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“I know you’re a templar.”
He heard the scrape of the wooden chair on the stone floor and could sense someone was headed in his direction, but Gilmore refused to look up. He knew he had been caught staring - and not the first time - but hoped that if he’d just stared hard enough at his bowl of stew, he could somehow escape the impending embarrassment. But the words spoken by the mage now hovering over him threw him off, and at the accusation - because it certainly sounded like one - he glanced up.
That was the first mistake. The second mistake was that he tried to hold the man’s gaze, but the honey-coloured eyes that stared back at him caused his insides to twist and a rush of warmth to flare up in his cheeks. His face was nearly as red as his hair when he replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he opened his mouth to say what Gilmore realized would probably be something unpleasant but the confrontation was interrupted by a gravely voice calling from across the hall. It was the dwarf, the one with the beard who never seemed to be without a tankard of ale in his hand. Even now, he was polishing one off, letting out a rather impressive but no less unpleasant burp before calling over.
“Aww, leave the greenhorn be. The Commander said he’s just on loan from Highever. No one’s going to come dragging you back to a Circle.”
A slight flush of embarrassment seemed to redden the mage’s cheeks briefly, and Gilmore was certain he wasn’t quite off the hook, but confessing as to why he couldn’t take his eyes off this Grey Warden who always seemed so loud and charming and infectious seemed worse than thinking he was some sort of big bad Chantry spy. The intervention had worked, however, and Gilmore let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in when the other man turned and marched back over to where he’d been sitting with a couple other Wardens and playing a game of cards.
This wasn’t the end of it, he knew it. But as Gilmore turned his attention back to his bit of bread and stew, he swore to himself he’d do better. It didn’t matter how handsome the mage was. Staring was, after all, impolite.
It was difficult to concentrate on his footwork when there was so much noise coming from the smithy.
Vigil’s Keep was different from Highever Castle, somehow both grander and smaller at the same time. The keep itself was mostly just one large building, but the grounds were large and open with several smaller self-contained quarters scattered about the property. The Grey Wardens had set up the central area as a place to spar and work both recruits and each other through training drills. Gilmore found himself spending most of his time there as it was something practiced and familiar to him. But nearby was the armour and set up in a sheltered section in front of it was the smithy and its two constantly bickering blacksmiths.
But everyone seemed to learn very quickly how to tune out Wade and Herritt. No, it wasn’t the buzz of their back and forth bickering that kept cutting through Gilmore’s attempt to concentrate on his parries. Two Wardens were arguing in increasingly louder and angrier tones, and it was over a cat.
The Howe boy - the one Morgan had very firmly told Gilmore he needed to be nice to - was standing near the entrance to the armour, arms crossed over his chest and a sour expression on his face. The mage - the one with the dirty-blond hair that he had sworn he would stop staring at so much stood standing up to his full height and appearing to almost loom over the other man.
“He’s an honorary Grey Warden and you need to treat him like one!”
“He’s your pet, not mine, and I don’t have to treat him like anything!”
“You see, that’s exactly why he’s gone and scampered off! You’ve hurt his feelings.”
“Maker’s Balls, you can’t be serious.”
Gilmore watched the two men argue back and forth for some time, with the mage insisting his lost mouser was a slight so offensive that nothing less than a sincere apology from Howe could mend things. He wasn’t sure he liked Howe - it was nothing personal, he just had… reservations about the whole family and they weren’t about to go away just because the Commander said what had happened during the Blight was best forgotten. But from the way the two went back and forth and the seemingly dramatic nature of the mage describing his poor emotionally sensitive feline friend, this seemed more like a performance between the two of them than anything actually serious.
And the way he wasn’t the only one watching in amusement told him his thoughts were not too far from the truth.
“They do this sometimes. You get used to it.”
Gilmore started at the sudden interruption and turned to find another one of the dwarven Wardens standing next to him. She was smiling, her voice so casual and conversational, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. It would almost have been pleasant if it weren’t for the way the grim skull-like ink pattern across her face stretched into an almost gothic grimace which didn’t quite seem to suit the energetic and upbeat voice that came with it.
He rubbed absently at his cheek, glancing from the dwarf to the bickering men and back to her. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Of course you weren’t. None of us were.” She seemed to consider him a moment, tilting her head in thought before she continued. “Don’t worry about the other night in the dining hall. As you can see, Anders tends to have a flair for the dramatic. He likes to cause trouble, mostly the harmless kind.”
Anders. Right, that was his name. Of course Gilmore had remembered it, had filed it away along with all the others as simple factual information. It had just gotten a little bit lost in all his thoughts, muddled up with the handsome one, or the tall mage, or the one he wished he could stop stealing glances at.
“He thinks I’m a templar.”
She laughed, a loud and light-hearted sound that didn’t quite seem to suit the grimness of her face. “Are you?”
“Do I look like one?”
The dwarf shrugged. “How should I know? Put a sword and shield in a human’s hands and you all sort of look the same - tall and boxy.”
Gilmore found himself uncertain how to respond to that. So he instead chose silence, nudging absently at the dirt around his feet and trying very hard not to come across as out of place and awkward as he felt.
When Fergus Cousland had told him he’d been reassigned to Vigil’s Keep under the king’s orders, Gilmore knew it wasn’t the whole story. Highever was still haunted by too many ghosts and a new assignment and change of scenery would be good for him. He’d be in the company of Morgan, who he’d always liked and gotten along with during his days as their father’s squire. But no number of polite smiles and humble introductions seemed to do away with the fact that he was an unfamiliar face a good distance from home, and surrounded by people who seemed like they were their own insular little family unit.
It wasn’t that he was bad at making friends. He just seemed to struggle with making these particular ones.
