AN: Another kinkmeme fill, and another weird Fenris situation involving transformation. It's... my thing? I guess? I don't even know, but beyond the bizarre factor, I'm also apparently unable to write fills for cute Fenris prompts without making them long, plotty, and a little angsty.

Fenris had expected Danarius to leave some surprises behind when fleeing the mansion, but after a few years of squatting in the musty ruin of a house, he'd grown somewhat complacent. Hawke, despite suffering a less than gracious reaction to his younger sister and the magic she wielded, had even offered Bethany's services to give the house a thorough check for any lingering traps or curses. Fenris had refused, of course, but had made something of an effort to be polite about it. He was still an escaped slave, an elf, and a foreigner, and he was slowly learning how useful allies could be in such a situation.

So he'd spent his first few weeks in the mansion tripping over hidden glyphs, fighting off small waves of shades and the occasional walking corpses. Most of Danarius' defences had been triggered during their initial assault, but it took months for the mansion to truly quiet down. Months became years, and very gradually, Fenris began to relax. It was idiotic, but apparently too much time in the same place with the same people had made him dangerously soft. This friendship business was more trouble than it was worth, clearly.

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed and scrubbing one hand over his face, Fenris was aware of no pressing business or urgent errand for which Hawke would require his presence. Regardless, if the man needed him, he would come crashing into the mansion as always, so incredibly noisy for someone who could wield a pair of daggers quicker than that eye could see and move like smoke across a battlefield.

He stood, stretching his arms high over his head, and gathered up a relatively clean pair of leggings, tugging them on and lacing them loosely. Laundry would be one of his chores today, perhaps even washing his sheets if he was feeling especially ambitious, and then possibly a trip into the market for food. Add a few hours of combat drills— unarmed today— and some routine maintenance for his armour, and his day was suitably planned out.

Such plans were swiftly dashed, however, when he caught a bright, pulsing glow out of the corner of his eye, just before the world went dark.

His entire body felt like one enormous bruise, pulsing with ache, and his eyes would not focus properly. He was… he had no idea what had just happened, but despite every instinct screaming at him to get up, prepare yourself, Fenris could only force his muscles to move an inch at a time. He tried to blink, but it did not feel right—

Then the smell hit him, as thick and dense as a wet, mouldy cloth smacking him in the face. He gagged, and the smell became infinitely worse— he could taste it, somehow, more than he'd ever tasted anything before. Rot and filth, sweat, death… it was all too much, and he scrambled to his feet, desperate to get away from it.

His feet. His…

He may have tried to shout, perhaps even scream, but the sound came out as a pitiful meow. His feet, all four of them, furry and grey, scrambled against the floor. He… he was…

To the Void with all mages, all magic, and especially Danarius. Oh, that evil, vindictive bastard would have been amused to no end by this… whatever this was.

Fenris was a cat. A housecat.

Shit.

He would not panic. He would not. This was far from the first time he had suffered under the oily, malicious touch of magic, certainly not the most painful time, and he would not panic.

Hawke. He needed Hawke. Pride meant little while trapped in the form of a small, defenceless animal, and Fenris had no illusions that he could somehow fix this on his own. He was a cat.

His muscles felt fluid, his joints were too loose, but he managed to make it out of his bedroom and down the stairs without stumbling more than a half-dozen times. Every step was easier than the one before it, which might have been encouraging, if Fenris hadn't realised at that precise moment that he had no way of opening the front door. Or any door, truly. He was trapped in this stinking pit of a house.

Before he could check himself, Fenris was scratching at the door, yowling desperately. It was a wasted effort with no one to hear him, but the cold lump of dread growing in his gut was making him act like a fool. His nails— claws— dug into the wood, scoring it with thin scrapes, but it was not enough. There was a door handle above his head, within his grasp if he stretched for it, but his paws were utterly useless for undoing it or the latch above. Still, he batted at it, trying to pull or twist or anything.

Windows. Oh blessed Maker, there were broken windows in some of the upper rooms that hadn't been boarded up. With all thoughts but escape pushed from his mind, Fenris bolted back upstairs, and yes, he could smell fresh air. Relief flooded him, an incredible, blinding joy, but then fire exploded in his right foot the moment he darted into the room that held the gateway to his freedom.

He hopped stupidly, violently kicking his back leg in a vain attempt to stop the agony, and was rewarded by a tinkle of glass hitting stone. There was an unfortunate amount of blood, and Fenris heard himself growling low and deep. Furious, ignoring the pain, he limped over towards the window much more carefully than a moment before. It wouldn't have been so bad if the glass had been clear, uncoloured, like the broken shards still clinging around the edge of the window. But no, under the bright red of his blood, he'd seen familiar dark green glittering up at him. A small piece of broken bottle, mostly ignored or avoided under heavily callused elven feet, but not so forgiving to the pads of feline paws.

