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Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a city of white spires that towered over the sapphire blue sea, there lived a man and a cat.

The cat was a street cat with copper fur and fiery eyes, clever and quick and always two steps ahead of its quarry and potential captors. It was a beast that was not to be trifled with, and many bore the markings of its disapproval. The cat was its own master, coming and going as it pleased, and showing no loyalty or love to anyone but the man.

The man was a healer, a Mage of great talent famous for his daring exploits and charming nature. Wherever he walked he brought comfort and laughter. He soothed the wounds of the body with his magic, and eased the wounds of the soul with his bright smile and witty chatter. The people of the city adored the Healer for his kindness and generosity, and he was never without a bevy of admirers vying for his attention and interrupting his work. It was a rare week that passed without a new suitor joining the ardent herd, and hardly a day would pass without one of the healer’s wooers coming to court him. Many tried and all failed, for every suitor came across an insurmountable obstacle in their quest for the healer’s heart.

It was the cat. The Maker damned C-A-T!

The brute adored the healer, and the healer the cat in turn. When others could not so much as glance at the orange beast without a warning growl, the healer made friends with him. They were such dear companions that the cat would often strut in and out of the healer’s home, coming and going as he pleased, proudly waving his orange and cream tail in the air. The cat would lounge on top of the low stone wall before the healer’s house with one yellow-gold eye slightly opened, watching the world go by. The cat was the healer’s little guard lion, keeping all suitors at bay with his lightning fast paws and terrible growling. When the cat sat outside his door, no suitors came calling with bouquets of flowers or wailing serenades or declarations of undying affection. Suitors maintained a wide berth around the cat, and the healer found that he could go about his healing once more. And an idea began to form in his head, little wisps of thought condensing until it formed a plan. It was a plan to rid him of this plague of suitors, a plan to give the healer a little bit of peace, a plan that would let him live once again without having to politely reject every wooer who came a-wooing.

The next time the cat was seen he wore a smart green leather collar around his neck, from which dangled a bronze key. A bronze key that, the keenest of observers noted, appeared to match the brand new lock on the healer’s front gate. The news spread across the city, and by nightfall all knew of the onerous task the healer set before them.

“I will only return the affections of the one who can unlock my front gate,” the healer declared, and with the challenge before them, the healer’s many suitors rose to the task. The cat wearing the key was a wily creature, but surely fetching the key neck was not an impossible task!

All were proven wrong in very short order. The cat was utterly immune to bribery. The crooning of voices, the choicest cuts of meat, even the lure of a playful battle with a ball of string did not tempt the creature to come close enough to retrieve the key. The cat would dance just out of reach, taunting every one of his captors with his bright gold eyes and lashing tail. What made these repeated failures all the more humiliating was that the blasted cat seemed to enjoy the spectacle! Not a day went by without some new tale of some suitor’s defeat at the paws of the healer’s cat.

Over time, just as the healer hoped, the wooing ceased to a trickle. There were those who attempted to capture the cat for the thrill of the challenge and the chance to win the healer’s hand, but the suitors had become a rare annoyance in his daily routine thanks to the cat. And, in his own, cat-like way, did something more than just drive suitors away. He ensured that suitors did not come back.

One of Anders’s former suitors, a tall noblewoman named Hawke, followed the cat through the city one day, cooing and crooning at the cat, offering him bits of fish and begging him to come down from the walls and rooftops of the city. She was so fixated on the task at hand that she did not realize where she was headed until she had wandered far away from the gleaming white stone of the upper level of the city and into the darker, gritty stone and mud of the lower levels.

There, down in the lower levels of the city, Hawke lost track of the cat. But she found someone much more to her tastes, and a challenge far greater than taking a key from a cat. Now Hawke could be found throughout the city, offering aid to those in need and championing for the rights of the common people, and wherever she walked she was accompanied by a Dalish scholar. Hawke no longer chased after the cat or the healer’s heart. Why would she desire another’s touch when she found her love?

The healer only smiled when, nearly three months later, a large crate full of bandages, blankets, and a brand new cast iron pot ended up on his doorstep. He read the small note included with the delivery and chuckled.

Anders-

Thanks for rejecting me. Or thanks to your cat for rejecting me, whatever makes more sense. Thought you could use a present, Merrill says you’re always running out of bandages. Think you’ll be free for a meeting at The Hanged Man Friday evening? We’re of a similar mindset- help the people in need of help and all that. How do you feel meeting some compatriots? Let me know, I’m sure we’ll run into each other before then.

- Hawke

Postscript- Does the little monster like fish? I really ought to thank him, he brought me to Merrill, after all!

“Oh, Hawke,” Anders murmured before digging into the crate to pull out his prizes. “We never would have suited.” But he smiled as he put away the bandages and blankets, he laughed as he hefted the heavy pot out of the crate, and when that Friday evening came, Anders, the healer and most desired man of the city, was at The Hanged Man to spend time with ‘like-minded individuals’ and friends.

Hawke was not the only suitor the cat led away from the healer, Anders. There were dozens more, dozens who grew bored of the chase and walked away to pursue their own amusements. There were those who grew so frustrated they abandoned the task out of anger. There was one woman who grew so enraged by her repeated humiliations at the paws of the cat that she tried to murder the creature.

She was not seen again.

Not all encounters with the cat were so dire, of course. Hawke’s romance with the Dalish scholar Merrill was merely one example of the cat’s more generous nature. Many who followed the cat’s trail found themselves abandoning it to walk a different path altogether.

The viscount’s son chased the cat along the beach and stumbled across a shipwrecked Qunari sailor. The two ran off to Rivain together, and their letters back to their respective homes indicated that they were blissfully happy. They lived in a cottage by the sea, where they were not bound by the duties of family and clan traditions. Love brought new responsibilities, new possibilities.

The Chantry priest, who had for so long struggled with finding a place in the world, followed the cat aimlessly along the docks out of curiosity one day. He eventually wandered his way onto a pirate ship and into the captain’s arms. She mercilessly teased him, he eventually retorted, and now when she sailed back into the city’s port the priest was waiting for her. Love could hold, but it also stretched. The priest could never chain his lover in one place, just as the pirate would not take him as a prize for her treasure horde. Love allowed for freedom.

The quiet guardsman who patrolled the area near the healer’s home was tasked with capturing the cat in order to ensure the beast had “proper documentation.” His repeated failures to apprehend the creature led to repeated meetings with the guard captain, and those meetings led to other meetings of a different nature entirely. The guardsman invited both Anders and the cat to his upcoming summer wedding. Duty and love were bound together so tightly that the guard captain brought paperwork to her wedding so that the cat could finally be documented (“if he’s lost or hurt we must know where to return him to! Sign here, Anders, and here.”)

Then there was the knight, a fellow who tried to capture the cat out of a desire to have someone, anyone, who could fix the ache inside his soul. He knew the healer when they were boys, and if Anders couldn’t heal him it seemed like nothing would. The knight followed the cat through the streets until he literally ran into another knight with a quest literally clutched in her fist. The two left the city together that very same day. When they returned several months later, they returned with a colorful retinue of adventurers, all full of tales of their exploits across the land. The knight, people noted, was smiling again, particularly at the young sorceress who rode beside him and gawked at the sights in the city.

When the knight next saw Anders, he introduced him to the sorceress and told him of their plans to travel across the sea, back to his home and family. He had to introduce his love to his family, after all.

“Thank the Maker cursed cat for me, will you?” he requested. “If not for him, I would have never met her.” Anders agreed with a smile. It seemed that love had sewn up the gaping hole in his soul. It seemed that love brought the knight back home.

