Participants:

Anders_icon.gif Fenris_icon.gif

Scene Title Always With The Flowers
Synopsis Fenris brings Anders flowers, sort of. They settle down to sleep. Then things get weird. Again.
Location Darktown Clinic
Date 02 Justinian 9:31 Dragon
Watch For Flowers, Anders having a nest, Kitty not being a delusion, bad decisions.
Logger Fenris

So, Fenris has had worse plans than this in his life.

This was definitely up there, though.

Kirkwall is dark, it's late enough that even Darktown is quiet. And there is Fenris, having tipped a local urchin to pick the lock to Anders's clinic. Now, it had taken some assurance that he didn't mean Darktown's favorite healer any harm but… Well, honestly, Fenris was intimidating, but the vase of brightly colored flowers in his arms helps with his point. So in he slips, quiet as you please, to sneak the flowers into the clinic, some place they'll add color to the place, and then be out without being caught.

Good luck, Fenris.

Convincing Fenris that he would be perfectly fine sleeping down in his clinic had not been an easy argument - made harder by the traitorous part of him that didn't very much want to win.

That was the part that had been disappointed when he finally nixed his best excuse to spend his nights sleeping next to Fenris. That's the part of him serenading a series of 'told you so's when Darktown gets quiet and he still can't sleep. Getting up to roll bandages or clean or anything but lay there staring at the ceiling had not left him prepared for the sound of a pick's tools. Realizing in this moment that he probably should look into actually replacing his staff, Anders calls lightning to his fingertips and waits. Veilfire would be handy right about now, but maybe if he's lucky, the sound of crackling energy dancing around his fingers might be enough to scare away any would-be thief.

Okay, he hadn't been expecting Anders to go and do something stupid like be awake. Luckily, however, Fenris recognizes the sound of crackling in the air for what it is, and not some other mage making a threat at him. Part of him had been smart enough to at least anticipate Anders rising thinking he was a thief or worse. He'd just had a little too much faith in his sneakiness.

"Anders, it is me." Fenris says, setting the vase down quickly, glowing just a little, preparing to phase out of the way of a spell if it is released before Anders can realize who is in his clinic.

For once, there's a little luck in Anders' favor; far enough on the back end of the room, none of the movements register as close enough to cause significant alarm. So the lightning crackles and hums, but is not released before a very familiar voice breaks the silence.

And then of course there's that glow; just in case Anders had any doubts who that voice belongs to.

"Fenris?" He blinks a few times as the brewing storm is dissipated from the air. He's already crossing the dark room, anticipating some kind of grave personal injury "Maker, are you trying to scare me?"
There is no injury. None at all. No bruise, no scrape. Not even the tell tale signs of a won bar fight. Nothing. He's perfectly hale, though smelling a little like wine. The elf shakes his head, sighing. "No." He says, "I did not think you would be awake. I ought to have known better." Because, well, he had seen himself how well Anders slept. "I apologize if I frightened you."

Anders doesn't waste time in crossing the room and checking all this for himself - the non-magical, 'old fashioned' way. And if his hands skim shoulders and one comes to rest on his hip, well, that's just part of the process. Or something.

"S'fine, Fen," he answers around a yawn. "You're okay, I'm okay, at this point that's pretty much worth a parade." His smile may not be able to be seen in the dark, but it's heard for sure in that tone. "Did you need something?"

Fenris shivers at that touch. He didn't think he would ever get used to that, not ever, but he's not complaining. "I… Uh…" Fenris starts, clearing his throat, his arm snaking around Anders's waist, though whether he realizes is up for debate. "No, nothing." Maybe, just maybe, he could get the vase out before Anders noticed in the morning, and everyone could just conveniently forget this particularly sappy thought he's had. Or the wine has had.

Anders is quite content to be where he is (which is much preferable to where he was five minutes and twelve feet ago) and even leans in to nuzzle at Fenris' temple - because something about the dark makes him brave. Well, braver. There's a contented hum when Fenris' arm snakes around him as well, one that trails off into a soft, low laugh. "You're telling me that you came down to this miserable dump in the middle of the night for, what? No reason at all?"

The dark and wine seems to make Fenris bold as well. Or perhaps he's just going for a distraction tactic. The nuzzle is met and returned with a purr, Fenris turning to press a kiss to Anders's jaw. "Correct." He says, but does not linger on the answer. His other hand comes to reach up into Anders's hair, lacing fingers into golden locks, sliding through to release it from whatever tie he has it in tonight.

