Work Text:
Hawke was an idiot, not that that was new but she'd been even more of an idiot, which was something of an accomplishment, maybe she should feel proud of it instead of mortified. She knew she had a terrible habit of letting her mouth let fly with whatever garbage first came to mind but Maker, the man had just had been forced to kill a friend of his who'd been made tranquil, AND was openly!!! admitting to having some kind of freaky maybe-an-actual-abomination relationship with a spirit, so what on earth possessed her (ha ha, "possessed" - shut UP Hawke) to make such a disgustingly blatant pass at him. Terrible timing and usually she was wittier, even when faced with someone with such lovely eyes.
Maybe she had a concussion, that must be it, one of the damn templars had hit her in the head before she froze his ass and Carver caved his head in. Or maybe a loose piece of armor hit her? There'd been a lot of chaos, she'd lost track of what things were hitting who in what body parts, but she was pretty sure she remembered at least one thing whacking her in the head, so, concussion it was! That's what she'd tell Varric if he ever fucking dared tease her about it.
And why had she been hit like that in the first place? It wasn't like her to get caught so off guard but she'd seen him out of the corner of her eye, ok maybe she'd been intentionally positioning herself so he was never fully out of view, and worse than that, she'd fucking stopped and stared because Maker the way he moved, and it was only for a second or two before she came to her senses but by then it was too late to stop the boot or chunk of Chantry furniture or whatever from hitting her.
So, ok, work it out, clearly something was wrong with her before she got the concussion. If she was going to be honest with herself, just this once, she'd been feeling a bit out of her head well before the fight.
She'd been really looking forward to meeting this mysterious Darktown healer/warden, because what sort of person is that, and then they'd walked into the clinic and the warden-healer-mage had whipped around and glared at them all, frozen everyone in their tracks with his words and his - anyway. She'd felt stunned, he was - admit it Hawke - stunning. Yes. That was the word. She'd felt stunned ever since then, even when he wasn't all blue and glowing and yelling, it was like the biggest mabari in the world had hit her full force in the chest and suddenly she could barely breathe. Come to think of it she was feeling that way now, thinking about him again. Was breathlessness a sign of a concussion? What about queasy, because she was feeling that, too, or maybe she shouldn't have eaten the special at the Hanged Man today.
Maker, maybe she really was really ill: trouble thinking, trouble breathing, sick to the stomach, can't stop thinking about - well, no the last was not an illness. Probably. She ought to visit him again and ask about the rest of it, a healer would know that sort of thing, right, that would be an acceptable reason to see him again, maybe this time the conversation wouldn't be quite so fucking awkward, and maybe - no, don't complete that thought. It had to be some kind of illness, there were herbs for those things, it could be cured, that would be great, she was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the realization that this all sounded like something she'd read in those torrid romance novels Varric let her borrow, she did not have time for that kind of complication, even if she (admit it Hawke, no one need ever know but you!) . . . actually wanted it. Wanted him. Anders. Well. Well, now that she'd said it to herself, maybe it was past time she did more to get into the fun kind of trouble for a change.