There were dozens of stories of new-found loves that the cat brought to the people who lived in the city by the sea, and the healer, Anders, was pleased. He had found a measure of peace from his romantic pursuers. The cat had managed to make life better for those who tried to woo him. He now had friends, which was truly a fine thing for a fellow to have. Anders should have been perfectly happy, but he was not. There was one little fly in the ointment, one irritation to mar the content, smooth schedule he had created (with the cat’s help, of course).

The fencing master, Fenris, lived in an apartment that overlooked the main square of the city. No one knew how the man afforded it (some said he won the deed in a game of chance, or perhaps a duel), but when he wasn’t lurking in the darkened rooms, he tutored his students in a fencing salon in Lowtown. Fenris was, in a word, unusual. He was an elf from a far off land, and he never spoke of his past. He was given to cursing in his native tongue before curtly explaining what mistakes were made and instructing his students in how to fix them.

“Your lunge is shallow, Robert,” Fenris would say. “Kaffas! Bend your knees. Deeper. Hold. It will be easier to move if you keep your knees bent.”

“Venhedis! Breathe, Marianne,” he would scold. “You are not made of stone!”

“No. Start over,” he would mutter as his younger students waggled their swords about like fishing poles over their heads. “Festis bei umo canavarum.”

Despite his gruff nature and curt words, Fenris was beloved by his students for his incredible skill and infinite patience. He was also regarded as one of the more bizarre men to have ever lived within the city walls (and the city had had its fair share of oddities over the years).

His students were a ramshackle lot consisting of children from the nobility, the children of merchants rising up in the social hierarchy of the city, and Fenris’s own selected apprentices from the poorest sections of the city. Despite the differences in rank and prestige, it was noted that Fenris’s students became and remained fast friends. Rivalries and differences were left at the door of the salon and were apparently never picked up again. The fencing master’s methods forged a camaraderie stronger than steel- and should one student find themselves in trouble, a dozen more would leap to their aide in a variety of ways. Fenris’s pupils were, much like their teacher, odd.

And if his students were unusual, the price for Fenris’s tutelage was even more baffling. One student, whose father owned an impressive private library, paid for his lessons by borrowing books for his fencing master to peruse. Another student offered a good deal of money to learn hand-to-hand combat and knife work instead of working with a rapier, but Fenris countered his offer with his own: being him a sheaf of paper every month, and he would teach the boy all three weapons. One of Fenris’s prized pupils insisted on paying for her lessons with a fresh basket of eggs every Sunday morning, which Fenris accepted graciously (though he did not particularly like eggs).

It was inevitable that Fenris, being a little eccentric, would cross paths with Hawke. Marian Hawke drew unusual people to her like flames drew in moths. And Hawke, being Hawke, liked Fenris immensely. Anders, however, did not.

“He is gruff and taciturn and he never smiles,” Anders complained while tying off bundles of herbs and hanging them up on the drying rack. “I don’t know what you see in him, Hawke!”

“He’s nice once you get to know him, Anders,” Hawke retorted, “Funny, too. You just don’t like him because he said you’re too loud and a braggart.”

“I am not! I truly am the greatest healer this city has ever seen and you would all be dead without me,” Anders protested.

“You’re also a vain man, and he hasn’t bothered to flatter you with inane compliments and ridiculous flowers yet,” Hawke teased, which made Anders snort and roll his eyes.

“Ah, yes, I dislike the man because he hasn’t come calling, do be serious, Hawke!” Anders exclaimed. “He’s rude and insulted my work, of course I dislike him!” And perhaps Anders’s ego was slightly bruised that Fenris didn’t even spare him a passing glance before dismissing him as “an arrogant man who is too big for his boots.”

Hawke laughed before turning the conversation to other topics- the summer heat, news of the world from her younger siblings, Merrill’s newest magical discovery, Varric’s work in progress manuscript, Isabela’s sea adventures, Sebastian’s latest Chantry gossip, and more. But the subject of Fenris lingered in the back of Anders’s mind, jabbing and taunting him with visions of a solemn face and cautious green eyes.

At nightfall, the shutters of one upper-story window in the healer’s home creaked open, and a lean orange tom-cat wearing a thick green leather collar from which dangled small bronze key darted outside. He hesitated, sniffed the cool evening air with his pink nose, and delicately leaped off the windowsill. He hopped from tiled rooftop to tiled rooftop, making his way towards Hightown.

He had an elf to see.

-

Fenris did not sleep well. He slept with the proverbial “one eye open,” a sleep that was closer to dozing than true sleep. He was always listening, always waiting for the odd noise, the out-of-place sound that would rouse him to full wakefulness. When one lived a life of hardships, one always waited for more problems to arrive at one’s doorstep.

This evening, trouble came quietly on soft cat paws. Fenris heard the soft scratch against his door, then the faintest little mew of a cat. He groaned and tore himself from his latest borrowed book (poetry about the sea), before trudging towards the door.

“If this is a joke of yours, Hawke, it is not amusing,” Fenris grumbled as he swung his door open and stared out into the dark night. No one was there. The square was empty, save for the buzz of insects and the trickle of the fountain in the center of the plaza.

“Mroow?” a cat trilled nearby, right at his feet. Fenris looked down and beheld the healer’s orange cat, who looked up at him with those enormous golden eyes.

“Fasta Vass, he sent his creature,” Fenris grumbled as he beheld the cat. The arrogant man couldn’t simply let him be. It was not enough that he dominated his evenings in The Hanged Man with his chatter and nonsense. No, the healer had to send his beast to torment him! He would have words with the healer, he swore. Fenris looked down at the lanky orange cat and sighed.

“It is hardly your fault, is it? You must do his bidding, I suppose,” Fenris murmured thoughtfully. All sorcerers, in his experience, had a sort of apprentice, a lackey of some kind. Barring a student or assistant, magical folk had familiars that fetched and spied for them- Fenris glowered out into the dark before shuffling to the side and gesturing in.

“It is no use sitting on the doorstep,” he informed the cat. “If you wish to come in, I would prefer you enter through the front door, when I invite you.”

The cat, as if he understood Fenris, leisurely sauntered into his apartment. He circled the small sitting area before the fireplace once, twice, and on the third rotation he jumped atop the worn brocade covered ottoman and settled into the lumpy cushioned surface.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Fenris said dryly. “I will be reading and poor company, but if you are determined to stay, Cat, you may.”

And so they passed the evening, cat and man, the man reading his book and occasionally muttering a word out loud, the cat watching with golden eyes, flicking the tip of his tail back and forth, back and forth. When Fenris finished his reading for the night, he shut the book, set it on the arm of his chair, and rose.

“I will be heading to bed. If you wish to leave I will open the kitchen window for you,” he told the cat. The cat meowed and lazily stretched out on the ottoman before rolling on his back invitingly.

“No,” Fenris said sternly, for he heard tales of what the cat would do to hands that ventured too close to him. “Go ask your healer for pets and affection, wretched beast.”

The cat meowed again and wriggled against the cushions.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Fenris guessed, and the cat rolled to his feet and leaped off the ottoman to circle Fenris’s legs. He butted his head against Fenris’s shin and mewed pathetically.

“I will take that as a yes,” Fenris muttered, and he shuffled towards his kitchen. He ladled water into a porcelain tea saucer and rooted through the ice box until he found a small hunk of ham. He cut the ham up with a knife, then set it on the floor next to the saucer of water. That cat pounced on the food as if he was starving, hastily devouring the bits of ham and lapping up the water as Fenris watched.

“Kaffas, you are hungry. Does your healer not feed you?” Fenris asked, and the cat’s plaintive yowl sounded like an affirmative. Unfed. Unloved. If the cat wasn’t well groomed and sleek, Fenris might have believed it. The cat sat back and licked his chops, waiting expectantly for… for what?

