Tomorrow
Welcome to my newest guilty-pleasure story about my all-time favourite Aedale Hawke! You might have already known her from the never-finished 'Hawk and Wolf', describing how she and Fenris came about in the first place; or you might be following 'Choice of the Champion,' spanning across the gap between DA2 and the Inquisition. And because I got slightly depressed writing about Kirkwall being already destroyed and Hawke's merry band of misfits disbanded, here's the middle piece of the story to fill in the blanks – act II, set after Fenris spends the night with Hawke and then leaves. It's written from Fenris' perspective.
And therefore, in Tomorrow you will find plenty of what we know and love about DA2: bickering, bad puns, Sarcastic Hawke As The Only True Hawke, bits and pieces of family drama, Sexual Tension, cards, drunkenness, and just all-around Hawke shenanigans filtered through Fenris' ever-so-keen eyes. It does have an ending, and a more-or-less concrete storyline, but as opposed to the 'Choice of the Champion' it's not story-driven – it's more about the characters than anything else, and about Kirkwall in its glory days. Do enjoy!
The chapters are named after the Thedosian months in which they happen.
Chapter 1: Solace
The first weeks are unbearable, and he tells himself he'll go. He'll leave. She's trying to hide the hurt and bury it under those relentlessly shining eyes, but there is hollowness in them he recognises all too well. Every time there is a trail of wetness on her cheeks, his insides clench in helpless self-hatred and he loathes, loathes, loathes the fact that he was the one to wet them – he's left, he's closed the door on her as she screamed his name, and he is quite positive that the sound of it will hound him for the rest of his waking days. And so he picks up his things from around the mansion – there isn't much to pack – and waits for the right moment to go.
But there are things to do, slavers to kill, rounds of Wicked Grace to play, and he realises he doesn't want to.
Maybe tomorrow.
Hawke snorts as Varric reaches the punchline. "No bloody way."
"Totally true, Chuckles. The templars had to clean their mugs from piss for days."
"That'll teach them not to mess with a mage!" chirps in Anders with satisfaction, and Fenris wants to strangle him. "Angel of Death, by the way. Judgement time."
"So dramatic tonight, Andy." Isabela lazily turns her cards over. Fenris is not surprised to see that at least three of them have already been discarded, but pointing out that Isabela is cheating would be about as pointless as pointing out that the sky is blue, Divine is Andrastian, and he is a complete bloody idiot. Hawke's eyes flicker across his hands.
"Don't keep us in suspense, Fenris. Whatcha got?"
His ears twitch as her tongue rolls over his name, but Hawke appears unaffected. He reveals his cards: two knights, two songs, and an angel - a lousy middling hand. "Nothing suspense-worthy, I'm afraid."
"How lame. And here I thought you were actually going to deliver." It feels like a stab to the heart before he realises that it's just a harmless jab, no double-edged meaning, no nothing. Hawke is grinning at him – at them, he corrects himself meticulously – and slaps her cards down.
"Four angels and a serpent! Just like this table. Done and over with, dearies, pay up."
"That was cheating, Chuckles! She was cheating, Isabela, d'you see that?" Varric high-fives the pirate, shedding mock tears of joy. "Our baby's growing up."
"Now the questions is, who's the serpent amongst the angels? Because he's definitely buying the next round."
"We-ell, my kisses definitely kill it." Isabela bends over Hawke, wiggling suggestively, and the mage swats her away. "But I think it's only fair if it's on the winner."
"I'll get it." His own voice surprises him. "On the account of the next win I'm obviously going to have."
"Dream's the important thing, elf."
"He just wants to spit in our drinks, I tell ya. With his serpent venom." Hawke makes a face at him. "I see right through you, Fenris."
He knows he shouldn't, but she makes it too easy. "You're seeing double already, Hawke? You might want to check her cards, dwarf. There may turn out to be two angels in the end."
She snorts. "Yeah. Two angels and two assholes. Am I right, Isabela?"
"And a serpent."
"And a serpent," she agrees. At her side, Anders shoots him a sideways glance, and he needs to go to the counter before he snaps something decidedly less amicable.
The conversation continues behind him, a familiar lull of voices squabbling over something insignificant, and after a quick look at the candlemarks he realises that it is already after midnight.
Maybe he'll leave tomorrow.
-/-
Hawke hasn't forgotten.
She's so easy about it that he is almost fooled, but she avoids him when she's drunk. She and Isabela stand outside the Hanged Man, voices soft and hushed, but they forget he's elven. He doesn't even need to focus too much to hear the words, doesn't even need to strain his imagination to picture Hawke's trembling lip.
