Keeping the Distance 25/09/2011 20:52:00

Disclaimer: I do not, and will never own any characters or other important things related to Dragon Age/Bioware.

This is a fHawke rogue/Anders story, taking place sometime during Act 2. Enjoy!

Chapter 1:

He's been distancing himself for years.

"Merrill…is there anything you can do?" I ask with pleading eyes.

He's been distancing himself from me for years, three for specifics. This, though, is a distance I cannot, will not allow.

Merrill's eyes grow dim, "Hawke…I'm sorry…," the beginnings of tears forming in those green depths.

Staring down at the man who's saved many, the one who's always pushed himself for the sake of others, I feel so helpless. I want to hammer my fists onto his chest, for being foolish, for adopting a cause that will inevitable cost him his life. I shudder at the thought. Not today though. But how does one heal a healer?

'It doesn't always take magic to heal.'

His voice rushes within my thoughts, and I remember those times spent in his clinic, my attendance pointless, but he had always insisted on my help. So I stayed, because of his insistence, but mainly just to admire him while he worked. Didn't realize it would amount to anything.

I place my head against his chest, the soft thuds increasing growing distant, as like his breathing. My hands find their way to his chest, resting at the bone between his pectorals; and I force his chest to deepen under the pressure. I've seen him do this on few occasions, when mana was sparse. I don't know if what I'm doing is remotely up to standard, but I figure anything is better than nothing.

10…20…30…

"Aveline…" I say through ragged breathes, "gather all the healing poultices you can find, and bring them here."

I settle myself by his head, and stare at his mouth. It's slightly open and I hesitate because this isn't how I pictured how our mouths would meet for the first time—slow, passionate. I resign myself from thinking anymore on it. Pinching his nose, I force air into his mouth, his chest rising and then falling.

Aveline returns, hastily placing four poultices in front for me to see. "Pour them on his wounds," I command, before positioning myself back to his chest.

My hair has fallen in front of my face, obscuring the sorrowed-filled glances of my companions. I don't let their gazes threaten my task at hand, and my body works fervently to bring this man back.

Maker please… Not him… Don't take him. I find myself praying, something I don't do often. Not that I have lost faith that he can't do anything in my favor. It's just I want to believe that all those times he has forsaken me, that this is the one time he won't.

"Hawke…" Varric says, his voice so forlorn. I shake my head at his implication.

"No." I whisper, more for myself. I'm not giving up, not until he looks into my eyes, not before he says my name, not before I scold him for being so reckless.

The minutes roll by, the situation remains unchanged, and I hope that the effort I'm putting forth can account for that. Exhaustion is settling in, but I continue relentlessly; forcing his heart to pump, forcing his lungs to breathe.

A hand rests gently on my shoulder, "he's gone, Hawke," Aveline says.

No… He can't be dead, the thought bringing tears to my eyes. I rest my head against his chest. Nothing.

"No…come on," my effort is faltering, "don't give up… don't… fuck you, Anders." I ball my fists, "breathe!" slamming them against his chest, blood sputtering from his mouth onto my face.

Then nothing short of a miracle… An uptake in breath.

My head snaps to his face, searching for some indication of life. A sharp intake of air, followed by a sigh. I snap back into action, frantically searching my pack for the last potion I had been saving.

I cradle his head within my lap, pushing the flask against his pale, chapped lips. "Drink," I say in a low voice, slowly letting the red fluid empty. The last drop touches his lips, and I sigh in relief. Thank the Maker.

His breathing has steadied, as his heartbeat. Varric excuses himself to find some aid, while Merrill crouches down to my level. My eyes are stinging with tears, and I turn my head to hide the pain in my face. I quickly excuse myself, missing her worried glance as I trail off.

There's a chill in the air, and it's comforting. I shiver slightly, subconsciously wrapping my arms around my waist to trap the fleeting heat. The heavy footsteps resound as they crunch over the gravel in Darktown.

"You did good, Hawke."

"I should've been there," I say, dismissing her appraisal. "I shouldn't have refused to help him."

"He's alive… you should be thankful for that." It's surprising how sincere she can be when she wants to be; A stark contradiction to the hard-ass, law-abiding person she normally is. Though, our relationship has been far from normal—we argue and fight, but somehow remain close, like family. My thoughts go out to Carver; they are alike in that way, except were they're not. Aveline is a loyalist by default, and I love her for that.

Above all else, she's right. I should feel thankful he's alive, but I can't help but think that this could've all been avoided. Maybe if I hadn't been so resentful to him.

"It's paralyzing isn't it? The feeling of losing the people you care about." I turn to look at her, my eyes stinging like mad. Her green eyes are distant as she stares out the carved window—Wesley. "It isn't my place to stop you, heading down this path you're on, just promise me one thing… Don't walk into this blindly."

I blink away the tears threatening my eyes. Aveline has never been daft, and it doesn't surprise me that she's caught on so quickly. Maybe she's been spying on me again.

She walks over to me and slaps a hand on my shoulder, because we all know she's not one to hug, or cry it out with you when you have issues. She offers a smile that contradicts what she really wants to say, 'don't do it'. But that hand has already been dealt, and there is no backing out of the inevitability of coming out the winner or loser.

"Oh and also, if he hurts you, I'm the first person that gets to ram my longsword through that rebellious mage heart of his," she says, before stalking off in the opposite direction to where I'm headed.

I climb down the passageway and I'm nervous of what I might come upon. In the few moments of my absence, something could've happened; and it doesn't help that a dozen scenarios play out in my mind. My feet quicken their pace, and I come upon Varric and Merrill, and two more faces that I'm acquainted with, barely—Anders' assistants.

Merrill offers a comforting smile, discarding my earlier concerns. And I look down at his body—his hair disheveled, blood marking his face and that ugly coat. I sigh in relief, he's unconscious but alive. The two men lift him, one cradling his shoulders the other his feet.

"Make sure you get Blondie home safely."

"No!" I say a bit to loudly then intended, and all eyes are on me questioning. "Take him to my place." The two men curtly nod, and we all make our way back to the surface.

Anders may be distancing himself from me, but I refuse to distance myself from him.

A/N: This story is not intended to teach anyone about CPR. I purposely flubbed up the proper way, for this reason. If you want to learn I suggest finding someone certified to teach you.

That being said, this is my first fanfic posted. Ekk. I never thought I'd be doing this because 1.) I am no professional and 2.) I'm not about to make a career out of this; this is mainly for fun and the fact that after playing this game a thousand times over, I have non-stop plot bunnies threatening my everyday life. And also, because I heart Anders, both types.

I found it particularly difficult to write in first-person, I tried to steer clear of too many sentences beginning with 'I's. So I apologize for any errors, and if my writing is a bit disjointed. Oh and I know the title sucks, and I'm probably going to be too lazy to change it.

Anyway, I would appreciate any reviews, bad or good; just try to be gentle. :)