A/N: This strange silly thing is pure what-if for my Mage & Wolf fic. It doesn't "really" happen in the context of the larger story. Started as just a few paragraphs of crack for yesterday's Fenders Friday in Tumblr. Then it just... sprawled, endlessly, and turned a bit angsty.

A word of warning: I don't like Anders that much. It was very challenging for me to get inside his head. But I gave it a shot.

Also, this story might be considered slightly dubcon — depends on your interpretation, I guess. With a dom!Fenris, though, strange as it seems if you know my Mage & Wolf story.

"Vishante…"

In the nearly complete darkness of the back alley, Fenris straightened from where he'd been heaving in the gutter, and leaned heavily against The Hanged Man's wall.

The preceding hours were little but a blur of colors and voices and scents to him, interspersed with moments of ominous blackness. He'd been right, though; relieving his stomach of its remaining contents helped to clear his mind a little.

He quaffed what little remained of the bottle in his hand, sloshed the wine around in his mouth, and spat. It took most of the taste of vomit with it. Tossing the empty container in the gutter, still remarkably unsteady on his feet, he staggered up and turned toward the tavern's back door.

Or at least, where he hoped the back door would be. Directions seemed to have deserted him, along with the command over his legs, senses… and, his priorities.

I really, really shouldn't have touched Isabela's special cookies.

A dim recollection appeared, of removing pieces his armor and exhibiting some of the more imaginative patterns Danarius had employed when burning the lyrium into his flesh. He groaned and stopped. Surely he'd done nothing of the sort?

Didn't feel like a dream, though. Fenris was relatively certain he wouldn't have dreamed of Anders, of all people, gaping at his exposed skin.

Why had he agreed to come to this party, again? He owed Isabela, certainly, but this was somewhat exaggerated. Not that the perverted woman wouldn't have disagreed.

Well, at least someone had appreciated the show… Just how much, was becoming apparent when Fenris realized that there were coppers falling from inside his armor. Also, a red woman's garter seemed to be tied around his right wrist, as a sort of mirror image to the red length of cloth he wore around his left. He picked at it gingerly, and it fell to the dirty pavement at his feet.

Suddenly rummaging his brain for more memories felt like a really, really bad idea.

Well, no helping it, now. He placed one foot before the other — and stubbed his bare toe on something. Muttering oaths under his breath, he made his way toward the tavern's back door, all the while leaning heavily on the wall.

It was all the cursed mages' fault. One would have been bad enough, but three? Bound to be a disaster. Even Hawke had become almost impossible to bear, these days, after all that had happened. The swaggering, shameless bastard… The Champion's every gesture had become a reminder of mouths and limbs tangling, of how the lyrium kindled like wildfire under the man's hands, robbing Fenris of every ounce of sense, until he begged to be buggered any which way the accursed Fereldan fancied…

He seemed to recall, very faintly, saying something he'd thought infinitely witty, at the time, about the size of the Champion's personal assets —

Fenris groaned in shame and paused to lean against the wall, as his mind swam painfully around his uncentered memories.

I'm going to kill myself.

But first I'm going to kill Isabela.

However, Hawke hadn't been the only mage around.

The blood mage at least had had the grace to sit in a corner and sip silently at her drink. The witch had every reason to stay out of sight, after what she'd done to her Keeper.

And then there was the abomination — the scraggly blonde in his faded black coat. The healer loomed in Hawke's shadow like a morose, big raven, ruffled and suspicious, even thinner and more unkempt than Fenris remembered. The elf vaguely recalled a heated, drunken argument, about politics of course. The memory of drawling insults at Anders was fouled by the knowledge that while the others had been steadily getting more and more drunk, the healer had refrained from touching a drop of alcohol. 'Justice does not allow me to get drunk any more,' he'd said, or some such crap about his pet demon. Or was he the pet, now, and the demon already holding the leash? It did seem as if the man had completely given up on harboring a will of his own.

Dammit, what was it with these apostates? And how had Fenris, once again, gotten himself embroiled in their filthy matters?

The elf took a deep breath and pushed himself again toward the door. Better to just swallow his embarrassment over the last few hours, excuse himself, and go home.

Yes, that would be for the best, all things considered. Even if he got mugged on his way to Hightown, a few bruises and broken ribs would be a small price to pay for avoiding being maneuvered by Isabela into more abject disgrace. Who knew what he'd end up doing next? Dance naked on Varric's table, probably.

