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Laundry day in the clinic was a day of peace and quiet – relatively speaking. Anders didn't light the lantern on laundry day, though he did lock the doors (or at least attempted to latch them, one of them had a temperamental latch that popped open on occasion), and he did pad around the clinic humming off-key while barefoot and dressed in ratty trousers.
Laundry day happened once a month – or when all of his clothing and every rag in the clinic had become blood-soaked due to Hawke, random cave in healing sessions, and the normal work done in a clinic. Darktown always knew the day was coming because the cots would sport increasingly tattered sheets and eventually, very large towels. Anders would be down to wearing his most holey shirts...and sometimes no shirt – and that one sock that was more frayed yarn than actual sock.
Anders was currently bent over a very large washtub, steam curling around him and making the loose tendrils of his hair stick to the back of his neck. He was singing softly under his breath, something about cats and herbs and full moon frolicking – a song he had made up while in solitary, and scrubbing viciously at some stained sheets. The water roiled as he scrubbed the offending stained cloth over the scrub board.
“Maker,” he mumbled as he grated his knuckle over the abrasive surface of the board, “these might actually be a loss.”
He was so lost in himself that he did not hear the door – the one with the temperamental latch- open. He was too busy eying the giant blood stain on the sheet and wondering if he could, in some way, dye the fabric pink to match the blob.
***
In hindsight, Fenris thought, opening his front door this morning had been a poor decision. He had been happily snuggled in bed, sleeping the sleep of the sloshed, and had planned to stay there till he couldn't sleep anymore. But the banging – banging because he had finally devised a way to outsmart Hawke and Isabela when it came to his front door – had been decidedly frantic. He had heaved a sigh and padded on downstairs, determined to drive off whoever had dared to wake him up.
Or at least kill the person who had been creating such racket.
It had been been Hawke – jaunty and cheerful and leaning on his staff with a wide smile. “Morning Fenris!” He had fairly sung. “I have good news! A band of slavers was seen off the Wounded Coast, and I know how much you love to fight slavers.” Hawke's entire body had fairly radiated excitement.
Fenris had simply scratched at his tunic-covered chest and gestured for Hawke and...company, he had finally noticed Merrill and Varric at Hawke's back...into the house. “Hawke.” That had been all he could think of to respond with.
“Well, don't just stand there. Get your things and let's go!” Hawke had made shooing motions at Fenris. “Nobody wants to just linger in this entryway anyway.”
“I think it's a vestibule, Hawke,” Varric had interjected. “Isn't that the correct word?”
Merrill had looked around with wide eyes, “If we cleaned the windows and got rid of the corpses it could be an atrium. The ceiling is so lovely and tall.”
Hawke and company had gazed up at the ceiling with varying looks of interest. Fenris had ignored their buffoonery and went to get his armor on. They had all learned that there was only one way to deal with Hawke when he was in this mood and that was to just go along with it.
Several hours later and Fenris was standing in front of the Mage's clinic wondering what he had ever done to anger the Maker. Oh sure, there had been a cave full of slavers. But it had been exactly that – a cave...full to bursting...of slavers. And no matter how talented Fenris was with his great sword, he was only one elf. One of the slavers had gotten a lucky hit in, slicing into his side and making Fenris want to kill not only every person in the cave, but his friends for dragging him out of his nice, comfortable bed.
And since Hawke had opted to bring Merrill...because Merrill had been feeling lonely recently...they had been without a healer. Which meant Fenris had walked back to Kirkwall and then to Darktown with his side bleeding.
So seeing the lantern out in front of the clinic had been just the cherry on top of his shitty day.
He had rattled the doors, finding one of them open, and had let himself in. If the Mage was out, he would simply help himself to a few healing potions and go back to his mansion to drink.
But the clinic hadn't been empty. The door had swung open and he stepped into a humid room filled with drying sheets and clothes and smelling of sweet herbs. Anders was across the room hunched over a tub of steaming water and scrubbing at something vigorously. Fenris let the door swing shut behind him and moved further into the clinic, his eyes on the Mage as he worked.
