A/N: Yet another Anders that started eating my brain, and a more artistic, introverted version of a female mage Hawke. This was originally going to be a oneshot, but due to growing a bit more plot than I planned it will be a handful of chapters instead.

Chapter One

Anders knocked on the front door of the Hightown mansion that was the residence of his long-time friend, Elayna Hawke, fellow apostate and all-around partner in crime, since their very existence was touted as such. She was his best friend in the world, if he was honest, a friendship forged through hard times, sprinkled with many other moments of laughter and shared interests. And most of all, her unwavering support for all he did in his work toward his goal of freeing mages from their bondage. A subject they spoke extensively on, and often.

They had made arrangements that afternoon to go rummaging through several Kirkwall shops that sold books, both old and new, another of their shared passions that none of their other companions seemingly understood. Even Varric, with all his love for storytelling didn't care to accompany them, claiming they both got dazed, euphoric looks on their faces as soon as they saw the book stacks, and proceeded to lose all track of time. That was a bit of an exaggeration, Anders felt, they had only been asked to leave that Lowtown book vendor's shop due to it being closing time, once. Usually, they tried not to stay at any shop longer than an hour or two, or maybe three...perhaps four. The door opened and Anders looked down at Bodahn, Hawke's butler and all-around caretaker of the home.

"Good afternoon, Master Anders, do please come in. My lady has had to go and take care of an unforeseen errand, but she expected to return shortly."

Anders followed the dwarf, who showed him into the massive room that was sitting room, office and library for Hawke. Consequently, Anders favorite room of the large house.

"There are drinks and sandwiches for you there on the table, please help yourself until Lady Elayna returns, and let me know if you need anything else."

"Thank you, Bodahn," Anders said with a grateful smile, immediately reaching for a small sandwich after the dwarf went out and closed the door. Hawke always insisted he needed to eat whenever they spent time together, which was more and more frequently, of late. He didn't fight her over it, was secretly charmed and pleased that she cared enough about his habits and well-being to notice that he tended to skip many meals. Until she made a regular point of bringing food to him at the clinic, or always serving him something when he visited, he had lost quite a bit of weight. He looked down at himself, held out his arms to the sides and smiled. No more skeleton healer, which was just as well, no need to scare his patients out of their wits with his appearance.

He moaned appreciatively when he took a bite of the mini sandwich, chicken salad, one of his favorites. Scrutinizing the tray, he realized they were all his favorites: chicken salad, egg, cucumber. Had he told Hawke about his food preferences? He didn't recall ever speaking to her about it. After pouring himself a glass of fruit juice and downing another three sandwiches, he walked in the direction of the book case nearest him for a book to pass the time, when something on the desk caught his eye. It was Elayna's book that she often carried, he had easily seen it hundreds of times, in her pack or among her things, the scarred leather cover embossed with the image of a hawk in flight. Usually, it was tied closed with a length of leather that wrapped thrice around it, but now there was no tie and some sort of picture was just peeking out of the middle pages.

How many times had he speculated as to what was in the closely guarded book? Wondered if she kept lists of her favorite novels, or maybe more practical, favorite spells or other magical minutiae, or what if it was something even more unlikely, titillating and shocking? So shocking, she would never allow anyone to know? He had almost asked her about it, once or twice, but that was before Isabela beat him to it, and he saw how Elayna's face grew tense and nervous as she declared it nothing important, before all expression disappeared under her emotionless facade he had seen her don on occasion, to deal with difficult people or situations. He knew then, based on so strong a reaction, that he should never ask her about it, not wanting to do anything to upset her or see her distressed. Some of the others didn't seem to notice when she did it, tried to mask her true feelings, but he noticed.

There was very little about Elayna Hawke that he didn't take note of; how her smile was like sunshine, so bright and warming, the way the blue in her eyes could look alluring and inviting, and other times so sad, careworn and distant. She had a tiny scar just underneath her full bottom lip, which he first saw due to her constant habit of nervously biting on said lip when she was deep in thought, something that he found both extremely distracting and utterly mesmerizing. He had nearly gotten caught staring longingly at her torturing that luscious lip more than a few times, and had learned to be rather sneakier and discreet when observing her.