"Don't let him walk back with me, Isabela. Maker's breath, I don't know what I'd do now if I'm left alone with him. I might slap him. I might pounce him. It's too much."
"I wouldn't try the pouncing, love. Unless you're really fond of that fisting thing." Isabela's voice is light, but there's some real concern lacing it. "You're not over it. Obviously."
"I am! When I'm sober." Hawke hiccups, an adorable little sound that makes his heart lurch. "When I'm rational. I just don't want to scare him off. I have nightmares, you know. That I've ruined things so much that he runs away."
A pause, in which he can hear another hiccup over the sound of blood rushing to his ears.
"Give him time," says Isabela finally. "Guys like him don't know what they want. Things get weird after an one-night-stand sometimes, but he'd be an idiot to reject friendship like yours."
"You mean it?"
"I mean it. You okay with Anders walking you home? As much as I know you're a fucking badass, Hawke..."
"No, it's fine." No, no it's not, he wants to yell, his fingertips whitening as he squeezes his fists tight, the abomination should not walk her home. "Spells and ale don't go together as well as I'd like them to. And then he can get to his clinic through the cellar."
"Yeah. I'll keep Fenris busy here, don't worry."
A pause. "Isabela…"
"What, sweetie?"
"I fucking love you. But if you sleep with Fenris, I might just slap you with a fireball."
The pirate laughs. "You're such a dog in the manger."
"You know us Fereldans." She hiccups again, and his heart swells despite his anger. He hears a quiet rustle – a hug, he decides – and Isabela comes into view, her face the normal expression of demon-may-care.
"Fenris! What in the Void are you doing here?" Her eyes narrow as she sees him.
"Enjoying the fresh air," he drawls with slight irony. As if the air in Lowtown were ever fresh. Then he decides to play along: "You said something about another round, Isabela. Still up for it?"
She relaxes. "Am I? Make sure you have the coin, sweetheart, because the moment I'm done with you you'll be buying me drinks into Satinalia."
Fenris snorts. As they come in, Isabela bends over Anders and murmurs a couple of words into his ear.
It's pathetic, he decides, how quickly the mage scrambles to get out.
They play, and Isabela's prediction comes true: he loses. Mostly because he cannot focus on anything else than a blood-freezing image of the mage – the abomination – disappearing behind the closed doors of the Hawke mansion.
-/-
After that, he learns to see her indifferent quips for what they are: an exercise in bringing back the platonic friendship.
He tries. Maker knows he tries. But she's never content to let the sleeping dogs lie – again, a Fereldan to the core, he thinks and smirks faintly - and pushes him relentlessly, forcing him to realise again and again that his feelings for her did not change. He was an idiot. He was an idiot and tainted something beautiful with anger and vengeful rebound. If he needed another reason to hate Hadriana, that would be it: instead of gentleness and emotion, he gave her his wrath in a physical form, and it backfired into them both.
He resolves not to make that mistake ever again.
He should leave tomorrow.
"Fenris! Hey, Fenris!"
She waltzes into his mansion with a handful of scrolls in her arms, skipping across the staircase in a singsong rhythm.
"Check this out. Remember that last slavers' den in Lowtown that you basically took out on your own? So Anders and I went back there and actually searched the place. And would you just look at this stuff! We've got maps of all the hideouts here, all around Kirkwall!" She throws the scrolls at him and they unravel at his feet in one glorious map rain, a move so very Hawke she had to plan it before she came in. He purses his lips, not sure whether to thank her or laugh out loud.
Then the Anders and I gets through to him and the laughter disappears from his throat. "Thank you, Hawke. That is… much appreciated."
She makes a dismissive gesture. "Least I could do, really. Considering that you stole all my kills."
"You need to be quicker next time." He smirks despite himself.
"Oh? Well, you need to be slower. Can't have you hoard all the fame to yourself." She crouches at the maps, gesturing for him to join her, and he obliges. They are crude and not exact at all, but he can recognise the rough shapes of Darktown and the Wounded Coast; they are littered with small x's. "So I'm not sure however many of these things we've already eliminated, and how many will relocate as soon as the word gets out that we've killed these guys here, but it's still worth checking them out. If we work out a pattern to these," she looks up and smiles at him brilliantly, and his breath catches in his throat, "we might just be able to dismantle the Free Marches slavers' network! How would you like that, huh?
He nods mutely. He would like that well and she knows it. The less influence the slavers of Tevinter have in Kirkwall, the weaker Danarius will be when he finally comes for his prized possession.
"Thank you, Hawke."
"No problem. Hey, are you doing anything tonight?"
