Anders, as Fenris soon discovered, wasn't as drunk as others thought; fresh night air and a quick walk to the mansion sobered him up a little, which resulted in more whining.

If the mage wasn't in his body, Fenris would have killed him once and for all.

"Maker's balls, this place reeks. Why won't you get rid of the corpses? There are mushrooms growing on the walls. Mushrooms, Fenris!" Anders started complaining the second he got inside the house.

Fenris closed his eyes and counted to five. Others left them after he had promised Hawke he wouldn't damage the mage. The promise already proved difficult to keep, and it wasn't his fault.

"Stop whining, mage."

Thankfully Anders listened to him, focusing his attention on his current objective. "Where's the wine cellar?"

The thought of Anders wandering through the mansion finding more reasons to complain, and then whining endlessly made Fenris shudder with anger.

"Go upstairs to the main room, I'll bring you wine. Just. Stop. Talking."

He waited for Anders to get going, and once the mage reached the top of the stairs, Fenris went to fetch the wine. He would gladly get drunk himself, but he wasn't sure how this body would react, and from what Anders was saying, he wouldn't be able to drink much anyway. His thoughts returned to the odd barrier in his mind, but other than a slight ache in his temples, Fenris didn't feel any unnatural presence in his head. It didn't change the fact that he was constantly catching himself at contemplating his hands. Or boots. Or other parts of his current body. The clothes were ridiculous, but the body itself was... different. Not a 'bad' different necessarily, Fenris had to admit.

At first it was awful, but gradually Fenris learned to appreciate certain differences, like the fact he was now the second tallest person in their group, after Sebastian. He hated when people looked down on him, even though he was tall for an elf, humans tended to be taller. Today when they walked through Kirkwall, or when they were at the Hanged Man, not a single person glared at him in the way humans usually regarded elves. He was suddenly treated as equal, only because he had a body of a human man.

Under all those layers, Anders was skinny, Fenris discovered, although his body was strong. He had a certain thought that made his ears red, and he couldn't quite get rid of it.

He wanted to look at this body. Pushing aside the fact that it belonged to a mage and an abomination, he was curious.

He knew he was being a big hypocrite, the very thought of Anders touching him made Fenris cringe (and remember what was done to him in his past life, the memories buried deep within him but not forgotten completely), but he wanted to touch this body.

Because he was curious, nothing else. Obviously.

He grabbed three bottles thinking it would be more than enough for the mage, and quickly went upstairs. He found Anders sitting by the table, contemplating a half full bottle in his hand that he must have found among other empty or smashed ones.

"You've been dinking this?" he asked, glancing at Fenris. "It's not poison, I presume? How much alcohol do you have in this house, exactly? There are broken bottles everywhere..."

"It's wine. Antivan, as Donnic claims," he put the bottles on the table close to Anders. "The mansion is well stocked, but the supply is not endless, I'm afraid."

"May as well try the Antivan kind," Anders grinned and drank the remaining wine without flinching.

Fenris observed the man thinking this was exactly how he looked like when he sat here, drinking alone. It wasn't the nicest picture, to put it mildly. He felt an odd tingling in his fingertips, vaguely wondering if it was Anders' magical power calling to him. He was sure that if he let his guard down, the magic would flow from his hands because the body remembered. But he didn't want to test this theory; as tempting it was to set Anders on fire with his powers, he would only damage his own body. Besides, there was this barrier in his head, hiding whatever powers or demons the mage hid in his mind.

After finishing the bottle, Anders threw it on the floor. "This is how you do it, right?"

Fenris grimaced. "Help yourself. If you wish to drink more, then do so. As long as you don't damage my body."

Anders reached for another bottle. Fenris enjoyed the silence; at least the mage wasn't complaining anymore. The fact that the man was currently on a way to drink himself to death didn't bother him as much as it should.

"These are quite heavy..." Anders mused, removing the gauntlets. He clenched and unclenched his fists, fascinated by the movement of the hands, then traced the lyrium tattoos going from the fingertips up the arm.

Fenris gritted his teeth. He wasn't comfortable with Anders touching him, but then he himself wanted to do exactly the same to the mage's body. So he didn't say anything as Anders removed the chestpiece, placing it on the table by the gauntlets. He did speak, however, as Anders stood up and began unbuttoning the tunic.

"Stop it, mage."

The man looked at him questioningly. "I always wanted to see what's the pattern of your markings," he admitted. "And I can feel all these… muscles moving. Aren't you quite muscular for a lean elf? I just want to have a quick look."

The liquor he consumed made him honest – too honest for the elf's liking.

"I want many things but it doesn't mean I'm getting them."

Anders rolled his eyes. "All right then, but I need to bathe anyway."