“You are greedy and ill-mannered,” Fenris informed the cat. “Have some more ham.”

“If you prefer fish I will gladly share it,” he added as the cat returned to his feasting. Once the cat finished his meal, he hopped onto a windowsill, pawed at the latch until Fenris undid it and lifted the heavy pane of glass up, and then leaped out into the night. Fenris watched the cat navigate the rooftops until it disappeared into the city below before shutting the window and locking it. He went to bed thinking of demanding cats and their arrogant masters. He wondered why he found the visit so pleasurable when he had no fondness for cats or sorcerers of any kind.

Somewhere across the city a man and a cat thought of armored creatures and the softness that lay within, and they wondered.

Chapter Text

“Your cat called last night, Healer,” Fenris said in lieu of a warm greeting. It was a Friday evening at The Hanged Man, and all of Hawke’s friends were slowly drifting into the tavern as the night wore on. Anders arrived with the setting sun, ordered ale, and was steadily on his way to becoming pleasantly drunk. It had been a hard week at the clinic, taking care of all the victims of the rather sudden heat wave that hit the city, and Anders was looking forward to an evening of friendly conversation lubricated by alcohol.

But then there was Fenris. Prickly, dour Fenris, and he was like a thundercloud on a sunny summer day. Anders took a deep drink to brace himself for the glowering storm that had approached him.

“Why hello, Fenris. Looking as sullen as ever, I see,” Anders said brightly. Fenris rolled his eyes.

“I only wish to inform you of your cat, Healer,” Fenris retorted. “Feed him more.” With that order, Fenris turned on his heel and marched off to Hawke and Varric’s table. Anders leaned away from the bar and shouted after him.

“He’s a greedy little bastard, that cat, don’t trust him!”

Fenris either did not hear this statement (unlikely), or chose to ignore it (much more probable, given their relationship or lack thereof). He kept on walking until he sat at Varric’s left hand, where his wine glass (pretentious ass) was already waiting. Anders returned his attention to his drink and the barmaid behind the counter.

“Now, Lisette, you said your cousin’s having pains in her back while carrying a child. If she can make it to my clinic tomorrow morning I will see her then, and if she hasn’t appeared by noon I will drop by her home to see her...” Anders scheduled several house calls with patients before joining Hawke, Varric, and the rest of his friends to a round or two of Wicked Grace. He and Fenris did not speak to each other for the rest of the night beyond the context of the game.

-

Fenris returned to his apartment to find the cat waiting for him on his doorstep, his little brass key gleaming in the lamplight. The cat stretched luxuriously and yawned before looking up at him with big, golden eyes.

“Pah! Pest,” Fenris grumbled, but he unlocked his door and let the cat step over the threshold. “As rude as your master, aren’t you?”

The cat, as if responding to his words, bristled his fur. Fenris chuckled, the sound a little rusty in his throat. Laughter did not come easily to him, though he could laugh when the occasion called for it. Some people (a braggart healer, for example) might think otherwise, but Fenris had a sense of humor! The cat seemed startled by the sound, however, and crouched, frozen, to the floor.

“Cats have no masters, do they? Fortunate beasts,” Fenris remarked. “Come, there’s a fish in the ice box, and you’re the only one I know who will eat it.”

“A student brought it to pay for her lessons, I could not refuse her,” he added as the cat padded behind him. “It is hard to remain composed when a- a fish is deposited in your hand. But she is a good pupil. Bright. Curious. Clever.” He was fond of all his students, all talented and curious in their own ways, and thinking of them always brought a smile to his face. They all delighted in trying to unnerve their unflappable teacher, and he could never let them know just how close little Hannah had come to seeing him flinch.

“Ah, but what else are students but a thorn in the sides of their teachers?” Fenris asked the cat, who yowled most pathetically in response. “Yes, yes, you are a greedy, starving beast. Have your fish.” And as the cat delicately ate the flakey bits of pale fish flesh from the tea saucer, Fenris leaned against his sturdy kitchen table and watched him.

“I was mistaken, in comparing you to your… friend,” Fenris said carefully. The cat looked up from his meal from a moment, golden eyes locked on Fenris’s. It was almost as if the beast was listening, but surely that was impossible.

Sorcerer’s companion. Mage familiar. Magic always worked in mysterious ways. Fenris breathed in slowly. Absurd. This was not a land of dark magic and foul secrets, of things being dug up that were best left underground. No, this was a free land and he was a free man, and he could speak as freely as he pleased, even to a cat. Especially a cat!

“You are direct in what you want,” Fenris finally said. “You do not dance around your desires. You are a rude, demanding pest and do not pretend otherwise.”

The cat somehow managed to look offended, so Fenris added, “I appreciate that about you. An honest life is hard to live, but your intentions are honest. More fish?” He offered another small portion of fish to the cat who, seemingly mollified, continued his feast.

“I see that you are not immune to bribery, why is it that no one else can grab that key around your neck?” Fenris mused as the cat ate, the key in question clinking against the bowl with every bite.

“Not that I want it,” Fenris added when the cat turned his head and narrowed those golden lamp-like eyes at him. “I am not in the habit of participating in contests where a person is the prize.”

The cat meowed at that statement, and it almost sounded like approval. Fenris made his way to the kitchen window and looked out at the street and square below. He did not know what to make of the cat’s healer friend. Fenris never knew what to make of the man ever since he came to the city two years ago. The healer was a series of conundrums and contradictions that Fenris could not hope to untangle.

“Your friend, the healer, is complicated,” Fenris finally said. “He is not easy to speak to.” That was an understatement to be sure. Fenris was not gifted in matters of speech. He was not blessed with a silver tongue or an easy manner. Speaking to others was a struggle, but he managed well enough on most occasions- but the healer. Anders. Anders always made things complicated.

“I struggle to understand him,” Fenris admitted. “He… is loud.” Anders was loud, true, but he also spoke quickly and leaped from topic to topic like a frenzied mountain goat jumping across boulders. It was all Fenris could do to hold onto a thread of the conversation and follow it. He never attempted to trade more than a few sentences with the healer, for Fenris knew more conversation would betray his ignorance on matters of magic and the wider world, and that-

“I have my pride, Cat. I will not beg,” he finally muttered, and he turned his face away from the cat’s oddly perceptive golden eyes. Sorcerers. Familiars. He said too much. The cat was too similar to his friend, and Fenris hoped that these words would stay between him and the cat. Those bright gold eyes were horribly perceptive, and for one brief moment it looked, it felt, as if Fenris was being judged. But then the cat yawned, his sharp white teeth gleaming in the flickering lamplight, and he stretched luxuriously, orange tail whipping back and forth. Then he let out a strange little trill and butted his large, round head against Fenris’s shin.

The small gesture, that little bit of physical contact, felt like a great kindness in that moment. Fenris slowly reached down, mindful of every story he heard of the cat’s vicious temper and quick claws. He carefully reached his hand down and presented it to the cat for his inspection. The cat considered the hand, then aggressively pushed his head into Fenris’s palm and purred. Fenris sat on the floor and began to pet the cat, scratching behind the ears, heavily stroking down the cat’s sleek back. As he pet the cat, Fenris found the tense knot inside of him relax.

“You, however, are easy to speak to, Cat,” Fenris concluded. “You will not tease me for my lack of knowledge. Or manners.” When the cat mewled at him and pressed his head against Fenris’s head, Fenris chuckled.

“Perhaps we both share a lack of manners, Cat,” Fenris said, and he continued to pet the cat, running his hand down the cat’s back, rubbing his fingers against the cat’s ears.

