Chapter Text
Anders never cared for romance.
Oh, he liked the concept well enough (his collection of second-hand romance novels were all dog-eared and tear-stained, the pages soft from many readings and re-readings), and he would grow misty eyed at the smallest displays of romance in art and in the world (a little wilted bunch of daisies at a gravesite, a silly note left in a colleague’s lunchbox, an over enthusiastic greeting at the airport). Anders liked the idea of romance, it was true. He could even be called a romantic at heart! But the application of romance to himself was deeply disconcerting. Romance was for other people, people who had their shit together and didn’t have back to back to back shifts at the Emergency Clinic and had the time and energy and talent for flowers and poems and long walks on the beach.
Maybe Anders did care for romance, but he and romance simply didn’t suit. You needed time for love and walks on the beach and dramatic confessions that came from the heart. Anders barely had time to stumble into bed at the end of the day. Let others have their romance. Anders would take what he could get, and the getting wasn’t too terrible, all things considered. A mild flirtation here, a hot and heavy encounter there, no messiness, no feelings, and when he was done he’d go back home to his cat and his busy schedule.
It was just the way Anders liked it.
“A break isn’t going to kill you, Blondie,” Varric said loudly. His voice cut through the conversation on the patio, and a few heads turned to look over at their table. Anders sighed and speared a cherry tomato on the tines of his fork. Varric lured him out of the clinic with free lunch at the little bistro nearby, and Anders was easily bribed. Besides, he liked Varric’s company most of the time when he wasn’t interrogating him.
“I’m fine, Varric,” Anders retorted. “I take breaks! Too many breaks, if you ask Justice.”
“Justice lives and breathes his job. He probably dreams about living in that clinic and filing paperwork,” Varric replied breezily. “And people think I’m a workaholic.”
“Varric, you are a workaholic. You’re working right now. Interviewing me. About my work,” Anders said. He decided to be polite and not point out that Varric was also criticizing his work-life balance. Or, according to Varric, his lack thereof.
“It’s also called socializing. Speaking of which…” Varric smiled broadly at him over the table, pitching his voice slightly lower than usual. He was playing charming and suave, and even as Anders’ heart fluttered he frowned back at Varric. Varric was laying it on a bit thick, wasn’t he? Smiling and paying for lunch and sounding just a little more flirty than usual… Anders wondered if one could compound a frown on top of a frown to make an even greater, more impressive frown. That was what it felt like his face was doing at the moment: a very big, very angry frown. Scowl? Whatever it was, he directed the full force of it at Varric, who only smiled wider.
“What are you up to?” Anders asked. Varric laughed.
“Nothing, sinister, Blondie, I promise. Just thought of something to get you out of your shell! Look, Anders. Hawke’s having a little get together tomorrow night at Isabela’s place,” Varric explained.
Anders looked down at his plate and his half eaten sandwich and colorful salad. It was easier to guess at all the ingredients on his plate than to look Varric in the eye at the moment. Say no, Anders ordered himself. Say that you’re busy, that you’ve got to bake a pie for the clinic bake sale, that you’re busy writing pamphlets to hand out at the next refugee crisis meeting, that you’re going to give Pounce a spa day. Say you’ve got a hot date. Don’t specify that that hot date is your bed and eight hours of sleep. Just come up with something, anything, that lets you stay peacefully at home! But, Anders realized as he poked at a bit of shredded carrot with his fork, he didn’t really want to stay at home, either. He was busy, always busy, and the routine of work, home, work, work, home again was growing harder and harder to bear. His schedule was rubbing him raw like sandpaper on skin, and maybe, just maybe, he needed a change of pace. It was just one night out, after all. What could possibly go wrong?
“Her place, or her place?” Anders finally queried, and Varric’s responding laugh sounded rather relieved.
“The bar,” Varric said. “Some drinking and company will do you good, Anders. If you’re uncomfortable you can always leave, promise. What d’you say?”
