Rook is set somewhere between a year and a half to two years after the end of Snare. Contains M/M, m!Hawke/Fenris, and a bit of Anders/Bethany.
One thing you could say about a city simmering with barely contained hostility: a lot of people wanted other people dead. While that might have been a bit too gruesome for your average citizen to delight in, Hawke was all sunshine and smiles. Business was good, his family was still comfortable and reasonably safe, and he was nauseatingly happy in his personal life.
Varric liked to put emphasis on the nauseating part, particularly whenever Fenris was in earshot.
"You're mooning again." Not even bothering to pretend he was embarrassed, Hawke waved absently in Varric's direction, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the elf perusing the weapons' stall nearby. "No, I take that back. You're leering—"
"Ogling," Hawke corrected, tilting his head as Fenris picked up a very sexy greatsword, twisting his wrist to check the balance and the grip. The taut, trim muscles in his arms rippled, and Hawke licked his lips against their sudden dryness. Between his balance and Fenris' grip, there were several entertaining ways they might spend the rest of their afternoon.
"Leering." The jab of a thick finger between his ribs made Hawke yelp, which in turn yanked Fenris' attention quickly away from the blade in his hands. Seeing no immediate danger, Fenris frowned in mild annoyance and turned back to his browsing.
Hawke frowned too, rubbing his side. "What? I'm still listening, you nasty little bugger. Our friends from the coast, a quick favour, they'll owe us one— I call bullshit on the lot, myself."
The fact that Hawke had indeed been listening and ogling simultaneously simply made Varric peer up at him flatly, with utterly no hint of apology for the needless assault. "So you're saying no, then?"
"I'm saying that if it stinks like rotten fish chowder, it probably is." Abandoning his attempts to undress Fenris with his eyes— he'd undress him with his hands soon enough, Maker willing— Hawke pressed his fingers against the knot of tension growing between his brows and dropped his voice to a murmur. "I'm saying that I hate bloody Antivans. Think they're the sodding bee's knees, and the rest of us are just fumbling around trying not to stick ourselves."
"Worried you don't measure up? And did you just say the bee's knees?"
"Oh, shut up." Ogling Fenris had been much more fun than being cajoled into a suspicious contract by his trusty, meddlesome dwarf, blight take him. "Are we playing on my pride so blatantly now? Really?"
Varric shrugged, mouth twitching. "Why not? It's working."
Maker's balls the Antivan Crows always gave him such a headache; Hawke called up his deepest, longest, most put-upon sigh. "Fine, yes. Get me more details and I'll consider the favour. Consider it, but no promises. Ugh, the flash bastards."
"You're a prince," Varric said smoothly, patting him on the lower back, and Hawke felt more like a puppy. "I'm headed back to the Hanged Man before I melt in this blighted sun; you go play with your elf. I won't need either of you until tomorrow."
"You are such a prick," he groused, flashing a gesture rude enough that a pair of passing ladies gasped and shot him dirty looks. Still, this was a dismissal he could definitely make work, ambling over towards Fenris without hesitation. Ogling had been fun, but molesting held a great deal of appeal as well.
It was a sweltering kind of day, which wasn't uncommon for the middle of Solace in Kirkwall, but there was just enough of a breeze blowing in from the water to banish the worst of the stinking mire Lowtown became during the summer months. Hawke undid the last few fasteners of his jerkin, letting the pale leather gape open to cool the sweaty, sticky mess of his shirt.
Fenris hardly sweated at all, except after a battle or if Hawke really worked at it, and his silky hair was almost perfectly dry when Hawke snuck close and brushed his nose just behind one long, delicate ear.
"Hawke." Fenris' voice was pitched low with warning, but he didn't even look up from the huge, hulking maul that had drawn his attention. The way his hands stroked over the weapon's handle, in such an erotically familiar and endearingly unintentionally way… Hawke chuckled warmly. "Stop it."
"Hardly," he purred, but hooked his thumbs in his own belt. Teasing was all well and good, but actually grabbing hold of Fenris in the middle of the bazaar would be courting a tad too much trouble. "My word, but that is quite the hammer you've got there, messere. So big, and long, and hard—"
The weapons' merchant caught at least some of that, if his deeply crimson flush and hasty retreat were any indication. Fenris simply sent Hawke a sceptical glance out of the corner of his eye, not even deigning to reply.
Whether it was the heat or the company, Hawke was feeling mischievous. Darting in, he pressed a quick peck against Fenris' cheek, earning himself a reproachful growl. "Hush, you crabby bastard. Meeting's been adjourned, and I'm far too warm to be wearing any clothes at all right now. If I were you, I'd take full advantage of my pliant state."
"You're confusing pliant with wanton." Fenris didn't exactly sound ecstatic about the proposition, but Hawke caught the tiny quirk of his lips. "And neither one is exactly a novel condition for you."
When Fenris set the maul back down amongst its brothers, Hawke made absolutely no attempt to hide his victorious grin; unfortunately, his triumph turned out to be rather premature. He took a courteous step back when Fenris moved, letting his eyes trace down the inviting lines of lyrium that spread down that elegant, tanned throat, disappearing past the collar of his leathers.
"Your mother is expecting us."
"I— what?" Blinking as the words made the markings shift and bob, Hawke took a moment to puzzle out their meaning. "It's not… Oh shit. Is that today?"
Fenris looked far too smug for a man who was not about to engage in a bout of sweaty, magnificent sex. "It is. We will not be late, either."
"Shit," he said again, pushing his hair off his brow and grimacing as it stayed in place, slicked back with perspiration. "Do you really want to traipse down into the sewers in this heat?"
The dour look he received clearly said yes, traipsing into the sewers was exactly what they were going to do, and Hawke barely stopped himself from asking if Fenris had learned that particular guilt-inducing expression from Lady Leandra herself. Such a perfect reflection of his mother's displeasure on his lover's face was more than enough to squash any hope of an erection in the near future, blast it all.
