Ache
Anders x Hawke Words: 368 Plot: Anders laying awake at night thinking of Hawke, realising he loves her. A/N: “I have lay awake every night for three years aching for you” or however Anders says it is the best line in DA:2. If you don’t believe me I’ll fite you. I have had requests for Anders before that I forgot to write; this is by way of an apology.
Nights in Kirkwall were claustrophobic.
The air was thick; hot air rising from the sandstone walls. Beggars and refugees lined endless streets, cramming the doorways in the hope of shelter from templar forces. The clinic was no exception; in fact, Anders barely slept at all under the scratchy cloth that lined his cot. When he finally would dream: the Deep Roads would stretch out before him, miles of stone and dirt between the tips of his fingers and the starlight.
When he would finally wake in the morning, sweat would paste his blonde waves to his forehead. His limbs would ache, his head pounding from dehydration. And Justice was always there, always weaving through his thoughts; wisps of smoke through the trees of his consciousness.
You must sleep, Anders. You must sleep.
As if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t wish he could. So, he began trying to focus as he lay awake at night. Grounding himself in realities to help wind him down. At first, his thoughts would waver to his duties, his memories…the Circle, his patients. And then he noticed his thoughts stagnating on more specific moments; on more specific people.
Hawke.
Her image burned through his soul; a wildfire he felt deep within him. It started in his throat, his mouth dry as he bit his lip. His head would feel warm, his ears burning hot against his pillow. His heart hammering in his chest. His toes curled against his sheets as he pictured her laying beside him, her hands cupping his chin as she sang him to sleep.
Justice would protest. He always protested. Reminding Anders in those dark and stuffy nights that they had a purpose; he didn’t need her to tell him where he was going.
Anders would swallow. If he didn’t need her; why did his bones ache with the distance between them? Why did his lungs grip tightly in his chest when he felt her presence behind him? Why, of all things, would he spend these years watching the door to his clinic at midnight, waiting for her to stride in and take his aching from him?
Nights in Kirkwall were claustrophobic. But nights without Hawke? They were suffocating.