He needed to get to Hawke, immediately. The injury was not so serious that he risked bleeding out, but it hurt, and he was still a cat. His anger, directed both inward and far across the continent, seethed viciously.

Jumping up onto the window ledge proved simple, once he figured out how to make himself leap in this form. He was light, quite nimble even with his hesitance and the sharp throbbing in his foot, and it didn't take too long to climb carefully down into the overgrown garden behind his house. The smell was a thousand times more bearable now, away from the stink of decay that permeated inside the mansion, but it was also nearly overwhelming in its complexity. He could smell the plants around him, not just the scent of foliage but also the subtle differences between grass and leaf, between this bush and that vine. He could smell bread baking, human sweat, and even the salt of the sea and the fishy odour that came with it. There was also a strangely warm scent, cutting through the rest, and it made his mind sharpen, yearning to seek, find, hunt without conscious thought.

For the moment, he fought to ignore it all, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness of the morning sun. He could not see as well as he had with his true eyes, forcing himself to blink slowly against the slight blur brought on by the light, but it was tolerable. The garden was surrounded by a high, wrought iron fence, and Fenris slipped through the bars with no trouble, though the feel of them brushing against his whiskers made him flinch.

It was not far to Hawke's estate, but the first sight of a human towering above him made his heart hammer in his chest, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to shrink into the shadows. Keeping tight control on his thoughts and his breathing, Fenris stayed close to buildings and ran as quickly as he could, not stopping for an instant until he was standing before Hawke's door, scratching madly at the unyielding wood.

He cried out, a warbling howl, and the moment the door cracked open he dashed inside, sparing no heed to the surprised dwarf. Inside, safe, the dimmer light made it easier to see the sharp edges of shapes, but Fenris was not stupid. He had little chance of being allowed to stay unless he could explain what had happened, and that did not seem possible in his current state, at least not without some significant luck. Scrambling through the foyer, Fenris bolted across the great room and bounded up the stairs, not stopping until he'd skittered into the shadows under Hawke's bed. Footsteps followed, tramping heavily, but Fenris stayed silent and still.

"Little… ugh. Where've you gotten to?" Bodahn was breathing hard, and Fenris felt his ears twitch at the sound of Hawke's voice filtering up from downstairs.

"Bodahn? What in the blazes?"

"A cat, messere," the dwarf called back. "Snuck in past my legs when I opened the door."

There was no reply from Hawke, at least none Fenris could hear over Bodahn's quiet grumbling, until the noise began. It was like the most ominous roll of thunder, and it tingled along his spine, raising his fur into a terrified ruff.

He smelled the beast before he saw it— fur, mud, fear, danger, run— but then the immense, slobbery head appeared under the edge of the bed, impossibly huge with those beady eyes and deadly jaws, and Fenris could not move a muscle. The dog looked at him, and he looked back at it, and the rest of the world narrowed into nothing.

Bracing himself for the snarling, the gnashing teeth, and very likely the bloody death, Fenris was more than a little shocked when the dog simply cocked his head to one side, whining softly, then lowered himself to lay down with his snout still under the bed.

"Did you find it, old boy?" Hawke. Fenris would have felt more relief, if not for the curious, unblinking gaze still pinning him in place. "Good lad. Now shoo before you scare the thing to death." The hound whined again, not moving, and Fenris was struck by a strange sense of recognition—

"Darby, go." Hawke's tone brooked no protest, and the dog dragged himself to his feet, replaced a moment later by a face Fenris knew well. "Hello there, friend. Fancy meeting you here." A large hand was extended, and Fenris shrank back instinctually, but the man just rubbed his fingers together with a strangely soothing sound. "Here, puss puss. No one's going to hurt you, little one."

More so than a real cat would, Fenris trusted that to be true. Over the years of their acquaintance, Hawke had proven himself honourable and exceptionally kind, if more than a little naïve when it came to the dangers of magic. Wrestling the urge to run, Fenris forced himself to crawl slowly towards the man.

"There's a good cat," Hawke crooned, and the first touch of his long fingers made Fenris squirm, pressing against the relaxing scratching behind on the back of his neck. It felt so good, almost sinfully pleasurable, and it took a moment for Fenris to realise that the steady purring sound was coming from his throat.

"You've got no collar," Hawke was saying, his tone gentle. "And you're bleeding all over my floors. Let's get a look at you, hm?"

When Hawke's other hand stretched out, grabbing him around the back end, Fenris allowed himself to be manhandled. It would not be the wisest course to be anything less than amiable while entirely at the man's mercy like this, not to mention depending on him for help. He was picked up very carefully, which was a novel sensation, and cradled against Hawke's broad chest like an infant.

"Hm," the man hummed, fingers still scratching rhythmically against his nape. "I know just where to bring you, puss."

The moment Hawke carried him down into the estate's basement Fenris should have started struggling— he knew where these passages led. Logic made him pause, however, distasteful as it might be.