The blessed breeze did not penetrate the Undercity quite as easily as it blew through Lowtown's high, craggy walls. The stink was hideously thick as they descended, and Hawke was vaguely concerned they might have stumbled into a swell of chokedamp, but it was just the charming aroma of baking effluence and filthy bodies.
"You never take me anywhere nice," he muttered, stepping out of the rickety lift. "At least not without taking me somewhere awful first."
"They're your family," Fenris replied, glancing around with his usual wariness as they began the trek towards the estate's basement entrance. "I'm not taking you anywhere."
Ignoring the audience they'd no doubt garnered from the urchins and other undesirables skittering through the shadows, Hawke reached out a grabbed Fenris' hand quicker than the elf could protest. The metal of his gauntlet was very warm to the touch, almost like a living thing, and Hawke darted around until they stood nearly chest-to-chest.
"They're your family too, love," he said quietly, smiling as Fenris squirmed and shifted his eyes away. "Mother would be terribly put out if you thought otherwise."
"Your mother is too kind to me."
"Oh, I agree completely." Sliding his fingers around, Hawke tickled one callused palm before the hand in his grasp was snatched back. "She likes you more than she likes me, for Andraste's sake. I'm a tad jealous."
There was a faint pinkness creeping over Fenris' cheeks, and if they weren't arse deep in the most miserable shithole in Thedas, Hawke definitely would have plied him with an utterly filthy kiss. He settled for reaching out and ruffling snow-white hair, then deftly avoided being smacked for doing so.
"I suppose I am less infuriating." With exasperation layered over affection, Fenris motioned for them to continue on. "And better behaved."
They were a tiny bit late, and Hawke was man enough to admit it was mostly his fault, but they'd run across Tomwise and the elf had needed to talk shop for just a few minutes. As it happened, it was a rather important detour— apparently their friends from the coast had already been sniffing around Darktown and the alienage, as well as paying good coin for poison ingredients. If the Crows were buying ingredients in Kirkwall, it meant they'd likely been lurking for some time, or they'd had sufficient opportunity to use up all the supplies they would have brought from home.
The banter with Tomwise was also enough to put Fenris in a possessive kind of mood, even though Hawke hadn't enjoyed more than words with the doe-eyed mixer in years. Still, his lover had scowled from the moment Tomwise stood too close and flashed that first wiry smirk. Then Hawke was rewards with a much cooler version of his usual stoic demeanour until they'd both scaled the ladder into his mother's estate— nothing quite frosty enough to warrant mentioning, but not as pleased as he might have been.
Making sure the entry was bolted securely behind them, Hawke felt Fenris draw up close to his back even before he turned around. The sprawling basement was almost eerily quiet, other than the two of them.
Very slowly, Hawke spun on his heel, only to find a fiercely smouldering elf looming barely a handbreadth from him, just as near as he'd expected. His heart sped up, and one quick step back pressed his shoulders against the wall; of course, Fenris followed.
"So," he said cheerily, allowing himself to be crowded in without more than a shiver of reaction, and that was only because of the clatter of a gauntlet being tossed to the floor. Fenris had one naked hand now, shimmering with graceful patterns in the dimness of the basement, and one gauntlet braced beside Hawke's shoulder. "Tomwise looked well, didn't he?"
When the only reply was that very friendly hand palming him firmly through his trousers, Hawke whined and started chewing on his bottom lip. This was unanticipated and already such a grand notion, but he couldn't start gibbering and moaning in his mother's house right before they all sat down for a lovely family meal— not again, anyway.
Fenris pressed even closer, setting a dangerously perfect rhythm of rubbing and squeezing, and Hawke fumbled valiantly to free his hardening cock before he made a mess of his clothes, unlacing and pushing trousers and smallclothes down his thighs and yanking his shirt out of the way. Relentless and steady, Fenris didn't pause to help for an instant, transitioning smoothly to jacking him off once Hawke finished all the dirty work.
He was utterly spellbound, trapped like a startled hare staring down a fox as Fenris held his gaze with hot, hooded eyes. Not a word— no forceful growls of mine, or anything similar— but this silent, intense claiming was no less effective. All attempts to work Fenris' straining erection out of his leggings were slapped away, and eventually Hawke settled for grabbing two handfuls of tight, firm arse instead, kneading desperately.
Almost soon enough to be shameful, he came with a muffled shout, swallowed up in a deep, searching kind of kiss. Before his hips had even finished their last stuttering thrusts, Hawke found himself being turned around, trousers pushed down farther and legs kicked wide apart. This had to be a dream, the best dream, because nowhere outside the glorious realms of the Fade and his raunchy subconscious would Fenris have him bent over and spread wide, roughly fingerfucking him in his mother's basement.
"Yes," he hissed softly, pushing back against the two insistent digits twisting into him, slick with his own spunk. "Maker, yes, Fenris—" The fingers slipped away, replaced almost too quickly by a familiar pressure, a delicious stretch with a bite of burn, and Hawke felt his toes curl in his boots.
The sharp tips of a gauntlet scratched lightly over his thigh, and after a moment to adjust, the first brutally hard thrust nearly drove him through the wall. Hawke gasped, bracing himself as Fenris pounded mercilessly, but still the elf didn't make a sound beyond heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. It was incredibly good, entirely unexpected, and more than enough to make Hawke's over-sensitive cock twitch painfully, eager to rejoin the party.
Then Fenris pushed down on his spine, changing the angle and barraging him with an assault of quick, deep pounding, and Hawke saw stars.
Sometime thereafter, Hawke found himself stumbling over towards one of the piles of miscellany his mother had stored under the estate, wiping himself into some relative state of neatness on a musty length of drop cloth. His knees felt wobbly, and his arse was throbbing— a fine state for an evening at home, certainly, but a bit uncomfortable for their current undertaking.
"I'm wanton," he grumbled, tucking his abused prick away with a wince. Wicked fingers had managed to draw a second, pitiful orgasm out of him shortly before Fenris had finished up, but not without some lingering objections from his aching balls. "Sure. Maker's breath, I'm going to be walking with a limp, and we smell like a blighted brothel. I hope you enjoy emotionally scarring my baby sister."
