When Aeva dreamt, she could often make out the shape of where her arm once was. It would haunt her either covered in blood or glowing an unnatural green hue. There were times her dreams were nightmares and she found herself attempting to cut off the phantom arm. She knew it was gone, but it was what was growing in it's place that terrified her. Those nights never ended well. Eventually, she filled the void with a wooden arm, a crossbow fixed at the end. And she found the nightmares where the unknown filled the blank space was now replaced with her wooden arm.
However, Aeva was unable to sleep with the crossbow. She was forced to remove it each night. And when she did, the nightmares of her arm slowly came back. Becoming desperate, she reached out. And found a solution with a heavier resolve. The metal arm was not easy to remove. But it was better suited for her needs. When the nightmares came, she would reach up. And when she felt the metal, she knew she was safe. There was no construction in the dream. No fake walls or disguises. It was a scapegoat for her. And there were not many nights she took it off. The times the arm did come off were for things like maintenance. And it never came off without tools unless there was a good reason. The pain when the arm was removed was incredible, tensing the muscles in her shoulder so much that it left her sore for hours. The best thing to do was to leave it for a bit to let it rest before reattaching anything. She hadn't the slightest idea of how the inside worked. But she knew enough to fix small kinks and watch the runes.
As she hovered of it, taking a pick and cleaning it out bits of dirt, she heard the sound of a light rain pitter pattering across the top of her tent. Short after, there was a call from Ferguson to gather the horses and pack away the camp before it got any heavier. The crew tried to argue with him about not yet having breakfast. But the man was relentless. Aeva sighed, knowing it best she move along as well. Grumbling to herself with a small elven curse, she put away her tools. The arm was easy to reattach. But she had not gotten used to the jolt of energy it sent into her body. She preferred to do it away from camp. Where others could not hear her. But this time, she would just have to be quiet.
"Absolutely not," Ferguson crossed his arms as the crew worked around them.
"I won't allow that mirror to go unprotected in that Circle."
"And I'm not bringing a band of elves with me. If the mirror looks suspicious, imagine bringing it in with four elves. It's already an old artifact."
"Then at least they'll know who it belongs to."
"And it will draw too much attention," the old man began to walk off in an attempt to end the conversation.
"Then at least let me in there with you."
"Right... the one that hunts mages. Let him in the Circle full of mages who want to be left their freedom. Sounds like a great idea," Ferguson rolled his eyes. "Listen, Fenris... the worst thing that will happen is that they'll catch a glimpse of it and ask how much I want for it. They're used to us hauling artifacts. It's why Varric hired us."
"And I was hired to protect it."
"You were hired to protect-"
Ferguson stopped, his eyes catching the sight of Aeva just in time. She had appeared from around the wagon with an apple in hand. The broody elf saw the man was distracted and turn to see what he staring at. His demeanor changed immediately as well. When she approached, she couldn't help but notice their awkward stance.
I’m home sick with a cold, and because LOGIC, this means I had to write a short fluffy piece of crap about Fenris nursing Rynne while she is ill.
Read on AO3 instead. (<1200 words.)
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Fenris stepped out of Hawke’s en-suite washroom and raised his eyebrows. “Why are you still in bed?” he asked.
Hawke was so thoroughly ensconced in her bedding that all Fenris could see of her was her tattooed left shoulder and a dark tuft of hair. She groaned and shifted in the blankets, then cleared her throat. “I don’t feel well,” she whimpered.
Fenris frowned, then walked around the bed and sat beside her. He peeled the pillow away from her head and laid his knuckles across her cheek, then her forehead. “You don’t have a fever,” he said.
She squinched up her face, then pulled the pillow back over her head. “So? I still don’t feel well. It feels like there are giant spider’s webs in my throat.” She coughed.
Fenris raised one eyebrow. Her cough did sound rather chesty. And now that he thought about it, her voice was more gravelly than her usual early-morning purr.
He shifted the pillow off of her head and stood up. “Come on, Hawke. Get up and get moving. Lying around will only make you feel worse.”
She scowled at him through her dark spiky bangs. “Who taught you bedside manner? Anders’s little friend on a bad day?” She pulled the blankets back up to cover her bare shoulder. “I’m not going out today. You’re in charge. Or Aveline. Or Varric.” She coughed, then sniffled and cleared her throat. “In fact, whoever brings me soup gets to be in charge.”
“Nobody will bring you soup, then,” Fenris drawled.
She wrinkled her nose, then gave him a tiny smile. “True. But that still doesn’t change my plans. It’s just me and this bed today.”