With Bethany gone to the Circle, there were only two mages in Kirkwall with whom Fenris had any sort of dealings. Whatever this curse was, it had been done through magical means, and likely through magical means it would have to be undone.

Between a mouthy abomination and an idiot blood mage, this was perhaps the lesser of two despicable evils. Perhaps.

With that in mind, Fenris stopped himself from hissing when Hawke held him out to the bedraggled, grubby mage, though he could not keep his lip from curling.

"Oh, you poor thing," Anders murmured, taking him gently from Hawke. If anything, his grip was more comfortable than Hawke's— less prodding— and that simply served to make Fenris all the more resentful. "Just a little cut, I think. Let's mend that paw, shall we?"

There was a tingle in his foot, like dipping it in cool water, but none of the torture he usually associated with the barest touch of magic. Even healing usually ignited a ghost of agony through his markings, but not in this form, apparently. That was… a small mercy, he supposed.

"There, all better." Without warning, a large face nuzzled against his neck, light pressure and hot breath making him tense at the sheer audacity of it. He needed to stay calm, for his own sake. There could be no crushing of hearts or tearing of spines until he had hands again. "Maker breath, he's skin and bones, Hawke. He must be a stray."

That was entirely untrue— Fenris occasionally skipped meals, certainly, but he had been conditioned to sustain himself on very little, and he could hardly be faulted for being slender. Even fat elves, rare though they might be, were narrow-boned. He wasn't nearly so pathetic as a ratty, filthy apostate, for example—

"You're probably right," Hawke replied, and once again Fenris felt insulted. The man was brushing pale grey hairs off of his fine silk robe with a mildly disgusted twist to his mouth. "I'll ask around, just in case, but could it stay here in the meantime? I'm not sure trying to keep a cat with Darby in the house would end well."

"I— Well, of course. Your great hulking beast is not eating this cat." Against his better judgment, Fenris felt his muscles begin to relax as Anders continued to pet his back with long, firm strokes and scratches at the base of his tail. "He can stay here as long as he needs to."

Hawke cursed quietly, and Fenris felt a bolt of spiteful satisfaction watching him give up on brushing himself off, still coated in bits of fur. "I thought you might say that. What will you name this one? Sheds-a-lot?"

It was to Fenris' massive relief when Anders snorted disdainfully. "No. You've got no imagination, and you're a bit of a priss as well. Go home and change before you have an apoplexy."

"It's bloody itchy," Hawke groused, but left shortly thereafter, closing the clinic door behind himself. Alone with Anders, Fenris had no idea what to do except wait and try to figure out some way to express his situation.

"What will I call you, kitty?" Fenris found himself being carried deeper into the clinic, surprised at how much better it smelled than the stink of his house. This was a grubby cesspool in Darktown, usually full to the rafters with the sick and the poor, and it still smelled fresher than the mansion he squatted in day after day. That was disturbing.

When Anders set him down on a table, Fenris immediately missed the heat of his body. That was infinitely more disturbing.

"You're very pretty," Anders was saying, rubbing the fur around his ears, then down over his muzzle. "With those gorgeous green eyes. Are you a girl or a boy, sweetheart?"

There was something strangely affectionate in Anders' tone, and it made Fenris incredibly uncomfortable even as something warm and unwelcome curled in his stomach. This mage was a menace, an unchecked abomination waiting to lay waste to those around him, but here without the scrutiny of another living soul beyond a cat, he was… tender.

One broad hand reached under him, massaging his stomach, and Fenris found himself rolling over on his back almost instantly, wriggling into the contact. He had never craved the touch of another so fiercely, but there was something inherently blissful about fingers combing through his fur. Somehow, in this new body, the phantom pain did not trigger as it always had, and that was almost more than he could bear.

Anders chuckled warmly. "Well, aren't you a friendly little thing. Has no one given you cuddles before, kitty?" They hadn't, but that should not have mattered. "Oh! Oh, what a lucky lad you are. Holy Maker, look at the size of the stones on you." The man sounded awfully amused, and that was enough. Turning to lay on his side, Fenris growled in annoyance, his ears flattening against his skull. Almost instantly, Anders hands were lifted in surrender, his face drawn in an apologetic frown— it was a pose he had never seen the mage adopt before.

"Ah, easy now, sweetheart," he said, and Fenris quieted himself. He was trying to be likeable, after all. "How about some fish? Curing the hideous rashes of grateful dockworkers has some benefits, and I think you'll enjoy this one." By and large, Fenris was not a great lover of fish; seafood had been common in Minrathous, and he had too many memories of picking scraps from the bones Danarius would toss to him, on those days his master had felt it unnecessary to provide his Little Wolf with a meal of his own. He had rarely been starved outright, since his physical condition was so intrinsically tied to his usefulness, but that didn't mean Danarius wouldn't make eating a wholly degrading experience whenever it pleased him to do so.

