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It was late, so late that it was almost early, and Anders wasn't expecting patients. There were a number who turned up only at night--the late shift workers, the ones who had jobs and couldn't get free during the day, the odd emergency, criminals who couldn't risk coming any other time. But there were usually a few quiet hours before dawn broke. That was when Anders did most of his real work, when there was no one to interrupt his concentration. His fingers were cramped and ink-stained; he stopped to shake them out, wondering if he should quit for the night and get a few hours of sleep before dawn, or make a few more copies first.
"Anders?"
Anders lived in constant fear of looking up and seeing a bloody wreck of a body with Hawke's face brought in to his clinic, so his reaction was mixed when he saw her leaning in the doorway. It was Hawke, and she was bloody and a bit wrecked--but she was on her feet and smiling apologetically, so it probably wasn't all or even mostly her blood. Not life-threatening, whatever injury brought her here.
He frowned anyway as he got to his feet, manifestos temporarily forgotten. "Again?"
Her smile grew a bit as he approached. "Just making sure you stay in business. You should give me a discount for being a frequent customer." She hissed her breath in at the end of the sentence, just a bit. Whatever was wrong made talking painful.
He snorted, pulling her away from the entrance and wrapping an arm around her waist. When she hissed again he moved it to her shoulders. Cracked ribs, most likely. Anything more serious and she wouldn't have been able to walk here. "Fine. You can pay me ten percent less than everyone else." A joke, of course, since no one paid him anything. He tried to keep the worry out his voice, and didn't succeed. "Now stop talking until I have a chance to have a look at you."
"Stop talking? Me?" Her laugh was barely a breath, but it was warm against his cheek as she turned her head to look at him. "What makes you think I know how?"
"Sheer optimism."
That did make her laugh, which made her wince again, so he almost regretted it, much as he enjoyed the sound of her laughter. He helped her sit on one of the old crates that served him as chairs, then knelt beside her and started unbuckling her armor. She reached up a hand to help, and he swatted it away lightly, wanting her to stay still. "What were you doing this time?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light. "It must have been important, to keep you busy this late at night."
It was only when she shrugged and didn't meet his eyes that he realized what else was wrong with this situation: she came alone. Hawke was almost never alone. "Taking a walk."
He paused mid-buckle, eyebrow raised in disbelief. "Taking a walk," he repeated. "In Kirkwall. In the middle of the night. On your own." If he didn't know her better, he'd accuse her of being suicidal. If she were less skilled, it would have been suicidal.
The smile flashed across her face again, disarming; he knew better than to believe it. "Why disturb someone else's night just because I thought there might be trouble?"
Anders snorted and finished unbuckling her armor, and let it fall to the side. He would have been more careful with it--Hawke valued her equipment, and with good reason--but the small ball of concern in his stomach had tightened, and was growing into anger. How could she be so foolhardy? "Given the company you keep? They'd find it fun." She chuckled again, and he glared at her. "You know better, Hawke. No one, even someone as good as you, should be wandering alone at night. And then to come down here--" Where the Carta and Coterie lurked like feral rats, waiting to swarm on any injured prey who roamed into their territory...it was all but miraculous she'd made it to his clinic in one piece.
She half-shrugged again. "It seemed a good idea at the time."
That was such an obvious excuse there was no point responding to it. Instead Anders lifted her shirt and placed a hand on her abdomen, concentrating. Several cracked ribs, as he'd suspected, and a number of bruises. A shallow cut on her scalp, a deeper one on her leg. She'd come to him with worse, but they needed tending. His focus deepened, and his hand took on the familiar warmth of healing magic.
She sighed with relief as her wounds began to knit and pain numbed, and mischief returned to her face. "Maybe I just wanted an excuse to have you pull off my armor and put your hands on me."
The flow of magic faltered, and Anders gritted his teeth as he tried to regain his concentration. "Stop that," he said, voice harsh, and not just because of the annoyance of being interrupted. He was suddenly aware of her skin under his hand--stomach taut, lean and muscular, but still soft between the scars of past injuries. It was...distracting.
Which had no doubt been her intention. She chuckled as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. "You know, you could just--"
"Not while I'm healing you," he broke in. He gripped her shoulder with his free hand. "We're not going to play that game now. Let me finish."
She smiled, unrepentant, but didn't say anything else until he was done, for which he was grateful. It didn't take long.
When he finished he leaned against the wall himself, sitting on the floor next to her crate. He felt tired and raw, as happened sometimes after healing. Or as happened in the middle of the night, or when he was alone with her and wistful about it. Not an auspicious combination of circumstances, these. "What were you really doing?" he asked quietly.
She looked down at him, one eyebrow raised eloquently. "I told you, I was bored. The siren call of Kirkwall lowlifes was irresistible. They might as well have been serenading underneath my window. Come play with us, Hawke! We're lonely!"
"Don't avoid the question. I know you too well for that." Her hand was resting on the crate, by her side; he reached up and took it. "Bad dreams?" It was a dangerous question. Her mother's death was only a few months past, and horrific enough to give him a few uncomfortable nights. Mostly of the expression Hawke had worn at the time. He'd visited her to talk about it not long after, but she hadn't mentioned the event since. Not directly.
