FUCK PANTS

It was an ongoing argument, and one Anders kept losing. He liked robes. He looked good in robes. He wanted to wear robes. At least Justice had been willing to compromise on the coat. It wasn't enough and it didn't serve quite the same purpose, but it swept and swung when he moved. He'd settle, for now, but he missed the sea breeze up his legs, and the way his crotch didn't sweat in a robe.

Sometimes, he'd get distracted, missing the way the heavy cloth had hung along his legs, and he'd lose track of one of his hands, only to find hastily scrawled tirades about the importance of pants on the backs of Hawke's monthly tailoring bills or Fenris's latest attempts to learn to write. Usually, he'd toss the paper into the fire, as soon as he realised what it was. No argument would win him over, but Justice did have the power to slowly alter his wardrobe, until all that remained were shirts and pants. Which had happened, much to Anders's annoyance.

But, the last vapid little love-note Justice had tried to leave him hadn't made it into the fire. It had been left, unnoticed, on a pile of books beside Hawke's bed, and Anders dropped another book on top of it, as he drifted off.

A few days later, Hawke used it for a bookmark.

A few days after that, Hawke took the book with him to the pub.

"Is that a page of His Eternal Unfinished Manifesto you're using to mark your place?" Fenris asked, after a few drinks, eyeing the book. "Doesn't look like your handwriting."

"Is it? I don't think I checked. Thought it was the tally for the work on the cellar or something." Hawke shrugged and ordered another beer.

"That is definitely the same hand as the Manifesto." Fenris was squinting at the strip of paper, across the sticky table, but hadn't actually touched the book. "Not the usual illegible Anders-scrawl. Justice, I think. Is that word 'pants'?"

"Justice is writing about pants? You're drunk and you can only read one word in five, when you're sober. That can't be pants." Hawke flipped the book open and unfolded the bookmark.

Horrified amusement broke across his face, as he skimmed line after line of block print. "I take it back. Justice is writing about pants."

That got Isabela's attention. "Justice's pants?" she asked, pouring herself into Fenris's lap. "I'm very interested in Justice's pants."

"What do you care about pants, Izzy? You don't even wear them." Fenris drawled, trying to figure out how to get his glass of wine to his mouth without spilling it into Isabela's cleavage.

"It looks like Justice is trying to convince Anders that pants are better than robes." Hawke's eyes crossed and he handed the page to Isabela.

She laughed after only a few seconds. "Oh, Fenris, if I tell you what it says, will you do your Justice impression?"

"I can try…" Fenris switched his wine to the other hand and took a sip, as Isabela whispered into his ear. Almost immediately, he sputtered, and they were both soaked in wine.

"You want me to say what?" Fenris looked horrified. "I refuse to believe Justice wrote that. Although it is a decent impression of his style."

Isabela stared into her cleavage for a long moment. "Hawke? Get me a napkin. Broody's drooling between my boobs, again."

"I am not drooling," Fenris growled against his wrist, glass still in hand.

"Now you have to do it," Isabella insisted, taking the greasy bar rag from Hawke, who shrugged at her inquisitive look. "You owe me."

Fenris put the wine back on the table. "What does it say, again?"

After a moment, Fenris began to speak aloud, gesturing with his free hand, as a faint blue glow emanated from him. "PANTS ARE THE CHOICE OF A FREE MAN. THE ANGRY ELF WEARS PANTS. THE LYING DWARF WEARS PANTS. A ROBE IS A SYMBOL OF YOUR OPPRESSION, AND YOU MUST CAST IT OFF AND EMBRACE YOUR FREEDOM IF YOU WISH TO HELP OTHERS OF YOUR KIND."

Isabela howled with laughter, and Hawke cackled so hard he had to sit down.

"You — Oh, maker — You do that so well, Fenris." Hawke rested his forehead on the edge of the table, still laughing.

"I am somewhat surprised that Varric and I are his choices of example, here," Fenris admitted.

"Well, please," Isabela scoffed, "can you imagine Hawke wearing pants?"

"I prefer not to consider Hawke's pants or lack thereof." Fenris picked up his wine again. "And your pants are more fictional than anything Varric's written."

