Work Text:
Only one day they stopped off in Llomeryn and already Garrett was nursing a hangover that could’ve been from a week of non-stop revelry. His stomach churned, empty for everything save the remains of liquor sloshing unpleasantly in his belly. He couldn’t really be getting so old that a night of rabble rousing was enough to make him wish for solid land and a soft pillow. Instead, he had the swaying of his hammock on the Seamaiden Fair and a threadbare blanket that smelled a touch like ale and piss.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Garrett dropped to his feet, wincing as the impact made his vision blur. Too much, too fast, it seemed. He swallowed the bile as it rose in his throat, grimacing as he made his way towards the stockroom. Best thing for a hangover was a hearty breakfast and they were as well equipped as they ever were, having just bartered and bargained at port. He pulled out his flask as he ambled between bunks, sipping his little hair of the dog just to set him to rights.
Salted pork and salted trout, a flagon of beer to wash it all down. Garrett closed his eyes, humming a snippet of a shanty while he devoured his meal.
He was halfway through a piece of crusty bread when he heard what he could’ve sworn was a tap and a squeak.
“Fucking mice,” Garrett grumbled, exhaling sharply. He took out a crowbar that hung by the door to the store of food and began the long, annoying task of checking the barrels for rodent miscreants.
Nothing but grain in the first two.
On the third, though, there was another squeak as the lid lifted off far easier than it should’ve. But instead of furry gray bodies wriggling among their store of food, all he found was a man, curled up around himself in what couldn’t have been a comfortable position. Amber eyes blinked up at him in the darkness, dirty blond hair a mess of tangles over his shoulders.
“Fucking stowaways,” Garrett amended, dragging the man up to his feet and out of the barrel. “Come on, then. You and I have a date with Captain Isabela.”
The man was tall and spindly and looked as though a stiff breeze might’ve been able to knock him right off his feet. Though, Garrett had to admit that a stiff wind probably could’ve knocked him over, given the state of his headache.
Captain Isabela studied the fellow, an amused smirk playing across her lips as Garrett recounted his discovery, only leaving out the bits about him feeling as sick as a dog.
“You’d almost have gotten away with it if you hadn’t squealed like a stuck pig from the inside of that barrel.” Isabela’s hands rested on the bowed desk in the center of the captain’s quarters, standing in front of the massive padded armchair they’d stolen a year prior from a viscount. “Close, but no dice, pretty.” She rested her dagger just beneath the blond’s chin, enough to make him wince. “Stowing away on a pirate’s vessel.” She flicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Not the wisest choice in the world, is it, Fen?”
The slender man smirked, shrugging slightly, pale locks falling over his dark skin. The sword he carried was almost larger than he was and it wasn’t at all just for show.
The blond stowaway looked like he might shit himself.
“Give me a good reason to keep from tossing you overboard,” Isabela purred, drawing the flat of the blade over pale, freckled skin. “Go on. Maybe I’m feeling generous today.”
The fool of a man looked up at Hawke with what seemed to be hope. “I’m a healer of some skill,” he offered, biting his lip in a way that Garrett felt pretty bad about the entire situation. “You’re not feeling well. Hangover, maybe? Dehydration? Give me your hand and I’ll help with it.”
Garrett blinked, glancing around the captain’s quarters. Cat was out of the bag, it seemed. He puffed out his cheeks, extending a hand. Bela’d never let him live it down if he was going to start getting sick on the job after a few drinks. The healer’s fingertips were calloused, but his palms were indecently soft. Eyelids fluttered shut over those warm, chestnut eyes, and then a warmth flooded Garrett’s body, taking the aches and nausea away with it.
Garrett met the healer’s eyes when they opened again, glancing at Isabela with a nod.
“Welcome aboard,” Isabela lifted her brows. “What’s your name?”
“Anders,” the healer took his hands back, tucking them into the pockets of his shabby, feathered robe. “Just Anders.”
“Welcome aboard, Anders,” Isabela beamed, patting him on the shoulder. “My first mate here will show you the ropes. Get you used to the pirate’s life. Glad I didn’t need to break out the plank today; the shouts and screams really put me off my breakfast. Off with you, then.”
She waved a hand negligently and that was that.
“She’s not really that bad when you get to know her,” Garrett murmured as they slipped out of the door and onto the main deck. Seagulls cried overhead, the salt-scented wind whipped Anders’ golden hair, strands clinging to his face. “How’d you end up in a barrel, by the by?”
“I upset the wrong people.” Anders said it with absolutely no sign of remorse or regret, which only made Garrett like him all the more.
“Happens all the time, mate.” He rested a hand on the slim man’s shoulder. “All of us have, at one time or another. Comes with the territory.”
“Thank you,” Anders smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling so pleasantly it sent a shot of longing straight to Garrett’s heart. “For not throwing me over in the first place. For giving your approval-”
“Mate, you
healed
me. That’s a pretty damned special gift. One we’re going to be making pretty good use of, if I know the Captain, and I’ve been sailing with the madwoman for the better part of five years.” Garrett laughed, tilting his head back. “You might not be thanking me after we’re making you earn your keep.”
“I’m used to earning my keep. I can manage, First Mate…” Anders trailed off like he was asking a question.
“Hawke. Or Garrett, if you really want. The last name doesn’t mean much anymore, but it’s kind of stuck.”
“Hawke,” Anders repeated, nodding slowly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yeah, I could see why it would. Thank you, in any case. I’ll make it up to you.”
“I imagine you will.” In excruciating detail, Garrett was imagining it. He cleared his throat, bracing his hands against the deck railing, counting backwards from ten, before he turned back towards Anders and began a proper tour.
It was three weeks before he finally got up the nerve to kiss the pretty blond healer. They dropped anchor off a little island Isabela used as a smuggling drop. They spent the morning rowing crates full of Rivaini spirit wine ashore, concealing it among the reeds and loading up the small chests of obsidian and pearls on the boats.
Sweaty work.
All the lads stripped off their shirts and the ladies did too - keeping the best bits covered, of course - and Garrett was willing to admit he may have stared a bit longer than reasonable at Anders. His back was scar-lined and dotted with a constellation of freckles. Old, long-healed lash marks and more recent burns and stabbings. The kind of thing that makes a man want to gather someone up into their arms and keep them safe from the world. Not that he was wholly unmarked himself; one didn’t become a pirate to stay pretty. But Anders was a healer. Whoever he pissed off, he must’ve pissed off pretty damned well to get all those marks.
The thoughts rolled around in Garrett’s mind long after they returned to shore. They stayed during two games of dice and three pints of ale and half his flask.
By the time Garrett realized that it was just him and the healer sitting up deck, it was too late. His eyes flickered to Anders’ lips.
“…you said you’d make it up to me?” Garrett asked, his voice almost lost to the wind.
“Hm?”
“When you first joined the crew. You said you’d make it up to me.” Garret exhaled slowly from his nose. “I don’t know what brought you here, but-“
“Are you taking me up on my offer?” Anders wiggled his brows. He’d become far less shy the longer he’d been out of that bloody barrel. He leaned closer, the low cut of his tunic exposing a pale, freckled chest. “I’ve been hoping you would.”
“I am.”
His hands reached, half of their own accord, to grab the man by his shirt and drag him close. He crushed their lips together and Anders let out the most decadent moan, which made his bits perk right on up. Anders tasted of salt and herbs, his lips parting eagerly to deepen the kiss. Garrett sighed, pulling the blond into his lap and kissing him properly, running his hands through hair he’d longed to touch since he’d first seen it.
“Make it up to me,” Garrett begged, his voice a low grumble.
“Anytime, any place,” Anders chuckled, and kept his word from there on out.