A/N: Aaaaaaa chapter three! Okay well, here it is. I still don't own anything about Dragon Age. I'm trying to keep the pacing fluid, and it's actually really difficult because in the game Fenris really tends to go back and forth in terms of his behaviour. One minute he'll be cautiously trying to flirt, then the next he'll back off and try to distance himself from the situation. And I'm trying to keep true to that, but I worry I'm not quite capturing it properly. Anyway I hope it's not too terrible! Please R/R and I hope you enjoy.
She quickly cleared her throat and tapped on the doorframe. "Sorry it took so long."
Fenris gave a small start and turned. Hawke wasn't able to ignore the way his hand reflexively twitched toward the blade at his back before he saw her. No, his hurts were too many, too great. To try to force any kind of feelings on him would be selfish and cruel. Still, there was the faintest upward quirking at the corners of his lips as he set his gaze on her that made her feel light as a feather. "Do not apologize. It gave me time to get dinner ready. Would some leftover stew be suitable?" he asked almost cautiously.
"Of course. Thank you. Can I do anything to help?" she offered, taking a step into the kitchen.
"Yes. You can sit down and relax, for starters," he intoned in that deep, reverberating voice that she could never disobey. Fenris hesitated as he carried a plate with several thick slices of bread over to the table along with a handful of silverware. "If I sounded abrupt, I apologize. I am—not used to offers of help."
Hawke's heart twisted itself into a teeny tiny knot as she sat down at the table like a good girl. Forget about romance—she just wanted to hug the man to herself and tell him everything would be alright. And then headbutt everyone who had ever wronged him into submission. "No, no! I just hate that I'm imposing on your hospitality like this."
He relaxed by degrees as he turned to serve some stew from a small pot that was bubbling steadily over the fire. "You can repay me by telling me what possessed a bedraggled Hawke to show up at my door in the midnight hour, soaked to the bone and with a mabari in tow, no less." There was still no accusation in his tone, no annoyance. Just a mild sort of curiosity that immediately made her grateful she'd avoided going to her other friends for help. There wouldn't be a lecture from Fenris, she already knew.
Hawke smiled to herself, glancing at the table. He'd already set out a pair of glasses and had been kind enough to fill the one at her place with water. His was still empty, though a bottle of wine sat on the table nearby. Determined to make herself useful, she uncorked it and poured Fenris a glass. "Well… it's kind of a long story. I went up to Sundermount today to visit the elves. I wanted to talk to Marethari about Merrill," she said.
"Why is that?" he asked, an edge of doubt creeping into his voice. She knew that discussing the other mage was a sensitive topic.
"I wanted to learn more about her. I was hoping maybe Marethari had some advice about getting Merrill to give up the whole 'blood magic' thing." Hawke admitted with a shrug, meeting the elf's surprised gaze as he turned.
"Truly?" he asked, setting a pair of bowls down on the table and sliding one to her before taking his seat.
"Yeah, why?" she asked curiously, though she gratefully nodded as she blew at the steaming soup. It looked delicious—a hearty stew with beef and carrots and potatoes.
"Nothing. I am just surprised."
Hawke sighed, glancing away. "Not all mages approve of the use of blood magic, you know. At least I can promise you I certainly don't."
"I—should not have placed my assumptions of other mages onto you, Hawke. I am sorry." He replied quietly, carefully.
"No, it's alright. You have reason to be suspicious. And when you think about the fact that Merrill's a blood mage and Anders has a spirit sharing his body with him, it sets a pretty bad standard, huh?" she asked with a rueful chuckle.
"Mm. Only one in three mages is willing to remain sane, it seems." He replied blandly.
The statistic depressed her. No wonder Fenris couldn't trust mages. The statistic of his circle of companions was a terrible one. "Well," she said quickly, "my sister wasn't a blood mage either."
"I am sorry I could not meet her. You always speak fondly of her."
"I miss her," Hawke admitted before falling silent, stirring at her dinner with her spoon before taking a bite. "Thank you, by the way."
"It is no problem. So you went to Sundermount…." He prompted, taking a sip of his wine.
"Oh! Right. Well, Marethari wasn't really any help which I guess I should have expected since they couldn't dissuade Merrill from going the crazy route. So I set off for home, but by then it was raining. When I got home, my mother and uncle were having a fight and Carver decided he wanted to yell at me for ruining his life—"
"What?" Fenris asked, cutting her off. A dark brow lofted.
"Well… I guess it's true, in a way. I mean, Carver's not a mage, but my father and Bethany and I all were. His whole life has been dictated by trying to keep a family of apostates together and safe. My mother at least chose that life when she married my father, but… well, Carver didn't get to choose. I guess he resents that, and I can't blame him." She replied with a shrug.
The elf's next words shocked her. "But he has chosen. He is a grown man. If he truly hated you or blamed you so, he would not remain. He could easily start a life for himself, by himself, here in Kirkwall—or anywhere else."
"I… hadn't really thought of it that way." Hawke said quietly, peeking up at Fenris from behind the fringe of her slowly-drying hair.
