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He almost convinces himself to keep moving when he hears another pitched howl, panicked and pained, and before he can hold a proper argument with himself over it he's already changing course, stepping quickly up a flight of rotted stairs and into a dark, narrow alley. 

He sees the two little boys first, and his heart sinks at the rags hanging off their narrow shoulders, wasted down to near-skeletal forms and caked in mud from head-to-toe. The older one presses a stone into his younger brother's hand, hissing fervently.

"Just kill it, Jorey," he says, shoving his brother forward. "Go on, I got its leg, it's not going anywhere. We're not gonna eat tonight, elsewise."

The little one is crying, shaking his head. "I can't-"

"You've eaten cat before, haven't you? Well, now it's your turn to provide."

And Anders nearly lets them have this, his heart aching, until his eyes fall on their prey.

A little cat, too muddied for Anders to see the colour of its pelt, curled up in a corner of the alley with wide eyes, hissing and stumbling over a badly broken leg as it stares at the boys. There's something familiar in its defiance and fear, something Anders can't quite place, but his decision is made even as he steps forward and makes his presence known. 

"The Tomlen boys, aren't you?"

Both boys turn around, the older one sour-faced at the interruption, the younger one still crying. 

"Healer," the elder says, hands on his hips. "Whatcha here for?"

"My cat," Anders says smoothly. "I'm afraid he got out this morning. Thank you for finding him."

The little one, Jorey, only cries harder, offering his stone to Anders while scrubbing tears from his eyes with a muddy fist. "Ken broke its leg, Anders, can you fix 'm?"

"I'd be a poor healer if I couldn't," Anders says, taking the stone with an easy smile. Ken narrows his eyes.

"You shouldn't've let your cat out, then," Ken says. "We still got to eat, you know. We've been hunting 'm for a good while."

Anders feels around in his coat pocket and is relieved to feel a few coppers fall into his palm. The last of his take from bandit-hunting last week, the rest gone to such frivolities as food and herbs for his clinic, but it's with a light heart that he hands it over to Ken. "The fisherman by the Coteries' pawn stall is still selling smoked cod cheap today. That should fill your stomachs for a few days, and I hear it tastes better than cat."

"Anything tastes better than cat," Jorey sniffs. Ken shoots him a glare, but accepts the coin with quick hands. 

"Get a leash or something, won't you?" Ken mutters, jerking his head at his brother. "Come on. Fisherman might still have some honey-salmon scraps on 'm." 

Jorey nods, gifts Anders with a watery smile, and the boys slosh their way out of the dank alley, leaving Anders alone with the cat.

Anders bites his lip as he approaches, his face falling as the cat curls into a little ball and shivers, its broken leg sticking out at an awkward angle. Truthfully, he isn't entirely sure he can save the little creature, but at the very least he can provide a comfortable place for it to pass. That has to be better than a botched death at the hands of a hungry nine-year-old. 

"Alright, little one," Anders says softly, kneeling in the mud beside the cat. "Let's get you someplace warm, shall we?"

The cat lifts its head and opens a single, vividly green eye, just enough to look Anders over. It watches as Anders reaches for it slowly, allowing the cat some time to get adjusted to his scent and presence before he tries to move it.

He's an inch from the cat's nose when it snaps out lightning-fast and sinks its sharp little teeth into his finger. 

A veteran of cat bites and scratches, Anders doesn't immediately jerk his hand back as anyone sane might. He does, however, let out a string of curses, especially as the cat responds to his efforts to free his finger by letting loose a low growl and biting down harder.

"Now, I know you're only doing this because you're very scared and in a lot of pain," Anders grits out, working the fingers of his free hand around the cat's mouth and attempting to pry its jaw open as carefully as he can. The cat seems to take this as a challenge, and smacks Anders' hand with its claws, drawing blood. "Yes. Beat up my hand. Certainly. You're being very rude you know. Maker, ow."

He gives his finger up as a lost cause and manages to steal back his hand from the cat's claws, reaching around to grab the creature by the scruff of its neck. It takes exception to this, finally releasing Anders' finger to hiss at him. 

Quick as he can, Anders makes use of his free hands to whisk the cat up into his cloak, wrapping it as tight as he can against his chest so it can't struggle too hard and injure itself more in the process. It lets loose a miserable howl as this jostles the broken leg, but seems to realize its predicament fairly quickly, and doesn't squirm too much as Anders straightens from the mud. 

"You just stay still in there, and I'll have us both home fast as I can," Anders says softly, cradling the angry little bundle close. The cat responds with another low growl, but otherwise neither moves nor makes any noise until they arrive back at the clinic. 

Anders checks the locks twice - Maker knows the last thing he needs right now is a surprise intrusion by Void-taken Templars - and carries the cat over to a clean operating table. It's silent, still, but he can feel it shivering inside his cloak, and feels another pang of pity for the creature, foul-tempered though it seems to be. 

Thankfully it doesn't fight him as he extracts the cloth bundle from his cloak, though he keeps it wrapped up tight as he places it carefully on the table. Injured animals have a bad habit of doing very stupid things, and he can absolutely see this one throwing itself off the table to escape him if he were to set it loose. 

The cat is panting a little, mouth slack, and Anders frowns as he leans forward and pries the cat's eyes open one at a time. It's more dazed than it was previously, green orbs cloudy as it glances at Anders before its gaze slides away again.

As Anders examines the cat, he feels a little rush of energy crawl up through his fingertips like static, and his frown deepens. Not like static. Like lyrium.

"What have you been rolling around in, little one?" Anders murmurs, pinching some of the muck from the cat's fur and rubbing it between his fingers. No trace of lyrium in the mud itself. Odd.

He looks the cat over again, biting his lip. It will need to be cleaned off before he heals it, which will mean freeing it from the cloth roll. He does a brisk walk around the clinic gathering elfroot, purified water, a bowl, towels, bandages, and catleaf, grabbing a short leather leash as an afterthought. He's had a few feral feline patients before - the leash has saved his hands on more than a few occasions.

The cat doesn't react as he sets up the bowl, heats the water, and sets out the elfroot, towels, and bandages. It doesn't move at all until Anders pulls out the leash.

Which is when it scares the shit out of Anders by letting loose an ear-shattering shriek of rage.

"Sweet Maker," Anders says, with feeling, as the cat continues to scream at him, struggling madly in its bundle and attempting to bite chunks out of Anders' hand any time he gets close with the leash. "Yes, I know it's not exactly pleasant, but I swear I'm not trying to murder you, here. What in the Void is wrong with you?"

The cat growls out a low howl, ears flat against its head, staring at Anders with murderous rage as it follows up with an angry hiss.

"Alright," Anders says finally, stepping away. "You don't like the leash? Well, I'll try to work with that. Look."

The cat watches him warily as Anders tosses the leash to the far end of the clinic, following the arc of its flight before fixing that deeply unsettling gaze back on Anders' face. 

"Gone," Anders says, approaching the table cautiously. "But you have to promise not to try to bolt off, alright? And maybe don't savage my hands while I do this. These are the hands that could save you, after all."

He wiggles his fingers at the cat, who looks suitably disgusted with him, but far less like a feline with an intent to kill. 

"Alright, how about a little catleaf then, in the spirit of friendship?" Anders says, picking up a sprig of catleaf and rubbing the leaves between his fingers to release the scent. "It should also keep you nice and happy and much less likely to slash my wrists with your little claws. Would you like some?"

For a moment the cat has an impressively world-weary look on its face as Anders holds the herb under its nose, as if Anders is the most embarrassing human it has ever had the misfortune of coming across. Anders can't help but feel a little spike of victory, then, as it catches the scent of catleaf and gives the herb a curious sniff despite itself. Anders grins as the cat's pupils blow very wide, very quickly, and it leans in to lick at the herbs, all thoughts of murder apparently forgotten.

"Works every time," Anders murmurs, giving the cat a quick scratch behind the ears. It mutters a half-hearted growl at this, ears flicking back, but it seems far too preoccupied with the catleaf to care much. 

Working carefully, Anders unwraps the bundle, hissing in sympathy at the skewed angle of the cat's left hind leg, a few cuts in its pelt seeping sluggishly, blood mingling with mud. The cat flinches as Anders sends a little wave of magic through it to assess the internal damage. He's pleased to find that all of the organs are fine by some miracle, and that the ribs surrounding the cat's heart and lungs are whole, if a little bruised. The leg must surely be painful, but it can be fixed, and Anders has the time to do it without worrying that the cat might die on him from internal bleeding first.

"Of course, you're still frozen to the bone, which doesn't help," Anders murmurs, chancing a little scratch under the cat's chin. It stiffens at first, ears flattening dangerously, but the catleaf seems to have relaxed it enough that eventually it lifts its head a little, allowing Anders' touch. "But we can fix that, too. Looks like you're going to be just fine."

Whether the cat understands him or not is up for debate, but Anders can't help but think it looks a little relieved at this, some of the tightness around its catleaf-addled eyes easing.

It then promptly lets Anders know it's had enough petting by biting him, hard, and Anders sighs. "Well, I guess a "thank you" was a little too much to hope for. Alright, let's get you cleaned up."

Easing a hand under the cat's torso, he gently lifts it up from the table and into the bowl of warm water. The cat lets out a pitched, sad meow at the loss of the catleaf, prompting Anders to snort and the cat to flick its ears back and duck its head in clear mortification.

"That was very sweet," Anders says with a snicker, dodging a swipe from the cat's claws. "Don't worry, you can have all the catleaf you want once you're cleaned up a bit."

The cat grumbles at this, but lets Anders manoeuvre it off its bad leg and onto its side so he can start to scrub the mud from its fur. 

A few passes with the cloth reveal the cat's odd white and grey colouring, like a very pale tabby, though the skin under the fur is quite dark. Another pass, and a hiss and swipe from the cat as Anders gets a little too close to a delicate area, reveals the cat to be male. 

"You're a little small for a tomcat," Anders muses, grinning as the cat gives him a thoroughly offended look. "No offence, little ser. I'm sure you're a hit with all the lady cats in Darktown." He scrubs at a particularly stubborn patch of muck and adds, "Or maybe you've got a big strong tomcat of your own waiting for you somewhere."

It's likely Anders' imagination, but he could swear the cat sighs a little at this. 

Once the cat is clean, it's easy work to dry it - him - off, though Anders works slowly around the broken leg, dabbing gently at the cuts and scrapes. It's impressive how still the cat lies now, letting Anders work, though by its flattened ears it's clearly not happy about the situation. 

"And there's that lyrium again," Anders mutters, laying a salve of elfroot over the broken skin and feeling a telltale tingle in his fingertips once more. "I don't know if you were born in a lyrium mine or ate a batch of potion, but you're riddled with it. Luckily for you, I have a friend with a similar problem." Anders grimaces. "Well, friend might be a bit strong. We don't actively try to kill each other, and he once kept a dragonling from biting me in half. I think that's about as warm as he gets, truth be told."

