fadewalk | RP: Logan Hawke, Anders (serhealsalot)

The hallways were quiet. The kitchens were quiet. Everything had just been strangely quiet for a while now. Alistair was in socked feet, loose linen pants and a soft unlaced shirt, standing over a small pot of porridge he was cooking... for himself? It was more porridge than even he could eat comfortably, especially considering it was porridge he was making, which no one could eat comfortably.

He rubbed at his forhead. Why did he feel like he was missing something? Well a bigger more something than usual anyway.

He'd have to ask... someone. When he saw... them? Zevran, his brain whispered. How many days has he been gone? He frowned, and looked out the small window slits that ventilated the room, and the question was gone already as he wondered for the thousandth time whether it was morning or night.

It was whatever time it was, but he'd woken up alone in his bed, with a headache from too much wine and his shoes on, feeling despondent. Lonely. Which was fairly usual, all things considered. He stirred again, frowning into the whitish-brownish-greyish paste. "Probably more water," he muttered.

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Logan shifted closer to Anders, running a hand gently over the back of his head and frowning. He really needed to get ahold of his own healing abilities; what if he just...

The thought was interrupted by the templar discussion. "He says he's not," he told Anders, after Alistair spoke. "He seems to be some sort of version of the Alistair npc, except he's not King?" He looked back at Alistair once more and the earnest puppy look on the man's face made Logan soften, just a bit. "I think he's probably all right." This came out low, as if meant just for Anders, and a touch gruff.

Pressing his lips to Anders' brow, he shifted a hand away from Anders and himself and held it out. "Let me just..." His mana felt a bit funny after he'd lost some of it to Alistair's Silence, but mostly all right, and it didn't take him long to feel it out and draw some down his arm. This time Logan focused intently on the feel of the healing magic Anders had used on him before, the gentle soothe of it, and he focused also on what he wanted to do, which was largely the equivalent of a magical Advil. It took longer than usual to get anything to coalesce in his palm - some pale blue light shimmered there, for a moment, and then vanished again, three different times before he finally managed to make it stay. "There. Here, love." He brought his hand to Anders' temple but didn't cover it, just let some of the tendrils of soft blue magic flow from his fingers' to Anders' skin, and then he pulled back quickly, losing the tentative grip on the magic as he did so. He grunted with displeasure, but looked back at Anders' intently. "Does that help at all?"

Anders listened to both voices, startling when he realized Logan was right, and that's why the voice sounded so familiar. Alistair. He cracked an eye to glare at him as Logan worked on summoning his wisps of healing magic.

Yes, that is who he looked like, though it was strange to see how the game wasn't quite right. Logan's hand settled onto his temple and the cooling, soothing magic eased through his head. It did help, quite a bit, with the pain anyway. The woolly sensation didn't leave, and his head still felt slightly over-inflated, but it was better.

"Thank you. That's actually a lot better, pain-wise." Anders lifted his head to brush a soft kiss of thanks to Logan's cheek. "Still a little... off though."

Alistair had no idea what an NPC was, but he pretty sure he wasn't one. He looked a little worried when Logan started casting even though it was obvious he didn't really have any kind of handle on the type of spell he was reaching for.

However, when Alistair recognized the cool light and gentle hum of a healing spell on Logan's hand, he relaxed a little. What was the worst that could happen with a healing spell? Well, unless he could make someone grow another... nose or something. That wouldn't be fantastic. Still, there weren't any lightning bolts in the offing, and that was good.

"Oh, that's from the mana drain. If we had lyrium we could clear that up, but it will come back in a few... oh hours probably. Then you'll be surprise-healing all sorts of lucky people." He shot Logan a wary glance. "Which I am all still very grateful and sorry for. In reverse order."

Logan wrinkled his nose, all ready to apologize and perhaps try again, since it seemed probable he hadn't quite gotten the healing magic just right, when Alistair spoke. "Oh." He tilted his head and looked back at Anders. "I guess we wait, then?" He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, a little baffled and more than a little put off. The idea of randomly getting magical powers was cool until it happened to you and then you were suddenly threatening strangers with lightning and passing out from sudden lack of it. Like either of them needed another weird bodily need to keep track of - Logan could barely convince Anders to eat and sleep, half the time.

He moved around so he was standing slightly behind Anders' and could pull him against his chest with an arm around his waist. "Yes. Well." He eyed Alistair testily over Anders' shoulder and offered, after a moment, "I'm sorry I snapped at you; I really wouldn't have set you on fire or electrocuted you, or anything."

Anders was still glaring half-heartedly at Alistair, but it was hard with the pretty puppy eyes routine. Still... "I would have. Absolutely. If you'd done that to Logan. Totally incinerated." He shrugged, leaning into Logan's arm. "I don't really get lightning."

