They all left Varric's suite separately, at staggered times and in different directions to better avoid the eyes no doubt lurking around the tavern. Hawke was home and puttering around behind draw curtains for more than two hours before Fenris finally arrived, but it appeared that some time apart (and more importantly, some time away from Zevran and his oozing sensuality) hadn't managed to banish the air of broodiness.
That was crystal clear from the instant Fenris slipped in the front door, glowering hard enough to strip paint off a ship's hull, and entirely ignoring the swarthy assassin seated at their small table, sharpening daggers. For a brief moment, Hawke considered just going about his business as if nothing was amiss until the dam broke on its own… but no. With the Crows looming dark and malevolently over their heads, it was hardly the time to indulge in an argument called up by Fenris' ridiculously thin-skinned jealousy.
Finishing the edge of his dagger with one final shick, Hawke set the blade and whetstone aside and stood. When he came around the table, skirting close to his still silent lover, Fenris bristled but didn't react otherwise, unbuckling his greatsword with practiced motions.
"Not to rush a very good thing," Hawke said, keeping his tone playful despite the thunderhead brewing so nearby. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to skip a few steps in this to-do, all right?"
In a test of strength, Hawke knew he'd always lose quite promptly; unless he resorted to jabbing pressure points and other dirty manoeuvres, he had no hope of physically overpowering Fenris. That wasn't his intent, regardless, but his plans did require a more compliant partner than he was faced with currently.
Before Fenris could do more than glance at him suspiciously, Hawke darted forward, crowding him close to the wall with a firm push and very quick movements. As expected, Fenris snarled wordlessly, obviously displeased if the sudden blaze of lyrium was any indication, and tried to catch hold. The trick was to simply not be wherever gauntleted hands were grabbing, and it was wickedly satisfying to let his own fingers dance over Fenris' body while he melted out of every attempt to grasp.
When it came to Fenris' reaction to touch, there was a fine line between teasing roughhousing and unwelcome aggressiveness. Luckily, Hawke had made certain to become very familiar with precisely where that line lay.
"Hawke—" Fenris was baring his teeth, alternating between trying to seize his tormentor and swatting him away, but the heat in his expression wasn't entirely annoyance. "Callum, damn you—"
Reaching down, Hawke rubbed briefly over a leather-clad crotch, earning a hiss and a full-body twitch for his efforts. "Hm, lovely… What say I meet you in the bedroom?"
He knew enough to say bedroom only when he'd already scampered halfway towards it, gone like so much smoke. He heard Fenris cursing, mostly in Arcanum, but didn't spare even an instant to turn and wink, racing into the bedroom and tearing his shirt over his head. He could have hidden, then snuck out in ambush when Fenris made his own appearance, but that was a game for another day.
Hawke could hear quickly approaching footsteps, graceful and determined, and kicked off his trousers and smalls just in time to toss the crumpled fabric right into Fenris' face as the elf stormed into the room. Naked as his first name-day, Hawke flipped the quilts down to the bottom of the bed, then had to scramble over the mattress when Fenris lunged for him.
"Hold it," he cried, barely escaping without his ankle being nabbed, and laughed brightly in the face of certain doom (or certain possessive fucking, which sounded so much better). "Before you ravage me in a fit of pique, just tell me one thing!"
Tossing his gauntlets and breastplate aside as he stalked around the bed, so utterly predatory that Hawke had to swallow a rather embarrassing whimper, Fenris paused, poised and waiting. "What?"
Very slowly, still tensed to bolt if necessary, Hawke eased one knee back onto the mattress. He was half-kneeling up by the pillows, while Fenris seethed down by the foot of the bed, but he wasn't under any illusion that his position was secure yet. "Just tell me, do you trust me?"
The mood of the room took a definite turn, and Hawke watched carefully as the furious lust drained from his lover, overtaken by a guarded kind of confusion. "Of course I do. What are you—"
Holding up a quieting hand before the questions could begin in earnest, Hawke moved farther onto the bed, possibly making his muscles flex a bit more fluidly than strictly necessary. "Harmless flirting with the handsome Antivan aside—" The grimace of irritation at the very mention of Zevran and his charming wit was swiftly buried, but Hawke caught it anyway. "You do trust that I know what I'm doing, don't you? This is not my first dance with the Crows."
The pause that followed was just long enough to be mildly insulting, but Hawke tried not to take it personally. There were few things Fenris hated more than losing his grasp on the certainty of a situation, and this business with the Crows had yanked control right out of his hands. At least the Antivans weren't mages.
Finally, Fenris exhaled a long, weary sounding sigh. "Fine. I… I still don't like this, but I will try to have more faith."
Though the appeasement rumbled out as if it was being pulled over Fenris' tongue like a thorny vine, it was good enough. Settling back against the pillows, Hawke offered a blatantly besotted smile. "I do adore you, you crabby, stubborn bastard. Now that that's sorted, do I have to talk about Zev again to get you to come fuck me?"
It was possible he didn't have to do so, but it did earn him a ferocious growl and the sight of a rapidly stripping elf. He made absolutely no attempt to get away this time, not when a naked Fenris swept up from the foot of the bed to pin him soundly to the mattress. Arching up as much as possible against the pressure of a hot, thick cock hardening against his own, Hawke met a hooded glare with a pleased smirk.
"Hm, just like that," he murmured, groaning when fingers bit into his biceps, dragging down his arms to grab his wrists in an iron hold, as their hips ground together in a firm, unrelenting rhythm. "Maker, Fenris—"
A bruising kiss swallowed whatever gibberish he was about to say, stealing his breath as Fenris' grip slid up to twine through his fingers, pressing their clasped hands into the pillows behind Hawke's head. Spreading his thighs wider, Hawke bucked up against the friction and hooked his legs around Fenris' back, seeking more.
It wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but rocking together like this always sent lightning skittering through his nerves, jolting at every slick slide of their tongues and sparking like mad as Fenris thrust against his cock. This was more gradual than explosive, at least for the moment, and Hawke found himself slipping into the steady, building pleasure of it.
He inhaled a great lungful of breath when Fenris pulled back, tilting his head to encourage the sharp nips and wet, sucking kisses now trailing along his jaw. One particularly sensitive spot below his ear received special treatment, lingering bites making him whine and thrash, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he was being marked.
