Characters/Pairing: F!Hawke/Fenris
Rating: G
Word Count: 2800
Prompt: from lilouapproves: "Fenris/Hawke, punk rock :D"
Original Notes: lilou, oh lilou

"i have to make this one really good," i said, "because it's lilou, only i don't know anything about punk rock so it'll probably be pretty short, right"

ha, ha, ha

—

TAKING BACK NORMAL: An Interview with The Red Champions
by Varric Tethras

I'm standing in the foyer of one of the most famous couples in the country, about to make one of the most exclusive interviews of my already-illustrious career, and all I can think is that the whole place looks…normal.

Really normal. Almost disappointingly normal, considering the people who live here are known as much for their revolutionary lyrics as revolutionizing the punk rock scene. I listened to their latest album on the drive up here, looking for inspiration, and one of the lines that I remember best is "let the idol pierce the sky / we're getting out, you and I," from the bitter anthem Last Straw. But there's a vase with yellow flowers on a table by the door, and the hardwood floors are swept and polished, and the two dog leashes hanging neatly on a hook by the door don't have a single diamond embedded in them that I can see.

I'm about to check the umbrella stand for drug paraphernalia when the housekeeper shows up. She's a slender woman named Orana, and she's sweet enough I'm almost certain I'm at the wrong place after all, but she leads me up the stairs and down a maze of halls like I'm supposed to be there, and sure enough, by the time we get to the end of the labyrinth I can hear the soft plucking of musical strings behind a solid oak door. Orana knocks and opens the door for me, and then she heads back down the hall and suddenly the music stops and there I am, standing in an open doorway, looking at the people I came to interview.

At least they look a little closer to what I was expecting. The room is better too, the walls plastered with old rock posters, some signed, some torn and faded. Every inch of floor space—and there's a lot of it in this room, by the way—is covered with some kind of musical instrument: a baby grand in the corner, a worn-out drum kit, five electric guitars I can see from the doorway, a trumpet on a stand, an inexplicable full-size floor harp in front of the huge bay windows that overlook the back yard.

Fenris is on the couch set just in front of those windows. He's got a twelve-string acoustic guitar in his hands—the music I'd heard earlier, I figure—that he swings to one side as he stands to greet me. Hawke's there too, perched on the couch's arm; she shakes my hand and gathers up the handwritten sheet music she's scattered around herself, putting it in some order I can't begin to guess at. She sticks it on a clipboard and tucks her pencil behind her ear. I wonder if the rumors that Fenris can't read music are true.

"Glad you could make it," she says, sitting back on the arm of the couch, and unlike a lot of my interviewees, I think she really means it. I can just hear the accent left after ten years of living abroad. "Long trip?"

We make small talk about my travels as Fenris puts the guitar away. He's wearing jeans and a dark vest over a grey button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and of course he's barefoot. His hair's down too, the longer hair on top almost covering the side of his head that's shaved. Hawke's hair is shaggy and loose; she's wearing jeans and brown boots, along with a checkered scarf and a purple t-shirt that has a cartoon bird saying "Talk is cheep."

"I like the shirt," I say, nodding to it, and with her permission bring Bianca out to snap a few pictures. Hawke grins and elbows Fenris in the shoulder as he sits down beside her again; I grab a seat in the hard-backed chair next to the trumpet, close enough to talk comfortably.

"Fenris hates this shirt," Hawke tells me. "He thinks I should strive for a higher standard of linguistic wit."

Fenris rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too, and I'm reminded of why I'm here. "So," I say, pulling out my notebook, "you two want to get started?"

They do, although I think it's because they really just want to be done. But that's what happens when it turns out one of my best finds—The Dusters, if you've heard of them—ends up collaborating on the Red Champions' newest album, doing a good enough job in the process that I can get my foot in the door after the first live concert. It's not that I'm trying to dig up dirt—Varric Tethras is too good for that—but considering these two are about as private as their bassist isn't, I'm not passing up this chance.

"How is Isabela, by the way?" I ask, and by the time Hawke's finished telling me I regret asking.

Fenris smirks at my expression. "It's normal for her," he tells me, and I'm struck, as I always am, by how deep his voice is.

So I ask about it. "Why is it you won't get off drums? We've heard you sing on a couple tracks in the past, and you've obviously got the voice for it."

