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Hawke and Anders leaned heavily against each other as they stumbled through Darktown. They'd both been drinking, Anders somewhat more so than Hawke for once, and Hawke had insisted on making sure Anders got back to his clinic unharassed.
"You should stay," Anders said for the third or fourth time.
"My mother," Hawke sighed for the fourth or fifth.
"You're an adult," Anders protested, gesticulating in a way that made him wobble leftwards; Hawke's grip around his arm kept him from toppling over entirely.
"Would you like to go tell my mother that?"
"Maybe I will." The rejoinder was muttered, almost inaudible, but Hawke's small snort of laughter told Anders she'd heard it anyway.
"Stay," he insisted again, once they were inside the clinic.
"Why?" There was frustration in Hawke's voice now, but also a challenge.
"Because," Anders responded. There was a "because", but Hawke was still staring at him, one eyebrow raised in question, and the thought of anything else fled his mind.
"Because?" she prodded. Anders sat heavily on his bed.
"Because," he repeated. Hawke tugged on his boots, setting them beside his bed once she'd got them off his feet. He wanted to tell her, needed to tell her, but his head was so heavy and his thoughts seemed to slosh around his brain, keeping him from holding on to any of them long enough to give them voice.
Hawke looked up at him from the floor, watching him quietly. "Why do you want me to stay, Anders?"
"…because," he whispered, and Hawke just smiled, closing her eyes.
"Tell you what," she said, nudging him until he stretched out on the bed. "I'll see you tomorrow, and you can tell me then."
No. No, tomorrow he'd be sober and his resolve would have wilted, and they'd get distracted by some damn thing or another and he'd have gone another day without having said it, another day wasted in this awful, stinking city.
"Stay," he murmured as Hawke pulled the thin blanket up over his shoulders.
"Goodnight, Anders." Hawke dimmed the lantern and the dark seemed to swallow him, pulling his mind towards sleep no matter how he fought.
If she seemed to linger by the doorway, there was no way to tell if it was reality or a projection of his ale-soaked yearning. Either way, and not for the first time, he drifted into sleep with the her name on his lips.