Created for @dragonagesapphicweek's extra prompt: Happy Ending
Art by @ridivenire, ficlet by me <3
Words: 1,145 | Rated: T | CWs: Suggestive, self-harm ref, trauma
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Hawke's eyes snap open, her sleep punctuated by a piercing caw. She rips out of the Fade with a jolt, mind and body cleaved together once again. The waking world blinks into focus, flooding her senses. Her conscience. She's always been a shallow sleeper — listless, fidgety — further exacerbated by Mother's death. By Kirkwall's detonation, lit with the wick of rage, rained down as limbs and blood and ash.
Her skin is sticky with stifling, tropical heat, the air thick with humidity. She blinks the final remnants of sleep from her eyes, relishing the merciful breeze that whistles through the cabin. Instinctively, she rolls over and pats for Isabela, seeking purchase with wandering fingers. If she's lucky, they'll close around a breast, full and bare, and drag her out of the Fade, into what they call first breakfast. Isabela termed the coin years ago, around the time Hawke learned she hates sleeping clothed.
Her hand meets the empty mattress instead, and she blinks a squashed pillow into view. Fine. Isabela must already be on actual breakfast. With a grunt, Hawke rolls over and reaches for Merrill, keen to pull them flush together. She aches to hear that lilting laugh, to feel the wriggle of feigned dissent as she peppers her petal-soft skin with kisses. Intent to nuzzle her with all the force of a freshly woken mabari, pinning her with warm, cloying adorarion.
The "morning, kitten," is already charged to cast, like the runes carved into Hawke's favourite staff. A parting gift from Anders, after they smuggled him out of Kirkwall and into Amaranthine. It was their first stop en route to Rivain, where they deposited him with Fenris on the docks. Hawke considered the irony of those two kicking off a revolution, but there was no more fight left in her.
After eight long, soul-crushing years, Hawke ached to cleanse the ash from her mouth. The blood from her nails. The rot from her bones, mouldering marrow-deep.
A seagull squawks abruptly, one of the Rivaini coast's natural alarms, and Hawke pulls herself upright. With a torpid yawn, she slips off the bed and yanks a pair of trousers on, secured with a coral sash, followed by a loose, gauzy shirt. She leaves it unbuttoned, her skin needing to breathe in this stifling humidity. Perhaps she'll dip in the sea after sourcing some breakfast. She ought to work on getting some colour, after all. Hawke wasn't built for this climate, and neither was Merrill, but Isabela has flourished like a blooming rose.
Hawke winces. Right, bad analogy. She pushes out of their bedroom, raking fingers through her dark, flyaway hair. It's enough of a comb. It always has been. She ambles into the corridor, balancing against the wall as she pushes out onto the upper deck. Her sea legs are rubbish, more like a quaking fawn than a seasoned sailor, but she's learning. The upper deck is swathed in buttery sunlight, drenching the worn planks with warmth. Hushed chatter emanates from the bow, and she draws closer, as if ensorceled by a siren.
Two, rather.
Siren number one is splayed out on a deck chair, her bare legs drinking in the sun like a long-lost lover. Her thick mahogany hair billows in the breeze, cascading over her warm, burnished shoulders. A rich laugh bubbles in her throat, which makes Hawke's belly clench and flip.
Siren number two is perched beside her, gently cupping a parrot. Her milky forearms are bare, slathered in a protective balm. Each scar is visible, hewn with intent. Unbandaged, openly free to live her truth. Hawke's heart tightens, then unspools with warmth.
"Morning," she greets with a lopsided smile, earning both their gazes.
"Hawke! You're awake," Merrill chirps happily, her eyes glimmering like an emerald sea. Hawke hunkers down in an open seat and leans in for a kiss. Merrill hums as their lips meet in a soft crush, her ears twitching lightly, but Hawke feels clever fingers close around the hem of her shirt.
"This is a good look on you, sweetheart," Isabela purrs nearby. She tugs Hawke in for her kiss, playful and demanding. Slightly hungrier than the last one, and Hawke melts into it.
"It is," Merrill tinkles between them. "You should wear it more often."
"I agree," Isabela teases, her lips curving against Hawke's. She breaks off the kiss with a teasing glint in her eye, earning a breathy laugh.
Hawke's gaze lids, wholly content as she drinks in both her loves, basking openly in the sun. The parrot nestled in Merrill's grip wriggles, drawing her attention. It peers up at Hawke with black, beady eyes, ruffling vibrant turquoise feathers streaked with green and yellow.
"Who's this?" she arches a brow, vaguely amused.
"Who's this?" the parrot parrots back.
"Oh, Maker," Hawke sighs, rubbing her face. Her fingers slip over her scar, carved into the bridge of her nose; a habit, born from idle hands and burdened thoughts. Though the latter have melted away of late, warmed beneath the Rivaini sun.
"Hawke! You're awake," the parrot squawks, earning pealing laughter from her girls. It's infectious, catching on Hawke's lips, which bloom with a smile.
"Make it stop," she groans, attempting to look more put out than she actually is.
"Oh, Hawke, he's such a hoot! Can we keep him? Please? Bels said we could," Merrill blinks at her with shining eyes.
"I agree," the parrot squirms in her grasp.
"It's taking the piss," Hawke remarks dubiously, glancing between them.
"He is a perfectly adequate companion. Much like Bear and Kitten's Fade… friends," Isabela asserts breezily. Hawke's mind flicks to Bear, wondering where her lump of a mabari is, but a deep, rumbling snore from port-side satisfies her query.
"You're comparing a parrot to a demon?" Hawke retorts dryly, meeting Isabela's mischievous gaze.
"Yes," Isabela hums, swiftly followed by Merrill's desperate "no."
Hawke settles back on the parrot. Her smile has reached her eyes as she inspects him quietly, drilling with matched intensity. He preens and squawks, palpably comfortable in Merrill's grip. A blazing, unspoken moment passes between them before Hawke lifts her gaze to meet Merrill's, brimming with hope.
"I suppose we're lacking another mouthy bastard. Varric Jr. can stay on one condition," Hawke acquiesces with a sigh. Isabela bubbles with laughter, her jewellery clinking musically, glimmering in the sun.
"Oh, perfect! Yes, thank you, yes," Merrill titters, buzzing happily in her seat with lamblike adoration. Isabela settles then peers at Hawke, utterly expectant.
"What's the condition?" she hums, her eyes still creased with amusement.
Hawke peers at them both, feeling something inside her finally click into place. For her entire life, she has been drawn to the sea. To the scent of wildflowers, perfumed with daisies. She beams, swelling with pure love. With the knowledge — the serenity — that she is finally home.
"He's barred from the bedroom."