The ache of suction and teeth against his skin was drawing up a deliberate, vivid bruise— he could feel his blood pounding, thudding echoes from his neck to his cock. He bucked again, gasping out some broken mix of begging and prayers, and only had an instant to register a bright flare of blue light before blunt teeth sunk hard into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Maker, it hurt, and Hawke howled at the rush of bliss that washed over him, enough to make him burn with the aching promise of climax, just beyond his reach.
"Fuck—" He wasn't entirely certain Fenris hadn't broken the skin, but Andraste's grace, he didn't care. There was a tongue laving roughly at the second mark, the one that was nearly a wound, then suddenly hips that had been rolling against his with exquisite pressure stopped, entirely torturously.
"Hush," Fenris ordered, peering down all flushed and wanting under the tousled mess of his hair. His lips were deliciously swollen, his eyes lingering on Hawke's neck with all the weight of a caress. "Do not move your hands."
Panting, gathering his wits now that he was scrambling a little farther away from impending orgasm, Hawke smiled. "Yes, ser."
He got a kiss for his troubles, deep and soft compared to a moment before, and the scrape of Fenris' callused palms running down his arms towards his chest. Leaning back, Fenris stroked his hands slowly over Hawke's bare, smooth skin, the usual wiry pelt of blond hair having been shaved for the sake of his disguise. His legs and arms had been spared a similar treatment, the hair there naturally darker and aided by the skin tint.
"Very thorough," Fenris rumbled quietly, taking a moment to pinch Hawke's nipples until they pebbled tightly. "You're darker than I am, everywhere. Even here—" Lifting his hips out of the tight cradle of pelvis and gripping legs Hawke had trapped him in, Fenris reached down and wrapped one hand around Hawke's erection, making him gasp.
It hadn't been a question, but when that hand simply stayed in place, making no move to start stroking, Hawke gritted out a somewhat cheeky excuse, fisting his hands in his pillow. "Professionalism, love. How would it look if I had to explain a huge white cock in the middle of all this lovely caramel skin?"
Fenris' eyes narrowed dangerously, and his thumb began rubbing teasing circles over the tip of the cock in question, smearing pre-come. "You foresaw some situation in which you'd be forced to explain that, did you?"
Shifting, fighting for friction, Hawke stretched up enough to kiss Fenris on the chin, then licked one of the shimmering swoops of lyrium. "Always prepared for any eventuality. It's why I'm first-class."
Fenris didn't budge, didn't crack, but he did squeeze his fist a bit tighter, leisurely sliding Hawke's foreskin farther down his shaft, then back up again. It was maddeningly good, and Hawke was catching on to the intricacies of this particular game. Now he had to decide how best to play.
Tilting his head, Fenris regarded him coolly. "Hm. I'm not sure huge is a proper description, either."
"Oh, ouch." Not about to take such insults to his manhood lying down (in a figurative sense, of course), Hawke darted both hands out, grabbing hold of his lover's perfectly toned arse before giving it a quick slap. Fenris hissed, hips snapping, and Hawke risked a devious chuckle. "Big enough to make you mewl and writhe on it, my darling."
Which was how he ended up being straddled and ridden like a wayward horse— nothing to complain about, all things considered.
Even after all this time, Fenris' arse was forever a vicelike paradise, almost tight enough to be uncomfortable. Diligent application of slick and fingers helped immensely, though Fenris carried a deep-seated tension that rarely bled out entirely. The feel of his cock inching up into that hot channel was enough to make Hawke's eyes roll back into his head.
Still poised above him, Fenris let out a soft, broken groan, rocking slowly as his body stretched and Hawke slid in another bit more. That sound was nearly enough to send Hawke thrusting, trying to claim more, and Fenris knew it too, if the smug curl of his mouth was any indication.
"Come on," Hawke said instead, stroking his hands along Fenris' damp, straining flanks. He considered teasing around the enticing erection bobbing between them, but sometimes pushing back against these occasional power plays was too tempting. With no hesitation, Hawke reached out and cupped Fenris' heavy, sensitive balls, stretching two fingers back to massage the taut ring of their joining.
Fenris grunted, his mouth going slack at the added stimulation, and he closed the final gap of distance by grinding madly down against the touch. Now with one hand trapped and his cock buried so beautifully deep, Hawke flexed his fingers as much as he was able, canting his hips up at the same time. Then, for the sake of politeness, he bore the stream of breathless curses flung in his direction.
"Hm? Sorry, didn't quite catch that—" Grinning, Hawke dug his heels into the mattress for better leverage and gave a shallow thrust, stomping down his own spiral into pleasure as Fenris clamped hard around him in retaliation. "Can, Maker, can you speak up?"
Fenris didn't deign to respond, except to brace his hands more firmly on Hawke's chest and start fucking himself with quick lifts and hard drops, making absolutely no attempt to ease into anything. All thoughts of anything but the elf writhing and groaning above him fluttered out of Hawke's head like so many addled butterflies— there was nothing but Fenris, the pleasure curling up through him like fire, and the slap of skin on skin.
Some indeterminate amount of time later— long enough that Hawke was drenched in much more sweat than the heat of the day could explain— Fenris leaned forward, eyes flashing and hands creeping upward, and Hawke felt another bolt of pure wantsizzle from his neck to his cock. Fenris was pressing on the larger bruise he'd caused, and the sharp pain brought everything into brilliant focus.
Hawke rolled over onto his knees without a second thought, hooking tightly muscled legs in the crooks of his elbows and pressing Fenris into the mattress. There were no immediate objections to the change in position, but that may have had something to do with the way Fenris was gasping for breath with every fierce pump of Hawke's hips.
It ended soon after, with Fenris clutching at Hawke's shoulder with one hand and fisting his own hardness with the other until he came, spurting and arching up, but perhaps most importantly, clenching. Hawke couldn't tear his eyes away from the utterly gorgeous sight of Fenris giving in to ecstasy— on Hawke's cock no less— but then the build-up began to crest, and Hawke was lost in it, unravelling.
