Cat and Mouse; Dog and Cat

They sat around their favored table in the Hanged Man, and tonight the whole group was there. Merrill, pretty as can be but never one for cards, sat in the middle of the group, smiling and asking questions that showed just how naïve she really was. Aveline sat to her side, not looking entirely comfortable at the proximity to the lithe elf, although he couldn't decide whether it was fear of magic, a faint stirring of jealously, or just the oddity of Merrill herself that prompted that reaction. Varric sat at the head of the table, lording over all, a glint in his eyes as he looked at his hand of cards – damn, he'd probably win again. Or maybe Isabela would, the hedonistic pirate nestled snugly between the two of them, Hawke and Fenris. Hawke was an amazing man, and the mage had no trouble admitting that to himself – he was strong, fast, and had a grace and integrity in battle that never ceased to astound. Fenris, on the other hand…

Fenris was of interest to the mage, in the same way a cat was of interest to a mouse. Or, he didn't want to compare Fenris to a cat, and calling him a wolf was a bit too clichéd for the mage's tastes, so he settled on the analogy of a dog of interest to a cat. At least that made him the cat, this time. He spread his cards in his hands, thoroughly ignoring Justice, who was blessedly quiescent tonight. He'd lose, but that was okay. It's not like he could throw much money into the pot even on the best of days, and today had not been the best of days. He decided to bluff and play it through to the end, though. He hoped he was able to get there.

It had been harder, much harder than it should've been. He had accepted Justice into himself willingly, but even that acceptance had perverted the spirit, imbuing it with his own vengeance, his own flaws. There were still nights that he couldn't sleep for what he had done to his friend, how much of him he had destroyed in an act that was supposed to be selfless and kind. And then there were nights he couldn't sleep because of the allure of the thing itself – of the spirit, of the magic, of the Fade. He knew it was weak-willed to even indulge in such thoughts, and he shamed himself every time he did, but he couldn't make them stop, couldn't make them go and stay away for as long as he'd like.

He really should've been more strong-willed. Even if he couldn't gather that sternness of spirit, he should at least have been terrified. He had seen so, so many mages… turn into abominations. He had seen the beautiful faces morph into something disgusting and unwhole, an abomination in more than just title. They seemed to lose all sense of everything but magic, and the urge to destroy. He had helped killed abominations, feeling a sigh of something similar to but stronger than relief course through him each time he felled one, a mixture of mercy and a personal respite that a horrendous thing was done, and now he could move on. Each time his stomach had churned in protest, his head had pounded, and Justice, roused by his own fitful emotions, had hung in his mind, a predominant mass of… of what, he didn't even know anymore.

He sighed aloud, only then realizing that he had not, in fact, made it to the end of the card game. Someone – probably Hawke, kind man he was – had taken his cards away from him, and the money had gone into some pouch somewhere. Merrill and Aveline were both missing, presumably to go home and sleep, and he noticed that Varric was eyeing him. He turned to look at the dwarf, and what he saw in that moment before Varric smiled and dismissed it startled him – pity. He couldn't stand that he was something to be pitied by his friends, something they could all talk about after he was gone. It wasn't like he was a leper, or anything, he just got distracted sometimes.

That was all.

There was a redness in his cheeks that was more indignation than embarrassment, and yet again it was ignored. Nowadays everything questionable he did was ignored. It was like he was too far-gone for his emotional state to register to people anymore, the expressions of anger they would've questioned in the others were just something to be attributed to Justice or his personal struggles. Well, and so they were, but that didn't mean that he liked it.

He stood unsteadily, flashing the strongest smile he could when Hawke glanced up at him. He returned the smile hesitantly. Ah, that man.

He begged off, claiming work at the clinic, but really just wanting sleep. And not Fade-infused sleep, where he dreamed almost more as Justice than himself. No, he wanted deep sleep, the kind of sleep that left a man groggy and disoriented for days, the kind of sleep where all was peace and black and nothing could happen to him.

Fenris was enjoying himself, surprisingly. It always came as a surprise, more to himself than anyone else, when he heard his own voice boom out in laughter, or when he made some witty comment instead of a disparaging remark, and tonight especially seemed to put him in a good spirit. He was failing miserably at the card game, but he was in the company of people he enjoyed, and that was more important.

He leaned forward and rested his chin on tented hands, a self-satisfied smirk curling his lips as he bluffed with everyone else – or, almost everyone. Suddenly he noticed a faint dampening of spirit throughout the group, and looked around, surprised. Ah, but follow the eyes, and where do they lead?

Fenris' smile turned smoothly and rapidly into a grimace. So the mage, indulging in his alone-time again? Varric was the one who broke the new silence, clearing his throat and laying down an impressive hand with a flourish and an exaggerated grin, and Fenris found himself grateful – at least it made the others turn back to their own hands. Slowly conversation picked up again, though it was never quite as easy as before, and Fenris' laugh did not come again. He was sick of dealing with this mage, of having his fits influence the group he had come to care about, the only people he actually did care about, anymore. He hated that they were so closely bonded, all of them, that losing one link might mean the disintegration of the whole of them. He would never admit it, couldn't vocalize it even to himself, but he was frightened that he would lose these people. He didn't need the mage making that fear a reality.

Sooner rather than later Merrill opted to leave and he wasn't surprised, having seen the girl try to cover more than one yawn throughout the night. Aveline - ever conscious of her duties - offered to escort her, but it also seemed to him that the woman was world-weary, and perhaps craved her bed more than the nighttime stroll. He hoped she would find it as pleasant as she seemed to need it to be.