Fenris was smirking, cleaning himself with another corner of the sheet, and the smug satisfaction all but oozing from his pores was unfairly sexy. Buckling his belt and smoothing down his shirt, trying to look even slightly less fucked, Hawke reached out and gently flicked the tip of one pointed ear. Instead of a glare, however, he got a hand clasping his and a soft kiss pressed against the inside of his wrist.
Fantastic. Because all he needed was a fluttery stomach to go with his wobbly knees— the goofy, besotted expression such a kiss plastered across his face certainly didn't help with the projection of innocence he'd been desperately trying to piece together. His mother was going to take one look at them, all rumpled and moony and stinking of sex, and Hawke was going to kill himself.
Not that it wasn't entirely worth it.
He could meld into any crowd, become any type of person in the pursuit of a target, but trying to play it cool while his mother kissed him on the cheek and sniffed pointedly was beyond even his tremendous skills. Perhaps he could crawl back down into the basement and dig himself a nice, cosy hole before he died.
It was hardly the first time he'd been caught in a compromising position by his beloved mother, but despite his usual brazen disposition, it had never been anything less than a mortifying experience. She was just… she was his mother, and Maker save him, she was always so bloody amused by the whole thing. He still had nightmares about her quickly retreating giggles when she'd caught him sucking off some fetching farmer's son in the back of their barn in Lothering.
It would have been so much easier if she'd simply shrieked and never, ever spoken about it again, instead of glancing up from her washing as he slunk back into the house and asking if the nice young man would be staying for supper.
Hawke had never actually taken her up on that teasing offer until Fenris. Now, family suppers with his well-mannered elf gentleman were a routine event every few weeks— less often than his mother might like, but it was too great a risk to be seen frequently in Hightown, or to be seen in this estate at all.
"Hello, Mother," he said, forcing a calm smile and pressing the usual pouch of sovereigns into her hand. "Sorry we're late. Fenris couldn't decide what to wear."
"Oh I'm sure, darling. Thank you." With an indulgent roll of her eyes— which was better than that knowing lift of her brow, at any rate— Leandra tucked the coin into the folds of her skirt and turned her attention to the elf. "Maker knows he's impossible, but thank you for getting him here before pudding, Fenris dear."
Inclining his head, Fenris was entirely composed, the bastard. "As you say, madam."
"You both are always such fun," Hawke muttered, wandering off in the direction of the dining room with a mabari glued to the side of his leg. It was much more practical for Darby to stay in Hightown protecting his mother and Bethany, but that didn't mean the dog revelled in being separated from his master most of the time. The hulking mutt simply wasn't much good at the cloak and dagger, though.
Supper was already laid out when he sauntered in, and suddenly the reason Bethany hadn't come out to greet her dear brother became abundantly clear. There was an extra place set at the table, and a familiar, scruffy mage filling the seat. A familiar, scruffy mage currently suffering blatantly adoring looks from Hawke's baby sister.
Oh, this was going to go swimmingly.
"Anders," he barked, only aware after the fact that his tone was going to be so sharp. The man— the grown man, at least five years too old and ten times too crazy for Bethany— had the decency to jump with alarm, and look mildly uncomfortable. "This is unexpected."
"I'm not— that is—"
"Oh stop it, brother." Standing, Bethany pursed her lips and came over for a hug, whispering directly into Hawke's ear when she leaned close. "If you ruin this I'll set your hair on fire."
"Noted," he murmured in return, then kissed her forehead and raised his voice. "Well hello to you too, baby sister." It was possible he emphasised the baby part a little more than necessary, and if Anders' squirming was any indication, he'd noticed as well.
"Do sit before it gets cold, love," his mother said from the doorway, ushering Fenris into the room as well. Ah yes, an extra mage at the table would certainly put his lover at ease.
Shockingly enough, supper was a little tense. Fenris and Bethany had come to something of an accord months before in regards to mage freedoms and how it was better for everyone if they simply didn't discuss it, which was entirely fine by Hawke. Privately, Fenris had even grudgingly admitted that Bethany was surprisingly strong of will and kind of heart, which was possibly the nicest thing he'd ever said about a mage. Much nicer than calling her a viper, and also less likely to end in a week long, sex-free argument with Hawke.
Anders, on the other hand, had no such compunctions and apparently no sense of appropriate small talk. By the end of the main course, Fenris excused himself gruffly, and Hawke followed, tailing his tightly wound lover into the library.
"The mage is an arrogant, unthinking fool," Fenris snarled the moment the library door closed behind them. "And he will drag your sister down into his insanity. This cannot be allowed to stand."
Squatting next to the mabari who'd decided to join them as well, Hawke scratched Darby's velvety ears. "Relax, love. We've got little to worry about, I'd wager."
Without even looking up from the blissfully content hound, Hawke knew Fenris was staring at him with absolute incredulity. A quick glance confirmed it, and he bit back a sigh. "All right, stop gaping at me and listen. I was ready to gut him the moment I walked in the room, but all is not as it appears. Trust your devious little scoundrel."
Padding over, Fenris crossed his arms and tilted his chin, waiting. "Explain what you mean."
"Our sweet Bethany's gotten herself a bit dazzled by the charming apostate." Giving Darby a final rub on the muzzle, Hawke stood. "She's all aflutter from helping him heal the wretched, unwashed masses in that clinic of his, having the chance to use her magic charitably, and listening to him harp on about his great romantic causes." Watching Fenris' brows furrow, Hawke shrugged, letting a small grin play around his mouth. He wondered vaguely what it would be like to notice only one or two layers of meaning in a conversation, never mind body language; probably rather quiet, possibly quite dull. "Anders himself is distinctly less dazzled by the impressionable young mage, which is terribly lucky for him. If I had to cut his balls off for touching my sister, Bethany would probably be cross."