Fenris folded his arms and gave her a chiding look. “Lingering in bed when you’re ill will only make you weaker.”
Hawke narrowed her eyes, then lifted herself onto one elbow. “Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “It is common knowledge. Illness only festers in an unmoving body.”
Her eyes narrowed even further. “And when you’re injured in battle? What about then?”
“Injuries are different,” Fenris said. “If you don’t fully heal from an injury, that will make your body weaker. Bedrest for a cold is unacceptable. Lying in bed to heal from an injury, however, is permissible.”
Hawke’s eyebrows rose. “Permissible?” she said.
“Yes,” Fenris said testily. He scowled at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She was peering at him carefully, almost as though she was inspecting a part of his face she’d never seen before. “Fenris, who told you that you can’t stay in bed if you’re sick?” she asked.
He frowned. “It was… healers in the Imperium,” he said slowly. “Danarius’s staff…”
Suddenly he realized what Hawke was getting at. Of course, he thought with a rush of resentment. Of course Danarius’s healers would want him on his feet as soon as possible instead of taking time to recover. Now that he was thinking about it, he recalled one particularly tenacious bout of illness: a chest cold that had lingered for an entire month, complete with the feeling of cobwebs in his lungs that Hawke was now describing. Fenris recalled actually spitting phlegm in an enemy’s face at one point during a battle, figuring that he might as well use his illness as an advantage.
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I am a fool,” he muttered.
“No, you’re not,” Hawke said firmly. “They were assholes. You’re just…” She trailed off, then patted the bed beside her. “Come sit with me.”
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, and Hawke nestled back into the blankets. “Here’s the truth. When someone is sick, they get full privileges to lie in bed and whine and moan as much as they want,” she told him.
Fenris huffed. “And who told you that?” he asked dryly.
“I told myself,” she said cheerfully. “And I’m full of great advice. Now listen carefully, because this part is important: when someone is sick, it’s their partner’s job to coddle and fuss and do nice things for them until they’re better.”
Fenris smirked. “I see. And in the current scenario…”
“... you are the lucky partner, yes,” Hawke finished. She laid her head on the pillow and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Fenris, will you rub my back? I’m ill.”
He raised one eyebrow at her. “How will rubbing your back help to hasten your recovery?”
“It’s your handsome hands on my body,” she replied cheekily. “That’s the best kind of medicine.” She suddenly buried her face in her pillow and coughed.
The cough was deep and wet, and it prompted a squeeze of sympathy in Fenris’s chest. He drew the blankets back to expose her naked back, then ran his palm across her golden skin.
She lifted her face from the pillow and took a deep breath, and Fenris carefully brushed her hair away from her face before resuming the caressing of her back. “Breathe easy, Hawke,” he said quietly.
She took another deep breath, then smiled tiredly at him. “See? You’re a natural with the bedside manner. Next time you’re ill, I’ll return the favour.”
He shrugged and gently massaged the back of her neck. “I may actually prefer to move around when I am ill,” he admitted. “I will feel less like an invalid that way.”
She shrugged affably. “If that’s what you want,” she said.
Fenris continued running his palm from her shoulder blade to the base of her spine. A moment later, she reached back and took his hand.
Her expression was oddly serious as she squeezed his fingers. “You can do whatever you want, Fenris,” she said. “It’s always up to you.”
“I know,” he said softly. He swallowed hard, then squeezed her hand in return. “Thank you, Hawke.”
She gazed at him for a moment longer, then kissed his knuckles and released his hand. “No, thank you,” she said playfully. “For this lovely backrub that you’re going to keep giving me until I fall asleep.”
He scoffed and shook his head in amusement, then continued to carefully stroke her back. A few minutes later, Hawke’s breathing grew deep and slow as she drifted back to sleep.
Fenris gradually stopped rubbing her back. When she didn’t wake, he carefully rose from the bed.
Very gently, he stroked Hawke’s cheekbone. “I will return soon,” he whispered.
She murmured in her sleep and pressed her cheek more firmly into the pillow. Fenris smiled faintly, then silently left her bedroom and headed down the stairs, intent on his goal of fetching soup for her from the market. If Hawke wouldn’t be leading them into a series of mad misadventures today, Fenris supposed he could spend the day fussing and coddling and doing nice things for her instead.
Hawke made her way across Lowtown, careful not to make eye contact with anyone she passed. Night had settled over the city, and the full moon illuminated the cobbled street in front of her. She tugged the hood of her cloak over her eyes as she passed a small crowd of people. She didn't have her face adorned with her typical swipe of red. She was anonymous.