Anders shifted, leaning nearer the desk, trying to make out what the image was, but there wasn't enough showing to make any sense of it. He should really respect her privacy and not pry. Of course he should. Undoubtedly. Friends would never dream of taking such an enormous liberty and poking their nose into things that clearly weren't any of their business. Justice echoed his faint agreement. He should definitely, absolutely not look. But his curiosity was something he found he could seldom deny, which might explain his extreme fondness for cats. Glancing at the closed door, he narrowed his eyes in thought, immediately shoving away all honorable thoughts and good intentions, purposefully ignoring Justice's mental squawk of protest, then took two swift steps until he was at the desk.

Gingerly opening the book, he lifted out the partial image until he could see the whole thing, gasping aloud as he stared in shock at the very last thing he expected to see. It was a very detailed portrait...of him, staring off to the side, with a rather pensive expression. Had she drawn it? He had no idea she could do portraits or had such a prodigious artistic talent, she never mentioned it, nor had he ever seen her drawing, only writing. Swallowing against a nervous dip in his stomach, he glanced again at the closed door, reached out and fully opened the book, and stared down in awed fascination.

There were numerous small drawings and sketches across the two-page spread, and they were all of him, smiling, laughing, some more serious, another looking angry, one of him healing a little boy in the clinic. He turned the page and felt his lips tug up into a smile at a much larger, colored image of him, holding an orange cat, underneath she had written: Anders and Ser Pounce-a-lot. Before he could lose his nerve, he stuck the loose sketch back into the page it was originally sticking out of and turned to the front of the book, reading what was written on the title page in Hawke's distinctive, somewhat messy hand: The obsessed, pining, and altogether miserable musings of Elayna Hawke, for a man who has no idea what thoughts of him lurk in her mind. How intriguing. What could it mean? Frowning, Anders pulled out the desk chair, sat down and began reading, starting with the first entry, dated more than two years prior.

Today, I overheard Anders talking to Varric, after Varric asked him about his childhood, the village he lived in, and when he was taken away to the tower. He was much older than I thought, twelve years old when his magic manifested, unlike my own power that surfaced as a toddler, so I have no memories of never having magical talent. I can't imagine being dragged away in chains from family and a home that you love, at twelve. Actually, that's bullshit, yes, I can, and the thought of it makes me furious. Why didn't anyone help him or hide him, for Maker's sake? His family? Why didn't anyone fight for him? I would have. I would have roasted every templar that tried to touch him. I WILL roast anyone, templar or otherwise who ever tries to hurt him again. I wasn't there then, but he's here with me now, and mine to protect. I would do anything to keep him safe.

Anders paused, blinking against his suddenly stinging eyes and a rare tightness in his throat. No one had fought for him then, and none ever had since, except for her. Elayna had not only fought to keep him free, she had killed and risked her own life to accomplish it. He didn't doubt her resolve or commitment, not for a moment. She had proved how much she valued him, over and over. It had thawed his disillusioned, frozen heart on many long nights, when dark thoughts and bitter memories were his only companions previously, before she came into his life. What might it have been like if they had lived in the same village, grown up together, looked out for each other? Shaking his head, he gazed back down at the page and continued reading.

But honestly, what struck me most about the conversation between Varric and Anders, was the casual mention he made that Anders isn't actually his name, just the nick-name everyone started calling him at the Ferelden Prison Tower when he refused to give them his actual name, based on his family's Anderfels origins. I have to compliment his pluck, even when he was only a boy, he gave his own version of a giant fuck-off to everyone, including his jailers. That makes me smile. I admire him more than words can express. And it's also just a little strange, because how can I be so utterly obsessed and in love with a man, and not even know his real name?

At this, Anders drew in a quick, shocked breath, the words on the page reverberating like a crack of thunder through his heart and mind. Elayna harbored feelings for him? How had he never known or suspected? Her behavior had only ever been friendly, all propriety and politeness, as far as he could tell. Had he somehow managed to misread her, or was she just that good at hiding how she really felt?

