This is just a little fill I was inspired to do.
This is a classic H/C trope, folks.
It's winter in Kirkwall. M!Hawke has a nasty fever that's hanging on and is miserable in bed. (Fever-delirium welcome, though not necessary) Male!LI either reads to Hawke to help keep him from being bored, To keep him company and distract him from how bad he feels, or even to just connect with him if the fever is very high and they're worried M!Hawke needs the anchor of their voice.
Maybe it's Fenris reading stiltingly (because he's still learning).
The book is The Art of War by Sun Tzu. It's the only book I have that seems old enough to be around during their time period, and I also felt it very likely that my Aggressive!Mage!Hawke who is rivals with everyone but Varric, Isabella, and Fenris would probably own it were it available. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it despite its brevity.
It started because he did not know what to say, and the silence was too much for him to bear. Hawke lie there in his bed, unmoving, the dim morning light giving his skin a ghostly pallor. Fenris didn't want to go. He felt he needed to stay by his lover's side, but every moment listening to his great rasping breaths made his heart ache in ways he did not want to acknowledge. The great man he knew, the indomitable, unshakable champion who sneered at all those who dared to challenge him and literally bent space and time under his will with his fearsome and incredible magical prowess had succumbed to what began as a cold. Anders had left instructions with and an herbal remedy with Orana, hastily making his exit from the man he all but despised. Fenris normally found that hate gratifying, but worried even more that the abomination was purposefully drawing out Hawke's sickness. He wouldn't put it past him considering all the times the only untouchable apostate in Kirkwall had denied the healer's requests to support his cause. Worry gnawed at him, as ever present as the markings burned into his skin, and when he couldn't take it anymore, he made use of the greatest gift Hawke had ever given him. He grabbed a book at random off a shelf and began to read.
"The art of war is of vi… vitail… of vital importance to the State. It is a mate- a mater… It is a matter of life and death." Fenris closed the book for a moment with a sigh, marking his place with his finger out of habit despite the fact that he was only on the first page. Hawke himself had written nearly everything else he had read, careful to make the language somewhat simple while documenting their adventures while being sure to make it challenging enough to satisfy the moody elf. He'd wait until Fenris was so frustrated that he gritted his teeth in annoyance and turned to the mage pointedly not asking for help before he'd offer the pronunciation of a particularly difficult word. He did not help now, did not even open his eyes. Fenris gently brushed the dark, wet hair back from the man's sweaty forehead. Both of them were hard and rough on the outside, but alone tempered each other into delicacy that neither admitted was there. It hurt to see his lover like this, so the elf returned to the book, determined to press on.
It took two days for Hawke to awaken, and when he did, Fenris was still reading. It took him a moment to even notice that the man was looking at him with bleary eyes while he fumbled through the words. They stared at each other for a moment in silence, the only sound the crackling fire that Fenris read by and Hawke's shaky breaths. Without asking, the elf offered his lover some water from the basin on the table. Both of their hands trembled slightly, Hawke's with illness, Fenris's with worry. Neither acknowledged it, or if they did, they made no mention to one another. The bond between them allowed them to recognize their weaknesses; their pride and respect for one another kept those realizations as silent secrets close to their breasts. Hawke did not ask Fenris why he sat there in the middle of the night at his bedside, and Fenris did not offer explanation. Instead, he looked back down at the worn pages of the book to where his finger had instinctively marked his place.
"There are three ways in which a ruler can bring micefo-, misfot…" His teeth grit against each other in shame. His big green eyes glanced up at Hawke.
"Misfortune," he said, his voice scratchy with lack of use, the barest hint of a grin on his face.
"Misfortune upon his army." Fenris read long after Hawke fell back asleep, stopping only when his eyes were too weary to stay open and the fire had burned down so far there was not enough light to see the page.
It was not until a full week later that Hawke had returned to his normal self, as arrogant and rude as ever. Anders came again to check on him, though no one was comfortable while he was there.
"You deserved this, you know," he said as he finished his examination. "Who in their right mind goes traipsing up Sundermount in the rain and doesn't even bother to change out of his wet robes before he falls asleep?"
"Obviously, I do," the mage replied as if Anders were stupid for even asking that question.
"Ugh," he threw his hands up in frustration. "I don't know how you put up with him," he said, acknowledging Fenris for the first time since his arrival. The elf's eyebrow rose in unspoken incredulity. "Actually," the healer rescinded, "I do. You two deserve each other," he huffed and stormed out the door.
"That's the nicest thing he's ever to me," Hawke observed.
Fenris smiled softly. "Somehow, I don't think he meant it that way."
"You're probably right." Silence fell over them, and it was as awkward as it had been in the days following their initial botched affair. Fenris looked at the rug, the bowl of water he had been using to wipe the sweat off Hawke's brow, the spots of sunlight that beamed through the windows and settled on the wall, anywhere but at his lover. He wasn't sure what to do. Though he knew what he wanted, he did not know how to ask. As usual, Hawke seemed to be inside his head.
"That book," he said. "Do you think you could finish reading it to me? It's very interesting."
Fenris didn't answer, simply grinned beneath the shadow of his bangs, and sat in the chair beside Hawke's bed with the book in his lap. Hawke settled himself on the far side of the bed and patted the space next to him. "Sometimes you're hard to hear over there. You should sit closer."
Fenris complied and did not protest when the burly mage pulled his slender form even closer so his head rested against the man's scruffy cheek. It felt good to feel the warm body next to him, no longer clammy or suffering. The strong breaths that blew against his temple and ruffled the hair there reassured him that his lover was alright again, that there was one less thing in the world full of uncertainty to worry over. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He opened the book to the place he left off and began without asking if Hawke was ready.
"The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy not coming, but on our own reedi… readiness to receive him; not on the chance of him not attacking, but raith… rather on the fact that we have made our position uni- unis… unassal…" He huffed gently, and looked up to see Hawke smiling down at him. He bent down until he was millimeters from Fenris's lips.
"Unassailable," the mage whispered against them.
"Unassailable," he whispered obediently back. He let the book fall gently from his fingers so he could thread them into dark hair and pull his lover down into a kiss.
Well, there you have it. I hope you liked it, and I'd love to know what you thought of my quick little story