He didn't bother trying to slump to the side as his climax faded, taking all his bones with it. Collapsing on top of Fenris seemed a much better option, even if the elf was all lanky angles and surly growling. It also had the added benefit of allowing him to stay comfortable and warm for a few moments longer, buried in his lover's sweet bottom.
Fenris, for his part, only put up token resistance to being ensconced in his new sticky, fleshy blanket. "Damn it, Callum," he croaked, squirming under Hawke's weight, but he didn't shove him off as Hawke knew he could. Long, elegant fingers carded through Hawke's sopping hair, tugging gently at his nape, but that was all.
Nuzzling his face into the crook of Fenris' neck and listening to both their heartbeats slow, Hawke didn't have the energy to hide his contented grin. Maker, if this was what flirting through a chaperoned meeting produced, he couldn't wait for the aftermath of his upcoming hunt with Zevran, possibly just the two of them.
It seemed there was some fun to be had in this Antivan debacle after all.
"How very subtle," Zevran drawled the next evening, motioning to the dark red marks that marred Hawke's throat. Holed up in one of the smaller warehouses in the Kirkwall dockyard, they were quietly working out the preliminaries of their plan of attack.
Making no attempt to stifle his crooked grin, Hawke shrugged. "It was this or a tattoo across my forehead. Your fault, Zev."
"Hm, and once again I shoulder the blame." Leaning back against a stack of crates, Zevran stretched his arms languorously before tucking both hands behind his head. "It is a heavy burden, to be so irresistible. You may tell your Fenris, if you'd like, that it is all in good fun. I am in fact spoken for, in a rather permanent fashion."
There was a slight softening to Zevran's expression, a smirk giving way to a real smile for just a moment, and Hawke felt his own cheeks grow a little warm with a strange kind of understanding. Of course Zevran missed nothing, and the twinkle that suddenly lit in his eye was all the warning Hawke received before fingers darted out to caress his jaw, buttery leather gloves dragging over smooth, tinted skin.
"If I was not, my dear Hawke… Maker's breath, the fun we would have." This Antivan was very good. Letting his mouth curl into a slow, inviting smirk, Hawke took gentle hold of the hand lingering on his face and pressed a kiss against the knuckles.
"You have no idea," he murmured, then winked and leaned back, releasing his fellow assassin with a flourish. "Alas, we poor, handsome scoundrels have been collared and leashed—"
Chuckling, Zevran touched his own throat with a playfully wistful expression. "Literally, on special occasions."
"Hm, indeed." It took a particular mood, but Fenris had slowly warmed to the idea of binding… binding Hawke, especially, which as far as preferences were concerned, was no strain. Being tied up and driven utterly delirious with pleasure was a fine night in, in Hawke's opinion. "It would be a blighted tragedy, if it weren't so good. I think I've gone domestic, Maker save me."
"Ah, when we have dealt with our current dilemma, my friend, I will rejoice in the domestic. It has been far too long since I have seen my Warden, and there is nothing that says a dutiful lover cannot also kill for coin… and occasionally for fun." Zevran pointed to the map of the coast they had spread out across a crate, stretching to tap a secluded inlet about a league outside the city. "On that note, we will find our quarry roosting here. To involve as few as possible in our excursion seems the wisest course— fewer tongues to wag afterward. Perhaps I am biased from my falling out with the Guild, but I'm not terribly fond of the kill all witnesses approach."
"I couldn't agree more; it's a lazy practice to rely on. If you're skilled enough, there are no witnesses." Glancing at the map, Hawke tried to recall the particulars of that area. Blast, but the entire Wounded Coast always felt like a maze of identical hills and scrubby trees. "Varric's information puts our friends at thirty-two strong. How many would you think are of quality?"
"I know there are two full assassins among them. Add to that a half-dozen or so young things out to prove their mettle, and the rest will be hired blades, recruited locally." With a slight curl of his lip, Zevran's expression shifted into something decidedly feral. "These few are all that is left of this cell. Once they are dead, the troubles should cease until another Master takes up the contract… if another even wishes to do so, of course."
Hawke nodded slowly, more consideration than agreement. "And you think by the time you draw another Master's ire, they'll have forgotten all about little old me?"
"That is very likely, yes. Between one cell and the next, there is limited communication. Any damning details of your involvement will perish here as well."
That sounded good, and Hawke was about to say so, but then Zevran continued almost tentatively. "Another thought, my friend. The campsite along the coast will be a challenge to eliminate effectively with only the two of us, even under cover of darkness. Many bodies, many avenues of escape should one or more wish to flee into the hills, and that is not a chance we can afford to take."
"You have a suggestion," Hawke replied, very aware of the wary tingle in the back of his mind. "I assume employing a company of Varric's mercenaries is not what you have in mind."
"No, not more blades. Messy." A flicker of gold, and Zevran was glancing at him through narrowed eyes. "I have had occasion to fight beside a mage. Such power would be most advantageous in our current undertaking, yes?"
This Antivan was likable and incredibly charming, but that didn't mean Hawke trusted him. It also didn't mean he would hesitate for an instant before sliding a blade between his ribs, if that was what it took to keep Bethany safe.
Instead of inquiring, Hawke merely waited, staring at Zevran with an utterly bland expression. After a moment, the elf shrugged.
"I know of your sister." Of bloody course he did. "Her help would be invaluable—"
"Absolutely not." Zevran didn't flinch, didn't blink at the deadly tone, but his reaction didn't matter. Hawke hadn't spent all these years apart from his family, years of gruesome work and bribes and protecting them while he lurked in the lonely, Maker-forsaken shadows, to have it all tossed in the midden heap for this Antivan.
"As you wish." Bowing his head shallowly, Zevran pursed his lips. "But we need a mage. There are others in Kirkwall— you are becoming rather notorious for your growing apostate population, after all. I simply thought employing a spellcaster we could trust would be the cleanest solution."
Hiring an apostate off the streets would be a simple thing— Varric had enough contacts to make it happen, and those outside the Gallows were usually eager to earn what coin they could— but also risky. Desperate, fugitive mages could hardly be trusted to keep their mouths shut if Crows came sniffing around later, and the backbone of this entire plan hinged on no gabby witnesses.
