AN - Christmas gift for Suilven for being her enabling, organized little self.
Having out-of-control magic in the first floor of the Keep wasn't that unusual. In fact, it was something of a twice a week event, complete with different effects every time. Anders had lost count of the times they had had to patch up that room because their Warden-Commander would invariably find her way inside for her little temper tantrum. Sorry, no, according to her that would be a slight demonstration of disagreement.
She was also filled up with bullshit to the very brink.
Only this time, there hadn't been a messenger from Denerim – usually a sure sign that they'd need to call the stonemason all over again. Not really. But truth was that Moira Amell was back between four walls, a splendid touch of lightning seen through the window pane if one bothered to watch. Most didn't, choosing to ignore it and move along. Anders is different.
Moving towards the first floor, the blond haired mage tries to steel himself against whatever he is going to face. What could have it been this time? He is pretty sure he had started to pick up after himself (it had just been a few hairs on the tub!) and the clothing had been folded (mostly stuck inside his drawers) and there was no sign of his manifest between her journals (just inside the one for the First Warden, he couldn't really lose that opportunity). It isn't his fault then.
Satisfied with that conclusion, he stops in front of the smooth wooden door, wondering just how burnt it is already on the inside. A knock does nothing. The second does little less. Better to rush right into it. Still, when Anders opens the obstacle, it is with the caution of someone handling a particularly stubborn headed Mabari with too many sharp teeth. Kind of like her dog. Kind of like its owner.
"What is going on here?"
Because whatever his eyes are telling him, it is really not enough.
Moira is kneeling on the floor, all of her form covered in bright spots of lightning; playing with her Warden robes, slipping through her dark hair as if swimming. That isn't the unexpected piece. It is weird but not unexpected. Thatwould be what she is doing.
Like having a staring contest with his cat.
Pounce sits in front of her, his little tail swaying from side to side, light eyes fixated on the human in front of it with undeniable attention.
"Moira? What are you doing?"
The female mage doesn't move.
"Busy."
"Moira, dearest." His good sense tells him he should really leave the room, claims his companion is currently on one of her less normal phases and perhaps leaving this to the cat is smarter. Curiosity killed it though. Meow. "What in the world are you…"
Still doesn't move though Anders is pretty sure she just huffed.
"I'm trying to bond with Ser Pounce here!" Moira explains sharply. "But the stupid thing doesn't cooperate."
This is one type of bonding he has never seen.
"Maybe not calling him stupid would help?"
Not prodding the out-of-control mage might too; one would think sharing close quarters would have taught him that. Moira turns her eyes from the cat – which is just as devoted to their contest as she is and isn't that an eye-opener? – staring up at him with all the fury of a woman armed with a good dose of hormones and a lot of irrationality.
"Quiet or I'll smite you."
The obvious needs to be said. "You're a mage."
"I also command this garrison. I can find a bloody Templar to kick you around this Keep." Sadly true. Moira moves back to the cat, both hands resting on the floor in front of her and she will never hear from him just how curiously amazing that image is. "I tried," she continues, narrowing her eyes at the creature. "I tried giving it."
"Him," Anders corrects automatically.
A bout of lightning sparks right next to his left eye, blinding him for a moment.
"I'm going to kill you. Him! Milk and some fruit and cookies, those even got Sten on my side!"
"And you do realize he's a carnivore, right?"
It's not that he's a masochist. The image of her on all fours, angry and having a staring contest with his cat just amuses him. Sue him.
Anders tries to smother the wide grin which is battling for dominance, a hand rising to touch one of the tendrils of magic still angrily ripping the air apart. "What is all of this about anyway?"
Moira finally gives him her whole attention, an incredulous look to her face which is basically telling him he is being very very blind. And slow. And stupid. That's written all over the three little lines on her forehead.
"Because we're supposed to share, that's why!"
She stands still in a fury and the lightning dancing on her skin and irradiating is both frightening and addictive at the same time. Like a slightly more dangerous lightshow. Anders watches the shining sparkles, blinking and out of existence in an odd kind of fascination. He never sees her breaking away from his cat and, especially, he doesn't see when she pounces on him.
Quite literally.
The mage loses his balance somewhere while she tackles him, legs expertly finding his waist, arms momentarily around his neck before they find the floor - when did they get there? Oh right, when his back started hurting – and her lips smash against his. He's not very sure just what she's doing but Maker above, keep on doing it. All he knows is that there are teeth and lips and tongue and then she's. oh. Moving. Right.
Please don't stop moving. Screw the hard floor, please, Maker, don't let her stop whatever she's doing.
And she doesn't seem to want to. What started with anger shifts to something that's very slow, much worse for many parts of his anatomy, her fingers searching for his hair and then.
Oi. What's with all the thinking?
Moira keeps it up for a little while - taking particular care to destroy his sanity - before stopping, abruptly and out of nowhere. All he sees is her narrowed eyes when she pulls away, her head turning to the side so brusquely that he almost gets whiplash.
To glare at his cat.
"Mine," she growls, standing up, patting her hands on her robes like she did just nothing at all, the lightning fading until all the light inside the room irradiates from the fireplace. "He's mine, you Maker-forsaken cat! Deal with it!"
He's pretty sure he was supposed to pipe in a word against these sentences but his mouth isn't cooperating very well. Neither is his brain but that's because it's currently mush and dribbling onto the floor.
Moira passes by him, satisfied and not even caring about all the issues she just caused which will need a cold bath outside to get rid of. The door closes behind her with a muffled little thud, almost unhearable over the blood thundering against his temples.
And Pounce walks to him, his head right in front of him. His look? Feels like Wynne insulting his intelligence all over again.
What just happened here?
xxxXXXxxx
They think they own a lot, these people. These humans.
"What are you doing, you damned cat? I got no more time for staring contests."
And she is right. His-mage is putty in her paws.
"Stop pawing the quill, I need to write this."
Only they forget something.
He rules this place. House and rooms and couch. He does. You know how he knows it?
"…hey, Pounce. Want a biscuit?"
Like that.
Mwahahaha.
Ahem.
See?