"He argues with you because that is what siblings do. But I take it your temper was already running short at that point, and you left?"
He hit the nail on the head. Hawke felt her cheeks grow hot, and she took a large drink of water to try to hide the fact. She set her glass down on the table and glanced up, only to see those large, deep eyes still focused intently on her. She wasn't going to weasel her way out of a response. "Well… yeah, I did."
To her surprise, his lips shifted into a faint, fleeting smile. "You are welcome to spend the evening here anytime."
"Wh- really? A-are you sure? I mean I hate to be a bother—" Hawke found herself word-vomiting as she stumbled her way around trying to find an appropriate response.
"I enjoy talking to you. And you turn the most interesting colours when you are flustered." His answer was smooth, his eyes never leaving her face, giving her no escape from her embarrassment.
Hawke felt the heat in her face stretch all the way out to her ears and she knew she had to be beet red by that point. Sure enough, the elf gave a brief little chuckle. The sound both surprised and delighted her, leaving her wishing he would laugh more. Still, perhaps it was the rarity of his laughter that made it so special. It transformed him from someone people classified as 'broody' and 'intimidating' to someone she desperately wanted to know better.
"Careful, Fenris," she managed to find her voice to mumble, "or I'll think you're flirting with me."
"Eat your soup, Hawke." He replied in that same smooth, unruffled tone, leaning back in his seat to drink his wine.
The rest of the meal passed in silence that wasn't uncomfortable. Hawke was feeling remarkably better now that she'd had a bath and some dinner, though she was still deeply tired. Still, as the elf rose to clean up and wash the dishes, she immediately followed to help him.
"You don't have to help."
"I know."
"Just let me—"
"Nope."
"Obstinate woman."
"Shush. Gimme the dishcloth."
"Hawke, I can handle this."
"I know, but I want to help." She answered with a grin, snatching the dishcloth from his hand and scooting into his personal space in front of the sink until he gave up and sidled away.
Feeling smug, Hawke set to washing the dishes… until the scowling elf smacked a large pile of soap bubbles at her. She retaliated by splashing water at him, and with the lines drawn there the kitchen devolved into a warzone. Within five minutes Hawke's hair was wet again, Fenris had a glob of bubbles on his chestplate, and both were staring at each other with wild eyes, waiting for the next attack.
Hawke made the first move, attempting to smack the man on the arm with the wet cloth in her hand. He saw it coming, however, and grabbed the offending square of fabric. A wrestling match over it began, and the diminutive woman didn't stand a chance against the lanky elf. He grabbed the cloth away, dunked it into the water, and wrung it out over her head before she could even process what was going on.
Now shrieking with giddy laughter, Hawke attempted to slosh a double-handful of water at Fenris, but he stepped back and most of it just got onto the floor and his feet. His counterattack was swift and merciless. Picking up the pitcher of water from the table nearby, he took the container in both hands and slung the contents out directly at her.
"Don't you da-aaaah!" she screamed, laughing still, as she was soaked to the skin once again.
"Are you going to let me wash the dishes now?" he asked in an infuriatingly satisfied tone.
"No way!" she sneered and launched herself at him. Or rather, she tried to, but her bare feet struggled for purchase on the slippery floor, and she nearly lost her balance, arms pinwheeling wildly.
In an instant he'd set the pitcher aside and had grasped both her arms to steady her, keeping her from faceplanting. The war over the dishes was forgotten, and Hawke found herself staring up into the elf's deep eyes. She became intensely aware of the feeling of his gauntleted fingertips squeezing at her arms, of the subtle way his lips just barely parted as he drew in a slow, ragged breath. Maker save her, she wanted those lips. They remained like that, hardly moving, for a long moment, separated only by a few inches.
Fenris was the first to look away, releasing her. "You should get to sleep. You must be tired." He said at last and turned away, taking fast strides away from the kitchen.
Bewildered, Hawke followed after him. Sleep? How could she sleep? Was he that disgusted by her that he couldn't bear to be so near to her?
Her host led her wordlessly to the bedroom he slept in and opened the door. A fire was already burning low in the fireplace, tossing shadows along the walls. "You can sleep here." He said quietly at last.
"What about you?"
"As I said, I rarely sleep." His tone was reserved, distant. He'd drawn the shutters closed, and she couldn't see him anymore.
"Alright," she agreed humbly, staring at her feet as she shuffled into the bedroom. "Thank you, Fenris."
The door clicking shut behind her was the only response, and she heard him pad off down the hall.
Hawke shut her eyes tightly as she crossed the room to the bed, drawing in a deep breath. Exhaustion and frustration and guilt were all fighting over which would take the forefront of her mind. She decided to just surrender to exhaustion. At least it wasn't a complicated feeling. Climbing into the bed and pulling the blanket up over herself, Hawke buried her face in the pillow and drew in another slow breath to calm herself.
But the pillow smelled like him—like the faint, woody, spicy aroma she sometimes caught an inkling of when they were traveling together. But here it was stronger and so undeniably his… Hawke felt her eyes lid, and she surrendered to the desire to sleep.
