such a lovely way to burn
by mswyrr
Anders sauntered into the library, dropping gracefully into the chair across from her. "Oh, m'lady," he drawled, his accent an atrocious overstatement of the Orlesian elf's, "You could… tie me and gag me and manhandle me." He batted his eyelashes. "Or," here he dropped the accent, switching back to his own clipped tones, "feed me to wolves, as I so richly deserve."
Hawke looked up from her book. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Not as much as if you'd fed him to wolves, love."
"Such violent thoughts," she tsked, tapping the book against her knee. "Wherever would such a dear sweet man get these ideas?"
Anders sighed loudly. "I fear have fallen sway to a violent mercenary's untoward advances."
Hawke pursed her lips into a sad little moue, holding back a smile. He struggled with low moods and it was nice when they could joke around. "What a pity!" she declared, widening her eyes in mock sadness. "Poor dove. Is your virtue yet lost? Can you be saved?"
"I suppose I could," he mused, "but I haven't much interest in it."
"But your reputation!" Hawke gasped. "The sterling flower of your honor!"
She could see him struggling to keep a straight face. "But what is virtue compared to the pleasures of debauchment?"
"You brazen hussy!" Hawke exclaimed, pointing her book at him. "The Maker frowns upon fornication. Especially with mercenary wenches."
"The Maker has no grounds on which to speak, never having enjoyed such things himself," he parried back with a suggestive leer.
There was a long pause and then they both started laughing.
"'Sterling flower of my honor'?" Anders snorted. "You've been reading too many of Verric's books!"
Hawke held her favorite edition of Hard in High Town: Siege Harder up for his perusal. "You may be right."
Anders shook his head. "I wonder, do you suspect," he said, "the reason he writes you as he does?"
"There's good coin in it," she said, shrugging. "And he knows I find it amusing."
"And he's more than a bit in love with you."
Hawke opened her mouth, then closed it. Their joking aside, he wasn't given to making light of serious feelings. He must be in earnest. But Verric was so… she would say like a brother to her, but he was loyal and kind to her as Carver never had been, even before he joined the Templars. "Are you sure? I don't think…"
"It's painfully obvious to everyone, I assure you. Why else would a freewheeling rogue stay in one place like this, risking arrest to be at your side?" He looked away, at the fire. "Today I began to wonder if perhaps… you aren't aware of the bevy of far more suitable suitors than I you could have with a crook of your finger?"
"I'm not interested in Verric," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "And I don't see him pining away for love of me, regardless of what *you* see. So don't worry. You worry enough as it is."
"It's not…" he shifted, shook his head. "I only mean that you seemed… taken, by the elf's offer."
"Maker take me," she said, rolling her eyes. "Is that what this is about?"
"I wouldn't begrudge you, if you found someone else. I've made no secret that I am a… losing proposition. But only if you were to, perhaps, pick someone loyal, decent, and with life prospects beyond…" he laughed, sharp and bitter, "applying for a position as Meredith's new assistant in a few years."
The memory of Elsa, the brand on her forehead, no feeling in her voice or eyes, was sudden and unpleasant. "Don't talk like that. I would never let that happen."
"If you fight too hard, even your reputation as champion won't protect you. The Templars would get two new pets…"
Hawke stood up, tossed the book on the chair, and stared down at him, her stance ready and angry, like he was about to fight her. "Is there a reason you've decided to torment me this evening? Where is this coming from?"
"In matters of the heart, no matter how foolhardy or brave you like to be, I am in favor of you… realizing there are better offers. But you might consider trading up, that's all."
"I'm not considering anything!"
"It would be wise."
"We've had this discussion before, many times."
"Yes, but that was when you seemed determined to only have eyes for me. The unhappy, lonely eyes of a woman who took my 'no' and proceeded to spend five years not pursing anyone else apart from the occasional prostitute. But today, the elf made an offer and…" he spread his hands. "I could see you considering it. Only he's a worse bet than I am." He titled his head and, with the feathers on his cloak, made her think of a quizzical bird. "Has someone cursed you to have awful taste in men? We could get an amulet…"
"You," she said, pointing a finger at him. "Are a fine man. Though petty and jealous and so self-abasing I have to wrest you bodily from seeking martyrdom at least once a month. You're lucky I love you, or I'd never put up with it. But I'm done putting up with it for the night."
He raised his eyebrows. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," she said, hands on her hips.
"Well, if the queen has spoken…" he said gallantly, giving her a little bow in his chair.
"She has," Hawke agreed. "And furthermore, you marvelous dunce, you might want to think about what the elf said rather than who he is." It wasn't something she had intended to share, but if he wanted to pick at it, why not?
He blinked rapidly. "The… you mean the…?" he waved his hands. "Tying and gagging rot?"
Hawke concealed her disappointment: he didn't seem enthused at all. Well, it's not like she expected to play out those fantasies with someone who'd *actually* been chained up and hurt for so much of his life. She never would have even brought it up if he hadn't decided to make a fuss over that damned elf.
"I found the idea… distracting." She snatched her book up and stalked over to the bookshelf to put it away. "What you noticed was nothing but a moment's surprised attraction. And I do want you to stop going on about it now."
When she turned back around she saw that he'd stood from his chair. He was staring at her like she'd dropped a priceless vase. Oh, boy. Why had she decided to brave admitting it? Dorcha Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall…. more like Champion of Unwise Decisions. She womanfully kept herself from covering her face with her palm.
