This was stupid. No, scratch that, this was really stupid, possibly verging on the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Possibly. Hawke had to admit he had managed to pull some rather stupid moves so far in his life, but so far he had always managed to come out ahead in the end. But this… this was worse. This was not a fight, not about money or reputation or even friendship. This was about love. Or so he thought.

Or so he hoped.

He should go back. Darktown was not a place to stand around being indecisive at the best of times, especially not these days. Since returning from the Deep Roads with a small fortune he dressed better, groomed himself better, and had that faint smell of Hightown around him. It was only a matter of time before someone's need of money overrode their fear of his daggers. Ah well, who was he kidding? He would welcome that fight. A distraction. Then he could go home, clean off the blood, and put this thing off for another day. Except that he'd done it once already and one more time would really mean that he was just as chicken as Fenris had been.

Had living in Hightown made him soft?

Maybe. Or maybe just lonely. When he'd been a refugee squatting in Lowtown, it seemed like a dream come true, a place where you never had to worry about getting shanked in a dark corner or where your next meal was coming from, a place of opulence and plenty where his bath hadn't been used by at least three others before him. But, now that he was a man of wealth and his mother had regained both her name and her estate, he was finding out that shadows lurked even behind the fanciest curtains. Their house was large and far too empty. His mother had, in one of her usual fits of generosity, invited the dwarven merchant and his adopted son to stay. Bodahn had accepted with a wink, since he had already sworn to repay Hawke for saving his son's life during their expedition to the Deep Roads. But, their addition to the Hawke household couldn't disguise the fact that Bethany was gone. Taken.

Hawke was now what amounted to a single child, and by the Maker, he didn't like that feeling at all.

Even now, standing here, trying to work up the nerve to turn the corner and walk down the stairs to what felt like certain doom and heartbreak, he felt like kicking something. Luckily, Darktown lacked for many things, but objects to kick was not one of them. He sent a rock flying into the dark shadows of a corner, hearing rats skitter as it fell. Bethany. He should never have let that happen. Never. They had managed to keep her hidden for so long.

She was an apostate. A mage. The Templars had come for her at last, and Hawke had to wonder if they had known of her all along and had simply bided their time until he was not around to protect her. Or was that just his ego talking? It had been pure chance that he had arrived back home from the Deep Roads with the good news just as they were getting ready to drag her away to the Gallows. Maker… he had almost gotten them all killed right then and there. It was a hanging offense, hiding apostates. Only some very fast talking from his sister and mother had kept them out of trouble, and he had nearly ruined it all by pulling a blade on the Templars. If Aveline hadn't been there to hold him back, he had no idea what would have happened. He'd be dead. Possibly. Or a fugitive as sure as any apostate. Instead he was now a noble, living in Hightown. Money wiped away all stains it seemed, the donation to the Chantry had been generous enough to make them see through their fingers at his behavior. He and Isabela had stolen it back the very same night and left it for Lirene in her donation box to help other Fereldan refugees.

A secret just between the two of them.

Isabela. Hawke signed and walked a few steps down the stairs, then retreated again. He wished she was here; she would just have given him a push and told him to either shit or get off the pot. The two of them had gotten close after his sudden windfall of money, even to the point of ending up in bed together. It had been fun, and something that continued to be fun now and then in the back rooms of the Hanged Man, but fun was all it was. Friends with benefits, and when the benefits dried up, Isabela didn't ask why. He suspected she had known for a lot longer than he had. He was falling in love.

It wasn't like it was something he had planned for, he was not the flowers and romance type, and pining after someone just sounded painful, like an itch you couldn't scratch. Love was something romantic poets made up to make sex sound pretty, like putting on makeup to disguise what lay beneath. Flirting was something you did for fun, to see if you could talk someone into bedding you. Sometimes you succeeded, like with Isabela, and sometimes you struck out, like with Fenris. But it was different with Anders.

Anders. Such an infuriatingly secretive, passionate, funny, bitter man. Hawke couldn't work him out, one moment he was all sweetness and jokes, the next he was all frustration and scowls. His moods changed faster than Fereldan spring weather.

