The young man sauntered through the rainy street. The sky was grey, and it reflected in the dark, worn cobblestones of this historic, though neglected, neighborhood. The occasional car splashed noisily by, sputtering puddles in the uneven street. Very few stopped. You had to have a reason to come to this part of town, a forgotten pocket of immigrants and low-income runaways. It smelled vaguely of tobacco and damp earth of the old trees breaking out of their sidewalk prisons. Perhaps years ago they fit in those earthen circles interspersed in the sidewalk, but now they were bursting at the seams, buckling the cobblestones with the patience of decades.
A drop made it past the rim of his hood, dropping squarely on a greek nose. He sneezed, and rubbed his hands inside the front pocket of his hoodie. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. It wasn't that cold, just a few degrees above zero, but with only a hoodie and jeans, the humid west-coast chill cut right through him. He glanced at a 'open' sign of a store as he passed.
It was called Champions General Store, but the S of Champions had peeled off the awning, and the word Corner Store was blackened by time to near illegibility. The young man squinted at the old text. Glancing at the window, the place looked empty. Still, the sign on the glass push-door was flipped to 'Welcome! We're Open', so he entered. A tired bell announced his passage.
He pulled his hood off to shake his wet hair and limbs.
"Hey, there!" said the man behind the counter. The wet man hadn't seen him from the sidewalk, which was surprising since he wasn't a small man. The man was both tall and bordered on the muscular. The newcomer approached the counter, not replying to the greeting, scanning shelves for something that might interest him. Little did, and fewer things yet he could afford with what was in his pockets. This place had nearly everything. From pet food to guitar strings, drinks and snacks, toys for kids, all packed in a square space marginally larger than the square footage of a bus. Three overburdened shelves were the only aisles and the walls not facing the streets were encumbered with all manner of goods, all cheap. The young man had seen cellars larger than this, and he had seen many cellars.
"Can I get you a cup of tea?" the large man asked.
"Yes, thank you." the proprietor grabbed a cardboard cup and filled it from a water heater installed behind the counter.
Every inch of the counter and the shelf behind the man was used. A water heater, an electric portable range, papers and nicknacks on the back. A calendar on the wall and two cash registers- one for transactions and the other for lottery tickets on the front. A pile of newspapers on one end and a bowl of cheap free candy on top of them. There were a few inches of free counter space, and on it the owner put the steeping tea, the string of the bag hanging out of it. Green tea. His favourite. Behind the counter there was a door, an old fuse box decorated with a faded ice-cream advert, then another door. Up close the man seemed even taller. A handsome face framed by shaggy dark hair. Sideburns joined a jaunty beard and a hint of a moustache. An old scar ran from the hill of the nose on one end, across the bridge to the other side, forming a red line, like a splash of colour, bisecting his face. Up close it gave him a bit of a roguish look, or perhaps that was that toothy, lopsided smile. He was wearing a sweater and over it a well-worn apron with the letter C on it. The young man pulled a dollar out of his pocket.
"How much?" he asked.
The owner smiled. "It's cold out there. On the house."
"Thank you."
The young man reached a tattooed hand to grab the cup, noting how the other man's eyes scanned his exposed skin. His brows raised, which was new, as most people's brows lowered upon seeing a scruffy tattooed man enter their establishment. The young man wasn't all that much younger than the man behind the counter, both of them in their mid to late twenties, though perhaps the owner was in his early thirties.
No further conversation seemed to be needed, and he sauntered the aisles, both hands clutching at the mug. He brought it close to his face just to feel the steam warm his frozen nose. Needed or no, the clerk spoke,
"Awful weather out today."
He received no reply, though he glanced in the man's direction.
"They don't call it Raincouver for nothing!"
No reply. He didn't seem to mind, neither was his voice getting any less cheerful, "Liquid sunshine they call it. They expect this autumn to be wet and calling an even wetter winter!"
He didn't reply to any of this banter, but his eyes settled on a folded piece of printer paper on the counter that read, in a sloppy handwriting 'Help Wanted'.
"Is that sign…" he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, so he gestured at it with a flick of his chin, not wanting to remove his hands from cup.
With so much clutter, it took the man a few moments to follow the gaze.
"Oh that! Yes, just put up the sign yesterday, actually."
"What…" he looked down, reforming his sentence, "Can I apply?" he tried instead. He expected outright rejection, but the large man just shrugged.
"I accept only the exceedingly handsome to work here." he chuckled, then said, "All I need is a resume, really. This isn't rocket surgery."
Cracking a half-grin, through expecting to be rebuffed, the shorter man produced a folded, slightly crumbled and definitely damp piece of paper from his pocket and put it on top of the newspapers, beside the candy bowl. The pile shook dangerously, and he steadied it.
"A prepared man! I like that…" his voice trailed off as he unfolded the paper and read aloud,
"Fenris. Good at manual labour, quick learner and trustworthy." there was a phone number to call, then "Reference available." and another phone number followed. The man looked at the other side of the sheet, then back and forth for a moment. "Huh." he said. He gave the paper back, and the young man, Fenris, shrugged silently.
"You an ex-con?" the large man asked bluntly, his voice still cheery. Fenris gave a start.
"Would it be a problem if I was?" he answered, perhaps more defensively than he intended.
"Not really. It can be rough out there. What did you do?"
"Isn't that an invasive question?"
"Do you want a job?"
Fenris sighed, some of his reticence fading. This was inevitable and never ended well.
"I killed a man." he stated matter-of-fact. The owner, in his credit, only blinked twice, no other visible surprise registered. "Or maybe a few."
"How long ago?"
Now that wasn't a question he expected. "Why" was usually on the top of the list or just various exclamations of horror and fear. Running a hand through his damp hair, he calculated,
"I guess around two years ago, now."
