He almost decides not to give it to her. It's too strange, out of character, the concept unsubtle. And it's pink. Bright and obnoxious and artificial looking in a way that he thinks is meant to be cheerful. No, it is meant to be cheerful. He meant the accursed thing to be cheerful, he made it that way, but he can't help the frisson of panic mixed with embarrassment mixed with so much doubt when he holds it between his hands. The lace around the edges gets stuck on the fingers of his gauntlets and he has to carefully pry them loose, too ginger even for cursing until he's free.

This is a terrible idea. He hates these holidays, made uncomfortable by traditions that aren't his - were never his - to celebrate. His knowledge of feast days was limited to what parties his master might attend, how close an enemy might press. He's never considered what it would be like to participate in things he once thought were for other people, to try to figure out how to make them his.

He hasn't always done it gracefully. He hid at Satinalia, rather than face unfamiliar games that we're meant to be fun, and so unsure in gift giving at Wintersend that he refused to give any at all, grousing that it was pointless and wasteful. They got him gifts all the same, his... friends. Got him practical things, useful things, things that he needed, because as much as he pretends otherwise, they know him and know him well. Enough to capitalize on the chance to make him accept new sheets and warm clothes and gear that he put off purchasing for himself. Enough to understand that his reticence came from shame, and so willing to forgive him that.

It used to make him so uncomfortable, that forgiveness for his myriad sins, that acceptance. From Hawke especially, who was forced to absorb so much of it. She was the center around which they rallied though, the catalyst for these small traditions coming to life. Even when she had nothing, when she was just another mercenary trying to make good in Lowtown, another hired sword with bills to pay and mouths to feed, every holiday was a chance to do something special. A new wrap for the handle of one of Isabela's daggers, a new quill for Varric, a whetstone for him. Little things they could get on their own, if they wanted, when they realized they needed - these are the things that Hawke notices. Hawke is in the details - a piece of gear left on the trail, a drink with a friend at the end of a long day, a hand in the darkness when the world was crashing down all around - Hawke is in the little things. He owes her this.

Even if it embarrasses him beyond measure. Even if he has to find something to wrap it up in, to keep it safe and to avoid carrying it openly on the street. He finds things so serious; Hawke laughs, calls him a romantic, but he disagrees. Fenris has things he cherishes, now, for the first time, and so he does it with a single minded passion, with the intensity they deserve. It is serious.

But then Hawke is so awash in hard things, in issues and skeptics that he isn't sure what she takes seriously anymore. She pretends nothing, because Hawke is also in the pushes made by invisible hands that fix things before they are broken, that saves things before they are lost, but he isn't a fool. She deserves good things. He wants to… give her that, if he can.

The walk over to the estate is excruciating, the thing wrapped up in a rag much too large for the job, stuffed gingerly under one arm and covered over with a glare the likes of which has never been seen, sending passersby shuffling over to the other side of the lane, stymieing curious glances almost instantly.

This is outrageous. Ridiculous. The stupidest thing he's ever done (which of course it isn't), and he counters the anxious impulse not to knock on her door by not actually knocking, barging in as they all do, as she's made it clear they are welcome. The vestibule is warm, well-lit, homey, and the foyer smells of something delicious, warm and buttery and baked. Bodahn's son is sitting in the middle of the floor with powdered sugar all down his front, chocolate smeared around his wide, smiling mouth, and he waves at Fenris, thick fingers shiny with frosting.

"Hullo."

"Good morning, Sandal." Fenris' voice always sounds so grave. He is never sure how to speak with children - with people. He knows how to make words sound severe, but not always sincere. Not always kind. "Can you tell me where Hawke is?"

"In the kitchen," the boy says, and takes another huge bite of whatever is in his hand. "It's tasty."

There's a part of him that wants to touch the boy, to pat his back like Aveline (he's a good soldier, she says), or to ruffle his hair as Isabela does (such a sweet thing). The boy is… a good boy. And Hawke loves him so.

It's a strange sensation. He must be going mad. He nods his thanks to Sandal, who takes no notice of him, and shakes his head all the way to the door of the kitchen, too consumed in his own oddities to remember his misgivings about this entire venture until he already has one foot through.

