“Please put me down it’s just a sprained ankle" for fenhawke if you're feeling up to it :D
(i was just thinking about gentle blue mage hawke and Aggressively Protective Fenris in the shower this morning so Here Go)
He tells Cullen it’s a walking stick and makes sure to lean on it whenever he’s in the Gallows - and so far no one’s called him out on it. It’s not like sparks of blue lyrium fly up every time he taps his staff against the ground. He’s an apostate, technically, and he prays to Andraste every day to keep his powers in check. Hawke is careful.
But he’s also not lying. For all his age and experience and role as the protector in the family - head of household only when his mother became too old or sick with worry to make the difficult choices - Hawke is horribly clumsy. He spent most of the voyage to Kirkwall on his knees or clinging to whatever rail he could find, tripped his way up and down the Coast, and broke a toe in the Bone Pit. Most of his friends are used to this. Varric especially thinks it’s funny, though he promises to leave it out of his tall tales.
“Heroes don’t have to be perfect,” Hawke has said.
“No one wants to hear about how you took out Ignacio Sharp by accidentally headbutting his knife hand,” Varric has replied.
But not everyone has gotten used to this.
They’re in one of the myriad caves outside of Kirkwall, having just dispatched a spider the approximate size of a dragon, and Hawke slips. Not surprising, since there is arachnid ooze everywhere on top of the usual cave drippings, but he goes skidding down a short but steep incline, tearing up his hand and the hem of his robe on shale. He lands face down and heaves a sigh into the stone.
“Taking a nap on the job, are you?” Isabela hoots, her musical voice echoing off the close stone walls. Hawke spits out gravel and gets to his hands and knees.
“I’ll be fine,” he promises, but as he goes to stand up his left ankle gives a violent twinge. Hawke presses his lips together in a thin line, and looks back up the slopes. All three of his companions are staring down at him. “Just give me a second.”
He can’t tell from this distance, but he could swear Fenris frowns. “Are you injured?”
“Only a little, it’s not–”
Fenris pushes his sword at Isabela - who takes it and immediately shoves the blade tip in the earth, resting her chin on the crossguard- and vanishes from sight. Varric nestles Bianca in the holster over his shoulder, crosses his arms.
“You know, we’re probably rich enough we could afford to get you shoes that actually fit, instead of looting them off corpses.”
“It’s not my shoes. It’s just me, Varric.” Hawke grips his staff and manages to get his good leg under him, rising unsteadily to his feet. Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention.
Grim but swift and surefooted, like a deer who just watched his mother die, Fenris follows an impossible path down the slope to Hawke’s side. “Raise up your arm.”
“Um.” Hawke looks up at Varric for help. The dwarf shrugs. Isabela has already wandered off, probably from boredom. So Hawke complies.
Fenris hunches down and rams his shoulder into Hawke’ stomach. There’s a moment of confusion and mild pain, and then he feels himself being lifted off the ground.
“Don’t thrash,” the elf grits, settling Hawke across his shoulder like a bag of grain. “I might drop you.”
“It’s just a sprained ankle. You don’t have to–” Hawke’s breath is driven out of his with a yelp as Fenris bounces him, probably trying to find a new position. And then Hawke keeps his mouth shut because Fenris starts climbing.
One hand tucked behind Hawke’s knee, the other gripping his forearm, the elf grits his teeth and ascends one careful step at a time.
“Hawke,” Varric says, low and aimost impressed, “let the elf carry you.”
“He carries us most of the time anyway,” Isabela pipes up from somewhere. Hawke directs an uncomfortable stare at the ground.
It’s kind of nice to be taken care of, for once. Even if it’s his own fault, and he could probably just cast a spell and heal his ankle.
When they finally get to the top, Fenris folds over enough for Hawke to stand, unsteadily, on his own two legs. And there’s a moment when the elf stands, a faint glimmer of sweat on his brow as he pushes his hair out of the way, when he holds Hawke’s gaze.
And then Varric says something about Aveline being proud, and Isabela drops Fenris’ sword, and Hawke takes a moment to heal his ankle as the rest of his companions bicker.
It’s okay, though. He’s used to it, too.