“Pah! You are skin and bones, does your healer not feed you?” Fenris asked, but the cat only purred louder.

Eventually, the cat stretched and leaped up onto a windowsill. He mewed and patted at the latch. Fenris unlocked the latch and lifted the window pane. The cat delicately jumped out onto the tiled roof and disappeared into the night, orange tail held up high. Fenris shut the window and made his way to his bed. As he settled into the mattress on the floor, Fenris wondered how he could speak so freely to the healer’s cat when it was so difficult to speak with the man himself. Perhaps… perhaps he should try to speak with Anders. The cat seemed friendly enough, and was good company once you spent time with him. Perhaps… perhaps Anders was much the same way.

In his hazy, sleep-filled mind, the idea held some merit. Fenris drifted to sleep, and promised to try and speak civilly with Anders in the future.

-

“Healer? Healer!” a high-pitched voice pierced through the din of the infirmary. Anders, who was in the back stacking clean bandages into a cabinet, glanced up as a young boy dressed in a fine cotton shirt and breeches stumbled into the storage room. Anders quickly appraised his visitor- no more than twelve, human, obviously from a wealthy family based on the clothing, and not bleeding from anywhere so probably in good health- before he shut the cabinet door and looked down at the boy. He wasn’t at all familiar. Anders never forgot a patient, and prided himself on being good with faces and names. This boy was a stranger, yet he was bold (or perhaps desperate) enough to invade his infirmary.

“Is something the matter?” Anders asked politely.

“Messere Fenris sent me- you must come to the fencing studio, Hannah’s hurt, it’s all my fault and-” the boy looked utterly frantic at this point, but Anders was already moving. He grabbed his satchel and examined the contents. Bandages. Braces. Healing potions. Knife, whetstone, tweezers, scissors, needles, silk thread- yes, it was all stocked. He slung the bag over his shoulder and gestured to the boy.

“Show me where, I’ve never been that way,” Anders lied smoothly. The boy was off as if he was an arrow shot from a bow. Anders wove expertly through the crowds of people, his eyes never leaving the boy who ran ahead of him. It seemed like no time had passed before they reached the door of the fencing school. Anders ducked into the cool building and took in the scene before him.

Fenris kneeled next to a small elven girl with dark curly hair. She wore a pained expression, her jaw set as she held her arm awkwardly close to her chest. Other students milled close by, and they all looked to Anders with some sense of hope, or expectation. And then Fenris looked up at him and- oh. Anders felt his mouth go dry and his throat close up, because the absolutely devastated, lost look in Fenris’s unfairly green eyes wrecked him. He didn’t even like the man, damn it, but that sad desperation tugged at Anders’s heart strings and made him want to…. Made him want to….

“Someone needed a healer?” Anders asked cheerfully as he marched in and took charge. He set his bag down on the ground, knelt next to the injured girl, and slowly reached out towards her.

“Will you let me see your arm, dear?” Anders asked, and the girl silently, sullenly, gave him her arm- thin, already bruising, but (thank the Maker) the bone had not broken the skin. But it was a break, no mistaking it, and while the girl put on a brave face she could not hide the tears in her eyes. Anders quickly glanced over to Fenris and met that heartbreaking desperate gaze once more. Anders searched for something, anything, that Fenris could do so that he wouldn’t look so sad and helpless, because that expression was going to haunt him for days to come.

“Fenris, I have a poultice that can numb the pain, I need to reset the bone before I mend it,” Anders explained. “It’s in the red ceramic pot in my bag, could you find it?” Fenris immediately started searching, while Anders clicked his tongue and spoke to the girl.

“Your name’s Hannah, right? Your friend said as much when he fetched me. It feels a little nasty, I know, but you’ve gotten a good, clean break,” Anders knew he was chattering, much like his mentors taught him. It was good to talk to patients, form a rapport, be a trusted friend and confidant. Chatter eased tension, and the atmosphere in Fenris’s fencing salon was as tense as a taut bowstring. The chatter also distracted Hannah from the pain in her arm, for the girl scowled and lifted her chin to glare at him.

“Ain’t Robert’s fault my arm’s broke,” Hannah muttered, “moved too slow. Ain’t Messere Fenris’s fault neither, we’re supposed to spar and practice on Tuesdays.”

“Of course not, that’s perfectly reasonable,” Anders said soothingly. “Accidents happen, and luckily this will be easy to set and heal, you’ll be right as rain in a week. Ah, thank you. Fenris, I’m going to need some help resetting Hannah’s arm, I need a few more supplies from my bag. There’s a few straight sticks, and some bandages. Now Hannah, I’ll need you to be brave and hold still for a moment.” Anders smeared the salve along the skin and waited for a moment to let the mixture and magic soak into the skin- but even with the salve and the small shock of magic, this was going to hurt.

Best to get it done quickly, then.

“I’m going to reset the bone now. It is going to hurt, but I have to put the bone back in its proper place or else it will heal badly,” Anders explained softly. Hannah gritted her teeth and braced herself, and Anders quickly popped the bone into place- Hannah yelped, and Fenris, who sat next to Anders, flinched. Strange that such a stern, harsh man was so easily moved by another’s pain. Or perhaps not. It wasn’t unusual for the toughest of people to have soft hearts under their callous demeanor. Perhaps Fenris was much like that.

It was something to think about.

“You did wonderfully, Hannah, that’s the hard part. Now, I can start healing the bone with magic, or we could brace it and let it heal naturally. Do you have a preference?” Anders asked.

“Can you fix it? Mum’s gonna kill me if it’s broke,” Hannah replied.

Healing broken bones was easy work, especially when it was a simple break like Hannah’s. It only took a little power, a small spark, to urge the bone to mend together. As a precaution, Anders splinted Hannah’s arm and wrapped it with a bandage. You could never be too careful.

“It’s going to be sore, you understand? And you may have to rebuild the strength in that arm, retrain your muscles once your arm is healthy again,” Anders cautioned. “I’ll come by next week to check on it, unless there’s an emergency. Then Messere Fenris can summon me up here and I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, healer,” Hannah replied. Fenris, who had been silent, clapped his hands sharply as he stood. His students, as if they were hounds who heard the ringing of a dinner bell, all turned and looked to him expectantly.

“I believe that that is enough excitement for one day,” Fenris said slowly. “We will resume lessons tomorrow. Hannah, we will work on footwork, Robert, lightness of touch. Class dismissed, yes you may borrow the practice weapons.” As all the students exited the salon together, Fenris looked over at Anders with those big green eyes, and Anders never thought he’d be relieved to see the disdain and caution he was familiar with. Anything was better than that stark desperation.

“Thank you, Healer,” Fenris said begrudgingly. “I suppose you will require payment-”

“No need, really. It was an easy job, got plenty of bandages,” Anders interrupted. “Besides, I can heal a broken arm like that in my sleep- not that I would! I am a professional, after all.”

“Of course,” Fenris grumbled, and it was all awkward silence between them. Anders looked over at Fenris, his profile highlighted by the sun pouring through the windows. There was still that little bit of tension in his body. He carried himself stiffly, and his face- Maker he was looking morose again and now Anders felt terrible. And even worse, he felt like he had to do something.

“I can’t decide if your expression is ‘sullen’ or closer to ‘stoic.’ Busy having deep thoughts?” Anders teased in the vague hope that he could draw Fenris into an argument. They weren’t much good at conversation, but arguing? They could argue. Anders was very good at arguing, and he had a special talent for irritating Fenris.

“Neither. Cease your prattle,” Fenris retorted. Anders sighed and slung his bag over his shoulder. He knew when he wasn’t needed or wanted. When you lived the life Anders lived, you quickly learned not to overstay your welcome.