Now however, the first smell of fish made him perk up, meowing loudly before he could swallow back the sound. Anders returned with a small saucer of shredded whitefish, some flakes still clinging to his fingers, and Fenris felt his stomach gurgle.

"There now." Anders set the saucer down, and Fenris sniffed at it quickly before snapping up a mouthful. It was bland, a little dry, but still impossibly delicious. "Have I wormed my way back into your good books, kitty? You just tuck into that, and I'll get some water as well."

He ate every bit of the fish, even licking the saucer until it scraped across the tabletop, and Anders chuckled again as he held the dish in place. "We'll put some meat on those bones yet, kitty. I think— ugh." Fenris sat back on his haunches when Anders grunted in what sounded like pain, watching the man warily. Anders pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut. When his spoke again, his voice was slightly hoarse, as if he'd been shouting. "Uh, balls. Listen kitty, I just have to say that you can leave anytime you'd like, all right? Even though it's safe and relatively warm in here, and the Undercity is full of desperate people very willing to pretend handsome little cats are just sewer rabbits, ready for the pot. You're certainly not a prisoner, or a slave, or anything ridiculous like that."

There was no flash of blue, nor the strange crackle of raw magic that usually accompanied the abomination's descent into this madness of his own making. Still, Fenris remained on guard.

Finally, after a moment of heavy breathing, Anders opened his eyes and relaxed his stance. "Well, that was bracing." When the man reached for him again, Fenris flinched, unwilling to cloak himself in false civility after such a display of the monster that lurked within his… keeper. Instead, he hunched his back and leapt from the table, darting away to lurk beneath the closest cot.

He would think of some way to communicate, some way to reverse this curse, but he would not suffer that abomination any more than necessary.

After a few minutes of silence, he heard Anders gathering up the dishes. "Ah," the man said, and Fenris could hear a smile in his tone. "Cats." Then he began to whistle quietly; it was a tune Fenris did not recognise, but it was surprisingly cheery.

It was a long day of nothing, with patients and Anders' assistants milling in and out, and the mage himself working at a breakneck pace with barely any time spared to even catch his breath. The thick odour of magic in the air, tasting crisp and slightly bitter in the back of his throat, made Fenris dizzy, as did the flurry of feet moving around beyond the sanctuary of his cot.

Then, finally, the last of the great rush of bodies and beggars began to die down, and the clinic fell silent save for the breathing of the handful of patients who remained, most in various states of unconsciousness. It had been hours, and something strange was happening with his thoughts, some level of clarity slipping out of his grasp in a way he could barely describe— it was terrifying.

If he became a simple beast in his mind, as he was in his body… no. It was not helpful to dwell on the possibility, except as a reminder to hang on to every complex thought, forcing his mind to work as it should.

Without warning, Anders' face appeared below the edge of the cot, nearly upside down, and Fenris was startled out of his dark anxiety. "Still hiding, sweetheart?"

Fenris would have called up a hiss, but there was a saucer in the man's hand, and the scent of fish succeeded in shoving all concerns about abominations somewhere to the very back of his mind. He shouldn't— he should simply ignore—

Crawling forward across the cold dirt floor, Fenris heard himself meow.

This cat was a nervous little thing, though given the half-starved state of him Anders was hardly surprised. Not so nervous that a bit of haddock wouldn't draw him out, though.

It took a few days for Messere Nibbles— a compromise, after suggestions of Snuggletoes and Crabbybritches had both gotten him a sharp nip on the fingers— to warm up to his new home, but Anders had faith. Since his merger with Justice, there were the occasional, brief moments when he could scarcely remember his name, where he was, or why, but even with a Fade spirit tangled up in his brain, he still knew cats.

One night he felt a slight weight settle at the foot of his cot, and Anders hid his smile in his pillow, not acknowledging his bedmate in the slightest. The morning after that milestone, he pulled a pair of feathers from his coat and tied them to a length of string. The simple wiggling toy was enough to send Nibbles into the most adorable frenzy, writhing around on his back and batting all four paws like he was duelling a dragon.

When he woke up nearly a week into their acquaintance, nearly suffocating from the fluffy grey body curled up on his head, Anders knew it was love.

They fell into something of a comfortable routine after that, with Anders puttering around his clinic during the day, and Nibbles napping on any available soft surface when he wasn't winding between Anders' legs. Evenings, when the clinic was quiet, were spent hunched over his desk with a purring bundle coiled up in his lap, kneading his thigh, and most nights ended with a mouthful of cat hair, since Nibbles had decided the pillow was more than big enough for the pair of them.

He felt… a little calmer. A bit more centred. Even Justice seemed to approve, since whatever contentment was leaching into him from the cat's presence had led to a clearing of his mind rather than lethargy. The feel of silky soft fur under his fingers was grounding, a tether to help him focus.

