what if we kissed and we were both wardens

[bigfinish]

[For what feels like ages now, Carver has been fervently complaining that This is worse than Ostagar. He remembers fundamentally little of it after the darkspawn column overwhelmed the king's forces, only a lot of screaming and then feeling sure he would die and then coming back to himself with some horrible taste in his mouth, but: the comparison remains.

He makes the comment a lot. Most often as a joke, when they're camped out in the Deep Roads and trying to make pillows out of their own armor, no matter how many times he's told to shut up already and go to sleep. They're Wardens, he will insist: what else do they have to make light of besides their own terrible lot in life? He will keep making the Ostagar joke, especially over armor pillows.

And then, Amaranthine, as it turns out? A city under siege, and the group of them torn between it and the Keep?

Karmically, probably, it really is worse than Ostagar. To spare the town its wretched fate, to face the darkspawn one last time, to look up at the grotesque mass of the Mother and think only of the faces of the others, left behind to defend the Keep— well, fuck. It's such a horrible problem, to have friends and to care about them. He could kill darkspawn purely because darkspawn need to be killed; it's doing it for some annoying fellow Wardens and their stupid cats back at the Keep that's really so much worse than every other darkspawn battle before. He remembers with startling clarity all at once the terror, wondering what the hordes would do his family, and as he lifts his sword in the depths of the darkspawn nests one last time he has no time to be privately embarrassed that these asshole Wardens here and back at the Keep have become his family, too—

Carver makes it through Amaranthine, and through the Mother (shudder), and he's surly and a touch bloodied over it, but he's made it through. Returning to the Keep- what's left of it- is a fresh jolt of fear (annoying), barely offset by the trickle of survivors that come up to cheer their glorious return.

He doesn't manage to make the joke again. About Ostagar. It's there on the tip of his tongue, It was no Ostagar, don't mother me— it doesn't come. The Keep is a shambles, and despite himself he feels none of the glory and all of the hollow pit of worry in his stomach, that it's just the rank and file soldiers crawling out of the wreckage to greet them and not— mmph.

Stupid. He could just ask someone where Anders is; he doesn't.

He wants to lie face down in his own bed (is it even still there?) and not get up for a week.

He goes to look for Anders, but also definitely not for Anders, just for— someone. With drinks, and if he happens to head for the drinks because he heard the annoying mage turned out to be a real hero as he passed a different soldier, that's unrelated.

He finds Anders soundly losing at a drinking contest, which is so damned ordinary after the rest of this day that Carver is almost at a total loss for words. Almost. He stomps up behind Anders and pulls on his shoulder, hello, don't wobble straight to the ground. He says, instead of anything that might suggest relief that they are both still alive and in one piece,]

Where's your cat?

[where is the little monster, is it okay. not that he cares.]

Comments

[abominable]

[so there's this thing that happens when anders does magic, something that isn't just the very impressive magic (thank you) but a mental twinge. it's being stubbornly proud because whenever he does a spell he has this itching feeling to look over his shoulder for scolding, or horror, or anger. because when he does a spell without all the rules in place lining up exactly what he's going to do next and how he's going to do it he's got that annoying little instinct to hide. to scatter.

the fun thing about how many andraste be fucked darkspawn swarming the keep is there's really no time for twinges. or worrying, things like man hope the others are okay out there, or if nathaniel somewhere to the side isn't being run through, or if carver is- carver. if he's making the ostagar joke again. he told carver once his impressive shoulders were really a tactical issue, too much area to attack. in the throes of a battle he can't begin to comprehend the scope of he can't remember how carver answered. something surly and pretty hilarious, he thinks. that was carver.

there's no instinctual nerves when he taps into magic he didn't think he had, arching lightning to dance between soldiers and carve through darkspawn, a little group healing there. he thinks it probably says something about him when he makes several darkspawn's heads explode like morbid confetti and laughs. the thing is he's good? at magic. he likes it, and sometimes without any baggage attached. he likes being good at it too, which he doesn't do right because he doesn't keep his head down or kiss ass like other, old lady spirit healers he won't name.

when it's over so many darkspawn are dead, and so many soldiers are dead, and someone grasps his shoulder in a way that makes him want to flinch until they say he's a hero. how many did he kill? he says he didn't keep count but he'll make sure the number rises every time he tells the story again. the soldier laughs, and he's invited to a drinking contest. he accepts.

it's weird. he loses because of course he does, but while it happens it's easy to only glance at the doors sometimes, or focus for anyone mentioning the warden-commander and her party. he already extracted pounce from where he hid him when everything went to hell and the cat sleeps in his jacket, curled to his vest. anders cries a little when he tells pounce he loves him like, so much. he's drunk enough people find it funny.

he's too deep in his cup to hear the chatter that marks news spreading of the party's return, and he is about to accuse everyone here of being in league with alcohol to personally ruin his life when a hand is on his shoulder. he doesn't flinch, because for once he thinks maybe, actually, here's a place where people aren't going to hurt him for who he is.

or something morbid like that. boring. better is the blurry blink before his face breaks into a quite genuine smile, one that says oh thank the maker you made it, or i've been worried i lost you.

he sways. from his jacket- outer robe? jacket? pounce murrs.]

Oh, I see how it is. Actually I do, I respect a man who cares more about Ser Pounce-a-lot more- wow, you look rough? Need some- [he waggles his fingers, which honestly seem kind of suggestive because he isn't sure how not to make his fingers suggestive when waggling, sorry? but he means healing. pounce sticks his head out and anders considers covering his young, innocent eyes.

he's so happy carver's alive it's stupid.]

