I do not own Dragon Age. I make no profit from this work.
Oh, this is just great, Hawke thought as she looked down at her blouse. It was new, something her friend, Isabela, helped her to choose. It was low cut without being obscene and perfect for the night she had planned for after work. Somehow, while she was running her deliveries, one of the carry-out containers had sprung a leak, as had the bag it was carried in, sending a steam of duck sauce down the front of her white shirt. It was her last delivery of the night, and of course it was to the wealthier part of town. She couldn't exactly make the delivery as it was leaking, but having the order remade and having the customer wait may cause just as much damage. Not only that, but now she would have to change after work before meeting up with her friends at the bar.
In the end, she decided to look over the ticket to see if there was a phone number. She entered the number into her severely outdated flip phone (it just wasn't in the budget to replace right now) and dialed. It rang several times with no answer and Hawke was just about to close the phone when she heard a rough, "Yes?"
The sound itself send a chill down her spine and she struggled to find the words to speak to the person over the phone. "Hi, yes, um," she stuttered, "I'm from Mi-Ran's. Your order, well it started leaking on the way-"
"Is it still edible?" The stranger interrupted. There's the chills again.
"Well, I suppose, but it's-"
"Bring it anyways."
"But sir-"
"Just bring it." Click.
Hawke let out a sigh and looked over to the carry out bag on her seat. At least she had extra napkins to keep it from leaking on the interior of her little Cavalier. An old car, '96, but the engine ran fine though the body was falling apart. A dependable car, one she relied on to get to her various jobs and transport both her Mother and brother, Carver. Between the three of them, there was only the one car. It was all they could afford when they came to Kirkwall and she was the only one with a valid license, so the task fell to her. Duck sauce on the upholstry would just be icing on the severly deformed cake.
Hawke turned the key into the ignition and rolled down the window, pulling out of the empty lot and heading toward Hightown. As she pulled into the driveway, she realized that she delivered here before last week. And the week before that. It was the startlingly handsome man with the caramel skin and curling tattoos on his face and fingers (and Maker knows what else) she had oogled for several minutes before she finally handed over the carry out bag. Well, at least he had decided to order from Mi-Ran's again, but who knows if he will again after this.
She rang the doorbell and waited impatiently at the door, clutching the bag from the bottom through a handfull of napkins. What a mess you got into, Mari, she thought to herself. The door opened and there was that painfully good-looking man. Tall and lean, dressed sharply in a dark grey collared dress shirt and black slacks, white hair and what she could see of his tattoos shocking against his bronzed skin. She stood awkwardly for a few moments before handing over the bag, making sure he cupped the napkins from the bottom to keep it from leaking.
"I- sorry. I don't know what happened." She managed to get out.
He flashed her a half smile before shifting the bundle into one hand and using the other to poke through the contents. "No harm done. Everything seems in order, just a little messy." His eyes narrowed on the trail of sticky sauce down her shirt. "Do you want to clean up?" He asked suddenly, gesturing into the entryway.
"I- no that's, thank you. I'm just about to head home."
"If you leave it, it will stain." Even saying something so mundane, his voice sent a chill up her spine.
"I. . . guess. Thank you," she said softly, following him into the foyer. He lead her to, an obviously unused, kitchen. The glass cabinets contained no china, and the pantry door was open revealing nothing, not even a crumb, within it's walls. She guessed that if she opened the fridge, the contents would be similar.
"Are you just moving in?" she wondered out loud as he set down the beg and started the water in the sink.
"No," he said simply. She stepped to the faucet to start rinsing off the sticky sauce. After a moment he added, "I wasn't planning on staying long. Borrowing."
"Oh." She realized that she was disappointed. Wait, she didn't even know him. He was just a handsome stranger - a handsome stranger that invited her into his home. And whose voice was thick like honey and sent chills down her spine. And whose proximity caused the hair on her arms and back of her neck to stand on end as goosebumps broke out over her flesh.
"I decided to stay for a while though," he continued, breaking the silence. "I should probably stock the kitchen at some point, but I . . . don't really know how to cook."
"You could always - you don't have a microwave!" She glanced around the kitchen. Though everything was emmaculately clean and stylish, she realized that it was old. The stovetop and ovens could be considered antiques.
"I don't. And I wouldn't know how to use it even if I did."
"You don't have a staff or anything? With a place-"
"No, it's just me." He had taken a step closer and she was suddenly scared of the situation. She was in a strange man's house. Alone. The estate was large and even if she screamed, she doubted anyone would hear her.
"I should. . . get going," she said nervously, flicking her fingers into the sink to shake off the excess water.
The stranger just nodded and lead her back to the door. She realized for the first time that he was barefoot and the tattoos curled over his toes as well. "Thank you," she said quietly as she exited.
"Wait!" He said suddenly and Hawke froze in fear. He wasn't going to let her leave. He was going to keep her here. He's going to kill her. She turned, her gazed fixed to her laced boots. "Your tip." He reached his hand out.
