A/N: Written for the incredibly lovely, incredibly talented onemooncircles on tumblr who asked for something oddly specific 3

It wasn't ironic that Fenris was happy, or even that he was happily drunk.

That Fenris was happily drunk in the overstuffed armchair that he'd argued vehemently against hauling up the stairs into the library, his alliterative criticisms being heavy, hideous and wholly unsuitable for the space – that was ironic.

Hawke wasn't entirely sure when Fenris had become so invested in the estate's décor, but the longer they were together the more it became apparent that he was even better at spending her money than Isabela was - as long as he didn't realize he was doing it. Their flatware had benefitted greatly from it, as had Hawke's collection of Antivan rugs which, to be honest, she didn't feel one way or another about until she was tired and whining and stretched out on the floor because the bedroom was too far.

But it made him happy, these little things.

She thought that maybe he would be just as happy, though, in a little country cottage, surrounded by plants as green as his eyes and the kind of sun that shines uninterrupted from the heavens rather than ricocheting around in the dust kicked up in Kirkwall's streets. Hawke wasn't quite sold on the idea of children - the patter of little feet usually signified that angry dwarves had once again broken into the place - but she wasn't necessarily against it. Toothless did, after all, love children. And to be used as a footrest.

The large shape of her mabari was little more than a lump beneath the quilt draped over Fenris' legs. If anything was hideous, Maker help them all, it was that quilt. There were colors in it that had no right to be adjacent, but it was warm and soft and the labor of many hours. Varania, surprisingly enough, couldn't sew, which was probably why Orana's aid had been enlisted. Varania must also be colorblind, but if one ignored the over-usage of the color pink, the pattern made by the geometric patches was quite intricate and beautiful.

And Fenris, who was a secret softie, loved it. He'd been endearingly awkward when they'd given it to him at Satinalia, tongue-tied and gruff because of it, but late in the evening when everyone had gone home she found him under the lopsided garlands Merrill had hung to be festive, quietly stroking his fingers over the stitching, the expression on his face both thoughtful and serene.

If she'd shed a tear, well, it wasn't like she was going to confess. Especially since the novelty of the gift had somewhat worn off for her at this point, though if he was willing to compromise on her selection of furniture she was certainly not going to put too fine a point on his taste in linens.

"What have you got there?" she asked, leaning over the back of the chair to loop both arms around Fenris' neck, a kiss pressed against his cheek.

"I think one would call these-" There was what was quite possibly a hiccup and a small giggle attempting to disguise themselves as a dramatic pause as he carefully turned the page. "-kittens."

"Kittens you say?"

"Yes," he answered solemnly, the gravitas in his voice completely at odds with the pinkness in his cheeks and the way she could feel his chest tremor slightly with a mightily suppressed laugh. "Small cats."

"Small cats," she repeated, coming around to perch herself on the arm of the chair, feet snuggled beneath the quilt and also part of his leg. There was plenty of room for the both of them, hence the genius of the chair, but he was hogging most of it - a trait he had no doubt learned from the dog. "Do they not have small cats in Tevinter?"

"Don't be foolish," he admonished, and gestured with his wine glass - which he did not seem to realize was mostly empty. "Of course they do. They simply - one does - I had not realized they require such... dedication."

"Dedication?"

"Indeed." She could barely keep herself from smiling, resting both elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand as he clearly warmed to the subject. "Small cats require much petting. And brushing. And of course feeding."

"You don't say."

"Well of course they do Hawke, haven't you been paying attention?"

Oh, if Anders could see them now. "Feeding, darling, yes."

The way she was rubbing her fingers through his hair was obviously having some kind of effect; his eyes were slowly closing as he looked up at her and then opening again of a sudden - not, she thought, unlike a cat. "And milk," he added, completely as an afterthought. "As tribute."

"That sounds reasonable."

He grinned his sleepy, happy grin at her - the one he maintained in the light of day that he absolutely under no circumstances possessed or could ever be prevailed upon to use - and allowed her to set his empty glass on the floor before pulling her in next to him, nestled under the ugly quilt in the loving embrace of her giant armchair. "Perhaps we should acquire one of these... felines. For the estate."

Hawke glanced at him, holding steady while he slouched against her side, head pillowed against the crook of her arm around his shoulders. "I don't know Fen, it sounds like a big commitment. What with all the feeding and the tribute." And that she was pretty solidly a dog person.

Not that she couldn't be swayed. It had been proven scientifically that she was quite susceptible to sad elf eyes, pirate pouting, guard-captain glares, poetic rewrites by lubricious dwarves and a whole host of other things, so really there was a good deal of precedence. "It would perhaps be... pleasant," he said against her neck. "To care for something small."

She was a weak woman, really. Just the thought of finding a tiny kitten curled up in the breastplate of his armor was enough to have her plotting out how best to break the news to Toothless.

Hawke rested her cheek against the softness of his hair, and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "Alright, I'm convinced. Tomorrow we'll get you a cat."

Fenris smiled against her shoulder and murmured with no irony whatsoever, "That sounds purr-fect."