Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or any of its affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Base/s: Dragon Age

Title: A Wizard Did It

Summary: He didn't do it. Honest. A series of oneshots and drabbles starring our favourite rebel mage and his partner, the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall. FemHawke/Anders

Music used for inspiration: Cleaning My Gun, Border Reiver, Speedway at Nazereth - Mark Knopfler


1. Blonde

Anders threw down the paper with a huff. It landed on the writing desk and stopped, writing side up, mocking him.

He narrowed his eyes at it and was tempted to throw the damnable thing into the fire. Or set it on fire himself. It was very tempting. He was tired, his back was killing him and the numbers on the page were blurring together like tar. He was less than pleased. Why, in the name of the Maker, did Hawke insist on accepting jobs like this when she had more than enough money to spare?

"I don't get it."

He grumbled, not pleased at having to admit it.

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"What's not to get?"

His glower increased in intensity and he waved in the direction of the paper.

"That!"

"What about it?"

He turned his gaze on the woman sitting a few meters away from him. There was a thick book in her lap that she was writing in and a quill was dangling from her fingers.

"I don't get it." He repeated. He ground the heels on his palm into his eyes and let out a frustrated groan. "Ugh. I hate numbers."

A little smile graced the woman's lips as she set her book aside and walked over, leaning down to study the sheet that was giving the mage so much trouble.

"What's gone wrong?"

"No idea." He grunted, hoping he would discover an ancient secret that allowed him to light things on fire but just looking at them. She made a disbelieving noise in the back of her throat as she squinted over the long list of numbers.

"Oh all right. By my calculations, Ser Rothering has been at the Blooming Rose every day for three hundred and seventy nine days a year."

Hawke blinked.

"Anders..."

"I know!"

She sighed.

"Run through it."

He did so.

Halfway through his explanation of why fifty six just had to share into one hundred and sixteen, Hawke started sniggering.

Loosing track of where he was and grinding to a halt, he looked up and at the woman who was holding back laughter with her hand and some admirable willpower.

"What?"

His question, one that he didn't find all that funny, set her off into belly laughs. As much as he enjoyed her laughter, he would have preferred it wasn't directed at him.

"What?"

The laughter died down into light giggles and she shook her head.

"Oh Anders." She picked up the paper and handed it to him, then put her finger on one particular part of the writing. "That's the date."

He was sure that his face must have looked very stupid as he stared at the list.

Hawke sighed fondly, her hand winding its way into his hair and playing with the little ponytail tied back with a leather strip.

"You are such a blonde." She said, before she yawned.

She bent down and kissed him on the brow, smiling as he stared at the paper before heading for the door out of the library.


2. Chef

If it was one thing that Hawke just couldn't get over, it was that she couldn't cook to save her life.

Another thing she couldn't get over was that Anders, rebel mage, occasional purveyor of off colour humour, former Grey Warden and sporter of constant five o'clock shadow, could cook better than her mother.

It just wasn't fair.

So when she stumbled downstairs and into the kitchen in the morning and smelt the scent of breakfast, she scowled and resolved to eat nothing but toast.

But what if there was bacon?

Her scowl deepened and she trudged into the homely room. As usual, Anders was up before her and standing in front of the stove, blocking her view of whatever it was he was creating. She flopped into a chair and when he greeted her she grunted her reply. Even though she couldn't see his face, she just knew he was smiling. Ass.

Fumbling, she poured herself a mug of hot water, added a spoonful of dried leaves and a dash of milk.

She spied toast sitting in its rack. It was perfectly golden and still hot.

Was even his toast perfect? Ugh.

She snatched a slice and buttered it, biting into it as though it was personally wronged her.

She stared sullenly at the mages back and idly wondered what he would look like in one of her mother's frilly aprons or a pinafore. The thought made her snort and take a quick sip of her scalding tea to stop the chuckles.

Feeling more awake now she had tea in her system, she noticed that there was a small boat filled with golden syrup sitting innocuously on the big wooden table.

Oh no. He couldn't have.

He turned and gave her a crinkle eyed smile.

In his hand he held a large, heavy frying pan.

Pancakes. That utter bastard had made pancakes.

She watched as he flipped them, every time he did so her eyes narrowed even more.

He was talking about something, but she was only half listening, her eyes fixed on the frying pan and its dastardly contents.

'Please let it be burnt to a cinder. Please.' She begged the Maker.

But when he came over and slid three perfectly golden, beautifully formed pancakes onto her plate and handed her the boat of (Warm! Damn him,) syrup she knew she was asking for the impossible.

She had promised herself she would only eat toast.

But... there were pancakes!

She was faced with a dilemma.

Pancakes or pride?

Pride or pancakes?

She breathed in the scent of the fresh cooking and looked at the boat of warm, golden syrup in one hand.

Pancakes won.

Just this once.

As she poured the thick syrup over the stupid food, Anders turned back to the stove.

His lips set in what was dangerously close to a smirk, he switched the stove off.

"If you want," he started deviously, "I can burn the toast next time."

She looked at him with a mouth full of food. Her hair was a mess and she was still in her nightclothes, a too big dressing gown draped over her shoulders.

"You'd better." She said, fixing him with a look and waving her fork at him.

He idly thought that it would have been more intimidating if she hadn't had syrup smeared down one side of her mouth.


3. Earring

"What?" he asked.

He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

Isabella was staring at him. Or more accurately, she was starring at his ear.