The kitchen is a blaze of heat and aroma, the light buttery scent of pastry flaking in the air with an undertone of melting chocolate that makes his mouth water unexpectedly. Fenris isn't much of one for sweets but he does appreciate the craftsmanship of good food; ironic for someone who can barely boil an egg.

Hawke stands with Orana at the table she's built in the middle of the room, wide and long enough for them all to fit, a pastry bag in her hand and flour in her hair. She has chocolate streaked down one side of her jaw - Hawke touches things with messy hands, can't seem to keep them clean. By comparison Orana is pristine, straight blond hair pinned back in a strict bun though the longer she lives with Hawke the more creative her eye paint becomes, lips always just a hair off a natural shade. But it's ceased to be jarring and it makes her happy, and though it's none of his business whatsoever it gladdens his heart to see her thrive. She actually looks him the eye when he comes in, a quiet word to Hawke before she smiles.

It's a good smile, bright and cheerful, but it's nothing against the brilliant beacon that is Hawke and her merciless enthusiasm. The woman is a bundle of energy and terminal optimism, and when she sees him she flings her arms around his prickly shoulders, only remembering to hand off her chocolate-dripping pastry bag when he shifts to avoid it.

"Sorry, sorry," she says and smiles, because she isn't, not really, and he can't help but smile back at her until the two of them are standing in the middle of a messy kitchen staring at each other like fools.

Hawke is distracting, always going somewhere, always fiddling with something. Her hands are never still; she's always working, doing, mending. He used to find it exhausting until he figured out that he didn't have to keep up with her, that he could stand in one place and still be included in the sphere of her relentless energy. That she would build her orbit around him, would make sure that there was enough of her within reach that he never felt alone, but far enough away that he had his space, his distance, and the ability to use those things like a door he could close when he needed to.

And she would be right there on the other side. Probably with pie.

"Ridiculous woman, what have you done?"

The words come out softly, a rumble in his chest that makes her cheeks flush pink and quickens something in his blood, something that rushes in his ears and moves hot and fast beneath his skin. Orana quietly flees from the room as his hands seek her waist, forgetting for a moment the burden he carried. The remembrance of it makes him flush hot, in chagrin this time, and he stumbles over trying to put it aside, somewhere out of the realm of her notice.

It doesn't work, of course. Why would it. The more he tries to hide something the more Hawke sees it, and she turns in his grasp, laying the bundle open on the last clean spot at the table. "Is this for me?"

"It isn't- I mean to say, it is- I-" he stumbles on the words, trips over every single syllable.

It's so pink it's damning in a way. There is real, actual lace all around the outside, carefully glued in place so that it forms the kind of ruffle he sees on Hightown ladies' dresses. The kind Hawke's sister used to sigh over outside shop windows - is it an inappropriate reminder? Is the pink too cloying? The shape too uneven? He's never cut a heart out in his life - not out of paper, anyway - and he's written nothing on it, nothing at all, too anxious about the state of his penmanship.

And what could he say? He'd been too embarrassed to ask Varric for help, too leery of asking Isabela. He had almost, almost asked Aveline before remembering that her idea of romantic courtship was two sheaves of wheat and a goat, and really this was just a terrible idea, terrible and ridiculous and foolish and -

"Venhedis, are you- are you crying?"

"I'm not crying, you're crying."

"Hawke-"

When he turns her around her eyes are damp, and there are two twin streaks of brightness down her face, cutting through the light dusting of flour, but she's smiling, his paper heart clutched to her chest with both hands. His palms settle cautious on her shoulders as his eyes search her face. Hawke makes a curious amount of sense to him - except when she doesn't, and he doesn't understand her ability to laugh and weep at once.

"Have I made a mistake?"

Hawke laughs. "Of course not. It's just…" She goes quiet, the words tapering off into something almost wistful. She holds the thing in her hand, his heart, his heart, both hands beneath it like it's more than scraps of paper and glue, like it's something fragile and precious. "I've never had a Valentine before, and-"

He kisses her. Did one soothe tears with kisses? It seems right, though he never can be sure. He can feel her long lashes brush the bridge of his nose when she closes her eyes, all softness and light and trust.

And more than that.