The man broke into a smile that lit his face, eyes somewhere between amber and brown glinted.
"You want the job?"
Fenris nearly dropped his tea, though he did splash some on his fingers and swore under his breath.
"What?" he demanded, confusing coming out as anger and spilling into his voice, "I tell you I'm a murderer and you offer me a job? Just what sort of business do you run here?"
The owner laughed, a hearty sound like a well played cello. Fenris shook the tea off of his fingers while the man answered,
"If you were genuinely dangerous you wouldn't have come out and said so." he countered with good humour, "and if you're out and about two years after killing someone or someones, then you were obviously not at fault."
"I could have escaped prison." Fenris countered, somehow offended by the man's easy manners.
"Again, you wouldn't be talking about it, and you stand out a bit, no offense."
Fenris couldn't deny that part. Skin the colour of a milky mocha, and white tattoos vining their way up and down what was visible his arms, ending in a petal-like pattern at his bottom lip, like a pedestal holding his mouth up. Hair as white as chalk and eyes as green as pine needles, and just as sharp.
He grumbled, then said, "Are you sure you want to hire a man like me?"
"Have you seen this neighborhood?" the bearded man scratched at his head, continuing his habit of answering questions with questions. "This isn't exactly the best area. If you're here looking for work, who am I to say no? Here…" he pulled out a freshly printed bundle of stapled paper and presented it to Fenris proudly. "I am also prepared! I printed an employment contract in advance!" he exclaimed this like it was a very big achievement. Warily, Fenris approached the counter again. He glanced at the papers. They looked stock-printed from the Employment Canada website. Grabbing a pen, the owner put it to the first empty line in the text.
"How do you spell your name, again?" he asked.
Still not certain he was caught up to these fast moving events, the young man replied,
"An eff, then an... Enris."
Chuckling, the man filled this in. "Last name?"
After a moment of silence he looked up and saw the frown. "Ah." he said, and abandoned that area to look at the bottom of the page, "Can you legally work in Canada? Do you have a Social Insurance Number?"
Fenris reached into his other pocket, produced a surprisingly new cellphone and searched through some emails. When he found it, he displayed it to his would-be employer. He copied the numbers.
"Nice phone." he commented.
"It was given to me." was the reply.
"There!" he handed the papers to Fenris. "Take a quick gander and let me know if there are any deal-breakers."
Fenris studied the pages for a short while, flipping through them with seeming aimlessness. More of a show of interest than anything.
"Is it ok if I ask a… friend first?"
The proprietor shrugged. "Sure, it's just a generic form."
After a couple of moments of silent texting, he nodded at the man and reached for the pen.
His signature was letter letter F, rather larger than it needed to be on the dotted line.
Extending a large hand, the man seemed pleased as punch. Though Fenris began to believe that it was his normal state.
"Welcome aboard! You're my first ever employee!"
"Thank you…" Fenris feared his shoulder couldn't take much more of such enthused handshaking and disentangled himself, "...What the hell is your name?"
Giving him a grin that was both toothy and slightly mischievous, he made an exaggerated bow,
"Garrett Hawke, at your service, Messer Fenris." Fenris couldn't keep one corner of his mouth from quirking up at the antics.
"Right." Was all he could answer to that, "How do you… things?" a vague gesture at the store followed.
Well, that had gone surprisingly easy, Fenris mused, lying on the couch of his new employer. When Hawke (he said everyone just called him Hawke) had learned he hadn't a place to stay and was residing at the homeless shelter as often as he could afford it, he insisted to let him have the downstairs breakroom. It was a single room with enough of a kitchen for simple meals, and a he'd have access to the employee bathroom, which was rarely used. At the moment that area was being used as a storage room for overflow stock. However, he refused to let him stay there until tomorrow, where he had announced excitedly that they would clear it together.
"I'm closed Sundays, anyhow," he had said, "We'll do a trip to IKEA with an advance on your first paycheque."
"What if I steal from you?" Fenris had asked, still dizzy at the pace this man's trust had engulfed him.
"You've already stole my heart." he laughed, then seemed to startle and sobered a tad, "I don't make that much." he had replied, placing both hands on his hips, "And if you wanted to steal the IKEA furniture you've obviously had never tried to move IKEA furniture after it's been assembled. It just disintegrates half the time." At the continued frown Hawke had shrugged and said, "You know that old adage 'if you lend someone twenty dollars and never see them again, it was probably money well spent?'"
"No." Fenris had replied.
So now Fenris was lying on a couch on the second floor of the shop, which was Hawke's one-bedroom abode, and wondered if this is what living a normal life felt like. He was equal measures excited for the prospect of it and disappointed at having taken so long to achieve something so small. He was curious about his gregarious benefactor. The latter was asleep (presumably) in the next room.
Hands behind his head, eyes staring blankly at another unfamiliar ceiling. This man he is working for must be insane to hire him. He wouldn't have hired himself. Well, part of this amazing new life meant he could quit whenever he wanted. That by itself was an amazing freedom which he suspected he might have to exercise.
.
This story will contian following trigger warnings: Mental health issues, anxiety attacks, night terrors, references to non-con
Thanks for checking out my new story. I didn't expect to love DA2 as much as I did, but I absolutely fell in love with the characters. Especially Hawke and Fenris. Those two are just too precious. The first three chapters have been uploaded together, and new chapters can be expected mid-week and weekend. This story can be read on AO3, where it is much farther along (at time of posting these first chapters here). If you prefer to read it here on , you're most welcome to!
Special thanks to Raineyishida for getting me into DA2 and DAI fandom, and for being the inspirational, awesome person that she is.