#tumblfic

[stitchcasual]

Oh noes! Prompts for stitch... 31 for fenhawke in whatever universe you feel fits. Bonus points if there's silly doodling on boring meeting documents involved.

Should I maybe have been working on something else at work instead of this? Maybe. Was this absolutely a ton of fun and I regret nothing? Fuck yes

I hope you enjoy this cheesy, modern!au fenhawke thing <3

This is the fifth meeting Hawke’s been in about this new synergizing-between-departments concept the administration has come up with. Hawke’s always crossed department lines when he needed to and most of the other managers and assistant managers in this meeting with him today have done the same. It’s just that the administration team has made IT put together a fancy new software package to facilitate this sort of communication so they don’t have to leave their desks and waste valuable time. Or that’s what it feels like to Hawke. Which is why today he’s brought his notebook and posted up near the back of the room so he can amuse himself instead of pretending to pay attention to PowerPoint Presentation From Meeting Three, the Remix.

He’s trying to doodle his dog’s stupid face when he feels eyes on him. Casually looking up reveals the new assistant manager in Cullen’s department watching him out of the corner of his eye. Hawke hasn’t had a lot of time to get to know him yet, different departments and all, but he does make a point to introduce himself to all of the new managers in their first week, just in case they need something from him or he from them. This one hasn’t called on Hawke in the few months he’s been here, so all Hawke knows is that his name is Fenris, he’s got a startlingly deep voice for someone his size, and he’s absolutely too attractive to be part of Cullen’s department.

Hawke raises an eyebrow at him and holds out his notebook so Fenris can see the sketch of his dog. It, uh, well, no one has ever accused Hawke of being a talented artist, so it looks more like a series of looping lines in a vague, perhaps animal-like shape but he’s having fun and that’s what matters. Or at least, that’s what he keeps reminding himself as Fenris simply stares at the doodle. Is Fenris secretly a master artist who wasn’t able to make enough money selling his art and that’s why he’s here, moonlighting for a multinational corporation in a very specialized department …yeah, probably not. It still looks like Fenris is judging him though.

Impulsively, Hawke pulls his notebook back and scribbles, “can u do better,” above the dog before holding it back out to Fenris and offering his pen. He can’t tell exactly what Fenris is thinking, but Fenris takes the notebook and pen, looking somewhat bemused at this turn of events. As Hawke takes in the slide projected at the front of the room, some sort of mashup between slides from presentations three and four it looks like, Fenris bends over the notebook, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

A few minutes later, Fenris pokes the notebook into Hawke’s arm, nodding down to the new drawing in the pages. Hawke presses his lips together to hold back a laugh as he grabs the pen back from Fenris. Leaving the notebook in the space on the table between them, he writes another note underneath Fenris’s drawing.

my dog is not a nug

Fenris slips the pen out of Hawke’s hand and writes back: how was I supposed to know that was a dog?

Hawke presses a hand to his chest in mock outrage, and Fenris raises an amused eyebrow at him.

draw an actual dog now, Hawke writes.

Fenris rolls his eyes but takes the pen and sketches out a pretty decent dog, actually. The nug had been well done too, and though Hawke feels a little bad about his own skills, at least Fenris seems willing to indulge him and isn’t actively shitting on his drawing ability, or lack thereof. Fenris adds a little smiley face next to the dog, and Hawke takes it all back: Fenris is an absolute sarcastic menace…and Hawke’s into it.

Hawke makes grabby hands for the pen and takes his revenge.

can u only draw nugs?

Fenris snatches the pen and draws a gorgeous rose.

nug plant, Hawke writes.

Fenris draws an elephant.

real big nug

Fenris draws a snake.

long nug

Fenris draws a quick portrait of Hawke.

scruffy looking nug herder

By this point, both of them are struggling to hold back laughter, and Hawke’s had to wipe away a few tears threatening to fall. He closes his notebook just before the meeting ends and they’re all dismissed to get back to the actual work that’s been piling up while they were in here.

“So, Fenris,” he says as he stands, tucking the notebook under one arm and extending his other hand to shake. Fenris takes the hand, his lips curling up in a pleased little smile.

“Hawke,” Fenris says, and Hawke grins, glad to see he isn’t the only one who remembered the other’s name.

“Feel free to drop by my office anytime to…synergize.” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, but thankfully Fenris chuckles even as he shakes his head.

“Just for that, perhaps I won’t.” But Hawke could swear Fenris winks before he walks away, and Hawke heads back to his office smiling and wondering if this new synergizing software includes the ability to send really shitty drawings to people.