Although now that he thought of it, some half-clothed dancing might have occurred, already…

Oh, Maker. Had he been… singing, too..? Fenris groaned again.

Somehow he managed to reach the back door without tripping over his own feet. Just as he swayed uncertainly toward the handle, the door opened, and hit him square in the forehead.

The last thing he remembered was falling backwards, before the world went mercifully blank.

o o o

"Andraste's flaming knickers…"

Anders stared at the knocked out elf at his feet.

Well, at least he now knew where Fenris had gone. More the unlucky fool, he.

Gingerly the healer stepped over the elf's sprawling legs, and considered the sight in front of him.

He had to admit, it had been a pleasure to see the Tevinter bastard make a fool out of himself. The man's condition had been a surprise, to say the least. Anders had assumed the lyrium would protect the elf from getting intoxicated beyond what could maybe be called tipsy.

But there he'd been, the thrice-cursed, abrasive bastard, singing out of tune, flinging ribald jokes that made Varric roar with laughter, dancing with Isabela and Aveline and even Donnic, actually getting half naked at some point for a very vague reason — all this while falling from numerous chairs and tables. Surprise he'd remained conscious this long.

Not that the others hadn't been almost as addled. Well, all except Anders, of course. It had been quite the sight, to see Isabela teaching bawdy songs to Aveline, and Varric flirting with Bianca under the table. Not something that he necessarily wanted to take to his grave with him, though.

Anders — painfully sober, as usual — didn't really need fresh air, like he'd told the others. As if anyone would come to The Hanged Man's back alley for fresh air… or even breathe too deep. It had been just a ruse to get away from the mayhem that, unbelievably, still escalated. The others were so sozzled, they might not even notice Anders was gone before morning. Not with Hawke being there. The man was like a force of nature, these days. Who would even notice old scruffy Anders missing from next to someone so much bigger than life?

Well, seemed that his plan had backfired.

Anders nudged the unconscious elf with the toe of his boot. The man just lolled limply, eyes closed, his overgrown hair fanned on the pavement, a white wing in the shadow.

"Hello? Fenris? Hm… Anybody home?"

No response. Anders scratched his temple.

He refused to feel any guilt about slamming the door in the Tevinter's face. How was he supposed to know the man was standing right there? And if the drunken idiot insisted on smashing his head against a hard surface, well, it was a common enough reason of death — who was Anders to keep His Broodiness from a suitably tragicomic end?

Still, it was getting a bit worrying… Why wasn't the bastard waking up already?

The healer pinched the bridge of his nose and swore. Damn, there was no helping it. He couldn't leave anyone just lying there like that, with a possible brain damage. Not even Fenris.

Groaning inwardly, Anders took a hold of the elf's arms and dragged him about ten meters to the side, toward the cleaner side of the alley. The place had the benefit of not being directly noticeable by anyone who walked out of the door and headed for the gutter. Also, it smelled just a bit less of piss and vomit, with wind wafting in from the open street nearby.

Shit… The bastard weighed much more than he looked.

Slipping with practiced ease into his healer mindset, Anders knelt and collected the elf's limp head in his lap. He weaved his fingers in the man's thick white hair, behind the winged ears, to examine the skin and bone underneath with a small echo of his magic.

As impossible as it felt, Anders had never touched Fenris before. After witnessing that physical contact indeed caused the elf agony, he'd gone out of his way to keep his distance, even though it made healing much more difficult. In respect of their mutual dislike, he'd never given Fenris reason to complain that he'd caused him even a pinprick's worth of unnecessary pain.

There was a small gash at the back of the elf's head, but it had already stopped bleeding — probably thanks to the lyrium that augmented his body's abilities to repair itself. Convenient, that, if a little exorbitantly priced. The cost of Fenris's markings could have kept all the homeless children in Kirkwall in food and clothes for the rest of their lives. Anders healed the small wound nonetheless, out of habit, if nothing else.

The hair under his fingers was surprisingly soft, despite its texture, coarse with a luxurious, thick undercoat. Almost like… a cat's fur. Probably a result of the unnatural ritual that had burned the lyrium in the elf's flesh. Keeping Fenris's head in place with one hand, Anders moved the other to his neck, to check for anything nasty in his cervical spine. That would have been a nice way to recover from a blackout… Paralyzed after a drunken fall.