The renegade healer still tended his clinic, that much at least hadn't changed in the last three years. It was still not much more than a hole in the wall, but he was a lot better stocked thanks to secret donations from Hawke, and, he suspected, Varric. So far he'd stayed ahead of the Templar hunters. Hawke wasn't sure whether it was because of Varric's timely warnings, the dubious loyalty of his fellow Darktown refugees, or simply because the Chantry didn't want to put to the test what authority they really had over a lapsed Grey Warden mage. He supposed it didn't matter, as long as Anders stayed one step ahead. He wouldn't lose another one to the Gallows, and if Bethany hadn't assured him that it wasn't too bad there, and that she liked teaching children, he'd have broken her out already. Somehow. There were ways in, he knew that now.

Even if he hated how he had come by that knowledge.

It turned out that Anders was a lot more than just a healer; he was also quite heavily involved in the mage underground, smuggling mages and their kin out of Kirkwall. The healer had never told him openly, it was just one of those things that went unspoken between them, like so many others. Anders asked Hawke for help with certain matters, and the rogue was only too willing to assist. So he hadn't thought twice about agreeing to help his friend find evidence that the Templars weren't just sadistic bastards, but sadistic bastards that were out for mage genocide. Even if it meant infiltrating the hidden tunnels underneath the Gallows. Of course it went badly, they had confronted a group of Templars threatening a young mage, and Anders had lost it. Completely lost it. Hawke hadn't seen the mage possessed since that first time in the Chantry, when Karl had been killed, but even then there had been some manner of control. This time…

Maker. Hawke shook his head as he finally made up his mind and stomped down the stairs into the depths. He had never seen Anders like that before. Or Justice he supposed. Not only had the mage torn through the Templars like their armor had been paper and not tempered steel, he had done it with a viciousness that would have made Fenris proud. And then, once everything had stopped twitching, he had turned on the mage girl. And for what? For being afraid of him? For fearing the abomination? For being influenced by the Templars? Hawke had been so shocked it had taken him a moment to react, and by that time it had almost been too late. But not quite. His words had managed to reach the mage inside the abomination, and the blue glow of possession had faded, leaving Anders to collapse into a shocked pile. He couldn't blame the mage for fleeing the scene.

He really couldn't.

They'd talked afterwards. Or rather, he had managed to talk the mage down from fleeing Kirkwall. He'd never seen the man that shocked before, but he recognized the look in his eyes. Hawke knew he had it himself the first time he killed a man. Blood on his hands. Human blood. That last horrible gurgling breath. Men were different than darkspawn or beasts. Athenril had spent that evening with him at the Hanged Man, trying to talk her best smuggler out of quitting the business for good. He'd gotten used to it eventually, both the blood and the fact that sometimes people ended up dead at his hands. He'd gotten used to it, but he prayed that Anders never would. The mage had been right in warning him to stay away. He had no idea what Anders truly was, but whatever it was, it was dangerous. Sometimes even to friends. He knew this should have made him back off, but instead… it drew him closer.

Moth to a flame he supposed. Maker he really was an idiot, but he'd been one all his life so why stop now?

Maybe because this was the point of no return, standing outside Anders' clinic, staring at the closed door. The lamp wasn't lit, so maybe the mage wasn't home, or maybe he just didn't want to take patients right now. He shouldn't do this, but somehow the realization that the mage hadn't been playing coy and hard to get for all these years without reason had changed something for him. Something vital. The mage hadn't been a player and a tease (well, the latter was probably still true, but…), he had actually meant every word he said. He hadn't wanted Hawke involved in this, had tried to keep away for as long as he could, until finally he needed the rogue's help so much that he had no choice. Anders had been trying to keep him safe. From this. From him.

Too bad for the healer that Hawke didn't do safe. Never had.

So with a deep breath he pushed the door open, finding Anders crouched down on the floor, his back to him. Blasted coat kept him from having a good view of the mage's ass, but at least there was no flinching or startling. The healer seemed to have calmed down considerably since their last meeting.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asked, walking up to peek over the shoulder of the hunched mage.

"Putting out milk," Anders replied, voice lighter than Hawke had heard it in months. The mage rose, turning to face Hawke. Was that a smile on his lips? "I miss having a cat around. But I think the refugees have scared them all off," now his eyebrows shot up in the familiar look of worry. "Or maybe eaten them."

"I think the preferred Darktown cuisine is rat," Hawke grinned. The mage's moods fluctuated wildly, and right now depression seemed to have given way to enthusiasm. But there was still something so cautious about the way the healer spoke, as if he kept expecting things to break into painful shards at any moment. Words spoken by someone so used to hurting he couldn't quite believed that it had stopped.