The cat sneezes, though it sounds suspiciously like a snort. 

"You and he would get along, I think," Anders says dryly, pulling some magic from the lyrium in the cat and feeding it back into it as healing magic, closing up the cuts. "He hasn't turned me in to the Templars yet, though how much of that is Hawke's intervention, I cannot say. Maker, no, he really isn't so terrible. Just incredibly wrong-headed about everything a man can be wrong about, is all. This is going to hurt."

He holds the cat down gently, feeling it stiffen under his palm as he secures a gentle grip around its broken leg. Then, which a quick jerk, he pulls the bone into alignment.

The cat whines pitifully, but doesn't move, and Anders pets it for a few moments with a low hum he hopes is soothing before bringing the sprig of catleaf under its nose again. It buries its face in the catleaf eagerly, breathing deep through the pain.

"What a good cat," Anders says softly, patting its head. "Very, very good. We're almost done."

He keeps talking as he wraps up the cat's leg, sending more healing magic into the bone to knit it together as he works. 

"I should really figure out a name for you," he says, aware that the cat likely doesn't give two shits about what he's saying. "You're going to need to stay gentle on that leg for a while, and I don't really want to set you loose in Darktown again. It's no place for kitties, truly, and the ones who live here usually know better than to skulk around in plain sight when everyone's hungry for anything with meat on its bones. I've not seen you around before, and what with your little lyrium problem... my guess is you're from Hightown, somewhere. Or the Gallows. A Templar's cat?" He wrinkles his nose. "You would be a Templar's cat. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. Well, maybe Hawke could use a mouser."

At this, the cat's head lifts, ears perked forward. To Anders' shock, it begins to purr.

"What, you like mice that much?" Anders says. "Alright, I'll talk to Hawke, then. He's gone for a few days, but when he gets back-"

The cat purrs louder, even going so far as to butt its little head into Anders' hand.

"Well, that's friendly," Anders says, daring a little scratch behind the cat's ears. The purring stops immediately, its eyes narrowing, but it doesn't move away. "Baby steps, then. What was I saying? A name, right. Well, you've got very strange colouring, and with the lyrium... I'm sorry, but you do very much remind me of someone. I won't be an ass and name you after him, though. You don't deserve that, and I imagine he'd take it entirely the wrong way."

The cat bares its teeth, and settles back down against the table, looking disgusted once more.

"He does this thing though, where he goes all... ghosty. It's useful as anything, but quite eerie. He's also very fond of ripping out people's internal organs. Which seems to be yet another thing you two have in common." Anders finishes tying off the bandage and checks over the bone; fragile, of course, and still healing, but whole. "There. That must feel better. How about "Haunt?" As a name, that is."

The cat sighs again and gives a noncommittal little cat shrug, which Anders takes as as good a "yes" as any.

"Alright, "Haunt" it is, then." Anders watches as the cat grabs the catleaf with its paws and drags it close, nibbling delicately at the leaves, and his heart melts a little. Cats. He's always had a weak spot for cats. "You really are very cute, you know."

He isn't quite quick enough to avoid Haunt's swipe, four long claw marks slashed down his arm. He sighs. Cats.

Haunt growls dangerously at Anders, lifting his paw and slowly unsheathing his claws.

"Alright," Anders sighs, whisking the offensive fish away from Haunt and barely dodging a smack as the cat grumbles at him. "I don't suppose you've ever heard the term "beggars can't be choosers," hmm? I really don't have much else, you know, and after a healing like that you'll want something in your belly before you sleep."

"Mrow."

"Don't be rude." Anders tosses the fish bits into a stew boiling over a little fire in his "kitchen," nothing more than a clean table in a far corner of the clinic with just enough pots, pans, and bowls for one person. He hears the soft click of Haunt's claws on the hardwood floor, followed by a couple of soft thumps as he bats at a cupboard door, eventually smacking it open and slipping inside. "You really shouldn't be running around like that, you know. You need to give that leg a rest. I might have some strip venison left... it's heavily salted though, I don't think that's very good for kitties."

Haunt doesn't reply, and doesn't emerge from the cupboard either. 

"Come on, now," Anders says, leaning down and prying the cupboard open. "Get out of-"

He blinks.

Haunt looks up from his prize, a bright green apple - one of three that Anders bought today as an after-dinner treat. The apple has a large chunk missing, and judging by the juice running over Haunt's chin, it's not hard to guess what happened to it.

"You little shit," Anders says, blinking. "That's not cat food."

Haunt narrows his eyes at him and hisses, batting the mauled apple into a dark corner and backing away from Anders into shadow, until all Anders can see is the glint of angry green eyes.

Anders sighs and closes the cupboard door. Moments later, he hears the unmistakable sound of an apple being devoured by what is clearly an extremely confused cat. I did check for brain damage, didn't I? Maker, clearly I didn't check closely enough. 

Haunt doesn't emerge from the cupboard at all as Anders has his dinner, finishes cleaning up the clinic, and sets his wards for the evening. It's been nearly an hour by the time Anders braves the cupboard door again, half-expecting Haunt to come leaping out at him, claws and teeth ready to tear into him for some imagined offence.

Instead, after chancing a little light to illuminate the cupboard, he finds Haunt fast asleep, surrounded by the mutilated corpses of two and a half apples, the slight plumpness around Haunt's belly suggesting that the little cat gorged himself to the point of exhaustion. Anders tries to be annoyed about the destruction of his dessert (not to mention the mess of apple remains in the cupboard), but even in sleep Haunt looks far too pleased with himself for Anders to be upset. 

"You little terror," Anders says, shaking his head. "Alright, you're going to freeze if you spend the night in here. Please do not maul me."

Bracing himself, Anders reaches into the cupboard and slips his hands around Haunt, waiting for the inevitable bite of teeth and claws.

Instead, Haunt lets out a very soft meow, but does not stir otherwise, allowing Anders to extract him from the cupboard and bundle him close against his chest. It's likely a mix of the healing and the long stressful day that's left the cat nearly comatose, but either way Anders can't help but feel relieved that he might stand a chance at getting Haunt into bed without blood loss.

The cat seems content enough to be carried around with Anders as he washes his face and teeth, finally retreating to a small cot behind a partition to the clinic and pulling a woollen blanket over himself and Haunt, now curled up on the mattress beside his face, still dozing. 

"Maybe you were just hungry, hmm?" Anders says, tickling Haunt's nose. Haunt responds by sneezing in his face and shuffling around so his back is to Anders, grumbling a little as he moves. "Alright, maybe not. I'm just glad you've stopped trying to murder me. You sleep well now, little one."

He hesitates a moment, then puts his hand on Haunt's fur, petting him in long strokes. Haunt yawns, but doesn't react otherwise, though Anders could swear he can hear a slight purr rumbling from deep in cat's little frame. 

-

Anders wakes up the next morning with a paw on his face and claws very gently embedded in his flesh. 

Haunt is still asleep, stretched out lazily alongside Anders' face, every once in a while flexing and driving his claws deeper into Anders' skin.

"Alright," Anders murmurs hoarsely, gently prying the cat's claws out of his face. "Time for me to get up, at least. Good morning."

Haunt lifts his head with a little "Mrrp?" He opens his eyes. 

The scream that follows is astonishingly human, causing Anders to jump and smack his head off the wall behind his pillow. Haunt is gone in a flash, nothing more than a pale streak across Anders' floor, disappearing under a ramshackle dresser made of heavy oak. 

"Sweet fuck," Anders mutters crossly, sitting up. "I'm not the worst man you could wake up in bed with, you know."

There's an answering hiss from beneath the dresser. Rolling his eyes, Anders gets to his feet and readies himself for the day. 

The clinic usually picks up around nine, so Anders spends the first hour or so brewing salves and potions, looking after one patient who stumbles in clutching his head and groaning (one of Aveline's guards, nursing a nasty hangover and called in for a full day shift.) He takes a few moments to roll the last half of one of last night's apples under the dresser for Haunt, closing the door behind him. As much as the little cat seems to delight in tormenting him, he doesn't want to let it loose in Darktown again. Best to keep him in till Hawke gets back, and hope he's in the market for a cat... albeit one that might try to eat him. 

At about ten in the morning the clinic is at its usual capacity, patients and family members milling around and waiting patiently for treatment. Anders is checking over a painful rash on an elderly man's neck (could be nothing, could be dragonscale) when a woman hurries up to him with a frightened look.

"Serah Anders, there's- there's a demon, I think," she whispers, eyes wide. 

Anders blinks, heart plummeting for a moment. Shit. She can't know about Justice, can she? "A demon?"

She nods. "We've been hearing an awful... growling, and something has been clawing at that door."

She points to the door separating Anders' sleeping quarters from the rest of the clinic. Anders groans. 

"It's not dragonscale," he says to his patient, pressing a small jar of salve into his gnarled hand. "If you've been buying from that woman on the corner by the sewage entrance, she uses untempered embrium in her elixirs. Most people have bad reactions to it."

"I ought to've known the price was too good," the man grumbles, tucking the salve in his jacket. "Bless you, lad. All the luck with that demon of yours."

Anders winces. "Thanks, I'll probably need it."

A small, anxious crowd has grown outside the door in question by the time Anders reaches it. Sure enough, there's a low, angry rumbling from the other side, as well as a heavily disconcerting scratching noise.

"Careful, healer," one man whispers, barring an arm across his wife's chest and drawing her back from the door. "There are foul things in Darktown these days."

"So I've come to realize," Anders sighs, kneeling in front of his door. Addressing Haunt, he says, "Now look, you've frightened a great many people with your carrying-on."

Haunt growls again, and the door shudders on its hinges as he smacks it with his paws. The people gathered behind Anders gasp. 

"You're very fierce for a creature that weighs about the same as a child's doll," Anders says dryly. "Alright, I'll let you out, but only if you promise not to go running off and not to harass any of my patients. Agreed?"

"Let it out?" a woman gasps. "Have you gone mad?"

The growling stops, as does the assault on Anders' door. 

"Probably," Anders admits, straightening. With another low sigh, he opens the door. 

There sits Haunt, looking thoroughly disgruntled, tail smacking the floor impatiently. For a moment, no one moves.

Then Anders' patients all begin to laugh, and Haunt startles, eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing in disgust.

"Aww, look at him, all insulted," a woman coos. "Such big ears, too. He looks more like a fennec than a cat."

"Maker, a creature that small shouldn't have so low a growl, I truly thought it was some manner of darkspawn," a man murmurs.

Haunt, for his part, lifts his nose with a sniff and darts between the legs of the onlookers, jumping up onto a table, then to a window, well out of reach of his new admirers.

"Serves you right," Anders says to the cat, grinning. "Alright, who's next, then?"