"What?" Rather than look appeased, Fenris seemed affronted. "Then he's playing on her affections for his own ends. You have to tell her so, before—"
One finger just touching Fenris' lips startled the elf into silence, and Hawke was rather pleased he didn't get a glare for his trouble. "Ah, no, I'm going to let him tell her. Whether he royally cocks it up or lets her down easy, it'll be the best way to burst the rebel mage bubble, too. Bethany's too soft hearted for her own good, but she's no freedom fighter." Leaning in, Hawke claimed a very brief kiss, letting his hand linger on Fenris' jaw. "It's very sweet that you're concerned about my sister. I think I'm rather dazzled, myself."
Fenris grunted, scowling just a little, but didn't move away. "If he continues to pester me about the Tevinter Chantry, I will kill him. In this house, if need be."
Bolstered by the easy acceptance of touch, Hawke smiled into another, longer kiss until Fenris pushed him back. "Hm, you may not need to kill him; Mother knows he's upset you. I'll be surprised if he's still here when we go back out."
Rather than puff up about the maternal doting, Fenris merely shot a dark glance in the direction of the door. "Your mother would be wise to throw that idiot out, for whatever reason, but I… I should not have let him bother me. It was rude to storm off like a child."
"It was less rude than tearing his heart out over the roast." The smallest twitch at the corner of Fenris' mouth was probably the best Hawke could have expected at the moment, and he beamed when he saw it. "Right, are we off to dessert or begging pardon to head back home? Either is fine with me."
"Dessert," Fenris said firmly. "I'll not be driven off by that mage."
Anders was indeed nowhere to be found when Hawke and Fenris returned to the dining room, but Bethany was still sulking in her seat, nearly in tears. Before Fenris could do more than stiffen uncomfortably at the sight, she was staring up at them both with those wide, sorrowful brown eyes that, in Hawke's experience, had never failed to melt even the hardest heart.
"Oh Fenris," she said miserably, twisting her napkin. "I'm so sorry. Anders… he was unkind and unfair, and you—"
Hawke kept careful control of his eyebrows, aware that they were trying to creep up towards his hairline, while Fenris raised one placating hand, shifting awkwardly and leaning ever so slightly closer to Hawke.
"Do not apologise," he rumbled. "It was an unfortunate exchange, but now it's done. I'm simply sorry it interrupted a lovely meal."
Bethany flushed, dropping her gaze into her lap, and Hawke gave Fenris a small bump to get him moving. The lady of the house was tutting, as flustered as a mother hen with missing chicks, and Hawke knew she wouldn't calm down until Fenris was sitting with a slice of custard tart in front of him.
Also, conflict made him hungry, and Bethany's famed custard tart was fit for the Maker's own table. If his darling mother and sister were feeling especially guilty about this debacle, there was a good chance any leftover pudding might get bundled up in a care package.
It was somehow comforting to know that the city's mage tensions had a silver lining… or a creamy, golden custard filling. Either was acceptable.
For some reason, Varric had interpreted get me more details as a perfect opportunity to snare Hawke into a meeting with their shady, stabby friends. And, just as he'd expected, the offer sounded even worse coming directly from the Crow's beak.
"Ah, I am afraid I must decline a formal arrangement, serah." Hawke smiled apologetically across the width of Varric's table, while the Crow's dark eyes narrowed fractionally. These swaggering Antivan bastards weren't used to hearing no, except of course the ever popular Maker no, please, don't kill me. "But if I catch wind of any rumours that might assist you in your hunt, I'll let you know."
"You decline?" The Crow, a wet-winged human lad with a lisping accent barely removed from his native soil, wasn't quite polished enough to keep his surprise and frustration fully suppressed. Whoever was leading this merry band of assassins hadn't sent an especially seasoned man to head these discussions, but Hawke wasn't insulted. Actually, the fact that they'd sent someone so very disposable was a different message altogether. "The contract is already most generous. You would hold out for more gold?"
Varric saw the fledgling for what he was as well, and didn't take great pains to hide the questioning look he levelled at Hawke, but didn't speak. For the benefit of both Crow and dwarf, Hawke shook his head.
"No, I would not. I would refuse the contract outright, full stop, no bargaining. Tell your master that I'll happily keep out of the way during your stay in fair Kirkwall, but that's all. Thank you, however, for the most generous offer."
"This…" The boy (probably younger than Bethany, blight take the bloody Crows), muttered a few words in Antivan before getting to his feet, sneering. "You have made a grave mistake, one you will regret. We offered friendship, and—"
"Enough." Standing, towering over the pretty lad and slipping easily into the cold mantle of assassin, Hawke watched the young Crow flinch. "I've given my answer politely, as friends deserve, but now you're annoying me. Fly to your master before I send you back in pieces, little bird."
At least the boy was smart enough not to go for his daggers; Hawke was mildly aggravated, but it wasn't anything to spill blood over. He also knew enough Antivan to realise he was called a stupid son of a whore before the Crow stormed off, but that was business as usual when dealing with Antivans.
"All right," Varric murmured after the door slammed shut. "So I'll admit it sounded fishy, but you've got some serious concerns. Fill me in."
"I'm fairly sure," Hawke replied, stretching his arms above his head for a moment and banishing the poison out of his tone. "That this is one of those no loose ends scenarios our melodramatic friends are so very fond of. You know they're tracking one of their own?"
Nodding, Varric played with the rim of his goblet— Antivan wine for their Antivan guest, though the Crow hadn't touched a drop. "Mm, that is the gossip, and Junior there hinted as much, though I'm under the impression he wasn't exactly meant to spill those beans."
"Yes, well, not even I get a bag of sovereigns and a handshake after a job like that." Hawke didn't sit back down, feeling twitchy. "They'll keep it all in House, if you catch my meaning. That lot's all about politics and maintaining their untouchable image. Viciously hunting down someone who dared defy them sounds better without the and then we had to hire outside help addendum."
"We had to meet with them, at least." Sipping the wine, Varric made a pleased noise. "They sent an agent; asked for you by name. And Maker's blessed balls, the gold, Hawke. If there was a chance the deal was good, I wasn't going to pass it up blind."
"Perish the thought we miss out on a small fortune, but I'll probably make more coin in the long run if I'm, you know, not dead."