The distraction tactic is a valid one - especially when Anders is quite willing to be distracted. That purr makes him smile and he doesn't fight the release of his hair from its tie, though now that it's loose it spills down just past his shoulders and tends to fall everywhere. Anders leans into the kiss to his jaw and sighs, the hand at his waist eliciting something more like the sleep-deprived grumble of a large, obnoxious housecat. "But you always have reasons…"

"Did you really think I would just let you come down here without my watching after you?" Fenris says. You know, it's more sentimental than he would normally be, but it's a lot better than copping to the vase of flowers sitting by the door. Thank the Maker for the darkness. There's a small smile as the mage's hair comes loose, falling everywhere. It seems to have a life of its own, and Fenris can't help but feel that it suits Anders quite deftly.

That question is entirely unexpected; it makes Anders' chest do funny things, made evident by the sharp inhale of breath that follows it. It melts him entirely and the suspicion fades away, replaced by a subtle sort of happiness just under his collarbone. A small jerk of the head flips his hair to one side so he can bend just a little and brush a light, sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I had wondered," he admits sheepishly - complete with a slight flush to his face if the light permits. "I am… very glad to be proven wrong."

Twice a day, no less, but he wasn't about to cop to that so easily. Fenris smiles, continuing to run his fingers gently through the mage's hair. It's too dark to see the color rise to Anders's skin, but Fenris can feel the heat. "Well, where is it you are sleeping, then?" He says. Because yes, it seems Fenris is just going to invite himself over for the night.

This is… a dichotomy that Anders has no reason to ever have expected. The sensation of fingers through his hair makes Anders go a little wobbly at the knees - his turn to purr down into the crook of Fenris' neck. And the implied demand to share his sleep sounds like a wonderful idea… but the phrasing of that demand reminds Anders that this is not the Inn of Quilted Death where they can just fall into bed easy as they please…

This is a space that is entirely his and rather than take up a cot that might be needed, Anders has taken to a… different way of sleeping. One that comes with another flush of heat and a nervous sort of laugh. "You really don't want the answer to that." It's deflection - not even very good deflection - but he doesn't have a whole lot of options at this point.

And there's something fragile about certain things so that you just know they couldn't stand up to even gentle ridicule.
Fenris frowns, sighs, pulls the half inch away to look the mage in the face. Not that much can be seen, just outlines by the faintest shimmers of silver moonlight that trickle down into Darktown. The edge of his golden hair, the curve of his cheekbone, the outline of his lashes. "Mage, if you are about to tell me you are not sleeping, so help me…" Fenris says, and though he sounds unamused, there's no real heat behind it.

"What? No! Well. Mostly no?" Caught between wanting to give an answer but not entirely knowing how with the words that are available, Anders stutters and stumbles a little over what, exactly, he's being asked. "I- " And he deflates, shoulders slumping down and forward as a long, low sigh escapes his lips. And anyone - literally anyone but Anders, who wants so much to believe in this world that keeps shutting him down - would have continued that deflection, cracked a joke, led Fenris to one of the many empty cots. But there's a piece inside Anders that… wants to trust.

So when he turns and reaches behind him for Fenris' hand, it's with a slightly tighter grip. He approaches the area with caution, both for practical and emotional concerns.

Down on the stone floor - and illuminated by the torch for Veilfire hung on that far wall - is a mess. Old blankets of every shape, size and color are in there, along with cushions both decorative and functional.

"When I was… alone. They weren't about to lose a Spirit Healer permanently. So to counterbalance the icy cold in the Hold, I was given as many blankets as I could fit in the cell. I… made the most of it. It became a … well, a habit."

Okay, so Fenris officially hits confused. He cants his head as Anders stutters and stumbles, not sure what it is that could possibly be tripping the mage up this badly. Maker's breath, he already knew he was possessed, how much worse could what this is be? It's almost enough to make Fenris concerned even as he laces his fingers with Anders'. When he sees the nest of blankets upon the floor, however, Fenris lets out a sigh of relief.

"Anders," Fenris says quietly, seeming to understand the delicacy of this topic, "Do you know how many Magisters bother to waste the coin on mattresses for their slaves?" There's a pause then, "I couldn't sleep on a bed for the first year that I ran. It would destroy my back."

"I - oh."