The day progresses fairly normally as morning turns into afternoon, a steady stream of patients wandering in and out of the clinic, occasionally leaving food and drink behind as thanks. Anders nearly loses a hand rescuing a sweet roll from Haunt ("Apples are one thing, but I know for a fact this will make you sick, you little demon,") and manages to get the cat to eat some strip venison around lunchtime. It's clear that the venison does not inspire the same enthusiasm that the apples did, but Haunt eats it with only a few complaints, mostly in the form of blood-curdling glares shot in Anders' direction as if the mage has managed to ruin his entire kitty life. 

It's around mid-afternoon when a small group of city elves come up from the alienage, all looking exhausted and clearly worse for wear. Anders ushers them in with a frown, taking in their cuts and bruises. "What happened?"

"The slavers working out of the Docks raided the alienage last night," one mother says tiredly, holding her young daughter close. The daughter is wide-eyed but silent, her skin ashy with shock. "They had us all bundled up in a ship this morning when the Guard Captain caught up. Thank the Creators for Ser Aveline, the last Guard Captain would never have cared. She told us to come see you."

"I'm glad she did," Anders says honestly. Though he and Aveline hardly get along, they both know each other well enough by now to know how seriously they take their vocations, one way or another. "Alright, I'll see to the most badly injured first. For the others, there's tea near the back of the clinic. Please help yourself while you wait."

He processes them through quickly enough, healing broken bones and whip lashes and removing ear tags with a heavy heart. There isn't much he can do for the haunted look in each elf's eyes, the dull acceptance of how the world sees them, as chattel. Anders has seen the look before, in many a Circle mage's gaze, though he knows now is hardly the time to start preaching.

If we could band together though... combine efforts, somehow, solve the injustices of this society as one...

He shakes his head. Another time.

Finally there's just the mother and her daughter left, the rest of the elves sitting together by the kitchen area of the clinic, sipping tea and murmuring in low voices. 

"I'd just managed to convince Siobhala we were safe in Lowtown," the mother says dully, wincing as Anders carefully extracts the wooden ear tag. Unlike a regular piercing, the ear tags have two spikes meant to stay embedded within the skin of the ear, rather than passing through it, making removal that much more difficult. "Far better than wandering the coast. We came up with the Ferelden refugees during the Blight, but we'd hoped to find a Dalish clan to take us in. My mother was Dalish, but a mage, and there were two too many in her clan already. Still, I knew she missed them... but the Dalish never accepted us as kin. Poor child- oh, have you found a cat, love?"

Anders looks up to see the young elf girl approaching the table where Haunt has settled for an afternoon nap, having dozed off in a sunbeam. Anders straightens, alarmed. "I'm sorry, Haunt's not one for strangers, you might want to keep your distance-"

Ignoring him, Siobhala braces her arm on the table, levering herself up to reach across the table to Haunt, offering her hand for him to sniff.

Haunt wakes up slowly, wrinkling his nose at the girl's hand, baring his teeth, and Anders holds his breath.

Then the cat looks to the owner of the hand, and Anders could swear the cat's eyes flick from her face directly to the bloody tag in her ear, before settling back on the girl's hand again.

To Anders astonishment, Haunt butts his head forward into the girl's hand, rubbing his fur against her fingers. The girl smiles, then laughs.

Both Anders and the mother sigh in relief. 

"She's always loved cats - any animal, really," the mother says quietly, as Haunt gets up from his resting place and stretches, padding closer to the girl so she can pet him easier. Siobhala looks delighted by this, some of the horror in her young eyes falling away as Haunt leans up to sniff her face. "If I had the coin, I'd get one of those mabari pups the Fereldens have been selling in Lowtown. It'd be good for her to have a friend, as well as some protection." 

"She's clearly got a gift," Anders says, watching the interaction between cat and child a little incredulously. "That cat's tried to murder me more than a few times now. It's a mean little thing."

"Perhaps it sees how badly she needs this, then," the mother says thoughtfully, a smile playing about her lips.

Rationally, Anders knows the woman is joking. But he's starting to wonder if the eerie little cat is a little more canny than most.

Eventually he has to sit Siobhala down to take out her ear tag, anticipating tears. Before he can start, however, Haunt wanders over and hops up into Siobhala's lap, kneading her legs before taking a seat there. It gives the girl something to focus on, and though Anders can see her little hands gripping Haunt's fur a bit tighter than could possibly be comfortable, Haunt doesn't move, and the girl doesn't cry. 

Siobhala gives Haunt a long, likely suffocating hug before she goes, but she's smiling, even offering Anders a very shy "Thank you, ser," before she and her mother leave with the rest of the elves. Anders watches them go for a long moment, then turns to Haunt, who is also watching the elves with a very odd look on his little cat face. 

"You're very strange, you know," Anders says.

Haunt glances at him with that world-weary disappointment, a look he seems to reserve specifically for Anders and Anders alone, then retreats back to his sunbeam, curling up with a little sigh.

Anders shrugs to himself, and starts to clean up as much as he can before the next wave of patients arrive, vowing to buy another couple of apples for his bizarre houseguest before the day is done.  

"You've been spoiled," Anders murmurs, maneouvering the comb through a tangle behind Haunt's foreleg. "You're going to have to learn how to groom yourself like any other self-respecting cat, you know. You're hardly a kitten anymore."

Haunt makes a disgusted noise at this, and shakes himself like a dog, spraying Anders in the face with warm water. I really should have expected that.

The presence of lyrium Anders felt that first night seems to be permanent, for all intents and purposes, with absolutely no explanation as to why the cat seems half-made of the stuff. This, more than anything, gives Anders pause on occasion. Late at night, once the damn cat is finally asleep and Anders can chance a brief moment to bury his hand in Haunt's fur, feeling the lyrium tingle against his skin as Haunt purrs and twitches a little in his dreams, Anders wonders.

Wonders if the cat might not be some kind of spirit, for one thing, though the part of Anders that is Justice seems to dismiss the thought almost immediately. Justice seems largely apathetic about Haunt, as he is with most of Anders' cats, though he's intrigued by the lyrium as well. Anders is sure if the spirit actually gave a shit he'd have the mystery figured out in moments, but as it is, cats exist beneath Justice's notice.

Haunt is stranger still around the clinic, keeping well out of the way of most guests, but occasionally coming down to help with a select few - an old woman with arthritis, for example, or any of the many mistreated elves coming sad-eyed up from the alienage. It's clear, however, how Haunt feels about mages. An apostate from the underground drops by to speak to Anders one afternoon, and Haunt immediately takes off, scratching at the door to Anders' private chambers and growling until Anders lets him in. He does not come out for another three hours. Eventually, a little worried, Anders decides to check on him, and finds Haunt curled up in a nest of shredded parchment, fast asleep in the remains of Anders' latest draft of his manifesto.

Anders shouts at him for a full five minutes, and Haunt doesn't flinch once. Anders is pretty fucking sure the cat is only pretending to be asleep, judging by the self-satisfied kitty smile on his face. 

The next day, as Haunt naps in his sunbeam and Anders completes some menial tasks around the clinic, he hears a soft meow from the entrance and turns to see one of his frequent feline guests, an enormous orange beauty Anders named Beatrice some months back.

"Well hello," Anders says, leaning down to give her a quick scratch behind her ears. Beatrice immediately begins to purr, butting her head into his palm. "Ah, a cat who actually seems to appreciate my continued existence. I've forgotten what that feels like."

He straightens, smiling as Beatrice gazes up at him fondly with soft amber eyes. "Let it never be said that I don't know how to treat a lady. Give me a moment, Serah, and I'll put a little cream out for you."

Anders can hear Beatrice purr from across the clinic as he goes to his cold storage for cream, followed by a very soft thump. He looks over his shoulder to see Beatrice on the edge of Haunt's table, head tilted as she stares at the sleeping cat.

"Ah, I wouldn't suggest pursuing that thought," Anders says, still a little sour over his destroyed manuscript. "He's not very friendly, to put it mildly."

Beatrice looks at Anders, then back at Haunt. Clearly curious, she pads over to the little cat and sniffs his ear.

Haunt rouses with a little mrrp, still sleepy. That is, until he catches sight of Beatrice.

There's a surprised cat shriek, followed shortly by the skittering of Haunt's claws as he tries to get away - unfortunately, not fast enough. In a blink of an eye, Beatrice has him pinned under an enormous paw, and starts to aggressively groom his face.

Anders should go rescue the poor cat from Beatrice's attentions, he knows. He is, however, far too busy laughing to do much but watch as Haunt howls miserably and tries to squirm away from the other cat, who seems far too wrapped up in her task to be affected by Haunt's distress. Eventually Anders takes pity on him and pulls him out from under Beatrice's grasp, wiping tears away as he fights to keep his giggles under control. Haunt, for his part, seems too shell-shocked from the grooming to do much of anything, staying quiet in Ander's arms as he carries him back to his private quarters.

"Serves you right, you know," Anders says, still laughing. "Oh, Maker, that was good."

Haunt growls, and Anders feels his claws start to dig into his arm. It only takes the gentle threat of Anders turning back towards Beatrice for both the growling and the clawing to stop.

"There may be some hope for you yet," Anders says, opening the door to his quarters and laughing again as Haunt takes off, skidding a little on the wood floor before disappearing under Anders' bed. Beatrice gets cream and extra fish that day, and Haunt doesn't come out until well after the other cat is long gone.

Despite the fact that the cat is, undisputedly, an enormous asshole, Anders does find himself growing fond. There's really no helping it - it's nice to have a companion around the clinic, and an extra source of heat at night. It's not without its downsides, of course - the one night he locks Haunt out of his quarters for a little alone time results in Haunt making odd retching noises outside the door before Anders can even begin to... give himself a hand, so to speak. When he opens the door again, Haunt seems perfectly fine, though the look of disgust he gives Anders is downright bloodcurdling. Anders repeats this exercise twice more with similar results, retching and all, until he eventually gives up and lets Haunt back in, deciding a little sadly to leave such activities for another time. 

All in all, Anders is both relieved and a little sad when he hears a knock at the entrance of his clinic and sees Hawke standing there, scraped up and bruised but relatively intact. 

"Anything broken?" Anders asks, continuing to wipe down his examination table as Hawke walks in.

"And hello to you too," Hawke says, grinning. "No, sadly, these bandits weren't quite as skilled as the last group of people who tried to murder me. Nearly got exploded by a trap, though."

"Which explains the lack of eyebrows."

"They're only lightly singed, Anders, no need to exaggerate-"

They're interrupted by a loud thump from Anders' quarters, followed by the unmistakable sound of a quadrupedal creature galloping at top speed. They both turn to see a flash of pale fur come streaking out of Anders' room, a force of terrifying speed that does not stop until it launches itself directly into Hawke's chest.

Hawke shouts a little in surprise, but manages to catch the cat, as Anders cries out in exasperation. "Haunt!"

