A/N: I have to say, I'm feeling really guilty for taking the time away from working on TCWAA to write this out, but after I spotted the corresponding prompt on the DA kink!meme, it wouldn't leave me alone. To be quite honest, I needed a little bit of a break from the other story. I was starting to burn myself out at about 3000 words into the next chapter, and didn't want the fic to suffer for it. So I spent some time with this. I hope my lovely readers following TCWAA don't mind!
The prompt asked for a F!Hawke post-Fenris-leaving finding him hooking up or appearing to be hooking up with Isabela, basically her reaction to him moving on from their tryst. I thought it would be interesting to tackle, because while there are a lot of fics that I've seen where Fenris has to come to terms with Hawke moving on, I have seen next to nothing of the opposite. Anyway, please don't hate me fellow F!Hawke x Fenris shippers!
There will be one more chapter after this one, although I am not sure when I'll be able to post it. It will be done though, promise!
Acquiescence - Chapter 1
Hawke picks her way slowly through the dim foyer of Fenris' mansion, her eyes straining against the darkness as she moves towards the staircase at the back of the room. Already her foot has caught more than once on the crumbled remains of a statue or some other scattered piece of detritus, shaking her balance and threatening to send her tumbling to the floor. She clutches the fragile bottle of wine she carries closer to her chest at the recollection of it, more concerned by the threat a fall would pose to its well-being than her own.
It's far from a valuable vintage, the taste too bitter for her personal liking and far less refined than the countless other bottles stashed away in her estate's cellars, though these things had mattered little in her selection. Hawke had pilfered the half-filled bottle from a trunk underneath the bed in her mother's disused room, hidden away amongst the few keepsakes she had managed to salvage before the Blight had driven them from Lothering. The far away look Leandra had worn when Aveline had first asked about its significance in a dank ship's hold was still clear as day in her daughter's reminiscence. The woman's voice had been strained when she answered, choked over the sound of her late husband's name as she recounted the rushed wedding ceremony they had convinced an elderly Chantry sister to preside over and the toasts they had shared afterwards from the same bottle in question.
Her mother had insisted the remainder of the vintage be saved "for a special occasion", one which Hawke was certain she had hoped would include her only remaining daughter in a white dress and exchanged vows of devotion. The machinations of a mad man had ensured she would not live to see such notions met.
A twinge of guilt quivers as she reaches out to place a hand on the balustrade, her conscience all too aware of the disapproving frown Leandra would have worn if she were to know the intentions she held for her treasure. She presses the thought to the back of her mind as she climbs the first step, her jaw set in new-found determination. Her mother's wishes were her own, not Hawke's, and she cannot allow herself to continue chastising her inability to live up to the woman's every expectation.
Besides, the demise of a heartless Magister is a far more pertinent occasion for her to rejoice in.
Danarius has been dead for six days now, his corpse left to rot in the bowels of the Darktown sewers. She has not seen or heard from Fenris in as many days, having watched the elf retreat from the Hanged Man with head bowed and gauntlets stained by the flesh and blood of his former master's throat. Initial desires to chase after the man, to offer him her support as much as to reassure herself he would not act out on any foolish ideas such high-strung emotions often encouraged, had been quickly suppressed. She knew he had needed time and space, an opportunity to tend to his reopened wounds in privacy. So she had given it to him.
Her patience had slowly ebbed away over the course of the following days to be replaced by mounting worry and concern. It had never taken him this long to emerge from one of his self-induced isolations; not after Hadrianna, not after the night they had – no, she will not stir up those memories. Not now. More important matters are at hand, and she cannot afford the distraction. There will be time enough for such ponderings later.
She finds the door to his bed chamber ajar as she crests the top of the stairwell, warm light escaping the confines of the room to pool on the floor of the otherwise stark hallway. Conversation reaches her ears as she approaches, the familiar sound of Isabela's sultry purr mingling with Fenris' husky baritone. The congenial tone of their words bring a smile to her face and send relief flooding through her veins, relaxing muscles she had not realized were tense. It seems her anxiety, while well intended, was misplaced.
Hawke comes to a stop just outside of the doorway, unwilling to interrupt the conversation between the elf and pirate queen. There is a smile in his voice she has not heard in ages, its sound more beautiful than any choir's hymn, and she cannot bear to bring about its end with her intrusion. Instead she waits for a lull in their discourse to announce her arrival, resolving to bide her time in the shadowed corridor.
The wine is placed upon a battered side table as she peers through the door, her gaze falling upon her friends for the first time. Isabela sits on one of the wooden benches with her token nonchalance, one leg draped elegantly over the other as her jewelry glitters in the firelight. Fenris occupies his usual place by the hearth, his hands folded in his lap as a rare grin turns one corner of his mouth, its sight making Hawke's heart skip several fluttered beats while she fights against a sudden urge to trace its path with her fingers.