Then the templars came, and he nearly unravelled.

He was lucky he'd made some friends in Darktown during his years there— mothers did not forget the man who pulled their children back from the brink of death, grateful husbands felt indebted to the healer who kept their wives alive, and at least some of the poor, lost souls who lined the sewers had a glimmer of affection for the crazy mage who cared about them. Between that, and Varric's interference with the gangs, Anders felt almost safe in his little corner of the slums.

Not so safe that every noise in the dark didn't send his heart pounding, but it was better than constant dread.

It was late, and he was going about his final bed checks on the few patients who required (or requested) staying overnight, when the clinic door banged open with enough force to bring magic swirling around his fists. His patients gasped and squawked, but it wasn't a half-dozen armed and armoured jailers come to drag him off to the Gallows, or perhaps slay him on sight.

Henry, a young boy he'd once spent two stressful days rebuilding from the inside out after he was crushed under a runaway cart, was standing in his doorway, wild-eyed and panting.

"Serah," he gasped, hands braced on his knobbly knees. "Templars, searchin' the slums. You gotta go, now."

Panic and rage warred like opposing typhoons in his chest, and he could feel his consciousness begin to slip away, his skin growing tight and hot, but no. There were patients here, innocents, and he had too much left to do to risk slaughtering a company of templars in his home. Swallowing back the swirling anger— vengeance—that snarled and snapped inside him like a mad beast in a cage, Anders nodded sharply to the boy and made a dash towards the back of the clinic, then out the concealed exit there.

Later, crammed into one of the tiny boltholes deeper in the sewers that he kept lightly stocked with meagre provisions, just as a precaution, Anders was flooded by guilt. Messere Nibbles— Andraste's grace, he'd left him behind. How could he be so stupid?

Would he stay hidden in the clinic, or would the templars' no doubt hostile and insistent rummaging through their home send the skittish little cat racing out into the danger of the Undercity? Would they… were they monstrous enough to hurt a defenceless animal? Of course they bloody were; he'd seen what they'd do to humans and elves, to children, just for having the gift of magic.

With his back pressed up against the wall of his hiding place, Anders slid down into a squat, dropping his head into his hands. Splinters caught in his coat, and the tugging reminded him of Nibbles clawing for attention.

"Please," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against the heat prickling in them. "Oh Maker, please sweetheart. Just stay safe."

He spent the rest of the night and the next morning hidden away, then took the long way back home, stopping at a few hovels he knew would be safe. The rumours said the templars had made a show of terrorizing their way to his clinic, then laying waste to the place once inside— no one died, thank the Maker, but he'd have a few injured people waiting for him when he returned.

In light of that information, it seemed in bad taste to inquire after his cat, so Anders bit his tongue. If Nibbles had died horribly at the end of a templar blade, or even worse, under a templar boot, surely someone would have mentioned that.

They didn't kill nobody, serah, but there was this brave little spitfire of a cat— scratched one of the blighters eyes out 'fore they took him down.

No, he didn't want to think about it. He'd been selfish enough as a younger man to feel a vague sense of pride after the incident with Mr. Wiggums, but now… now he just wanted his cat.

He came back to the clinic through the rear passage, sneaking into his own home like a thief on the small chance there were templars still lurking about. His private space— the cot, his trunk of clothes and effects, his writing desk— was a complete shambles, but not unsalvageable. They hadn't smashed the furniture, just toppled it over, though they had shredded all of his papers, his books, and even his clothes.

Peeking around into the rest of the clinic, Anders swallowed thickly. It was… it wasn't as bad as he'd feared, and that was a thread of sanity to cling to, even as Vengeance flared with wrath. Cots were overturned, linens stomped into the dirt and a little torn, and by the look of his shelves, he didn't expect to find many salves and poultices remaining. There were no people, though he expected that to change once he lit the lantern again, and only a small amount of dried blood. No bodies, feline or otherwise.

"Messere Nibbles," he called softly, flinching at the sound of his voice in the eerie silence of the clinic. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty. It's safe now, sweetheart. Come on out."

There was no movement, and the cold stone of fear in his gut grew larger. "Nibbles? Here kitty, kitty… here, kitty…"

Then he heard it— a faint, pitiable meowing from the direction of the clinic's main doors. Rushing over, he cursed when the door wouldn't budge an inch; the bastards had boarded him up, again.

Listening carefully, Anders prayed Nibbles would stay just where he was, somewhere far to the right. A quick spell later, and he'd encased his shoulder in rock, enough to take the brunt of the impact when he slammed it against the left hand door. If Nibbles did happen to move too close, this was less likely to crush him than a magic boulder hurtling through the air.

His first smash ended in a crunch, as the boards nailed to the other side began to give way. Two more hard pushes and Anders nearly stumbled arse over teakettle through the splintered doorframe.