[stitchcasual]

First Day of School

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @tinyowlbear!!!! I hope you have an amazing day, you totally deserve it <33

“Are you sure—”

“Fuck’s sake, Jack, I’m sure.” Gabe reaches out and pulls Jack to him, trying to hug away his worries even though he knows it won’t work. Jack melts a little, leaning them both back against the door of Gabe’s car. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, but the early rays peeking over the horizon are playing wonders with Jack’s hair, setting off his golden halo nicely, and Gabe can’t resist running his fingers through it even though he knows what happens when he does that and he really needs to get going or he might be late for work. Against him, Jack shudders and goes completely boneless, managing to stay upright only thanks to Gabe’s arm around his waist.

“Not fair,” Jack mumbles into Gabe’s neck.

Gabe chuckles and turns his head to press a kiss against the side of Jack’s head, stilling his fingers so Jack can recover his composure. “You’ll be fine. You’ve handled tougher assignments than this before.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Gabe’s response is to laugh again and kiss him again, which really doesn’t make Jack feel any better about this whole situation, and then he gets into his car and leaves, waving at Jack as he drives away. Jack lifts his hand and stays there, frozen on the driveway, until he’s totally sure that Gabe isn’t coming back to save him from this. It’s not Gabe’s faut his new job starts earlier than his old one, but now that the summer’s over, someone needs to get Jesse up and ready for school. And with Gabe gone before Jesse wakes up, that leaves Jack, newly moved into the house that July, who doesn’t have to be at work until mid-morning.

Jack is positive that this is going to be a disaster on all levels, since he’s pretty sure Jesse hates him. The kid hasn’t said more than ten words in a row to him in the nearly two months they’ve been living under the same roof. He’s sullen and moody, withdrawn and...teenagery, spending most of his time out of the house with friends or inside his room with the door closed. Gabe’s the only adult who seems to be able to get through to him, well, Gabe and Ms. Amari, the mother of one of Jesse’s friends, Fareeha. Jack needs to sit her down for coffee one of these days and ask how she does it, because whenever he asks Gabe all he gets is a shrug and sometimes a “we understand each other,” which is absolutely zero help.

He does have a plan for this morning, though. Gabe’s been helping him in the kitchen, so he’s confident in his ability to make eggs and bacon without reducing anything to a burned and inedible mess. He’ll start that up, wait for the smells to tickle Jesse’s nose, and then go and wake him up the rest of the way. After that it’s a bit more of a gamble, because he’s not sure if Jesse will expect conversation over breakfast or if he should let the kid eat by himself and avoid that potential hurdle. What do you even talk to a fifteen-year-old foster kid about? The same thing you’d talk to any fifteen-year-old kid about, probably, but Jack’s not sure what that is, either.

Jesse solves Jack’s dilemma by coming out of his bedroom still in his pajamas just as breakfast is done cooking, grabbing the first plate that Jack makes, and going right back to his room. Jack isn’t sure he’s allowed to eat in his room, but since he doesn’t know for sure one way or the other, he keeps quiet, eats his own breakfast at the kitchen table, and cleans up afterward, rushing through his own morning routine so he’s ready before they need to leave to get Jesse to school on time.

Ten minutes after they should have left, Jack’s standing outside Jesse’s door, about to screw up the courage to knock, when it opens under his raised hand and Jesse snakes out past him.

“Le’s go,” the kid mumbles, letting himself into the passenger seat of Jack’s car like it’s something he’s done so many times before.

The drive to Jesse’s high school is silent until they’re almost there. They’re maybe a couple blocks away, the traffic from other parents and students with their own cars starting to clog the roads a little, when Jesse turns in his seat to face Jack with his whole body, one leg folding up next to the center console.

“Jesse, that’s—”

“You like Gabe?”

“—Not safe—what?”

Jesse stares at him for the few minutes it takes them to get into parking lot, his brown eyes piercing the side of Jack’s face. Jack is positive he’s blushing and wishes he could bury his face in the steering wheel so Jesse can’t see. The relative silence after Jesse’s question seems to be all the answer the kid requires, though, and he sits back in his seat, staring out the window. But it’s not the response Jack wants to give, and he bites the inside of his cheek on the side of his face not in Jesse’s line of sight.

The line to get to the front of the school is still long, but once they reach the point where Jesse can get out onto the sidewalk and take himself from there, he reaches for the door handle.

“Jesse…”

The kid stops, stares, raises one eyebrow. The toothpick in his mouth shifts from one side to the other.