"Have you given any more thought to what you'll do now?" the pirate asks, her question pulling Hawke out of her momentary daze. "You could go wherever you'd like. There isn't anything holding you back."
"I'm well aware of that," Fenris says, his attempt at annoyance off set quite beautifully by the continued quirk of his lip.
"I think you should travel. For a little while at least. Get out there, see the world, that sort of rubbish," Isabela says, gesturing towards one of the dust coated windows along the far wall.
"I've spent the last ten years traveling," he says, arms folding across his chest, "I would think so much time would be more than sufficient."
"You've spent the last ten years running," she counters, the shake of her head making her earrings glow, "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I can't imagine you were able to fit in much time for sight-seeing between dodging mercenaries and hiding out in caves."
the elf's posture softens as a thoughtful look crosses his face. "I - suppose you have a valid point."
"Oh, I know! You could become a raider! Join my crew!" Isabela says excidedly, her hazel eyes glinting, " You'd get to see the world, and I'd get to stare at your lanky ass whenever I wanted. It's a win-win for everyone."
Hawke stifles an amused snort into her hand. She has to hand it to her friend, she is nothing if not persistent in going after what she wants, even despite her inevitable rejection. For seven years she has listened to the Rivaini's endless coquette about his eyes or his build or the color of his small clothes, seen the way she leers at his markings like a predatory cat eying its next victim, and for seven years she has witnessed his constant, staunch rebuttal. Fenris' reasoning behind his dismissal of the pirate's flirtations remain unconfirmed, but a small part of her, the piece of her heart which refuses to release the hope it still holds, cannot help but believe it has something to do with the band of red fabric she can see still wrapped around his wrist. The same one he had only taken to wearing in the days following their tryst.
The elf had always avoided the subject of the night she had invited him into her bed, deflecting accusations of affection for her from their companions with gruff denials or silence. The trinket, however, (whose color and material were suspiciously similar to an old hair ribbon which had gone missing ages ago) had remained in place ever since, Hawke even managing to catch the occasional glimpse of him caressing the thing with a thumb when he did not think she was looking. She had never pressed the man for an explanation, unwilling to force a confrontation for fear of only driving him farther away, and so chose to feed her stubborn Ferelden optimism with the token's continued presence.
It is this same damned optimism, she will decide when looking back on this evening in the long days to follow, which is to blame for just how much the next several minutes will hurt.
"A tempting proposition. One I will be sure to give ample consideration," Fenris says, an unmistakable smirk appearing both in his face and his tone, one dark brow disappearing into his hair. "But for now, I cannot help but suspect you had a more – urgent – reason for your visit? The hour is rather late for a simple social call."
The laughter Hawke had fought to suppress only seconds before dies an abrupt death, swallowed whole by the crater left behind where the bottom of her stomach has dropped away. She blinks once, twice, gaping at the profile of the still-grinning elf while her mind struggles to decipher the meaning he had held behind his words. She does not need to wait long for clarification.
"Well, now that you mention it," Isabela says with a lascivious lilt, standing from her bench to stretch her arms above her head and making the swell of her breasts pull at the bindings of her corset. "I thought you might be interested in a bit of a celebration in honor of that slovenly fop of a magister's oh-so-tragic end."
"I see, and just what did you have in mind? Drinks at the Hanged Man?" he asks slowly, teasingly, his appreciation of the pirate's languid movements making Hawke's blood run cold.
"Not quite," she purrs, one hand coming to rest on the sash at her waist as she takes a few steps towards the seated man, her eyes narrowing to an inviting leer while the firelight casts her in flattering shadows.
A small voice in the back of Hawke's mind is screaming, incensed. It knows where this encounter is sure to lead, knows exactly what proposition is implied in the tilt of the Rivaini's hips and sashayed steps which have made the pupils of Fenris' once green eyes turn to onyx gems. It bellows of injustice, of three years waiting in silence, of long nights spent trying to convince herself that his excuse of returned memories was not the lie forged out of desperation it now saw it was.
"No," she challenges it, though a tremor of fear shoots like lightning down her spine as she watches the pirate's unrelenting approach. "He wouldn't lie. Not Fenris. Not about this."
Isabela is close now, within arm's reach of the warrior. She leans over his lap while her hands brace her weight on either side of his chair, the sharp angle of her position granting him an uninhibited view of her cleavage. He smiles - a wicked, hungry looking thing.
"Leave!" the same voice shouts, now sounding more panicked than resentful. "Now! Don't watch this!"
She will not, can not, obey its command. This is Fenris, her Fenris. She knows he won't go through with this. In the next few seconds he'll realize what he's doing, recant his acceptance of her advances with his usual sarcastic denial, and Isabela will laugh out a proclamation that he can't resist her forever with an overly exaggerated wink. Just as they always do. If she leaves now, doesn't see it for herself, the doubt will drive her mad. She has to endure, for her own sanity if nothing else.
