Scene: Hawke and Anders think about each other. Set before "When it rains, it pours."

It's the height. It's the height that gets to Thomas Hawke first because she's 5'11 (or 6'0 depending on the shoes), so there aren't too many men who can look her in the eye, but here is this mage-who-is-secretly-a-Grey-Warden in Darktown whose maps she wants proposing "a favor for a favor," meeting her gaze the entire time. That throws her off, has her agreeing to a clandestine meeting with his friend Karl before her mind catches up with her treacherous body, and by then of course, it's too late. Not that she's complaining or anything. Anders is tall. Tall is…good.

So is lanky—which he has in spades. It's the second thing she notices after their first meeting. Lanky is an "L" word, which has Thomas thinking of other words that end in "L" to describe this curious healer of hers: loose. Limber. Lithe. She stops herself mid-stream before her thoughts veer into more explicit territory. It's no good though. His build makes her that much more aware of her own frame, all taut muscle and broad shoulders that suit the greatsword she wields. She could overpower him, if she wanted to. Does she want to? She stops herself again.

That's also becoming difficult—the stopping bit. It wouldn't be so hard if she didn't drag him along on every adventure/treasure hunt/random crisis that she's sucked into, but he's a healer and despite his apostate status (which Thomas will acknowledge as a Bad Thing and turn him in to the templars any day now, she swears), him being able to knit muscle and bones back together no questions asked is too valuable a talent (skill? Proclivity?) to have waste away in a tiny cell in the Gallows. Besides, Thomas Hawke likes doctors too. Maker. Maybe she simply likes everything.

Like how they meet in the middle. His hair, so blonde and light compared to her dark, curly locks. The milk-white of his skin set against her rich, olive complexion. Warm, brown eyes meeting cool, grey ones. She wants to rip that sad, feathered coat aside, ruck up his tunic, and discover what other contrasts lie beneath. She wants to do so many things to Anders that it's a wonder no one has read the longing on her face yet. No, not a wonder: Thomas is many things, but wearing her heart (and lust) on her sleeve isn't one of them.

She wonders if Anders notices anyway, how her eyes travel the lines of his body from the feet up when he has his back to her. Or that she's memorized the turn of his lips in a rare smile or more often smirk. Steals glances at the sheen of sweat on his neck as he works on a patient. Studies the elegant sweep of his collarbone. The perpetual stubble on his chin. His long, sharp nose. Anders' hands, nimble and quick, pressed to Thomas' bleeding abdomen while he murmurs a healing spell, then sliding down, down below when he's done—

"Hawke."

"Y-yes?" she recovers, and Anders is momentarily caught off-balance by the unguarded expression on his patient's face: eyes, hooded; forehead, smoothed; mouth, parted in expectation—

He shakes his head, regains speech. "Y-your shirt," he gestures uselessly, "I need you to raise it so I can get to the rest of the laceration."

Hawke blinks, her pre-natural serenity sliding back over her face. "Of course," she says smoothly and gathers the hem of her shirt, stopping right below her breastband. "Is this enough?"

"Yes," Anders manages with a suddenly dry throat, failing to clear it. "Just ah, hold still for a moment. I'll be quick."

He chants magical theorems under his breath while his hands make swift work of the cosmetically messy slash on her stomach. Her skin, warm and golden, flexes underneath his fingertips. Thank the Maker his clinic has been emptied for the afternoon, leaving only the two of them sitting together on a cot. Tempting fate, Anders glances up at her. She stares back, silent as the grave, refusing to break from his eyes. He swallows and looks down. "Almost finished."

Anders reaches for the salve while out of the corner of his eye, Hawke is still following his every movement. That doesn't mean a damn thing, she's only suspicious of me, that's all, stop getting these crazy ideas in your head—

"There," he continues loudly to cover the tremor in his voice, "You should apply this once every day for at least a week." The bottle of salve slips in his hands, but Hawke deftly catches it in mid-air. He cannot quite imagine how red his face must be at this moment.

She helps herself to the bandage roll next to him and tears off a long strip. "Thank you," she enunciates carefully, "I can take care of the rest." Hawke begins to wrap the wound while Anders puts away the rest of his medical apparatus, willing his hands to stop shaking.

When he at last turns around, the warrior has dressed herself again, her ramrod straight posture suggesting nothing about the wound beneath the armor. Anders nods and grips a nearby drawer-stand until his knuckles shine white. "Come back if there are any complications."

"Noted," she replies with that unflappable calm. Tilting her head to one side, Hawke adds, brow slightly furrowed, "Your hands were shaking earlier. Try to get some sleep." She slips out before the mage can reply, but it is just as well because Anders immediately collapses on the cot, eyes squeezed shut as he hurriedly unties his makeshift, drawstring trousers that have suddenly become tight.

She can't know.

Later, in the comfort of her room, Hawke hisses as she rubs a small amount of the salve onto her skin, but quiets when she pretends that it is not her fingers that are skimming across her stomach, nor her hand that unravels her breastband with habitual ease, and certainly not her own touch that eventually brings her to silent, trembling orgasm.