Better to keep her eyes open and find a way out of this tangle.
Anders closed his gaping jaw shut and adjusted his feathered cloak in a move which she knew from previous experience meant he was nervous. This was getting better and better. The poor man looked like he thought she was going to jump him and drag him down to the equipment the former slavers who occupied the mansion had left in the cellar.
"I didn't know you… had an interest. In which case I, ah…"
"It was just a stupid moment's attraction!" she rushed to say. "A whimsy, nothing important."
He frowned at her. "Are you sure? I, well—"
"Of course I'm sure! I would never be so cruel!"
"—was going to say it sounds like a grand idea—"
They both came to a sudden halt, hearing each other.
"Oh, sorry," he said. "So sorry. Nevermind then!" He smiled, looking desperate. "Nevermind, please."
"But you just…? Did you say?"
"Oh, please don't," he raised a hand to his brow in genuine distress. "I know what you're thinking and it's not at all… really, I'm terribly sorry, Hawke."
"Wait, what?"
"That night, after your mother… You probably think I was playing some kind of horrible game now. I wasn't! I would never take advantage like that. Or find it pleasurable to receive… attention like that while you're hurting. I was honestly — I never…" His shoulders slumped. "I would like to apologize. Again. For everything."
Hawke laughed. It wasn't the right thing to do—he looked so hurt—but it was such a relief that, well, he didn't think she was a horrible sick Templar type slavering to torture him or something. "For everything? In the whole history of Thedas?"
"For being so against a little innocent tying and gagging, you do have a sadistic streak, Hawke," he said. "You don't have to enjoy my suffering quite so much."
Hawke stepped forward, touched his arm. "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you. Your suffering is mine too — I thought I'd frightened you, when I mentioned… so I tried to cover it up…"
"Oh… Oh! So you… do find it intriguing?"
Giving his arm a squeeze, she decided to be honest about it. "Yes. But wouldn't that upset you? I've never known the real thing, thank the Maker, but when you have, it's got to take the fun out of playing pretend?"
She loved the expression he wore when he was healing. Focused and warm, content to have a problem before him that could be fixed. Suffering he could ease, for once. He got that expression now as he reached up and touched her face, first with his fingertips and then with his whole warm, calloused hand. "My hand is in contact with your face, yes?"
"Uh…" she wanted to lean in close, rub on him like one of his cats. "Yes?"
His let his hand drop. "When someone punches you you in the face, what does their hand do?"
"It…" she tried to piece together where he was going, "hurts?"
He nodded. "Yes, by touching you. Their hand comes in contact with your face. How is that different than what I did?"
"They're completely different," she said, annoyed now. "They're nothing alike."
"But what makes it different?" he probed, holding her gaze, his brown eyes so warm and soft.
"It was gentle. You care about me. I can feel it when you touch me. You're not trying to hurt me."
"Exactly," he said. "And when someone really wants to hurt you, even if the touch is soft, you know, don't you? Or when you're sparring with Aveline and she gets past your guard, even though you take a hit, you can feel there's no ill will behind it."
"Yes."
"That's what the difference is like, between lovers' games and…" he lowered his head, "the real thing," he said, quieter than before.
She stepped forward, embracing him to her. "I never want to hurt you," she swore, close to his ear.
"I know," he replied, patting her back. Then his tone changed, warm and suggestive, "That's why a little tying and manhandling would be so fun." He pulled back, "If you're so inclined. If not… we can forget it."
"I am so inclined. But I haven't had any experience with this." She should have asked one of the prostitutes she'd visited before they became lovers. But it never seemed right to go that far with someone who was just… putting up with it.
Anders made sad eyes at her. "Tragic! But easily fixed."
"Oh?" she shifted on the balls of her feet, looking at him and thinking about all the possibilities she hadn't let herself believe could happen. But it was important to let him set the pace for now, since she really had no idea what she was doing. "What do you suggest?"
"There's always the classic slave boy and dastardly owner angle…"
Hawke's felt her nose crinkle. "I've heard too much of the reality of that from Fenris. What else?"
He sighed. "Yes, let's put the thought of dear Fenris far from our minds, shall we. What about…" he tapped his lips, "master thief and stern city guard? Or does that recall to mind Aveline?"
Hawke laughed. "It didn't, but it does now."
"Drat. You're not making this easy, love." He sighed. "What about you, have any bright ideas?" He brushed a bit of jaggedly cut hair behind her ear. "Any vivid images come to mind?"
There was one. But to say it out loud… except there he was, right in front of her, expectant and interested. How could she waste such an opportunity?
"Oh, nothing really, just…" she tried her best seductive voice and mimicked what she'd seen of Verric's storytelling tricks. "A Ferelden refugee, working as a mercenary. She's ordered to kidnap a talented healer by her employer and told to use…" she trailed a finger up his chest and to his throat, where she spread her hand, gentle but firm, "whatever means necessary to persuade him to work for them."
She felt his throat work under her palm as he swallowed hard.
Lowering her voice she leaned forward, gave his ear a nip. "What do you think?" she whispered.
"Where," he said thickly, "did we store the ropes?"
The next part of the fic contains explicit content. You can read it at AO3:
archiveofourown.org/works/1287604