“I’m off then,” Anders declared. “See you Friday? Hanged Man?”

“...Yes. I’ll be there,” Fenris said.

“Anders?” Fenris called out, and Anders turned back to look at him. Fenris stood in front of a large window, and the sunlight streaming through the glass framed him in a halo of light. His pale hair turned silver, his skin golden, his eyes as green as peridot- beautiful. Anders’s mouth dried up with his words. When did grumpy, stoic, asshole Fenris become beautiful?!

“Yes?” Anders croaked out.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, and that stern line of a mouth turned up into a smile, and Fenris was no longer just beautiful but radiant. Oh Maker help him, what was Anders supposed to do about that?

“You’re welcome,” Anders replied, and he hurried out of the fencing salon. His head was full of questions, and the butterflies in his stomach were flying up into his throat. Fenris was supposed to be that irritating asshole friend of a friend, the person he vaguely interacted with once a week. He was rude, serious, and grim, whereas Anders was as easy-going and flighty as they come. They had nothing in common, and Anders had no interest in finding anything in common between them! Truly! No, no, he was just entranced by a handsome face. This would fade. He only had to spend a little time with Fenris in their normal venue, and all would return to normal. Yes, yes, that was it! One night at The Hanged Man with Fenris, and everything would be the way it was before.

Anders ran down the street back to his infirmary, racing his own heartbeat all the way home.

Chapter Text

The healer was behaving strangely of late.

This should not have been unusual. Anders was a strange man. He always had and would always be strange. But tonight he was quiet and wouldn’t stop looking at Fenris, his honey-gold eyes following his every move from across the room. It was unnerving. What had Fenris done to warrant such looks and suspicion?

“What are you staring at me for, Anders?” Fenris asked as they sat across from each other at the tavern while Varric dealt cards for their game of Wicked Grace.

“Just wondering about the tattoos,” Anders replied easily. “Painful?” His tone was flippant. Irreverent. Annoying. But the question, those words, that was what dug into Fenris’s skin like cat claws. Just wondering about the tattoos...

“You don’t want the answer to that,” Fenris muttered, and he ignored Anders for the rest of the evening. He barely spoke at all and only played a few rounds of cards before leaving for home. Just wondering about the tattoos, the tattoos, the tattoos…

They were not tattoos, Fenris thought sourly. They were brands.

But that was not the end of Anders’s strange, invasive questions and looks. Oh no, it was not. Anders seemed to have made it his sole mission in life to slowly drive Fenris mad. He spoke to him every evening at Wicked Grace. He made jokes, laughed at him, teased and prodded and he never stopped!

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite stone-faced elf! How are your students faring?” Anders would say lieu of a greeting.

“I’m not your anything, Healer,” Fenris would snarl back, but his glares and snarls never seemed to put Anders off for long. He would always find Fenris. He would always speak to him.

Anders found Fenris at the market and pestered him with endless questions. He greeted him in the street and twisted his mind with his talk until he no longer knew where he stood or what he was doing. He showed up at his fencing salon every Wednesday afternoon to check on his students- his students! As if he cared about them, as if he cared about anything other than his own over-inflated ego and sense of importance and- and-

And Fenris couldn’t even find the rage within himself to kick Anders out of his fencing salon.

Clearly it was sorcery.

“Your friend has been a thorn in my side for the past three weeks,” Fenris informed the Cat, who delicately licked his paw after the meal of chopped up ham Fenris provided. “He refuses to leave me alone!”

The Cat continued to groom himself. This was the way he usually responded to Fenris’s ramblings. He groomed himself, sat on the cushioned stool Fenris provided for him, and occasionally meowed or purred. Fenris’s evenings were no longer lonely, for the Cat was his constant companion. Perhaps he only came for the free meal, but Fenris liked to think that the Cat enjoyed his company. Fenris liked having the Cat around, but he couldn’t say the same for Anders. Cats were inscrutable, but Anders was...

“Your healer greets me every night we are at the tavern to play Wicked Grace,” Fenris complained, and he swirled the remaining wine in his goblet. The red liquid sloshed against the glass like a miniature ocean. The Cat licked the pads of his front paw, little pink tongue flicking out to clean every little toe.

“He goes to my fencing salon and watches me teach,” Fenris added, as if this would clarify his irritation to the Cat.

The Cat moved on to grooming his face with his now clean paw.

“He will not stop staring at me!” Fenris exclaimed.

The Cat blinked, then resumed his grooming. Fenris snorted and flopped into his armchair.

“You are no help,” he grumbled, and he glared at the fire in the fireplace. He knew that he had no reason to be annoyed by Anders. Anders was always a little bit irritating. It was the way he was, and he seemed to take vicious delight in confusing Fenris with his chatter and teasing. Teasing! If Fenris hadn’t known better, he would call it flirting. But Anders had his pick of any paramour in the city. He had a bevy of suitors that would eagerly return his affections. There was no reason for the healer to flirt with him. No reason at all!

Fenris knew himself, and he knew what Anders thought of him. He heard the man complain to Hawke. He heard how Anders described him: sullen, stern, mopey, serious, grumpy- the litany went on and on. Anders did not like him. He only found Fenris amusing.

“I do not know what mischief he has planned, watching me as he does,” Fenris muttered. “It is unnerving.” The Cat ceased grooming himself and leaped up onto his stool. He turned around and around, curled up into a ball, and stared at Fenris with those bright golden eyes. It was almost as if the Cat was waiting for an explanation, but Fenris brushed the thought aside. The wine had gone to his head.

“I do not have the fondest memories of magic,” Fenris confessed. “It is- fasta vass, I am too sober to discuss this with you, Cat.” But once he started speaking, he could not stop. He started to pour out his soul to the Cat, who sat on the stool and watched. Perhaps he also listened, and that was all the encouragement Fenris needed.

“These markings? Magic made them. They strengthen my body, give me… talents. But I lost much in the process,” Fenris explained. “When I woke, I had no name, no… no life. The sorcerer who did this, he gave me the name Fenris. He-” Fenris glared into the remnants of the wine in his glass and gulped it down, more for something to do than to enjoy the drink.

“I left. Or he left when he had no more use for me, and I ran. It hardly matters in my case,” Fenris muttered. He was left to die in the wilds, but he did not die. He walked away, he tried to find answers, and found nothing but heartache and mysteries. Fenris had nothing left to him but a name that was not his and sword skills that were useless without a blade in his hand. He wandered his way through the countryside, selling his skills with a weapon as a bodyguard to pay his way.

Fenris glanced over at the Cat, who stared at him with wide eyes and rigidly alert ears swiveled towards him, and he chuckled bitterly. It truly did feel as though the Cat was listening to him pour his soul out, and he was so lonely he couldn’t help but be grateful for the company. A Cat was a welcome audience.

“He is gone. I killed him,” Fenris assured the Cat. “Tracked him down in one of his haunts.” Danarius died choking on his own blood and ambition, destroyed by his ‘creation.’ The irony was not lost on Fenris, but it fixed nothing. He didn’t regain his memories. He didn’t reclaim his lost name. Instead of feeling relief, he felt… lost. He wandered the land because what else was he to do with himself? His wanderings eventually brought him to the city where he collapsed, hungry and feverish, in a heap outside of a tavern.

When Fenris next woke, he was tucked under a rough wool blanket with a straw mattress under his body and a cool compress on his forehead. A fire burned bright nearby, his limbs felt heavy, his throat sore, his head ached as if it had been struck, but he was alive. He turned his head to the side, just to take in his surroundings, and he saw him, outlined in golden firelight, and Fenris thought he had been rescued by god or a saint.