"You know," Anders started, pacing a little. "I've been meaning to thank you. It's just that other things keep coming up. Like bandits. Or spiders. Or Isabela." There was the faintest of grimaces there before he got back on track. "You don't need to stick your neck out for the mages here but you have." He stopped in front of the rogue, speaking with the utmost sincerity. "One day we will make a world where your sister can be free again."

Hawke swallowed hard, when the mage was this close, this intense, he really did feel a bit weak in the knees. Passion was infectious, and Anders was by far the most passionate man he had ever met. He believed in things that Isabela would laugh off as foolish idealism, and which Varric would term glorified suicide, and yet Hawke found it impossible not to be affected. Going up against the Chantry and the Templars was insane, and fighting to free all mages was… well, something more insane than insane. He'd have to ask Varric if there was a word for that. And then he realized that Anders had said 'we'. Maker preserve him.

"Well, you know me, I always had a thing for scrappy underdogs," Hawke teased in return, it was so easy to fall into his usual flirting banter, even if it had never got him anywhere before. He should try to be serious. Should tell the other man how he felt. It was just that every time he opened his mouth, something snarky came out. Sometimes he wanted to kick himself.

"I've tried to hold back," the healer continued, not deflected by the comment. He was serious now, more serious than Hawke had ever seen him before. "You were there. You saw what I almost did to that girl."

Hawke had seen that. He really had. He wouldn't lie, he didn't understand it, and he was more than a little freaked out by it. But the look on Anders face made him hold his tongue, just giving the mage the smallest of nods. He hoped it was an understanding one, and didn't reveal what really went through his mind. Which was pretty much that he couldn't remember wanting to tear off the other man's pants more.

"You have seen what I am now," Anders continued, stepping closer, voice dropping as if he had read Hawke's mind. "But I'm still a man. You can't tease me like this and expect me to resist forever."

"Sooo, how long will it take before I drive you mad?" the rogue asked jokingly, on the verge of pointing out that three years was a pretty impressive amount of time to keep deflecting his advances. But he never got the chance.

Bridging the gap between them with a quick step, Anders grabbed hold of Hawke, pulling him in for a deep kiss. For a brief moment, the rogue had no idea what to do with his flailing hands, his protests turning into moans, muffled by Anders' possessive kiss. The mage had grabbed his head with both hands, rough yet gentle. No chance of escape, so Hawke dove straight into it, wrapping his arms around the healer, burying his fingers into the familiar feathers. Maker's breath, he had no idea the mage could kiss like this, he'd always thought that he'd have to be the one to take charge to get anything done. Turns out he was dead wrong. He was dealing with years of pent up frustration here, and having it explode in his face was all the more satisfactory. His hands slid lower, went for a grope, inflamed enough to just dump the mage on one of his cots and have his way with him right then and there. But of course Anders still had to be the tease, and broke the kiss and stepped away, leaving them both breathless and wanting.

"If we could die tomorrow," the mage said, straightening his coat with a flush. "I wouldn't want it to be without doing that."

"Is that all you had in mind?" Hawke asked, because he suddenly had a list of things a mile long that he wanted to do before he died, just with the mage. Most of them without clothes.

Anders laughed, but it was a soft, almost sad sound. "With Justice, I thought that part of me was over." He turned serious once more, giving Hawke one of his all too familiar warnings. "If you're with me we'll be hunted. Hated. The whole world will be against us. If your door is open tonight, I will come to you. If not, I'll know you took my warning at last." From the look on his face the mage didn't want Hawke to take his advice, and yet was terrified that he would.

"I take it that's my cue to leave," Hawke said, wishing his pants weren't this tight.

"I have patients coming," the mage nodded.

"I see," the rogue said, turning to leave. "Tonight then?"

"Think about what you're doing," the mage cautioned as Hawke exited the clinic.

Oh how little Anders knew him. Since when had he ever thought things through?

…

This was ridiculous. And Hawke usually dealt with things that were ridiculous by taking a trip down to the Hanged Man and get drunk. Or possibly fight someone. Something. He hated being nervous, he hated waiting for things, and Maker's breath, when was Anders going to show up anyway? Had he decided to back out? The man was nothing if not fickle at times, or had something happened? An emergency at the clinic? Templars? The thought made his hand go for his dagger, but of course it was not there. He was at home. In his house. In Hightown.