He didn't even have the chance to stand up properly before his leg was attacked by fiery pinpricks, making him hiss out another curse. Nibbles was a tangle of sharp grey limbs, trying desperately to clamber up his body like a goat on a mountainside, but Anders was much too relieved to fault him the bloody scrapes he was no doubt leaving behind.

"Shush, love," he said, reaching down to pry the cat off his thigh and gather the trembling little creature into his arms. "It's fine. We're both safe, yes?" Claws dug into his shoulder in response, but it could have been so much worse.

Anders smiled a little sadly, stepping over his broken door and back into the clinic.

After the templar episode, Anders was more than a bit reluctant to leave Nibbles behind whenever he needed to go outside the clinic, whether for supplies, or to travel with Hawke. Nearly a month of decent meals and a warm bed meant the cat had begun to fill out nicely, smoothing what had been jutting angles of bone at his shoulders and along his ribs, but it also meant he was too large to fit comfortably in the pocket of Anders' coat. A small pack was relatively easy to track down, just a bag to sling across his chest, and Nibbles didn't object overmuch to being toted about in it so long as Anders didn't close the flap.

It was a little dangerous, but the thought of his cat falling to templars or hungry refugees while he was out gallivanting up the Wounded Coast was unacceptable. Nibbles seemed to agree, if his enthusiastic rush towards the bag whenever Hawke appeared in the clinic's doorway was any indication.

It was on one of these excursions when, with Aveline screaming and twitching in a cruel cage of arcane energy, Anders gathered up a great surge of spellpower and blasted the crushing prison into nothingness. Hawke was behind the slaver mage in an instant, sinking both daggers into the man's neck before he could raise a shield, but suddenly Anders was not in the best position to observe the battlefield.

Luckily, between Aveline, Hawke and Sebastian, the rest of the slavers were mopped up in only a few moments. Anders was a little busy trying to free himself from the very angry, very naked elf who'd just tackled him to the ground rather unexpectedly. Long, lyrium marked limbs were tangled around him, and Fenris didn't seem as… graceful in his movements as Anders expected. Not that he'd ever expected to be pounced upon by the sour bastard, at least not without more clothes and especially more steel, regardless of whether or not the elf appeared out of thin air.

"What the— Get off, you bloody—" Anders kicked Fenris in the ribs hard enough to knock the elf into the sand. "Maker's holy balls—" Nibbles. Scrambling to open the pack, Anders felt his heart stop at the vast, empty space inside. "Where is my cat? I swear, if he's hurt—"

The elf stopped cursing in Arcanum long enough to kick Anders back, very hard in the shin. "I was the blighted cat, you idiot mage."

He was… but…

Anders could hardly hear their companions' frantic questions over the pounding of blood in his ears.

For the first two weeks or so afterward, he felt numb, except for the disappointed tension throbbing in the base of his skull. Justice did not approve of wasting time with grief, especially since no one had actually died— the cat had been the product of a curse, and now that curse was lifted. The loss of Messere Nibbles had brought things right again, where no one but the victim had even realised an injustice had been done.

To the Void with that horseshit. Anders missed his cat, and Justice could just buck up and deal with it for a little while.

Also, if one more urchin child asked where his kitty was, he was going to scream.

It would have been bearable, possibly, had it been anyone else but him. That bitter, obstinate, heartless prick of an elf. The walk back to Kirkwall had been especially tense, with that son of a bitch shooting glares at him the entire time, as if being turned into a cat by some ridiculous trap left by his former master was somehow Anders' fault. He'd even had the decency to offer the elf his coat, since none of the others had more than an undershirt they could realistically strip off, but that had been curtly refused. Trudging over sand dunes with his scrawny legs sticking out below the thin tunic he'd borrowed from Sebastian, flashing more than the occasional view of his bare arse, Fenris barely spoke a word to any of them after explaining what had happened.

Which was fine by Anders. The last thing he needed was a litany of cruel jabs about his affection for the cat-that-wasn't, especially when he was still reeling over Nibbles' absence.

So he threw himself into healing, more so than usual, and a few meetings with fellow rebel mages living free. Justice perked up a bit at that development, which left Anders without a headache, but still strangely… lonesome. If anything, on the few occasions he was forced to interact with Fenris, the elf was exceedingly confrontational with him, to the point where Hawke (who usually avoided getting involved in arguments between his companions) had called him out on the new strength of his belligerence.

Fenris had not taken the chastisement especially well, and Anders couldn't help but be reminded of the way Nibbles' fur used to stand up in a ruff whenever the cat was angry.

A month passed, then another, and Anders was trying to get back even a little of the focus he'd had before, when Nibbles had been a warm weight on his lap and a silent friend to confide in. He felt like the worst kind of fool, but at least Fenris had started avoiding him like the plague.

Then, very late one night, the strangest thing he'd ever experienced happened— stranger than talking darkspawn, friendly spirit possession, or even his beloved cat turning into a hateful elf. Anders was sprawled out across his cot, staring up into the shadowy ceiling of his clinic and willing himself to just go to sleep, when a knock sounded from somewhere quite nearby.