The idea of hiring then slaughtering a mage wasn't entirely palatable; that kind of crass butchery was one of the reasons Hawke worked alone. He might kill for a living, but renting disposable help just seemed rude.
Then, Hawke was struck with a bolt of inspiration. A bolt of scruffy, more-trustworthy-than-a-stranger inspiration.
Bethany, Maker bless her, knew better than to bat an eyelash when Bennett the mercenary came ambling into the Darktown clinic.
Volunteering as a healer for the wretched and unwashed was pastime that had caused a bit of tension in the family when Hawke had first learned of it, but most of his darling, infuriating sister's time was spent applying salves and changing dressings. She swore up and down that she was cautious to hide her magic whenever she had to use it, even with another apostate glowing and knitting bones a few cots away, and blast it all, Hawke had always been a sucker for those big brown eyes.
It was dangerous and reckless, but it put a bright smile on Bethany's face that had been dimmed since Lothering, and straightened her spine with a kind of pride in herself that she'd never had before. That was worth it. Varric pulling a few strings to have eyes on the clinic in case of templar patrols made it slightly easier to swallow, too.
Hawke stepped carefully around a Coterie barker who was exiting the clinic's wide doors; the woman looked in much better shape than one might expect, given the wide stain of blood darkening the collar and shoulder of her jerkin. She was rubbing absently at her throat, the skin of which looked rather pink and fresh, and she shot Hawke a mildly spooked glance as she skittered off into the Undercity. Seemed like a normal day, from all Bethany had told him.
Speaking of his sister, she was kneeling beside a cot when he entered, chatting to a filthy little boy who probably wasn't more than six years old, but who had a pristinely clean bandage wrapped around the stump where his left forearm should have started. Bollocks and blight, mangled children did not make an especially classy backdrop when asking for a favour, and the sight did nothing for Hawke's mood.
Lurking by the doors, Hawke re-evaluated his strategy and adjusted the cloth that covered his mouth and nose. He despised wearing a helm, but his usual hood wouldn't exactly fit with Bennett's character. He had settled on a light leather cap and a ratty green scarf, which offered a bit of concealment while not being terribly out of place, especially in the poorer sections of the city, where chokedamp was a constant threat.
The delay earned him a few wary looks from patients, which was not attention he needed, but it also gave Bethany a chance to gift the young boy with a warm smile and a hair ruffle before glancing up and catching Hawke's eye. Acting suspicious had some benefits, since it wasn't entirely outside the realm of imagining that the pretty little assistant healer would cautiously approach the loitering, swarthy man.
"Can I help you, serah?" she asked, still well outside grabbing distance. Years of wandering from village to town, avoiding templars and hiding her true nature, had made a decent actress out of Bethany Hawke (or Bethany Amell, as Kirkwall knew her), and though she knew it was him, she didn't show it.
"I'm here to see the healer," he rumbled back, speaking through the scarf. The diction was rougher, but in terms of pitch, he was doing a fair impression of Fenris if he was perfectly honest about it. "Messere Tethras sent me."
That made Bethany frown, just a twitch of her lips, but by this point Anders himself had noticed the exchange, and stood from whatever glowy thing he was doing to some old man's foot. The mage approached, eyeing him guardedly.
"What's all this?" Bedecked in his feathered pauldrons and leaning on his intricately carved staff, Anders looked every inch the unashamed rebel apostate. Apparently, Malcolm Hawke's cardinal rules of not getting caught by the bloody templars were not standard procedure for all free mages.
"Messere Tethras sent me," Hawke said again, reaching in to a belt pouch to retrieve the enamelled brass coin that marked him as an agent of Varric's house. "I'm meant to speak with you, serah. Urgently and privately."
When Anders' attention flickered from the token to Bethany's face, Hawke's dear sister sighed a bit too deeply and waved her hand. "I know him, Anders. It's fine."
If it's not fine, I'll set his hair on fire and boil his innards went unsaid, but not unheard, at least for Hawke.
Still so obviously cautious, Anders motioned for Hawke to follow him back into the clinic, while Bethany strode off to keep healing the miserable sods filling up cots. Hawke made a point of giving his sister's backside a long, appraising gander as she swayed away in that way of hers, as a man like Bennett would have done, then weathered Anders' pointed glare with a shrug, falling in step beside him.
"Lovely lass, serah." Grinning a bit, Hawke decided this was a fantastic opportunity to tweak this too old, too crazy mage's intentions with his sweet sister. "Didn't realise Bethy found herself a beau. Half the men in Kirkwall will be weeping in their pints."
Following Anders around a rickety looking table and a pile of crates, Hawke lowered his voice into the universal whisper of manly secrets. "Never had a taste, myself, but some of the rumours in Lowtown… Mmm, let's just say the Maker wasn't lying when he blessed her with those ripe lips, perfect for sucking—"
"Not another word," Anders snapped, rounding on him with a definite glow alighting around his hands. "You'll keep a civil tongue in your head while speaking about that woman, or so help me, I will send you back to Varric Tethras in a thimble."
Holding up both hands in surrender, Hawke took a quick step back. The air was crackling in a way he recognised as Trouble Brewing, making all the hairs on his body rise to attention. How very interesting.
"Apologies, messere," he said quickly, then tugged the scarf down off his face and flashed a wiry grin, dropping the false voice entirely. "Just having a bit of fun, old boy. Snuff those sparkles, if you please. A thimble sounds like a terribly uncomfortable method of travel."
"Hawke?" Being so painfully dim couldn't be a mage trait, could it? Bethany hadn't shouted his name when she'd recognised him, for the Maker's sake. She understood what in disguise meant without being told. "I didn't… what? Why are you… brown?"
He needed Anders' help, and willing help was so much easier to get when you didn't smack the person around beforehand for being fucking thick. Narrowing his eyes fractionally, Hawke looked down at his own hand, shifting from palm up to down and back again.
"Andraste's lacy knickers, would you look at that." Glancing back up at Anders, Hawke raised one dark brow. "It's almost as though I'm in disguise, and would rather not have my name squawked out in public. Could we keep our voices down, perhaps? At least play at being stealthy?"