No, he hadn't the faintest clue how many magisters would let their slaves sleep on beds like people, but he can't imagine it's very high.

The sigh of relief has him shifting his weight from foot to foot and clearing his throat a bit. He can apologize for false alarms later. Just now he's relieved to be spared laughter or that awkward silence that said better than any words how crazy someone thinks you are.

Fen's soft confession makes him physically hurt. He tugs up the hand he still holds and presses a kiss to one of the knuckles.

"I won't ask you to share it if you don't want to," he says. "It's a comfort for me but there are plenty of open cots if you'd prefer." Another brush across the knuckles.

Fenris is not obliged to anything but his own comfort.

"I can manage a night on a pile of blankets." Fenris says with a small smile, "It is likely more comfortable than some of the camps I have had to set up." Camps. That was generous. There were some nights where the dogs were on your heels and you couldn't afford a fire. Or some place warm. Or some place flat. More than once Fenris had curled into the blackened stumps of trees long felled by lightning or fire while he hoped the torchlight of those who sought him wouldn't reach inside. Or on the floors of caves while rain raged outside, having fled from the town he had intended to sleep in, bereft of all but the barest of his possessions. This? This could do just fine.

"You have this terrible habit of fussing, do you know that?" Fenris says, that smile turning slightly lopsided. It's rhetorical, of course it is rhetorical, the mage is a Healer, love of the Maker. Turning the hand that Anders holds, he catches the mage's wrist gently, pulling him close once more. Pressing a kiss to his lips, Fenris's hand returns to Anders's hair for a brief moment. He doesn't linger, however, and breaks the kiss a few moments later. He nods then, letting Anders settle before he does so. Besides, he's not exactly going to expect Anders to share a sleeping space while he has his armor on.

Anders huffs, rolling his eyes to the darkness and doing his level best to pretend he isn't at all smiling.

"It's not fussing. Maybe in the barbaric north it's called fussing. Here it's called caring. It's called looking after. It's called attempting to be not a shitty person."

Of course it has many definitions, but when Fenris kisses him all the mage can do is cling to his shoulders and kiss him back - he doesn't push for more than he's given, but when Fenris finally pulls away, Anders nips lightly at his lower lip.

Anders can settle remarkably fast into familiar blankets, banking cushions up around him in a way to best support Fen's body during the night.

If Fenris was honest, he didn't know the first thing about someone caring. The closest he'd gotten was either a particularly nice innkeep here and there or Danarius's sick need to get a return on his investment. Neither were particularly great baselines. The familiar clicks of the closures of his armor come quick, Fenris turning his mind to that task and not the idea of Anders caring. Setting his blade and armor aside, Fenris lingers a moment, considering.

Caring.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fear bubbles in the elf's chest. It melts and blends with guilt, and for a moment he looks like he might just bolt. If this weren't Darktown in the middle of the night, if he hadn't just disarmed and unarmored. If he had thought about it earlier. If he had thought about before the other night.

If.

What a fucking word that was. If. What good had it ever done him?

It has kept you alive, stupid.

Oh, this war with himself, lingering there just on the edge of the light, half turned away, it's obvious. Lines pull across Fenris's face, even as he looks down and away, white hair obscuring much but not enough.

The closures of the armor are a familiar enough sound, but the silence that comes afterward makes Anders' heart leap into his throat. He's not good with most silence - he knows this about himself - and so he does his level best to simply take deep, slow breaths and not to read into this silence more than is really there.

But when he finally turns back over, finally lifts his gaze to watch almost mournfully as Fenris hovers, the sinking in Anders' stomach feels all too real.

Feeling almost as if he's teetering on a cliff, Anders pushes himself to a sitting position and chews on his lower lip.

"If you need to go, Fen, it's alright." His voice is soft and without judgment. "Sometimes the silliest things make me feel like I can't breathe and then it's a day or two before I can be a person again."

It's permission and reassurance all rolled into one. He won't take anything by force.

Those words reach his ear and Fenris stops. Stops everything, thinking, breathing. There is a moment of utter silence before he lifts his head once more, looking down at Anders and taking a deep breath that he fails to keep from shaking. Of all the ways to handle his fear, this would not be the one the elf expected. Hurt, that would have been expected. Telling him to go, that too. Asking him to stay, trying to hold tight, that wouldn't surprise him. This, though, this gentle acceptance, this easing, this welcoming without cornering, Fenris doesn't know what to do with it. All that his own fear had raised his own hackles died, the beast in his heart eased by this simple gentleness.