“I love him.” The words kind of come out in a jumble, and Jack isn’t sure it was actually possible to understand what he said, but Jesse nods like he heard anyway and opens the car door without looking away from Jack.

“Cool,” he says, and gets out, shutting the door behind him before Jack can even think about formulating a coherent response to that. Jesse raises a hand as he walks away, though, and Jack thinks maybe driving Jesse to school won’t be so bad after all...though he’s still not sure the kid doesn’t hate him.

[stitchcasual]

otp advent, day 4

my car got stuck in snow, you saved me

for Gabe/Jack

-------------------------------------

It wasn’t the first time his car had hit a patch of ice underneath the snow, drifted too far for a course correction, and tipped into a snowbank. It was, however, the first time he hadn’t been able to push it out by himself. Gabriel Reyes prided himself on being a solid, massive mountain of a man and hadn’t yet met a task he couldn’t accomplish without the assistance of another human. It suited him just fine to handle everything alone. Ana, his one true friend left from his Army days, would argue that, but she wasn’t here and so Gabe was free to lie to himself as much as he wanted as he set his shoulder to the front headlight of his beat up old car and pushed again.

Of course, just his luck, Reaper had chosen late afternoon to lose traction, and the black car’s hazards flashed in the darkness of the rapid sunset, really the only visible part of duo, Gabe’s penchant for wearing dark clothing working against him.

“Gonna sell you for scrap,” Gabriel threatened the car as it settled right back where it started. He scowled at the blinking lights. “Course you ain’t worth much and you know it, bastard.” He briefly considered kicking the front bumper but didn’t like his chances of not landing on his ass in the snow. Instead he rounded the front of the car and leaned against the driver side door, fishing his phone out of his pocket. The road he’d managed to get stuck on was one of the less traveled county roads, thankfully paved, at least, but it didn’t have much else to recommend it unless you liked cows. Gabe could hear a few lowing to themselves in some nearby field and mooed back after a minute, snorting to himself at the confused silence that followed.

He’d just pressed Ana’s name in his contacts list and brought the phone to his ear when headlights appeared down the road, slow and ponderous, and came to a halt a few yards away.

“Call you back,” he told her, hanging up before she could curse at him. For such a small, motherly looking lady, she could tear the hide off your ear better than anyone else he knew, himself included. It was one reason they got along so well.

The cabin light came on in the car that had pulled up, and from how high off the ground it was, Gabe could tell it belonged to a truck of some kind. Good, he thought. Maybe they’ve got a tow hitch.

“Hey there,” a voice called, low and warm, and Gabe’s spine stiffened. The man walking toward him had a nice voice. “Get yourself stuck?”

“I didn’t get myself stuck,” Gabe grumbled. “Reaper got himself stuck.”

“That a fact?”

The voice halted nearby, and in the light from the headlights of the truck, Gabe could vaguely make out the chiseled outlines of a face. He hadn’t thought he’d spoken loudly enough to be heard but apparently he had. He sighed and shrugged.

“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

The man with the voice laughed, the sound rich and rolling, and Gabe’s nostrils flared. No one had a right to sound that good. He crossed his arms over his chest, hunching against the chill air as the last of the sun’s warmth left him. Of course he hadn’t brought a jacket today. Going straight home, he’d figured, wouldn’t need it.

“Well, sorry to say, but I haven’t put the hitch on my truck yet this season.” The man scratched his head with a hand, and Gabe imagined his face looked rather apologetic from the sound of his speech. “I can drive you into town, if you’d like, or you’re welcome to stay at my place until a ride comes.” The man waved his other arm in the direction of the farmhouse not too far away.

Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this how slasher movies start?”

“Hmm, good point. Anything I can do to prove to you I’m not an axe murderer?”

“Not really. Everyone claims they’re not a serial killer until they start hacking. Just promise you won’t invite me to the basement. You should also know that I’m armed.”

The man sucked in a breath but it didn’t sound scared, more surprised and intrigued than anything. Gabriel had spent a lot of time listening to the way people said things, the way people breathed, and this man was interested. Fancy that.

“Then I’ll have to bring my Xbox upstairs, I guess,” the man said, and Gabe could hear the intense attempt at casual behind his tone.

Gabe raised an arm and gestured back at the man’s truck, leaning off his own car door and reaching inside to pull out the keys and lock the vehicle. Reaper might be a piece of shit, but he was Gabe’s piece of shit and he wasn’t about to let anyone steal him.

