A/N: Okay, I haven't posted anything in... ages, but I read some super awesome stuff and got INSPIRED to do a one-shot with my F!Hawke (rogue) and Fenris

I love me some Fenris.

I took some liberties with the canon dialogue here :)

Pleeeease remember to review! Feedback is my ambrosia! You can review even if you're not logged in!

-AA

Disclaimer:

BIOWARE, I LOVE YOU SO, AND I USE YOUR CHARACTERS WITHOUT THE INTENT OF MAKING MONEY FROM THEM OR OFFENDING YOU.

THIS I SWEAR.

She looked at his face.
His strange, Elven face. His nose and forehead blended where they met, with little of the slope that humans possessed. His lips were full, his skin tan. Two white lines glowed faintly on his chin. His ears were long and pointed, his hair silvery white.
His eyes were green. Liquid, emerald green.
These were things she took for granted, that were beside her every day. Often obscured by blood, frequently slick with sweat and nearly always twisted with concentration. These were things she was used to.
Nothing about Fenris had ever seemed foreign. He was so cool, so collected.
But there was an expression on his face that she had never seen before. That she had never wanted to see.
It was there, just barely, beneath layers of fury and hatred and lust for vengeance.
Desperation. Fear. It showed itself in a slight change of the lines in the corners of his eyes, a quirk of the lips. His posture, so tense.

She looked downward, at her armored feet. Afraid to follow his gaze upward. What is Fenris afraid of?
"Hawke." his tone is cutting. It grates on her ears.
She looks upwards, and sees them.
Tevinter slavers. Tall, clad in robes or leather armor covered in strange runes. They all have a feral quality to their features. An angularity to their face that is not present in Marchers or Fereldens. Their leader glares disdainfully at Fenris, then turns his attention to Hawke.
"You are in possession of stolen property. Return the slave, and you will not be harmed."
Slave.
Fenris winces. Hawke knows it has been years since he was named thus.
This is Fenris's fear.
Slavery, when he has tasted freedom.
There is a creaking as Varric tightens Bianca's string. Hawke stands in a relaxed pose, battle ready without being threatening. She stares up at the man. Takes in his robes and his circlet. His intricate mage's staff. A magister.
She reaches up her arms, as though she is stretching, then crosses them behind her head. Varric quietly shifts Bianca so that she is aimed at the slaver to the right of the magister. Isabella drops to her knees as though she is tired of standing, but Hawke knows that she could leap up and disembowel the slaver to the magister's left at any second. At any signal. Fenris is breathing deeply, his greatsword held in both white-knuckled hands, the tip brushing the dusty earth.
The sun is setting.
"Well? Hand over the slave!"
Hawke closes her fists around the handles of her daggers. In one swift motion, she unsheaths them both with a slithering hiss.
"He is NOT a SLAVE!"
They leap into action, slicing their way through the slavers. Hawke sinks her blades into the magister personally. Isabella takes out two men at once with her swords, then spins and kicks another in the throat, breaking his neck. Varric croons to Bianca as they unleash a torrential rain of arrows.
Fenris is accross the field, clearing a path through his foes with massive, powerful swings of his greatsword. He pauses for a second, catching his breath. His markings pulse brighter with every inhale. Hawke slices through a line of slavers, creating a swath of peace in the turmoil. At the other end of which stands the elf.

He watches her bend over and spit on the ground, her chin-length ginger hair blazing in the setting sun and swaying like a curtain of fire over her face. She is covered in gore, and as she stands again he notices that there is blood spattered accross her face. There are drops on her sarcastic lips, on her little pointed nose and even on her eyelids, but her eyes themselves shine uninterrupted or dulled by the carnage.
They are green, but such a different green from his own that he cannot claim a similarity in the color. Where his are like jewels, hers are like leaves. Her eyes are striking, the shade of shadowed foliage deep in an ancient forest. They awaken something in him, as they meet his. A faint stirring, like the memory of a memory, in the back of his head. An impression of plants, of a garden. Of a dirty, ragged skirt and bare feet on dusty earth. A feeling of belonging.
She notices him staring, now, and she meets his eyes. He can't make himself look away.
She colors oh-so-slightly, and Fenris feels something inside himself shift.
There is a starburst of feeling in his chest, like drinking Varric's imported dwarven whiskey. He inhales sharply, taking an involuntary step backward. His markings flare, blindingly bright, and he remembers -