The pirate has placed herself in his lap now, each of her tanned legs resting on either side of his own in a far too easy familiarity. She runs a finger down his chin and onto his neck, tracing the lyrium lines until they disappear under leather and steel. Fenris hisses at the contact, a sharp intake of breath which has his head thrown back against his chair, both of his gauntleted hands finding purchase on her hips. His hands clutch, the pointed edges of his gloves digging into her skin, earning him an appreciative moan before Isabela moves a hand of her own to tangle in his hair. She pulls him close.
He kisses her.
Hawke's world crashes to dust at her feet. There is no sound, no sight, no feeling. Nothing other than the nightmare playing out before her very eyes. She is frozen in place where she stands, unable to breath for the vice which has clamped itself around her chest, her lungs unable to take in all but the smallest of short, painful gasps. Her stomach pitches and churns as though she might be sick, but still she cannot look away.
They are standing now, or rather Fenris is, supporting Isabela's weight as he staggers forward to press her back against the wall, a low growl tearing from his lips as she wraps her legs tighter around his waist. Her hands trail away from his hair, down his arms and over his chest, until they disappear between their hips. Deft fingers, the same ones Hawke has praised again and again for their practiced ease in picking locks and disarming traps, busy themselves with what she can only assume are the laces of his breeches. The hoarse groan and involuntary buck the elf gives when she slows are all the conformation she needs.
The pirate's hands shift once more, this time to produce a dagger from the cuff of her boot. She shimmies the blade under her sash and there is the tell-tale sound of fabric ripping, followed by the sight of a pair of destroyed black smalls being tossed haphazardly to the floor, the blade soon landing on them with a muffled thump.
Fenris stills, pulling his mouth from her's to catch his breath, his forehead resting against her shoulder as his chest heaves. His eyes open, and Hawke sees his focus fall onto the fabric fastened around his still-armored hand. A crease appears in his brow as though he is in deep thought, and for a few, gloriously exhilarating seconds, she is certain her torment has finally come to its end.
"Don't stop now," Isabela says, pouting in mock dejection as she thrusts her hips forwards to elicit a violent shudder from the elf. "I didn't ruin a perfectly good pair of smalls for nothing."
"I – just a moment," he says without looking to her, his sight never leaving the band.
There is a clinking of fastenings and a whisper of leather. Then, with a resounding thunk like an executioner's ax, his gauntlets are thrown carelessly to the floor, the scarlet cloth looking more like a smeared bloodstain in the flickering light.
Hawke stares for seconds, minutes, hours for all she knows. Time has come to a complete and utter stop. There are no panted sighs or stifled moans, no sound of frantic movement and rustled clothing. There is only this simple swatch of red, discarded like a piece of useless refuse.
Like her.
She takes an unsteady step backwards, the iron-cold reality making her head swim and vision blur. Her stomach heaves, making her gag on bile which burns the back of her throat like acid. She knows if she takes one more glance at the two of them now, coupling so easily, so effortlessly, she will be sick. She can not stay, she has to leave, now. She should have listened to the voice when it told her to flee. Or perhaps she shouldn't have come at all.
She spins on the balls of her feet, hair whipping about her face as she shuffles towards the staircase, her eyes left wanting for the abrupt change of light. She needs to run, to flee as fast as her legs will carry her out of this accursed place and away from the lingering image she knows will stay with her until her last day. But the action is too risky, her sight too impaired for such haste. She would be liable to trip again, and with her luck she would cause a racket loud enough to alert the lovers to their unintentional witness. So she tiptoes down each step, gripping the banister as if it is her only lifeline in a raging ocean, her teeth gritted against the sounds she can now hear clear as day wafting out past the open door.
Once she has reached the main floor she affords herself a slight increase in speed, skirting around the fallen obstacles with greater ease as her eyes begin to adjust. Soon she is at the main door of the mansion, her hand reaching out for the handle, when -
"Oh, MAKER! FENRIS!"
She falters at the shout, the last intact pieces of her heart shattering as she stumbles to one side of the door. Her shoulder falls against something hard, and it is only when it is too late that she realizes she has toppled one of the two Tevinter effigies flanking the mansion's entrance. There is a resounding crash as the statue falls to the floor, the sound of shattering tiles adding to the cacophony now echoing through the empty hall.
Two voices call out in astonishment from the upper levels, the same cracked door soon flung without preamble against the opposite wall to bathe the landing in yellow light. Weapons gleam as the elf and his pirate burst from the room, their eyes straining as they search for the source of the commotion.
They do not see the fluttering hem of a familiar robe as it disappears through the front door, and neither do they hear the cry its owner releases in agonized defeat as she slips into the cool dark of the Hightown night.