Maker have mercy, he couldn't bear to lose this.

With the smallest of smiles, Fenris settles down beside Anders, his arm going around the mage's waist and pulling him back to laying.

Anders is unprepared for Fenris to settle, but he is even more unprepared to see that little smile.

He doesn't fight when Fenris tugs at him, twisting around so that he can nuzzle into white hair and then down into the curve of his neck. That nuzzling may turn into little feathery kisses across the skin, but he doesn't linger beyond his welcome, content to wriggle his body into a more comfortable place in the pile and then relax with a low hum.

It seems Anders is being welcomed to do as he liked. For now, at least Fenris has thrown the shackles of his fear away and he's not about to go anywhere. The nuzzling is returned, and he lets himself be happy. Kisses light as breath make him shiver a little, and he returns the favor with a gentle nip to Anders's earlobe. It's an affectionate little bite, paired with his hand coming once more to pet through the mage's golden hair. His eyes close, and the elf relaxes, taking a couple deep breaths to shake loose and residual flightiness that hangs about.

The bite tickles unexpectedly and Anders squeaks before the sound could be controlled. Slightly embarrassed laughter follows the initial outburst, but it's quieter - almost breathy.

Having his hair petted is a much calmer experience and within moments Anders is draped half over Fenris like a limp noodle and absolutely purring. He doesn't speak for a while and when he finally does it's with the slight slur of the utterly contented.

"How did you spend your day?"

Someone really ought to inform Anders that he was secretly a cat. Fenris couldn't determine how a cat had become so adept at healing magic. Or managing to turn himself into a horse, but there was no denying it. Not when Anders relaxed so thoroughly into his arms. It was a lovely sensation, really, one Fenris had never been to actually stop and appreciate. Searing pain generally deters cuddling. Fenris pauses as Anders asks that question, though, blinking. Maker, most of the day had been spent… Ugh.

"Looking into jobs." Fenris answers simply. He needed to take them frequently, to keep paying his inn bill. And feeding himself. Fenris had never really been much of a cook. But it's not the whole answer. Much of the day had been spent, after all, looking after this very clinic and hunting down those very flowers he was hoping would be forgotten.

Out of all the things Anders has been called in his life, a cat is by far probably the kindest. Also the most accurate. He's quite happy to lay exactly where he is, rubbing his cheek against Fenris' collarbone before settling with a very happy huff.

"There's a company stationed here. Maura mentioned them. They're called… Evi- eva- Evo… something. Whatever the Imperial unit they used to invite people back into was called." He even laughs against warm skin, still enjoying the two-fingered salute of the name to Tevinter. Because he's Anders; witty 'fuck you' to authority is where this man eats.

"I haven't met any of them, but word is they pay well and do classier work than the Coterie. It might not be a bad lead, even if Maura did get it from a tiger. Supposedly."

Fenris blinks. "Evocati?" He says, stifling his own small laugh. Well, that was certainly one way to tell the Imperium to go fuck itself. When, however, Anders mentions a tiger, he looks like he's seen a ghost.

"A tiger?" He says, blinking, "Like… An actual tiger? A talking tiger?" But it sounds like questions of confirmation, not doubt.

"Yeah," Anders answers easily. "Some friend of hers and Taril's apparently." He shrugs, the movement probably more felt than seen. "They call it 'Kitty'."

And though with the events of the past few days he hasn't given the fact much thought, he does take the time now to consider a few things.

"I know the Veil is thin here, but still. Most spirits don't have the kind of focus it would take to be as 'present' as they describe it. And I've certainly never heard of a demon or a spirit that looked like a cat out of children's tales."

Fenris just goes quiet. It hangs there for a good many moments. That hadn't been the wine? He'd been sure that was the wine.

The extended silence from Fenris - with the elf so close - is actually not uncomfortable. Anders lets it settle over them for a while before a thought occurs:

"How did you know it talked?"

"I…" Fenris blinks, stammering, shaking his head, his heart has picked up its pace some, "I have met that tiger. I thought… I thought it was a delusion of the wine and my exhaustion." Well, that… That was concerning. Extremely concerning. "It showed up in my room. Like it belonged there. Told me… Venhedis…" Fenris squirms a little, starting to turn, reach for his blade, drag over his armor.