"Disguise?" The glare returned, but this time it was not about lecherous ogling. "For the Maker's sake, what trouble are you bringing to my door? The protection Varric offers is worth occasionally healing his men, but you—"
"Hold that thought… though I could gladly listen to you expounding on my many virtues for days." Sidling closer, Hawke plastered on his most disarming, charming look and watched with some fascination as Anders' fidgeted, his cheeks blooming faintly pink. He'd had an inkling that he'd turned the healer's head years ago, but the thought hadn't been more than a passing fancy at the time.
Now, if he happened to discover that the shabby, renegade mage was purposefully leading his sister on, he'd geld him. That, however, was a concern for later.
"Anders," he said warmly, tilting his head in a way he'd been told (on good authority) was particularly endearing. It even worked on Fenris. "I've got a small job on offer, if you're interested— nothing sordid, I swear. It pays good gold, and I'll owe you a favour."
It spoke well of Anders' astuteness that he didn't answer right away, except to lean back, sceptical. It seemed the man had some sense, after all.
Hawke simply had to figure out the best way to make him lose it for a short while.
When Hawke finally snuck back into the tenement, it was late enough that Fenris was already in bed, though the flickering light of a lamp from beyond the bedroom door meant he wasn't asleep. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Hawke slipped like a shade through the dark of their main room, confident enough in his own abilities not to fear taking a greatsword to the skull for skulking around unannounced.
Peeking into their bedroom from the shadows, Hawke found Fenris curled up under the quilts, bare back pressed against the headboard and a book open across his blanket-covered thighs. He was squinting a little at the text, his lips moving slowly with the words as he never allowed himself to do whenever anyone was watching, and if it weren't for the weariness in his bones and the yearning to soak up Fenris' heat, Hawke would have been content to observe him silently for an age. Teaching Fenris to read had proven a harrowing experience, and was still intensely frustrating for both of them on occasion, but so incredibly satisfying as well.
Fenris deserved every ounce of freedom he desired, and Hawke would have torn down the Viscount's Keep one stone at a time if it meant helping his lover achieve another sliver of independence. Compared to that, what were a few reading lessons, even the ones that ended in stony silence or barbed words?
Family was worth any sacrifice, he'd been taught long ago.
"Knock, knock," he murmured, shifting into the light as he stepped through the doorway. Other than a sharply indrawn breath and a mild scowl, Fenris didn't startle too badly.
"I should start sewing bells to your clothes." Snapping the book shut, he set it on the nightstand before Hawke could get a good look. The cover was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it off-hand.
Shucking his blighted cap and scarf, then ruffling his hair in a vain attempt to look less sweaty and ragged, Hawke sat heavily on the edge of the bed, flopping back so that his head was cradled in Fenris' lap. He was still in the cheap, thick leather jerkin and trousers of his Bennett ensemble, and his two largest daggers were digging into his back as he squished them into the mattress, but for a moment, none of that mattered.
"Good evening, love." Blinking up into that stunningly handsome face, Hawke didn't have to try very hard to summon a tired smile. "Fancy meeting you here."
It was a good day; instead of shoving him off, or even shooting him a dark look, Fenris smiled back (a little crooked, and entirely captivating), and began carding his fingers slowly through Hawke's hair. Letting his eyes flutter closed, Hawke groaned quietly as the utterly divine sensation skittered across his scalp and down his spine.
"If you could just keep doing that—" Blunt nails scraped lightly behind his ear, and Hawke let out a long, shuddering breath. "Uh… Mmm, yes. Just keep doing that, forever, and I'll do anything you like. Completely at your mercy, your beck and call."
"Empty promises," Fenris said, and the fondness lurking in his voice sent an answering curl of affection wriggling around in Hawke's chest. "You said the same thing the last time I massaged your neck. And something very similar the last time I cooked lamb stew."
"I also said it the last time you sucked my cock. Doesn't make it less true." Eyes still closed, Hawke blindly followed the warm breath that had descended over him, craning up to claim a languorous kiss. Fenris tasted faintly of wine, but mostly just of himself, like some heady foreign spice.
Chasing that taste, chasing more, Hawke propped himself up on his elbows, shivering when one of Fenris' warm, callused hands slid around to cup the back of his head, guiding and holding. It was nearly enough, making his cock twitch in his pants, but by the holy Andraste's grace, he was so tired.
From the middle of the night before, until he'd nestled his head in Fenris' lap, he'd been all over the thrice-damned, Maker forsaken city; his bones felt like twisted hunks of iron slag, weighing him down, and his muscles were like water. He'd slithered through filthy sewers and clamoured up buildings, trudged the stairs from the docks to Hightown and back, and even sweet-talked a rather grumpy mage into offering his services as a spellslinger. Beyond that, he'd done it all with the appropriate amount of panache.
The day had been long, but he hadn't had a decent moment of rest since these problems with the Crows had started, and it was catching up with him. He wondered hazily exactly how put out Fenris would be if he fell asleep in the middle of sex. Probably best not to risk it, truth be told.
"Shit," he hissed quietly, pulling back and forcing his eyes to open. It was more exhaustion than passion that made them heavy, unwilling to focus. Hovering above him, Fenris took a deep breath and pressed a kiss against his brow.
"You should sleep." That was supposed to be his line, but Hawke was in no fit state to complain about it. "Sit up, and I'll help with your clothes."
Doing as bidden, Hawke hauled himself into a swaying kind of seated position, yanking at the buckle of his baldric and shrugging out of the harness with just a bit of assistance. When Fenris swatted hishands away from the fasteners of his jerkin, Hawke couldn't stifle his giggles, flexing his unusually clumsy fingers before locking his elbows and bracing himself against the mattress to keep upright.
The look of Fenris, naked and perfect and crouched between his legs, was as torturous as it was sinfully beautiful, and Hawke tried to will himself just enough gumption for one round of lazy, sloppy sex… but it wasn't happening. Fenris wasn't even putting on a show, simply tugging Hawke free of his boots and unlacing his trousers with easy, practiced motions.
Being taken care of wasn't something Hawke needed often, and it was something he submitted to even less frequently, but at that moment, in that room with that elf, it was just the thing. Just glorious.