Turning the page, an amused chuckle spilled out of him when he saw both sides were covered in male names, trying to speculate or guess as to his actual birth name. He read through them all, raising a brow at some of the more far-fetched, like Herbert and Wilhelm, smiling at some others, Corven, Therrin. The next page was a sketch of what looked like a giant cat with dragon's wings, breathing fire at a mix of darkspawn and templars in full armor.

There were several more pages in a row that were all drawings- Varric's crossbow, along with a caption that read Bianca, Varric's one, true love. The next depicted a fierce griffon with talons dripping drops of red blood, captioned Speed Griffon, and another image of his face in profile, with Unrequited scrawled below. He felt a pang in his chest at the inaccuracy of that title, little did she know what feelings for her he was always careful to keep such a tight rein on. The theme of name-guessing continued in the margins and along the edges of numerous pages. The following page was another written entry.

There are times I really wish I could behave like a character from one of Varric's stories, the bold, charming, effortlessly passionate ones. I would smirk confidently, deliver a witty, flirtatious one-liner, and Anders would swoon in my general direction, fall to his knees and declare his undying love and devotion. Possibly followed by incredibly enthusiastic kissing, and hopefully, an even more enthusiastic, full demonstration of that 'electricity thing' I've heard Isabela mention more than once.

I've spent a disturbing amount of time trying to imagine what that would be like. To be intimate with someone that had magic, like me, without fear or shame. Is it even possible? I know I command a power that could easily hurt someone if I lost control of it, which is why I feel I can't be too careful about intimacy, that's one of my biggest fears and the reason I suppose I will remain sad and lonely. My shame is from casting Anders in a role he would not wish to fill, if he only knew my thoughts.

Instead of such a charming, brilliant woman, I am instead furtive, secretive, a person that lives far too much inside her own head, my greatest indulgence the fantasies I concoct with a wonderful man that cares for me as nothing more than a friend. I also have frequent, self-indulgent pity parties for one, which is really just pathetic. At least I put them all in here, instead of burdening anyone else with all this rubbish. Perhaps I also envy Anders, he has Justice to share his head, whereas I am solo, and as I have discovered over the past couple of years, one is a terribly lonely number, and silence can be very loud.

My hand is also quite an inadequate lover, but since I've never had an adequate one that was even capable or interested in making me come, I guess I can't mourn the loss. At least my own hand can get the job done, no matter how unfulfilled and restless it ultimately leaves me. Just once before I die, I wish I could know what it feels like to have someone desperate for me. For my touch, my pleasure before theirs, even, someone to overcome all my doubts, fears and feelings of inadequacy. Someone to consume me with passion, both theirs and mine. Fuck me every which way until I can't think anymore, I can only feel. I just need to get all this out, write it in these pages, then I'm going to burn this book to ashes, the only true representation of my non-existent love life. Nothing good can come of all this shitty angst.

Anders shifted in his seat, his trousers far too tight and uncomfortable until he readjusted himself. How could he feel so sad and really bloody horny at the same time? No lover had ever made her come? What? Never? Who was the contemptible person or persons who had used her body and given her nothing in return? That was a gross injustice that definitely needed righting. He smirked when Justice was conspicuously silent on that point, ever intimidated and uncertain when it came to human sexuality or pleasure.

He sighed heavily. How had he never known any of this, that Elayna had such thoughts, so many moving and relatable doubts and fears? They were so similar in many ways he had never even dreamed of. He was attracted to her, of course he was, undeniably so, from their first meeting. But he knew he could not be so selfish as to subject her to his own issues and dangers, to say nothing of Justice. To bind her to someone who would likely only wound and disappoint her. Despite those misgivings, his feelings for her had been quietly simmering away in the background for the past several years. Just waiting to boil over and scald them both in the fires of what he was now certain, would be a truly breath-taking passion between them.

