For the prompt in the BSN Anders thread - Leaving Anders in charge of Vigil's Keep

Note: Suggestive. Depending on your view of things, it might get a little heated. Or, maybe not!

A Week's Worth of Trouble

"Anders, I'm trusting you," Iseult's tone clearly said 'obey or else'. Although Anders knew from experience he could usually wheedle that 'or else' down to a frustrated sigh.

They were sitting in her study, a warm sunny light coming through the large paned window. She'd had it put in during restorations, the pane of glass a present from her brother. It had the Cousland family crest worked into the top, a small bit of color in an otherwise clear window. She'd arranged the papers on her desk into neat stacks, and now she was absentmindedly sharpening her knife. It was something she did whenever she was nervous. Not really a great recommendation for her trust in him. "I'd rather you leave her alone until I find out more about her. She's an unknown quantity."

"Let me find out more about her, I'm all about the hands-on tasks." Anders' grin faded as Iseult set her dagger on the desk between them. "Fine, I promise to not even give her a wink." Unless she approaches me first, he added in his head. "But, do you have to leave me in charge? Why can't Justice do it?" he asked, studying the window behind her. How did she keep it so clean? The inside, yes okay, but the outside? They were three floors up.

"We've been over this every day for the past week. Justice is ill – you were the one to tell me the magics weren't healing him. And, you've been in charge before."

"Yes, but that was when we were out on patrol, or a mission – I got to order people about and impress pretty girls with my position. The only pretty girl to impress here you warn me off of, and there's paperwork." Anders shifted on the hard chair. When she took over the room she had all the soft, ornate furniture replaced with functional plain pieces. He missed the cushions.

She grinned wolfishly, "You mean, she's the only pretty girl you haven't already… impressed." Iseult gave a significant glance downwards, to his lap. "As much as it pains you to be the ant instead of the butterfly, you are the only choice. Nate is coming with me, Oghren has been drunk for the past three days and Sigrun is still on her recruitment mission in Orzammar. I'm not promoting a junior warden over you, so you will just have to deal with the paperwork."

"If my hand cramps up and I can't heal anyone, I'm blaming you. Just so you know. When Justice is better, can he do the paperwork?"

"If you can convince him. Until then, I'm trusting you." She caught his eyes with hers, and Anders had the uncomfortable feeling that she actually did trust him. Better that she didn't, he would rather she be impressed the Vigil was still standing rather than be disappointed that trade routes had gone awry.

Anders sighed. "Will you at least tell me how you keep that window clean?"

She ignored the question. "We'll be leaving just after dawn in the morning. I'll expect you to be up to see us off."

Anders grumbled as he left the room. Dawn! There went his plans for the night.

…

The sun hadn't yet peeked over the horizon when Anders stumbled out to the courtyard. It was madness to be up this early. He stretched, trying to wake up. Even Pounce was still asleep. He didn't see why Nate and Iseult couldn't leave at a decent hour, like noon. Fergus wouldn't care as long as they arrived before the wedding, and Zevran was back in Antiva again, so it wasn't like he would be there waiting. He hated missing weddings – the feasts, the liquor, the girls… he sighed morosely. They were on rations here at the Vigil. What he'd do for something good and sweet and buttery.

Glancing around the courtyard he couldn't believe so many people were awake and busy at this hour of the morning. Even as Iseult's coach disappeared into the distance they continued to work. He didn't see Garavel around anywhere, though. As quietly as possible, Anders made his way back up the stairs and to his room. Iseult only said he had to be up to see them off – she hadn't said anything about staying awake.

The first days went as smooth as he could hope for. There were no emergencies. No one roused him out of bed or demanded he sign papers, and with the rest of them gone he could actually use the Commander's tub for bathing. Every night they drank, playing games of chance and magic. He'd accidentally cracked a bit of wall, but that was no problem. It could be mended. Probably. And one of the junior wardens sliced apart a chair, after he encouraged them to practice swordplay in the salon – but Iseult kept getting rid of the nice furniture anyway. Everything she had set in place, from the meal plans to the lessons for new recruits, worked perfectly. It was only on the sixth day that everything went downhill. It started at breakfast.