For someone like Fenris, losing the control over his body would probably have been a fate worse than death. Until very recently, the elf's whole life had been built solely around his physical prowess. Maybe that was the reason the man usually kept such a tight control over himself?

Inevitably Anders's hand came in contact with one of the markings.

Very peculiar. Anders ran his fingertips down the slightly raised shape he knew to be filled with lyrium. He'd imagined it would be soft. Instead, it was surprisingly coarse. Like… a cat's tongue.

He'd never noticed before. But now that Anders thought of it, of how Fenris moved and behaved… Despite his name, he seemed to have more in common with feline than canine animals. It wasn't that far fetched to think of him as a big tomcat. A very nasty, ill-tempered, territorial one, at that. For a second the healer imagined him with torn ears and old, evil scars marring his white coat, hissing on a fence when Anders came to feed the strays. His lips twisted in a crooked smile. Yes, certainly one of those… an old brawler that would scratch him bloody if he went too close, and only deigned to eat after he was gone.

Fenris moaned restlessly and moved in his lap. The markings at his neck ignited with a familiar blue-white glow, and started to tingle against Anders's hand.

For some reason, Anders had expected touching the living lyrium to be a little painful. But again, it seemed he'd been wrong. It did not feel unpleasant at all. Actually it was… rather pleasurable, with how it made his skin shiver and go to goosebumps with a soft electricity.

As a healer, Anders was of course in physical contact with people all the time. Still, all of a sudden, he felt like it was a very, very long time since he'd last touched another person.

Embarrassed at the unbidden thought, he cleared his throat and made an effort to regain his purely professional interest.

Fenris groaned again. His dark lashes fluttered; he was clearly coming awake. Probably with a splitting headache. Well, served the bastard right, after having his thick skull connect with the street pavement. Anders moved his hand upward, to continue his search for hidden injuries.

Suddenly one gauntleted hand shot upward, and curled around the healer's covered wrist, strong like a vice. Anders cursed in surprise, and stifled an urge to leap backward.

For a few seconds, Anders's heart made uncertain attempts to leap out of his throat. Then he settled back down, realizing the elf was not in a condition to phase-punch him, or maybe even remember the whole thing, afterwards.

It's just pain. Not stoned enough to be completely anesthetized, are you?

Tough luck. The man would just have to tolerate it for a few more seconds. Anders didn't exactly have the patience for the distance-healing thing, right now. For all he knew, Fenris was so wasted it didn't matter, anyway.

Trying to keep the elf's head still in his hands, Anders ran his fingers through his hair again, searching for a hidden fracture or a damaged vein. Such minuscule little wounds could go undetected for days and then kill a man while he was having breakfast. Under his hands, the markings now glowed like blue coals beneath the curtain of white hair. Little strangled sounds were rising from the elf's throat. His eyes were half open and unfocused. And he… trembled. All in all, his reaction did not seem like pain, so much as… something else, entirely.

A bit distracting, that. Anders had seen all kinds of things at his clinic, but this was not just some stranger come to get his embarrassing private problem fixed. He actually blushed a little. A very strange-looking response to pain, indeed.

He'd always wondered what Hawke saw in this prick. The man was the Champion of Kirkwall, for Maker's sake. If he wanted to plow a hairy butthole instead of his wife for a change, all he needed to do was choose from the scores of willing individuals throwing themselves at his feet from left and right. But no. He had to choose Fenris. Who probably couldn't stop arguing with Hawke long enough to notice that the man was head over heels for him.

Was it the looks? Anders could admit that Fenris was attractive, in his overstated manner. Not Anders's type, definitely, but not bad, for an elf. Now, if only the man inside hadn't been so completely hideous…

The elf was starting to become very agitated. His breath was turning into sobs, and his whole body shook. His strong claws were digging into Anders's wrist painfully. Drunken idiot…

"Oh, stop squirming. You're fine," Anders said and pulled his hands away.

There was really nothing wrong with Fenris, that much was obvious by now. With a guilty pang the healer realized he's gotten distracted by the softness of the elf's hair, and by the pleasant, relaxing tingle of lyrium against his hands. For what was probably half a minute, he'd been merely stroking the man's hair, lost in thought. Like petting an animal. Maybe that big, white tomcat he'd imagined earlier… Strangely docile, all of a sudden.