If she had ever flirted with him or shown any romantic interest at all, he might have already tossed aside all his doubts and thrown caution to the wind, taken a chance with her, for her. Reading her desires and wishes in her own words was doing strange things to his chest, making his heart race, his mind eagerly offering up his own fantasies he had of the two of them together. He wanted to fuck her every which way until she couldn't think, and by the Maker, he could show her how glorious two mages coming together for sexual pleasure could be, not something to be feared or dreaded. Including, but not limited to the 'electricity thing', and so many other enjoyable things he could do to her, and teach her to do to him.

Pondering possibilities, he flipped to the middle of her tome of secrets and let it fall open, reading a far more recent entry, only two weeks prior. He well remembered that night. Everyone was playing cards in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. They were all drinking, except for him, and he remembered thinking Elayna seemed very different when she indulged in drink, which she seldom ever did. She had sat in a chair somewhat removed from the card table while she watched them all play, very intently, he recalled, while writing in her book. Knowing this was what she wrote…

I can't keep my eyes off Anders, and I am truly, honestly trying. Why did I even think whiskey was a good idea, when I know how it affects me? Alcohol just seems to increase all my desires. Like I need any help there, when I walk around in a nearly constant state of arousal when he is near. I bet if I slipped my hand into my smalls right now, it wouldn't even take a full minute for me to come, I'm as taut as a bowstring. Gods, I want to go climb into his lap and grind against him. I want to get on my knees in front of him and take him in my mouth, learn his scent and his taste, the sounds he might make. Is he loud when he comes, or quiet? What would I be with him, loud, overcome and screaming, or unable to find my voice, too much pleasure making me mute? Maker's tits, I better get out of here and go home before I start humping his leg, like a mabari in heat. Oh, save me, I feel like a mabari in heat! Fuck. Time for a brisk walk home. I'm not going to sleep for shit tonight. I've got to do something about all this, but I don't know what. I really can't go on like this much longer...

Drawing a shuddering breath, Anders laid his hand on top of what she had written, completely able to relate to her words. He was pretty sure if he slipped his hand into his smalls, it wouldn't take him even ten seconds to come. Andraste's knicker-weasels! He had never been so turned on in his entire life. But what to do about it? Pretend he had never read any of her words and act as though nothing had changed, or charge full speed ahead and sweep Elayna Hawke off her feet and straight into his bed? Or her bed, rather, it was closer.

When he turned the next page, he groaned aloud and leaned nearer, his body instantly in torment. It was a full color drawing of him reclining in a plush green chair, naked and with a rapturous expression on his face, head tilted back, eyes closed. Elayna knelt before him between his legs, wearing a loose robe of some sort that mostly concealed her body from behind, her head bent down over his lap, leaving no doubt as to what she had drawn herself doing to him. One of her hands rested on top of his thigh, his fingers loosely laced with hers, her other hand was splayed across his chest, as though to feel his heart beating while she pleasured him. His free hand rested on top of her head, his fingers disappearing into her dark hair, but gripping it tight. Never had he seen such passion displayed by a painting or drawing, never knew something that beautiful and moving could exist.

"Oh, Maker," he breathed, finally looking away from the image that was now seared into his mind, squeezing the head of his cock hard enough to hurt through the fabric of his clothes, until the sharpest of his lust, desire and longing faded. Enough that he was sure he was not going to come right then, in his trousers. His brows drew together while he sucked in several deep, calming breaths, a loose plan forming in his mind. He couldn't possibly pretend he hadn't read her secret thoughts or seen her vivid drawings, not anymore, images he knew he would spend a lot of time recalling in the days and weeks ahead.

Clearly, she had no intention of ever telling him her true feelings, and he likely would have kept his feelings for her secret as well, both of them silently and unknowingly pining for the other. There had to be a reason things had happened as they had on this day, he had needed to know how she truly felt. Now that he did, things were going to change, he was resolved. Tilting his head thoughtfully, he hoped he had enough time left before Elayna arrived to complete the first step of his bold, new undertaking. He spent a silent moment ordering his thoughts, deciding exactly what he most wanted to say, a smile of anticipation curling his lips. Anders pulled out a quill from the desk drawer, opened the inkwell and smoothed a hand across a stack of blank paper and started writing, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the empty room.

~O~