He expects Haunt to try to maul Hawke for whatever arbitrary reason bouncing around in that homicidal little head, and is about to warn Hawke when he realizes that Haunt isn't growling, or hissing. He's purring.

Purring, and clinging to the furs of Hawke's armour for dear life, butting his head up into Hawke's face and rubbing himself against Hawke's beard, looking for all the world like a cat who actually experiences affection.

"The fuck," Anders says blankly.

"Well, hello," Hawke says gently, slipping off one of his gauntlets so he can scratch Haunt under his chin. Haunt seems to bask in the attention, all but flopping over in Hawke's arms, purring loud enough for all of Kirkwall to hear. "See, this is how you greet someone, Anders. Look at this."

"I'm looking," Anders says, still stunned. "That cat has tried to murder me at least four times in the past week. It's pure evil."

"Nonsense, he's a sweetheart," Hawke says, scratching behind one of Haunt's enormous ears. "And such a handsome boy too, my goodness. Although- is that lyrium?"

"He's riddled with it," Anders says, rubbing his temples. "He was like that when I found him. No idea why."

"Odd," Hawke says. "Shit, that reminds me- you haven't heard from Fenris recently, have you?"

Anders grimaces. "Well, no one's shown up and looked at me like I'm Thedas's biggest disappointment recently, so no."

"Mroww!"

"Aww, what a sweet little voice. Anyway, Bodahn said Fenris was investigating some blood mage activity for Aveline, possibly in the underground, but that was over a week ago. He said he might be gone a while, but... I'm worried."

"I just spoke to a friend of mine from the underground," Anders says, "He didn't mention anything. Or anything about blood mages, for that matter."

"Mrowww!"

"Yes, thank you- what's his name?"

"Haunt."

"Thank you for your input, Haunt, very helpful. Would you be able to contact that friend again? If I don't hear from Fenris soon, I'm going after him. I've heard there's been a lot of slaver activity in Kirkwall recently, and while I know Danarius is taken care of-"

"I can't see anyone trying to snatch up an angry glowing elf who isn't short of suicidal, but I'll keep an ear out."

"MROWW."

"Maker, he's chatty," Hawke says, smiling a little as Haunt reaches up and grabs his face with his paws, meowing loudly. "And- those are claws."

"If you're not bleeding, it's affectionate clawing, believe me," Anders says, raising his voice a little over Haunt's incessant howling. "For the love of Andraste, cat, shut up. I was actually wondering if you wanted him - he doesn't seem to like me very much, and he's clearly fallen head over heels for you."

"Me?" Hawke raises his eyebrows. "Well, it would be nice to have such an adorable little thing roaming the Hawke estate..."

Haunt stops howling and starts purring again, butting his head into Hawke's chin, and Anders can see Hawke's heart melting.

"I'll have to talk it over with Fenris," Hawke says, petting Haunt absently as the cat buries his face in his neck. "I'm not sure he'd appreciate me adopting a cat while his life is potentially in danger."

"He should worry about the competition," Anders says dryly. "I think Haunt wants to marry you."

"He's so sweet," Hawke says, eyes soft. Then, a little sadly, he says, "I'll have to leave him with you a little longer, I think, if that's alright. At least until I find Fenris- ow."

In seconds, Haunt has turned from cuddling Hawke's neck, to biting his nose. Hard.

"And that's the cat I'm more familiar with," Anders sighs, stepping forward. "Still want him?"

"I'm used to affectionate biting," Hawke says, a little pained, as Haunt clings to his nose with a low growl. "Happens more often than you would think."

"Not really something I wanted to know, but alright," Anders says, gently securing his hands around Haunt's midsection. "It's time to let the nice man go, Haunt. Preferably with the least amount of bloodshed possible."

Haunt either doesn't understand Anders' request or outright ignores it, though Anders can't help but notice most of the clawing is directed at him, not Hawke, as him pries the cat away. What's worse are the sounds Haunt makes, first clearly enraged, then howling in what sounds like abject misery and suffering as Anders carries him over to his quarters and tosses him in, closing the door quickly before Haunt can escape again. 

Both Anders and Hawke wince as Haunt claws at the door, crying loudly.

"I feel like I just threw a puppy off a cliff," Hawke says.

"He'll be fine, he's just being dramatic," Anders says. "Anyway, we've got a pissy elf to track down, haven't we?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, at the latest," Hawke says tiredly, rubbing his bitten nose. "I hope he's alright."

"MROWWW-"

"I'm sure he's fine," Anders says. "I'm the one you should worry about - I'm relatively certain I'm going to be murdered by a cat later."

"At least it will be a very cute murder," Hawke says, crossing over to Anders' door. He taps on the wood a few times, and says, "Don't worry, little one, I'll be back for you in a few days. You be good for Anders."

The mew that follows is pitched high and very sad, and even Anders feels a little gutpunched by it.

With a sigh, Hawke turns and walks away, giving Anders a brief hug before leaving.

Anders watches him go for a moment, then approaches the door to his quarters. Haunt has fallen relatively silent, though a few quiet meows still echo through the door, soft and heartbreakingly tragic.

Anders waits a moment, then says, "If I let you out, are you going to maul me?"

The door rattles with the sudden force of a small cat throwing itself against it, soft cries turned to vicious growling and hissing in an instant.

"As I thought," Anders says, a little nervous despite himself. "Well, you'll have to forgive me eventually, if you want dinner later."

Anders turns away from the door, and as he returns to his cleaning, the growling ceases and turns to soft, sorrowful mewling once more. 

Nothing.

Wincing a little, Anders opens the door, expecting... well, he's not sure what to expect. He's certain the cat's probably ransacked the room in his raging, at the very least.

So he's a little surprised to see that for the most part, the place is intact. There are a few new clawmarks in the door, and - ah, yes, his pillow has been utterly destroyed in a fit of feline frustration, the cotton torn to shreds and feathers drifting across the bed. Still, this doesn't bother Anders so much as the fact that Haunt is nowhere to be found.

"Shit," he mutters, closing the door behind him and setting the apples and cream down on the floor. He's checked multiple times - there's no way for even a cat Haunt's size to escape the room. However, he absolutely wouldn't be surprised if Haunt was the first to manage it. 

It takes him a while, despite there not being that many places a cat could hide in Anders' sparse quarters. But Haunt is small, and apparently very skilled at making himself nigh-on invisible. Eventually, Anders calls a little veilfire to his hand to light up some of the darker corners of the room, and the eerie blue flame shimmers off a bundle of fur in the darkest, furthest corner under Anders' bed.

Anders sighs in relief. "There you are."

There's brief movement, and the sudden glint of two large orbs reflecting blue and yellow light in the darkness. Then with a huff, they disappear, seemingly unconcerned by Anders presence.

"I know what this is," Anders says, dimming the veilfire a little. "I've seen a sulking cat many times before. This is nothing new. But I have some treats for you out here, if you're hungry."

Nothing, save the slight rise and fall of fur as Haunt breathes and does not look at Anders.

Anders puts out the veilfire completely and pushes himself up off the ground, stretching his back with a grimace. Shaking his head, but confident that Haunt will abandon his sulk for food, Anders relocates the apples and cream to the floor closest to Haunt's hiding place, even rubbing some of the catleaf between his fingers so Haunt will be able to smell it. Then, he leaves, his own dinner and nightly tasks on the mind. 

He returns two hours later to an untouched bowl of cream and plate of apples, and frowns. 

"You can't tell me you aren't hungry, I know for a fact you haven't eaten since well before noon," Anders says, crossing the floor and nudging Haunt's dinner out of the way as he kneels, checking to see if Haunt is still under the bed.

He is, and as far as Anders can tell, he hasn't moved. 

Anders spends the next few minutes trying to coax Haunt out from under the bed with various calls, whistles, and offers of catleaf. He's utterly ignored, without so much as a twitch of an ear, though Anders can tell by Haunt's breathing that the cat is not asleep.

"Alright," Anders sighs, straightening and putting his hands on his hips. "Maker, I'm about to lose a hand."

With some effort, Anders pulls his bed frame - little more than a cot, really - away from the wall, expecting Haunt to come shooting out once his hiding place is exposed and preparing to catch him before he can find another one. Nothing. 

Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Anders kneels on his mattress and peers over the side closest to the wall, to get a better look at what he's dealing with.

As Anders suspected, Haunt is awake, though his eyes are significantly drooping as he stares at the wall in front of him. He's curled up low to the ground, chin flat on his paws, the picture of dejected misery.

"You're going to make me weep," Anders says, far less sarcastically than he'd intended. Haunt doesn't respond. "Alright, enough of that, come here."

Anders reaches down and scoops a hand under Haunt's belly, expecting immediate backlash in the form of little sharp claws and teeth as he lifts Haunt up from his hiding place. Instead, Haunt dangles limply from his hand, a little whine escaping him in some kind of protest but nothing more. 

"It's fucked up that I'm saying this, but I sort of miss you trying to murder me," Anders says, placing Haunt on the mattress beside him. Haunt immediately retreats to the furthest edge of the bed and returns to his ball of woe, front paws dangling off the edge. "Dear Maker. You really miss Hawke that much?"

It's a joke, more than anything, but it appears Anders has hit the nail directly on the head, as Haunt proceeds to faceplant into the mattress and whine.

"You really are a one-man cat, huh?" Anders says softly. Feeling a little daring, he starts to pet Haunt's back, as gently as he can. The cat stiffens for a moment, then goes limp, more in defeat than relaxation. "Well, if you're looking for someone to blame, blame Fenris. He's the one who's gone and disappeared on us."

The cat lets out what sounds like a thoroughly disgusted little "ugh," and Anders snorts. "My thoughts exactly. I... do hope nothing too bad has happened to him. For Hawke's sake, if nothing else."

Haunt sighs, but does not remove his face from the mattress, and Anders is starting to worry that the cat is attempting to suffocate himself. For a moment, he wonders how Hawke would feel about Anders coming to him in the middle of the night with a depressed cat, demanding he take the poor thing so Anders doesn't feel like such an evil villain. 

He doesn't imagine it would go very well. Nor if he were ask Hawke to stay at the clinic until Fenris is found - there's only the one cot, and Maker, if Fenris were to turn up and find Hawke in Anders' bed, Anders is certain it would result in at least one heart being ripped out, if not two. 

So Anders sits there, and pets Haunt, and thinks.

"Oh," he says eventually, and stands. "Well, thank Andraste for sloth, I suppose, I haven't done the laundry yet. Wait here."

He doesn't have much in the way of clothes, so it doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for. He returns to the cot with a bundle of red fabric in hand, taking a seat next to Haunt again, who still hasn't lifted his face.

"I have something for you," Anders says, dangling the cloth in front of Haunt. "Hawke's shirt. It was a warm day when he was wearing it, so believe me, his scent is still very much present."

Haunt's ears flick back in annoyance as Anders dances the shirt in front of him, lifting his head a little. It's obvious the moment Haunt catches Hawke's scent by the way his face jerks up, eyes widening as he pushes himself up on his paws, sniffing the fabric in front of him.