It still didn't feel like his house, this was his mother's estate. Sometimes he felt like Fenris, just squatting somewhere, except with less cobwebs and better food. It had been three years, but it still did not feel comfortable. He was not a Hightowner, he was not a nobleman, despite what his mother said, and he was most certainly not an Amell. He was a Hawke, the son of a mercenary apostate mage, who had grown up on a farm in Ferelden and made a name for himself in Lowtown. The way his mother kept inviting him to Hightown dinners and tried to set him up with suitable daughters of important names just made his palms itch for a good blade and a brawl.

But this was Leandra's dream, and he wouldn't ruin it. He'd settle for his small rebellions, like the Hanged Man and his friends and… well, he supposed, Anders.

Maker where was he? Had Bodahn locked the door after all? He'd made sure the dwarf would leave it unlocked, though he hadn't told him the reason. In case nothing happened. Hawke rubbed his lips a little, the memory of that kiss still felt unreal. Anders was nothing like Isabela, where everything had been simple with her, it was so very complicated with him. He couldn't just jump his bones, could he? Were there rules about these things? When you were serious? He'd never been serious before in his entire life, and now he rather regretted that. He could have used the practice.

Nervousness got the better of him, and he stalked down to check if the door was unlocked. It was. The street outside was dark and cold, no sign of anybody but a solitary city guard, walking his route. He closed it gently, walking back through the overly large foyer. The scale here still dwarfed him, they could have put their entire farmstead into one room, and here it was just used to impress visitors. Hawke supposed it worked, it certainly worked on him. But what would Anders think? He still felt like an ass for living up here, while the mage was stuck amongst the rats and lice in Darktown. He never even visited much, like the others did, and when he did there was always this faint… Hawke didn't even know. He was probably imagining things. Getting paranoid.

Since when did he care if anybody approved of his choices? Maker he really was falling hard this time, he'd end up getting crushed if he wasn't careful.

He walked back up the stairs, to his side of the house. His room. Or rooms. He had one end of the house, his mother had the other, and blast it but he was glad that she was an early sleeper. How late was it anyway? He hunched down and put another log in the fireplace. The room was hot enough already, but he needed something to do with his hands. The fire crackled, but there was a feeling of… something behind him, and he rose and turned in one swift motion, going for his daggers. Which weren't there. Of course.

"Andraste's ass, Hawke," Anders said, hands raised, one of them glowing faintly in case Hawke would have actually thrown a punch or something. They were both far too used to violence and sudden attacks. "I knew I should have knocked." The mage looked even more tired and scruffy than before. It had obviously been a long day.

"You're here," Hawke sighed in relief, trying to look like he hadn't spent the last hours being worried out of his skull. "I wasn't sure you would come." Maybe not the smartest thing in the world to admit, but it just slipped out. Lots of things just slipped out around Anders.

"Justice does not approve of my obsession with you" the mage admitted, looking a bit sheepish as he scratched his neck. "He believes you're a distraction." It took a moment for him to overcome whatever inner tension he was feeling, but in the end he won out, stepping forwards towards Hawke. "It is one of the few things on which he and I disagree."

"If you hadn't come," Hawke confessed, "I would be out looking for you."

"When I was in the circle, love was only a game." Anders had gone all intense again, closing the distance to Hawke where he stood in front of the fireplace. "It gave the Templars too much power if there was something you couldn't stand to lose." He swallowed hard before admitting. "It would kill me to lose you." The mage reached out, gently touching Hawke's face as if he was afraid that he would somehow break it on accident.

"You aren't going to lose me," Hawke protested. He wasn't used to feeling fragile, but there was something in the way the healer touched him that made him wonder if he hadn't been standing all those hours just waiting outside. Waiting for courage.

"No mage I know have ever dared to fall in love," Anders smiled, reaching out to pull Hawke close. "This is the rule I will most cherish breaking." The kiss was less filled with desperation this time, and more with a quiet wonder that this was really happening. There was nothing to interrupt them here; for once they actually had time. Time and privacy.

"You do love breaking rules, don't you?" Hawke mumbled the words softly into the Mage's ear as he pulled him towards the bed. His heart was beating hard enough to hurt.

"I've been told that," Anders replied, the smile filled with wonder and desire in equal measures.

The last, Hawke thought to himself as he pulled down the mage on top of him, could really be said for both of them.