For What Binds Us
Chapter One
"What was it this time?" Anders' voice is mild as he dips the cloth into the bowl in front of him, but even with his eyes downcast she can see a blue flash.
"Raiders," she says, and wrinkles her nose. "A particularly nasty sort." He lifts the cloth from the bowl and wrings it out. When he looks up at her, his eyes are their normal brown.
"This is going to sting a little," he says with a slight smile.
"Telling me doesn't help." She winces when he presses it against the slice on her arm and starts cleaning off the dirt and blood. "Evett's Marauders," she says, and looks at the other patients to distract herself from the pain. "They made a name for themselves raping and murdering along the Wounded Coast. Thedas is a better place without them."
"No doubt." He drops the cloth into the bowl, replaces it with his hand. His palm is cool and dry against her arm. "You did a good thing." A warm flush and her skin begins to tingle-itch-tickle. She resists an urge to either laugh or pull away.
"There," he says after a moment, and lifts his palm. She looks down; her arm is healed with no sign of the slice from the raider's blade.
"You are amazing," she says, and throws her arms around his neck.
He laughs, and pulls her from the table into a hug, spinning her around in his arms. "If I get this reaction every time I heal you..." he says with a smile but trails off, the smile falling from his face, and his brown eyes focus on her, inches away. "Stay with me tonight, Hawke."
She hesitates, and the smile drops from her as well. "Mother will-" she starts.
"Be able to do without you for one night." His eyes search hers. "Please?"
She looks down, unable to hold his gaze. His arms tighten around her and, pressed as she is against his chest, she can feel his heart beating a wild rhythm. When she looks up, he is still looking at her with that pleading-needy-hurt look, and she leans forward and kisses him.
The throbbing is keeping him awake.
With a grunt, he throws off the tangled sheet and swings his feet over the side of the bed. The night air is cool but does not disguise the throbbing heat on the palm of his right hand. In the light of the rising moon, he looks at his hand, squinting at the swollen and puckered wound.
He should have had the blighted mage look at it like Hawke told him. His lips curve upward when he imagines her reaction, but then he sighs; until he gets it healed he will be a liability to her. He looks out the window at the moon, just cresting the rooves of his neighbours; the mage might still be awake, writing more of his ridiculous manifesto.
He curses when he stands, and shifts his weight onto his good foot. Walking to the table, he couples on his cuirass before picking up the greatsword leaning against the bedpost. Hefting it in his hands, he makes a few practice swings before sheathing it on his back with a self-satisfied grunt.
He tries not to think about what he's stepping in when he makes his way through the twisted streets to the mage's clinic. He tries not to think about the smell either but it seeps in anyway. The undercity stinks of decay – decay and desperation and despair – all mixed in with blood, dust, and shit. He keeps his eyes turned away from the denizens of the dark - elves, humans, even some dwarves - but he knows they watch him with hungry, envious eyes. He saw the same look in the eyes of the Tevinter rabble.
It is a relief to limp up the stairs to Anders' clinic and push open the flimsy wooden door. At least the clinic smells like soap and herbs, not piss and shit. He draws the door closed behind him, shutting the rest of Darktown out.
The clinic is dark and hushed. He can hear the faint snores of a patient on a nearby cot, the muttered murmurs of another talking in her sleep. But there is no sign of the mage. A soft yellow light spills out of a room at the back of the clinic, and Fenris makes his way toward it.
When he pokes his head around the corner of that welcoming light, he does not expect to see Anders' naked back, robe falling down around narrow hips, ridiculous feather pauldrons cast aside. Nor does he expect to see the female leg curled around those hips, toes flexing and curling by turns. Anders is bracing himself with one hand against the cold stone wall, the other wrapped around his partner's shoulder as he moves, pushing her against the wall.
The sounds take a moment longer to hit him.
"Marian," Anders groans, and Fenris can't help but roll his eyes. Only the mage would be so delusional to imagine it is Hawke that he is bedding.
As he's pulling away from the door lintel Fenris spies a rack of softly glowing vials on a shelf near the door. He glances back at the trysting lovers; they have not looked in his direction, and the woman's voice is getting louder – and higher. If he can just get one of those potions, his hand would likely be healed enough for the morning.
As he makes his way over to the rack, Anders shifts and scoops up the woman's other leg, lifting her from the floor. The mage thrusts forward again – deeper, slower – and the woman gasps.
"Oh Anders!" she cries.
And all of a sudden, Fenris can't breathe.
He whirls around, ignoring the bottles he knocks flying. His eyes search the mage, the woman. Some sign, any sign to prove him wrong.
And there, on the floor, are her daggers. He'd know them anywhere. How many times had he seen her thrust them through the backplate of an oblivious goon, her blood-covered face greeting him as the enemy fell? How many times had he seen her cheerfully wave those same daggers at him, before her eyes narrowed and she leapt into yet another fray?
For a moment, he just stares at them. But another gasp tears his eyes upward.
Hawke. The abomination.
He has to get out of here. He goes for the door but is not quite quick enough to avoid the guttural moan from Anders' throat as his movements become short and jerky, nor the answering cry from Hawke's lips.
When he leaves the clinic he takes a deep lungful of air, absurdly grateful now for the smell, which, more than anything else, is not back there. Then he draws his blade, fingers tight around the hilt, knuckles whitening. On his return trip he looks into every shadow, catches every passing eye, but gains the mansion without trouble.
He sits down on the bench beside the fire and props the sword up beside him. Leaning forward until he can rest his elbows on his knees, he stares into the dying coals. It plays out in front of him again; Hawke, Anders – her every gasp, his every moan.
How could she let that abomination touch her? He had known, of course, about the mage's obsession with her. It had been obvious from the first time they'd met. But he had not known that Hawke returned his feelings. He had even hoped...
It doesn't matter.
When he makes his way over to the bed and lies down again, he has every intention of keeping it from his mind. But as soon as he closes his eyes he is there. Anders, pressing her against the wall. Anders, making her moan like that. He remembers the sound of her moan, her gasp. If only it had not been the mage...
He imagines that moan against his ear, one hand holding the leg curled around his hips, the other pressed against the cold, smooth stone. Her golden eyes on him, her arms around his neck, breasts flat against him, sweat trickling down between their bodies.
His good hand coasts down his body as his breathing deepens, travelling over his shirt, across his stomach, until it brushes the top of his breeches. Pulling the laces from the eyelets, he reaches into the leathers and pulls free his quickly hardening cock.
Her eyes roll back, eyelashes brushing her cheek as he slides into her wet and welcoming body, her head tipping back against the stone. He bends his neck, kisses and licks the salt from her skin; wanting, absurdly, to take her throat between his teeth. Rocking back, his length almost slides from her, but he smoothly reverses the motion and sheaths himself again, the movement eliciting a gasp that fills his chest with pride. Again, he does it. And again. Until her moans become breathless, her chest rising and falling with each gasp, and he too is close – so close, but he must hold off until she falls over that edge and then, only then, he will follow.
"Fenris," she cries out, "Oh Fenris!" And her eyes snap open and she looks at him directly, and that – that is too much, and he is falling, he is falling, he is falling.
Tears are in his eyes when he spurts into his hand. He blinks up at the moon framed by the window, then turns away, wiping the evidence of his thoughts on the tangled sheets. Shivering in the chill, he draws the bedspread up and over him, closes his eyes.
It is some time before he finds sleep.