He turns then and gives Anders a spectacularly caustic look, a dangerous growl building in his throat as his hackles rise.

"What?" Anders says, dumbfounded. He looks at the shirt, and at Haunt again, who looks as if he's moments from tearing Anders' throat out. "I- no. You're not-?"

Haunt snatches the shirt between his teeth and pulls it away from Anders with a sharp tug, still growling as he backs up across the mattress, eyeing Anders murderously.

"For the love of- fantastic. Exactly what I need. Another jealous idiot in love with Hawke. I borrowed his shirt last week because mine had bloodstains on it, you little shit. As an apostate walking back through Hightown, that's essentially asking for one of Meredith's thugs to drag me in for branding. I was not engaging in any illicit activities with your suitor, Andraste's tits. Hawke has a truly frightening lover already, I'm not suicidal."

Haunt narrows his eyes at Anders, but seems to accept this answer, and stops growling at him. 

"Maker's breath, I can't wait for you to meet Fenris," Anders says, rubbing his forehead. "I'm certain you'll either fight to the death over Hawke or become bosom companions, and believe me, I find both thoughts utterly terrifying."

Haunt ignores him, kneading Hawke's shirt beneath his paws before flopping over and hugging it close, little nose buried in the red fabric. He whines again, muffled by the shirt, but it's pretty fucking heartbreaking all the same.

"Don't kill me," Anders says reflexively, a phrase he's uttered far too often over the past week. With quick hands, Anders wraps the ends of Hawke's shirt around Haunt like a little sleeping roll, until all he can see of the cat is his head and front paws. Then, he moves the entire bundle up to the head of the bed, aligning it with Haunt's usual sleeping spot. With a sad look at his ruined pillow, Anders shoves its carcass off onto the floor and slips under his blankets, arranging things so Haunt is tucked up close to his chest in his little Hawke-nest.

Heh. Hawke-nest.

"You really should try to eat when you're feeling better," Anders says, as Haunt shifts around inside Hawke's shirt, his eyes no longer quite so tragic as he glances up at Anders. "Look, Hawke- he's a good man, he keeps his promises. And he seemed quite taken with you. Once we find that damned elf of his, whether he likes it or not, I'll make sure you go home with them, alright? And if Fenris has a problem with it, he can take it up with-"

He's stopped mid-rant by a paw reaching out of the bundle to press against his lips, claws a gentle threat on his skin.

"Point taken," he says, removing Haunt's paw from his face. It immediately disappears back inside Hawke's shirt, where Haunt curls up until there's nothing left to see but the tips of his ears and a lump of red fabric. "Goodnight, Haunt."

-

A hard rapping at the front door of the clinic startles both Anders and Haunt awake. They trade a brief look before Haunt settles back into his nest, content to let Anders deal with whatever the fuck is happening now.

"Asshole," Anders mutters, swinging his legs out over the side of the cot. He isn't sure if he means Haunt, or whoever is knocking, or both, but he means it vehemently.

"Messere Healer, Ser, please, my brother's taken ill!"

"Yes, alright," Anders calls, well aware that they can't hear him. With the wards up like this, all sound inside the clinic is muffled. Anders can leave, of course, but no one can come in, so he'll have to take the wards down first. And put them back up later. Maker's breath.

There's an odd growl from Anders' room that gives him pause, and as he looks back he sees Haunt approaching quietly, as agitated as Anders has ever seen him. It's an eerie image, the little pale cat with his fur puffed out, bushy-tailed and wide-eyed in the darkness, a low, threatening grumble produced from his incongruously minute frame.

"Healer, please!"

The man sounds almost in tears.

Anders turns away from Haunt and quickly closes the distance between himself and the warding cantrip, preparing to disassemble the spell as swiftly as he can without blowing anything up.

He's interrupted by a loud hiss and a sudden burst of pain in his ankle as Haunt takes a swipe at him, claws out.

"What is your problem?" Anders snaps, nudging Haunt away with his foot. He's rewarded with another deep swipe, and he's very sorely tempted to give Haunt a little more than a nudge when he feels Justice whisper from the back of his mind.

Danger.

"Healer, I think he's dying- he's not breathing-"

Anders looks from his half-disassembled cantrip, to the door, hands hesitating over the spellwork. Someone could be dying out there!

"I have to at least check," he says - to Justice, to himself, to the damned cat, he isn't sure. He turns to resume his spell. "If someone dies outside my clinic, and I do nothing-"

With a howl that sends shivers down Anders' spine, Haunt bolts away to the door. For a cat, it sounds an awful lot like a war cry.

For a mad moment Anders thinks the cat has forgotten the door is closed, by the way Haunt hurls himself against it. But then he does it again, and again, rattling the door on its rusted hinges, slamming into it with as much force as his little body can muster.

"This is not the time to be losing your blighted mind," Anders shouts, but he's nearly done- nearly done dismantling the ward-

"Andraste's tits, what in the Void is that?"

Anders freezes, the unfinished spell fizzling uselessly in his palm, until it dissolves completely, the warding still intact. Whoever is at the door no longer sounds as if they're mourning a dying brother.

Haunt, panting now, backs up and takes another run at the door, smacking into it with the same violent force. Anders hears multiple shouts of alarm outside - certainly more than two.

"Sounds like some kind of demon..."

"We'd know if it were a demon, wouldn't we? Nah, more likely some kind of ward-spell, like this shite. I don't think the bastard's home."

"Pity, I like a bit of mage-hunting after a night out. Want to leave him a surprise for the morning, though?"

There's laughter, and the unmistakable sound of multiple streams of urine hitting Anders' front doors. Templars.

Anders looks down at Haunt, who sits in front of the door, sides heaving as he glowers at Anders, tail thumping in agitation against the floor.

"Shit," says Anders, half-sitting, half-collapsing against his worktable. "I'm an idiot."

Haunt grunts in what sounds like solid agreement with this assessment of Anders' character.

Anders drags his hands through his hair, now completely free of its ties and falling all about his face, and he tries very hard not to think of what could have happened. The part of him that is Justice is kicking him right now, and the part of him that is Anders is- well, essentially, doing the exact same thing. 

"Are you alright?" Anders says to Haunt, who hasn't moved from his spot, still watching Anders with that dour expression. "You hit that door pretty hard."

Haunt blinks, and Anders realizes that he is asking a damned cat medical questions. Clearly I'm more than a little rattled.

"Can I see you walk?" Anders says, beckoning to Haunt with his hand. As if calling him has ever worked before.

Haunt glances at Anders' hand, at his face, and looks away, tail still flicking about. Anders realizes that Haunt is leaning slightly to one side, one of his forepaws barely touching the floor.

"Shit," Anders says again, and pulls himself up with the work table, still feeling a little weak in the knees.

He crosses the floor to Haunt, who is now studying the ground, and does not deign to acknowledge Anders' presence. Well, that's nothing new.

"I'm going to pick you up," Anders warns. Haunt curls his lip at this, revealing a sharp fang, but doesn't attempt to flee. 

He tries to be gentle, but Anders doesn't miss the wince as he scoops Haunt up into his arms. The cat is stiff in Anders' hold, ears flattened in annoyance, but he doesn't try to escape as Anders carries him over to his worktable. A quick examination, both physical and magical, reveals that Haunt's shoulder is deeply bruised, but nothing more. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"I don't know how you knew," he says, calling some magic to his fingers and taking a dollop of elfroot salve from a nearby jar. "It's part of a long list of very, very confusing things about you. But you... saved my life, I think, or at least stopped a bunch of Templars from beating me to the Void and back, and potentially trashing the clinic. It's- well, it wouldn't be the first time they've done something like that." Anders rubs the salve into Haunt's shoulder, working it through the fur and massaging it into his skin. Haunt winces, but doesn't move otherwise. "I think I'm trying to say thank you."

Haunt meets Anders' eyes, enormous green orbs glinting slightly in the dark, and for a moment there's something so incredibly, stupidly familiar about him that Anders feels utterly moronic for not immediately knowing the answer to the riddle that is this cat.

Haunt reaches up with a paw, gently tapping Ander's face, as if trying to pull him closer. Feeling close to a breakthrough, Anders follows, leaning in-

Haunt smacks him full across the face with a growl, leaving a trail of scratches across Anders' cheek. Anders curses and jerks away, a hand to his face.

"You little-" he starts, and cuts himself short with a sigh. "I suppose I deserved that."

The cat has the audacity to nod at him, looking far too satisfied with himself, and hops down off the work table, trotting back into Anders' quarters. By the time the cantrip is fully restored, the elfroot salve put away, and Anders finally stumbles back into his room, Haunt is nothing more than a lump in Hawke's shirt again, already fast asleep.

-

Early, far too early, there's a hard rapping at the door.

This time both Haunt and Anders seem to share the same attitude regarding the interruption to their sleep - pure, murderous rage. Haunt is close on Anders' heels as he stumbles into the clinic, bleary-eyed and in no mood for anything resembling bullshit. 

"If you're not dying, you will be shortly," Anders mutters, crossing over to his cantrip. The sun is shining, a pale morning sun, so it's very unlikely to be Templars. Even so...

"Anders? Are you in there? It's just Merrill, and it smells very bad out here! I mean, not to insult your home, I just think someone might have had an accident. Or four."

Haunt hisses and scurries back into Anders' room. Anders wishes, for a moment, that he could do the same. 

The warding is down a minute or so later, and Anders prays the witch has gotten impatient and decided to go elsewhere. 

He opens the door, and sees proof of the Maker's absence in this world, as Merrill stands bright and cheery on his front doorstep. 

"Hello!" she says, smiling sunnily. 

Anders wants to shut the door, but doesn't. Silently, he steps away from the entrance, allowing Merrill passage into his clinic. 

"I know it's early, but there's so much I have to do today," Merrill says, humming a little. "You can't have been up for too long, hmm?"

"What time is it?" Anders asks, words slurring together a little as he tries to rub some feeling back into his face.

"Oh, six or so," Merrill says airily, looking around the clinic.

Anders waits for Justice to rear his head in defence of Anders' sleep. Nothing. 

"What do you want?" he asks, trying not to sound too hostile. However he might feel about Merrill's... craft, he has to admit that upsetting her is- well, upsetting. He blames her stupidly large elf eyes. They're far too reminiscent of a cat's.

Merrill bites her lip, meeting Anders' bloodshot gaze. "Oh, it was a bad time, wasn't it? I'm so very sorry, Anders. I promise it will be quick. I just need some felandaris, if you have any."

Anders brows snap together. "And why do you need felandaris? Specifically?"