And from there the night seemed to disintegrate, the card game long abandoned, the winnings moved into Varric's pouch with no more than a slanderous wink. Now people sat chatting, Varric spinning a yarn as wide and exaggerated as ever, but Fenris was distracted from it all. Then suddenly everyone else was as distracted as him when they all heard a sigh from the end of the table. Fenris felt something churn in him when the mage looked around himself foolishly, then staggered upright, and suddenly he was decided. He gave it time, though – no need to arouse any suspicions. He chatted and was silent and smiled and frowned as were normal to him, but then he left himself, stating that he intended to clean up the mansion some before he slept.

Yet his steps carried him somewhere far, far removed from Danarius' manse.

He moved casually, but with a purpose, his long, lithe form carrying him rather quickly to Darktown, and from there to the mage's clinic. He had only been in here with Hawke before now, and always hated the place – for one, it was where the mage quartered himself, and having no appreciation for the man extended to having no appreciation for the home he had decided to call his own, but it was also soiled in a way that surpassed even Fenris' home of choice. Yet he was here, and he moved back the curtain to find the mage washing his hands, not having heard him approach. He walked forward and found himself taking his time, looking not at the place so much as the things – what were all these vials for, anyway?

Soon enough he came to a stop behind the mage, and crossed his gauntleted arms over his equally armored chest, adopting a stance indicative of disinterest that was very, very natural for him. Still the mage did not notice him, a faint tune hummed under his breath as he cleaned himself, and Fenris finally gave up and cleared his throat.

That, at least, elicited a good reaction.

Anders had returned to the clinic with unease dogging him the whole way, but once there he found a patient waiting for him – nothing complicated, just a quick and simple binding of a wound, but the relief and gratitude she expressed to him had warmed his spirit, and he now felt more himself. He had even set out another bowl of milk for any stray cats, hoping idly that one might come while he was still awake.

Even though the woman's wound had not been particularly bad or deep, it had been a heavy bleeder. As Anders took care to keep himself and his clinic as clean as possible, he had ended up standing over a basin, scrubbing hard to get the blood entirely off of his hands and arms, turning the water pink. He had begun to hum rather tunelessly, some song he didn't know well enough but still managed to get stuck in his head being the general inspiration behind the noise.

He practically upset the whole basin when he heard a cough directly behind him, and good thing he didn't – basins like that were hard to replace, and expensive. But he did startle, turning once and staring. Fenris? But… why?

"Why?" He vocalized, his voice tremulous. Oh Andraste, why did he have to have a weak voice right now? And then Fenris smiled at him, and there was nothing of kindness nor mirth in the expression, and suddenly the memory of his arm ghosting into a chest was at the forefront of Anders mind. At least fear seemed to push Justice back – what an interesting observation. Perhaps he should have Fenris around more, what with that terrifying look he wore just now…

He realized that he was rambling, even mentally, and promptly cut the line of thought. He somehow felt that it would be beneficial to focus on the situation at hand.

"You're a distraction to them," the elf answered, the response somehow both simple and incredibly cryptic, staring at Anders with those intense eyes. They were beautiful, the whole of the elven male unfairly attractive, but the way he held himself off, the way he always looked dangerous, the contempt that was as natural in his eyes as the green, all those things took away from his intrinsic beauty and added to his conscious intimidation. Also, really, what the hell was that supposed to mean?

Apparently his confusion or maybe his indignation showed, for Fenris shook his head, as though explaining that the sky was blue to a willful child. "You. You sit there and talk to Justice. I don't like it." Oh Andraste, why now? He didn't want to be killed now. Granted, he couldn't imagine any time in the immediate future that he would prefer to be killed, but he just knew that he wanted to survive, wanted to make stupid jokes and ignore Justice and set out saucers of milk and talk to Hawke and drink with Varric and scold Merrill and laugh with Aveline and…

Once again, he was rambling, but this time it felt justified. It felt even more justified when Fenris placed a tip of one clawed gauntlet against his chest, and Anders felt it immediately pierce the coat he wore. It didn't break the skin of his chest, but he felt it there, cold and foreboding, and scarce dared to breathe.

But now Fenris was quiet, gazing at him with an intensity that provoked some response, any response, and Andraste help him now and he needed to make a response. "What?"

Well, that… obviously wasn't the response Fenris had been hoping for, and it really wasn't even the response Anders himself had been expecting. It hung between them, pathetic and alone, and those brilliant eyes got a shade darker with contempt. Anders didn't even know that Fenris had a more contemptuous gaze than the one he normally gave him, but he was quite suddenly proved wrong.

"Fool mage. I came to tell you that I do not appreciate your relationship with your demon. It upsets the balance of the rest." That contempt was still there, and it was obvious that the elf wasn't making the faintest effort to mask it. Following those words was the slow realization that he probably wasn't about to have his heart ripped out… not yet, anyway. He had a feeling Fenris wouldn't be talking to him if that was all he had come here to do.

"He's not a demon," he said, hurt in his voice even as he cursed himself for defending Justice right now. But he couldn't help himself – Justice was his friend, in some odd way still, and he was a spirit. A good spirit, at that! He had grown perverted as he lived within Anders, that much was true, but the friend he had welcomed to share his body with him was still there, in some manner or other. He wasn't going to take insult to Justice lying down.

Even so, he wasn't tempted to invite those talons to explore him more intimately, and so decided, after his initial outburst, to keep his mouth shut for once. But his eyes gave him away and he knew it, glaring as he was at the elf who stood there, so cocky, so self-assured. Anders knew that the elf had reason to be self-assured, but it didn't make the expression any less frustrating to behold.

"Not a demon?" Fenris' voice challenged him, challenged his desire to keep his chest quite intact, but the mage just pressed his lips into a hard line, true anger coloring his eyes but silent for all that. He would've been able to manage had Fenris just stuck to insulting him, but insulting Justice was much worse. And it certainly didn't make matters or tensions any better when Fenris moved forward lithely, talon still pressing coldly against Anders chest, closing the distance between them so that the elf had to glance up to continue to glare. Yet for all that Anders was taller than him, they both knew where the center of power was, and Anders found himself grimacing at the personal admission that he wasn't in control, or going to be in control.