A night like this, calm and bright, usually meant that the thieves and blood mages stayed in whatever holes they usually crawled from. Instead, the streets were littered with beggars, children in rags, their mothers and fathers past the point of desperation. Hawke stopped here and there and pressed silver coins into the kids' outstretched hands. It never felt like she could do enough for all of the people in this town. She liked to help people -- even if she didn't always do it in the best way -- but her heart tugged even more than usual when she saw a child with a dirty face and a distended belly.
Hawke shook her head and tried to put it out of her mind. She couldn't do anything to help all the children of Kirkwall tonight; it would have to wait. She pulled her hood off, fixed a grin on to her face, and slammed open the door to her destination for the evening -- the one and only Hanged Man. Her friends were there already, gathered around a large table. Hawke watched for a few moments as they passed drinks around and joked with one another. A genuine smile reached her eyes as she took them in, the merry band of misfits she had brought together. They looked like a family. Nowadays, they even felt like a family.
"Always have to make an entrance, Hawke!" Varric shouted at her from across the room.
"Oh, you know me," she called back. "Drama. Suspense. Mystery." She made her way to the table. On her way to her seat, she clapped Anders on the back and ruffled Merrill's hair. It was only when she moved to sit down did she recognize that the one empty chair left for her was right next to Fenris.
"Hello, Hawke," he said, his voice calm and smooth as ever. In the cacophony of clinking bottles and shouting voices in The Hanged Man, Fenris' voice was a refuge. "Ready to lose? Again?" Fenris chuckled at his own joke, a quirk that Hawke found so endearing she thought her heart might give out.
"Me? Lose at Wicked Grace? You must be joking." Hawke rolled her eyes and tossed her coin purse onto the table. She leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, and winked at Fenris. "Deal me in, Anders."
Hawke was, in fact, horrible at Wicked Grace. Two hands in and she'd lost three sovereigns, owed Aveline two bottles of wine, and somehow lost a bet to Isabela that involved switching living quarters for a week. By the end of the night, a flush brightened her cheeks and her grin was easy, not forced. Despite everything that happened since she arrived in Kirkwall, at least she had these people around her.
"Alright, fearless leader," Isabela slurred to Hawke as the group packed up. "Go enjoy your last night in that comfy mansion of yours. I'll be there to take over at noon sharp."
Hawke laughed and rolled her eyes at her friend. "Aye, Captain," she teased. She waved at the group and made her way to the door, more unsteady on her feet than usual. Maybe she'd had more to drink that she thought. She shook her head and fixed her eyes on the door, determined to make it outside without stumbling.
"Want company on your way back to Hightown?" asked Fenris. "We are neighbors, after all. As you so often remind me."
She arched an eyebrow at him. "Sure," she responded, "I wouldn't want you to get lost."
They walked out together, and cold air bit at Hawke's ears. She furrowed her eyebrows at the feel of it and drew her cloak closer to her.
"Not a fan of the cold?" Fenris asked. They fell in step together towards Hightown.
Hawke shook her head. "There's a reason I'm always shooting fireballs out of my hands," she joked. She was well past the point of feeling awkward about being a mage around Fenris. Since she had moved to Hightown, and especially since the day she started to help him learn to read, they had formed an easy, even comfortable, friendship. Not to say that Hawke's other feelings towards him had gone away -- in fact, they had swelled so much that she got a lump in her throat every time she spoke to him -- but she respected him too much to say anything about it. He didn't need a woman throwing herself at him. He needed trust and stability. If he felt the same way, he would say something. She hoped.
They wandered through the streets of Kirkwall and discussed the state of the Carta and the increasingly tense situation with the Arishok. She was never more at ease than when she was with him. Even as they spoke about the issues they were facing, the very issues that put their lives on the line day in and day out, she felt calm.
In what seemed like minutes, they approached the entrance of her home. Everyone would be asleep by now; Leandra, Bodhan and Sandal weren't people Hawke would describe as exciting. She looked up at Fenris and an overwhelming sense of longing washed over her. She didn't want this evening to end.
Before she could even think of a clever way to spend more time with him, he spoke up. "Well, we didn't have to kill anyone on our way back."
"An improvement from most nights," she replied. "Should we celebrate with a nightcap? I have to wash the taste of the Hanged Man swill out of my mouth before I can sleep."
Fenris' face broke into a crooked smile. "Lead the way."
Hawke and Fenris climbed the stairs to her sitting room. She poured them each a glass of whiskey and handed Fenris' to him before she plopped down on the sofa. She patted the cushion next to her, inviting him to sit down. He settled in closer to her than she thought he would. Her breath caught in her throat, and she prayed that he couldn't see the sweat start to bead at her brow.