“I came to Kirkwall starving and sick. Dying,” Fenris informed the Cat. “It was your friend who saved me. Healed me. I… owe him my life.” And oh, how it rankled, how it stung to know that Anders was no saint, but a sorcerer like the one who marked and stole him. And it was a sorcerer who saved his life! Fenris had contented himself with seeing that Anders was as arrogant and vain and pompous as any other sorcerer he had ever met, but then-

“He was kind to me, when I came here,” Fenris said as he stared into the fire. “I would have died, had he not cared for me. But I couldn’t say thank you, then. And I cannot now. The words won’t come.” He tried, fasta vass he tried, but the words died in his throat every time he saw Anders and thought magic, danger, and run.

“It does not help that he teases me,” Fenris grumbled as he turned his attention back to the Cat. “I never know what to say, and by the time I find myself he has moved on to speaking of something else entirely.”

The Cat leaped off the cushioned footstool and butted his large head against Fenris’s shin. He meowed loudly and butted his head against him again before rubbing his furry cheek against him. Fenris chuckled.

“You are easier to speak with than your master. Your friend? A cat cannot be owned. You have more freedom than people,” Fenris sighed and swirled the remaining droplets of wine in his glass. “I cannot find the words to speak to him. But I can speak to his cat, eh?” Fenris reached down and gently pet the Cat between the ears.

The Cat purred, and Fenris grinned. The Cat may be Anders’s friend, but he was Fenris’s friend as well. Good.

“Thank you for the company, Cat,” Fenris said. “I’ll leave the window open, when you are ready to leave.”

-

“Ah, Fenris! Just the handsome elf I wanted to see,” Anders declared as he entered the tavern after a long day of saving the general population from sickness and injury. Fenris grimaced and took another sip of wine as Anders approached him, as if he thought the alcohol would fortify himself against Anders and his conversation.

“Ah. So you lower yourself to mockery,” Fenris said dryly. This statement made Anders pull up short.

“I’m… not? Mocking you, that is. You’re a touchy, grumpy bastard, but you are handsome,” Anders pointed out. Fenris rolled his eyes. Clearly he didn’t believe a word Anders said, but before Anders could give further protest Fenris set his wine glass on the table and glared up at Anders.

“What do you want?” Fenris grumbled.

“I… mind if I take a seat?” Anders asked. It was awkward to stand over Fenris, waiting for a response. Fenris’s scowl deepened. Anders didn’t know he could do that.

“I do not own the seats in this tavern,” Fenris said.

“No, you don’t, but you’re the one sitting here and if I’m unwelcome-” Anders tried to explain himself, but Fenris rolled his eyes (Maker, his eyes were so green) and snorted.

“It hardly matters, you will sit down regardless,” Fenris stated.

“No, I- Andraste’s Tits, Fenris, I’m trying to be polite!” Anders exclaimed. His outburst seemed to surprise Fenris, who looked up at him with his mouth slightly agape. A dark flush creeped up his face, and Anders felt his own cheeks grow warm.

“You may sit,” Fenris finally muttered, and he returned to his drink.

“Thank you,” Anders replied, and he slid into a seat next to Fenris. The background noise of tavern patrons continued at a dull roar, but the silence that sat between them was as thick as a wall of bricks. Anders cleared his throat. Might as well get to what he wanted to say before he lost his nerve and drank his tankard of ale in cowed silence.

“So, uh, wanted to talk to you about… things,” Anders said awkwardly. “It’s been brought to my attention that I… I might be insulting you. Unintentionally, but still. And I wanted to… clear the air.”

Fenris carefully set his wine glass down on the table before meeting Anders’s eyes. His gaze was flinty. Cool. Cautious. Maker’s Balls, Fenris was an intimidating fellow! Anders felt like he was back in the Circle, under the critical eye of Enchanter Wynne while she observed him as he healed the injured and sick.

“And who,” Fenris murmured, “brought this to your attention?”

“... Hawke may have had a word or two, yesterday in the clinic,” Anders confessed. She may have had a word or three. Hawke said it all with light teasing, but her reproof was as clear as if she had shouted it in his ear: ”Just try and talk with him, Anders, he’s a good man under the scowling.”

It was galling to realize that Fenris was a good man, once you put the scowling and sharp words and looks aside. It would be so much easier, Anders thought, if Fenris were just an arrogant ass who didn’t like him, but Fenris was good, the sort of good that made Anders feel a little inadequate when confronted with it. Fenris never announced his actions or expected someone to take notice- he simply did good.

Anders saw the goodness every time he visited the fencing salon. Those children adored their teacher, and he adored them in return. Anders heard the way Fenris talked, measured and direct, never wasting a breath or a word. He saw the way Fenris walked, lightly, never causing a disturbance or wasting any energy. Anders saw the way Fenris fought- no flourishes, no wasted movement. Fenris did not treat swords like they were toys. Fenris took his weapons, and himself, seriously, and Anders, in his foolish attempt to make friends with the man, inadvertently insulted him with his teasing. Anders was being playful, but Fenris didn’t know it was all in jest. And if having an awkward conversation was all that could mend the rift between them- well, Anders had experienced worse.

“But it hardly matters if it was Hawke who told me to shape up, or Varric, or Isabela or Merrill or anyone else,” Anders said hotly. “I’ve been treating you poorly, and for that I am sorry.”

Silence. And then,

“Kaffas, you are serious,” Fenris said, and Anders must have made some sort of disgusted expression because Fenris quickly added, “I am only surprised, you are never serious.”

“I can be serious,” Anders grumbled, “when the time calls for it.” But he didn’t push it, because there was a strange expression on Fenris’s face. It was almost a smile, almost like the one he gave him back at the fencing salon after he fixed Hannah’s arm. It was… fondness. It might have been exasperated fondness, but it was fondness nonetheless. Anders smiled at Fenris, and that fond expression seemed to grow. Fenris wrinkled his nose, narrowed his eyes, and-

He laughed. Fenris laughed. Fine, it was a cross between a sigh and a snort, a sort of huffing sound that could have been mistaken for a cough, but Anders was an expert in all sorts of coughing sounds. Fenris laughed!

“You looked like your friend, just now,” Fenris remarked lightly. “The Cat. I offended you, Healer?”

“Anders, please,” Anders retorted. “And only mildly.”

“Will fish mollify you?” Fenris asked. No, not asked. Teased! Anders grinned at the realization. Fenris could laugh and tease! He only needed a little patience. It was like drawing out a strong

“Not the type he eats, thank you,” Anders replied, and the remark drew another, clearer laugh from Fenris.

“A fair enough statement,” Fenris said. “I have no fondness for fish, so I am pleased that someone takes enjoyment from it.”

“He’s… not causing you trouble, is he?” Anders asked. Did Fenris find the Cat irritating? A pest? Not everyone was fond of cats, and the Cat could be a terrible little beast when he was crossed. But Fenris shook his head, his pale hair falling into his eyes.

“No,” Fenris said. “I find him… easy to speak to.”

“Oh?”

“He is a good listener, though I am a poor speaker,” Fenris admitted, and he almost sounded sheepish. Shy. It made Anders feel a little protective, though Maker knew that Fenris was the last person who needed protection- the man could break bones with one hand, Anders was certain of it. Regardless, Anders felt the need to defend Fenris, and Anders was never one to not act on his feelings.

“I think you’re rather eloquent,” Anders said. “You always know what to say.” More importantly, Fenris seemed to know when silence was best. It was a skill Anders had lost (or possibly never had in the first place). Anders had to fill the void with chatter, and he often said foolish, hurtful things because of his desperate need to talk. Was this not why he misunderstood Fenris in the first place? Anders needed to talk. He couldn’t bear the silence around Fenris, so he talked without thinking and caused offense.