He lifted his hips when Fenris started to pull his trousers and smalls down, kicking to help once all the leather, wool, and linen pooled around his knees. Nude, he crawled back awkwardly, wriggling under the quilts with tiny whimpering sounds he would deny vehemently come morning. Shortly thereafter, once the rustling and clanking of Fenris moving his gear aside faded, the mattress sunk and a hot, nubile body slipped into bed beside him.
Hawke fought the lure of sleep for just another moment, purring when Fenris' hand settled back on his head, stroking his hair. The lantern was blown out, plunging the room into the same blessed darkness Hawke knew waited behind his eyelids, but there were still words scrabbling inside his head, unwilling to go unsaid.
Shifting closer, Hawke pressed his lips to Fenris' chest, nuzzling against the intricate swirls of lyrium that traced the dips and curves of his trim muscles. Every time he was permitted to touch the markings without a flinch following, Hawke felt his pulse skip.
"I love you." It wasn't a sentiment he said so plainly very often, but this business of being hunted was encouraging him to say it more. Possibly every morning he woke with Fenris still in his bed and in his life. The fingers in his hair tugged gently at his nape, which was answer enough. "Hmm…Thank you for putting up with me."
"Go to sleep," Fenris said quietly, and Hawke felt a kiss being pressed to the crown of his head. It wouldn't be a wholly restful night, not until the chance of being murdered in their bed fell back to normal levels of risk, but even with the threat of Crows lurking in every shadow, snoring next to Fenris was the safest he could feel.
Tomorrow, they'd work out the plan to deal with these bloody Antivans.
"Blighted flames." Poking gingerly at the shallow-but-stinging slice that marred his cheek (too close to his eye, and nowwas not the time to get careless, blast it), Hawke cursed again, spitting into the dirt of the alley floor. There was a faint tingling around the edges of the wound, and he could see familiar, slick black poison coating the edge of the dagger that had snuck through his defences just enough to graze. That blade was now lying amongst the debris that littered the alley, along with its owner, but the poison looked and smelled like a standard deathroot blend, to which Hawke had built some significant resistance over the years. It would itch, maybe make him a bit nauseated, but nothing worse.
"That was bracing, wasn't it?" Crouching over one of the bodies, Zevran continued riffling through the dead man's pouches and pockets. "You are as quick with those blades as the rumours say, my friend. How is your face?"
"You tell me." Tilting his head, Hawke waited for Zevran to glance up before continuing. "Still dashingly handsome? Or shall I go drown myself in the harbour?"
Sparing a moment to consider, Zevran's eyes traced the gash with light-hearted if earnest care. "Rakish," he decided eventually, turning back to cut a clinking purse from one of the dead mercenaries. "I don't imagine it will scar much, if at all. You'll live, my dear Hawke… and perhaps your Fenris can kiss it better, hm? Applied liberally, I've found it can be a very effective healing method."
"I do love a silver lining." Glancing around at the carnage, Hawke shook his head in mild exasperation. "This was idiotic. Six men, with only one Crow amongst them? Why would they strike with such a small group in the middle of Lowtown?"
"Arrogance, ambition, and youth." Rising from his crouch with all the grace of a cat, Zevran tossed one of the pouches to Hawke. It felt heavy, and a glance inside found enough silver for a very entertaining evening at the Blooming Rose, and a smooth, polished opal, bigger than a robin's egg. "The boy sought to make his name, no doubt. To kill me on his own, and claim the glory among his brothers. These mercenaries were paid well to follow him on this side job, with stolen coin and baubles."
Offering a grin of thanks, Hawke tucked the spoils of war into his belt. "Ah, and he didn't realise who I was. Maker's balls, at least someone in this city was fooled by this blighted disguise."
Grinning in return, more than a little amused, Zevran brushed his hands together briskly, then motioned for Hawke to precede him towards the alley mouth. They were finished, and a few bodies (already stripped of anything too incriminating or valuable) were hardly out of place in Lowtown. "Indeed. The poor little bird thought I was all alone, ripe for the picking. Something of a shame, I suppose, but stupid Crows are of no use to anyone. The Guild would do well to trim a bit of fat, I think."
They were traipsing through the squatty slums and cramped back alleys of Lowtown's poorest sections, branching out from the alienage. It was a roundabout way to get to the Hanged Man, but simply sauntering up to the front door wasn't exactly the brightest option.
They turned another sharp corner, finding the way blocked by a section of newly collapsed wall, and Hawke didn't hesitate before scaling the rubble, testing the rough edges of the stone for more weakness. Satisfied, he nodded once to Zevran before starting to climb. They'd make better time and stand less of a chance of another ambush if they stuck to the rooftops.
It was just past sunset, when the vivid colours painted across the western sky faded into the city's murky, smoky dusk. The grid of hexes spread out like honeycombs beneath them, the din of people muted by distance, and even busy as he was crouching low on a rooftop and scanning for Crows, Hawke appreciated the beauty of it for a moment.
"I love Kirkwall," he said, once Zevran had clambered up beside him. "It's so much more hectic than Ferelden, even Denerim. I mean, it's still a filthy, miserable shithole most of the time, but Andraste's tits, it's home."
Chuckling quietly, Zevran clapped him on the shoulder. "I understand. I once felt the same about Antiva City, even when she was a foul bitch. Now… now home is something different. Someone different, I suppose." That was an interesting concept. Hawke had long ago abandoned the notion of returning to life in some rat-spit, backwater village, with sewing circles instead of gangs and muddy gardens rather than stinking docks and foundries. The idyllic, pastoral scene did not lend itself well to the life of an assassin.
"Come, my friend." Shaking himself out of his woolgathering before he could consider whether a quiet life with Fenris actually sounded as incredibly boring as he'd feared, Hawke glanced over at Zevran. The elf was still smiling as he pointed in the direction of their objective. "We are nearly late, and I've no doubt your Fenris will come looking if I do not deliver you promptly and unsullied."
"Ah, very true." The cut on his face was still stinging, the poison a minor irritant, but he wouldn't waste time tending to it until they reached the Hanged Man. Peering over the rooftops again, watching for movement or shadow, Hawke rose out of his squat and started off at a quick pace, surefooted and silent.
Hawke had planned on slipping in one of the Hanged Man's upper windows, until Zevran had inquired shrewdly about the secret entrance into Varric's suite. The secret entrance Hawke hadn't been sure he even knew about.