He raises his head at that. "Nothing I know of. Do you have a task for me?" Something that would require him to accompany her instead of the abomination, maybe?
"I might have. So Aveline tells me that there's a concert in Hightown tonight. A great harpist, apparently, not that I'd be able to tell. I think Orana would really like to go, but she won't dare to do it alone, and honestly I would rather not send her into the lion's den unprepared, the nobles would eat her alive… You up for accompanying her?"
At first, it seems like a strange, but innocent enough request, and he opens his mouth to agree.
Then it hits him.
She wants him to go out with Orana. She's setting him up on a date of all things.
Hawke is watching him intently over the maps, and he desperately wishes he could understand what is going on in her head. Maybe it was an innocent request on behalf of the girl. Maybe he is reading too much into it.
"You seemed a little lonely lately. Think about it as a nice throwback to a courtly life. And, you know, it might be nice to spend some time with someone with similar experiences…"
Ex-slave with an ex-slave.
Something dark and ugly stirs within him. Anger and frustration bubble up to the surface, never too far away.
He looks at her, and she winces noticeably – a small, cruel part of him is glad. "There is nothing I miss about courtly life of the nobility, Hawke. A slave's part in it was hardly enjoyable."
"Fenris, I didn't mean-"
"But if you insist, I shall endeavour to wear my most fashionable chains-"
"Fenris!" she interrupts him, her face twisted in anger and shame. "You know this is not what I said!"
"Would you rather skip that part? Go right through to breeding?" he snarls, and her face turns white.
"What?"
"If you want me to have a tumble with your ex-slave elven servant, you needn't make it overly complex. We might get confused."
She's angry now, she's positively fuming, and he half-expects a slap. The magical energy in the air sets his lyrium aflame.
"How dare you," she hisses, "how dare you say those horrible things?!"
"You were the one to suggest it."
"I wanted you to go out of this funeral-smelling mansion! I wanted you to talk to someone who could understand you, to have some basic connection with another person which is not based on killing! I would never – never, ever – suggest that-" She stutters, too furious to speak, and Fenris is fascinated. "How dare you even say that I could ever think of you – think of Orana like that?!"
"I can manage my social affairs just fine, Hawke."
"Evidently so," she growls and stands up. "Is this what you think of me, Fenris?! This is what I am in your mind?!"
He opens his mouth to say no, to apologise, to say that this has been a mistake and he's been angry and frustrated and – the very thought of her being so comfortable with him bonding with another woman, this complete lack of jealousy despite what she'd told Isabela before – it burned – but Hawke doesn't look at him. She turns around and storms off, seething, and for a split second he thinks he sees wetness on her cheeks.
Again.
He's done it again.
Failure, failure, failure, failure. He was a failure.
"Hawke!"
The angry steps in the hallway turn slower, more hesitant. Then they come to a halt.
Then they resume.
"Hawke…" Please, he adds in his mind, not bearing the sound of begging out loud.
He follows her out and finds her at the door, one hand already on the doorknob. He had not imagined the wet trail on her cheeks.
His own cheeks burn.
"No," he manages through the thickened throat. "No, this is not what you are in my mind. This is not what I think of you. I'm sorry."
She stares at him, unmoving. He cannot take his eyes off her hand on the doorknob, and part of him wonders if this is how it felt watching him go, that morning after Hadriana…
It is paralysing.
"I literally brought you the maps to all the slavers' dens in Kirkwall, to make sure everyone who would ever see you as a slave was dead," she says finally. "I've done everything I can to make you realise you're a free man, Fenris, and you'll stay that way as long as I've got anything to say about that. But it's all for nothing if you don't consider yourself free."
He knows. He agrees. But this is not about that.
"What are you doing tonight, Hawke?" he asks before he loses the courage, and her mask of composure shudders.
"I've got stuff to deal with at the Bone Pit. Won't be back before tomorrow, I think."
"I'll go with you."
It's not a question, so she cannot say no.
There's surprise in her eyes. There's also something more, but he doesn't dare look too closely. It would be a normal thing to do, they've travelled together after… after Hadriana, but now the context is obvious: she wanted him to stay and accompany Orana.
He wants to accompany her. This is as far as he can allow himself to go.
"Anders is coming too. You sure you can take it?"
He stops the half-formed snarl from twisting his face, although he's sure she's noticed anyway. "As long as you keep him in check."
Hawke flashes a fleeting smile. "Funnily enough, he said the same thing."
It's only later, when she is gone, and he sits and looks over the scattered scrolls, that he realises what her comment meant: she'd always intended him to come along.