“Ah, there’s Varric,” Anders remarked as he saw the man enter the tavern in his typically easy manner. “I suppose we’ll be losing some more coin tonight.”

“You will be losing coin,” Fenris replied. “I manage to break even, most nights.” There was a smug little look on his face, in his eyes, that suggested what he was thinking and did not say: On other nights, I win.

“You are terrible,” Anders said, “What were you drinking? I’ll refill your glass before I say goodbye to my purse.” Anders stood from his seat and stretched before looking down at Fenris, waiting for his reply. Fenris, on his part, leaned back in his seat, finally relaxed. There was a bit of a cat like lazy grace to the way he lounged in his chair, and Anders nearly grinned at the way Fenris swirled his remaining wine, dark purple-red, in his goblet.

“Bottle of Rebel Rose. I will share it with you, if you’re amenable,” Fenris offered, and he handed Anders a few silvers. As Anders took it, their fingers brushed.

The touch sent jolts of awareness down Anders’s arm, like how lightning raced through the sky and struck the highest point in the landscape. Anders’s eyes flew to Fenris’s. Had he imagined that? That spark, that fire? As Anders looked into Fenris’s bright eyes, he had his answer. Fenris looked as shocked as he felt. He was staring up at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

Fenris didn’t pull his hand away.

“I’ll… get the wine,” Anders reluctantly offered, and he stepped away from the table and Fenris’s seemingly magnetic orbit.

“Yes,” Fenris said slowly. “Yes, that sounds good.”

“I’ll be back,” Anders promised.

“I hope so,” Fenris replied, a small smile on his face. Anders hurried to the bar. His face felt hot, his breath short, and all he could think was what was that?! He had heard of electric attraction, but this? This was new, even to him! Anders turned to look back at the table and Fenris. Varric had made his way over and was chatting with Fenris, and Fenris-

Fenris was still looking at Anders, his eyes wide and face flushed, and all Anders could think was that he looked adorable when he was flustered.

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t quite certain when it started, but Fenris was sure of it now: Anders was flirting with him. Fenris had never dealt with flirting in his life, but he saw it. He knew what it was, what it looked and sounded and felt like, and there was no doubt of it. Anders was flirting with him.

Anders’s voice was softer when he spoke to him. Kinder. He no longer flung snarky comments towards Fenris when they met. While Anders still jumped from topic to topic with the quickness of a leaping stag, he waited for Fenris’s responses. Fenris appreciated, more than appreciated, Anders’s willingness to listen. It was a kindness Fenris wanted to repay, though he hardly knew how to do it.

If it were all softness and kind words Fenris would not be puzzled. They had agreed to try and become friends, to make an effort at respect and friendship. No, it was more than that. Far, far more. Anders went out of his way to speak to him, to smile at him, to sit next to him at gatherings and chatter relentlessly in his ear. Anders would walk with him back to his fencing salon and apartment. Anders would drop in to say hello. He did not come to check on his students (though he always would when asked), or to check on Fenris’s health (though Anders always had some snarky remark to make on that matter). No, it seemed that Anders merely wanted to say hello and talk- as if he enjoyed Fenris’s company.

Then there were the compliments, the thinly veiled suggestions, the teasing that long ago lost its barbed edges and became tender and playful- comments on Fenris’s “pretty eyes” and “sharp tongue,” comments that Fenris understood as flirtation, not insults. Fenris knew what flirting sounded like, looked like, and Anders’s sly smiles and hooded eyes, paired with his words, were flirtatious.

Anders also wouldn’t stop brushing up against him, touching his hands, leaning against his body (why was the man so bony, didn’t he eat?). Kaffas, the man was like his cat, always demanding attention and getting in your face when he felt he hadn’t been properly worshipped. Pushy Cat. Pushy Man.

Fenris didn’t know when the flirting started, but he knew what it was. He would even flirt back, if not for the… Fenris sighed.

“Mreow,” the Cat squeaked into Fenris’s ear. Fenris reached up behind him and blindly scratched the Cat’s chin. The loud, rumbling purr vibrated through his head, and the Cat’s bushy orange tail brushed against his cheek. A moment later the Cat leaped down from the back of his chair and settled into Fenris’s lap. The bronze key on his collar clinked like a Chantry bell.

“I do not understand your friend Anders, Cat,” Fenris informed the Cat. The Cat tilted his head back, meeting Fenris’s eyes with his disapproving golden gaze. His tail smacked against Fenris’s arm, as if to emphasize his disapproval.

“Ah, yes, you are correct,” Fenris replied. “I suppose he is my friend as well.” The word still felt strange on Fenris’s tongue. The Cat yawned and settled back into Fenris’s lap. Fenris lazily scratched behind the Cat’s ears and wondered about Anders, flirtation, and what he was to do about it. He could flirt back, he would, but Fenris couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Until he was certain that the ground under his feet was steady and his footing sure, Fenris would not move forward with Anders. And he could not be certain of the dynamic between himself and Anders when- the Cat’s key clinked against the collar again.

“He plays too many games,” Fenris muttered, but his hand lingered at the Cat’s collar. His fingers twitched against the thick band of green leather. What if he were to take the key, unlock Anders’s front gate, demand answers, and… the Cat stilled under his touch. The purring stopped. The room went silent.

Fenris lifted his hand off the collar and stood up. The Cat deftly leaped off his lap and sinuously curled around his ankles as Fenris walked towards his door. He opened it and looked out at the darkened city street before him. The night breeze whipped across his face. It was a good night for a walk.

“Cat,” Fenris announced. “We are going to see Anders.”

-

Anders was not in at his clinic. Fenris scowled at the dark lantern hanging above the doorway. Fasta vass, just like the man to not be where he always was, just when Fenris needed to speak with him! The Cat wound around his ankles and butted his large head against Fenris’s shin. Fenris bent down and pet the Cat’s head.

“Very well, Cat,” Fenris said. “Will you give this to Anders, when you see him next?” Fenris pulled a folded piece of parchment out of a pouch at his waist, and tucked it into the Cat’s collar next to the dangling key. The Cat mewed loudly and flicked his tail, but he let Fenris fiddle with his collar. Satisfied that the paper would stay where it was, Fenris let his hands drop to his sides. The Cat turned in a full circle before he sat down and looked up at Fenris, as if he expected something more. Fenris cleared his throat.

“I am counting on you,” Fenris solemnly informed the Cat. “If you wish me to open the gate, I will. But if you wish to jump over the wall-”

The Cat thrust his head into Fenris’s hand and purred loudly. Fenris chuckled.

“Very well. Hold still for a moment,” Fenris replied, and he quickly unclipped the bronze key from the Cat’s collar. It was heavier than it looked, and it felt warm in Fenris’s palm. He quickly unlocked the gate and ushered the Cat inside before shutting the gate and locking it again.

“Here, Cat,” Fenris said before dropping the key into the walled garden at the Cat’s feet. “It is your key, after all.”

Fenris left the healer’s abode, his heart lighter and a small smile on his face. Finally, he would have answers.

-

Anders (and his answers) arrived at his fencing salon that next afternoon, note and key clutched in one fist. Fenris took one look at him and clapped his hands sharply to draw his student's attention.

“Footwork exercises. Remember to lift your feet. Lightly! You are not a herd of elephants,” Fenris informed them, and he was pleased to watch his students buzz about the salon like industrious worker bees. It made for an entertaining spectacle as they hopped over wooden staves and attempted to maintain their stances as they moved. But out of the corner of his eye, Fenris watched Anders approach him. Was he angry? Upset? Fenris couldn’t tell. Anders’s expression was as neutral as it had ever been. He was not giving anything away, and then he was there, standing close enough that Fenris could smell the sharpness of mint contrasting the soft, floral scent of lavender that clung to Anders and his coat.