"It's for something I'm working on," Merrill says. Under Anders' hard stare, she adds, "Alright, I promise it's not for blood magic. Or to repair the eluvian. It's for the alienage's Vhenadahl - it's not doing too well, but I heard a little felandaris can strengthen its innate magic, helping it live a little longer. I've not got the coin for it, none of us have, and I'd rather not go all the way to Sundermount to hunt for some. I promise I'll pay you back. Some day, at least."

Anders sighs, rubbing his brow as Justice mulls it over. Suspicious of Merrill's intentions, but ultimately deeming them harmless, Justice gives his silent approval and retreats into the back of Anders' mind.

"I keep it in my quarters," he says, brushing past her to his room. He fights a groan as he hears Merrill follow close behind him. 

"You know, I never really knew you had a room back here," Merrill says, as Anders pushes the door open and makes a beeline for his locked chest of rare herbs. "Part of me always thought you slept on the examination-"

She stops mid-sentence. 

Anders glances over his shoulder and smirks. Haunt (sitting on his bed, tail twitching, ears flat and growling quietly), and Merrill (standing stock-still in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth fallen open) seem to have gotten themselves into a little staring contest.

"Never seen a cat before?" Anders says, turning back to his chest, fumbling a little with the keyspell. "Haunt, meet Merrill. Merrill, meet-"

"Fenris," Merrill says weakly. "We've met." 

Anders is on the verge of pointing out to Merrill that Haunt is very clearly a cat, when his eyes lock on Haunt's.

And he looks. Really looks.

Looks directly into- Andraste, Maker, those are Fenris's eyes, on a cat that is riddled with lyrium.

"Holy shit," Anders says. 

Haunt - Fenris? - is gone in a flash, darting between Merrill's legs through the open door and into the clinic.

Merrill is faster than Anders, flinging a hand up to slam the front door shut to prevent Haunt's escape. Neither of them are fast enough to catch the cat before he scoots under a heavy cabinet full of potions, beyond their reach.

Anders and Merrill stand in front of the cabinet in very different states of shock. From the shadows under the cabinet, comes a very faint growling.

"Before I murder anything," Anders says, his voice far too calm for his own liking, "are we absolutely certain that it's Fenris?"

"My clan got into a bit of a kerfuffle with another clan about seven years back," Merrill says. "Their First turned some of our hunters into squirrels - it's sort of an Elvish staple, revenge-wise. Keeper Marethari taught me how to tell enchanted animals from regular ones. And anyway, it's really very obvious, isn't it? Fenris is missing, and all, and his eyes..."

"Oh, absolutely obvious," Anders says. "Completely reasonable to assume that a cat I rescued is actually a FUCKING ELF."

He drops to his knees in front of the cabinet, peering into the darkness. Fenris peers back at him, eyes narrowed, still growling. 

"You little shit!" Anders shouts. "I- I let you sleep in my bed! You ate my manuscript! And my pillow! And you- motherfucker! You're lucky I never had you fixed!"

"Oh dear, was there something very wrong with him?" Merrill says worriedly. "I mean, aside from the cat thing." 

Fenris hisses. Anders sits back on his heels with a sigh, clutching his head.

"A week," he says, rubbing his temples. "A fucking week I've been dealing with this little monster, and it turns out to be fucking Fenris."

There's a pause, then Merrill asks, very quietly, "Did he really sleep in your bed?"

Anders scowls. "If you laugh, I will kill you."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," says Merrill, grinning. 

Anders gets to his feet, feeling a little like kicking something - himself, Merrill, Fenris. Frowning, he sends a thought to the part of him that is Justice. Did you know about this?

The response he gets back is essentially equivalent to Oh, the cat was Fenris? How very odd. Nothing else. 

"If you've seen this before, I don't suppose you know how to undo it," Anders says, turning to Merrill, who has now gone red from the effort of holding in her laughter.

Merrill coughs, and says, "Well, the spell that I know feeds off the victim's fear and discomfort. Fear makes us think like an animal, see? Trying to calm a herd of squirrels was difficult, but after a week or so, they were comfortable enough that their animal instincts slipped away, and they became human again."

"I haven't exactly been abusing him," Anders says, folding his arms. "Though at present I'm very much considering turning him into a pair of slippers."

"Mrrowww," Fenris responds caustically from under the cabinet. 

"Well, he is very small, like this," Merrill says, crouching in front of the cabinet. "And you are a mage."

"I should be the one afraid and uncomfortable," Anders says crossly. "Given how often he spouts on about the evils of magic."

"I've always thought he did that out of fear, myself," Merrill says. "It's not very nice, but I've given up trying to convince him that we aren't all like his old master. It's a miracle how he gets along with Hawke."

Anders thinks about pointing out how performing blood magic in front of Fenris is hardly going to convince him that not all mages are misguided and dangerous, but puts the thought aside with a sigh. However he might feel, Hawke's lover is currently a cat hiding under Anders' cabinet, and that... well, it takes priority, because Anders' life has become very, very stupid, recently. 

"How much of his rational mind is left, in this form?" Anders asks, as Merrill stoops to stare under the cabinet, wincing at Fenris's reactive hiss.

"A fair bit of it, probably, but he is still a cat," Merrill says, tilting her head. "A normal cat is about as smart as... say, a human three-year-old? Fenris is a little above that at present, but I don't think he'll respond to rational arguments. Especially since he thinks you're going to kill him."

"I haven't ruled it out," Anders mutters, turning back to his quarters. "Wait here."

He returns with Hawke's shirt in hand, just in time to see Merrill flat on the clinic floor, reaching under the cabinet. "I wouldn't-"

Merrill jerks back with a shout, quickly retrieving her hand. "He bit me."

"Are you surprised?" Anders asks, and Merrill sighs.

"Not really." She scoots away from the cabinet, wrapping her arms around her knees. "We need to tell Hawke about this-"

"He sort of already knows," Anders says, spreading the shirt down in front of the cabinet. "He was here yesterday. Haunt- Maker's breath, Fenris was very attached."

"Hawke didn't recognize him?"

"He was distracted. Ironically, he was distracted because he was worried about finding Fenris. And anyway, not all of us grew up around animal-transformation-cursing elves. It's not really the first assumption one leaps to."

"You have to admit, this one was fairly obvious," Merrill says, shrugging. "There was nothing in his behaviour that tipped you off? Nothing at all?"

"It turns out that Fenris's personality is very similar to that of a pissy cat," Anders says dryly. "Who would have known?"

"It's strange the two of you don't get along better," Merrill says, a little too sweetly. "Given how much you love cats."

"I'll thank you to shut the fuck up, if you wouldn't mind," Anders says darkly, and Merrill giggles. "Now, how do we go about convincing him that we're not about to pull his entrails out through his stupidly enormous ears?"

"Maybe we should start by not mentioning entrails," Merrill says delicately, touching her own pointed ears with a slight grimace. She leans over again, addressing the growling shadows under Anders' cabinet. "Fenris? Yes, hello, we know it's you, now. You're perfectly safe with us - you can turn back into yourself whenever you like! You probably won't want to do it under the cabinet, though. Oh, and you'll be naked when you do, but I promise I won't look."

The sound that Fenris makes is particularly hostile, and Merrill straightens with a shrug. "I probably shouldn't have mentioned the naked thing."

"No entrails, no nudity," Anders mutters. "Noted. Look, he's never going to be comfortable here."

"We should get him to Hawke," Merrill agrees. To the cabinet, she says, "Would that be better? If we took you up to Hawke's?"

The growling ceases, but there's no movement under the cabinet. 

"Not that he isn't soothed by your presence, I'm sure, but maybe I should talk to him," Anders says to Merrill. "Two of us at once... might be a little much."

"Well, from what you've told me, you two have been very close," Merrill says solemnly, and Anders groans. "I'll wait by the door."

Anders grimaces as Merrill makes her way across the clinic. He's going to be hearing about this for a very long time.

He turns back to the cabinet, thinking.

It's stupid - incredibly stupid - but he misses Haunt. The evil little shit of a cat that clearly wanted him dead... he misses him. It's been nice, having a companion around the clinic, even an angry little one that seemed to take pleasure from Anders' pain. 

Except... last night he could have let Anders dismantle his wardings, let a group of drunk and angry Templars have at him. And Haunt's - Fenris's - animal instinct was to protect him.

Ostensibly, one could argue that it was self-defence. It's likely that the Templars would have come after Anders' cat if they thought it would upset him. But it's still something to consider.

"Listen," Anders says quietly, aware that Merrill is really not that far away, and very likely listening in. "When you're human - elf - again, I may be obliged to punch you in the face. Mostly just on principle. But right now, Merrill's right - you're very small, and probably very scared. I know what you did for me last night, and I know you just want to go home. That's why you were so upset when Hawke left yesterday, wasn't it? You thought you were going to go home, and then you didn't."

Fenris doesn't answer, but there's a little shuffling sound suggesting that he might be edging closer. Anders takes it as a good sign.

"I know Hawke is very worried right now, wondering where you are," Anders says. "And whether you believe that Merrill and I mean you no harm or not, you know we would never hurt Hawke. Personally... well, again, I probably will have to punch you, but I don't hate you. Honestly, if you weren't such an incredible pain in the ass, I might even think of you as a friend. I'm asking you to trust me, just for as long as it takes for us to get you up to Hightown. All we want to do is take you home. Alright?"

For a long moment, Anders is pretty fucking sure he's just given a very heartfelt speech to a cat that cannot understand him, and feels a little like an enormous prat for doing so.

Then, cautiously, Fenris edges a single paw out from under the cabinet, followed by a little pink nose. Slowly, he slinks out, ears flat against his head, glaring warily up at Anders with every ginger step.

Those eyes. Maker, I'm a fucking moron. 

"Thank you," Anders says, as Fenris settles in the middle of Hawke's shirt, tail twitching furiously. "Thank you for trusting me."

Quickly, before Fenris can make another escape attempt, Anders picks up the ends of Hawke's shirt and wraps Fenris up tightly, narrowly avoiding having his nose bitten off as Fenris squirms and yowls in his grasp.

He rises to see Merrill staring at him from across the clinic, eyes wide, as Fenris continues to struggle in his cloth prison and makes his displeasure very loudly known.

"I thought you'd murdered him," Merrill says, staring.

"Not yet," Anders says, wincing as Fenris hisses and lunges for his neck. "And not ever, I promise, I'm only doing this because I don't want you running off on our way to Hightown! Merrill, there's a jar of catleaf on the counter just there, if you don't mind. We're going to need it."

-

The trek to Hightown is an intensely uncomfortable experience.

Anders is grateful for the early hour, at least, so the streets aren't quite so busy. Even so, there's no ignoring the stares they attract as two mages - one a Dalish elf, the other a known apostate - bundle an angry cat up the steps to Hightown, Anders cradling Fenris close to his chest, Merrill risking life and limb by keeping a sprig of catleaf under Fenris's nose at all time, well within biting distance. The catleaf keeps Fenris from attempting anything more than constant squirming and angry hissing and growling, until eventually he wears himself out into a quiet sulk, nibbling on the catleaf and grumbling softly.

