Hawke came around three days later, showing up at Anders' clinic with a grumpy Fenris and a grinning Varric in tow. The champion of Kirkwall's scarred face was as cheery and unaware as usual, when he sauntered towards the team's healer.
The small dusty room was filled with many dirt-covered beggars. A family all with coughing throats, a very old man, two pregnant women, and a young elven boy covered in bruises. Sadly, they knew this was just a light day for Anders.
Before Hawke could say anything, the mage absently gestured for him to wait as he tended to an elderly man's leg- soft blue light covering his fingers as he focused on healing the man.
Fenris saw his forehead was creased, his eyes tightly shut, and his brow covered with sweat. It was obvious the mage was doing even worse than usual. A part of him wondered if their meeting the week before had anything to do with that. Fenris almost wanted that to be true, for his opinion to have mattered that much. It was only fair that Anders suffered in turn, but it always perplexed him to watch the mage be kind and gentle with his patients, giving them his own food and taking no coin.
"That should help ease the pain a bit, Herod, but you better keep off of this. I'll give you a spindleweed poultice just in case. Don't make me tell the missus that you've been up and about! You know Leika will have your balding head if she hears." Anders scolded affectionately, and touched the man's arm with a comforting familiarity that made the man smile.
He wouldn't lie and say he hadn't spent many sleepless hours thinking on the mystery that was Anders. There were years of thoughts he hadn't let himself see, and sorting through them only ended up with him dazed on two bottles of wine. Fenris found his chest feeling tight again, and did his best not to think on why.
"Maker bless you, healer." The old man said before standing up from the cot with Anders' assistance, slightly limping out the door.
The people of Dark Town were obviously very protective and fond of their healer. No man was loved more in the depths of Kirkwall, it seemed. How can this be the same man who was comprised of so many things that he hated? Fenris felt that if he thought on this any longer, he might start feeling the strange guilt he'd had since the last night he saw Anders. He had long refused to ever feel sorry for a mage. It was driving him to lunacy that this promise was getting blurry in the face of one annoying blond apostate.
Anders, looked up to greet Hawke, wiping his hands against an off-white kerchief covered in dried blood.
"What brings you to my humble abode today, Garrett?"
Hawke lit up, the impatient man was horrible at keeping quiet, much less waiting, and started his diatribe with glee.
"Word is there are some slavers hiding up on Sundermount, and if that wasn't reason enough, there's been rumors about some Darkspawn sightings too. I figured we'd try killing two shape-shifting-dragons with one stone and take them out today. You could even gather some of those herbs you need while we're at it. It's a win win!"
"Aren't you forgetting something, Hawke?" Anders pouted, but Fenris saw the small smirk beneath it. Varric elbowed Garrett, cluing him in.
"Oh, right. And I'd miss our very sexy apostate if he wasn't at my side!" Hawke said with a flourish, before winking at Anders.
"That's more like it! Well, as long as you're only using shape-shifting-dragons as an expression, I might be able to come along. Can you give me an hour or so before we trek off to another fun day of possible death? I've got some more patients to take care of before I can close."
"Alright. Be at The Hanged Man when you're ready. Isabela might come with us, right after she gets finished with seducing her way out of debt at the Rose." Hawke winked at Anders more pointedly this time, and Fenris found himself uncomfortable. Were the two flirting or was this just the way they spoke? He kept . He was too worried the answer might reveal something about himself.
Hawke and Varric turned to leave, but Fenris found himself still watching. Anders resumed his work, walking over and bending down on one knee to smile at the bruised elven boy. Fenris recognized the twitch of those pointed ears and saw the kid was wary.
"Hello, buddy. I know better than to ask about the bruises. But if you want to tell me, know that I won't judge or take any action unless you want it. You can trust me, I promise."
The boy slowly took ease, and sent a shy smile to the mage. Anders ruffled the boy's dark hair, and stood up.
"Now hop up on the cot and I'll take a look. Just let me know if I make you uncomfortable, and I'll stop."
Fenris didn't understand the scene before him. Anders became so tender and warm in the blink of an eye. This sarcastic and outraged annoyance had so suddenly slipped right back into the healer that Fenris so often forgot he was. And to see him treat an elf so kindly, no differently than anyone else, and even offer the boy a way out in case it became too much…
Fenris bitterly wished he had such support as a child. He may not remember most of those years, but he knows there was no one who would have treated him with such care.
Anders surveyed the boy and then smiled wide and friendly. "You're in luck! Nothing that some salve and a little magic won't fix." The telltale blue light spread from long fingered hands to the boy's body, melting the bruises into sallow unmarked skin again. Anders walked to a cupboard and pulled out a small tub of cream. "Now just use this if you still feel sore. Rub a little into the area that hurts. You can always come back to me, but be careful, okay?"
"Okay. Thank you Mr. Mage." The boy whispered.
"Mr. Mage sounds so old! Just call me Anders."
The little elf nodded, smiled a tiny grin, and took the salve before running past Fenris into the stink of Darktown.
"Hey Broody, you coming or what?" Varric called over his shoulder. "You can yell at Anders later. Your hand of Diamondback isn't going to lose all by itself."
Fenris snapped out of the scene, but for a moment he saw Anders had lifted his eyes towards him. There was a strained look there that the elf couldn't place, it made his chest hurt. He turned away, following his companions forward. He was a warrior. A weapon against his past and future. But a weapon wasn't supposed to be emotional. Weapons don't have feelings that distract them from their mission. But years of silence with things unsaid, and suddenly here they were.
Knowing that the abomination "cared" for him was unsettling. He didn't even know what to do with care. He'd never considered the mage anything more than a demon waiting to betray them all. It had to be some sort of trick. And worst of all, it seemed like it was working.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~X~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let me know what you lovely guys are thinking so far. I've got a very thorough outline figured out, but if there is something you'd like that I find would mesh well- feel free to suggest it!
As always, thank you so much for reading. An extra thanks to those who have commented- it really keeps this story going!