"I quite think it is a demon, mage." The title was spat out as ever, imbued with no small amount of disgust, but again what was worse was the insult to his old friend, not the one to himself. Suddenly he felt caution flee him, and he moved forward, not allowing himself to wince as the claw punctured him, reveling in the look of mild surprise on Fenris' face.

"Not a demon, elf," he said coldly, mocking the other mans sentence, his own voice hard and low. He felt a trickle of warm blood curl down his chest, but the pain wasn't enough to distract him – it wasn't as though it had gone in all too deep, anyway.

He hadn't intended to do more than try to intimidate the mage – to antagonize if that didn't work – but his own anger was being stoked by the mans flagrant denial, and since his anger was no small thing… but there was a surprise then, and his anger was almost forgotten for a moment as Anders pushed forward into his clawed gauntlet. He almost withdrew the digit, not having intended to actually bring any harm to the mage, but then thought that doing so might be seen as a weakness just then.

So he left it there, debating what he felt about the mage moving so calmly against the blade before pushing such useless considerations aside. This was beginning to become a more dangerous game than he had intended, though – his own distaste for the man was coming out in him, and there was certainly a part of him that wanted to flash forward and end the annoyance. Hawke, he reminded himself grudgingly. All of them. He wasn't going to allow the absence of the mage to throw the group he considered himself close to into disarray.

And if he had to show a weakness to save that delicate, fragile thing, then so be it.

He pierced the mage slightly deeper, staring hard as Anders eyes flickered – not quite a wince, but close enough, enough that he felt satisfied with it. Then he pulled away slowly, wiping his claw against his leather leggings, cleaning the tip of the digit from the mage's blood, allowing his distaste to shine through in the motion. But he didn't back away, didn't add any distance between them, and when he glared back up at him, he put the full force of his frustrations and his angers into the expression. When Anders blinked with brow furrowed as though surprised by the intensity of the gaze, Fenris allowed himself a cold smirk.

"I didn't come to play semantics." He announced suddenly, not wavering in his glaring. The mage didn't seem startled by the words, instead just meeting his glare with one of his own. "This needs to stop." It wasn't a request, wasn't an offer. It was a demand, an assertion of power. It was rather like what Hawke might do, except that this was a subject matter the man tended to stay far away from. Which was exactly why Fenris was here in this filthy environment in the first place.

"Why do you even care?" The mage spoke up defiantly, but there was the promise of defeat in his tone, and Fenris seized upon it like a cat unto a dying mouse. Or a dog unto a dying cat, to go with the comparison Anders had found more apt.

"I don't care, mage. Not for you, not for your little issues." He didn't elaborate – it was a baiting game, as true to cat and mouse or dog and cat as could be. He needed Anders to reach forward before he lunged to catch him between teeth.

But the mage didn't reach, and so he was denied his lunge. Anders sighed, and shifted casually even under such a heated glare, turning slightly to face the door. Fenris' eyes darted to it, but there was no one there, so he frowned and looked back to the mage. Then he realized it wasn't the door that Anders was looking at, the man just staring into the middle distance, as though considering something.

"Fenris," he almost startled at the sudden voice in the quiet that had grown between them, and his glare redoubled for it, for how calm it was. But the mage wasn't paying him any mind. "I can't even imagine what drove you to come here, but you're not going to get anywhere. Justice is me, and I am Justice." The finality of the words made Fenris bristle. Nothing was that set in stone, or else he would still be in Tevinter, still eating out of a magister's hand.

The mage continued. "I know it's not me you care about, but just know that this is not a battle you can win, no matter who you are fighting it for." The words sent a chill down Fenris' back that had nothing to do with the mage – indeed, the words didn't even seem to be his own, staring blankly as he was. They certainly didn't match up to what he had heard from him before this. But, ah, now it all made sense. Anders turned to face him, and he caught the brief glimmer of blue in the motion. So this was Justice, eh? Or at least some combination of the mage and the abomination. How interesting.

"Justice," Fenris spoke again, and this time the mage-abomination reacted, eyes widening ever so slightly before the expression became controlled once more, guarded. But that was more than enough for the elf, who did not abandon his strategy in coming here, merely altering it. "Of course, of course. When the going gets rough, the abomination comes to play." He wanted a reaction, some break in this creatures composure, some chink in the armor that he could work at, but there was nothing. The things eyes remained passive and tinted with blue as he mocked it, his voice harsh and jarring.

But, one has to remain flexible, since only in strength and flexibility is there victory. So Fenris began a slow circuit of the mage-abomination, noting with some pleasure that the passivity disappeared as soon as he began moving. Although nothing else came to the surface that he could work with, at least not yet. Only now this was a hunting game, and Fenris was good at hunting, at stalking and waiting and knowing just the right moment to pounce.

There was a stiffness to the thing, now – a tensing as he moved around it, a desire to look back and watch him that was obvious even though it wasn't acted upon. He grinned as he thought of something, his desire now being to startle the mage-abomination, to make him lose ground. So he pressed the flat of one of his claws against its mid-back, drawing it slowly across the coat he always wore, taking care to not cut the coat and thus to avoid any questions, he managed to elicit a response, albeit not the one he had desired.

Anders hadn't intended for Justice to get involved, and part of him kept a steady pressure against the spirit, as though something that minor could push him back down. But at least the spirits presence strengthened his own will, his own resolve, some of what was most intrinsic in Justice filling him. It wasn't that Justice constantly competed with Anders to lead or to take over, but instead that Anders had weaknesses, distractions, and having the spirit bolstering him like this was… addictive.

