Chapter Text
Fenris always believes Anders is exaggerating his love of cats.
At every turn, if it isn’t mage rights or a discourse on spirit healing or talking about his clinic, it’s cats. Ser-Pounce-a-Lot this, Mr. Wiggums that. Vicious Kirkwall alley cats, fluffy Orlesian beasts imported from Val Royeaux, hardy Free Marches mousers…it doesn’t seem to matter. To the entertainment of all, Anders can and will try to pet any cat, no matter how feral or skittish.
Fenris generally views this as just one more incomprehensible part of the strange mage. Anders has many facets that make Fenris look at him askance: his constant refrain of ‘mage rights,’ his insistence on living in a sewer, his much-patched yet foppish outfit…it all adds up to one singularly chaotic individual who Fenris has no desire to understand.
That desire lasts for about two years after their first meeting.
One evening, it’s all hands for cards at the Hanged Man. Tonight it seems to be an excuse for Hawke to flirt with Merrill while Isabela makes sly innuendoes that fly right over Merrill’s head and Varric scribbles madly on a manuscript. Aveline has won almost every hand and all the money tonight. Fenris is just about to give up and go home when he hears it: the just-barely-audible crying of a very small cat.
In the raucous atmosphere, he thinks for a moment he’s the only one who heard it, but when he looks up from his cards he sees Anders alert and eyeing the back door.
“I’ll be right back,” Anders says, dropping his cards face-up ungracefully and shoving his chair back, nearly hard enough to knock it over. He bolts for the door, dodging drunkards nimbly, and vanishes.
“What’s got into him?” Hawke asks, distracted from Merrill for a moment.
“Cat,” Fenris says briefly. He rises with much more grace, replacing his chair politely, and follows Anders out the back door.
By the time he gets out into the narrow alley running behind the Hanged Man, Anders is already crouched over a tiny scrap of gray fur huddled in a corner between two crates. “It won’t let me pick it up,” he says, looking up in frustration, showing a bleeding scratch on his hand.
Fenris kneels and, with care, scoops up the kitten. He ignores its needle-fine claws sinking into his hand; he feels worse on a daily basis just from the lyrium brands. The kitten is so tiny that it fits neatly in his cupped hands. Barely old enough to be away from its mother, really. “What’s the injury?”
Gently, Anders checks the kitten over. “Broken leg,” he says, lightly prodding one leg and receiving an anguished mew in response. “Shhh…we’ll help you, it’s all right…”
“How bad?”
“It needs more attention than I can give it here,” Anders says. He strokes the kitten’s tiny head with one finger.
“Your clinic, then,” Fenris says, rising to his feet.
Anders gives him a vaguely surprised look, but doesn’t comment. Before they go, Anders insists on wrapping the kitten thoroughly in a bandage, to make sure it doesn’t wriggle around and do more damage to itself. In this, Fenris defers to the expert.
Back inside, they make their excuses and apologies to the rest of the group. Fenris pretends not to see Aveline’s raised eyebrows or Merrill’s delighted expression. “They’re bonding,” Hawke stage-whispers to Varric, who just shakes his head and chuckles. Isabela smirks at them, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Of course, no one can just let this pass without comment. Sometimes Fenris wonders about his friends.
The trek to the clinic is mostly silent. None of Kirkwall's many thieves choose to disturb them this evening. Were Fenris with another companion, he might be more talkative to fill the silence, but he's with Anders. They haven’t been at each other’s throats lately, but any conversation has been stiff and businesslike. Periodically Anders asks how the kitten seems; Fenris answers tersely. The kitten has quieted down. Perhaps it senses that it’s safe in their hands.
Anders doesn’t light the lantern by the door as they enter the silent clinic. He has a couple of patients overnight for observation, but he and Fenris are quiet enough not to disturb the sleepers here. A single lantern on Anders’ desk is enough light to see by. There’s a pile of bandages which Anders co-opts as a soft spot for the kitten and Fenris sets the little creature down, unwrapping its makeshift blanket.
“Poor creature,” he says softly, leaning on the desk. It looks droopy and tired, too hurt to do more than make small mewling sounds.
Anders, very carefully, checks the kitten over. “Not a terrible break after all, nothing’s through the skin,” he says. “Hold it, would you? I need it still so the bone sets correctly.”
Fenris holds the kitten still, making the best soothing noises he can manage. He watches Anders’ fingertips glow, magic suffusing the kitten’s injury. It’s just a moment before the glow dies down and Anders steps back.
“There,” he says. “It needs to rest for a little while, but that should do it.”
Fenris gives the suddenly-sleepy kitten one more gentle scratch under the chin before stepping back. “Keep it away from the residents down here,” he advises dryly. He’s heard the stories: people here are starved enough to eat anything.
Anders winces. “That...yes, I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. He pauses, then looks sideways at Fenris. “Your mansion might be safer than the clinic, for a cat.”
Fenris turns to look up at Anders. “You want me to take it?”
“Ah, it’ll do better in someone else’s care,” Anders says. He looks down at the sleeping kitten, curled in a scraggly ball on the makeshift bed. His lips twist a little, visibly pained. Fenris has heard enough of Anders’ ranting to guess where his thoughts have wandered. That’s the expression he wears when he slips into more aggressive self-deprecation.
He might not understand the mage, or generally care for his politics, but Fenris isn’t heartless. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, “and...well, you healed it, so I suppose it’s only just for you to get to see it when you wish.”
Anders turns an amazed look on him. “Did you honestly make a joke—“
“Venhedis, mage, do not turn this into a production,” Fenris mutters, carefully gathering up the kitten. It mews and curls up in his hands, a tiny warm bundle. “It’s an offer, take it or leave it.”