"What?"

She smiled. It set him on edge.

"Oh nothing. Just wondering about the story behind the earring."

He looked at her searchingly.

"Oh? And why would you want to know that?" he asked, suspicious. This was after all, Isabella.

"Curiosity."

"Right." He said, drawing out the word.

She pouted.

"You don't trust me?" she asked, trying to look innocent.

"Not a bit."

She huffed. Then she grinned.

"Oh? You tell me the story and I won't tell Hawke about it."

He turned to face her fully.

"You wouldn't."

He knew full well that she would.

She just sat there, grinning.

"Fine. Stuff happened. I got my ear pierced. The end."

She poked him in the arm.

"Tell me the whole story in detail, or I walk right now and tell Hawke."

Anders was about to open his mouth to reply when he was interrupted. By the absolute last person he wanted to be there.

Varric raised an eyebrow.

"What whole story?"

The blonde man swore under his breath.

Isabella was more than happy to enlighten the dwarf.

"Oh Anders was just about to tell me the story of how he got his earring. Want to listen?"

Varric looked interestedly at the mage who scowled.

He dwarf sat down and placed his flagon on the table. The Hanged Man wasn't busy and for that, Anders was grateful.

"So," Isabella began, her eyes shining, "how old were you?"

Anders shifted.

Varric took a drink, keeping his eyes fixed on the cornered mage.

"Well?" he prompted.

He sighed.

"Sixteen."

Isabella nodded eagerly.

"Go on."

Anders sat back resignedly and took a swig of whatever swill was in his cup.

"I was still in the Circle then, I think it was my," he paused, thinking, "third escape attempt."

Varric raised an eyebrow.

"'Third escape attempt'? he quoted, "How many times did you try and escape?"

"Seven at the last count." He said nonchalantly.

Isabella whistled.

"You escaped the circle seven times? Surely they got a bit tired of having to drag you back?"

He shrugged.

"Probably. After the sixth time, they put me in solitary confinement for a whole year." He gave a slight shudder, "I still get a little claustrophobic sometimes."

Varric, sensing the dangerousness of the topic, brought it around.

"So why didn't they throw you out?"

Anders gave a slight smile.

"I was very good at what I did."

Varric accepted the evasive answer as Isabella pouted. She prompted him to go on.

"Well, I'd got out and was in some little town. Pickett? Somewhere to the west. Anyway, I was pretty dead on my feet and through a certain series of events that shall never be retold, some nice young girl offered me a place to stay."

Isabella sniggered.

"I can see where this is going." She muttered.

He carried on and pretended he hadn't heard her.

"Anyway, I stayed there for a while. I guess I should have moved on but, well, I guess I got comfortable. The one day she comes in and she's scared out of her wits and crying like nothing else. I asked her what was wrong and she tells me her husband is back in town."

Varric winced.

"Exactly. And then, just my luck, you know what her husband did for a living?" he asked rhetorically. "He was a Templar."

"Oh boy."

"Apparently, there was a gossip mill in town and the husband had heard that there was some strange man living with his wife. So she comes in to warn me. There we are, panicking, and she suddenly comes up with an idea. There was this clan of monks just a little way south of the town and sometimes they visited."

He paused in his rendition of the tale and saw that Isabella was hanging on his every word, no doubt hoping for something else she could blackmail him with. He took another drink of ale.

"Well, she told me that all these monks have their right ear pierced. Don't ask me why, I never found out. So she runs up to her bedroom and brings down one of her earrings she never wore and the biggest needle I ever saw in my life. And believe me, the needle they use to get blood for phylacteries was pretty damn big."

He took another drink.

"So she tells me to sit down and then she comes in with a bowl of water, 'to wash to blood off' she said. Then she grabs my ear and just stabs this massive needle right through, no warning! She jams this ring through the hole and tells me it's done. I swear I was in shock."

Varric raised an eyebrow. Apparently his own piercings hadn't been quite so traumatic.

"So to make a long story short, the husband came home ready to kill me but calmed down when he saw that I was obviously a celibate monk who had no interest in his wife. I left pretty soon after that."

He finished his tale and finished the liquid in the cup.

"So," Isabella began uncertainly, "you got your ear pieced so you could pretend you were a monk to avoid an angry husband who just so happened to be a Templar?"

"That sounds about right." He confirmed.

Varric grinned.

"Blondie my friend, you are a source of constant amusement. And to think I thought you did it just to look better for the ladies."

Anders snorted.

"Is that your reason? Because I must say Varric, it works so well."

Isabella laughed.

"Don't worry Varric, he's just jealous that you can work the ponytail and earring look better than he can."

"I'm afraid the only story behind the hair is that I'm used to it." The mage admitted.

Isabella looked at him critically.

"Maybe you should cut it."

His eyes widened.

"No!"

"But, why not? I think it would look good."

"I'm not cutting my hair."

"But why?"

"Because I don't want to."

Varric smiled conspiratorially.

"It's because you're trying to compete with me isn't it?" he sighed "It's such a terrible burden you know, to be so attractive."

"Yes Varric, you've caught me." He said flatly, "I can't see why anyone wouldn't want to be just like you."

"You know why I think he won't cut it? I think Hawke likes it. Gives her something to hold on to, you know?"

Anders wrinkled his nose at the sniggering dwarf and ignored the guffaws from the woman opposite.

"Well aren't you a dirty little dwarf."


End

Review and give me more ideas! Give me plots!