"After you," he murmured, motioning for Zevran to precede him down the steep, treacherous incline that led to the tiny crawlspace. As he expected, Zevran winked and didn't object, and despite the rather complex locking mechanism, it only took a moment for the elf to shimmy inside. Apparently, it was time to design a new lock.
The crawlspace was barely large enough to fit a grown man, but neither Hawke nor Zevran were burly by any standard definition, and both were particularly flexible besides. Squeezing in just in time to hear Zevran quip about his love for tight, dark holes, Hawke didn't try terribly hard to stifle his laughter. The face that his face was pressed against the bare skin of Zevran's thigh was a detail he would leave out when relaying this story, especially if Fenris was in earshot.
When two ruffled, breathlessly amused assassins stumbled out from behind a bookcase, the reactions around Varric's suite were… varied.
The dwarf himself simply rolled his eyes, turning back to whatever he was writing as he poured over the map spread across his table. Anders, leaning against the wall rather near the door, made a surprised sound and jerked to attention, one hand tight around his staff.
Fenris, who by the looks of things had been in the middle of pacing like a caged wolf, transitioned smoothly from startled to thunderously scowling. Rather than wilt under that familiar glare, Hawke raked one hand through his mussed hair and grinned.
"Sorry we're late." The expression made the tight, sore skin around his cut pull, and he winced, reaching up as if to touch it before thinking better of it. "Ran into some unsavoury folk. Nothing serious."
The sight of the wound caused Fenris' darkly displeased look falter, then crumble into poorly hidden concern. Flopping heavily into one of Varric's chairs while Zevran eyed Anders with some interest, Hawke didn't have long to wait before his lover was at his side, one spiky gauntlet reaching out to tilt his chin carefully to the side.
"Just a scrape, love." Digging through one of his belt pouches, Hawke fished out a small jar of salve, pulling the stopper free without looking away from Fenris' beautiful eyes. "And a touch of poison for good measure, but a little of this, and I'll be fresh as a daisy."
Still lingering by the door, as though ready to bolt at any moment, Anders cleared his throat. "I could heal it, if you'd like. Save some time and prevent a scar."
The idea of magic, even something as benign as healing, made Fenris' jaw tighten. It was almost enough to make Hawke refuse, but that would have been foolish.
"That would be splendid, Anders," he said, reaching out to briefly squeeze Fenris' hip. It didn't earn him a smile, or even the hint of one, but neither did Fenris retreat to the far side of the room as Anders approached. Stepping around, Fenris loomed behind the back of Hawke's chair, resting one rather unexpected hand on Hawke's shoulder.
This was probably the most intimate touching Fenris had ever initiated in front of other people. Hawke was equal parts pleased and concerned.
For his part, Anders seemed determined to ignore Fenris entirely, which was probably for the best. Bending to examine the wound, he caught Hawke's eye for just a moment, asking silent permission. An encouraging nod later, and Anders' hand was awash with pale blue light, moving slowly to push the healing energy into the injured flesh.
Hawke slowed his breathing, enjoying the warm, almost ticklish sensation of skin knitting back together, and especially the soothing heat of the poison being drawn out, taking the infernal itching with it. When it wasn't life or death, with bowels flopping out on boots, healing magic could feel truly wonderful.
After a moment of that bliss, Hawke felt the energy expand, soaking into his muscles and easing aches of which he'd only been partially aware. The stiffness in his right elbow, the knot of tension that had been plaguing the back of his skull…
Then, without warning, the magic faded, leaving Hawke gloriously pliant and relaxed. He blinked owlishly, not entirely sure when he'd closed his eyes, only to find Anders stumbling back with a definite flush darkening his cheeks. Fenris' hand, still gripping Hawke's shoulder, was holding on rather tight.
Thinking back into that hazy, comfortable fog, Hawke vaguely remembered hearing someone moan. It had been a deep, euphoric kind of sound, and very familiar.
Oh, he hadn't meant to do that.
Scrubbing at his fresh, perfectly healed cheek, Hawke shifted in his seat, not quite daring to pat the back of Fenris' hand. "Good as new," he said lightly, ignoring the arched brow Zevran was sending him. "Thank you, Anders."
Blessedly, Varric took that opportunity to shift their attention back to the matters at hand. Tapping the map sharply with one thick finger, he commanded attention with all the ease of your average, charismatic merchant prince. "Could we possibly get to work, here? Having Zev in the open like this is already courting trouble."
"Too true," Zevran agreed. "Let us get down to it, hm?"
Hawke was annoyed, certainly, but also rather flattered that the Crows response to his possible involvement with Zevran was to hire another two dozen mercenaries. If Anders' skills had been an asset before, now the mage's large-scale destructive powers would be a necessity.
Bad odds were part of his job. Usually, it was him alone against any number of guards and defences, but usuallyhe took full advantage of all the hidey holes an estate offered, or all the shadows, nooks, and crannies of a back alley. This was an assault, still striking from shadow but taking out an entire camp, and Hawke knew when to admit a lack of expertise in such a scenario.
Fenris, on the other hand, was a warrior. A mercenary by trade, and a particularly talented bringer of death and devastation on a large, bloody scale. Coupled with Varric's tactical genius, Zevran's knowledge of the Crows, and Anders' big zaps and booms, Hawke was content to do as he was told during this operation.
Luckily enough, what he was told amounted to stab everything that moves, except us, which were directions Hawke was very comfortable following.
Not so luckily, Hawke was getting slightly fed up with Fenris' jealous, cranky bastard angle. It had been cute at first, certainly it had ended with some fantastic sex on more than one occasion, but by Andraste's flaming arse, it was getting tiresome now. Logically, Hawke knew it was equal parts Fenris' being prickly, and him being exhausted and frustrated, but that didn't help at the moment.
And now there was no time— it wouldn't be at all sporting to send Anders back to his clinic after this rather unusual visit to Varric's suite, what with Crows ostensibly watching every move they made. Considering that the possibility of Hawke's involvement had resulted in a near doubling of enemy numbers, none of them was especially curious to see what the response to a mage on their side would be.