"Hey…"

This time Anders does lay a hand on Fenris' arm as he tries to shift out from under him. But it's not a forceful hand and his voice stays soft.

"Before we go rushing out into the night, explain to me what we're chasing?"

Anders doesn't hiccup or hesitate over that 'we'. At least one thing is not at all in question.

Fenris stops, and looks as though he is about to tell Anders that he would not be coming with him. His expression softens near immediately, however, and Fenris smiles just a touch. Leaning up, he places a hand on the back of the mage's neck, and kisses him, hot and fierce, but brief.

"According to the… Talking tiger…" He can't even say it without practically rolling his eyes, "In one of the warehouses, there are a hundred elves. Slave stock." Fenris slips away then, gently this time, though. He's explaining while he shrugs on his armor. "She… Couldn't get them to leave. So asked me to do it. That was some days ago, however, and I… I do not know if they would still be there. Or if she was even telling me the truth."

Anders is listening for an explanation; being so intensely kissed had not been on the list, but he's certainly not - "What was that for?" he asks in a slightly dazed voice. "Not that I'm complaining, mind. Just curious."

When Fenris rolls away this time, Anders doesn't stop him. In fact, he's already rolling to the other side of the nest and pulling his hair up into its usual tail.

"Maker, that many?"

That apparently settles it. Shoving his feet into his boots, Anders rises to stand and stretch before pulling an empty satchel from a shelf. He doesn't have armor or 'proper' robes or a staff - "Need to find another of those…" - but thanks to some enterprising friends, he has an ample supply of processed lyrium and healing poultices. It'll take him a minute to put all that together.

Fenris smiles over his shoulder, pulling on his gauntlets, the long process that they were, with as much articulation as they have. He's not answering that question with words. Anders could figure out what that was for all on his own. He was a smart man, and Fenris didn't feel the name to taint some things with the spoken word. It was a clumsy thing, and this was not clumsy.

"Apparently, yes. If the tiger speaks truth." Fenris says, rising then, rolling his shoulders back before he places his blade in its holster behind him. "I am not wholly unconvinced she is not some sort of trap." Fenris has grown very accustomed to putting his things on quickly, thus it is that he leans against the nearest wall, and waits for Anders to finish packing the things he will need. "A staff? Yes, likely, if you intend to keep following me into danger."

"I absolutely do."

Anders is folding a thin blanket around a weirdly well-organized pile of bandages, but he pauses long enough to add a very stern look at Fenris to go with his statement; it says he will, without hesitation, argue this point if he has to. Once they're in his pack, he ties it closed and slings the long strap over his shoulder, standing with just a momentary stretch.

He eyes his spear for a moment where it leans against the wall, chewing his lower lip. Not anxious to bring such a brutal weapon to a warehouse full of frightened former slaves, he nevertheless cannot discount entirely the possibility of a trap.

"At least this doesn't shout 'I'm a rogue apostate, smite me' to the Templars."

And once it's on his back, he's ready.

It does not appear Fenris intends to argue that point at all. In fact, Anders being so firmly sure of that fact makes the warrior smile. He thanks the darkness silently, it hiding the blush that rises to the edge of his ears. He nods as Anders turns to his spear.

"That is true." He says simply, and as the mage is ready, he pushes away from the wall and moves to the door. And though they're on to more important things, he does how Anders continues to miss the existence of the vase of flowers still sitting on the floor beside the door.

Anders misses the blush and the smile - he's busy putting other things together just at that moment - but the tiny slivers of light are just misleading enough that he manages to trip over the vase.

"Andraste's crispy tits," he hisses, catching himself on the doorway and trying to look under his arm to figure this out. "What in the world… are those flowers?" Maura is going to be the death of him, he's certain of it.
Fenris reaches out to catch Anders as he trips, but it seems the mage has it under control. Clearing his throat, the blush deepens, though the low light likely saves his dignity once more on that front. "Yes, they are." He says, but he doesn't linger, on the words or in the doorway, and steps out into the night.

Anders shakes his head and lifts the vase to set it up on a nearby table and get it out of the way. He follows the elf out into the street, pulling the door closed tightly behind him. One palm pressed against the wood leaves a glyph - it won't stop anyone, but he'll be able to see if it's been broken when they return.

"Which warehouse? There are a few different elevators out."

