"I...hadn't thought of it like that," Hawke says slowly, thinking it over. There's something to what he says. To her, it felt like Marian was someone she left behind when her father died, when she went to war with Carver, when they fled Lothering. It wasn't entirely a conscious rejection on her part so much as not feeling as though she was Marian anymore. Marian hadn't really known what she was going to do with her future, she was a tangle of enthusiasm and curiosity about the world. Hawke had a single, very clear focus, and the name pretty much stated it. Carver's death had only reinforced what her father's death had begun
( ... )
Anders, whose use-name is nothing more or less than an abbreviation of the geographical region where he was born, should know very well what it's like to Have Issues surrounding nomenclature. And he does, and he's sensitive to it.
"It's only ... things are different now," he tries to reify it by putting it into words, and finds that words won't do the job they're needed for. "You're Hawke, to me, always. It's how I first knew you, how I'll always know you. But now you're something else as well, and I come home to you at night, and your mother's here and telling me about you, Marian's in the study, Marian's gone out, or ... this is a secret, mind, but she may have volunteered a tale or two about your adorable toddler years."
Something else as well is a nice way of putting it, and she'd comment on that, but the thought is almost immediately derailed by what follows. "Oh no." Hawke groans, and finds the energy to remove the pillow from under her head and press it on top of her face, hiding. Anders will then hear a rather muffled, "She told you about Ser Quackers and the buried treasure, didn't she."
He laughs at her pillow-dive, and lets her have that shelter from scrutiny - for now. "Not that one, no. Sweetheart, I love your mother, but there are some things I think she doesn't need or really want to know. The fact I've met Ser Quackers falls into that category." Her face may be under the pillow; the rest of her is not, and Anders walks mischievous fingers up her side, half a tickle, half a caress. Reminder of his introduction to Ser Quackers.
She would have found out he's a little ticklish. And it would be in a blighted bathtub.
"Now you've mentioned it, however, I demand to know the story. I shall not rest until this adventure is unfolded."
"Yes, well, it took a while to break me of the habit of headbutting people I disliked. And now you know how I developed the thick skull I have today." Anders shivers pleasantly at the feel of her fingers against his scalp. He could get used to that.
"That's my goat story, and I am owed a Ser Quackers adventure in return. What about it, hm?"
Since he seems to enjoy it, Hawke repeats the gesture, then continues playing with his scalp as she talks. "This hardly seems fair, you know. Four stories--five, if you include the one I'm apparently obligated to tell you--for one statement of a youthful goat avocation. You have a harsh rate of exchange."
She's not pressing him for more stories of his youth--she'd like to, she'd like to know everything, even the painful things, but she knows he'd refuse and only be unhappy about the request, so she doesn't--merely teasing, and to make that clearer, continues. "I think I'm owed something in return. A backrub, perhaps? To be redeemed at a time of my choosing?"
"Mine has a higher value on the scale of potential embarrassments. One strange story is worth five endearing ones. That said, I'll accept the deal proposed." He knows quite well it's teasing. Anders gives backrubs for free, even if you're not his lover, if you look like you need one, and you happen to be someone he cares about. Hawke's companions could be neatly divided into a list of those who merit backrubs, and those who'll never know the pleasure.
"I reserve the right to choose the oil we use, and to suggest an alternate location should you demand one unsuitable for optimal backrub delivery."
"Oh, but endearing is so subjective. I find your goatly ambitions entirely endearing." She kisses his cheek, digging her fingers a bit harder so it becomes a proper scalprub for a few minutes. "But a backrub from you is worth a great deal of embarassment, and your codicils are acceptable, so we have a deal. Provided you give me a small sample of the finished product now, while I tell you of Quackers' search for the lost treasure of the dread pirate Squeaker the Mad."
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"It's only ... things are different now," he tries to reify it by putting it into words, and finds that words won't do the job they're needed for. "You're Hawke, to me, always. It's how I first knew you, how I'll always know you. But now you're something else as well, and I come home to you at night, and your mother's here and telling me about you, Marian's in the study, Marian's gone out, or ... this is a secret, mind, but she may have volunteered a tale or two about your adorable toddler years."
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She would have found out he's a little ticklish. And it would be in a blighted bathtub.
"Now you've mentioned it, however, I demand to know the story. I shall not rest until this adventure is unfolded."
Reply
"That's my goat story, and I am owed a Ser Quackers adventure in return. What about it, hm?"
Reply
She's not pressing him for more stories of his youth--she'd like to, she'd like to know everything, even the painful things, but she knows he'd refuse and only be unhappy about the request, so she doesn't--merely teasing, and to make that clearer, continues. "I think I'm owed something in return. A backrub, perhaps? To be redeemed at a time of my choosing?"
Reply
"I reserve the right to choose the oil we use, and to suggest an alternate location should you demand one unsuitable for optimal backrub delivery."
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