"You're so picky." Before Hawke could respond to the teasing slight, Varric frowned into his goblet. "Shit. I'm going to get some runners moving, try to figure out what specific cell this is. I'll feel better about the jumped-up bullshit that kid was peddling if I know who's leading this dance."
Nodding, Hawke stepped away from the table and tried not to start pacing, already considering all the eyes that might have seen him climb into the estate's basement the day before. Probably no Crows, but there were enough wagging tongues in Darktown to make the soles of his feet itch, yearning to go, seek, protect. He had relatively good relations with some Antivans higher up in their pecking order, but other masters might be less forgiving of his refusal to kowtow.
"You've got a couple of respectable blades who'd love to play servant for a fortnight, don't you Varric? Preferably women."
"I can think of one or two. Check with Fenris, he might have some ideas as well." Varric already looked like his mind was travelling in a dozen different directions. Hawke really only cared for one, and it was up Hightown way. "I'll do everything I can on my end, Hawke. Whatever you need, just ask."
"For now, just the servants. And your ear to the ground."
"Always." Motioning to the door, Varric offered a smile that straddled some strange border between charming and tense. It was an expression Hawke thought he might borrow for his upcoming discussion with his mother and sister, when he had to explain the new, well-armed help around the house. "Be safe, Hawke. Send Mica up when you go, and I'll get started."
Convincing Fenris that they shouldn't simply squat in his mother's estate until this matter was resolved had been a gruelling test of patience, but eventually Hawke managed to cram an ounce of logic between those pointed ears. If the Crows were indeed holding a grudge, what possible sense did it make to put all potential targets in one convenient place?
"I don't like it," Fenris growled again, glaring daggers into their cold hearth. Hawke watched his own expression pinch in the polished surface of his shaving mirror, but kept combing the spicy scented tinting paste through his hair. He'd go very dark this time, nearly blue-black if he'd mixed all the different powdered leaves properly, and he had to be extremely careful not to let it drip onto his skin.
"Really," he said, scraping excess dye back into his mixing bowl. "Because I'm simply overjoyed about the whole thing." Tossing the stained comb aside, Hawke picked up a small, fine-tipped brush and began the delicate task of darkening his eyebrows as well. "Maker knows I love adding such excitement to Mother and Bethany's lives at any opportunity. Warms my heart."
The silence from the hearth was heavy, a blaring kind of quiet, and after bearing it for only a few moments, Hawke sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, love; I don't mean to be an arse. It's not as though I'm angry at you."
"No, you're angry at yourself." Footsteps came closer, and Hawke paused his slow brushstrokes, glancing over. Fenris moved near enough to rest on arm on the back of Hawke's chair, and the barest brush of fingers on his neck (hopefully avoiding his hairline) was grounding. "Would your family be any safer if you'd accepted the contract, then died in some back alley when these Crows were finished with you?"
"They'd be safer if I was a blighted tailor." Taking a deep breath as Fenris squeezed his shoulder, Hawke collected himself and finished applying the last smidgen of dye. "Ack, I'd be such an awful tailor… not enough stabbing, even with all those pins. Did I miss any spots?"
"None that I see." He'd still have to shave— Fenris might be able to pull off the piebald look, but a blond beard would do Hawke's camouflage no favours. It was a pity too; he'd been keeping his usual scruff a bit fuller ever since he'd learned that nuzzling it against the inside of Fenris' thighs could make his lover purr.
It was cooler inside their tenement than outside in the sun, but Hawke could already feel the paste start to itch uncomfortably. Waiting for the tint to set, he pulled off the thin leather gloves he kept for just such a mess and started picking out the ingredients for his skin lotion. Sweet merciful Andraste, he hated the Antivan Crows.
A few hours later, Hawke was tilting his mirror around, peering at a different scoundrel altogether. His hair was still wet from rinsing, but it already looked decent— dark as a raven's wing (or a crow's, funnily enough), and not ashy at all. His skin had gone from peaches and cream to something decidedly more olive, but not conspicuously chestnut; this was Kirkwall, after all, not Rivain. The swarthy complexion would have been a bit more convincing without crystal blue eyes glittering under his newly blackened brows, but it was adequate.
He tried not to dwell on the idea that it may have all been wasted effort. Any half-competent Crow would see through such a disguise— they used the same dyes and tricks— but Hawke wasn't about to just sit back and make it easy for them. It was also very possible that the Crows didn't actually care one wit for him, or at least cared more about their renegade brother, and there really wasn't anything to worry about.
It wasn't the kind of possible that he'd bet his own life on, let alone the lives of his family, but it was something he kept in the back of his mind.
Scrubbing his head again with the damp cloth he'd slung over his shoulders, Hawke set the mirror down and turned to where his lover was perched on the settee, oiling his greatsword. That would have been such a beautiful euphemism, if circumstances weren't so bloody tense.
"What do you think, love?" He ran his fingers through the inky mop in an attempt to tame it, then put on a winning smile. "Have my golden good looks been suitably suppressed?"
Fenris craned his neck around, studying the results with what felt like a very critical eye. The notion that Fenris might not be quite so taken with this temporary change in appearance had been a selfish, vain fear gnawing deep in Hawke's gut, and he tried not to fidget when the silent staring went on a bit too long.
Finally, mercifully, Fenris spoke. "It's… very different."
Or possibly not so mercifully. There was a strange, wavering discomfort in that usually steadfast tone that made Hawke's stomach drop. It wasn't the end of the world, but this entire debacle was difficult enough without knowing he had to bear being unattractive to the one person whose opinion really mattered in that regard.
"It's only for a month or so," he heard himself say with painfully false optimism. "Sooner if we get things sorted out, but I think I look rather dashing in an exotic sort of way. Or maybe like a grubby raider."
When Fenris set his sword aside and unfolded himself from the settee, Hawke swallowed thickly but didn't move otherwise. He was still being regarded curiously, and now he was being approached with measured care, almost as if he truly was a stranger.
He didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until Fenris reached up and touched his cheek, and the achingly welcome contact made him exhale with relief. There were many peculiar issues his lover still struggled with on a daily basis, but the fact that he was willing to touch was a very good sign.