The moment his fingers left Fenris's scalp, the elf shuddered all over, and then looked like he would heave. Was he going to be sick? A strike to the head could sometimes do that.

"Oh, for the love of Maker," Anders said. "If you're going to puke, don't do it on me. Come on."

He grabbed Fenris by the arm — again, the markings glowed bright and hummed electrically where he touched them. Observing with a bit of guilt that it was a very strong and muscular arm indeed, the healer started to haul the warrior to his feet.

It was like trying to lift a cat that had no intention to get up. Also, like he'd noticed earlier, the elf was far heavier than one might have imagined. Anders tried to work his shoulder under the elf's arm, but all he succeeded in was getting the man lean on him while they knelt on the filthy street.

Fenris swayed bonelessly. They almost fell.

"Maferath's balls…"

Anders hefted the elf more securely against him. Somehow he'd have to get Fenris inside.

Maker. Why hadn't he left an hour ago? The whole sorry affair could have been avoided. Anders tried to think. How to get the elf back through the door? Maybe he should go fetch Hawke?

He exhaled in relief. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Hawke would take the bastard from his hands, and he'd be free to make his escape.

Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around his back. There was a strangled sob against his shoulder.

Anders froze. Oh, no.

Was the man going to cry? What a terrible thought.

"Now, now." Anders patted Fenris awkwardly on the back. "No need to get all emotional, Broody. We'll get you back inside. You'll be Hawke's problem, then. Work with me a bit, here, won't you?"

He tried to push to his feet.

A pair of strong arms held him in place, as easily as he would have restrained a little child.

Anders rolled his eyes. What sort of silly tantrum was this? He'd really had his fill of arguing with drunken fools, tonight.

"Come now. We can't stay here."

There was a hot breath against his throat. He swallowed. Such a primal little thing… Despite the source, it went straight into his balls.

"Uh, Fenris..?"

"Hawke," the elf said, a mere rumble of a word, and licked his throat above the collar of his coat.

"Hey, hey, hey!"

Anders panicked. With what strength, he did not know, but finally he succeeded in getting to his feet. But the elf was still clinging to him, gradually more stable on his feet, gauntleted hands digging into the back of his coat.

The situation was getting very strange.

"Fenris, look. You're hallucinating. Or something. I'm not Hawke. I'm Anders! Your most favorite hated abomination!"

Steel-covered hand crept up his back and fisted in his hair. Markings flared with a misty blue-white puff.

The sparkly fragrance of lyrium filled his nostrils, and a deep purring sound rose from the elf's chest. Teeth nipped the skin at his throat.

Anders made another desperate attempt to get away. But all it did was make them crash into the nearby wall, with Fenris clinging to him like a burr.

A very warm… tall… strong… glowing… extremely turned-on burr.

Brain damage. That had to be it. Anders cursed himself. It was that blasted minute he'd hesitated before starting to examine the elf, wasn't it? Some sort of an exotic, minuscule lesion had already formed… How else to explain that the elf's hands now roamed all over him, and how the markings shimmered sensuously in the darkness, casting a very pale light on them both…

Anders couldn't help himself. He was reacting. It had been so long, and the elf was warm like a stove, and absolutely festooned with lyrium —

And why was it suddenly so blighted hard to just use his magic and run the fuck away like any sane person would?

"Fenris, listen to me. I'm Anders. Anders, damn you! Listen — stop it!"

The elf just held him tighter, teeth and tongue teasing the shell of his ear, and started tugging at the fastenings of his coat.

Anders gave up trying to shout any sense into the elf. It seemed to do about as much good as talking a tom away from a tabby in heat. Although Anders wasn't certain he liked that metaphor… Him being the tabby in this picture, and all.

Suddenly he froze.

A hand was on his stomach, now, under his shirt. A hand encased in sharp, sharp steel claws… But that wasn't the reason why Anders was suddenly afraid to move.

The lyrium branded into the elf's palm sent lascivious shivers downward, reminiscent of the most exquisite sex magic Anders had ever indulged in, during his wild youth. Really, something so simple as a blighted touch against his belly had no right to feel so absolutely divine.