Anders sighed and shrugged his shoulders before picking up half of his sandwich. There really was no point in facing off in a battle of wills with Varric. He was sneaky and clever and persuasive, and he seemed to know all of Anders’ weak spots. Again, it was only one night. He could handle socializing for one night.
“Might as well. Haven’t anything else on my schedule. I can do Wednesday,” he conceded, and took a bite out of his sandwich.
-
“Pounce, I can’t do this,” Anders groaned into his hands. Pounce, who had stationed himself in the bathroom sink, trilled out a high pitched “mrep” before licking his paw. Anders, meanwhile, glowered at himself in the mirror before tying his shaggy hair back into a stubby half tail at the base of his neck.
“It’s just a drink with friends,” he muttered. “This should be easy!” But Maker’s Balls it wasn’t. It wasn’t easy at all! Anders felt naked when he wasn’t in his scrubs or wearing his jacket, but his scrubs were in the hamper and it was too hot for jackets. Anders donned jeans and a plain green t-shirt and hoped that he’d get used to the feeling of street clothes again.
That realization kept Anders from sending Varric a “rain check” text, changing into pajamas, and curling up on his couch to write Mage Rights pamphlets on his phone. Maybe Varric was right. Maybe he was working too hard. But tonight was going to change that. He’d let loose and have a little bit of fun. Maybe he’d even be a little reckless!
“Not too reckless, mind you,” Anders addressed Pounce firmly. “Just a little bit of recklessness. A tiny amount!”
Anders told himself that it was perfectly normal to defend himself against his cat’s all-knowing stare. Pounce bunched up into a crouch and sprung from the toilet lid up to the counter, booped his cold nose against Anders’ bare elbow, then curled his massive, fluffy form into the sink. Pounce looked up at him with all the regality of a king and meowed.
“Alright, you’ve convinced me,” Anders laughed, and he gave Pounce an extra skritch behind the ears before heading out.
Kirkwall in summertime was hot. The air was heavy, thick with the salt from the sea and the promise of rain coming down from the mountains, and by the time Anders made it to the subway station his forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Tunnels and stops passed in the window until he finally made it to his stop and before he knew it Anders found himself in front of Isabela’s bar, with the setting sun reflecting off the windows and streetlights buzzing to life. There were people sitting outside on the patio with beers in hand, and even more people inside, their shadowy outlines moving behind the glass. Varric and Hawke weren’t out on the patio, so that meant that they had to be inside the bar itself.
“Right,” Anders breathed out as he wrapped his hand around the door handle. “Stay for an hour at least. If it’s too much you can go home.”
With that sentiment echoing in his mind, Anders pulled the door open and stepped inside. Cool air blew against his face and he squinted, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. And then he stopped. Breathed in slowly. Stared.
The bartender. Was. Gorgeous.
Yeah, he was an elvhen man who was built like a brick shithouse, with strong arms and wide shoulders. Yes, his face was a stunning mix of harsh angles and softness, thick dark brows and aquiline nose and soulful olive green eyes that were locked onto his. His hair was bone white, tied back in a bun, undercut growing in dark at the roots. Tattoos wound up his arms and neck like vines, like veins, an organic maze tracing up his dark skin. Anders froze where he stood not because the man was objectively stunning, but because his expression was so… so...
It was as if the man was taking him apart with one glance, like he could know and understand everything Anders was with one long stare. His gaze was analytical. Assessing. Anders could hardly breathe as the man looked him over, olive eyes flicking up, down, back up again. And then-
Then the man smiled. It was barely a twitch, easily missed, but Anders saw it happen. His feet started moving before his mind caught up with them, but by the time he reached the bar Anders had gathered himself together just enough to smile and be charming. He ordered something, did his best to not sigh and bat his eyes like a lovestruck teenager when the man talked. His voice was smooth, rich, with a bit of a sharp bite to it in the way he shaped the words. With tab open and beer in hand, Anders, a little dazed and awestruck, went on his way to find his friends.
It was as he caught sight of them round a table that Anders realized he hadn’t asked for the man’s name.
Fuck!