A blast of warmth hit him when he climbed up into the truck, and he rubbed his chilled fingers in front of the air vent. Then, curious, he tilted his head to the side and looked over at his savior. Tall, if the way he sat in the seat was any indication, broadly built, and blond, with the sort of earnest face that was likely to give him crow’s feet before his time. The man noticed Gabe looking and smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the corners, pure and easy. He stuck his hand out over the center console.

“I’m Jack. The Morrison behind Morrison Farms, or one of them, anyway.”

Gabriel took his hand, matching the grip in his fingers easily. “Gabe Reyes. Criminologist with the OPD.”

Jack’s eyes widened and his throat bobbed, but he didn’t let go of Gabe’s hand. “Shit, so like, actually armed.”

“Actually armed,” Gabe confirmed, “and mostly convinced you’re not an axe murderer, so don’t go messing up my record, alright?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack released Gabe’s hand and shifted his truck into gear for the short drive over to the farmhouse.

[stitchcasual]

Kiss prompt #1 for Durill Hawke/Fenris! 💖

“breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths”

The sequel to this, another prompt from you ^_^ I hope you enjoy <33

Hawke awoke to a warm weight pressed against his chest and wondered for a minute why his mabari was on the bed with him. The next minute he spent pondering why the bed was so damn hard and stone-like and why the fireplace was in the wrong spot on the wall and why the walls of his room looked like Fenris’s. Then the weight shifted and grunted in a way that was distinctly Fenris, and the events of the previous night came rushing back to him.

“If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

They had kissed then, Hawke sweeping Fenris up in his arms as he’d wanted to countless times over the last three years. It didn’t seem real, somehow, that now he was able to do that again or that Fenris was snuggled up against him, his cheek pressed against Hawke’s chest, his head just under Hawke’s chin. Hawke tightened his arm around Fenris’s waist, pulling him as close as they could possibly get. He twisted his head to look down at the elf in his arms and kissed his forehead. Fenris hummed but did not appear to wake. Hawke watched him sleep until his neck got a crick, and then he brushed his lips across Fenris’s forehead again and curled his body around Fenris’s as much as he could before dropping back off to sleep.

The next time Hawke woke it was to the sensation of something moving across his face. Fenris’s warmth had migrated somewhere farther away, and he frowned and grumbled his disapproval of the situation. Then the thing against his face moved again, and he realized it was Fenris’s nose, followed by his lips, nuzzling and kissing at his cheeks. He nosed back and Fenris chuckled, his lips quirking into a smile that Hawke could feel against his face.

“Good morning,” Fenris said, and Hawke heard reflected in his voice his own sense of wonderment and pleasure at being here, together, finally.

“Mm,” Hawke agreed, and reached up to wrap both arms around Fenris and tug his body back on top of Hawke’s. Again Fenris laughed and Hawke savored the flipping sensation low in his stomach at the sound. He’d missed that feeling, the pleasure of being able to make Fenris laugh like that. He hadn’t tried often over the last few years, wanting to respect Fenris’s space and boundaries, but now he never wanted to stop.

He buried the fingers of one hand into Fenris’s hair, closing his eyes and pressing his head against Fenris’s as he tightened his arms, hugging Fenris close. Fenris pressed his head back against Hawke’s for a minute, then wiggled slightly to get Hawke to relax his grip. When he did, Fenris levered himself up with one hand and looked down, a frown creasing his brow. His other hand traced the wrinkles above Hawke’s own eyes.

“Hawke?”

Hawke shook his head, knowing there wasn’t anything he could say. His words never were fully adequate at the best of times, fragile, loaded things that they were. So instead he captured the hand running across his face in his own, kissing the fingertips then the knuckles then the palm before holding it against his cheek as he sat up to claim Fenris’s mouth with his. Hawke felt the weight of the last three years begin to dissolve, yielding to the warmth seeping into him from every point of contact between their bodies. He let his hand fall from Fenris’s hair, running it down Fenris’s cheek.

“You’re here,” he said, refusing to fully break the kiss to speak, loathe to let any space separate them. “You’re here.”

Fenris laced his fingers with Hawke’s, holding that hand to his cheek. He kissed Hawke, a gentle brush of lips, and kept his eyes, wide and soft and green, open and fixed on Hawke’s soulful brown ones. “Yes, Hawke. I am here.”

[stitchcasual]

(I'm star--nymph by the by) May I ask for Fen(M!)Hawke with the prompt Post Break Up Kiss because I am an absolutely angsty motherfucker?