He was no better than any addict, and quite a bit worse than some of them, but even the shame of knowing that could not push Justice back when Fenris began his slow prowl. This was Justice who stood strong and willful, determined to not stoop so low as to play this game, and then there was Anders who frankly cowered, wanting to turn his head and watch as the elf paced him, hating himself for needing to see where the man was at all times. Luckily Justice had enough of him in reign that he didn't turn.

At least, not until that damn claw started up again.

He spun, and by some combination of bravery and foolishness and just being so utterly frustrated with this game and his life and Fenris in general, the cat managed to catch the dog's wrist, earning himself a look of surprise even as the metal of the gauntlets hurt his hand. But he didn't let go, enough of him suffused with Justice that he could be brave, could be bold right now.

He used the surprise he had won to shove Fenris away, and the elf went back a step or two before catching himself, his surprise darkening to something more angry, something rather more dangerous. But Anders was sick of this, sick of the tension, sick of the fear, sick of the way that Hawke fawned over this madman. He didn't realize he had pushed Justice away, had no idea that the bravery he was wearing just now was his own, contorted by the thought of his friends support, and fueled by his frustrations.

"Get out," he growled, his own face as dark as Fenris'. And again, there was a surprise across the other mans features, a momentary flash that both disoriented and pleased Anders. But he was too distracted to think on it more, too angry that the elf would invade his clinic to threaten him, to leave cryptic messages and touch him with those damn hands that had ripped hearts out. Too furious to have Justice called an abomination.

So when Fenris didn't move, Anders did. And that seemed to surprise them both.

He took several steps over, his longer legs closing the distance he had created with ease, but then he didn't know what to do. Anger made power spark beneath his fingertips, circuits of magic that he wanted to use but knew he couldn't, and he gritted his teeth. And his bravery did not go so far as to become foolhardy, or else he would've dared to touch the elf, to shove him out the door and into the dirt of Darktown. But he wanted to make a move, make a statement, since the glare had abated somewhat, replaced with temporary surprise, surprise he couldn't quite understand. Even so, Anders knew that Fenris' anger would return in full all too soon, and knew, as well, that this was his last chance. And then decided that maybe he wasn't above being a bit foolhardy. Or a lot.

He grasped the elf by the shoulders, noting even as he paid attention to the way Fenris' eyes snapped open how slim he was, and pressed forward. He laid their foreheads together, locking gazes with the elf, the gesture impulsive and the only thing he could think of that didn't guarantee his heart leaving his chest. The surprise that had been fading the elf's gaze seemed to have returned, and Anders figured that with each unexpected gesture he bought himself a few seconds to consider a new one. If this was the way the game between them had to be played, he wasn't going to be the one to back down.

He stayed there for a beat, for two, suspended between determination and disbelief that their actions had brought them to this place, and firmly not considering the proximity of Fenris' gauntleted hands. Once again he found himself hesitating, but then suddenly he was not, for the elf seemed just as intent on not giving up on any game they might play as he was, and he felt those gauntleted hands curl around his shoulders. He shivered under their touch, unable to hide his momentary fear of piercing, of hearts ripped out and crushed, of death… but they just stayed there.

He opened eyes that had drifted shut to consider Fenris again, but he couldn't make sense of the expression he saw. There was still a glare, but there was something… else. He couldn't say anything like it was a softening of an expression, or that it was even something as simple as shock, since he really didn't know what it was, but knew it to be neither of those. It also gave him equally confusing feelings – a churning of his stomach that was reminiscent of fear but not, and a faint softening of his own heart, even as his actual fear and determination and frustration stayed very much intact.

One hand stayed on his shoulder, but the other drifted down, to clasp around his upper arm. He shivered again, the action borne more out of fear than anything less pathetic, but realized that he couldn't let Fenris take control of this situation. So he allowed one of his own hands to leave its perch on his shoulders. He used his fingers to brush against Fenris' exposed neck, watching as his green eyes widened again, almost imperceptibly this time. He had never wondered about the lyrium tattoos much, but was intrigued by how they felt against his curious fingers. They were faintly raised, and softer than the surrounding skin, which was roughened with exposure. They were actually almost silky in comparison, but more than that… he felt the power pulsing through them.

It wasn't an even distribution like he might've imagined had he given it any thought before now, but he instead felt it as a pulsation, and figured out with some more gentle exploration that it was timed to the beating of his heart. For some reason he found himself very interested in this, and almost didn't realize when Fenris' hands came to rest amiably against his waist, moving slowly to be planted against his stomach, then against his chest. What he did notice, though, quite unable to be oblivious to it, was when Fenris shoved him away.

He blinked twice, feeling disoriented as he came back to himself. Justice had snuck forward as he had played with the lyrium-infused lines, to bask in the faint glow, and now he receded, the mage only having become aware of his presence by its absence, and Anders felt himself redden. He… couldn't say what had come over him. For it was him, by himself, that had made the first movement towards the elf, who had placed their faces together in such an odd show of hostile intimacy. He dreaded what would come of this, dreaded what would happen now.

There was some shock, to say the least. The first thing that had shocked the elf was when Justice suddenly and without warning left, leaving Anders to face him on his own – but with a disconcerting amount of bravery, something that Fenris hadn't been anticipating, not without seeing the abomination looking out of the mage's eyes. The demand also shocked him. But what was more shocking than any of that was the sudden twist to their dog-and-cat game, the twist he couldn't focus on, couldn't decide what to do with.

So he had responded, hesitance warring with determination to not give up in every gesture he made, every look in his eyes. But he didn't know what to make of it, and found himself unable to let go of the curiosity – why had the mage moved forward like that in the first place? Had it just been to disorient him, or… But no. He refused to think of what else it might've been. That was too complicated an issue, too reminiscent to him of certain things, and all in all too uncomfortable to bear consideration.