"Hawke," he said, abruptly, and sat his drink on the side table. "Can I --" he cleared his throat. "Can I try something?" He had lowered his voice, and the syllables of each of his words were rhythmic, almost musical. Hawke caught his forest-green eyes with hers. She searched there for something, though she didn't know what, and fought the urge to make a joke. (italics)Not the time, he's serious,(italics) she berated herself. Instead, she nodded.
"Let me see your hand," he said, his voice closer to a whisper now. She was mesmerized. They were facing each other, both of them cross-legged. She tugged her one leather glove off and balanced her hand on her knee, palm up. She wondered if he could tell she was shaking.
His eyes darted from her bright blue ones, to her hand, to her eyes again. With precision and assurance, he stretched his long, slender fingers out towards hers. She watched them, watched his tendons strain underneath taught skin. Before she knew it, the tips of his fingers met hers, and he brought them down to stroke her palm. He slowly, delicately, laced his hand with hers. The touch of her skin on his made the lyrium glow, faint but pulsing. Hawke's breath grew shallow, the desire she felt for him crawling through her belly and setting fire to her chest. She fought the urge to kiss him right then and there.
Instead, she let his hands explore hers. First he was tracing her palms, then the backside of her hands, both of them. He kept one of his hands locked with one of hers, but let the other run up to her shoulder, up her neck, tangled in her hair for a split second, then back to her face to cup her chin.
Hawke held his gaze, then, as his hand so tenderly, cautiously, held her chin. "Does it hurt?" she breathed. She didn't want to break the careful balance they had struck this evening. Hawke knew, now, that he at least somewhat felt the same was as she did, but she didn't want to push it.
Fenris shook his head. "No. Only a little."
Hawke looked down at his lips, full and parted, and then back into his eyes. "Can I try something?" she asked. "You can say no. I don't want to...to make you uncomfortable." Hawke was sure she never felt so vulnerable in her life.
He nodded. His eyes never left hers. Her hand fell to his knee. She felt her eyes shut. She leaned in and kissed him.
It was fleeting, but it was everything she hoped it would be. She felt her face flush, and she gripped his knee tighter than she meant to. His hand clutched at hers, and the hand that had cupped her chin now ran to the nape of her neck and tugged at her short black hair.
The kiss lasted only a moment, but Hawke never felt so blissful in her life.
When it was over, they sat there, on Hawke's sofa, and Hawke took in Fenris' expression. "Was that okay?" she asked. "I'm sorry if I --" she was interrupted by his voice, now truly a whisper.
"Do not ever apologize for that, Hawke." He said it to her as if it were a secret.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Good. I'm not sorry at all."
He smiled, too, but he began to pull back from her. His hand left her neck, and he inched away so that their knees were no longer touching, but he kept his other hand intertwined with hers.
"Don't go, Fenris," she breathed. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of his absence. "Just stay with me."
They sat there, on Hawke's sofa, as Hawke traced tiny circles on Fenris' soft brown skin, a spot where no lyrium marks scarred his flesh. They fell asleep like that, and did not stir until dawn broke the horizon.
k4t3yk4t requested a Fenris/purple fHawke fic and I got all fluffy! I hope that Fenris reads all right, I’ve not written from his perspective before. Silly broody elf :)
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Hawke laughs at everything.
At first it grates on Fenris’ nerves. Must everything be a joke or a snide remark with her? They could be standing ankle deep in the blood of cutthroats and mercenaries and she would laugh about needing to go shopping for a new pair of shoes. He does not understand how she can be so flippant about everything when the world is so gray and stark.
But despite her ready grin and her quick wit, her actions say a different thing about her. She helps children find their parents, gives money to people starving in the street, helps Fenris hunt down slavers and put them to death. And though through it all her smile is never far from her lips, he begins to see something deeper behind her eyes.
One night she makes a comment about his looks, just a small string of words about him being handsome. His face burns and he stammers something gruff back to her, but it startles him to realize how pleased he is to hear it. He tries to ignore the thought, though. Surely it was only another of her jokes.
Yet sometimes when they fight together it seems she fights at his side more and more, keeping enemies off his back, sometimes taking down his opponents before he can even get to them. He notices she asks him to help patrol more and more often, that she comes to visit him on quiet nights just to talk. He does not allow himself to think more of it, though; that way is dangerous.
One day he’s knocked flat on his back by a Tal-Vashoth, and his vision flickers in and out, his head spinning. He can’t get up and though his hand still reaches vaguely for his sword he’s only half-conscious, his breaths quick and shallow. Of course it had to happen when the wretched healer isn’t with them. He groans.