Months ago, they are sitting in his mansion, talking and drinking agresio.
"I should not be troubling you with this," he says, staring into his wine bottle, "these are not your problems."
She raises an eyebrow, leans forward in Danarius's - no, his- chair, and puckers her lips for a second, as though considering something. He stares at her peculiar expression, confused.
"They could be." she whispers, looking up at him through her lashes.
-
Three and a half years ago, not long after she has recruited him, she is listening to another one of his rants.
She is staring into the fire as he speaks to her earnestly, as he fights against the uncertainty of his future. Something he says seems to wake her out of her reverie, because she turns and looks at him, wide-eyed.
"You could always start over here. Build a new life." she says, as though it is the most obvious thing she has ever heard.
For him, it is a revelation.
-

Moments ago, with that look of utter contempt and absolute defiance blazing in her eyes, she screams - "He is NOT a SLAVE!"

-
Fenris blinks. The battle is winding down, but he and Hawke are still awkwardly frozen. She has a cut on her forehead, and it is leaking blood in a steady stream down the side of her small face and dripping into the hollow of her neck. Fenris finds it infuriating. He doesn't want her hurt, not ever, but especially not when she is fighting for him.
She is looking at him with a strange expression on her pointed features, a sort of quizzical frown. A little line has appeared between her eyebrows, and she is worrying her bottom lip mercilessly. She looks torn between asking him what's wrong and leaping back into the fray. She looks uncomfortable under is blatant appraisal. Never has he looked at her this way before. Never has he seen her through this lens.
"Any time now, Hawke!" Isabella calls from the corner she has been backed into, just barely fending off four attackers at once.
The spell is broken, and she turns away from him, still blushing slightly.
Fenris feels a sudden compulsion to explain himself, to talk to her. To hear her voice.
"Hawke!" he yells after her, "Hawke! Hawke!"
She ignores him and mows through slavers until she has freed Isabella. Fenris relunctantly rejoins the battle, rescuing Varric from a would-be backstabbing just in time.

Afterwords, once he has wrung Hadriana's location from a slaver and Hawke has promised to aide him in swift retribution, they camp for the night.
Dinner is quiet, even Varric too tired for storytelling. Isabella takes a couple of stabs at getting Fenris to join her in her tent, but the elf is too distracted to play along. Hawke eats in silence, staring at her food impassively.
When they've finished eating, they all retire quickly. Fenris lies awake for a long time before deciding to get up and talk to Hawke.
He pulls on a tunic and clambers outside, careful not to knock over the small mountain of armor beside the tent flap. He walks as quietly as possible to Hawke's tent, and whispers into the little opening.
"Hawke?"
No response.
"Hawke?"
Again, silence.
"Ellora?" he whispers, her given name feeling strange on his tongue.
There is a slight stirring from inside, and a sleep-slurred voice whispers back,
"Fen'is?" S'at you? C'mon in"
He awkwardly slips into the tent, and sits with his chin on his knees beside the mountain of blankets that is Hawke. He waits a few moments, trying to collect his thoughts, before speaking.
"Hawke, it has come to my attention," he says in a pained voice, "that I may be developing... feelings for you." he waits another moment for a response, but it is not forthcoming. "Thoughts?"
Another moment of quiet breathing and the wind swishing through the trees outside.
"Hawke?"
No response.
"Ellora?"
She snores gently, and Fenris decides to wait to speak with her properly until morning.
He goes to get up, and finds that there is something holding him down.
He looks pas his knees, and sees that Hawke has rolled over onto his feet.
He gently tries to extract himself, but she winds one arm around his shins and snuggles her face into his ankles.
He sighs and resigns himself to a difficult night.