A serving girl came in, curtsied, and then spoke, "The cook wishes the menu plan for the week, Ser."

Anders looked at her, perplexed. The menu plan? But it was working so well. "Can't we just keep it the same?" he asked. She looked at him with the same perplexed expression he'd given her. Oh right. He was supposed to be giving the orders. "I mean, tell the Cook it will be the same as last week."

The girl curtsied again and left the room, but was back before he'd made it halfway through his meal.

"She says that's impossible and asks to speak with you," a touch of fear came into the girl's eyes, "Sorry." This time she left before he could reply.

He'd talked to the cook before, many times. He didn't understand the girl's expression. Cook liked him and always gave him a second helping of dessert. That is, when they had it. He really was tired of all this rationing. Next thing they'd be cutting down on soap and sundries.

On the way down to the kitchens, he glimpsed the curling red hair of the new woman Iseult had warned him away from. For once she didn't disappear down a hallway at his approach. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle at him. He could say hello, that wasn't a wink, it was mere politeness. Just as he was about to greet her, Garavel sidelined him with a stack of paperwork.

"These need to be read and signed – that is, if you agree with them," Garavel was as terse as always. "These people need a reply back, and these…" he stopped as if he couldn't bear to say the words.

"Go on, it'll be much easier if you rip the bandage off quickly. Here, I'll help. Those… need to be set on fire? Are queries from beautiful women who want to become wardens? Or no – those are requests for you to retire and leave all your duties to Frederick the Fisherman?"

The muscles in Garavel's jaw clenched. "These need your immediate decision. We can't wait for the Commander. As much as I would like to," he ground out the words.

"Thank you, I'm so glad we had this little chat. It's been enlightening for us all. Though I suppose things are always a little dim for you." Garavel stormed off, back straighter than Anders thought possible. Looking down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, he wondered if Justice was awake yet. Maybe he'd check on that first. The woman was no where in sight.

On his way to the infirmary, he was interrupted yet again. This time by a frantic servant.

"Ser Anders, you must come at once! Warden Apprentice Mareyla has turned Warden Apprentice Brenton unto a pig, and she can't change him back!"

"Of all the… How did she do that?"

"I don't know, Ser. Warden Apprentice Mareyla sent me for you, she's worried Cook will take him, since we ran out of salted pork and picked eel yesterday, and the hens have been off their lay. He's squealing something awful."

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry about the picked eel. And I guess that explains why we need a change in menu, but that's absolutely ridiculous."

"Please! She says she needs you at once!"

Anders sighed. Justice would have to wait. "Lead on, where are they?"

Brenton was squealing something awful. Anders could hear him a floor away. He had no idea how he was going to help. Shapeshifting was definitely not his forte. It was so far from his forte that he'd never done it. Not once. He couldn't even tell a shapeshifted mage from an actual animal, and had no idea how Mareyla had shifted someone other than herself. He'd thought that impossible.

Just as he was about to open the door, Oghren stumbled into view. Still drunk. Anders opened his mouth to greet him, but then remembered he was still angry. The dwarf had been on a bender since the last visit from his wife. Seems she found out the Commander had been coaching him writing letters. Anders felt more than a little offended at that. Iseult was no expert at charming a partner, all she had to do was say yes, and that was that. He was the expert. He would never have let Oghren be found out.

"Damn Orlesians," Oghren slurred. "Think they can just send me to my room. Heh. I'll show them what it means to mess with a dwarf."

"What are you talking about?" Anders couldn't help himself from asking.

"Damn Orlesians!" Oghren yelled this time. Anders wondered if he imagined the echo down the hall. "They come in all high and mighty with their shiny armor and their shiny… shiny… eyeballs. I told 'em the Commander wasn't here, but do they listen? Nooo, not to Oghren. They insist on seeing her. Fine, I say, go ahead and see her. If you can see invisible people!" Oghren cackled, as if he'd just made a joke.

