Author's Note: This is sort of borderline Fenders, but it doesn't have to be interpreted that way. Honestly, the world needs more fanfics about these two at least partially understanding each other.

Although, I sort of ship them when it's written right. Not gonna lie ;D

Argh. Here, read the damn story xD. See how many feels it gives you, if any. And please don't mind my strange tumblr talk.

Anders isn't really surprised when he touches the elf and 'feels' through him. It isn't unusual for him to catch snippets of a patient's emotions. He imagines said elf wouldn't be happy about that if he knew, but these wounds are bad, and Anders has no choice. So further he taps into his hidden reserves of magic, and further he dives, hands clasped tight over a deep gash in Fenris' side, their companions hovering anxiously nearby.

Fenris is everything Anders hates, but that doesn't mean he deserves to die, and he abhors the magic that keeps his life from ebbing away, but that doesn't mean Anders is going to stand by and let the poor bastard bleed to death. Although, he is fairly certain half of their companions wouldn't blame him for long if he did.

All the same, he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. Instead, he concentrates on knitting flesh and bone, bit by bit as Fenris shudders, half-conscious and shaking. His vision flashes blue, but Anders beats him back. Justice is going to stay out of this, no matter what he has to do to ensure that.

He doesn't mean to see it. He doesn't even know how he does. Usually when he catches pieces of memory, it turns out to be nothing but a face, or a muttered word. This time, he has a sodding front row seat, but he doesn't like the play.

Anders has never been much for horror stories. They sort of lose their charm when your life is one.

So, he sees it. Just flashes, but all he needs. Fenris pinned to the ground. The wall. Slammed face-first onto a bed and wrapped headlong in chains. He sees Denarius kissing him. Denarius riding him. Denarius shoving his cock down the elf's throat, but what hits him most of all is how cold and dead Fenris' eyes look the whole time.

Anders knows those eyes. They are the eyes of the fallen. The eyes of those who gave up and accepted their fate. He's seen them nearly every day of his life. Back in Ferelden, and the Gallows. Even here with the starving despots in Dark Town, so desperate for shelter, they sometimes stabbed themselves just to gain a bed at his clinic.

Such a difference from the fiery, defiant Fenris beneath his fingers. Such a difference from the lean, proud Elven warrior, who didn't even know how to take anyone's bullshit without ripping their hearts out.

Anders also notes, with a heavy heart, that in each one of these memories, Denarius has a fondness for sparking tendrils of magic along those painful lyrium tattoos.

So Anders says nothing when Fenris recoils from the magic at his fingertips. He says nothing when the elf pushes himself up, shrugging off his friends' concerned inquiries with a grunted, 'I'm fine.' He says, 'You're very welcome,' when Fenris mutters a grudging, 'Thank you,' and avoids those pale-green eyes as they glance back at him suspiciously.

Anders doesn't think he can bear to look into those eyes. Not for a very long time.

He knows he'll lie awake that night, wondering whose life sucks more.

He wonders if that matters, and thinks it probably doesn't.

Anders understands now, even if Fenris can't. And a few days later when he hears him bite off a scathing comment about magic, Anders tells Justice to sod off. Just once, he can let it slide.