It's been a long day. Slavers on the Wounded Coast, two groups of blood mages (one in the sewers, one just next door to the Viscount's Keep of all things), and on top of it all Isabela insisted on introducing Hawke to a fence in Lowtown and making them listen for hours to the man's account of a rumored treasure on Sundermount before they could get away. To his relief, Hawke at least talked Isabela into waiting till tomorrow to launch any treasure hunts, and they made their escape back to the estate, to well deserved rest.
He'll sleep well, Fenris thinks, after the hours of fighting at Hawke's side. He'll sleep all the better for having her at his side now, pressed lightly against his back, her touch ever gentle in mindfulness of the discomfort of his markings and yet there is a comfort that comes with the faint warmth of her skin on his. Something in it holds the nightmares at bay, and he has never slept so soundly as he does when she drains him of his rage in the heat of battle and then refills him with her gentleness in the cool of the night. Tonight he will sleep well.
Or he would, if she would ever put out the light.
"Hawke," he grumbles, his face half buried in the pillow, freeing one eye just enough to glare at her, "are you ever going to sleep?"
"Half a minute!" she murmurs without looking up from her book. "Just let me finish this chapter."
He sighs, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Several breaths. Opens an eye again. Watches her turn a page.
"That chapter," he prods. "Nearly done?"
"Almost, I promise!" she says, starting slightly at his voice breaking her concentration.
"I am weary, Hawke. Perhaps I should sleep elsewhere tonight…"
"No, stay," she looks up finally, the book slipping to her side. "I'm sorry, really. I didn't expect it to be quite this good."
"Too good to wait till morning?"
"Oh, I suppose not." She smiles, warms his cheek with a kiss, her hair tickling against his shoulder. "Fine, then. Lights out." With a gesture, her magic douses the candle beside the bed. He sighs in contentment as she slips into place beside him, fitting there as if made precisely for him, just right. Darkness shields them. Breathing slows. He begins to drift off into sleep…
A light, again. Half-waking, he blinks in confusion at the faint glow from over his shoulder. He rolls to his back, glances over at Hawke's side of the bed. She's sitting up again, the book propped on her knees, the curtain of her hair failing to hide the mage-light she's summoned to read by.
Fenris' eyes close as he sighs, unsurprised, but the mage-light is swifter than candlelight, somehow, and has no regard for closed eyes.
She is intent on her book and takes no notice when he pulls himself up beside her, even when he rests his chin on her shoulder, his arm around her back. No, not entirely no notice. His cheek against hers, he feels her start to smile.
His eyes light on the book, and he can't help himself. Learning to read has left him excuseless: in moments the words have caught at his glance and he is drawn in. It's quiet, nothing stirs outside in Hightown; nothing stirs within the circle of mage-light until she moves to turn the page. He catches at her hand, holding it there a moment more. He wasn't quite finished. Then, caught up, he releases her; the page turns, the story proceeds, and in unison they finish the chapter.
She's as good as her word of earlier. The chapter ends; Hawke sighs and the mage-light dies away. Fenris blinks as their small world, measured by the sphere of light, suddenly expands to hold all of Kirkwall's night. There's a frog singing outside their window; he hadn't noticed it while it was outside their light.
He clears his throat. "I...missed something important, it seems."
"Hm?" Hawke snuggles closer to him, letting the book slide to the floor.
"Earlier in the story. Why was she in the gardens to begin with? And dressed as a Chasind? He did not seem at all as surprised as he should have been at that."
A low chuckle as she settles into place as before, wrapping an arm around him, that gentle security. "I guess that was a confusing point to jump into that book. You could go back and read the start in the morning, if you want. Or…"
"Or?"
"Shall I sum it up for you?"
"Please do, Hawke."
His sleep may be briefer tonight, but his dreams, full of Chasind and seers and mistaken identities and midnight trysts from the tale Hawke spins as he drifts off into them, are sweeter than ever. In the morning, he can remember little of what she said, so he grabs the book before she can return to where they left off, carries it with him on all the day's errands. By nighttime, he's caught up, and as she sinks into bed with a sigh after another long day of plots foiled and treasures hunted and spiders' nests disturbed, he produces the book with half a smile. "I thought," he says almost shyly, "we might continue where we left off."
She laughs as she slips under his arm. "All right then. Just one chapter."