Snare minifill, set between Snare and Rook. Fenris' POV.

Callum is distraught, and Fenris gives him a hug. More angst and introspection than that straightforward prompt might imply.


Fenris could smell blood before he even knocked on the door to Varric's suite— metallic, earthy, and familiar. It was more than enough to prickle the hairs at the nape of his neck, but considering the company he expected waited for him inside, it not enough to push him from wary to battle-ready. Callum often smelled faintly of blood, with an odd bitterness beneath, which Fenris had learned was the tang of a poison he preferred… but this seemed too heady, too strong an odour to be typical.

Lyrium hummed through his flesh, sensitive to his mood, as he lifted one hand to knock on the thick wood, keeping to the side of the doorway as a precaution. If something were amiss, he wouldn't risk being trampled or knocked back by potential enemies inside.

There was a pause, almost too long, before the scrape of the latch unlocking made him tense. The door cracked open, and Varric's face when he appeared on the other side was drawn and unusually pale. "Oh, elf. Yeah, come on in."

The stink of blood was even denser when he stepped inside the room, and Fenris felt something constrict painfully in his chest at the sight of Callum seated limply on the end of Varric's short table, stripped down to his shirtsleeves with arms and chest soaked in dark, deadly crimson.

Callum's head snapped up as he entered (conscious, alert, alive), and Fenris saw his eyes were strange mirrors of the carnage staining his shirt, bloodshot and troubled. "It's not mine," he said immediately, hoarsely, and Fenris felt his heart begin to beat again. "Not a scratch on me, love."

A few strides brought him to Callum's side, less than an arm's reach away. It was closer than he allowed with anyone else, though not nearly so close as he allowed this particular man in private. The feeling of another body encroaching into his physical space was mildly discomforting, as usual; it stirred memories both agonizing and now blissful, sending his mind scrambling to make sense of the sensations.

"Should I ask?" he said carefully, studying the tense lines around Callum's mouth and between his brows. Blood was not out of the ordinary, but this haunted look was both unusual and worrisome. Nearby, Varric was removing an iron kettle from its hook over his fire and pouring what looked like plain, steaming water into a large ceramic bowl sitting at the other end of the table.

The dwarf set the kettle aside once this was done, then slid the bowl slowly down towards Callum. "Here, Hawke. Probably too hot right now, but give it a minute."

Fenris watched Callum's throat bob in a thick swallow; the blood was beginning to dry in spots, and he knew from experience that the tackiness would soon grow itchy.

"Thanks," Callum said quietly, offering a poor imitation of his usual smile before turning his attention back to Fenris. "I was doing a bit of legwork for a job. Dropped in on an old contact, but someone else had apparently already stopped by for tea and a bit of torture and dismemberment. Not entirely sure whose toes dear Helena was stepping on, but it seems she stepped too hard or too often. Probably Coterie." Chuckling hollowly, Callum stared down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. "She was an old friend. Sweet woman. Pity."

"I'm sorry." Words felt… entirely insufficient, but Fenris had no other recourse. He fumbled, shifting awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

"It happens." Callum shrugged weakly, then reached down to catch the hem of his filthy shirt and peel it over his head. The springy pelt of his chest hair was tinged red here and there, though the blood was smeared far thicker on his hands and forearms. "Just another corpse in Kirkwall. They could've been more civil about it, though."

The first dip of fingers into water ended with a hiss, but Callum didn't retreat, sluicing enough to clear the worst mess from his hands before taking up a washcloth. He scrubbed far more roughly than the grime required, but Fenris was hesitant to point out such a thing. It was obvious, from the slump of his shoulders to the tightness in his jaw, that Callum was agitated.

Sparing a glance at Varric, who had taken a seat at the head of the table to frown over paperwork, Fenris was at a loss. If he and Callum were alone, in the home they shared, then perhaps…

This should not be so difficult. People, free people, were allowed to show affection whenever they desired. To hold hands in marketplaces, embrace or even kiss chastely without censure. This hesitance was a weakness of the vilest sort— one more phantom chain leashing him to the memory of a cruel viper of a mage, long dead and unmourned. It ate at him, rotting in his core like poison, rolling dark and cold in his gut.

They were in Varric's suite, with only the dwarf himself for company. It wasn't as though they were in the middle of the Lowtown bazaar at midday, or standing out on the steps of the chantry. No one would see how much he cared for this man, save Varric, but the dwarf already knew. No one would see his affection; no one would tear it away.

Still, his muscles seized, frozen. Impotent. Leashed.

Eventually clean, Callum tossed the rag back into the murky water, then buffed off the lingering dampness with another larger, dry sheet. His skin was pink from heat and scrubbing, his knuckles raw and sore looking, and there were shadows in his eyes, blotting out the gleam Fenris had come to expect, to achefor as he'd never imagined possible. Nothing was right.

Fenris felt the buzz of his markings like insects skittering under his skin. Only years of brutal conditioning kept him motionless, even as something feral and desperate howled in the back of his mind.

This was not right. He was no slave, but he was a fool.

"Callum," he murmured, dragging the word roughly from his throat with every ounce of his will. One step, one impossibly vast step, brought him close enough to touch. Close enough to place his hand, still encased in his gauntlet, on Callum's bare shoulder.

Familiar skin, fair and lightly freckled in places, felt warm against his palm. He tensed, ready for Callum to flinch, to question, but the rebuff never came. Logically, he knew it wouldn't. His heart was hammering.

One small tug, barely a spasm of the muscles in his arm, had Callum turning towards him, looking not curious, but brittle.

One false move, one mistake, and Fenris feared he might shatter them both.

"Callum," he said again, and leaned in, wrapping his arms awkwardly around the taller, broader man. One arm, he slung over Callum's shoulder, while the other snaked around his waist, hand resting gently on the small of his back. He laid his cheek against Callum's throat, feeling the thrum of a pulse nearly as quick and pounding as his own. "I am sorry."

There was no pause, none of the blasted hesitation that wracked Fenris down to his soul, as Callum's arms came up in a snug, answering embrace, heedless of the breastplate that was doubtlessly uncomfortable, digging into muscle. It was enviable ease, sometimes infuriating, but also a blessing— Fenris could not imagine taking such leaps of faith and sanity without knowing that he had this man at his back, so certain and bold.

Somewhere, Varric rustled papers, humming softly to himself, but Fenris could scarcely hear it. Callum was clinging to him, breathing him in and holding him close, and to spare a thought on any other senses would threaten to undo the delicate hold Fenris had on his own composure. He was holding Callum, holding him together for this rare, fragile moment, and that was all that mattered.

He was strong enough for this.

END