Hawke opened her mouth, probably to deliver another deflecting attempt at humor; he ran his thumb gently over her fingers, waiting. She stared down at their joined hands for a long moment, then looked away. "No," she said. "Bad dreams would mean I was sleeping. I haven't been, much. Not at night." She let out a small laugh, this one without any humor. "The house is too big." It wasn't a complaint that would garner her any sympathy in Darktown, and they both knew it.
"So you exhaust yourself with fighting street scum until you can collapse?" She didn't answer, which was confirmation enough. Anders sighed and squeezed her hand. "I'm surprised you didn't need my help sooner. How long has this been going on?"
She shrugged. "Not long. A couple of days." Anders mentally translated this into a couple of weeks. "I don't usually run into trouble, whatever you might think." That turned into trouble I can't handle. He tried not to groan out loud with exasperation.
"Next time you decide to go for a midnight stroll, take a friend. Fenris isn't far away from your place, and I'm not convinced he ever stops brooding long enough to sleep." Fenris was one of the last people Anders wanted near Hawke, but he could at least trust the elf with her safety in this. "Or go to the Hanged Man. I'm sure Varric and Isabela would just love your company."
Try as he might, he couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. Isabela flirted like mad with Hawke--and other people, not that that mattered. But with Isabela, Hawke sometimes flirted back.
He knew it meant nothing. It was a fun and flattering game, no more, and it was downright hypocritical of him to feel possessive and envious when it happened. But it rankled all the same.
Hawke, of course, knew this perfectly well. She was too observant for anyone's good, especially his. Her lips quirked up, but all she said was, "Isabela loves everyone's company. Sometimes all in one night."
"There you have it, then." Anders leaned his head back, and unexpectedly found himself smiling up at her. It was...nice, to sit here, holding her hand and talking. Even in the circumstances. The humor was back in her expression, and it was always difficult for him to resist that. "Next time you can't sleep, go to the tavern, find some friends, have an ale or two."
"So you suggest I cope with insomnia by drinking myself into a coma? Tsk, and you call yourself a healer. That can't be a healthy coping mechanism. Popular, yes. Healthy, no."
Anders gave her a Look. "I didn't say to drink yourself under the table, though I imagine Isabela will encourage exactly that. Not the only suggestion of hers I think you should ignore." Hawke started to speak, no doubt to tease him about what else Isabela might consider a good idea, but he didn't give her the chance. "I meant, find a distraction. Something less dangerous than looking for fights to get into in the small hours of the morning. I mean it, Hawke. You can't keep doing this. It's not good for you."
"Yes, well, I'm known for being attracted to things that aren't good for me, or so I'm told." Her eyes flickered down to their joined hands. "I'm surprised you don't suggest I come here, if you think I need something to occupy me. You can always use extra hands in the clinic."
He swallowed hard and looked away. "The goal is to keep you safe. Darktown's not safe." He was keenly aware of their twined fingers. He added, softly, "Neither am I."
"Nowhere is." She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. "Nowhere I've ever been, at least."
Anders couldn't find an answer to that, so they sat in silence. He didn't know how much time passed before he stirred, and then it was because a slant of light near the door caught his attention. There wasn't much light down here--Darktown was aptly named--but there was some, sometimes, and he knew how to read it. "It's nearly dawn," he said, letting go of her hand with reluctance. His fingers missed the warmth of hers at once. "You should go home."
"It's not home, Anders. It's just a house." Her exhaustion and unhappiness showed suddenly in the way her shoulders slumped. "A very large, very empty house."
He opened his mouth to offer some sort of comfort--this too shall pass, it wasn't your fault, any one of a handful of platitudes. He left them unspoken. They were all things she already knew, or didn't believe, or which wouldn't help.
Instead, with some hesitation, he said, "You could borrow one of the bedrolls here, if you want. None of them are exactly private, but the one back there at least has a curtain to one side." Not really a curtain. More a threadbare bit of cloth draped over a rope. It was the place he slept, when no one else needed it, but that didn't matter. He wouldn't be sleeping, and if he did he could do it somewhere else. She needed it more. "It won't be quiet here for long, though. Hardly relaxing."
It wasn't much of an offer, to his mind, but she looked at him with surprise and gratitude. "That'd...be good. Thanks." Her smile turned a little rueful. "You might regret offering, though. I think I could sleep for a week, once I get started."
"I wouldn't mind. Not that it's likely." Anders' grin was teasing. "I give it two hours before someone or another tracks you down here and wants your help with something. Finding a lost child, or a lost hat. Rescuing a kitten from a tree."
"I never did that one." She stood up, walking towards the back corner.
"It's just a matter of time. If any kitten owners show up, I'll tell them to come back when you're awake."
"Mm." She paused, not looking back at him, one hand on the curtain. "Anders?"
Anders hesitated, afraid to look up. He recognized one of the dangerous moments, the ones where one or the other of them might be about to say something unforgivable, skirting the point of no return that they edged near every time they were alone.
"...thanks. For listening."
He did look at her then, but she was still facing away from him. He swallowed. "Whatever you need." A quiet repetition of what he'd said before, after Leandra's death. "You know that."
Hawke glanced back over her shoulder, expression faintly ironic and perhaps slightly wistful, but she didn't call him on it.
When Anders checked on her, some time later, she was curled up on his bedroll and fast asleep. When he went to sleep himself, long after she'd left, he fancied the ragged blanket still smelled of her.