"No, I - I can't accept. I'm sorry about the mess."
He shook his head and flashed that half-smile again. "It is no worry. I'm sure you wish to get home."
She smiled nervously back and quickly walked back to her car. She noticed that he didn't close the door until she was pulling out of the driveway. I need a raise, she thought absently as her fear subsided.
...
Hawke arrived at the Hanged Man after her other companions, dressed in a fresh shirt. As soon as she arrived home, she tossed the soiled garment in the wash and chose another - a simple black fitted v-neck tee to pair with her black skinny jeans and laced flat boots. She had thrown a simple black trench over it, her previous encounter still leaving her with chills. She climbed the stairs to head to Varric's suite and stopped dead as she heard a familiar voice.
"No, thank you, Varric. I've already eaten," he said. The dark-skinned stranger, no doubt about it.
"You seem to be in a good mood," she heard the stout man comment.
"The. . . adorable delivery girl I told you about. . ."
"Did you finally ask for her number?"
Hawke felt like her knees were about to give out. Her knuckles were white, gripping the banister tightly.
"Hawke!" Her friend Merrill called cheerily from behind her. Hawke nearly jumped out of her skin. "I don't think you've ever been last to arrive before," the smaller girl said absently as she ascended the stairs. Hawke found her legs and trailed behind her, eyes glued to her shoes again as they entered the room.
"Hawke! We were begining to worry that something happened!" Anders exclaimed, standing to greet her. His wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and his stubble brushed her cheek as he moved to hug her, but he at least looked cleaner than usual. Though a talented man - and handsome to boot - he lived in the tunnels of the subway system, taking care of sick refugees fleeing the civil war in Ferelden. No doubt, her family would have ended up in a similar situation if not for her Uncle Gamlen and the job provided by Mi-Ran. Anders didn't even ask for payment for his talents, opting to live a simple life full of hand-me down clothes and baked goods from his patients. At least his these jeans didn't have holes in them.
"Anders, I trust you are keeping out of trouble?" She asked the man.
He chuckled. "You mean, am I keeping out of sight of the Templars? They haven't been making their rounds far enough into the Undercity." Anders was in the Free Marches illegally. He too, fled Ferelden, but because of involvement in some government organization, he was unable to get full citizenship in Kirkwall without revealing his location. So he stuck to the Undercity and did his best to keep off the radar.
"Hawke, I want you to meet someone," Varric interrupted, gesturing to the slender man sitting beside him, one leg resting lazily on the other as he sipped at his wine. Though she tried to avoid it, their eyes locked and the tension in the room was almost touchable.
"Hawke," the handsome stranger said. "That is. . . an interesting name."
"I . . . it's Marian Hawke. Everyone just calls me Hawke," she managed to get out.
He stood, setting his wine glass on the table before outstretching his hand. "We've met, Varric, but not officially," he said to the man beside him. He looked at her and she slowly reached out her own hand. His fingertips were cold, but the touch sent electricity through her. "Fenris," he said, giving her hand a light squeeze instead of a shake.
"A hawk and a wolf," Merrill piped in. "How dangerous! And exciting!" She sat with an ungraceful plop and poured herself a glass from the pitchers she brought up. To Hawke's dismay, the only seat unclaimed was beside the strange man.
Varric leaned over the table, eyeing them both with interest. "So you two have met before?"
"Kind of," Hawke said nervously, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Varric's eyes darted between the two of them. Hawke was uncharacteristically staring into her mug, Fenris intently staring at her.
"I see," Varric paused. "Fenris, you never did say if you got the delivery girl's number."
Hawke flushed and buried her face in her beer mug. The handsome stranger chuckled. "I have it, but it was ill-gained," he admitted. "I will not use it unless she gives me permission."
Varric laughed. "I'm sensing a story there."
Hawke avoided his gaze as he spoke. "Apparently, something went wrong with the order and it began leaking. So she called me."
"I'm assuming nothing happened as you're here and not at home chatting her up," the stout man sounded disappointed.
Fenris chuckled and took a sip of his wine, crossing his leg over the other. Hawke noticed the tattoos traveled up his ankle. "She had a trail of sauce down her shirt from my leaking order. I felt bad, so I invited her in to clean up. I think she was afraid of me, but she accepted."
"I'm sensing nothing steamy happened," Isabela said with a pout, entering the room with her standard saunter. "Hawke, I thought you were going to wear the white shirt!" She accused, taking in her simple tee as she draped her trench over the back of the chair. Hawke immediately regretted the decision to remove the comforting layer.
Varric grinned. "Hawke, you still working for Mi-Ran's on the weekend?"
Hawke could only nod before downing the contents of her mug. She stood. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to need something stronger tonight."
"I'll go with you," the not-quite stranger offered, setting his now empty glass on the table.
As they left the suite, they could hear laughter following them. "Did I miss a joke?" Merrill pouted.