Fenris was still in his leathers, though his gauntlets and chestpiece had been discarded before the disguising process had begun in earnest. The callused pads of his fingers smelled of the oil he used on his blade, sweet and herbal, and they rubbed slowly along Hawke's freshly shaved jaw.
"Smooth," he said quietly, then moved his attentions farther up to card through the hair above Hawke's ear. "Not grubby in the slightest, but somewhat exotic this far south, perhaps. The humans of Seheron and the northern Imperium are often coloured like this, if not darker. There's far more sun to tan the skin, especially if one is not a magister, and hair as fair as yours is especially rare."
Hawke still heard uncertainty, but also a bit of heat lacing through the murmured words. The latter was a very pleasant surprise.
He tilted his head in the direction of those stroking fingers, encouraging. "Are you saying I was some exotic beauty to you before? Your very own milky skinned, flaxen-haired Fereldan?"
The affectionate smirk that garnered was certainly on Hawke's list of desired responses, as was the kiss that followed. The leather that hugged Fenris' waist was warm under Hawke's palms, supple for all its toughness, but it wasn't quite as good as the narrow line of marvellous skin left largely bare down his back. Moving close and scratching one blunt nail along that elegant spine made Fenris arch deeper into the kiss, his hand tightening in Hawke's hair.
It was the kind of thing that would have led to thoroughly debauched sex on the settee, on an ordinary day. At that moment, however, he still needed to get dressed and sneak out of his own home, then trudge up to Hightown. The new servants-cum-bodyguards were already in place, but the sooner he could explain the seriousness of the situation to his mother and Bethany, the better he'd feel.
The fact that he was being blue-balled did not endear the Crows to him in the slightest, not that he needed more reasons to despise their meddlesome, arrogant arses.
"I've got to go," he said hoarsely, once he'd forced himself to pull away from Fenris' hot, eager mouth. The sight of peridot eyes blown black with desire and those sinfully full lips moist and reddened was enough to make him groan pitifully, resting his forehead against Fenris' for a moment. "I'll meet you at the Hanged Man in a few hours. Be careful."
"I think I can handle an assassin or two, if it comes to that." Fenris was ill at ease, that was obvious, but also exactly as powerfully determined as Hawke expected. It was a comfort. "You be careful."
"I'm always careful." The hand still in his hair pinched the shell of his ear very hard, making him yelp and draw back. "Ah! Mercy, you wretch— Fine, yes, I'll be especially careful, I swear." Before he fully unwound himself from their embrace, Hawke leaned in and brushed his lips against the strong bridge of Fenris' nose. "On my word as your friend, I swear."
"Hawke!" At the sound of that word ringing out across the Lowtown bazaar, Hawke didn't allow his stride to falter even for a moment. Inwardly, he prayed there was some sort of falconer around the next corner, or a poor confused raptor swooping around the slums. His disguise wasn't that bloody awful— after the correct password and a flash of his House Tethras token had gotten him into the estate, his own mother hadn't even recognised him straight off.
Maybe the problem was that he prayed to the Maker about it, a god who'd not only abandoned humanity, but who probably wouldn't have much to do with crazy little Dalish elves regardless.
It was difficult to keep up a steady stride when exactly such a crazy little elf stepped right in front of him, blocking his path with an utterly guileless smile.
"Hawke," Merrill chirped again, just as brightly but blessedly a little quieter than a moment before. "I've been looking all over for you! I'm supposed to give you a note, and— Oh!"
For once, Hawke was almost glad about the general uncaring attitude humans had about elves; if anyone even bothered to look at the rather boorish sell-sword manhandling the petite elf into an alley, they didn't look twice.
"Shut up," he growled darkly, mostly for the benefit of any nearby ears, then dropped his voice to something decidedly softer once he'd crowded her behind a pile of crates. "Hush, Merrill. Maker's breath, girl."
"I didn't… I mean… oh, abelas…" She shrank back against the alley wall, making that face. The sweet, openly apologetic you just kicked my puppy, but I'm so sorry about it, since I'm sure you had good reason expression that reminded him so damned much of Bethany it made his heart lurch.
It was the exact same expression that had convinced him to occasionally check in on the transplanted Dalish after their interesting trek up Sundermount years before, with the bit-o-witch in tow (he might be a liar and a scoundrel, but he always kept his word to dragons). If he ever managed to master that expression himself, he'd never have to neutralise a guard again; he'd just pout his way through even the toughest contracts, and wouldn't that be lovely.
"It's fine," he murmured, resting one elbow against the wall beside her head and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just… just don't call me Hawke for a couple of weeks, all right? I'm trying to avoid the notice of some particularly disagreeable people. If you're hit with the uncontrollable urge to holler a name through the streets, try Bennett."
Merrill frowned, twisting her fingers. "Bennett?"
"At your service." Offering a grin that was a hundred times jauntier than he felt, Hawke glanced very briefly at the mouth of the alley. There was no sign of a single concerned (or nosy) citizen, which was hardly unexpected. "Now you said something about a note?"
"I did? Yes, of course I did." Fishing around in one of her belt pouches, Merrill pulled out a small, slightly crumpled scrap of vellum, then held it out to him almost reverently, as if it were made of Orlesian crystal. "I'm supposed to give this to you, and only to you… or to Hawke really, but that's still you, and I promise that's the last time I'll say that name." Taking a shuddering breath, Merrill wiggled the vellum slightly. "It's apparently very important."
He was wearing gloves, and Merrill wasn't, so he wasn't terribly concerned about poisoned ink. Plucking the note from his anxious, amateur courier, Hawke carefully unfolded the thin paper and read the legible if flamboyantly cursive script scrawled across it.
It seems we have common acquaintances, my friend, and a common problem. Consider this an offer of assistance, should you be of a mind to settle such unpleasantness with all due haste. Perhaps I could buy you a drink?
"Shit." Tucking the note into his own belt, Hawke resisted a stupid urge to punch the wall. He was not one for explosions of frustration, not like Carver had been, but this was simply getting worse with every passing hour. "Who gave you this note, Merrill?"
