The footstep was almost silent -almost, but not quite.

Anders didn't turn around.

"Hawke, I'm in the middle of-"

"It's not Hawke," a voice said close behind him, and Anders spun around, magic flaring in automatic defense as he faced Fenris. The elf was close-too close, looming a little and not meeting Anders' eyes. He let the magic fade. Fenris appeared not to have noticed his little reaction, although Justice was glaring from the back of his mind.

"Fenris," he said. "Do you need something? If it's that rash, I told you and Isabela-"

"It's not the rash," Fenris growled. "Mage, I-"

"It's not? Then are you wounded? Do you need healing? I mean, you wouldn't usually come here unless - is it Hawke?" Maker, he sounded like Merril. But really, what was an apostate to do, when Thedas' most irritable elf showed up in his clinic in the middle of the night, looking suspicious and smelling of some very expensive wine? Fenris shook his head. Not Hawke, then. "You know hangover cures won't work while you're still drunk, so-"

Now Fenris looked up, glaring.

"For the love of the Maker, will you stop babbling?"

Anders shut up.

Briefly.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day?" he finally asked.

Something indefinable flickered in the elf's expression, and his expression became almost a…smirk?

What the hell?

"No," Fenris said. Then he leaned in, putting his palms flat on the workbench on either side of Anders. "I think I will do this instead."

And he kissed him.