No, best not give the vicious assassins a chance to hire a desperate apostate or six. Maker knew Kirkwall wasn't scant on spellslingers, and Hawke had a strange aversion to being immolated before he was properly old, properly dead, and properly laid out on his funeral pyre with a weeping Fenris holding vigil. They needed to strike now.
And speaking of Fenris, Hawke might not have had the time or the patience for a proper soothing of his lover's tetchy ire, but he wouldtake a moment, blast it all.
He and Zevran would be sneaking off shortly, clearing the streets of any obvious eyes lurking around before meeting up with the others just outside the city in a few hours. A brief march up the coast would follow, then some good old-fashioned slaughter sometime near dawn. Any little birds not caught in the initial attack would be simple enough to mop up afterwards, when they returned to the charred ruin Anders would make of their camp.
Sharing a brief but significant glance with Varric and receiving an understanding nod in return, Hawke unfolded himself from the squatty chair and took careful, gentle hold of Fenris' wrist. Before he could be questioned or shaken off, he tugged, offering a small, private smile.
"Trust me," he said softly, and managed to make it sound less like a question than his mild, simmering irritation would have dictated. After a heartbeat or two of hesitation, Fenris allowed himself to be led, ignoring Zevran's amused leer and Anders' frown.
Herding his lover into the relatively private space of Varric's bedroom, Hawke crowded him against the wall, hiding them both from curious eyes. Leaning close, he pressed their foreheads together and laid one hand on the side of Fenris' neck, soaking in the warmth of his skin and the thrum of his pulse.
"What are you doing?" The wary, confused tone was expected, and Hawke hummed in response, shifting his head up to nuzzle Fenris' hairline. "Hawke—"
"Shhh…" Shushing earned him a pissy, throaty noise, and despite everything else, Hawke felt himself grin. "Shh, I said. Just listen, you crabby bastard. When this is over—" Sliding his hand up, Hawke let the pads of his fingers glide feather-light up the taper of Fenris' ear, playing entirely unfairly.
"Hawke," Fenris said again, this time rough and stuttered and Maker, Hawke was hard-pressed to remember the three men just on the other side of the wide, open archway that separated their temporary hideaway from the room at large.
"When this is over, we are going home, we are locking the door, and we are not leaving our bed for a week." There was a pause, then a huff of deep, breathless laughter against his throat, and Hawke stepped closer still, sliding one leg between Fenris' thighs until his knee knocked against the wall. Whatever sour tension had been growing around them and between them fizzled out, replaced by another, much more pleasant kind of tension.
Sure, it could be somewhat uncomfortable, but there was always something thrilling about going out on a job half-hard, knowing that incredible sex would be in the cards when he got home.
And then, because it certainly wasn't only assassins who didn't play fair, Fenris reached around and grabbed two handfuls of Hawke's arse, squeezing just hard enough that Hawke could feel the ghost of pinpricks through the seat of his trousers.
Half-hard was possibly an underestimation. If they had just a bit more privacy and a spare quarter-hour…
"Scratch that," Hawke rasped, forcing himself to step back before they risked the wrath of Varric for rutting against his wall. "Two weeks. A bloody month." Fenris was flushed, hair mussed and eyes glowing like coals, and Hawke gnashed his teeth helplessly. "Ah, fuck, I might never let you out again. Is that an problem?"
Reaching out, Fenris crooked one finger under Hawke's chin, considering. After a moment, his lips quirked, and the damned saucy look sent lightning skittering down Hawke's spine all the way to his twitching cock. "Hm. Not especially."
At the sight of them slinking back out into the main room, both still a bit flustered and Hawke grinning like a loon, Zevran sighed deeply. "Ah, all these handsome, passionate men do tease me so. You are so cruel, not inviting me even to watch."
Arms crossed, looking positively sulky, Anders made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Could I just say? You've all been talking as if I've agreed to this— to taking part in this attack. I told you I'd consider it, and now you've brought me to meet the bloody Crow deserter himself."
It wasn't precisely helpful when Zevran offered a flashy bow, but it was amusing.
"Come now, Anders," Hawke said, carefully schooling his expression into something a little less self-satisfied. Groping Fenris always made him too smug for polite company. "It's worth it for the trip up the coast. Fresh air, a chance to stretch your legs, and free rein to be as destructive as your little magical heart desires with not a single templar for miles."
Apparently not yet sold on the notion, despite Hawke's pitch, Anders narrowed his eyes and kept frowning (though it was perhaps a hint less dour than before). "That's my point. There's important work I could be doing, and compared to that, I honestly don't care one wit for the Antivan Crows or what they're doing in this city."
Feeling his irritation tweak again— Maker, getting Anders out of that blasted clinic without his sister boxing his ears had been hard enough— Hawke favoured the mage with a bland look. "You might start caring when they come for Bethany. Which becomes more and more likely the longer they're skulking around Kirkwall."
That was enough to warrant a flinch, those rather fetching amber eyes shifting away with a touch of embarrassment. "I didn't… Ugh, bollocks. Do you know what happened the last time I tangled with Antivan Crows?"
Zevran perked up again, leaning forward with a cheeky smirk. "Oh, please do tell. A tanglewith the Crows, you say—"
"I had to learn how to cure fleshrot poison while it was eating through the Warden Commander's arm," Anders cut in tartly, and Zevran actually paled ever so slightly, his expression tightening. "I'm not terribly keen to see if I remember the right spells to fix that again."
"Right, enough," Hawke said, shaking his head. "Anders, I know you think I'm asking too much, and you may be right. But if you scamper back down to your clinic now, we fine gentlemen will need to rethink our brilliant plan, and I don't know how much longer those Antivan bastards will wait before they make a particularly nasty move. Whether that means slaughtering me outright, or murdering my family first, I'm fairly certain Bethany would be rather put out. My sister is a darling girl, and she doesn't deserve that." He paused, mostly for dramatic effect, and laced some charm into the tapestry of guilt he'd been weaving. "And like I said, I'll owe you a favour— a hefty one, too. Surely that's worth something, hm?"
Narrowing his eyes, Anders huffed in annoyance. "You're a manipulative little shit, you know that?"
"That's the rumour." Hawke smiled, broad and halfway honest, and Anders huffed again.