He'd always had a soft spot for Alistair as well, the unwanted, neglected orphan backstory a bit of a sure thing. So listening to him ramble and backtrack and snark in the familiar voice was odd. "You know, I keep expecting him to send us on a quest for darkspawn blood or something." His voice was a low aside to Logan, and he snorted softly.

Alistair nodded at Logan, shrugging off the apology, but he shook his head at Anders, trying to decide if he should laugh or not, arms folded and lips twitching in a suspicious quirk that was somehow still amused. "Right. Crispy black cinders here I come."

The reference to the preparation for the Joining made Alistair's face narrow with wariness, eyes flicking between them. They were not Wardens, which was weird, because he was pretty sure Anders was a Warden. He turned away to stir the porridge, the hairs on his neck prickling as he remembered something Logan said. Just a character in a game they play..? That was... creepy.

Logan preened a little at the idea of Anders defending him, a foolish half-grin on his face despite himself. He bit his lip. "Now, love," he admonished, voice round with humor, "let's not upset the nice templar-trained man any further."

He watched Alistair stir the porridge with a hum of agreement, nuzzling his nose in behind Anders' ear, loathe to actually step away from him and rummage around for food as they'd initially intended after that scare. "I know, right," he murmured. "And I thought it was weird meeting ourselves."

Anders considered for a moment: which was weirder, his older revolutionary possessed self or a completely fictional character with a real face and a real personality and a really big pot of what looked like oatmeal over the fire? Honestly, he didn't know. Both were decidedly strange.

"He's a good likeness." He cocked his head to the side, peering at Alistair pretty intently. "He's a little scruffier than in the game."

"Please stop talking about me like I'm not real." Alistair's voice was comically grumpy, but underneath that a real thread of discomfort. "I don't even know who either of you are and you're staring at me like I'm the bad portrait of your mother's second cousin or something."

He stirred his porridge again and knocked the spoon against the rim, peering at it for a long moment. Why had he stolen and made such a large portion? "Well, this is going to be both gummy and undercooked. Brilliant."

"Oh. Sorry." Logan had totally forgotten to introduce himself. Or Anders, for that matter. "I'm Hawke. Well...a Hawke, I guess." He shook his head slightly, shaking off the lingering sense of discomfort that there were apparently several people running around using his name. "And he's Anders."

He felt like he should say something else here, but had no clue what that might be. Some explanation for why they were ogling this Alistair like he was some character from a fable come to life? Another apology for the ogling? Good lord, something. Instead he exhaled and tightened his arm around Anders, still tense, even jittery from how angry he'd just been. All his usual tact failed him.

Anders smoothed his hands over Logan's arm, trying to reassure him. He was a little unsettled by the whole situation as well, mostly the weird... echo-y quality of the inside of his head where the warm glow of his mana should be. He felt fatigued and achy and he hoped that when they went home this wasn't going to be how they felt all the time. Assuming the magic didn't just keep happening. Which could be awkward.

"And you're Alistair, the hot not-templar." He wasn't above needling the man who'd Silenced him. Though upon reflection calling him hot wasn't maybe the best plan. It wasn't Anders' fault that he'd always had a bit of a crush on the NPC Warden-turned-King.

Alistair looked from Hawke to Anders and back, then blinked, blushing right into his ears at what Anders said. He narrowed his eyes a little and shook his head, turning back to the terrible pot of terrible porridge.

"Well the name and the not-templar part is correct." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are the two of you hungry? I assume you're in the kitchens for a reason and not just to make my life difficult. I have far too much boiled groats for one sane man to try to eat, and while there's almost nothing to go with it, it is food. Technically." He sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. "I think."

Logan relaxed slightly under the touch of Anders' hands. He laughed, a startled, clear sound, when Anders called Alistair hot and hummed appreciatively, eyes flicking over this Alistair. Then he coughed. "Um. Well. Not just me, then. Good." He and his weakness for sexy voices. Yep. That was a thing.

His lips twisted downwards and he shot Alistair an apologetic look. It was one thing to make jokes about the sexy Warden when he was just a character and quite another to tease a living version of him to his face. "Ah, sorry. Yeah, we did come to find food. You sure there's enough to share? I'm sure we can find something else."

Anders snorted softly, amused at Logan's admission to also thinking Alistair was hot, and turned his face to press a kiss to Logan's cheek. "Adorable," he whispered, and then turned his attention back to Alistair.

"I can't tell if that was a generous offer a threat of poison." He shook his head and added, "But if it's warm and vaguely digestible, I don't think I'd complain."

All this ogling was making Alistair feel flushed and a little confused, wondering where Zevran had gone off to, but only in an idle, slippery way his brain couldn't hold onto. He shrugged his shoulders, only slightly mollified by Logan's chagrined glance. "Well, yes. I mean, I'm sure there's more than any of us will want. And! It is helpfully warm and possibly digestible."

He nodded toward a shelf across the room. "There's bowls there, and spoons in the basket just beneath."