Angsty motherfuckr, you say? ME TOO

(sorry for the absolutely ridiculous amount of time it took to fill this; I hope you like!)

This was not how it was supposed to go. Fenris had never looked too far into the future: it had never been allowed him with Danarius, then it had never been safe while he was on the run, and even when he aligned himself with this strange warrior who yelled at everyone and everything, who would rather cross blades than bandy words, he hadn’t needed to. Hawke looked to the future enough for all of them, and Fenris saw the weight that cast on his shoulders. Perhaps it made him a coward to avoid it for as long as he could. Perhaps because he had not tried too hard previously that was why his foresight in this particular situation, this crucial situation, was so flawed.

After all, Hawke had always seemed so solid, so unbreakable, that it was consequently unfathomable to imagine him ever as anything less. As anything remotely resembling the gray, wan man who somehow stood, bleeding freely from multiple wounds, to see the last of the Qunari from the viscount’s keep before collapsing to the stairs atop the body of the Arishok. As anything so much as the barely conscious heap he’d been when Fenris and Aveline had carried him home and the comatose imposter who laid in Hawke’s bed and did not stir for weeks on end.

Fenris had not entertained the thought that Hawke might lose. That seemed as improbable to him as the sun roaming backward across the sky. And of course, Hawke had not lost, though he had come close three too many times for Fenris’s liking. Eventually Hawke had bested the Arishok in single combat, however, winning freedom for Isabela and Kirkwall with the final sweep of his greatsword that very nearly cleaved the Arishok’s head from his neck.

But it now appeared to Fenris as though he himself may have lost. Anders did not know whether or not Hawke would pull through. He changed his prognosis from day to day when he exited the now-titled Champion’s room and stumbled down the stairs to eat and drink what Bodahn left for him. Some days Hawke’s color had returned and he responded, though yet unconscious, to stimuli Anders presented. Yet other days Hawke’s complexion turned ashen and his body seized in fits that Anders could not divine the cause of. It exhausted him, Fenris could see, the days they passed in the foyer, but still he returned, trying every healing spell and poultice he knew before turning to experimental books and finally to folklore and rumor.

And then there came a day when Anders halted Fenris before he mounted the stairs up, waving him over to the fireplace. Turinn, Hawke’s mabari, whined on the hearth beside him, baleful eyes cast toward the stairs. Fenris feared the worst. The hound had ever been by Hawke’s side these last few weeks, curled next to him or at the foot of his bed. To see him here was…disconcerting. Anders dragged a hand down his face and did not look at Fenris when he spoke.

“I have tried everything I can think of. It is up to him now whether or not he survives. But…it’s not looking good. You may want to say your goodbyes.”

Fenris said nothing as he turned from the mage. He whistled when he reached the foot of the stairs, and Turinn beat him to the top, standing at stiff attention outside Hawke’s door. As soon as he was let inside, he jumped onto the bed, a thing Hawke never allowed, spun around once, and laid down with his great head on Hawke’s chest. He looked at Fenris, standing mute just inside the door, before closing his eyes and sighing.

Were Hawke not dying, Fenris would enjoy this sight, this gentle tableau of the man he loved napping with his loyal dog. But Turinn seemed to sense that his master was not long for the world, and certainly Anders had come to that conclusion as well. Fenris had feared this outcome from the moment the Arishok had first speared Hawke like an overlarge fish. But this was not how it was supposed to go. Hawke had suffered grievous injury before, and Anders had always managed to heal him. He had never lain unconscious for so long, had always risen after a day or two, complaining of weakness in his sword grip to Fenris when they sparred, though Fenris was always hard pressed to feel it. Surely at any moment Hawke would sit up and try to get out of the bed, fixing Fenris with that piercing stare of his and demanding to be allowed up and about.

But Hawke did not move and the only sound that came from the bed was a sleepy grunt from Turinn as he shifted position slightly. Fenris stood in Hawke’s doorway until the sun began to set and lengthening shadows crept their way up the blankets that covered Hawke to his chin. Small wonder beads of sweat dotted his brow. Though sure that Anders had blanketed Hawke for a reason, Fenris could not stand to see him like this when he could perhaps do some small thing to help.

He reached his decision and crossed the room to Hawke’s side, folding the covers halfway down his torso and tucking them around the dog’s muzzle. In doing so, he exposed the lines of the bandages that wrapped around Hawke, physically holding him together while his body attempted to heal. Fenris frowned. His fault, in the end, that Hawke lay like this, that he’d been run through on the Arishok’s blade three times by the end. Each time the Qunari shook Hawke from his sword, Fenris feared this would be the time he didn’t rise from the ground, pull strength from the blood coursing down his body, and charge back in, snarling. But each time he did, until the fight was over and he’d pulled too much from his own body.