Fenris momentarily tensed, tingling in his hands getting stronger. "You're not bathing my body."

"You want me to go to bed filthy after all day of running around with Hawke and all that?!"

"You live in Darktown, you're used to filth," Fenris pointed out.

"Well, excuse me, serah elf, if I could afford living in a mansion, I'd gladly move to Hightown. Sadly, I don't have a former master to rob him of his fancy house!"

Fenris gritted his teeth, calling for the Blight to take him and sacrifice to the Archdemon. He could barely stand hearing his own voice and seeing his own body talking and acting like Anders.

"You will survive this one night, and I'm sure my body can survive not bathing for one day," he said with a relatively calm voice that cost him half of his sanity, he imagined. "You had enough wine. Now could you please find yourself a spot and sleep. We shall resume our discussion in the morning."

Of course nothing could be easy with the mage. "What do you mean, find a spot? What's wrong with the bed? Don't you have a bed in this place, or do you sleep on the rug in front of the fireplace?!"

"Well, I do have a bed, and I'm sleeping on it," Fenris replied, already knowing where this conversation was going.

He watched his body tense, now Anders was frowning for a change. Fenris obviously never saw himself from a different perspective, and he wasn't the type who would spend all day staring at his reflection in the mirror; now he realised the angry expression did make him look like a wild dog ready to bite any second. No wonder people generally avoided him.

"I'm not going to sleep on the floor," Anders announced; his speech was slurred but only a bit. "I am sleeping on the blighted bed because it's the only thing I can sleep on in this fucking mansion full of filth, spiders and dead rotting bodies."

The markings flickered, illuminating the room with a faint blue light. Fenris held his tongue, listening to the mage; he couldn't quite grasp why he was so mesmerized by his words. Was this some kind of extreme narcissism?

"So let's just go to sleep without arguing," Anders continued, his voice a low growl, "because I'm getting a headache which is not a good thing considering I have no blighted idea how to control your tattoos. If I accidentally rip out your - mine own! - heart, it'll be your fault. I'm not asking you to act like we were in one of Isabela's crazy friend fiction stories, I just want to go to sleep. On the bed like a normal human being, not curled on the floor like a Mabari."

Fenris capitulated and nodded.

"Where's the bedroom, then? Don't just sit here, lead on!"

He seriously considered punching his own body only to silence the mage. He could live with a broken nose, but he wasn't sure if he could live through a night with the mage constantly talking and ordering him around.

He promised Hawke he wouldn't damage the healer. Fenris swore in his thoughts. He wouldn't risk making the Champion mad at him, no matter how irritating Anders was.

The bedroom was one of the three rooms Fenris made habitable, meaning it was relatively clean (or: not as dirty as the unoccupied ones). It was still messy as the elf never bothered to take care of his surroundings. At least the bed was comfortable; luxurious, with a thick mattress and soft covers. Fenris thanked the Maker the bed was huge. He could fit three grown men in there if he ever wanted to, which meant he and the abomination could sleep comfortably without touching.

If Anders touched him in his sleep, Fenris would murder–

"I thought it would be cleaner! This is the place where you sleep!"

Anders was back in his bickering mode. The sooner the man falls asleep the better.

"Again, you live in the sewers called Darktown," Fenris sighed. "Just stop talking and go to sleep."

For a moment he considered sleeping in all clothes he was wearing, but he had enough of the coat, so he began to undo all the clasps and buttons. Once he was done (it took him longer than expected, which created a question about the functionality of the damn thing), Fenris threw the coat on the floor.

"Hey, be careful! This coat's the only one I have," Anders called, sitting on the bed. He was caressing the mattress like he couldn't remember when was the last time he slept on a decent bed – which was most likely true considering his living conditions in Kirkwall.

"I hate this thing," Fenris admitted, kicking off his boots. "What's with you and feathers?"

"What's with you and all those spikey metal things, huh?"

They simply couldn't agree on anything, could they?

Once Anders made himself comfortable, Fenris walked to the bed as well. He lay on the other side, as far from the man as possible without falling off. At first he considered staying awake to make sure Anders didn't do anything. Then, hearing the man snoring lightly, he decided it was no use losing a night. There was, however, something that didn't let him fall asleep.

The mage was out in no time, lulled to sleep by wine, whereas Fenris could not find peace, his whole body – Anders' body – tingling with not only something close to magic but also with dangerous curiosity. Making sure the man was truly sleeping (the peaceful expression on the face that belonged to the elf looked odd, he had to admit), Fenris quietly stood up and tiptoed to another room. There was a large mirror standing by the window, covered in layers of cobwebs and dust. Gently, he brushed them off enough to see his own reflection. His first impulse was to smash the mirror, seeing the face of the mage, not his own. He took a deep breath. It was most unfortunate that of all people he had to swap bodies with Anders. Every other day, he couldn't stand looking at the man. Now, however, curiosity won over common sense, and Fenris could not stop looking at the mage's body in the mirror.