Anders had pulled his hair into a topknot, fly-away strands sticking out at odd angles and clinging to his neck. His skin shimmered slightly in the heat and humidity, pale where his coat and shirt usually covered, golden tanned and freckled where the sun had hit. Fenris' eyes slid from the golden topknot and down the pale skin of Anders' back, noting scars that told a clearer story of the man than he had ever actually heard spoken.
His eyes skipped over each scar, cataloging them, and then slid back up to watch a tendril of hair drift lazily down from the topknot to dangle over one ear, the hair curling as the humidity touched it. He felt a nearly irresistible urge to brush the hair back up, to touch the scars parading down the Mage's back, to ask about each one, to hear why the Mage never spoke of the obvious abuse he had experienced when he ranted about his Mage Rights.
Anders stood suddenly, pulling a wet sheet dotted with blood stains from the tub of hot water. He tried to wring it out over the tub and slapped himself with the bottom hem instead, eliciting a stream of cursing. Fenris schooled his features, stepping back to be out of splashing range. Anders twirled around to move the sheet to an empty place on the drying line and saw Fenris.
“Oh!” He came to a stop, water dripping down his chest to pool against the waistband of his incredibly ratty and threadbare trousers. “Fenris.”
“Mage,” Fenris let his gaze dip down briefly, noted Anders' now wet trousers, and moved his eyes back up to Anders' face. “You are soaking wet.”
“Yes, well. The sheet and I had a disagreement. It won.” Anders frowned slightly and moved around Fenris, quickly pinning the sheet on the line. “What's so dire that you came to my clinic alone?”
“I was injured while out with Hawke and require healing. I was going to get a couple of potions.” Fenris shifted slightly. Without the sheet, Anders' soaked trousers were in full view. Apparently Anders had run out of smalls as well as shirts, socks, and decent pants. Fenris found a spot on the wall behind Anders and trained his eyes on it.
“How bad is the wound?” Anders kept back. The last time he had tried healing Fenris without asking, Fenris had threatened to yank out his heart and feed it to him. At the time, it had seemed a distinct possibility as Fenris had grabbed Anders' by the back of the neck and had held him down while grating the threat out directly into Anders' ear.
Fenris eyed Anders warily and leaned his sword against a table, unbuckled his chest piece, and placed it on the same table. Lifting up his tunic, he showed Anders a narrow, deep wound in his side that bled sluggishly. “A slaver snuck up on me. I believe Hawke expected fewer slavers and more loot.”
Anders snorted at that and went to get a potion from his shelves. “Yes well, Hawke underestimates things like that frequently. Let me guess, he brought Merrill with him because she's been feeling sad.”
“Hmm. He woke me up to come with him,” Fenris observed. He shifted again. “I, ah, would not say no to actual healing.”
That brought Anders up short. “You what?”
“The wound irks me.” Was all Fenris said.
Anders put down the potion and shuffled closer to Fenris, his eyes wary. “You did threaten me last time. Held me down bodily and threatened to kill me if I tried to heal you using my evil, demon-tainted magics. I believe that's what you called them.”
“I...” Fenris tilted his chin up, “Your magic is not evil nor is it demon-tainted. I simply do not always feel the need for it be used upon my person.”
“Fair enough,” Anders said, deciding to not push this sudden spate of good-will. He moved close enough to Fenris to gently press his hand against the wound. His magic unfurled and slid over and into the damaged skin. Slowly, the wound healed. “There. Not even a scar.”
Fenris shivered and then twisted around and looked, his hand touching the now-smooth and healthy skin. He let his tunic drop, his eyes on Anders', “Thank you.”
“No problem. I think. Now, I should get back to my laundry.” Anders brushed his hair back, the loose strands sticking nearly straight out.
Fenris hesitated a moment and then reached out and smoothed back Anders' hair. “I will leave you to your work then. I appreciate the healing.”
Anders blinked and watched as Fenris pulled his chest piece back on and re-hefted his sword. “Ah...right...”
Fenris gave him a nod and strode from the clinic, leaving a very perplexed Anders behind him. He headed straight home, his mind turning over the sudden knowledge of Anders' scars, the mystery of the man who wore them as if they didn't exist, and the sight of blond hair sticking to tanned and freckled skin.