It was one of Anders’ theories, anyway. That Hawke had willingly Sacrificed too much to regain it, that he’d reached a limit that even Anders’ considerable skill could not pull him back from. That even if his body managed to repair itself on the surface, he could still be scarred and mangled in other ways not visible.

Fenris’s fingers shook as he held them inches above Hawke’s chest, not touching him. He could not allow himself to bring more harm to Hawke through a careless gesture, so he curled his hand in on itself and lowered it to his side. This was not how it was supposed to go. Fenris had, perhaps, on occasion alone within his mansion, dared to imagine a future where he might be more whole and able to stay by Hawke’s side rather than leave him before dawn’s first light. He wondered if this were some retribution of the Maker’s, to make Fenris watch Hawke die for the pain he’d caused him.

He gently placed the covers back over Hawke when Turinn looked up at him, brushing a hand from shoulder to shoulder to smooth the edge. Still Hawke did not move or react. It was a fool’s hope Fenris held that said he might yet stir and live. Perhaps he should say his goodbyes and leave Hawke alone as he had promised himself he would when he walked out that night. Perhaps his presence bothered more than it soothed and Hawke would wake once Fenris stopped coming. He just had to be strong and do it, but Hawke had made him weak.

The fingers of his right hand alighted on Hawke’s heart, above the blanket, and he sought with his left to find Hawke’s hand beneath his coverings. Gently he raised it to hold it against his own heart. He calmed his breathing, steadying his heartbeat, and stood still, hands to hearts, for several minutes. Turinn whuffled softly in his sleep.

“Please, Hawke,” Fenris said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, feeling his heartbeat steadily increasing and powerless to stop it. He gripped Hawke’s hand over his heart as tightly as he dared and let the tears fall. “I can’t say goodbye.” Not again.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

He held his fingers to Hawke’s heart and Hawke’s hand to his heart until his muscles cramped and he swayed on his feet. Then he bent over Hawke, hesitating for a moment before pressing his lips softly to the ridge of Hawke’s nose. It was not a goodbye kiss, he told himself, merely a see you when you wake kiss. He knelt on the floor next to Hawke, pillowing his head against the side of the bed, though he kept his hand wrapped around Hawke’s as he replaced it under the covers. He would not say goodbye, no matter what the mage suggested. He could not abandon Hawke even if that meant he now presided over his final moments. It was the least he could do for the man who had given him new life and new purpose and gotten only heartbreak in return.

“Please, come back to me.”

[stitchcasual]

...5 for Fenhawke?

From the death centric prompts (posted an age ago): loved one telling the team to stop fighting because “it’s over.” Hope you see this, nonny.

They’d been in worse fights. That’s the thought that haunts Hawke the most afterward, when the dust settles, the blood dries, and he has to move on. They hadn’t been severely outnumbered or outclassed or overwhelmed. There hadn’t been too many blood mages or a pack of angry Tal-Vashoth. It was just one more day with one more fight on one more trip to the Coast. Nothing should have gone wrong.

He’d heard Fenris’s grunt when the first arrow found its mark in his side, heard the snap of Fenris breaking the shaft off and his growl of displeasure at the injury. Hawke scanned the rocks around them, searching for the archer to charge at and dispatch before falling back to Fenris’s side. A nod and a twitch of the lips were all he received from Fenris to reassure him. A normal response, and he swept his greatsword in a wide arc at the next bandit and thought nothing else of it.

The second arrow had pierced the unprotected tendon at the back of Fenris’s ankle. Either an incredibly lucky shot or an incredibly skilled one, and neither option gives Hawke much comfort now. Fenris crumpled to one knee with a pained shout, and without conscious thought, Hawke stepped into position to guard his back, abandoning the opponent with whom he’d been trading blows. Varric’s bolt pierced the woman’s neck a moment later and she dropped heavy to the ground. Anders, though he looked toward Fenris, did not heal him, per the arrangement they’d made: Fenris would allow Anders to heal him but only if Fenris specifically requested it. And though he grit his teeth and leaned on his sword stuck tip-first into the ground, he did not ask.