He tensed, unsure and suspicious, then quickly rolled out of bed when whatever it was knocked again, definitely from the direction of his secret exit.

"Shit," he whispered, torn about what he should do. Only a few members of the resistance should have known about that particular hidden passage, but that didn't guarantee a friend waited on the other side. Still, it could be a mage in trouble… hopefully not bringing trouble to his door, but he wouldn't turn one of his own away.

Grabbing his staff from beside his cot and calling up a small wisp for light, Anders inched over to the door. He always kept a table butted up against it, with some flasks on top to clink together like an alarm should anyone try to sneak in. Pushing the table aside, Anders reached out and undid the latch, opening the door a crack and leaning away.

"Who's there?" he hissed, not stupid enough to stick his head out and look. Silence greeted him, making his suspicion flare, but then the door swung slowly open, revealing his… most unexpected visitor.

With the strange leather of his armour glistening in the light of the wisp, and his lyrium markings simmering faintly blue, Fenris looked like some eerie, spectral apparition. It didn't help that he was scowling furiously beneath the fringe of his ridiculous hair.

Anders didn't relax his guard for one instant.

"What are you doing here?"

All he received in response was a wordless snarl, before Fenris took a very threatening step forward. It took a lot of willpower to keep a rein on Justice, but Anders managed it— he wasn't entirely certain either he or Fenris would survive if it came to an actual fight, but he preferred his heart inside his chest.

"Whatever you did," Fenris rasped, harsh and demanding. "To break that curse and return me to this form, do it again. Now."

"What?" Anders narrowed his eyes, adjusting his grip on his staff. "Why?"

There was a flicker of blue as Fenris' markings pulsed. Manly posturing could go hang; Anders took a step back, trying to put a wider space between them than the reach of an elven arm. Fenris followed, his pace smooth and measured, and Anders had rarely felt so much like prey. The pressure of Vengeance swelled, displeased by the threat.

"Do it now, mage, or I'll tear out your spine."

"Try it and I'll set you on fire."

Neither moved, but the air sizzled dangerously. If this went bad, it would go spectacularly bad, but the clinic was empty besides the two of them. If they tore the bloody place down around themselves, at least there weren't any patients to get caught in the crossfire.

Finally, after an eternity of silent glaring, a muscle in Fenris' cheek twitched, and he began speaking very quietly. "There have been… lingering effects. I am suffering, and you are a healer. Fix this."

Anders couldn't recall the elf ever referring to him as a healer before. It had always been mage, abomination, or occasionally monster (though that last one was mostly reserved for Merrill; Anders didn't entirely disagree, but he would have gone with naïve little moron instead). Cloaked though it was in a boorish demand, the word made him pause.

"Lingering effects?" He watched Fenris' lip curl, but ignored it. "Explain what you mean. I need to know what I'm dealing with before I can fix anything."

His Arcanum had never been very good, but whatever Fenris began muttering did not sound complimentary. Shaking his head sharply, like a wolf breaking the neck of a doe, the elf stalked farther into the dark clinic and away from the glow of the wisp.

"I cannot sleep," he said, turning his face into the shadows. "My mind… I cannot think without— There is—" He cursed again, and Anders could see his fists clenched hard at his sides, trembling. After a few moments, during which Anders barely dared to breathe, Fenris seemed to find his voice once more.

"I despise you." It was surprising how little vitriol seeped into that sentence; the elf almost sounded more frightened than angry, and that was bizarre. "You are an unthinking fool and an abomination… you are everything that should be feared about mages. Why— why can I not stop thinking of you?"

It was like the floor opened up beneath his feet. Anders heard someone gasp, and realised it'd been himself the moment Fenris whipped around, eyes flashing like green fire.

"You are haunting my thoughts," the elf growled, and Anders found himself shoved roughly against the wall, glass tinkling as his hip knocked the table. Fenris was fast, too bloody fast, and Vengeance howled in the back of his mind when sharp gauntlets bit into his bare shoulders. He was suddenly very aware of just how naked a person could feel in only a pair of loose cotton trousers.

The gauntlets left Fenris' palms exposed, and Anders felt the heat of his skin very keenly, contrasting the cool, buzzing sensation he assumed was the touch of his markings. The elf had never been so close to him, not on purpose; there was breath ghosting over his face, warm and sweet with a hint of wine.

Years of loneliness— that was his only explanation for the twitch he felt. He hated this pigheaded, bigoted elf, and he wasn't so desperate for a little physical affection that he would overlook that, even if the son of a bitch was incredibly handsome.

"Fenris," he said flatly, proud when he was able to keep all but the smallest quaver out of his voice. "Get off of me."

Instead of complying, Fenris gripped him harder, making him wince at the sting of spiky metal pricking flesh. "Fix this."

