listens more or less quietly to the extension on the impossibly sprawling concept he's been processing a little at a time (relatively slow-going, considering electricity still sounds like someone's managed to jam lightning in tubes, but going nonetheless). Until Anders pauses, and Hawke tips his chin down as one eyebrow meanders the opposite direction, expression elaborate parody. ]
Anders, are you apologizing to me?
[ A thin, faint undercurrent of amusement buoys this; it's not--funny, precisely, but Hawke sounds 90% of the time like he's about to laugh at something. He lifts his hand from Anders' chest and rubs a longer piece of his wind-lifted blond hair between thumb and forefinger before it drops back again, one corner of his mouth tugging up like a marionette limb. It's far longer, and Anders far less agitated, that he would have expected given only a few months. ]
Don't. Or do if you like I suppose, but I don't need it. I-- [ He takes his hand back another moment, almost covering his mouth before he realizes he's about to pull it down over a beard that isn't there; this time when he curls his fingers into the soft, worn fabric of Anders' sweater...thing he stays there. Uncertainty only in his pauses, and the motions he doesn't make. ]
If I'm the right one [ he must be, no one could love Anders more or better than he can; they've been through too much ] the rest can take care of itself. If you want someone to shout at you you might have to have them extract Aveline.
[ An immediate wry grimace, usually mobile, articulate tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar 'extract,' the nebulous 'them.' ]
Please don't, actually. [ Something conflicted passes over his face, a shadow there and gone. ] She has a life, and she's already put it aside for me once. But...maybe you'd like to have the rest of this conversation somewhere slightly less awful?
[ Slightly. ]