"One of the little ones in the alienage— I don't know his name. Most of the parents tell their children to keep away from me." Cruel perhaps, but also understandable from where Hawke was standing (which was usually far, far away from blood magic, unless it couldn't be helped; Malcolm Hawke hadn't merely instilled a healthy wariness of demons in his mage daughter). "He said a man in a hood gave him two silver and told him to give the note and one of the coins to me, and I was supposed to make sure you got the message. I let the da'len keep the money, and now I've delivered the note. Is it not good news? You look… cross."
Shaking his head, Hawke pushed off from the wall with a sigh. "Not cross at you, truly. And no, probably not good news, but it is good that you brought it to me. Thank you." Then he paused, considering. "Merrill, how exactly did you recognise me? I've tried for a bit of a disguise here, if you haven't noticed."
"I'm sorry," she answered quickly, blushing faintly under her tattoos. "It's just… sometimes it's hard to tell humans apart, so I didn't really notice you looked different until you told me to shut up in that angry voice and pushed me down here." He winced a little at that, but Merrill didn't seem at all upset about his lapse in manners. "I saw you walking, and you had the same aura as always— so certain and clever— and I didn't even think to look at your face or your hair or anything. I'm sorry if I mucked something up."
If Merrill was recognising him through his aura… well, Hawke wasn't quite sure what to do about that. On occasion, he had to change his posture, bearing, and demeanour if a job required it, becoming a different person altogether, but he hadn't been caught out like this in years. Yet, there was apparently some kind of Hawke vibe he was giving off, and this odd young woman was picking up. Not the worst thing he'd discovered that week, but not brilliant, either.
"Right." There was absolutely no time at the moment to delve into what Merrill might mean specifically, and Hawke filed it away for future investigation. "Probably for the best if you stick close to home for a bit, yes? Steer clear of the Hanged Man for at least a week or two, and either Varric or I will let you know when this all blows over."
"All right, Haw— Bennett. Sorry."
Smiling again, Hawke shifted his stance back into the mildly belligerent slouch of Bennett-the-mercenary. "Stay safe, Merrill. You know how Varric worries."
Perhaps I could buy you a drink?
If Hawke thought about that note too hard, the one currently burning a hole in his belt pouch, he wouldn't go meet Fenris in the tavern as they'd planned. Stepping foot in the Hanged Man was obviously a Very Bad Idea, if not an incredibly blatant trap. Even considering it was pure idiocy.
And yet, there he was.
Skulking past the bar, Hawke headed straight for Varric's suite— Bennett was a merc, after all, and so hardly out of place paying the dwarf a visit. It wasn't the subtlest persona he'd ever put together, but it worked within the confines of their current dilemma, and got him places he needed to be.
Knocking sharply on Varric's door, Hawke waited for the muffled inquiry before barking out a gruff reply. "It's Bennett. You called for me, messere."
There was a pause, just a heartbeat too long, before Varric invited him in. Hawke palmed a small smoke bomb in one hand, but didn't draw a blade; Varric had said come in, not come on in, and there was a world of difference between the two. They had company, sure, but not necessarily the hostile kind.
Pushing the door open, Hawke immediately looked to where Varric sat at the head of the table. A flicker of tawny brown eyes was all the warning Hawke needed; pivoting sharply, he kept his stance defensive and his hands hovering near his blades.
Their company was leaning casually against the column that separated Varric's bed from the rest of the room. An elf— tanned, blond, and devilishly handsome with his smooth half-smirk and the air of confidence about him— holding up one empty hand in a gesture of amity.
"Peace, my friend," the elf drawled quietly, very obviously Antivan (likely from Antiva City or farther south, if his accent was honest). "I do hope you received my note."
Keeping his movements slow and measured, Hawke stepped farther inside the room and pulled the door closed. He had every intention of keeping this discussion friendly if possible, but then he caught sight of one familiar clawed gauntlet just visible on the floor of Varric's bedroom, with a limp, lyrium etched palm inside it. There was a faint scent in the air, barely noticeable: the musk of deep mushroom, deathroot, and the foul stink of drakestone.
Fenris was there, dead, unconscious, or paralysed. None of those options boded especially well for the Antivan elf.
Hawke watched as all levity drained from the elf's expression, and thought absently that his own rage must have shown on his face. Varric no doubt caught it as well, if in profile, and the only thing that stopped Hawke's vicious rush forward was his friend's calmly spoken order.
"Hawke, don't move." The hand not clutching the thin glass flask of smoke bomb squeezed into a tight, painful fist, but otherwise Hawke stayed perfectly still. Years of camaraderie and partnership meant he trusted Varric, though at that particular moment, that trust was barely enough to keep him steady. "Fenris is fine… a bit knocked out, but otherwise fine. He objected rather strongly to having a discussion with our new friend here."
Machinations were not Fenris' game, nor would they likely ever be. It was actually one of the less bawdy reasons Hawke enjoyed his company so very much.
Fine, but knocked out. Lucky for their guest, Hawke could work with that.
"I'm checking on him," Hawke said, motioning sharply for the Antivan to get out of his way. There was no need for threats or warnings; they both knew the steps to this dance, prowling slowly towards then past each other without making any sudden moves. Still keeping the other man in sight, but trusting Varric to keep a sharper eye on him, Hawke knelt beside Fenris' unconscious body, sprawled inelegantly but breathing.
The smell of specially mixed miasma was thicker here, clinging to Fenris as heady and noxious an Orlesian's cologne, but it wasn't anything Hawke couldn't fix. Even as Bennett, he carried a few of his usual supplies, including a small enamelled box. Pulling his gloves off and tossing them aside, Hawke cracked open the lid only long enough to take a small pinch of the bitter powder, then tucked the box away again. He briefly considered the best way to ensure waking his lover up wouldn't end in a bloody mess, and settled on talking incessantly. With his disguise, he could hardly rely on being recognised by his enchanting visage alone.
