Hawke/Anders-ish boring microfill
“So when will you introduce us?”
Her son froze mid pen stroke. He looked so much like his father; Carver and Bethany, Maker guide her baby girl, had taken after the Amells, but Vergil was the spitting image of Malcolm, from the aquiline nose to the pale green eyes, right down to the way he held his pen beneath the line to avoid smudges. He had even the same expression on his face as searched his memories for the past few lines of their conversation, his posture unnaturally stiff as if he thought that not moving might somehow make his mother forget him.
Malcolm had been fond of the same technique.
Vergil carefully set the pen down on the map he'd been marking up, motions slow to buy time, cocked his head to the side, and flashed his mother a beautiful, bright smile, the sort that got him into quite a lot of trouble but out of even more. “I thought we were already quite close, Mother. I vaguely remember making introductions about -- twenty five years ago. Twenty-six now, I suppose.”
“You can wipe that smile from your face, young man. It won't work on me.” She pulled out a rumpled letter, folded without a seal. She hadn't read it, but she wasn't blind. “That young fellow, Anders, came by when you weren't here. He left this for you.” She placed it on the edge of the desk, watching her son's face.
He might as well have been seven again and caught setting Carver's hair on fire for all the good he hid his expression from his mother. He glanced down the letter, then up at her, before taking it with the forced nonchalance of a man disarming a rather nasty trap. “It's most likely a new draft of his latest manifesto. The man's gone political, Maker have mercy on all of us.” He shuffled the paper under the others with a cough. “Mostly on me. I keep having to read them.”
“You never were a very good liar to me, my son.”
“Shows what you know. I could have just been - faking those bad lies. Lying about lies. What tangled webs we weave.” Another cough. “Is there, erm, is there anything else, Mother?”
It was actually quite charming. She'd worried over her son these eight or so years since Malcolm had passed into the Maker's hands. There'd been so little freedom for her eldest, being the man of the house, and the children of whatever village or hamlet they ran to had always recognized that her babies were … special. He'd had so little opportunity to act like a young man. It was good to see the telltale reddening of his ears and know that perhaps her baby had a chance at normalcy now.
Though, leave it to Vergil to pick a rather driven young man, but her boy had always been one to walk a less popular path.
“So when were you planning on properly introducing us.” She perched herself on the edge of the desk, feeling very much like a little girl in her father's study.
“You know Anders. He comes around, uses our library. Sticks pamphlets in my books. Provides excellent kindling. Hassles Carver when he comes home, which, really, is the best part of his visits,” Vergil said, far too smoothly, and gave a half-hearted shrug. It was almost a perfect act, but for the way he kept cutting his glance to her, searching for her response.
“I've seen the way he looks at you. And you at him, for that matter.” She smoothed her skirt down primly. “Are you two courting?”
“Maker! No!” Leandra watched her son until he deflated, the rising star of Kirkwall still unable to sweet talk his mother. “I wouldn't call it exactly that,” he mumbled, sinking down into his chair. “More like - Okay, I don't, I don't know a word to describe it, but by Andraste, Mother, don't call it 'courting'.”
“Why not? He didn't mind labeling it such.”
Vergil went pale. “Mother, do not tell me you - you talked to him,” he said desperately, as if it was such a bad idea.
“I did,” she said innocently, her face sweetly blank as even more color fled from her son's face. She took the time to examine her nails and pick imaginary dirt out from under them. “I invited him to dinner, in fact. He was very charming. We had quite the talk.”
“'You had quite the' - Bloody Anders. I'll kill him.” Face hidden by his hands, Vergil slid down even farther into the chair. “Blasted apostate mother -" he caught himself, "--charmer.” Her son's voice, however, held no vitriol. In fact, she could almost recognize a note of fondness, perhaps an expectation that Anders would do nothing less. “All right. All right.” He clasped his hands over his chest, rolling his head to his mother. “I'm going to regret asking, but what did you two talk about?”
“Outside of the invitation, I mentioned that I would have to find you a wife, since you are the oldest. He agreed wholeheartedly.” She paused to give her son a moment to respond, but all she got was a low gurgle, so she continued, “A very sensible young man. And very serious. I think he could be a good influence on you.”
Vergil snorted.
“Just, be a dear, and try to keep it down next time he spends the night with you. Or warn me first, and I'll visit friends.”
The look of horror on her son's face was priceless. Motherhood had such wonderful rewards.