Yet, for all that, he had responded. That, too, was too uncomfortable to bear consideration.

Then there was also the mystery of the tattoos – no one had touched them in so long, and Fenris had never given them much thought after being freed of Danarius. Yet having them touched had reminded him of them in a very interesting way, and he had been shocked by the sensitivity he felt there. When he cleaned himself or in any way brushed up against them, they felt no different to him than his skin, no different, he imagined, than any other tattoo. Perhaps it was because Anders was a mage and they were lyrium, or perhaps it was simply having another's touch, but they had been almost frighteningly sensitive. Some small part of him tucked that knowledge away, actually considering a visit to the Blooming Rose to further test this theory of his.

He probably would've let the game continue, although Maker only knows where it would've ended, had he not chanced to look up and see that telling blue glow. So, Anders had brought out his plaything, was that it? He had moved slowly, not wanting to startle or be too telling of his intentions, but he had shoved the blasted mage away nonetheless. He saw Anders come back to himself with confusion, and his glare returned.

"You don't even realize its happening!" He hadn't intended to raise his voice, but it seemed to rise all on it's own anyway, luckily not so much as to become a shout. "Fool mage." He sneered at the mage, pleased at the look that crossed his face – a mixture of fear and shame. Was he finally realizing just how much of a slave he was to that creature, then?

He crossed his arms over his chest, adopting a more classic stance once more, glaring at the damn mage. When was this trial going to end? He just wanted to continue in this new feeling of security and relative comfort, but he couldn't do that if he had to act as babysitter to a mage who seemed to lack a will of his own as well as common sense.

At least it was obvious enough that the mage knew his own guilt, for his eyes, once so defiant, had dropped to the floor. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, and he all but radiated shame and confusion. "You really don't know." His words made the mage jerk his head up, and he found that he was being searched; a fleeting look of surprise was seen and faded. He realized then how softly he had spoken, and shook his head, as if to dispel any sense of sentiment.

"Don't misunderstand mage. In fact, I will make it very clear." His voice was his once more – strong, demanding, and firm. "I don't mean to give up what Hawke has given me, what everyone has given me. But you – you are a blight amongst the group." If the widening and shutting of the mage's eyes were any indication, his words had hit home. "I'd kill you if I thought that'd fix the problem, but we both know it won't. You must control yourself." Once again, it was not a request.

He sighed, frustrated that this had to be such a problem, that he couldn't be free of the bane of mages even here. He couldn't even kill this one and be done with it, tempting as the thought was. He glanced around him again as though he had all the time in the world, noting the many vials, the rickety tables presumably set up for patients, the basin he had almost made the mage crack. It wasn't a place the elf would've disdained by its own merits, but the association it had with the weak-willed mage who stood before him ruined this place. Actually, his presence had gone so far that the elf disliked even coming into Darktown, for no more reason than the fact that Anders had set up shop there.

He moved away a bit, to lean against the most secure looking thing in the room, a small and decently built desk. He couldn't remember if it had been here before – maybe a gift from Hawke? Then he realized the direction of his thoughts and pushed them away, quite uncaring about who had provided the mage with furnishings.

"I refuse to give this up, mage. Especially for you. Once already a mage has been a curse to me – do you truly think I would let it happen again?" Ah, he had said too much, or said the wrong thing. Anders' head lifted and his hands balled up, a glare that even the elf had to admit was impressive finding its way to his normally amiable face.

"You compare me to Danarius?" The mage spit the words out, voice trembling with anger. But he had managed yet again to catch Fenris off-guard – that was the part he cared about?

"Of course," he answered simply before he could catch himself. "You both—"

"Never! Never say that again, Fenris. I have done nothing to earn that comparison. I have healed you, healed the man you so admire, healed everyone you claim you came here to protect. Hawke even told me about hunting down Danarius with you." The mages interruption and monologue had stunned Fenris, but even more disorienting than that was the final admission. Hawke had told him?

"Hawke… told you?" He said, hating that his voice was weak, weary. Well, of course he had. He kept managing to forget that Hawke liked Anders, liked the company of the mage. How the two had grown so close Fenris could never know and refused to consider, but of course… Hawke would've told him.

The look Anders gave him was puzzled, and when he started to explain his voice was calmer, more even. More what Fenris was accustomed to hearing from the mage. "Of course he did. He… why would he keep that from us? He was so happy you were free. We all celebrated it, at the Hangman. We… I thought…" Here Anders looked away, and Fenris frowned, confusion and the faint taste of betrayal warring within him. Yet, they had celebrated? That was what stuck in his mind the most, what he couldn't shake – he couldn't figure out why. Why they would celebrate. It had been an inevitable, and he hadn't gotten the sense of satisfaction from it he had so desired, and yet the fact that they celebrated for him… it confused the elf.

Anders looked away a bit, his expression turning into something more wistful quickly enough to take Fenris off guard. "Are you really so surprised he told us? You're so important to him…" What? "He was so excited. He mentioned that you were at home, and we all assumed… well, we didn't realize that you had taken over the mansion." What the hell was the mage babbling about?

"What are you talking about?" His voice was still pitched low, his anger having abated in favor of gathering information. His brow was furrowed, and he couldn't even begin to imagine why Anders looked so wistful, why he looked something close to sad so suddenly. Anger he could've understood; determination, confidence, cockiness, confusion… but sadness?

Anders glanced over at him, expression turning sheepish for a moment before hardening. "You are with Hawke, are you not?" His voice was blunt, but it didn't seem a question important enough to have such emphasis. Fenris, still puzzled, nodded.

"I follow Hawke, yes. That's why I'm here." But Anders was shaking his head before he was even finished, and Fenris' furrowed brow became more prominent. What in blazes was going on here?