He had decided to retire early for the day, ducking down into the kitchens for an early bit of dinner he could take quietly back to his quarters and not have to endure another mess hall of raucous laughter he couldn't seem to manage to do anything but sit quietly and observe. It was early enough that afternoon light still filtered in through the high windows set in the wall, but the shadows were growing long and the lanterns would soon need to be lit.
As he rounded the corner, he heard the sound of a heavy wooden door creaking on its hinges and turned around in time to see a bright orange tabby cat trot into the hallway. It had a mouse gripped firmly in its mouth and while Gilmore did not have much experience with animals that weren't mabari, if he didn't know any better he'd have said the animal seemed awfully pleased with itself.
The cat paused when it saw him and he expected it to dart out of sight with its supper. But instead it turned and approached him, and to Gilmore's surprise it dropped the dead mouse at his feet and sat back, looking up at him expectantly.
He couldn't help himself but smile as he crouched down to meet the mouser on its own level, even if he found the dead creature a bit revolting. "Well, someone has been busy today."
The cat made a soft mewling sound in response before weaving itself between his legs, purring contentedly. As it did, a little bell on its braided collar jingles a soft tinkling noise. The sound drew Gilmore's eyes towards it, and noticed it was woven in the blue and silver colours of the Grey Wardens.
Realization dawned on Gilmore. "You must be Ser Pounce! But that's not really your name, is it?"
The cat made a trilling sound in response.
"Is that so? Well, I've never met a knighted cat before."
"He's not a knight. He's a Grey Warden."
Gilmore looked up at the voice and felt himself clam up. It was Anders - alone this time - and he was walking directly towards him. Gilmore could feel his cheeks grow hot, not out of any embarrassment but because he suddenly realized he wasn't certain if he could direct his focus away from how lanky and lean Anders looked as he moved for long enough to have a proper conversation.
Especially as unlike the night at dinner, Anders' demeanor seemed completely different. There was a bounce in his step, and an almost wickedly sly smile on his face as he approached the pair. The way he had interrupted too was more casual and far from the accusatory tone in the mess hall. The cat at Gilmore's feet began to purr in response.
"Well, honorary Warden, at least," Anders continued, smiling affectionately as the orange tabby wound its way about his legs. "Can't put cats through the Joining. But you do all right, don't you, Ser Pounce?"
"I'm used to mabari," Gilmore mused as he stood back up, straight-backed and tall… but not as tall, he noticed, as the lanky mage. "But every group needs a mascot."
Anders bent down and scooped the cat up into his arms. The cat seemed to go along with it at first, before deciding it preferred to wiggle out of his arms and perch itself on his shoulder, nestling just inside the blue collar of his coat. Gilmore smiled affectionately at the sight, until he noticed Anders' gaze on him. Every time the man looked at him, it was like he saw through him, and for all that he was polite and good with people, Anders seemed to make his stomach twist itself into knots and his face grow hot.
Glancing down at his boots, Gilmore tried to hastily make an excuse about needing to be on his way. But before the words could form, he heard a soft chuckle from Anders.
"First he's always staring, now he can't hold eye contact. You're an odd one, you know."
Gilmore found himself frowning slightly as he glanced back up. "Excuse me?"
Anders shrugged, taking care to roll his shoulders emphatically as he did so. "You sit in the corner at meals and keep to yourself. If I got it wrong, I'm sorry, but you know… apostate… can't be too careful."
"I'm not a templar. And I wasn't staring. "
"And Nathaniel has a button-shaped nose. Look, it's fine, I get it. I'd stare at me too. How could I not? My wit, charm, and ability to hurl fireballs… I'm a complete package."
"I… what?"
Gilmore's mind came to a screeching halt. Anders was pulling his leg. That had to be it. He was just trying to diffuse the tension, to make light of his own embarrassment. It couldn't be anything else. It couldn't. Unless…?
Maker, he really was that obvious, wasn't he?
Almost as if he'd been reading his mind - and maybe he could; how was Gilmore supposed to know! - Anders chuckled, the smile on his face only growing wider.
Gilmore swallowed. "I'm sorry… I don't mean to presume…"
"Now now, sir knight, not in front of the innocent kitten," Anders replied, reaching up to scratch Ser Pounce's chin. The smile on his face was still wide and playful, but there was something else behind it. Something curious and… tempting. He had done this dance before, Gilmore realized, and that knowledge was all he needed.
It was as if a madness had overcome him. All his awkwardness, his polite embarrassment seemed to fall away as something else bubbled up inside him, hot and fiercely burning. He took one step, two, and grabbed the mage roughly by the front of his tabbard. If he ended up hexed, it didn't matter. What mattered now was that Anders' smile had seemed like an invitation he couldn't turn down.
He could feel that sneaky smile even as he kissed him, lips crushed together and noses bumping as they came together. Then there was a hand at his back, pressing between his shoulder blades and pulling them flush against each other. Gilmore's mind filled with the scent of catnip, of something like fresh rain, and the sharp snap of lyrium that accompanied all mages. It was wonderful, intoxicating, and he hadn't felt anything that seemed this right in a long time.
The broke apart, breathless, and it all felt like it ended too soon. Gilmore knew his cheeks were as bright as his hair, and even Anders' cheeks had an unexpected flush blooming across them.
"Usually I'm the one who does that," Anders said at a time, his voice husky.
Gilmore felt braver than he had before, less awkward and reserved as it was his turn to smile. "I'm sorry, should I have waited?"
"Not at all. In fact, I think you should do it again."
Gilmore felt himself smile, a warm one this time, kind and relieved as he leaned in again. "Happy to oblige, sir mage."