Fenris stalked angrily all the way back up from Darktown to Hightown, clenching and unclenching his fists as he went. The part of him that was always alert for an attack noticed the residents scrambling to get out of his way, but he was so lost in his thoughts it barely registered.

What had he been thinking? He couldn't talk to Anders on the best of days and he was certainly not equipped to offer comfort to anyone. He just couldn't understand why, when it came to communicating, he was so inept. When he put the words together in his head it sounded decent, but the words that he thought were never the ones he could push out past his lips.

Anders, I know we have had our differences, and you know of my distrust for mages in general, but from what I know of you as a person I think you deserve better. What Hawke did and said was cruel and the fault lies in him, not in you.

That would have been a good thing to say; something to give the healer a little comfort and dignity. Instead he had said, well…what he had said. And the fact that Anders had spent the last year or more believing he wanted him to be Tranquil just proved that he never got the words out the way he meant them.

Perhaps Anders was right, he really was no better than a wild dog.

Once Fenris was back at the manor again he took solace in a bottle of cheap wine he had picked up from Corff. He still wasn't sure what had possessed him out seek out the healer in the first place. After his night with Hawke, the warrior had told him he didn't want more than one night, and Fenris had felt that was for the best. Hawke had…used him rather roughly and it had reminded him of things he would rather forget. That on top of gaining and then losing his memories had been just too much to deal with.

Afterward he had kept Hawke's crest and the scarf the warrior had bound him with for reasons that weren't clear even to himself. Perhaps as a reminder that the world would always treat him as he deserved. Perhaps, and this worried him, it was natural to him to want some mark of servitude.

Whatever the reason he had worn them even as Hawke flirted with the healer right in front of him. In fact, he, Varric and Isabella had all been right there when the warrior had asked Anders to come to his house. That night Fenris had gone back to his manor with a sick feeling in his stomach; anger and jealousy keeping him pacing the floor all night.

The next evening Hawke had come into the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace without the healer at his side. Fenris overheard Hawke laughing to Isabela about how Anders had confessed his love for him.

"I had to tell him that he just wasn't that good. You should have seen the look on his face! I think I may have broken his heart a little. I would have thought he have been toughened up by now, with all he's been through."

Varric looked a little ill at those words, and Fenris heard a definite thread of sympathy in Isabela's voice when she answered.

"Oh, poor fellow. Love will bite you in the ass every time."

Fenris had excused himself shortly after that, barely able to contain his rage. If he had been angry the night before he was positively murderous that night. What kind of man was Hawke, to treat people this way? Love might be foolish, and it was certainly something he had no experience with, but surely only a monster would fling it back into someone's face that way.

As soon as he got back to the manor that night the red scarf had gone into the fire and the crest had gone sailing into a pile of rubbish. He had avoided Hawke for a few days afterward, and when he did agree to accompany him again he secretly relished the look of displeasure on the warrior's face when he noticed the missing scarf.

In the weeks after that Anders had not left his clinic and Fenris had felt…well, not worried certainly. After all, they weren't friends. But he had felt a strange sympathy for the healer, and the notion of going to offer a few words of comfort had nagged at him until he could ignore it no longer.

That had really worked out well, hadn't it?

Fenris took another swallow from the bottle he held in his hands, frowning at the vinegary taste. He really needed to stop buying wine from that flea pit. Once again his mind wandered back over everything that had been said between himself and the healer, until he shook his head in aggravation at himself. When had that blasted mage started taking up so much space in his thoughts?

His arm flung out, almost of its own volition, and he smashed the bottle against the wall. He harrumphed to himself as he watched the watery drink run quickly down the wall. No legs at all. Even for venting his anger the cheap stuff was disappointing.

No solace in being drunk tonight then. With a last frustrated sigh at himself he decided he might as well call this day a loss and turn in.