Her son froze mid pen stroke. He looked so much like his father; Carver and Bethany, Maker guide her baby girl, had taken after the Amells, but Vergil was the spitting image of Malcolm, from the aquiline nose to the pale green eyes, right down to the way he held his pen beneath the line to avoid smudges. He had even the same expression on his face as searched his memories for the past few lines of their conversation, his posture unnaturally stiff as if he thought that not moving might somehow make his mother forget him.
Malcolm had been fond of the same technique.
Vergil carefully set the pen down on the map he'd been marking up, motions slow to buy time, cocked his head to the side, and flashed his mother a beautiful, bright smile, the sort that got him into quite a lot of trouble but out of even more. “I thought we were already quite close, Mother. I vaguely remember making introductions about -- twenty five years ago. Twenty-six now, I suppose.”
“You can wipe that smile from your face, young man. It won't work on me.” She pulled out a rumpled letter, folded without a seal. She hadn't read it, but she wasn't blind. “That young fellow, Anders, came by when you weren't here. He left this for you.” She placed it on the edge of the desk, watching her son's face.
He might as well have been seven again and caught setting Carver's hair on fire for all the good he hid his expression from his mother. He glanced down the letter, then up at her, before taking it with the forced nonchalance of a man disarming a rather nasty trap. “It's most likely a new draft of his latest manifesto. The man's gone political, Maker have mercy on all of us.” He shuffled the paper under the others with a cough. “Mostly on me. I keep having to read them.”
“You never were a very good liar to me, my son.”
“Shows what you know. I could have just been - faking those bad lies. Lying about lies. What tangled webs we weave.” Another cough. “Is there, erm, is there anything else, Mother?”
It was actually quite charming. She'd worried over her son these eight or so years since Malcolm had passed into the Maker's hands. There'd been so little freedom for her eldest, being the man of the house, and the children of whatever village or hamlet they ran to had always recognized that her babies were … special. He'd had so little opportunity to act like a young man. It was good to see the telltale reddening of his ears and know that perhaps her baby had a chance at normalcy now.
Though, leave it to Vergil to pick a rather driven young man, but her boy had always been one to walk a less popular path.
“So when were you planning on properly introducing us.” She perched herself on the edge of the desk, feeling very much like a little girl in her father's study.
“You know Anders. He comes around, uses our library. Sticks pamphlets in my books. Provides excellent kindling. Hassles Carver when he comes home, which, really, is the best part of his visits,” Vergil said, far too smoothly, and gave a half-hearted shrug. It was almost a perfect act, but for the way he kept cutting his glance to her, searching for her response.
“I've seen the way he looks at you. And you at him, for that matter.” She smoothed her skirt down primly. “Are you two courting?”
“Maker! No!” Leandra watched her son until he deflated, the rising star of Kirkwall still unable to sweet talk his mother. “I wouldn't call it exactly that,” he mumbled, sinking down into his chair. “More like - Okay, I don't, I don't know a word to describe it, but by Andraste, Mother, don't call it 'courting'.”
“Why not? He didn't mind labeling it such.”
Vergil went pale. “Mother, do not tell me you - you talked to him,” he said desperately, as if it was such a bad idea.
“I did,” she said innocently, her face sweetly blank as even more color fled from her son's face. She took the time to examine her nails and pick imaginary dirt out from under them. “I invited him to dinner, in fact. He was very charming. We had quite the talk.”
“'You had quite the' - Bloody Anders. I'll kill him.” Face hidden by his hands, Vergil slid down even farther into the chair. “Blasted apostate mother -" he caught himself, "--charmer.” Her son's voice, however, held no vitriol. In fact, she could almost recognize a note of fondness, perhaps an expectation that Anders would do nothing less. “All right. All right.” He clasped his hands over his chest, rolling his head to his mother. “I'm going to regret asking, but what did you two talk about?”
“Outside of the invitation, I mentioned that I would have to find you a wife, since you are the oldest. He agreed wholeheartedly.” She paused to give her son a moment to respond, but all she got was a low gurgle, so she continued, “A very sensible young man. And very serious. I think he could be a good influence on you.”
Vergil snorted.
“Just, be a dear, and try to keep it down next time he spends the night with you. Or warn me first, and I'll visit friends.”
The look of horror on her son's face was priceless. Motherhood had such wonderful rewards.