Logan felt his cheeks go warm when Anders kissed his cheek and called him adorable. He shot him a sideways glance, trying to be subtle and failing for the giddy little smile on his face. Looking down at his hands, he gave a happy hum and then pressed a quick kiss to Anders' temple as stepped away, towards the utensils Alistair had pointed out.

"Only possibly digestible?" He teased over his shoulder, clicking his tongue. "However shall we cope?"

Anders pushed off the table when Logan walked away, intending on following him and helping. The fact he'd be within arms reach at all times, well it wasn't weird. This place was dangerous and there were too many things that could go wrong. However, his head spun a little when he tried to stand and he ended up just leaning back against the table, hands gripping the edge. "Bloody templars," he muttered very far under his breath.

Once his head had settled he watched Logan look for the bowls and spoons.

Alistair tried to ignore the mushy byplay between Hawke and Anders. It was making some spot in his chest ache oddly. He shook his head with a faint frown before lifting the pot off the trivet and carrying it to the table Anders was leaning on.

"So a Hawke and an Anders. I'm under the impression that goes around. Are you from the same world then?" Anders was looking a little green around the gills and after Alistair had set the still-bubbling pot of porridge to the table he stepped toward him. "Ma-aybe we should see about chairs."

Logan, without quite realizing he was doing it, was keeping an almost hyper-aware eye on Anders as he moved across the room. He turned when he caught a glimpse of Anders straightening and then sinking back against the table, frowning faintly. Gathering three bowls and spoons swiftly, he crossed back to Anders' side with a few strides of his long legs. He set the bowls on the table and squeezed Anders' arm, looking into his face, not realizing Alistair had asked a question for a moment.

"Uh, yeah," he said distractedly. "Same world. Really different than any of the worlds the other people here seem to be from, though." He ran his fingers through his curls and finally glanced at Alistair, admitting, "I don't have any idea where we would find chairs in this place."

Logan's concern made Anders blush a little, but he leaned into the touch. "I'm fine. Just a little dizzy," he reassured him quietly. Chairs seemed like a decent plan. "There were chairs in the great hall. Upstairs. We could take our possibly poisonous gruel that way."

He straightened up again, considering how steady he felt. "If you'll lend me an arm, love," he said softly and glanced at Logan with a raised eyebrow.

Alistair nodded, first at Logan's explanation of his and Anders' shared world, and then at Anders suggestion they go upstairs. "There aren't many who seem to have shown up totally alone. Everyone I can think of is from a world where someone else they knew showed up eventually." Wardens and Alistairs, Cullens and Inquisitors. Hawkes and Anders and Varrics and Fenrises. He shook his head a little.

He picked the pot back up and led the way toward the stairs that would lead to the great hall.

Logan nodded at the reassurance. "Of course," he said immediately to Anders' question, gathering up the bowls and spoons again with one hand before he offered his other arm to Anders.

When Anders was settled, Logan moved to follow Alistair. "That's...interesting," he said, brain tripping over what that might mean exactly. "That - mm - might lend credence to your theory about the universe being fed up with our idiocy, love," he murmured quietly to Anders. "Are these... mostly romantic pairs who show up?" That last was pitched higher for Alistair's benefit. Logan chewed on his bottom lip in thought.

Anders didn't need to lean too hard on Logan's arm, but it did help center his equilibrium as they climbed the stairs. He pressed a kiss to Logan's shoulder when they paused for a moment at the landing.

"It makes as much sense as anything else," he muttered and then perked up in interest at Logan's question. If there was a pattern, maybe it would be an explanation or a reason or something?

"Ah. Well. Hmm." Alistair held the door open for them and shrugged as they passed into the great hall. "Maybe? Well, I..." He frowned as he turned to trail after them, eyes slightly unfocused.

"Zevran and I weren't but then... we were and..." Where was Zevran? The way that question resounded in his head, he wasn't even aware he'd let slip the elf was here. "I might have lost track of him."

Logan was beginning to believe he might have to rethink his view of the universe as a primarily apathetic, unfeeling place, fucked up by religious people and bigots precisely because there was no higher power to stop them, and indeed made infinitely shittier by the people who claimed such a power existed. He'd always thought that the only way things got any better was if decent people made the effort to improve the world, but if he and Anders had not only been pulled here somehow, but also other pairs of a romantic nature? Maybe there was something in the universe, fate, whatever you wanted to call it, that actually did give a shit about his and other people's happiness. He wasn't sure if he liked the thought or hated it.

He was distracted from this philosophizing and cracking of his worldview, however. "Hang on, did you say Zevran? You... and Zevran?" He got a slow, broad grin on his face. "Oh, that is brilliant."

Alistair's last comment made him go cold - it was far too close to his own niggling fear of being separated from Anders, of one of them being pulled back without the other. "What do you mean, you might have lost track of him?" he demanded, voice harsher than he meant it to be and colored with fear.