Hawke never saw the third arrow. But he felt Fenris’s weight against the back of his legs as the force of the impact knocked the elf nearly from his knees. He stood his ground, let Fenris lay there when it seemed returning to upright was harder than Fenris was willing to attempt yet. He heard, rather than saw, Varric and Anders take off in pursuit, presumably, after the last bandit who had shot Fenris. Fenris lay still against him. Hawke’s heart clenched, and he knelt very slowly to the ground, not wanting to jostle Fenris’s wounds. It took him an age to kneel, careful not to catch any of Fenris between the plates of his armor. He dropped his sword beside him, then twisted, lifting Fenris from his legs and setting him prone on the ground.

Fenris did not stir. Hawke dared not breathe as he ducked his head down toward Fenris’s, listening, feeling, for any sign of breath from him. He lifted up, tore his gauntlets from his hands, and cupped Fenris’s face, one thumb brushing from the corner of his open eye to his temple. The third arrow had lodged itself a few inches below the elf’s collarbone, shattering itself from force of impact, and Hawke didn’t know if he’d be able to get that arrowhead out. He could barely see the gleam of it behind the caved in metal of Fenris’s breastplate. The fingers of one hand ghosted over the wound while the other stayed on Fenris’s cheek, unmoving. He focused on what he could see, what he could do, suddenly determined to do anything and everything possible to get the arrowhead out.

And then he smelled it. Undiluted deathroot. He’d long grown used to the smell of the stuff in his own house as he created the poisons with which he coated his own greatsword. Any edge in a fight. He pulled his boot knife and cut away the leather surrounding the arrow in Fenris’s side, lips setting in a grim line as he saw the sickly web of green-black veins branching out from the wound. Their progress had halted, no pulsing forward or flickering fell-green, and that told Hawke everything he did not want to know.

He rocked back on his heels, pulling his hands away and looking up as he heard Varric and Anders clatter back. They both stopped cold, eyes wide and shifting between Hawke and Fenris on the ground. Anders sucked a breath through his teeth when he saw the poisoned wound, and Varric shifted Bianca in his grip.

“Flighty bastard got away from us,” he said. “Not much out the way he went, though. We could—”

“It’s over.” Hawke clenched his fists on his thighs and stared down at Fenris’s body. His arms shook as he curled his hands tighter and he swayed where he crouched. A light breeze off the sea ruffled the edges of Fenris’s white hair.

“Hawke—”

“It’s over, Varric!” Hawke snarled, whipping his head to the side so fast the tips of his dreads slapped him in the face. He didn’t seem to notice. Varric raised one placating hand, and Hawke dropped his head back to his lover on the ground, falling forward until his forehead rested on Fenris’s still chest. “They won.”

Fenris would have no more time to learn how to live as a free man did. Danarius’s death had changed nothing, save the lethality of the hunters who had pursued him until the very end. Hawke gathered Fenris into his arms, threw back his head, and howled his grief to the sky.

[stitchcasual]

Five Times, part three

The third time Gabriel Reyes held Jack Morrison's hand it was the worst day of his life so far. He had received the mission report, delivered by a junior agent, hesitant, halting, uncertain if she should be speaking directly to the Commander like that. He’d dismissed the agent afterward and finished his paperwork, taking his time to make sure he did it fucking right, to show the agents who casually strolled by his door and glanced inside that there was nothing to worry about. He’d waited until the dead of night when only the cleaning crew was active down the south corridor and any agents not currently out on missions would either be asleep or amusing themselves in the rec hall. Then and only then did he allow himself to stack the pages he’d finished hours ago and walk slowly to the hospital wing.

The cameras would see him but that would be fine. He trusted the people who watched the feeds to keep their fool mouths shut. Gabe keyed himself in to the medical facilities and swept his gaze around the empty space. He’d never minded the eerie quiet of the sterile environment before, the lack of buzz after most of the patients had left and the medical staff were bunked down for the night. But now? He flexed his fingers, pressing his lips tight together.

Overnight patients had their own rooms, as did the staff, but Gabe avoided those places and skirted around the edges of the facility to the intensive care unit in the back corner. He keyed in again but froze as the door slid open, only just slipping in as it closed, his eyes fixed on the body closest to the door.

Three of the unit were in here, the agent he’d debriefed had told him. Three of the more senior agents that had been sent. Gabriel had already known. He’d known someone would be in here the moment comms went down during the op, had yelled and cursed himself nearly hoarse getting a tech to find a way to get them back up and running, hadn’t needed that in the end because Montgomery was a goddamn miracle-maker who managed to get the battered and wounded unit loaded onto the plane, a distress call sent, and the autopilot set before passing out from blood loss in the pilot’s chair. Gabe had made sure there was a large medical team standing by when the plane landed, had watched on the cameras as the bodies were wheeled off, had made his headcount of the casualties. Had grit his teeth and stalked back to his office instead of barrelling down to the hospital immediately like he wanted.