It's awkward, to say the least. One person asks outright if they're abusing a small child, and Anders is forced to explain that no, it's a swaddled cat, actually. Merrill helpfully adds that they aren't abusing it, only to break off in a small scream as Fenris takes this moment to try to separate her thumb from her her hand with his teeth.

Fenris starts squirming again as they finally reach the streets leading to Hawke's manor, pairing his struggling with desperate little whines. 

"Yes, we're getting close, please don't make me drop you," Anders says. "Merrill, remind me why we didn't just stun him back at the clinic and carry him back that way?"

Merrill frowns. "That would have been a good idea, actually."

"Mrroww!"

"Shush," Anders says, as Merrill offers Fenris another sprig of catleaf. "Well, I suppose we know better for next time."

"I'd rather there not be a next time, if it's all the same to you," Merrill says primly, only barely snatching her hand away in time to avoid another bite. 

They both breathe a sigh of relief as they turn the corner and see Hawke's manor, brightly lit by the morning sun. 

Anders can only imagine what Bodahn is thinking when he opens the door to see Merrill, Anders, and an extremely agitated cat on the doorstep at seven in the morning. Whatever his confusion, he covers it well.

"Messeres Anders and Merrill," he says, blinking. He shakes his head, and steps aside, guiding them in. "It's good that you're here, Messere Hawke is quite out of sorts-"

"Is that Anders?" Hawke calls from another room, as Merrill and Anders proceed through the front hall. "Thank the Maker. We need to head out right away."

"Hawke-" Anders starts, as Hawke rounds the corner, frowning deeply, his armour half-on. He stops short at the sight of them.

"Hawke-" Merrill tries, after Anders falters. Hawke glances at her, and nods.

"Merrill. Good, we can grab someone else on the way- maybe Aveline, if she's available. Good morning, Haunt. Listen, one of Varric's contacts came by - apparently they're selling Fenris's armour in the underground. Something has definitely happened to him."

"Hawke-" say Anders and Merrill together.

"Mroww," says Fenris, squirming wildly.

"Yes, we can put Haunt in one of the bedrooms for now," Hawke says distractedly, turning away. "Orana will sort something out. I need to finish getting this damned armour on me, then we can-"

"Haunt is Fenris, Hawke," Anders says.

Hawke stops, and looks back, his face doing several things at once before settling on blank confusion. "Who is what, now?"

"The cat, Hawke," Merrill says, gesturing to Fenris, who thrashes in Hawke's shirt with a snarl. "It's- it's Fenris, only- feline. He's a cat."

Hawke looks at the cat, then Merrill, then Anders, and says, "What?"

"Take him, would you?" Anders says, holding the cat bundle out to Hawke. "He's trying to maul me."

"Which is really very typical of Fenris, isn't it?" Merrill says helpfully. "Antagonizing Anders, that is."

Wordlessly, Hawke takes Fenris from Anders, unwrapping the shirt from around his little body. Instantly, Fenris scrambles to get closer to Hawke, plastering himself to Hawke's chest and tucking his face into Hawke's neck with a soft whine. 

"I don't think I know what's happening right now," Hawke says, instinctively bringing an arm up around Fenris and stroking his fur with his free hand. Fenris starts to purr. "Should I know what's happening right now?"

"The eyes, Hawke," Anders says tiredly, stretching aching arms. "And the lyrium. It's actually stupidly obvious once it's pointed out to you."

Hawke blinks, and glances down at the cat currently trying to become one with his chest and shoulders.

"Let me take a look at you," he says softly, easing Fenris away from him so he can look at the cat's face. Fenris doesn't seem very happy about this, but allows himself to be manhandled by Hawke with far less violence than when Anders does it. Of course.

Hawke stares at the cat. The cat stares back.

"Andraste's left tit," Hawke says weakly, stroking a thumb over Fenris's whiskered cheek. "Maker- I'm so sorry, Fenris. I'm an idiot."

Fenris grunts in agreement and darts in to bite Hawke hard on the nose. He follows this with a careful lick, though, and instantly returns to nuzzling happily into Hawke's neck the moment Hawke cuddles him close again.

"That's really very sweet, actually," Merrill says, clasping her hands together with a little smile. 

"Touching," Anders says sourly. 

"There's a way to turn him back, yes?" Hawke says, scratching Fenris behind the ears and grinning as Fenris starts to purr again. "As cute as this is, I think Fenris would prefer being an angry, sword-wielding elf to being a cat. Just from what I know of him."

"And it would be hard to carry on a romance with a cat," Merrill says practically. "People might talk."

"More than they already gossip about the Champion of Kirkwall and his renegade, glowing elf? Doubtful." Hawke kisses Fenris's head, and smiles as Fenris licks his cheek in return. "But in earnest..."

"Merrill thinks she knows a way to reverse it," Anders says. "Or at least, for the spell to reverse itself."

"Thank the Maker," Hawke says, with feeling. "To the parlour. Bodahn?"

"Yes, messere?" Bodahn says behind Anders, making him jump. He'd forgotten the dwarf was there. He doesn't sound at all fazed by Fenris's transformation, which is... worrying, actually. Maker, the things Hawke puts him through.

"If we could have a round of tea, and-" Hawke glances at Anders, frowning. "What exactly has Fenris been eating, anyway? He hates fish."

"Apples," says Anders. "It's one of the only things he didn't actively try to spit back in my face."

Hawke blinks, several times, as Fenris bumps his head against his bearded chin, purring loudly. "Um. Apples, then? Cut to, uh, appropriate cat-size. Maybe throw in some fresh meat, if we have any. Cooked but not seasoned."

"At once, messere," Bodahn says, and hurries away.

"Apples," Hawke repeats, shaking his head as he turns to the entrance to the parlour. "Maker's breath, Anders, that didn't tip you off?"

"Evidently not," Anders says flatly.

Fenris peers at Anders over Hawke's shoulder, and quietly bares his teeth before returning to rubbing himself against Hawke's neck, even having the gall to let loose a very sweet little meow.

Anders scowls and flips him off. Asshole.

It would be sickening if it weren't so damned cute. 

Merrill leaves within the first quarter hour, citing a need to return to the alienage as she waves goodbye, seeming reluctant to get too close to Fenris's claws. Eventually, the unwelcome excitement of the night and the morning catch up with Anders, and he finds himself starting to yawn as he answers Hawke's queries.

"You're welcome to sleep here, if you like," Hawke says, as Anders wipes at watery eyes, exhaustion creeping through his bones. 

"I should get back to the clinic," Anders says, standing. "I might nap a little, but I really should keep it open today. There's been an ailment sweeping through the slums - some kind of cough, deep in the lungs. I'm likely to see many such cases before the morning is through."

"I hope that having a feathered healer fall asleep on you is the cure, then," Hawke says, scooping Fenris up into his arms so he can see Anders out. "Are you certain there's nothing I can do? You have been... well, unintentionally cat-sitting for me. I'm sure Fenris will want to thank you when he's an elf again."

"I won't hold my breath," Anders says dryly. Fenris narrows his eyes at him, before shifting to snuggle closer against Hawke's chest. "I'll leave the catleaf with you, it keeps him calm. I've been feeding him twice a day, with snacks, and it's important to have a water source available for him. He still uses the chamberpot somehow, I've not figured it out, but it's one less thing to worry about. And I'd suggest keeping him indoors, on the whole. Oh, and it's bloody obvious, now, but he's not a fan of leashes. He'll likely sleep with you at night, so- what?"

Hawke is staring at Anders with a very strange expression on his face, something between laughter and fondness.

"You're going to miss him," Hawke says, smiling. 

Anders scowls. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course," Hawke says, though his smirk belies his assurance. "Don't worry, I'm sure Fenris will miss you too. Won't you, Fenris?"

Fenris snorts into Hawke's shoulder, unmoving. Anders can't help but quirk a small smile at that. 

Then, to both Fenris's and Anders' obvious displeasure, Hawke wraps his hands around Fenris's middle and pulls him away from his chest, holding him out to Anders, who steps back. Fenris squirms in Hawke's hands for a few moments, then gives up to dangle there limply, defeated.

"Say goodbye to the nice healer you've been torturing for the past week," Hawke says, clearly loving this a little too much. "Anders, say goodbye to Fenris. Maybe give him a little pat on the head."

Fenris turns to cast Hawke a baleful look of betrayal, and it's enough to make Anders laugh outright.

"Oh, very well, you little terror," Anders says, reaching out to scratch Fenris behind the ears. "What can I say? It's been a nightmare. Just an absolutely, horrendous time. You're the worst."

Fenris bares his teeth, and for a moment Anders is certain he's going to lose a finger. Then, to his shock, Fenris butts his head into Anders' palm with a little grunt, eyes closing softly.

"Maker's breath," Hawke says, wide-eyed. "We've achieved peace in our time. Someone inform the Grand Cleric."

"Let's not do that, actually," Anders says, dropping his hand with a wince. Hawke brings Fenris close again, and he scrambles up onto Hawke's shoulder, perching there and glaring proudly down at Anders. "Good luck, and do let me know when things are a little less... furry."

-

Despite whatever he might have said to Hawke, the clinic does feel somewhat empty when Anders returns. No scratching at the door to his quarters, no whining or growling or sounds of shredding paper, no clicks of claws on the hardwood floor.

"Damn it," Anders mutters, putting his cloak aside. "I do not miss Fenris."

"Mroww."

Anders turns with a jump, half-expecting to see a familiar pale grey shape at the door.

Familiar, but orange, not grey. Beatrice sits there expectantly, tail wrapped delicately around her front paws.

Anders smiles, kneeling before her and scratching the top of her regal head. In an instant she's purring, eyes closed in pleasure. 

"Would you like to keep me company today, then?" Anders says softly, moving to scratch under her chin. "Starting with a nap?"

Beatrice meows, and Anders smiles. He straightens, shutting the door behind Beatrice and happy to hear the soft click of her paws following him to his quarters.

-

Somehow, everyone finds out before the day is through, starting a parade of visitors with various excuses dropping by the Hawke manor. 

Varric "has a tip" about a possible sighting of one of the lost Qunari blades, though he isn't even halfway through his explanation when he sees Fenris napping on the back of a settee and nearly falls over laughing. Fenris is hardly pleased, though he allows Varric to touch him with only minimal growling after Varric apologizes with a deep bow. 

"This isn't going in the book, is it?" Hawke says, as Varric gives one last guffaw at the sight of Fenris's tail twitching in agitation. 

"Hawke, the book has dragons, Qunari warlords, and demons from centuries long forgotten," Varric says. "But I have to keep it believable."

(Hawke still isn't certain if that's a yes or a no.) 

Aveline comes by next, far smoother in covering her interest with a genuine query regarding Hawke's availability, to see if he might accompany the guard on a scouting trip next week. Fenris comes trotting in as they discuss specifics, pausing upon seeing Aveline with an astonishingly human sigh.