“We,” Anders said softly as he held up the note and the key, “need to talk.”

Fenris looked at the key, then at the note. It was hastily written, the ink blotting wherever he rested his pen for too long, but the message was clear and concise.

Here is your key and Cat. He is an obnoxious, greedy, arrogant creature, and he is a dear friend. Please cease in using him in your flirtations.

Perhaps that was a little blunt, but ah well. There was no taking back words once uttered. Or written, as it were.

“By all means,” Fenris replied. “Talk.”

“You opened the gate,” Anders said, his voice growing more strained and distressed as he spoke. “You made friends with the cat, with me, you retrieved the key, you opened the gate, Fenris, why-”

“I do not play games,” Fenris interrupted firmly. “I never have. If you are interested in… in my suit, you should tell me, not send your Cat to visit me every evening. Do not use your Cat to taunt or tease me, Anders. Come yourself, or don’t.”

That statement seemed to shock Anders. His golden brown eyes were wide, his pale cheeks bright pink, and his mouth (thin, chapped lips, lovely) was gaping open. What was surprising for Fenris was that faint shadow of hurt on Anders’s face. The expression made his stomach twist.

“I’m… not teasing you, Fenris. If the Cat let you take the key, there’s a reason for it,” Anders retorted. “Andraste’s Tits, man, he’s a fiend! If he likes you, you’ve done something right by him!”

“He’s a good cat,” Fenris said evenly.

Anders rolled his eyes. “He’s pampered and likes being treated like a person instead of a- a-”

“A?”

“Never mind,” Anders muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”

A silence fell between them. Fenris’s students shouted and laughed in the background as they bounced and stepped over staves. The sounds of the street outside drifted into the salon. If Fenris shut his eyes, he could pretend that it was a normal day at his fencing salon. His students were on task, the outside world was turning as it always did, and it was a cacophony of organized chaos. But it wasn’t a normal day at his salon. Anders was here, smelling of mint and lavender, his tall form casting a shadow across his face. Anders was here, and he was waiting for Fenris to say something. And there was something Fenris wanted to say, had been wanting to say, for some time.

The Cat waited like this as well, Fenris thought. Watched and waited. He always stood just out of reach, waiting for the blow that he always deftly avoided. The Cat was brash and rude and arrogant in a way that only cats could be, and was as demanding and invasive and braggadocious as Anders. The Cat was also a comforting presence, a trusted confidant, a friend who made Fenris feel safe and secure in himself that was an eerie reflection of how he felt around Anders. Perhaps Anders did not purr and sit on Fenris’s lap, but he listened when Fenris spoke, and Fenris never felt afraid to argue around Anders.

And Anders and the Cat had the same golden eyes. Everything clicked into place, and Fenris smiled.

“There is a tale told in my homeland,” Fenris said slowly, locking his eyes onto Anders, “of a sorceress who was a master of transformation. She would change her shape at will, and often chose to wander her city in the guise of an animal, for it was her only way to see the world outside her walled manor.”

“Oh,” Anders murmured. “How… quaint.”

“She preferred flying like a bird. A falcon. She enjoyed the speed of the shape. She liked to soar up until the city was nothing but a dot on the ground before diving back to earth,” Fenris continued. “And so the sorceress would spend her days away from the intrigue and games of the world below, flying as a free and simple bird.”

“One day she was captured by a hunter’s snare. She was hooded like any common hunting bird, and a small band was placed around her foot- an enchanted band,” Fenris said, “for one of her rivals at court realized that the sorceress and the falcon were one and the same, and devised a plan to rid himself of his troublesome rival once and for all.”

“He has her captured by the hunter, bound her by enchantment, and sent her to live on his country estate, where she would be looked after by his hawker for the rest of her life. And the sorceress despaired, for who would know and recognize her in the form of a bird?”

“But someone did,” Anders interrupted. “Someone had to have noticed.”

“Someone did notice,” Fenris agreed. “the hawker’s assistant, an enslaved elf, always had a way with birds. She formed a friendship with the newest falcon in the rookery, always taking her time to greet the falcon with kindness and respect. The sorceress, who had slowly felt that her humanity was wasting away, eagerly returned the elven assistant’s kindness the only way she could. She protected the girl from beatings with her beak and talons, chased off those who dared say a cruel word towards her friend, and shadowed the girl daily. In time, the sorceress’s gratitude towards the girl for keeping her mind intact turned into affection, and that affection blossomed into love. And the girl, who had never before had a champion, who was always alone, found a friend in the bird, and she grew to love the sorceress turned falcon as well.”

“One day, the girl, who had always despised the gaudy silver band studded with garnets that adorned the falcon’s foot, undid the enchanted jewelry that bound the sorceress to her one shape,” Fenris said, “and the spell was broken. Sorceress and girl left the country estate, left their homeland altogether, and made a new life across the sea. And there they lived until the end of their days.”

It was silent once again, and Fenris took his time looking at Anders. Anders’s eyes were shadowed and his mouth was pressed into a thin frown. He looked tired and worried and Fenris wanted to pull him close and let him know that all would be well. But Anders would not want to be trapped and held, so Fenris waited. Anders finally sighed and met Fenris’s gaze.

“If I didn’t want you to come into my home, I would have never allowed you to take the key,” Anders said softly. “You do recognize that, right?”

His smile was so gentle, so warm and welcoming, that Fenris nearly swayed into Anders’s open arms. Chosen. Anders, with all his fine suitors, his wit, his charm, enjoyed his time with him. He enjoyed their conversation, their arguments, chose to spend time with him as both a man and… and a cat. But Fenris held himself back.

“I will not visit you without an invitation. A formal invitation,” Fenris quickly added when Anders opened his mouth. “Not an open, vague one that requires chasing a cat across town for a key.”

Rather than being insulted, Anders laughed. “And you say I’m demanding! Very well, Fenris, you are welcome to visit me whenever you wish. However you wish,” Anders added lowly, the smile on his face dangerous in a way that made Fenris’s heart leap. It was a smile that promised much. Fenris knew that, for all his teasing, Anders always kept his promises.

“Then I’ll see you tonight,” Fenris retorted. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed the collar of Ander’s jacket and pulled him down.

Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and muffled laughter. It was awkward, just shy of painful, and clumsy, but as Anders playfully nipped at Fenris’s lower lip Fenris knew he wouldn’t trade this kiss for anything. There were some treasures that had worth beyond measure, and this moment was priceless.

“We could just go back to my place now,” Anders murmured against Fenris’s lips. “No one will bother us.”

“I have students to teach,” Fenris mumbled, and he pulled away from Anders’s touch. “Tonight.”

“Bossy. Very well, I’ll see you tonight,” Anders teased, and he turned with the same confident swagger as the Cat. Fenris grinned before returning to his students, who had ceased all attempts at staying on task in favor of watching the scene before them with wide eyes and open mouths.

“I seem to recall that we were working on footwork,” Fenris addressed them. “Kaffas, you’ll all be run through if you stand still like that in a real fight! Back to it!”

-

Once upon a time, in a city of white spires that towered over a sapphire sea, there was a man who could turn into a cat. As a man he was charming, witty, generous, and desired by many. As a cat, he was a thieving, sneaky, vicious brute that people avoided at all costs. So it might have continued on forever, with the man being treasured and the car cursed, if not for another man who accepted both cat and man as who they were, and was accepted and treasured in turn.

And they all lived happily ever after.