The ground doesn't shake beneath them anymore; their footing is not so precarious. Danarius is gone and Fenris has - changed. Grown. He stands taller and surer and stronger, filled with more certainty. Less doubt. Hesitation, yes, sometimes, but not fear. He's shone painfully bright light into all the dark corners, and all he is truly afraid of losing now is her.

He holds her tighter because of it. Hawke is not delicate - strong, hardy, nearly as tall as he is, Fereldan to her very core in a way that makes her somehow seem indefatigable, no hothouse flower to wilt under the elements - but still he can lift her, can gather her into his arms and set her on the edge of the table.

When he kisses her she tastes of butter and chocolate, and the dusty smell of flour hovers both in her hair and on her work surface. He can feel fine powder under his feet and fingertips where they drag against the table, skimming up the outline of her body when he sets her down, his hips settling between her thighs when she parts her knees.

It's familiar territory, the exact place her belt hugs the curve of her hips, the subtle staccato of his fingers over the faint ridges her breast band make beneath her clothes as they move up her spine. The way her short-cropped hair leaves the back of her neck bare, just long enough to brush the tops of his fingers as one palm settles there. Her mouth is smiling under his; soft, but not for long. Her hands still stutter when they touch him sometimes, something he regrets, but she puts aside the hesitation and curls her fingers into the edges of his collar, holding him close as he pulls her near, one hand on her waist until their bodies are flush together.

The heat of her is intense; he imagines he can feel it burning through his shirt, hot enough to match the barely benign glow of lyrium beneath his skin. He didn't come here for this - not just for this - but her fingers blister, turning doubt to cinders. He can't ever stop himself from making things serious, desire careening like floodwaters down riverbeds too shallow to hold them in; he takes things further than he means to go.

The softness of her skin is addicting, pale Fereldan flesh that blushes at the slightest touch. He likes to watch her light up for him, to feel the blood rush to the surface of her skin. When she shivers under his hands he feels - powerful. Masterful. It's a thing he hasn't fully embraced about himself, this urge to take, to claim, to see her bend and yield beneath his touch, to mark her as his own.

It's about control, to know when to press hard and when not to. He struggles with this even now. It's what cost him Hawke the first time, this inability to trust himself, to trust her, to trust them, together. It's disconcerting to have a woman like Hawke give herself over so thoroughly, with such abandon, nails in his back and teeth on his ear and more and harder and yes and please and -

One day he'll be able to kiss her and stop. One day a caress will stay a caress, and the hands he holds won't be pinned against the bed, but not yet. It's too new, he's missed it too much.

"Fenris-" she says, and her mouth is hot against the side of his throat as his hands slide beneath her shirt.

His response is rough, growled through grit teeth against her throat. "Do you want me to stop?"

She laughs, hisses when his palm closes on her breast, fingers hooking into the top of the binding. "I want you to take my clothes off."

"Here?"

"Here."

There was a time that he would have never, would have been too worried about what Hawke's household would think, would be paranoid that someone would interrupt, would discover them, but Hawke makes him brave in the strangest of ways and when he lays her back on the table and her elbow jars a cookbook onto the floor, she laughs that throaty laugh of hers and he knows they aren't fooling anyone.

And he does want her. It's a day meant for lovers, after all.

They don't manage to lose all their clothes - there is neither enough time nor the patience between the two of them for that sort of thing. Slow is for later, careful too, her belt whipped off her so fast it ends up in the sink. She pulls at his shirt until it strains almost to tearing, seeking the flesh beneath, and it takes the both of them to get her pants off, too hungry, mouths and hands frantic almost to the point of clumsiness, lacking the finesse of a softer moment.

She hisses when he plunges two fingers inside her, smalls pulled to one side, but her hand pushes at his wrist when he hesitates, urging him faster, rubbing her fingers across her cleft until he replaces it with his thumb on the pulse of her sex, pinning the offending hand behind her, under the small of her back. She arches up off the table, one hand curled into her hair, breasts exposed to the air where he's pulled her binding askew and hips thrusting awkwardly as her legs move in the air at the edge of the table, strong thighs clenching around him.

