“I can feel you when you do that, you know,” Anders says. He’s bent over his pack, digging for a biscuit that’s somehow gotten loose. Fenris is by the fire, occasionally stirring a pot—rabbit, he’d said, holding the animal up earlier.
Anders looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fenris is watching him. He’s unreadable at the best of times, but the dancing shadows from the flames, the overhang of his hair, make it full impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Probably something uncharitable.
“Watching me,” he says. He finds the biscuit, turning to join Fenris across the fire. “You’ve been doing it since. Well.” He feels himself blush, hopes that Fenris attributes it to the heat, and clears his throat. “You know.”
Fenris nods and stirs the pot. “I know.”
Anders wants to sigh or scream or knock the damned rabbit stew into the damned fire. He’s been on tenterhooks waiting for retribution, and Fenris is…he’s…Anders doesn’t know what Fenris is anymore, to be honest. He’d stopped hating him long ago, and maybe that had been for Hawke, at first, but the more he’d found out about Fenris—gleaning pieces here and there—the more he’d understood.
He couldn’t not fight back, though. Not when he’d been so specifically and viciously attacked.
Anders blows out a breath, takes a bite of his biscuit. Watches the way Fenris’ unfathomable eyes follow the movement. He wonders if he’ll die tonight, if he’ll have to fight for his life in this cave, or if maybe, maybe…
“You confound me.”
Anders snorts, almost choking. “I confound you? That’s rich.”
Fenris frowns and picks up a bowl. Filling it with stew, he passes it across the fire. His fingers when they brush Anders, are hot; Anders feels them like a brand.
“Eat,” he says, and serves himself.
Anders sighs, cursing under his breath. “Fenris,” he says, “I—”
Fenris raises a hand. “Perhaps it is better if we do not speak.”