The chair creaked as Anders leaned back from the desk and he let out a breath that was as much his own tired sigh as the snarl in the back of his mind. He let his fingers loosen their tight grip around his quill and tapped the tip against the edge of the latest page, adding another blotch of ink to the mess of hasty words and excited drips of the pen. He shoved them further up the desk with a deliberate slowness as an anger flickered through his veins in the form of bright blue light, hot and demanding that the offending pages be thrown, torn, ripped into as many pieces as he knew the city would become because this wouldn't work.
They'd tried – by the Maker how they had tried. Anders let out a weak chuckle and dug the meat of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots and the curling papers in front of him swam. The sharp letters and scratched lines marked their attempts and the shadows under their eyes proclaimed their dedication, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. They both knew that and yet…yet he'd tried. All attempts at peaceful talking ended in arguments or arrests. All late night escapes resulted in more fear than the one before. If they never worked, how was a piece of parchment supposed to do any better? No – something had to be done. Something more noticeable than one man shouting in the allies of Darktown. Something to get more attention.
Anders stood and grabbed his robe from the back of his chair. It was crazy – this idea forming in his mind. It was crazy and dangerous but it wouldwork. An agreement resounded in the depths of his consciousness, working with the image, twisting and poking at it until the plan was all but put into action. Anders shook his head and the building vibrated with a howl of frustration. Why not now? Why continue to stall? Things were as bad as they were ever going to get and yet he refused to move beyond the acts of healing and hidden escapes for the rebel mages. If this could work – would work – what was stopping him? There were several answers, but none could satisfy the spirit seething in the corners of his head. Excuses were not just – they were lies told to oneself to justify inactivity.
Anders felt his hands shake and he slipped his coat on to keep them busy. It was a better idea to find Hawke, to sleep on the idea before making any rash decisions. He could rest in a real bed, safe in the strong arms of his lover and even pretend that the thought had never come. The walk from his clinic to the estate would be enough to clear his head – or work the details into finer shape – and in the morning he could begin the preparations, but he found his feet rooted in place instead of marching towards the tunnel.
He couldn't bring himself to involve Hawke. Anders had warned him, in the beginning, that he would break the man's heart. He wasn't good for him; he would just use him. At first that meant losing himself in the ever open arms, feeling them tight against him like a barrier against the world, as if Meredith and the Templars didn't exist outside beyond the door of the estate. He used the Hawke name, spoken from every tongue, to keep himself sheltered, hidden, like the coward he was, behind the authority. His clinic had been saved from Templars countless times with the word now, his own person almost protected because of their association. Now he wanted to be protected from his own cause.
"Distraction," Anders mouthed, and he finally understood the fear Justice had first brought up. He felt foo safe with Hawke. He forgot about his worries, his tasks, his purpose, in that house. He couldn't do it anymore, not with mages still locked up, unfairly, in the Gallows. It was not just.Using Hawke was also unjust, but the spirit, knowing, only made a minor complaint and Anders determined that they were in agreement. They would use Hawke one last time.
It did not make it any easier, however. Anders clutched at his chest every so often in the lull between patients the next day, assuring himself that though his heart pounded wildly in his chest it was still safely contained within his ribcage. A potion nearly slipped through his clammy hands and he wiped his palms on his robes more than once.
"I thought we were done chasing each other." Anders felt his heart leap into his chest, its beat unsteady as frantic panic and embarrassed love ran through him, both hot in his blood. Hawke wrapped his arms around his waist and tugged him close, gently. Anders fought to wiggle out of his grasp, giving him an apologetic glance as he shifted to get another vial of lyrium. He drummed his fingers on the surface. "I was surprised you didn't come last night."
"I wanted to ask you something. I just didn't know how to ask." Anders cleared his throat and his tight smile twisted when Hawke took the potion from his shaking hands to press kisses against his knuckles, each one a soft stab to his heart. He took the moment the man wasn't watching him to swallow and get his lie straight. It was always so hard with Justice, but both thought it necessary. "I need your help. In the Chantry. I…believe I've come up with a way to separate Justice and I."