"No, not what I mean." The mage moved a hand, dismissing something, not quite meeting Fenris' gaze. "I meant, are you two not together? Romantically? Everyone assumed that night, you see… Hawke was so enthusiastic, we were sure that he had just saved the love of his life." Fenris wanted to answer, but the world was suddenly titled, and he just gaped silently. Slowly Anders met his gaze, and those eyes that had been glaring so recently went through several confusing transformations; confusion, shock, shame, and then finally sadness. "I'm sorry," he said simply, taking away Fenris' need to answer such a thing.

The elf answered anyway.

"I thought you two were…" he fumbled, not something that was normal for him, and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "Not us, though. No." He laughed, but the sound was harsh in the otherwise empty room. "Hawke is far too pure for me." He looked back at Anders, though, and met another confusing expression – shock. Followed by a shaking head.

"N-no, not us... Justice…" He shook his head again, as though that were all he was capable of, and Fenris couldn't rightfully blame him just then. Had they both been in love with the man, after all?

Anders was dumbfounded – pure and simple, that was the word for it. He couldn't think of any other time in his life when the word dumbfounded actually applied. Well, maybe when Justice became so suddenly and thoroughly perverted, but that had been overshadowed by horror and shame. Right now being dumbfounded stood on its own, not supported nor weighed down by any other emotion. But, dumbfounded or not, he flinched away from the harsh, saddening sound Fenris made that pretended to be a laugh.

He shook his head one more time – it was almost like he thought he could shake clear the confusion that had clung to him since Fenris had first arrived. Well, it obviously wasn't working. "Justice is an… impediment to any relationship I might have." He didn't know why he was bothering to explain, much less why he was bothering to clarify his too-vague explanations, except for the fact that the elf actually seemed somewhat interested and… sympathetic? No, surely the mage had imagined that. He doubted Fenris even knew the word sympathy, much less the practice of.

He really had thought they were together, though. The looks him and Hawke had shared, the fact that only around the warrior did Fenris ever laugh or smile, the effort Garret had gone to for the elf, the celebration that followed, and the vague words that he could now see had been misunderstood. He supposed it had been a bit presumptuous of him – of all of them, really. It was very possible that neither Hawke nor Fenris had any interest in men. Just the way they interacted together…

Anders shook his head one final time, feeling foolish even as he did so. "Sorry – didn't mean to presume." He finally said, not missing out on the irony of apologizing to the elf who had come to threaten him. But this had turned in several different directions since he had first been startled by Fenris behind him, some of them rather uncomfortable.

He found his thoughts kept darting back and forth – one moment he was trying to go over things and look at them from the angle that Fenris and Hawke were not a pair, then in the next instant he was remembering how frail the elf had felt beneath his hands. The following moment he was considering how utterly insane he must've been to dare to touch the elf, and how he really should be dead, then in another blink of the eyes he was considering how crazy the desire to fold the sad-looking elf in his arms was. Not too mention suicidal.

He sighed, finally done shaking his head like a fool, and instead plucked nervously at the coat he wore, playing with the ends of his sleeves, thinking absent-mindedly that he should hem it again soon, trying to reorder his thoughts. His face was angled downward, his eyes staring absently towards the ground, and he was distracted enough that only the showing of bare, lyrium-tattooed feet interrupting his view announced that the elf had closed the space between them.

He looked up, surprised, the first emotion shifting shamefully quickly into fear as the elf gripped him tightly by the shoulders. But then he met those eyes, those dark green, intense, fiery eyes, and his fear abandoned him. All he was left with was a comfortable resignation – if this had to happen, then so be it. At least he could see something worthwhile right before he died. Yes, he would've liked to see if a stray had come for the milk, and maybe it would've stayed. He would've enjoyed helping more people, and denying gifts and payment more. He would've enjoyed seeing Hawke once more without the images of him and Fenris being together shot to the forefront of his mind and made some part of him cringe. But this death was okay, too. At least he was able to see a new expression, one he couldn't quite understand. It wasn't like Anders, to be content to die with a mystery in front of him, but it was a mystery he knew would never – could never – be solved, and so the resignation reigned.

But then it faltered, and left him completely as Fenris continued to stare at him. The elf hadn't moved, hadn't changed anything since he had first laid his gauntleted hands over Anders shoulders, and now the mage was growing confused. He practically startled as Fenris broke the heavy silence that had grown between them. "Is Justice with you now?"

It took a long moment before Anders could answer, and part of that was an exploration – he couldn't always be sure. "Justice is… always with me, in part. But no, not now." He didn't know why he bothered to explain, but the elf nodded, as though the specification was what he had been expecting.

"Keep your hands by your side, mage." Anders frowned at the orders, thoroughly puzzled, but then everything left him – confusion, fear… thought. The elf had arched his feet and followed the motion by pressing his lips against Anders', his eyes fluttering closed just before the two of them met. Anders' eyes remained open, however, shock finding a way through his blasted mind to come to the forefront once more. Fenris pulled back after a moment and frowned at the mage, looking disappointed as well as angry.

"I merely thought…" He shook his head, dropping his hands and stalking off. Oh. Oh.

"You love him, don't you?" The words escaped him before he could consider whether it'd be wise or not, and he had to hold himself off from clapping a foolish hand to his mouth. Fenris stopped moving immediately, back stiff, but then something seemed to go out of him and his proud stance faltered. He nodded meekly, Anders only able to gaze as the silver-haired man affirmed his presumptuous question.

"You too, though." The way Fenris pointed it out – no attempt to harm, no dissimulation, and as a statement – made Anders close his eyes and bite at his lip, but he took one breath, two, then nodded as well.

"Yes," he said, realizing the elf couldn't see the affirmative motion.

"Of course you do." Once more, there was no guile in his words – just a simple resignation, about the only thing he would never have thought to hear from the elf. He blinked, surprised. He was still reeling from all that had happened in only moments, and was barely even aware as he moved towards the elf.