He hears Hawke’s yell, a challenge to the Qunari, and he hears a strangled groan from his opponent, the sound of the impact when the body hits the ground. Then Hawke’s at his side, her hand touching his face. Her skin is so soft. He hadn’t realized it would feel so soft.
“Fenris,” she murmurs. He blinks, trying to steady his vision. Her face is swimming above his, and though the sight of her is blurry, he can tell she is uncharacteristically pale. She does not wear her smile. Her hand brushes his hair out of his eyes with a tenderness that makes him feel almost… safe. “Fenris, stay with me. I – we’ll – take care of you, but you have to stay with me.”
“Nice to see you showing some concern,” he coughs. She stares at him, looking almost offended, and he cracks a weak smile at her through the pain throbbing in his head. “I was – joking,” he says roughly.
He sees the surprise on her face, and he feels a flicker of satisfaction. For once she’s the serious one and he’s the one making a joke. The look of surprise on her face shifts into a small smile, though she still looks worried.
“That’s how I know you’ve taken a bad hit to the head,” she says softly. “Fenris trying to joke? Either the world’s ending or he’s brain damaged.” She strokes his hair again, though it’s no longer in his eyes and there is no reason to do so.
Fenris reaches up slowly, and clumsily covers her hand with his own. She freezes for a moment, then relaxes. Her hand is only a little smaller than his, and even with his gloves on, it’s a good fit. He closes his eyes, feeling somehow stronger.
“Fenris,” she murmurs, and there’s no joke in the way she says his name, her voice gentle and caring and with a warmth he has never heard before.
“Hawke –”
“Here!” Merrill’s voice chirps cheerily above him. “I’ve got those injury kits, Hawke, we should be able to get him back on his feet.”
“Right!” Hawke says, pulling her hand away from him as if she’d been burned. Fenris opens his eyes again. Hawke reaches up to take the supplies from Merrill, her cheeks going pink. “I’ll take care of things here, Merrill, why don’t you and Aveline keep watch?”
“Of course!” Merrill says, and he hears her footsteps retreating. Fenris lets his hand drop back to his side, cursing the appearance of the other elf, though he supposes attending to his head injury is a worthwhile endeavor after all. The pain pulses again as if to remind him.
“Let’s get you fixed up, then,” says Hawke, laughing nervously. She dabs a poultice onto his temple, her fingers trembling slightly, and helps him sit up, leaving her arm around his shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than needed. He’s still dizzy but the poultice is helping and the world is beginning to seem steady again. But the heat of Hawke beside him does not abate.
“Here,” she says, holding a flask up to him. He clumsily grabs it, swallowing its contents in one gulp. He lets out a long breath, feeling the effects of elfroot and deep mushroom wash over him. His breath steadies and the ache in his head fades, leaving only a nagging, mild pain.
“You’re looking better already,” Hawke says. Her cheeks are still pink, and now that the world is no longer swimming, Fenris reaches up to his face, feeling the spot where her hand lay on his cheek. What just happened?
“Thanks to you,” says Fenris. He looks at her for a moment, saying nothing, only noting the way that her hair is tangled and sweaty, the blood spatters on her cheeks and chin and armor, the flush to her skin, the freckles on the end of her nose, her lips turning up just slightly at the edges. Suddenly he realizes that she is not the only one blushing.
Hawke stares at him, her eyes questioning. “How are you feeling now?”
“I will live,” Fenris says cautiously. “I will be able to make it back home. Again, thanks to you.”
She seems like she is hesitating, anxiously chewing slightly at the edge of her lip as if she wants to say something and does not have the words. It is most unlike her, and he realizes he wants to see her smile.
He does not know what comes over him. He only knows that he slips one hand behind her neck beneath her tangled hair and pulls her to him, slanting his mouth over hers in a quick and fumbling kiss. He lets go of her just as suddenly, averting his gaze, feeling as if he has been electrified.
“I – I don’t know what came over me –” he tries to say, but she smiles, just the way he wanted her to.
“Oh, Fenris,” she sighs, and she kisses him right back before he can protest.
His ears are turning pink and he knows the others will talk and he knows he should not push himself with the way his head still aches but at the moment he does not care. There’s only him and Hawke, his arms wrapped around her, her mouth soft and wet and warm against his, and when they finally break apart again, she’s laughing, the sound pure and downright happy. And despite the million reasons he can think of not to do this, despite the urge to run the way he always has, he can’t help but laugh, too.