"I thought she was a delusion, I didn't ask." Fenris says, sighing. Well, at least Anders had the good sense to not ask about the flowers. Then, though, he waits. Anders knows Darktown better than he does, and he trusts the mage is likely to know which of the elevators would be most convenient for finding the correct warehouse.

Anders is silent too, considering for a moment the likely scenarios.

"I… well, I know where they probably are, but you're not going to like it."

Anders doesn't like it either, but there's a slowly-dawning determination to the set in his jaw that always bodes trouble.
Fenris gives Anders a confused look, though it may be lost to the shadow of Darktown. "I do not like this to begin with. What is your thought?" He asks, that same confusion carrying to his voice.

Anders inclines his head toward the elevator that would take them to the sector he's afraid they'll have to visit.

"The slavers have always used the old city warehouses. All the refugees say to stay away from them."

Which might not have been so bad a few days ago but now…

"Those warehouses are inside the Qunari compound now."

Sighing, Fenris pauses. Of course. Of course. The elf curses, shaking his head. "Of course they are." He mutters, considering a moment. "Anders, I can't… You cannot come with me." His tone is serious, if not a bit apologetic. "They might be willing to speak with me. Or at least let me pass. They let me keep you once. I do not think the Arishok will find it as amusing a second time, and though I would like to, I cannot kill them all."

"What? Why not?"

The demand is out of Anders' mouth before the rest of it can be heard and processed. "If there are slaves in one of those warehouses they're going to need a healer, Fen." It's what he does; it's who he is. He can't help himself.

"I'm not afraid of the damn Qunari." And he almost sounds like he believes it. "I've seen so much worse." That part is actually true. "They need help and I can offer it." There's a strange kind of desperation to that statement. "That doesn't stop being true just because it's hard." Something haunted, something clawing out what penance it can.

"And if it's not slaves? If you go in there alone and it is a trap and they expect you to be alone and overwhelm you? What then?"

"They have tried to catch me, alone, many times before. With traps, too." Fenris says, sounding very serious. "I have been running alone for three years, Anders. I can get out if I need to." He pauses, stepping toward the mage, his looks softens a degree, though not entirely, "What I cannot do…" Oh, that blushing, it really will not quit, and outside of the sleeping darkness of the clinic, his shadowy protection is growing less and less, "Is put you in danger because a talking tiger has convinced me to go after a bunch of people I do not even know. I swear, if they need healing, I will send them to you." It seems he is still very set on Anders not coming with him into the heart of the nest of Qunari.

"And you don't think it's possible that in three years of failing they've maybe learned a thing or two?" Anders does not want to have this argument out in the street - he'd prefer not to have it at all - but that doesn't mean he's ready to simply stay silent.

Fenris' softening and approach call to the tender places in Anders, making him want to yield, to bend. The blush illuminated just enough by the sparse night-time lanterns makes his stomach twist with emotions he's not ready to even think about right now. He heaves out a heavy sigh and folds his arms over his chest.

"I'm not actually a delicate mageflower, you know." It's not the first time he's had to say it; it probably won't be the last. "What do you want me to do? Sit here useless while you go off into Maker only knows what?"

"How would I even get you in, Anders?" Fenris says, sounding frustrated now. "The Qunari are not so simple to get past, mage. Unless you want me to literally put you on a leash so they can keep calling you my pet." He practically spits the word, and he turns away then, shaking his head. "I cannot even break into your clinic quietly enough to not rouse you. We're not getting into the Qunari's compound without being seen, and I don't know how you think a second meeting with them will go, but I do not imagine it would go well. "

"I don't know!" Anders snaps back, sounding equally frustrated. He pushes one hand back through his hair, ruffling loose honey-gold strands that then fall down around his face. His eyes dart back and forth on nothing, trying to find some solution and coming up with zilch. When he speaks again, it is much lower and preceded by a heavy sigh. "It's hard to explain to you how stupid of an idea I - I know this is when you insist on being so damn logical about it." It's an acknowledgment of defeat, but that doesn't mean the mage is at all happy about that fact.

"I am sorry." Fenris says, shaking his head, "I know you wish to help. Maker, I want your help." There's a sentence he doesn't say often, "But I can't think of a way to make this work. I will be back." A pause, "I promise." Fenris closes what distance remains between himself and Anders, and presses another fierce kiss to the mage's lips. It leaves him a little breathless, but he turns to leave swiftly, not wasting any more time on debating the topic or lamenting about his own unfortunate state of being correct.


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