"I can't." Careful to keep tight control on the spirit raging through his brain, Anders called up a hint of spellpower and sent a jolt of electricity skating over his skin. As he'd hoped, the shock of magic and the slight pain made Fenris jerk back, hissing.

"Blight take you, mage— fix this."

"Fine." Reaching out into the Fade, Anders gathered up a massive amount of energy, ignoring the fleeting fear that twisted Fenris' expression. Rather than smash him in the face with the full force of the spell— Maker, it was tempting— he held up the swirling mass of violet for Fenris' scrutiny. "This will dispel any magic still clinging to you. Brace yourself."

He could have waited, but he'd used up all of his patience when he stopped himself from ploughing the spell right into the belligerent bastard without any warning at all. Fenris sucked in a short, gasping breath when the spell activated, bursting outward with ethereal radiance, then stood completely frozen for a few long, silent moments.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely a croak. "Is… is it done?"

"I've done what I can." Slipping away from the wall, Anders circled around the elf warily. "For whatever good it does you." Reaching up, he ran his hands over his smarting shoulders, healing the shallow gouges.

"Thank you." Anders knew he'd gone slack-jawed, gaping, but the hesitant gratitude might have been the most unanticipated part of this entire debacle.

Blinking stupidly, he tried not to flounder like a fool. "I… You're welcome."

Before the words had left his mouth, Fenris was gone.

If Anders didn't know better, he'd have said whatever lingering effects Fenris had been suffering had somehow transferred to him.

You are haunting my thoughts.

Maker's breath, he was truly losing his mind. Justice, always so very helpful, agreed wholeheartedly with that assessment.

He could not stop thinking about Fenris. It was a sickness, a curse, and it was driving him mad.

Sure, the elf had been a starring player in a lot of Anders' dreams since they'd met— usually nasty, vindictive dreams that woke him gasping and panting, unsure of his name. It had never (rarely, Justice supplied tartly, falsehoods do us no good) been like this before.

He dreamed of warmth, not the acidic burn of rage. He tangled his fingers in soft hair, and heard the heartbeat of another living soul, pressed close against his ear. He tasted wine, and felt the rasp of a tongue sliding along his jaw, his neck… his cock. He woke, gasping and panting, but also hard and aching, and he hated himself.

Yes, he'd had dreams of having sex with Fenris before, but they had always (often) been dark and brutal, and each time left him feeling filthy and ashamed. This was different, somehow.

This was… idiotic.

He wasn't exactly hiding in his clinic, but he'd been giving Hawke excuses for weeks about how busy he was, and how he simply couldn't take the time to go traipsing around the docks or the coast on whatever jaunts had caught the man's interest this time. The excuses were lies, for the most part, but Justice kept his grumbling to a minimum.

They both knew something was seriously wrong, and taking the risk of seeing Fenris did not seem wise.

And it wasn't wise at all, but as it turned out, it was unavoidable.

If anyone ever asked, Anders would have vehemently denied shrieking like a girl at the first touch of a hand on his ankle, but it was the dead of night, and he'd been asleep in an empty, locked clinic. He scrambled back, but the grip on his leg held him firm, and before he could concentrate enough to gather his magic, a slim body slithered onto the cramped cot, curling up beside him.

"Shut up," the body snarled, and Anders knew that voice. Holy Maker, Fenris. Naked Fenris, it seemed like, and reeking of alcohol. If he were hairier and stunk of vomit and dirty feet as well, it would have been disturbingly similar to sharing a cot with Oghren. "Just… shut up. I need sleep."

"You need— what?" Even in the darkness, Anders could make out the back of a white-haired head, and the slope of one smooth shoulder. He wasn't touching, at least not with his hands, but the cot was small and Fenris seemed to have no compunction about pressing his back against Ander's chest. They were spooning.

"Cold," Fenris slurred, with what could have been drunkenness or exhaustion, but was probably a combination of both. "Quiet. Too quiet… need breathing… warm. Shut up."

It was nonsense, and if Anders hadn't known exactly what the utterly rat-arsed elf was on about, he would have booted him out of bed in an instant. Something unwelcome twisted in his chest, however, and stopped him dead.

Very, very carefully, Anders brushed his fingers against Fenris' arm, just above his elbow. The elf made a strange humming sound— almost a purr— but otherwise didn't react.

Regardless of the insanity of the situation, the absence of a glowing hand punching into his chest cavity was a good sign. Anders let fingers become a palm, stroking over warm, slightly textured skin. The markings were raised like scars, and they made something tingle under Anders' skin. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

This is madness,someone thought. Anders nodded to himself, then leaned forward until his lips brushed against surprising silky hair. The chances were pretty good that one of them would die, come morning. It would probably be terribly gruesome.

For the moment, however, Anders felt strangely peaceful.

For the moment, he wasn't so achingly alone.