"Maker, it's truly him?" Aveline says, kneeling with a soft smile. She holds out a hand to Fenris, who gives it a delicate sniff before pressing the top of his head into Aveline's palm. "I hope that's his way of forgiving me for asking him to look into the underground mages in the first place. I'm relieved to know he's safe, if a bit... different."

"Safe thanks to Anders," Hawke says, as Fenris leaves Aveline's hand to twine about his legs, staring up at him expectantly. Hawke picks him up, settling him against his chest. "The two of them have had quite a week. Speaking of which, apparently a group of rogue Templars tried to break into the clinic last night."

Aveline straightens, her lips thin. "Without names, there's very little I can do. My people have larger concerns in Darktown."

"People rely on Anders' clinic, Aveline," Hawke says softly. "And he is our friend."

"He's your friend," Aveline says firmly. "But... I will look into it. If Fenris was there, perhaps he'll have recognized someone. Any idea when he'll be, er, back?"

"Apparently he just needs to try very hard and believe in himself, so any time," Hawke says dryly. At Aveline's blank look, he adds, "Merrill seems to think he'll be elfy again within the week, now that he's home."

"Well, that's something, then," Aveline says. Seeming a little unable to help herself, she gives Fenris a little scratch under the chin before taking her leave.

It's nearly dark when Isabela bursts in, finding Hawke in the parlour reading by firelight with Fenris curled up in his lap again.

"I've come to see the most ridiculous thing to happen to any of us all year, including that time Merrill became chief of a Lowtown gang without realizing it," Isabela says, taking a seat beside Hawke with a wink. "The pussy jokes alone-"

"He's supposed to be getting rest and privacy," Hawke says, aware that there's really no point in arguing, but feeling the need to do so on Fenris's behalf regardless. "He's never going to be comfortable enough to be himself again with people coming through to gawk at him every other hour."

"Oh, I don't think he'll mind me," Isabela says, slipping her hands into Hawke's lap (Maker-) and around a very sleepy Fenris, holding him up to look at him. "Well, aren't you a handsome boy?"

Given his usual reactions to being poked and prodded by anyone other than Hawke, Hawke is half-expecting Fenris to take a swipe at her.

It's with surprise then, and more than a little unease, that Hawke watches Fenris squint happily at Isabela, a purr rumbling from deep in his chest.

"That's what I thought," Isabela says smugly, cradling Fenris close to her bosom (and Fenris seems just a little bit too happy to be cradled there). "I happen to have a way with pussies- oh, there it is! That's the joke."

"Very funny," Hawke says sourly. To Fenris, he says, "If you turn back into an elf right now, I will never forgive you."

Fenris blinks lazily at Hawke, and rubs his cheek into Isabela's chest with a very pleased little cat smile. Isabela laughs, and Hawke scowls.

She eventually leaves, but not before giving Fenris a very thorough petting that has Hawke conflicted as to whether he's envious of Isabela, or envious of Fenris. Fenris certainly seems very relaxed when Isabela hands him back to Hawke with another wink, seeing herself out.

"Just remember who feeds you," Hawke grumbles, smoothing Fenris's ruffled fur. Fenris pushes himself up on his back legs, front paws balanced on Hawke's chest, and reaches up to give Hawke's cheek a gentle lick. 

It's very hard to be grumpy with him after that. 

They curl up together that night, Fenris insistent on settling as close to Hawke's face as possible, half-suffocating him with fur as he shoves himself closer between Hawke's face and shoulder, a paw draped over Hawke's neck. He's purring loud enough for all of Kirkwall to hear, it seems, rubbing his face against Hawke's cheek as Hawke moves him a little, just enough that he can breathe without filling his lungs with cat hair. 

"I wonder if you'll be quite as affectionate when you're an elf again," Hawke murmurs, grinning as Fenris pulls his face closer with a demanding paw, pressing his little nose against Hawke's temple. "I've missed you, love."

He kisses Fenris's head, right between the ears, and falls asleep to the soothing rumble of Fenris's purr. 

-

It takes another day of Fenris following Hawke around the mansion, napping in sunbeams, and demanding food and Hawke's attention with very convincing little howls that are clearly meant to break Hawke's heart if Fenris's needs aren't met immediately. Another night of Fenris seeming utterly unsatisfied with his proximity to Hawke, never seeming to tire of Hawke's hands on him, purring and arching into every touch before he eventually settles down in a tightly-curled lump on Hawke's chest.

Then morning comes, and Hawke wakes up to a very familiar weight resting on him, far greater than that of a small cat. He opens his eyes to the sight of a tousled, white head tucked under his chin, a long pointed brown ear peeking up from between snowy locks.

And cat hair. Cat hair fucking everywhere. Not attached to a cat. 

"Good morning, love," Hawke murmurs, his voice rough with sleep as he smiles and strokes a hand over Fenris's hair. "Good to have you back."

Fenris shifts with a yawn, and presses the top of his head into Hawke's hand with a very happy little sound that Hawke might be tempted to describe as a mew, stretching long, bare limbs against Hawke's body.

Then he opens his eyes, and blinks up at Hawke, dazed happiness rapidly fading into confusion.

Fenris sits up abruptly with a sharp intake of breath, swaying a little, and Hawke follows, taking hold of his shoulders to steady him. "Easy, easy, love. You're alright."

Fenris looks around a little wildly, flexing his hands, then settles his gaze on Hawke's face again. "Garrett?"

"It's alright," Hawke says again, taking Fenris's face in his hands and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. "You've had... well, let's just say you've had a bit of a week. You're safe."

"I..." Fenris coughs, his voice hoarse. "What... happened, exactly?"

"What do you remember?" Hawke asks, stroking Fenris's hair.

Fenris presses into Hawke's hand again, lifting his chin, before catching himself with a scowl. Hawke bites back a smile, knowing Fenris would hardly appreciate the humour of the situation at present.

"I- venhedis, it's... strange, in my mind. Aveline sent me to scout the underground mages, to see if there were any blood mages recruiting." Fenris closes his eyes with a wince. "It seemed mostly.. there was a group of elves from the alienage, mages. They seemed harmless, but I wanted to be certain. I was- careless, I suppose. I walked into a hidden glyph, and was trapped. One of them wanted to kill me, but the other said they'd be no better than a blood mage if they did so, which I suppose answers Aveline's concerns. I wasn't exactly thrilled about being at the mercy of a group of renegade mages, however."

"I can imagine," Hawke says, holding Fenris close. "I'm sorry."

Despite his concern for Fenris, his sympathy for what was no doubt a frightening experience, Hawke still has to make a concerted effort not to laugh as Fenris nuzzles into his neck with a little grunt, rubbing his face against Hawke's shoulder.

"Fasta vass," he mutters into Hawke's collarbone a moment later, collecting himself again. "I- apologize. It seems I'm still somewhat... affected."

"Completely fine," Hawke says, stroking Fenris's bare back with a smile. "Believe me, I don't mind. I am actually at the direct opposite end of the spectrum of minding. Go on, they had you trapped in a glyph?"

Fenris sighs, shivering a little as Hawke rubs the palm of his hand up Fenris's spine. "You're very distracting."

"Am I?" Hawke says innocently. Out of helpless curiosity, he reaches up and scratches Fenris behind a pointed ear. 

Fenris immediately turns his head into Hawke's touch, his eyes half-closed, a pleased rumbling starting low in his chest.

A purr.

"Maker," Hawke says, delighted, and Fenris groans.

"Hawke."

"I'm very sorry, of course," Hawke says, using his other hand to scratch under Fenris's chin. Fenris whines at this, and allows Hawke a few more moments of petting before he smacks Hawke's hands away with a scowl.

"It's not funny," he says flatly, folding his arms.

"Of course not," Hawke says, coaxing Fenris into his arms with an apologetic smile. Fenris goes a little reluctantly, curling up against Hawke's chest. "Trapped in a glyph?"

"The one who didn't want to kill me did... something. That's my last clear thought," Fenris says. "After that things were very large. And loud. I felt like- almost like a child again, but not. It was very confusing-" Fenris stiffens. "Anders."

"I was wondering how much of that you would remember," Hawke says, carding his fingers through Fenris's hair. "He sort of adopted you, without realizing you were... you."

"Vishante kaffas," Fenris groans, turning his head to press his face into Hawke's collarbone. "I never want to see that mage's face so- so large, and so close, ever again."

"From what I hear, the two of you were very close."

"For survival, only."

"I also hear that you tormented him relentlessly."

Hawke feels Fenris smile against his skin. "Well, I had to keep amused somehow."

"You terror," Hawke murmurs fondly, pressing his lips to Fenris's hair. "I also hear you rescued him from a group of roving Templars. Was that survival, too?"

Fenris is very still, then lightly replies, "I don't recall."

"Convenient," Hawke says, and pulls back, just enough to see Fenris's face. "Maker, but I've missed you. Certainly your feline self was a delight to have around - very affectionate, I might add - but I've missed elfy Fenris. Very, very attractive-when-naked-Fenris."

Fenris glances down, and colours a little, raising his eyebrows at his own state of undress. "Ah. I don't suppose any of my armour was salvaged?"

"One of Varric's contacts found it on the underground market," Hawke says, grinning as Fenris shifts in his lap, tugging a blanket up over himself. "Full set. There's an auction on the sword today, but it's going to go missing, unfortunately. Should be here by the afternoon."

"Thank you," Fenris says, brushing a clump of cat fur from the blanket with a grimace. "I should very much like to kill something. Preferably sooner, rather than later."

"Orana mentioned a mouse in the kitchen, if you're feeling up to a challenge," Hawke says, straight-faced. 

Fenris casts Hawke an incredibly beleaguered look, and it's far too reminiscent of his cat glares for Hawke not to laugh.

"I told you, it isn't funny," Fenris says sternly, but his lips seem to twitch despite himself. 

"Absolutely not," Hawke says, fighting giggles. "It's pawsitively atrocious, what happened-"

Fenris shoves him, moving to leave the bed. Hawke gently tackles him into the blankets, laughing as Fenris squawks beneath him, then laughs, struggling to escape Hawke's embrace but not trying very hard. 

"You're horrible," Fenris says, grinning up at Hawke, tangled up in their sheets. "I don't know how I put up with you."

"Come on, love," Hawke says, kissing Fenris's nose. "Nobody's purrfect."

"Hawke!" 

There's another scuffle that results in them becoming even more tangled up together, a mess of sheets, elf, human, and cat hair. Once again, Fenris winds up beneath Hawke, his legs wrapped around Hawke's thighs, Hawke's arms around his torso.

Fenris groans softly as Hawke grinds up between his legs, pressing his lips to Fenris's ear with a smile.

"Now let's see if I can still make you purr," Hawke murmurs, and Fenris's gasp comes out as a laugh.