Anders wasn't laughing. The Orlesian Wardens? Here, now? They weren't supposed to arrive for another eight days, when Iseult would be back! He threw open the door, shouted to put Brenton in a cage until he came back, and grabbed a guard and told him to stay at the door.

"No one goes in or out, until I come back and tell you so, even if that someone is a pig, you got it?" The guard nodded, looking at him as if he were mad. At this point, Anders felt mad. Was he going to get a week's worth of trouble, all in one day? He wondered if he had time to straighten his hair or change his robes. Probably not. At least they were only one floor below. Not for the first time, he cursed the stairs. Why did every place he lived have so many floors? He couldn't seem to get away from them.

As he crossed to the staircase he caught a glimpse of the woman, curled in a window seat and sunning herself like a cat. No time to change, no time to chat. He was beginning to hate this day.

The Orlesians were not happy. Not only had they been waiting for hours, they had to deal with a drunk dwarf who'd been sick all over their satchels. They were mollified by hot baths (with water he had to heat), the promise of a thorough cleaning of all their belongings and the grand opulence of their rooms. Thank the non-existent maker Iseult hadn't gotten rid of all the ornate furniture.

As he leaned against the last Orlesian's door, he realized it wasn't even lunch yet. He still had to deal with the cook, the pig and all the correspondence. The correspondence that he was still clutching in his hand. Wrinkled and damp and faintly smelling of sick. He wondered what Oghren would do if he confined him to quarters. It might be worth a try.

…

Twelve hours later, exhausted and sticky and without even enough energy to warm his own bath, Anders collapsed at Iseult's desk. He didn't even care that her chair was wooden and hard, or that the desk made a poor pillow. He'd finished it. He'd finished it all. Menus done, pig turned back into apprentice, an Orlesian medic-healer with Justice, a letter written to Oghren's Felsi, a joining completed without one death, and all paperwork finished. Well, most of it, anyway. The rest was lying under his cheek, but he really couldn't be bothered right now. He fell asleep.

The creak of the door woke him. It was a woman. Anders blinked his eyes, and then blinked his eyes again. There was no woman, only a cat. Two cats. He must be more exhausted than he thought, he was seeing double. "Pounce?" he asked to the dual image slinking across the shadowed room.

Pounce jumped up on the desk and licked his nose, then proceeded to push his way into Anders' lap where he began kneading and purring. Good, he wasn't going crazy. But... was that a tail he'd just seen out of the corner of his eye? A light scuffing came from behind him, but when he looked there was nothing there. Cursing himself for a fool, he lit the lamps with a flick of his fingers. The room was empty. Anders picked up Pounce and stiffly dragged himself to bed. Andraste's freckled ass, but he was tired.

The following week flew by. Not many of his decisions backfired, although he did learn it wasn't a good idea to put an apprentice in charge of a class to sneak a bath in the middle of the day, or so he could go play poker with the soldiers. And it also wasn't a good idea to antagonize Garavel quite so much. The man had a nasty way of paying him back, telling petitioners just where to find him in the Keep and that, "No, he never minds interruptions." The last had been a pair of arguing farmers, who'd knocked on the privy door demanding a ruling then and there. Even with that, Anders felt pretty proud of himself. He turned down Justice's offer of help, and didn't even relinquish his command when Sigrun came back, several dwarves following in her wake.

Only two things bothered him – how did that window get clean, and where did that woman disappear off to? He'd seen frustrating glimpses of her all week. He wasn't even sure if she was warrior, rogue or mage, and no one else seemed to know either. He was guessing rogue, the way she slipped into the shadows.

…

It was the day before Iseult was due back that he learned the answer to both questions.

He'd fallen asleep at Iseult's desk again, when something woke him. The feeling of magic. He glanced around the room, eyes fixing on the window in the moonlight. The muddy spray of rain drops slowly faded from its surface. And – had she been there before? There was a woman standing in the shadows. One with ginger-red hair and slanted green eyes. So she was a mage – interesting. He'd never seen her this close before.