He reached out to untie the hair and contemplated the result judgingly. Raking his hand through blond strands he discovered that human hair was not as soft as elven. And the mage could use a haircut. Or he could grow his hair more; Fenris pondered about the possibility of the mage with a long braid and smiled despite himself.

Seeing Anders smile was rare, mostly because the man never smiled when Fenris was around. His fingers brushed the stubble, lips, the tip of a long nose. He remembered what the mage had said when they ventured into the Blooming Rose; some thought him handsome. Fenris never even considered this, but he had to admit Anders was handsome. When he wasn't blabbing about mage rights or similar nonsense, that is.

He vowed to keep these thoughts to himself.

Hesitantly, his hand moved to the shirt. After reprimanding Anders to not take off anything else but the armour, Fenris felt like he was betraying his own rules as he undressed, letting the shirt and pants pile on the floor by his (large, human) feet, now the body covered only by smalls to provide one last shred of decency. He blamed his curiosity or whatever demon that was whispering all these ideas into his ear. He straightened his back and admired the refection, turning around and looking from different angles.

Before he could stop himself, his hand touched his chest, fingertips caressing a large scar right above the heart. No person could survive a blow that left such scar, yet the mage was certainly not dead. Was it the spirit that saved him?, Fenris mused. The presence in his head wasn't disturbing his thoughts, but he could feel there was something, someone, in there, trapped. How could Anders live like this?

He mindlessly touched his arms, feeling human body hair under his hands, the sensation so odd and... fascinating; he found himself craving to touch more. There were scars all over Anders' body; tiny cuts on his arms and shoulders, bigger marks on his almost hairless chest, and when he touched his back he felt more bruises there. He turned around to see the scarred back in the dim light seeping through the window. He examined the shapes; lashes, probably. Not healed properly, leaving long, ugly marks.

Anders was unnaturally thin, too, yet his arms were muscular and strong after all those years of fighting with a staff. Large hands, long calloused fingers. This body was scarred, thin on the verge of malnourishment, but also strong and capable of summoning powerful spells. He could feel a hint of magic, and Fenris was sure if he tried this body would remember how to throw a fireball or repair a broken bone. The problem was that his mind didn't understand how it worked, and all that power was separated from him, hidden behind a barrier.

Fenris looked down and wiggled his toes. Anders had enormously large feet. He touched his thighs, bent down to touch his knees and calves. More body hair, more scars. He couldn't fight with the urge to touch more; he should feel... disgusted, not fascinated.

Yet he could not stop looking, touching, feeling because for the first time there was no pain carving its way through him. He had no markings poisoning him with lyrium. No constant reminder of his treacherous connection to the Fade that he himself could not fully understand. For the first time he felt… free. And wasn't this ironic considering he swapped bodies with a mage.

He straightened his back again. There was a trail of hair going down from the belly button, blond but with a hint of copper. Looking intensely into the honey eyes of the man in the mirror, he let his hand touch the trail of hair, then through the thin fabric of the smalls touch the half hard cock. The way his – Anders' – eyes widened and lips parted, sent a wave of pleasure through his body.

It was wrong.

He could not stop.

What if the demon– spirit– thing, what if it later tells Anders about everything Fenris did to this body? After all, the mage was the host, Justice wouldn't allow anyone to damage the body he was inhabiting. But Fenris wasn't damaging the body, right?

He was dangerously close to crossing a line – he would not dare to cross it, because he knew what it meant to be used, and what he was doing now was disturbingly similar to using the mage's body. He was almost sure Anders wouldn't have any inhibitions and would do whatever he pleased if left alone (and sober), however, Fenris couldn't do exactly what he wanted. He wasn't sure what he did want, to begin with.

Part of him wanted to see the man scream in pain. The other part of him craved to see Anders writhe in pleasure. The important part was, he didn't want to see himself in the man's body, no, that wasn't it. He wanted to see Anders under him – covered in blood and dying or grasping the bedsheet and crying out his name, Fenris wasn't sure which. All he wanted was to make Anders react; be the reason the mage showed the strongest emotion possible and observe how his whole body changed.

He bowed his head. It was wrong, he had to stop.

With a shudder, he reached for the clothes and dressed, no longer looking at the reflection in the mirror, certain that if he ever again saw the honey eyes staring at him wide, slightly trembling as if trying to voice a particular need, and a light blush on the cheeks... Fenris knew if he ever saw Anders looking like that, he wouldn't hesitate to cross the line and take what he wanted.

When he woke up in the morning, he had a vague idea he had a dream, but he could not say what was the dream about.