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He hadn't wept. He'd bowed his head over his mother's body for the space of five breaths and then placed her carefully on the ground. In a calm voice, he'd sent Aveline for one of the stretchers in the rooms further up, and then they'd taken Leandra home and laid her out in the cool of the cellars. For the next two days he'd gone quietly about the business of arranging the funeral, and when Leandra was burnt, he'd placed the coffer with a pinch of her ashes on the mantle in his bedroom.
And then he'd gone out renegotiate the wages of the Bone Pit workers with Hubert.
Anders slept beside him every night, knew that he tossed and turned until the small hours and then got up with the dawn. He'd ordered his mother's room closed and forbade the staff from going in. He flung himself at every task that Kirkwall coughed up at his feet with a grim, dogged determination and in the moments between attending to everyone else's needs his eyes went distant and a little dead and he looked frighteningly like one of the Tranquil.
It made Anders worried. He tried a couple of times to talk to Garrett about it but all he got was a small smile that didn't reach Garrett's eyes and a brief hug. He felt so useless, helpless in the face of Garrett's immense and silent pain.
Maybe he doesn't need me, he told himself as they cut through Carta in the depth of Darktown, Garrett as brutally efficient as ever. He's dealing with it in his own way, he thought, watching Garrett dress down Sebastian in a firm yet kind manner about his waffling. I think he'll be fine, as Garrett spoke with the Viscount about the Qunari, focused and reassuring.
Then he arrived home early from the clinic one evening to find Garrett sitting on his bed, staring at his hands. The fire had nearly died and the room was chill and dark.
"Love?" asked Anders. He crossed to the fire and put another log on, fanning the flames with a small surge of magic.
Garrett's face was illuminated in the sudden light. His eyes were red, his cheeks and beard wet. His hands rested in his lap, palms upward. They were wet as well. As Anders watched, another fat drop fell from Garrett's beard onto his fingers.
"Garrett," he breathed and came across the rug to kneel by the other man. He laid a hesitant hand on Garrett's knee. "Oh, Garrett."
Garrett shook his head slowly. "I can't. Hold on." He spoke tonelessly, calmly. "To anything. It all goes. Like smoke." He flexed his hands into fists and then relaxed them again.
Anders felt his throat close, his heart clench.
"Father told me. It was my job now. But I. Lost them. One by one, I lost them. Not fast enough, not strong enough." The tears fell faster now, plink plink plink against his skin, against Anders's. "I - I wasn't enough." His voice broke on the last word and he bent forward like a man under a crushing weight, shuddering.
"No," said Anders. "No, Garrett." He clutched Garrett's arms and dragged him off the bed, onto the floor, and up against the ratty fur of his pauldrons. Garrett was tense and stiff and resisting until Anders began to rock, arms straining around Garrett's shoulders. "It wasn't your fault," Anders said, voice thick.
Garrett gave way all at once, nearly knocking Anders over. His large hands wound themselves into the worn cloth and leather of Anders's coat, he pressed his face against the side of Anders's neck, and he began, at last, to weep. Harsh, painful sounds, choked and swallowed and fought against.
Anders ran his hands up into Garrett's hair, down the long sweep of his spine and then back again, letting a small amount of undirected Creation magic leak out, just a warm, soothing pulse. They sat there a long time, while Garrett spilled his anguished, strangled grief out against Anders and Anders let his own tears fall silently. For Leandra, for Garrett, for the mother that Anders could barely remember and the world that they lived in.
Garrett, exhausted, subsided at last. The fire was burning out again. Anders had maneuvered them against the bed at some point and now he reached up and pulled the coverlet down to wrap around them.
"I'm sorry." It was barely a whisper.
"You don't have to be," said Anders. "Not with me. You don't have to be a hero with me." Garrett's breath stuttered a bit and Anders tucked the blanket tighter. "You can let me in," said Anders. "You can let me hold you sometimes. I want to."
"'S my job," said Garrett quietly.
"Not here," said Anders. "Not right now."
Garrett didn't reply. But neither did he move. Anders cupped the back of Garrett's head with one hand and put the other against his heart. Garrett heaved a shuddering sigh, took that hand in both of his and cradled it against him like a child with a stuffed toy.
"You're my hope, Anders," he said. "You're all I've got left."
Anders shoved Justice down as far as he would go and pulled Garrett in again. "Shhh," he said. "Shhh now."
Garrett slept the night through, head tucked beneath Anders's chin.