"Hello," he said, as if this was an every day occurrence. Were her eyes actually slitted, like a cat's?

"Hello," she answered. Her voice was different that he'd imagined. Lower, silkier.

"So you're the one keeping this window clean."

"Is the window the only thing you've noticed?" she asked back.

Anders thought. Now that she mentioned it, the Keep had been much cleaner lately. But he didn't actually care about that right now. "I've noticed you," he murmured.

"Didn't your Warden tell you to stay away from me?" she practically purred, taking a step closer to him. Anders fought to keep his eyes on her face. Her clothes – if you could call them clothes – barely covered her body. Scraps of fur clung skin tight in strategic places. She'd always worn plain, dark dresses before – the change unbalanced him a little.

"I don't always do what I'm told. Do you?"

"I do what I want," she replied, her warm contralto voice sending a shiver through him. She was not what he expected. He'd thought her shy, hiding herself away from him. Not that he minded his mistake. "I've been watching you," she continued.

"Oh?" He asked as she moved a hands breadth away from him. Taking that as a sign, he reached out to touch her, but she pushed him back into the chair. The room spun, disorientation making him feel nauseous. He was going to be sick. He hated being sick. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, everything stopped. It seemed as if the very stone of the room was paused, waiting. He took a deep breath, just to hear himself exhale. Then a cat twined around his feet, rubbing against his ankles and nipping his skin before jumping into his lap. This wasn't Ser-Pounce-a-Lot.

Running his fingers through her soft fur, he marveled at the change. He scratched under chin, stroking down her back until a rumbling purr vibrated against him. Someday he needed to learn to recognize shapeshifters. He was sure he'd seen her a thousand times, and just thought she was Pounce, off to do some hunting.

"You make a very beautiful cat, and an even lovelier woman," he whispered to her. The purr grew until suddenly he had a lap full of curving, purring woman.

"I've watched you," she repeated, as Anders tried to deal with her sudden shift.

"Yes?" He wondered if 'stalked' would've been a better word. Although if this was how every stalking ended, he was all for stalking.

"I've decided," she said. "You're very good."

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "So I've been told," he said, glad it was dark. Although no darkness could hide his reaction to her words, not with her sitting on his lap. Her eyes shone back at him. She was laughing, weaving a thread of magic between them. He realized he was clean. His clothes, his body, even his hair. The day's sweat and labor erased in a mere moment. So she was a shape-shifting cat with a talent for cleanliness? He supposed it made sense, cats being fastidious creatures. He wasn't going to complain.

The woman turned in his lap, brushing her lips against his. Iseult couldn't blame him for this. He'd done as she'd asked and stayed away, although not quite voluntarily. Besides, he reasoned, he'd managed Vigil's Keep, and done it well. One out of two wasn't bad.

He slid a hand down the woman's side, only to feel the bit of furred clothing she wore fade away under his fingertips. He amended his earlier thought – he had a lap full of a curving, beautiful, naked woman. "I've always wondered how shape-shifters handled clothing."

"I don't know about other shapeshifters, I only know about me." She rubbed against him, like the cat she turned in to, making him very aware of her lack of clothing. As her mouth met his he wondered if he should clear the desk of papers. It was his last coherent thought for the night.

…

They sat across from one another, Iseult once again at her desk as he sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair.

"Good job," she said, never one for an excess of words.

"Thanks. I even impressed myself."

"Did you?" She studied him, a shrewd smile on her face. "So, is there anything I should know? Any one else you… impressed? Maybe a particular red-headed mage?"

"Ahhh… about that..." He paused. She should've warned him that the woman was a mage. And a cat, at that. She knew his weakness for cats. But – while she might not blame him for the conquest, she certainly would blame him for how he'd abused her desk.

So he said, with the look she could never resist, "It really wasn't my fault."