All three agents were in a medically induced sleep, the better for them to heal and for the doctors to operate if necessary. And it had been necessary. Montgomery would lose their eye, it looked like; Torres would be in physical therapy for months before he’d have full use of his legs again; and McCree… Gabe set his jaw as his eyes darted from the IV bags strung to the kid’s right side over to the bandaged stump on his left. Such pristine white bandages. Had they cauterized it? Would Jesse ever have feeling in that arm like he used to? Would he live without one arm or would he accept a prosthetic? Would his adjustment period be as dramatic as Genji’s had been, if so? Gabe forced himself to stare at it, at the part of Jesse they couldn’t bring home because of an op he sent him on.

He didn’t move from just inside the door until he heard someone keying in the lock behind him, and then he took one step to the side, closer to the rest of his men, just a bit farther from Jesse but to a better view of what was left of his arm. Jack fell in beside him without a word, just a touch on the shoulder before his hands dropped to his sides. What could be said, after all?

After another minute, Gabriel stepped closer to Jesse’s side, Jack moving fluidly with him as he had when they’d fought together in the war. And for a moment he forgot what had been lost between them and how many years had past, and he reached for Jack’s hand, wrapping his fingers around Jack’s smooth, strong palm. He ground his teeth, the sound inside his skull anchoring him to the present moment, but he didn’t let go of Jack. He didn’t look at Jack either, kept his eyes firmly fixed on Jesse or Torres or Montgomery, but mostly Jesse, until his internal clock told him an hour had passed and the night nurses would be making their rounds soon. Then he dropped Jack’s hand and walked out of the hospital wing without looking back.

[stitchcasual]

I wanted to write something cute so... this happened

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Tip sat cross legged in the sand, the warmth leeching into their legs a pleasing sensation as the sun began its descent. There were many hours of daylight yet, but Tip had nothing they felt like doing today other than the task they were already bent on. Each of their weapons lay in front of them on the sand, carefully parallel to each other: machete, smaller knives, spiked knuckles, the one 9mm they kept just in case. One by one they worked through the line, cleaning, sharpening, repairing, reloading. Every weapon received the same treatment, the same long inspection of handle, guard, and blade, the same smooth strokes of the whetstone catered to its bent, the same self-satisfied twist of Tip’s lips when they tested the edge and found it to their liking.

Veronica had wandered off, bored, after servicing her own power fist, and only ED-E remained, whirring quietly to and fro behind Tip as they sat and worked. They found the sound lulling and peaceful in a way few things were now.

They finished with the blades but didn’t move to pick up the 9mm immediately, just sat with their eyes half closed, listening. ED-E motored back and forth, stuck in the same pattern he’d been in for hours now. Tip twisted, looking over their shoulder to the little robot, and let out a little whistle. ED-E paused, swiveled, and rocked side to side when he was facing Tip. They jerked their head, turning back around and patting the patch of sand next to them, and picked up the 9mm.

Halfway through cleaning the 9mm, Tip heard the robot whirr, click, and putter closer. He hovered beside them, rotating slowly from what felt like watching their actions to keeping an eye on the whole Mojave. Tip kept working, finally slotting the magazine back in place and aiming down at a cactus fifty feet away. They frowned, shrugged, and set it back on its scrap of fabric on the sand. Guns were...not their favorite. They had their uses but by and large, Tip preferred to only hold on to them as a temporary holdover between looting and selling.

With the cleaning cloth in their hand, Tip looked over at ED-E, squinting one eye closed. They reached over, lightly swiping the cloth across his shell. He rotated back to face them, beeping softly. Tip beeped back. ED-E pulsed back a few inches before moving forward again, closer to Tip, who chirped at him and held up the cloth. ED-E rotated minutely, as though looking between the cloth and Tip, before hovering closer and dropping lower, within easy reach of the courier and their cleaning cloth.

Veronica came back from her walkabout to see Tip sitting on the ground with ED-E practically in their lap, clicking, chirping, and beeping at each other while Tip polished ED-E’s shell. She hung back and watched as the courier finished cleaning and held ED-E gently by his gun mount, balancing a gourd blossom on the top of his dome, just above his front grill. They tapped the laser with one last chirp and turned back to their weapons, brushing them off one last time before re-homing them on their person or in their pack.