#so sorry for the long wait i have the constitution of an unvaccinated circle mage

[mageunderground]

It makes him feel ill to imagine a Hawke that would go through the trouble of getting him a cat as an actual pet. It seems too impractical- a mouser was a possibility, but nothing that would just provide another mouth to feed when Anders was surviving off of donations.

It hammers home how little he and this Hawke know of each other. Perhaps both of the Anders he has met resemble each other closely enough that he could mistake one for the other- certainly Cullen had believed that they knew each other.

"It certainly seems so. I thought you, Cullen, and I were all just from different points in time, but I've been thoroughly corrected." Anders can't disguise the bitterness, the jealousy that began burning in his gut the moment that he felt Hawke's magic. To have a Hawke that supported him...

"My Hawke isn't a mage. He isn't even a supporter of our cause. It's crystal clear that we're experiencing different worlds." And because he can't stand to have Hawke misunderstand this either, "What you last saw 'me' do- I haven't done it."

It's no guarantee that he won't. Just that he hasn't.

Hawke pouts. “Well, maybe I like my healers suspicious. Reminds me of home.” 

He chuckles at Anders’ choice of name. “This friend must know you well, whoever they are. You know, I once proposed to Varric that we steal the du Launcets’ cat and bring her to your clinic as a surprise, but he vetoed the idea on the grounds that the refugees might eat her.” And Varric was probably right. The refugees of Darktown lived in a state of shocking deprivation that Kirkwall’s upper crust would have touted as a testament to the barbarity of the society that enabled it, had it been located anywhere but their own city. Most people were content to pretend the city-beneath-a-city didn’t exist—easier that way. Anders never turned away, never forgot about the suffering of his fellow Fereldans, and Hawke will always admire him for that, regardless of how he feels about certain…other things.

He tries to remain as still as possible as Anders examines his hand, recalling that the other apostate always scolded him for fidgeting. “Door code? Whatever happened to keys? Surely you must remember those. You know: they’re metal, they're jangly, they don’t require you to remember a bunch of arbitrary Maker-damned numbers.”

He might easily have continued his diatribe for another five minutes (at least), but he’s distracted by the sensation of Anders’ magic brushing up against the edges of his awareness. Instead of the expected tingle of healing magic, he gets the impression of appraisal. Anders is feeling him out, getting a measure of his abilities. It doesn’t make sense—the other mage should know exactly what he’s capable of by this point. 

Then Anders drops a bombshell on him, and he suddenly understands the reason for the nervous tension that’s been hanging in the air since his arrival. “We… haven’t met?” He blinks, feeling earth-shatteringly stupid. “But that’s not possible. There can’t be two of you. Or two of me.” Maker, now there’s a terrifying thought. It’s so terrifying, in fact, that it’s probably yet another feature of this new reality that he’s been dropped into. “Can there be?”