"My lack of pants doesn't enter into it. Free man, he says. So, Aveline's pants don't count, either." Isabela continued blotting at her cleavage with the rag. "You really know how to get a lady wet, don't you, Fenris?"

He choked on the wine again, but managed not to spit it, this time. "Hawke, get another bottle. I'm going to need it."

"Aww, am I driving you to drink, Broody?" Isabela rested her cheek against Fenris's forehead.

"He's just looking for an excuse," Hawke teased, going for another bottle. "Where's Varric, tonight?"

"Standing behind you, wondering what's with the Justice impressions." Varric stepped out from behind Hawke, pulling up another seat at the table. "I got caught in some business, upstairs. And, really, Broody, you sound just like him, but pants? The subject matter could use a little help."

"I did not choose the subject matter. Justice chose the subject matter." Fenris straightened up, catlike, smug derision pouring off him.

Isabela handed the page to Varric. "I'm worried about Anders, if this is what Justice is writing, these days."

"That does look like his handwriting," Varric admitted, after a few moments studying the page of pants propaganda. "Still…" He whispered something to Fenris, who looked horrified, but repeated it, in a booming voice, with a touch of lyrium-lightshow.

"ALL MEN MUST BE FREE, AND WOMEN AS WELL, BUT THERE ARE PARTS OF A MAN THAT SHOULD BE BOUND CLOSE TO THE BODY. ROBES SIMPLY ENABLE UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENTS."

Hawke couldn't breathe, and laughed until his lips turned blue.

"It would be a tragedy if any accidents befell his parts," Isabela decided.

"What would you know about his parts?" Fenris demanded, rather hypocritically. "Something I should know?"

"We spent some time together in a whorehouse in Denerim. Years ago. 'Sparklefingers', we called him." Isabela swooned, dramatically, leaning more heavily on Fenris. "Don't look at me like that! I wouldn't say no, if he wanted to give me some more shocking good times. Does he still do that electricity thing, Hawke?"

"We do that electricity thing," Hawke confirmed, with a broad grin. "Sometimes for hours on end."

"Ooooh. I'd invite myself, but both of you might be a little much, at the same time."

Fenris looked at Varric. "Am I the only one…?"

"Broody, don't ask questions you don't want me to answer in public. You're setting yourself up."

Of course Varric knew. How could he not.

"…who's not hitting on Hawke?" Fenris finished, pointedly.

"Do I look like I'm hitting on Hawke?" Varric asked. "Because I promise you I'm not. I've got a strong preference for more mercenary and less crazy."

"The next pint's on me," Fenris said, smacking a couple of silver pieces on the table. That would buy a lot more than just the next pint. "Give me another line. I'm never letting him live this down."

"You? I'm never letting him live this down!" Hawke laughed. "I'm living with him and I had no idea this was going on!"

Isabela snatched the page back and read off another line, quietly.

"YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT SWEATING," Fenris boomed, light flickering and winking along his tattoos, "BUT THIS WOULD BE SOLVED BY WEARING SMALLCLOTHES, WHICH WOULD DRAW THE FLUIDS AWAY FROM YOUR SKIN."

"There's a note, next to that one. Looks like … Anders?" Isabela showed the page to Fenris, who nodded. "Says 'Because adding more clothes when you're sweating is always the answer'. I can hear him rolling his eyes, just reading it."

"There's so much wrong with that sentence, Izzy," Fenris pointed out, absently, pouring himself another glass of wine.

"You think there's something wrong with that sentence, try this one." She whispered to him, again, and he put the bottle back on the table and closed his eyes.

"What."

"You could have Varric read it to you. He'll tell you the same thing. Top of the third paragraph."

Fenris pulled Isabela's hand across himself and showed the page to Varric, who repeated what Isabela had just said.

"YOU WILL WEAR PANTS, BECAUSE YOU CARE ABOUT HOW HAWKE LOOKS AT YOU. WHILE I WILL NOT PERMIT YOU TO BE DISTRACTED FROM OUR CAUSE, I ENCOURAGE YOU TO DISTRACT HIM INTO IT. I AM AWARE OF HOW HIS EYES LINGER —" Fenris started to laugh, finally. "I can't do this. Pour me another glass. I need it."

"What are you laughing about, Fenris?" Anders's voice came from behind him. "You never laugh."