He shakes his head. "I don't have the right…temperament."

"He means he likes hiding behind the kit," Hawke offers. "It takes the right song to get him out of there, and he's picky as a child about the lyrics."

"Perhaps I know how much you prefer the spotlight," Fenris says dryly.

"Anders writes a lot of your songs, right?" I ask. It's a touchy subject, I know—and as soon as I say the name, a look of disgust flickers over Fenris's face. Their longstanding feud is public knowledge, ever since they once got into an open fistfight in the middle of a concert a few years back. But as much as they dislike each other they make great music, and as Hawke leans over his shoulder, I suddenly become sure that the rumors that she's constantly playing peacemaker are true. "He wrote both Justice and Vengeance, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Hawke says. "Justice was the top track of our first album. Anders was more of an idealist back then, not quite so run-down from our tour schedule. We're on the road a lot in the off-season." She glances at Fenris, who gives her a stony glare. "Vengeance came a couple years later, just before we did that stint in Europe where every show sold out. Nobody expected it to blow up like it did."

"Anders did," Fenris mutters, and I sense I'm losing him.

So I change the subject. "What's your favorite part of touring?"

"Coming home," Hawke says with a chuckle, but Fenris shrugs.

"I like the travel."

"What's your favorite place you've been?"

"Italy," they say together, and when Hawke laughs even Fenris cracks a smile. They tell me a bit about it—everyone knows it's where they met, almost seven years ago now—but I didn't know before today that it was when she literally ran him over with a moped. It's a funny story, and Hawke is funny when she's telling it, and by the end of it I'm laughing harder than I expect to. Even Fenris puts in a few comments here and there, sardonic and quiet and still just as entertaining.

"You know," I say, wiping the tears from my eyes, "you two should give more interviews together. You play off each other really well. More people should know you have a sense of humor."

Hawke elbows him again. "I've been saying that for years."

"No."

"He's been saying that for years, too."

"The public's loss," I sigh, but they start arguing good-naturedly about it, and for a while I sit back and just listen. They really do play well, both smart and quick-witted and they hold their own against each other, but what really gets me is that under the needling there's an obvious respect and affection that, frankly, I don't see a lot of in this business. Like a weird feeling that even without the mansion and the best-selling albums and the adoring fans, they'd still somehow like each other.

Eventually, Fenris makes some comment about Hawke's well-known inability to play the guitar, and she reaches over and tousles his hair into white, fluffy chaos. It's kind of sickening, honestly, especially when some of it catches on the piercings in his left ear, and she has to help untangle it again. Doesn't stop me from taking pictures of it, though.

"So, speaking of…" I gesture between them helpfully, "how'd you two start?"

"Honestly?" Hawke throws Fenris a sideways glance that makes me perk up. He gives her some look I can't read, and she turns back to me. "We were friends first," she says, shrugging. "For a long time. And then we had what we thought was a fling right after we started the band, only neither of us could forget it after. Hard to let it fade when you're on stage together every night and a cramped bus all day."

"Isabela refused to let it rest," Fenris adds, scowling. There's not much real irritation to it.

"You did seem to be on-again, off-again for a while, there."

"It was rough," Hawke says. This time Fenris doesn't look away as she talks. "We were both stressed. Vengeance got us a lot of attention in a very short time. We weren't ready for it, and it drained everybody but Isabela trying to cope. Even Sebastian talked about quitting for a while, but Fenris talked him into sticking around."

Fenris purses his lips. "You more than me."

"You tell me where else we were supposed to find a classically-trained strings master that we both actually liked as a person."

"I can play the lap-harp," I offer, and they both laugh. "But rumor has it you've made up pretty thoroughly."

Hawke laughs again, though it's a bit more rueful. "You're talking about the Kirkwall thing."

I shrug. It's the second most-popular hit for the Red Champions on YouTube, just after the music video for Vengeance. It's a phone video taken from about the twentieth row of an outdoor arena, not great quality but good enough to see faces. They've just finished Mirror Image at a sold-out concert in Kirkwall—you can hear the tambourines in the background over the drums as Fenris finishes up the song. He's obviously killed it with how loud the crowd's screaming, with how the rest of the band is grinning at him despite how sweaty they all are. Hawke's standing closest; she claps for him around the mic she's forgotten she's still holding, pushes her damp hair out of her eyes with a broad grin, and says something the mic doesn't pick up. Then the video zooms in on the two of them as he half-stands behind the drum kit, leaning over the toms to answer with his sticks held in one hand.