"Holy jumping knickerweasels —"

And then Fenris kissed him.

He was doomed. The elf's mouth was so hot, and he even tasted of lyrium. Maker — it was a blur of synesthetic, sparkly aromas of color and sound and feeling, pure insanity, but oh so good. It hummed through his body, from head to curling toes.

Absolute bliss —

The lyrium — it sang to him.

Too late Anders realized what was happening.

With the last ounce of free will in his body he tried to push Fenris away. But the elf was just too blighted strong. The lean, tall body pinned him even tighter against the wall, and a thigh pushed between his own, to work his erection through leather and cloth.

Anders tried to conjure his magic. But it refused to come. Something was preventing him from using his powers to blast the confused, drunken idiot away.

No. Not 'something'. Someone.

Justice, you abominable piece of shit..!

A clink of metal against metal, a tug of cloth. To his horror, his hard prick bobbed free into the cool night air. Then the elf's claws wrapped around it, pressing him against the hot skin and lyrium which the gauntlet revealed.

"Maker —"

His knees wobbled. All resolve bled out of him, as his brain started leaking out of his ears.

It was bloody torture, that's what it was — the throb of lyrium where the elf's palm connected with his hard prick. How could anyone live through this and remain sane —

Fenris kissed him again, open-mouthed, with an almost pleased, deep rumble of a moan that made him shiver. Then the elf started stroking him, one strong hand wrapped around his waist like an iron bar. He whimpered, his spine turned to complete mush.

Curse him — curse his traitorous cock — but, above all, curse Justice, the perverted fucker. Maker, he would shame himself so bad, and all because the spirit was curious about the lyrium —

He writhed, mouth open in a wordless cry, and embraced the slender, glowing body against him.

Well, at least it would be over quickly. It had been so very long, and no mortal man could stand such a thing for more than a minute or two. Very soon, the world started to dissolve around him. He panted, almost weeping with bliss as he helplessly started to work his throbbing cock into that wicked, tight, lyrium-coated hand —

And then, even as he continued to thrust, Anders opened his eyes. Through the haze of his impending orgasm, he saw the Champion standing at the threshold of The Hanged Man's back door, handsome, dark face settled in an almost comical expression of astonishment and rage.

"What in the name of Maker..?"

"H-Hawke," Anders stammered, and groaned, head slamming against the wall behind.

It was too late. He was too far. He was going to —

Grimacing, he closed his eyes, and shamed himself even more thoroughly than he'd imagined.

o o o

"This isn't — this isn't — this isn't what it looks like!"

The Champion's long legs carried him to the couple leaning against the wall. Fenris was pulled off Anders, and swayed drunkenly on his feet. Then he sagged bonelessly against Hawke, and twisted gauntleted hands in his coat, as the Champion wrapped what appeared to be a protective arm around his slender form.

"It isn't?" Hawke's voice was so cold, it would have frozen smelted steel.

It was Justice, not me, Anders considered saying, then decided against it.

"He — he attacked me. After he fell and hit his head. He started acting really weird. He's too bloody strong, I don't know what the blight happened, I think it was —"

Anders swallowed the rest of his words. The look Hawke gave him…

He'd seen that mean, icy stare before, but never directed toward himself.

Oh, great. Now he's going to kill me. Just because that bastard got wasted and Justice was curious. Great end to all my plans, eh?

"Yes, I can see that you were very upset," Hawke said, and his eyes turned toward the healer's crotch. Anders shriveled. If looks were knives, he would have been emasculated on the spot.

With fumbling fingers the healer tucked himself back in his clothes and closed his belt and coat. Fighting to control his breath, he straightened his back. If he was going to die, at least he would do it with his cock in his breeches, and his head held high.

Fenris squirmed against Hawke, as if not even aware that the mage against him had changed.

Anders stared in wild bewilderment. It was almost unthinkable, but there it was — the uptight Tevinter prick still moaning and panting, actually grinding himself like a cat in heat against Hawke. And the Champion just stood there like something carved out of stone… as if there was nothing odd going on.

And how come Hawke was on his feet and looking so… collected? Maker, when he'd left, Hawke had been singing bawdy songs with Isabela, nearly falling from his chair. How was it possible that he now appeared completely sober? And rather menacing, to boot.

"What the fade is wrong with him?" Anders cried. "I thought he can't even be touched!"