Fenris grabbed the page and shoved it into Isabela's cleavage. "That'll soak up the wine."

He tipped his head back and looked up at Anders. "Is a man not allowed to appreciate the company of a beautiful woman?"

Varric reached across them, yanked the still-visible corner of the page, shook it out and handed it to Anders. "Justice has been checking out Hawke checking out your ass."

Anders froze. "Where did you get this?"

"I found it in a book I was reading," Hawke volunteered. "I promise you, I'd be looking at your ass in anything you want to wear."

"I hate pants," Anders complained, sitting next to Hawke and kicking Fenris under the table. "I hate pants, and I hate not being drunk. I almost drank a dwarf under the table, once!"

"And the dwarf was dying of some crippling disease of the liver, at the time?" Fenris guessed.

Anders kicked him again. "I had fewer inhibitions in my wild and wonderful youth. Which is how I ended up with them, now."

"So, you only wear pants because Justice makes you?" Isabela asked, shifting to lean enticingly across the table. "Doesn't your shiny, blue friend realise that's oppression, too?"

"Yeah, he really doesn't get to argue about the oppression of mages via fashion restriction, if he's making you wear pants," Varric agreed. "I like pants, but that's me. I don't look so hot in a dress."

"I know exactly how hot Sparklefingers, over there, looks in and out of a dress." Isabela grinned teasingly, and subtly flexed her butt against Fenris.

"Robes. You saw me in — Oh, Andraste's knickers, that one night." Anders looked even paler than usual.

"Oh, yes, that one night. Yards of gold Orlesian crepe with violet ruffled trim. And that adorable little owl mask."

"It was that kind of party!" Anders protested. "You showed up in that golden elf's pants! Everyone heard him complaining that you'd stretched the stitching, the next day. I had no idea how you even got into those, when he wore them so tight."

"Ancient pirate magic," Isabela replied, smiling even wider. "And he deserved to have his leathers stretched."

"For all that I will tolerate you in my pants," Fenris began, picking up his wine, at last, "I will not tolerate you wearing them. Don't get any ideas."

Hawke whistled. "I think he finally got the hang of smouldering."

"I always knew he had it in him!" Isabela leaned back and wrapped an arm around Fenris's shoulders.

"So, Anders," Hawke began, contemplatively, "I'm a nobleman with an extensive income. You know this. I know this. I don't think your less distractable half has considered the implications of this. Shall I assist you in your war on pants? I'm sure we can have you fitted for something deliciously Orlesian, with all the feathers you desire. Something that accents all those features I love to be distracted by…"

"You would do that? For me?" Anders looked a little flustered. "I mean, I don't know about Orlesian fashion, but even just a nice Ferelden winter robe…"

"How about something in a Chasind style? I remember seeing some extremely appealing designs out of the Wilds, when we were still so close." Hawke looked slyly at Anders.

"I'm not shaving my chest. In fact, I'm not showing my chest. The weather here is shit." Anders shifted uncomfortably. "If it doesn't have cloth up to my neck and down to my ankles, I'm not wearing it."

Fenris caught Anders's eye and blinked deliberately, a silent comment on a conversation no-one knew they'd had. Anders gave him half a sad smile, before returning his attention to Hawke.

"What about those half-glove sleeves, with the thumb-loops? And a ridiculously high collar with the vee and the gold trim?" Hawke ran his fingers over the back of Anders's hand, rubbing between the knuckles.

And there was that grin that was more arrogance than sense. "Yeah, buy me one of those, Hawke. I look good in green."

"You do look good in green. Do you think you'd win this war if I—" and then Hawke was whispering, and Anders looked like he might bolt from the table.

"Can you—" Anders's voice cracked. "Can you not say things like that while I'm still wearing pants?"

Hawke's hand slipped under the table, and Anders just put his head in his hands.

"Not helping, Hawke. Not helping."

Varric pointed at Fenris and Isabela. "You guys are bad. They're worse."

"No, they're not. We just decided to spare your sensibilities." Fenris smiled unsettlingly, and Isabela just looked smug.

"Well. The four of you have fun getting the splinters out of your asses. My drink and I are going back upstairs." With that, Varric stood up and took his drink. "If Aveline comes by to actually play cards, instead of playing at juggling eggs, send her my way."