"I'm going to give you such a hard time about this, you know." Shifting closer, Hawke folded his legs more comfortably and dragged Fenris' lolling head and shoulders up onto his thighs. "Bit of smoke—" There was an egg swelling on Fenris' temple, and Hawke swallowed a swell of sour anger as he carded soft white hair. "And a knock on the head and you're down for the count. Shameful."
Holding a hand over Fenris' mouth, Hawke brought the snuff just under his nostrils, still talking. "Considering how bloody stubborn you are, I expected your skull—"
With a sputtering cough, Fenris jerked back into consciousness, lighting up like firefly, but Hawke kept his hands in place, gently cupping a suddenly tense jaw. There was a split second of danger, of uncertainty, before Hawke saw recognition flicker in unfocused eyes.
Covering his wheezing cough with one hand, Fenris reached back and took hold of Hawke's forearm with the other, gripping firmly. "I… Callum…"
"What was it you said? I think I can handle an assassin or two?" Grinning a bit tightly, Hawke brushed his thumbs along tanned cheeks. "Well done, you."
That got Fenris up and moving again, which was sort of the point— the silent presence of their guest made this an unwise moment for a romantic reunion. Lurching to his feet, his face twisting with what Hawke had little doubt was pain and more than a touch of nausea, Fenris was every inch a wounded predator.
"Everyone calm down," Varric snapped, still seated. "One more brawl in my room and they're going to raise my rent. Elf, I've got your sword up here." Hawke stood, moving close behind Fenris' shoulder for a brief, soothing moment before padding into the main room.
The Antivan shrugged, his expression more subdued than before, but still with a roguish smile. "I come in friendship, as I've said. Apologies for my part in the scuffle, but you've quite the quick temper, my glowing friend."
Before Fenris could snarl out precisely where this Antivan could shove his friendship, and then possibly show him what kind of damage a very unfriendly, phased fist could do there too, Hawke cut in. "A misunderstanding, all around, but no permanent damage. Moving on, serah, we have not been introduced."
"Of course, forgive me." Dropping into a shallow though showy bow, the Antivan's lips curled wider, playful. "I am Zevran Arainai, adventurer and occasional assassin. I believe my former brothers may have mentioned me to you."
Tilting his head in greeting, Hawke found himself returning a slight reflection of the impish expression— it was purely habit; he was still rather cross about the knocking Fenris out thing. "And I'm Hawke, though I'm sure someone's mentioned me to you. The couriered message was proof enough of that." Nearby, Fenris made a low, outraged kind of sound (Hawke wasn't certain for what specific reason, and he wasn't about to ask), but otherwise held his tongue. "Are you the cause of all my Crow trouble, serah?"
"Ah, Zevran, please." Now this was the type of Antivan Hawke preferred: charming, flirty, and not spitting threats at him. "Or simply Zev, if you like, and I'm certain I cannot take credit for all of your current troubles. Most of them, perhaps, but your reputation is at least partially to blame. For all their desperation to see me gutted like a fish, the Guild wouldn't hire just anyone."
"Try to hire," Hawke corrected. "I did refuse the contract."
"So I'd heard. Very wise of you." Waving one hand slowly in the direction of the table, Zevran sighed softly. "Must we stand about, puffing and clucking at each other like fighting cocks waiting to be set loose, or could we sit and discuss? Unlike my former brothers, I have absolutely nothing to gain by ending your life."
Even with Fenris still suffering slightly from his unwilling jaunt into oblivion, it would be three-on-one if anything untoward occurred. That in mind, Hawke nodded amiably. "After you."
Fenris was just itching to give him an earful; Hawke could feel the weight of a glare pressing against the back of his head, as sharp and heavy as the greatsword propped up by Varric's chair.
Well, he could feel free to keep up the fierce looks and scowls if that's what blew his skirt up, but this wasn't a charge in with the biggest weapon you can find and sort out the details later kind of situation. Waiting for Zevran to get comfortable in the awkward seat, Hawke laced his fingers together and leaned forward slightly, smiling.
"You obviously have something in mind, coming here. A rather significant risk to your cover."
Finally positioning his legs in a manner that looked at least halfway comfortable (it had taken Hawke months to get used to these blighted chairs), Zevran chuckled warmly. That chuckle, coupled with those sparkling golden eyes would have been more than enough to charm Hawke into bed pre-Fenris, and he privately admitted a bit of a tingle even now. Not even close to the tingle he got from something as dreadfully lovey-dovey as the smell of Fenris' hair on his pillow, but it wasn't as though being utterly swept off his feet had gelded him too.
But again, no matter how handsome this Antivan was, Hawke would have already fed him his own kidneys if Fenris had suffered more than a bump on the head. That lingering kernel of rage was a very effective leash on his usually active imagination.
"Just so," Zevran replied. "And in the interest of my speedy return to cover, I will be more blunt than such proposals usually deserve. I have already killed the Guildmaster of this particular cell; if these Crows are killed, there will be no direct reprisal. If they are not killed to the last man, they will come after you. They are too proud and too stupid to do otherwise."
"Certainly sounds like the Crows," Varric muttered, then shrugged in vague apology. "No offence meant, of course."
"And none taken, I assure you." It was smooth, charismatic, and Hawke honestly couldn't tell whether or not it was sincere. This Zevran was very, very good. "As to my specific reason for darkening your doorstep, well, I suppose you could call it courtesy with a healthy dose of practicality. Others will come after me, regardless, unless I come to them, but these Crows will be much easier to deal with if you and I were to work together. From all I have heard, I believe we would... compliment each other in a great many ways."
Sparing a quick glance at Varric, Hawke considered his options. If the rumour mill could be believed (and Varric always got the very best rumours), there could be more than two-dozen Crows in Kirkwall, mostly young blades but at least one well-seasoned assassin among them, possibly more. That was a dangerously high number to risk handling on his own, should the threat actively expand to encompass his family as well. He certainly didn't trust Zevran, but if their goals were compatible, such a partnership wouldn't be the most horrible idea he'd heard that day.
"That could work," he said carefully, and did not wince at Fenris' strangled noise of disapproval. He'd expected nothing less, after all.
He was actually a tiny bit surprised when he didn't get a smack on the back of the head.