He doesn't know how long he can make this last. He likes to tease, likes to have her writhing and whimpering and begging half out of her mind, but he doesn't think she'll stand for it this time. He isn't sure he can hold out either, or that he even wants to. The indentations straight white teeth make into her lush bottom lip have him throbbing against the fastenings of his trousers and he can't help but take his cock in hand when he frees himself. She groans, a tremor of sound that pools low in his belly, reaching for him without quite being able to touch and whining her frustration.

He is enamored of the sounds she makes, wants to wring every last choked scream and hitched breath from her lips before he finally deigns to let her come, but that will keep. Later. He'll tie her hands to the bed, to the rafters, to her ankles, and take his time with every inch of her until she's half mad and all she can think to say is his name. The thought alone drives his hips forward against her and she bucks eagerly, hips inching toward the edge of the table, to where his cock presses against the inside of her thigh.

He doesn't go slow and still the slide is incremental torture; they both groan when he's seated himself fully inside her. He lets her up but only because he needs the leverage, his hands on her hips and her hands on his shoulders as he pulls her right to the edge of the table, right to where he can thrust as hard and as fast as he wants, her body absorbing the impact of each snap of his hips. His trousers tangle around his thighs; it makes him sweat and he doesn't even care, not with the way her toes curl, calves clenched to either side of him.

She fucks him back as best she can, one hand on his shoulder, nails dug in, the other braced behind her on the table. He has a brief prayer of thanks to offer the Maker that the thing is sturdy, and an even briefer wish for forgiveness. He will never be able to eat another meal in this kitchen without remembering the way she feels in this moment, tight as a vice around him with her head thrown back, reckless in abandon.

He can tell when she's close, the way she goes deeply quiet, breath held more often than not. "Please," she manages, fingers on his face, at his mouth, tasting of sugar and salt both. "Don't make me wait, please, not this time."

He doesn't quite manage to articulate it, but he won't. He'll give her what she wants, won't deny either of them, only too ready to capitulate to the pressure at the base of his spine. His hips snap faster, long strokes becoming a quick, sharp rhythm and he gathers her against his chest, her every muffled gasp against the side of his neck as he breathes: "Who do you belong to?"

She doesn't answer, breath held deep in her chest, her whole body so taut he feels every muscle quake as she shudders, tightening around him until he feels the prickle of electric sparks behind his eyes. He needs to hear it. There are a million reasons why - because he's flawed and possessive and desperate, because there are other words for what he feels, words he fears to say and longs to hear. This has to suffice - for now, this is it, this is them, this is enough - for now, for now this is enough. He says again, "Who do you belong to?" and she exhales and gulps for breath all at once, fingers on his arms so tight it hurts.

"You, Fenris - always you."

She comes apart in his hands and he holds their bodies together, keeps them aloft - barely - as his vision goes white and his ears go deaf and he comes so hard it's impossible to stand. The table holds their weight, forgiving as she lies back and pulls him with her until he's half-sprawled across her body, his cheek against her breasts as he softens inside her.

They stay that way for what feels like forever, catching breaths run ragged. Sweat cools to stickiness in the lingering heat of the kitchen and their skin makes a sucking sound that makes her laugh when they pull apart, as uncaring as he is chagrinned. Sex is not a dignified activity and there is part of him that still feels too ridiculous to be amused. It's a quiet part though, voice hushed in the aftermath of so much energy spent, and he does find himself laughing when she shifts around and reaches behind herself to peel off the lacey pink heart that has somehow pasted itself to one shoulder, stuck against her skin.

Hawke looks less amused, flattening out the damp paper where it had begun to curl, lace fraying where he hadn't glued it down well enough. "Well, that was unfortunate."

"I think it has served its purpose."

She pretends to gasp, mocking with a false look of outrage. "And here I was thinking this was a sign of your affections."

"You don't need a paper heart for that."

It comes out more serious than in jest and she stops, looks up at him with a gaze as deep and blue as the sea on a clear day, and he can't help but cup her cheek in his hand, the bronze shadow of his thumb passing beneath the dark lower lashes of one eye. He always makes things sound so grim, and when she asks why he waits, turns it over in his mind, on his tongue, tasting it as though to check for bitterness, for the sour tang of insincerity.

"I am yours."

It only tastes sweet.