But he followed through with his earlier, impulsive thought, pressing his chest against Fenris' back, feeling him stiffen proudly against the touch. He found he didn't care. He snaked his arms around him, noting once more how frail he felt, how delicate. The armor would normally be more in the way of noticing such a thing, only he had always noticed how skin-tight the elf wore his. He locked his arms around Fenris, clasping his own opposing wrist, making a ring around the elf – one he could probably break, if he cared to, but Anders' muscles were still being used, pressing himself tightly against the slim, powerful elf.

He wondered idly if he would turn and kill him, and Fenris seemed to hesitate, almost as if he were wondering the same thing. But then something shifted subtly – not the same loss of pride as before, just an acceptance. It was like giving in to something you wanted, but you knew would be regretted later. At least, that's how Anders viewed the situation, so he imagined the elven male enclosed in his grip might see it in much the same way.

He caught his breath as Fenris' head came back to rest against his shoulder. The elf did nothing else, said nothing else, and showed desire for nothing else, and so Anders continued to hold him. He found that he was thinking quite a bit – how absolutely the Maker or Andraste or who-knows-what-else must have it out for him, to send him such a confusing, confounding elf. Then he had thoughts that seemed downright traitorous to the first set – how warm Fenris was, surprisingly, and how small and frail. How the hardness of his armor didn't seem to suit him, and how his hair was so thick and had the faintest scent that he couldn't place, but was enjoyable; something slightly musky, slightly earthy, and very appropriate to the warrior he held.

Then he found himself considering whether they were going to stand like this all day, and surprised at his own acceptance of such a thing. He… liked this. He didn't know how much, nor did he particularly know why, but it couldn't be denied that he was enjoying himself, however unbelievable that thought would've been even a small amount of time ago.

He felt foolish. He had sought… well, even he couldn't figure it out. As he stalked away his face burned, and not with anything that was appropriate. He supposed he had just considered, since they both loved the same man, perhaps they could've found a bit of comfort together. Fenris did not possess particularly admirable morals in that area – pleasure was pleasure, comfort was comfort, and such things were taken where you could get them. Danarius had certainly taught him some things.

And of course it wasn't any care for the man himself that had prompted the kiss. He hated the mage, even if he had to admit that he probably wouldn't have had the same loathing of the man without magic. But mages were ever mages – weak-willed and cruel. Maybe this one wasn't as bad as Danarius, Fenris could admit that, but it still didn't make him good. He was harboring an abomination in his chest, after all. So it certainly wasn't any desire or lust for the man himself that had provoked his actions.

Maybe he didn't outright hate him anymore, though. That thought was bad enough by itself, but worse yet was the reason. He found he couldn't hate someone who loved Hawke. It was something he understood too well… he made an effort, normally, to not empathize with people, for empathy did nothing more than make trouble down the line. Only now he was practically forced in to some amount of empathy with the mage, much as the thought made his skin crawl. The only reaction that had occurred to him as he was rebuked was the one he had taken; that is, to simply walk away.

Only then he had been stopped, quite literally in his tracks, by Anders' question. It had hit home, of course, but almost more shocking to him was the fact that the mage would ask the question – both that he was brave enough, and that he seemed to care enough. He shied away from the second part of that, deciding it had to be something else, something he didn't know about. Perhaps simple curiosity – asking for the sake of asking would seem to suit the man behind him, after all.

But still, he couldn't avoid a question like that. It would ache as a betrayal to Hawke to say anything but the truth, so… he responded. And then rebutted, unsurprised by the answer he received.

What did surprise him, though, was the feeling of a chest pressed against him, and arms surprisingly strong wrapping around him. Initially he stiffened within their grip, but he found himself relaxing slowly – somehow it was comforting that they neither tightened nor loosened at his first reaction. He did hold a sort of debate within himself, though – his pride bucked at the idea of being rejected only to be hugged, but the part of him that had reached forward to kiss the mage, the man… that part wanted this, or something like this.

It wasn't even that one side won against the other. He merely grew tired of the argument, tired of the strain he carried, tired of hating the mage, tired of yearning uselessly after Garret. Tired, tired, tired. So he leaned back, a sigh so soft as to be unheard escaping his lips as he came in contact with Anders, feeling comfortable within the embrace.

He let them stay like that for a long time – he wasn't even quite sure how long, except that it was considerable. It was only when he realized that he was growing groggy with the warmth and the comfort of it that he pulled back, intent on making the separation as gentle as possible so as to not scare away the mage. But for all Fenris' effort, the man didn't seem scared – indeed, the arms just adjusted themselves smoothly, not releasing him but settling instead on his waist as he turned himself.

He found himself staring up into golden eyes, eyes that were more expressive than he had known. There was a certain peace within them, a contentment that surprised the elf, but there was also something more intense, something more pressing. And then there was a particular confidence there – not ownership, a look Fenris knew all too well and was glad to not see reflected, but instead a comfort with the situation. He hadn't actually known that Anders could look so comfortable in any situation, and found that he preferred eyes that weren't rolling, or begging, or shining with mirth. He appreciated this peace. And Justice was nowhere to be seen – not even the faintest hint of blue was there to mar the gold.

They held that moment for a beat, two, three. Then Anders leaned forward, the motion slow and gentle, giving Fenris more than ample time to object, should he have a mind to. He did not. He met the kiss and both their eyes – green and gold – shut, the better to pay attention to the feelings exchanged. Fenris was pleasantly surprised that the mage did not seem a novice to kissing, a fact that was easily attested to as the man deftly pressed their lips together, the pressure soft but not teasing, and hard but not pressing. Although the intensity did grow slowly, and after a few moments the pressure suddenly was pressing, but Maker knew it was good, and then Fenris felt a tongue skitter across his lower lip and he responded and they explored and tussled and competed and he had needed this, needed this for so long.

