"Ask an easy question," Hawke drawls back; he's not quite righted, but his sense of humor serves the way a healthy circulatory system might--blood can only be blanched so long before flooding back in. A return of color to the skin signifies clean paths underneath. A sign of recovery in progress.
Which, as metaphors go, is probably too medically advanced for Hawke to follow in the first place, and even if he could he's not sure what his own heart is doing right now. Trying to turn into a square, probably. --right. Not helping. He bridges his hands together over his mouth again and spends a second working out where to start, casting half a glance at Anders the way people do when they're trying to look anywhere else. His coat is different, he realizes; or more accurately it's the same. The coat he'd spent weeks being mournful at before Hawke had beguiled him into a tailor's.
That keeps him quiet for another few seconds. Eventually: "It's all blasphemous to the core," he warns, dropping his hands - and revealing in the process that his mouth has gone back to faintly humorous even if the ghosts at the corners of his eyes don't match - "so do try to remember it's not my idea. I'd hate for you to have less reason to trust me."
...as a joke, the precept sort of falls flat on its face and then off a cliff. Hawke winces. "Right. To start with, you've got to throw out the idea that there's one world."
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Which, as metaphors go, is probably too medically advanced for Hawke to follow in the first place, and even if he could he's not sure what his own heart is doing right now. Trying to turn into a square, probably. --right. Not helping. He bridges his hands together over his mouth again and spends a second working out where to start, casting half a glance at Anders the way people do when they're trying to look anywhere else. His coat is different, he realizes; or more accurately it's the same. The coat he'd spent weeks being mournful at before Hawke had beguiled him into a tailor's.
That keeps him quiet for another few seconds. Eventually: "It's all blasphemous to the core," he warns, dropping his hands - and revealing in the process that his mouth has gone back to faintly humorous even if the ghosts at the corners of his eyes don't match - "so do try to remember it's not my idea. I'd hate for you to have less reason to trust me."
...as a joke, the precept sort of falls flat on its face and then off a cliff. Hawke winces. "Right. To start with, you've got to throw out the idea that there's one world."