[bigfinish]

[The fucking cat is in his fucking robe. Of course it is. Carver doesn't know what else he expected-

(But he does, doesn't he? He expected to find Anders in a heap on the ground someplace, limbs bent in that way corpses tend to, just wrong enough to be ghoulish. He expected to find averted eyes and silence when they returned and asked about the dead. And there are dead, there are a lot of dead, and that's going to hurt in the morning— but Anders isn't among them.

And like, Nathaniel too, but whatever, even Carver thinks that one is a sourpuss.)

-and here is this dumb little cat, popping out to mewl at him while Anders just keeps talking. This, Carver thinks, is - fine. Anders can get it out of his system, all the suggestive wiggling, and he can frown at the cat, and they don't have to talk about any of it. Not yet; not here, certainly, in front of all these soldiers who might, Maker forbid, hear.]

No, stop that. I should have known you'd be making an ass of yourself. Somebody called you a hero out there, you know— and here I am, come to find you're heroically losing at holding your drink.

[This is not a scolding, this is merely observations of The Facts. Anders is mere sips away from swaying straight down to the floor, Carver can tell; it's this reason, and only this reason, that he doesn't remove his hand from that skinny mage shoulder.

He wonders for a split second if he's ever made Anders smile like that before; he's drunk, alright, but maybe there's something to be said for a smile that isn't teasing him or delighting in burning their enemies alive.

Anyway, that's fool thoughts for babies, so he resolves to frown a little harder.]

If you fall asleep in the dirt, I'm going to leave you there.

[abominable]

Excuse me, I killed- how many did I say last time? [anders asks a soldier nearby, who laughs and tells him 200, so anders turns with-] 300 darkspawn. It was very impressive. The drinking contest is just my humble way of reminding everyone I am indeed, human and fallible.

[he keeps with that unfortunate grin though, the one a little too relieved around the edges. he leans in to mutter conspiratorially,] Carver, if it wouldn't smush my beautiful cat I would hug you.

[disgusting. unbelievable. sinful.] So you- it's good? We're good? The party is good? [a bit of a nervous edge there, remembering ah right, there could still be very bad news, terrible news even. carver is alive but there's other people so like... he cares less if he's honest but he does care. unfortunate.]

[bigfinish]

[This ridiculous 200-300 stunt, right in front of his salad...]

Really, [he says, flatly, as flat as he can to pointedly squash out any errant amusement he might feel. Please, he can't just encourage Anders' antics, except that he absolutely does when he offhandedly fires back,] Only three hundred? And Pounce ate their remains before the rest of us got back, did he?

[Speaking of the beautiful cat... Carver deigns to reach out and give the cat, like, not a pet on the head? He would never? He gives Ser Pounce a little half-scritch behind the ear, which he refuses to have perceived, as usual. Don't hug him in front of all these people; gross. If he's forced to linger on the very real fact that Anders is, indeed, human and fallible and like a hundred pounds of squishy mage max, he'll make faces. Very gross.

It takes him a second, then,] We all made it back. [The darkspawn titties he has seen? He would not call it "good," mentally. Spiritually. But nobody (in the party) died!]

Where's Nate?

[Somewhere, Nathaniel feels a disturbance about being called 'Nate'. He is ignored.]

[abominable]

Give me a few more drinks and it'll be 400. Will that impress you? What's the number of darkspawn that is swoonworthy, you think? [he could do with making carver swoon, he's drunk enough to think that without batting an eye. and, of course, cooing down at pounce.] Oh, that's good- I did find him playing with one of their eyeballs where I hid him.

[and that's said with a disturbing amount of fondness. fondness that lingers in his gaze when carver gives pounce a scritch, drunken, honest fondness he shines at carver with a too soft look. yes, in front of his salad and the cat. unbelievable.

the sudden ease to his shoulders is obvious though, at news of the party.] Good, good. How was it? Or how many drinks do you need right now?

Oh, I think our good friend Nathaniel is off to do his evening sulk now. If I remember when I generously sought him out after the battle to impart healing despite my exhaustion (from all the heroics, mind you) he said 'Anders, if you don't stop pestering me I'll put an arrow between your eyes.'

So he's doing the same as usual. [friendship.]

[bigfinish]

[Don't ask about swooning in front of all these soldiers!! Not that any of them are still listening to this, or if they are, are sober enough to remember or care-- once the rest of the party stumbles into sight in the distance, a fair number of these guys are bound to get up and cheer their way over to the others. Carver will not complain about this even a little; he's had it with glory, he only wants, uh... to talk to Anders, he supposes.

And several drinks. Maker have mercy on him, but he makes the terrible mistake of glancing at Anders' face when he looks at him like that, and it's all he can do to mutter,] I won't swoon for anything less than a thousand.

[Ahem. He collects himself long enough to roll his eyes about Nathaniel-] At least the bastard is alive enough to give people shit.

[-and then shifts to nudge Anders to scoot over on his shitty bench or whatever, so that Carver can also sit down. Can he just take Anders' drink from him? He's going to try, but like, not very hard. Give him a cup, he needs it.]

Just how exhausted are you? [he's not concerned!!] I'll finish the drinking, you ought to go to bed.

[Hmm, the keep is a wreck... do they have beds anymore... that's Future Carver's problem. It's Anders' problem, right now, to deal with the double whammy of Carver demanding he go away and sleep but also not-too-roughly throwing an arm around his shoulders? To... steady him? Maybe he should ignore Carver's demands, as usual.]