His hands had come up without his realizing, and he was just lucky that he hadn't squeezed the mage's shoulders hard enough that the gauntlets had drawn blood. He had snaked his arms up the man's back again, fingers arcing over impressive shoulders, forearms pressed into the warm, smooth plane of his back. One of Anders' hands had roamed upward, moving across his chest and shoulder, playing for a moment with the tattooing on his neck, drawing a gasp from the elf even as they kept their lips together, the sound disappearing into Anders' mouth.

Then that hand found the mass of silver-white hair, and tangled itself in it, crushing them together in a breathless frenzy, one that Fenris was all too happy to respond to. Some small part of him was surprised – he hadn't been anticipating such confidence from the mage. If they had begun anything, he would've assumed that he'd have to be the one to do all the work. As it was, Anders seemed quite as willing to return as he was to receive, a fact the elf did not fail to notice or appreciate.

They stayed like that for a long while, kissing passionately, a hand tangled in white hair and gauntleted fists gripping clothed shoulders. They didn't seek to rush, to explore one another with reckless abandon – in fact, both of them seemed all too content to just stand there and kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and Maker help him but he needed to breathe. He pulled away with a gasp, snapping his eyes open so as to mark the mage's reaction, but it seemed that he wasn't the only one who hadn't been able to catch his breath – the other man was taking in deep breaths, golden eyes staring at him beneath lashes.

Fenris was surprised to realize that he found the mage attractive. Very attractive, actually. He hadn't considered it before, intent as he had been on the fact that the man was a mage, that he talked too much, that Hawke fawned over him, that he was harboring an abomination… but he was pleasing to look at. Those golden eyes especially, so unique and so expressive.

They moved almost as one, Anders being the guide only for the fact that he knew where the bed was. They toppled in to it together, though, and began a sweet embrace that ended up a playful tussle, both competing somewhat to please the other, to please themselves. There were choked laughs at surprising maneuvers, guiltless gasps, wanton moans… and, once or twice, gasped out names. Fenris was shocked when he first called out Anders name, and if the way the mage's eyes snapped open and stared at him was any indication, so was he. Fenris felt himself color and immediately went back to work on the man, attempting shamelessly to distract him, but what was said couldn't be forgotten.

A similar reaction took place when Anders moaned out his own name, his voice hitching on the first syllable before dragging out the rest. Fenris' eyes opened fully and he turned to stare at the mage, who looked equally shocked before smiling, the expression rather too sincere and open, considering the compromising position they were in. Fenris merely smirked and shook his head, but by the way that Anders' smile turned in to a grin, his own feelings on having his name called out were more obvious than he cared for.

Sometime later – much later, actually – they had collapsed together, and then adjusted themselves mildly so that the elf was pressed into the curve of Anders' chest, those powerful arms once more wrapped around his own fairly strong, wiry frame. They fell into an easy sleep, bodies covered in nothing more than sweat and blankets.

Then he woke, much later, found himself rather disoriented. For one thing he didn't know what time it was, there being no sunlight filtering down to Darktown, and for another the warm body beside him was missing. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it slightly, before beginning to slip out from the blanket. He was stopped by someone clearing their throat, and almost jumped as he looked up and met those golden eyes once more, glaring at the mirth in them. "Ah, putting on clothes already? A shame." Fenris glared at him until the mage reacted, even though the reaction was a laugh. Fenris bristled until he realized that it wasn't a cruel one – it was… something else. He found he didn't loathe it, even though he did color faintly, and turn away.

"Oh, come now, don't be a spoil-sport. I was just healing someone." The mage settled next on the opposite side of the bed, stretching out with a groan. "Come here," he offered, gently patting at the space next to him, the space that Fenris had just vacated. The elf turned and glared at him for a moment, once more both put off and attracted to the mirth the mage displayed in response to his glare, before sliding over to the spot. He kept himself under the covers, though.

The man slipped an arm around Fenris' shoulder and the elf stiffened for a moment before realizing that he wasn't trying to repeat last night – the mage was staring off somewhere, into the middle distance again. He was just holding the elf.

Slowly Fenris relaxed in to the touch. This was all so disconcerting. "So, why do you not ask Hawke?" The mage's voice was abrupt in the quiet room, and the fact that those golden eyes did not turn to him puzzled the elf.

"I already told you – he is too pure."

"Ah, yes. You did say that, didn't you?" This was odd. Fenris, suddenly suspicious, pushed himself up. The action at least made the mage look towards him, but he saw no blue gleam within those eyes – he did, however, see a flash of hurt that was quickly and succinctly smothered, and the eyes darted away again.

"Why do you ask?" He demanded, voice firm but eyes… not so much. But Anders still wouldn't meet his eyes, so he responded only to the firmness of the voice.

"Like I said, we all thought you were together." The other man managed to shrug; a feat, given his position. "I'm sure he would accept you, were you too ask."

Fenris stayed in his position relative to the mage – slightly above, but relaxed now, bracing himself with his arm. "As I said, mage, he is too pure. I would sully him. I do not care to do so." He finally allowed some of his puzzlement to come in to his voice – is this really what the mage wanted to talk about, first thing in the morning? But then the man mumbled something, and Fenris frowned. "I can't hear you."

"I said, I'm not pure."

The words shook Fenris, but he didn't shift, his only visible reaction being a simple blinking. He made himself consider all the potential things the mage meant by that comment, and settled on only one. Well now.

"No, you are not." Something about his voice forced the mage to meet his eyes, and he saw the open expression in the golden depths, the reason the man hadn't looked at him before now. He wondered what his own eyes showed, but apparently it was enough to soothe something in the mage. An arm came up to tangle itself in his white hair one more time, and he lifted himself for another kiss. Fenris responded.