"Just a slight complication," Hawke said through his teeth, obviously striving for neutrality. "Nothing you should concern yourself with, Anders. Look. This shouldn't have happened. Try to forget it, all right?"

Forget it? Andraste's buttcheeks… 'Sure, Hawke, no problem. I'll just flip this switch in my brain that turns off horrible memories.' Would that there had been such a switch. It would have saved him from so much embarrassment.

There was something really, really strange going on. But at least it seemed like Hawke wouldn't kill him, after all. Anders couldn't help pushing his luck a little.

"He's a bloody animal, that's what he is —"

Hawke's eyes narrowed. Apparently, his leash was still very, very short.

Anders realized he couldn't afford to test it. There was too much at stake. Dammit, he needed Hawke. If there was any way this could destroy their friendship, he'd better grovel at the man's feet — maybe even Fenris's feet, just to make sure he'd put this thing behind them… As much as it would gall him to do it. Since it hadn't really been his fucking fault.

Not long now. This doesn't matter. This is just… an unfortunate hiccup.

"Your opinion has been noted," Hawke said. "Now go inside. Tell Isabela… Tell her that Fenris is indisposed. I'll take him home."

Yeah, I'm sure you will. Carry him all the way to Hightown, eh? More like find the first dark corner and…

Anders nodded, and tried not to stare at the pink, wet tongue that tickled the Champion's stubbly neck behind his jaw. Fenris was glowing through his armor and practically wrapped himself around the Champion, rubbing against him so shamelessly Anders had never seen anything like it — not even in The Pearl, all those years ago.

Suddenly the healer realized Hawke was right. It would be better to just… never speak of this again.

"You do that," Anders said in a shaky voice. "And just so you know… He really should stay away from Isabela's cookies, in the future. Seems he has a really bad reaction to them."

He could almost hear Hawke grind his teeth together. "Go inside, Anders."

Hearing murder in the Champion's voice, he did.

o o o

He had to stand in the corridor for a full fifteen minutes before he trusted himself to go back to Varric's suite.

Well, that was interesting, an insidious voice crooned in the back of his head. Very pretty. And the song… Never heard anything quite like it. Can we do it again?

"Shut up, Justice," Anders said, his voice shaking in the darkness of the drafty corridor.

Unsurprisingly, he'd lost what little patience he'd earlier mustered for pretending everything was 'all right' and 'just like the old times'. He ended up being a total arse, harping at Isabela about her political indifference, a quality she was as likely to change as the color of her skin. Inevitably the Rivaini declared him the biggest bore on Thedas ('really, Anders, looking at you now, it's impossible even for me to imagine you used to be fun and cute') and went to drink herself to stupor downstairs, and flirt with the resident kossith.

And she was right, wasn't she? He'd long ago stopped caring what sort of an impression he made. It was so hard to even remember, with Justice drumming in his head for him to keep going. He'd even started wearing black clothes in order to avoid having to scrub stains out of them. And whatever sustenance the spirit bestowed, it didn't seem to prevent him from losing weight.

Not an attractive sight. Not like the elf who, after his travels with Isabela, absolutely radiated broody health wherever he went. Every passing year, Fenris grew more attractive. And Anders… Well, Anders just became older, and scruffier, and more abrasive.

Old, familiar jealousy twisted his stomach.

But he had long ago given up on such longings, hadn't he? Maybe once he might have had a chance at swaying Hawke's feelings… Years ago, when there had been just a little more flesh and humanity to him, to keep Justice deeper under his skin.

It dawned on him that, even though it was the elf who had made a fool out of himself tonight, there was an irony to Anders's moral victory. Despite all his embarrassing stunts, Fenris had been happy. And Anders, well — Anders had been a man watching a play unfold before him, unable to feel more than the most detached emotion.

But what did it matter? It wasn't like anything would change, now. The machine had been set in motion, and by now it was impossible to stop.

With Hawke and the Rivaini gone, the party soon dissolved.

Later that night, in his narrow, hard bed, Anders wasted precious hours staring at the dark rafters above, wondering about the strange coincidences that had shaped his life… Remembering the lyrium singing through his flesh.

Finally he gave up on hope of any sleep. Sighing, he got out of his bed and lighted the lantern, and went to find the first patients of the day huddling behind his clinic's door.