"Meredith happened," Hawke deadpans, retort instantaneous even as the less quippy part of his brain is aware that won't make sense without context. He rolls his eyes, entirely at the fact that this is necessary to discuss at all, and somehow manages to tuck them closer together, palm pressing flat at the small of Anders' back.

"Some frighteningly accurate facsimile of Meredith, anyway." As enlightenment goes its vague, but he only understands so much of it himself. "If I never have to serve as representative of the human race again it'll be far too soon."