Nobody knows what she says. Nobody knows what he answers, either, despite the thousands of YouTube comments trying to read their lips; the only thing to be sure of is that all of a sudden Hawke's behind the drums, wrapping both arms around Fenris so hard she just about knocks him over, the mic squealing with feedback as she drops it in order to make out with her drummer for almost a full minute. And when I say make out—well, it's a good thing the camera's not any closer, I guess. That much enthusiasm can be dangerous in close proximity.

It's a pretty great video, actually. They both look utterly embarrassed when it's over—Fenris in particular looks ready to die—but Isabela's whooping louder than the crowd by the time Hawke manages to find her mic and get back to the front of the stage for the next song. One of the girls standing near the guy holding the camera keeps shouting "Kiss him again!" It gets annoying after the fourth or fifth time, but somehow they get it together to start A Bitter Pill, though they keep looking at each other, and the video cuts out halfway through the first verse.

It's a lot like they're looking at each other now, actually. Warmth hidden under a lot of mortification.

"Yeah," Hawke says slowly, and covers her face with her hands. "That was…yeah."

"Don't tell me it still bothers you. A lot of people love to see the human side of their heroes."

Fenris snorts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his fingers loosely clasped between them. "Such as it is."

"He made me give a solemn promise to never do something like that again," Hawke tells me.

I chuckle. "So when are you tying the knot, then?"

I expect them to deny it, honestly. It's what most people do when I ask, or they hedge with something noncommittal, like a we're thinking about maybe sometime in the future or it depends on how the next months go or we haven't really talked about it. What I don't expect is for Fenris to tip his head and look at Hawke, or for Hawke to look down at Fenris with the oddest smile on her face.

I'm not one for Kodak moments, but I'm also not an idiot. I get about six fantastic shots of them like that, looking at each other, his elbows on his knees in that button-down shirt and vest, her sitting on the arm of the couch with her shaggy dark hair and her purple talk is cheep, the huge window behind them spilling sunlight over their shoulders like a bucket's been dumped out. Then Hawke looks at me.

"Truth is, we already did."

I am going to single-handedly save the dying print industry with this story. "…When?"

"About…" she glances up to the ceiling, then at Fenris, "six months ago?"

"Just after the Glasgow show," he agrees. "It was…sudden."

"By which he means that we stopped at a courthouse on the way back to the hotel. Very sudden."

"Why did you choose then?"

"I don't know," Hawke says, and looks at Fenris again. "It just seemed like it was time to stop waiting."

Fenris nods. Smiles, too, though it's a bit reluctant, and when Hawke ruffles his hair again he rolls his eyes. "It did result in a number of disappointed bettors."

"For your information, Isabela's still holding a grudge against me."

Fenris laughs, and I shake my head, and after a few more questions I can hardly remember, the interview winds to a close. I check with them twice that it's okay for me to print this—I do not want to deal with the honorable Aveline Hendyr, Esq. or her legendary pursuit of her clients' unwanted paparazzi—but Hawke assures me it's fine, and Fenris doesn't disagree outside a few insincere grumbles about privacy.

"Aveline said we ought to let it out," Hawke tells me as we walk back to the front door. "And of all the journalists Merrill found, you seemed to be the one with the most integrity."

I shake my head as I slip my notes back in my bag, as Fenris opens the front door of this blastedly normal house. "Most people would consider that an oxymoron, you know."

"Yeah, well. Were we wrong?"

I look at Hawke. She's smiling, leaning against Fenris in the doorway; he looks just about as relaxed as she is, and I can see his hand curling around her waist as if he's used to holding her. Normal, I think again, but I remember the car accident that killed her dad, and the rumors of a rough childhood that gave him some pretty horrible scars. The media raking them both to pieces over the band, the tragedies, the break-ups and make-ups. Maybe they deserve a little normal for once.

"No," I say at last. "You weren't wrong."

When I finally leave, it's with a promise to send them a copy of the article and a pair of front-row tickets to their next show. Isabela, apparently, wants to meet me with a few ideas for some new articles. There's a backstage pass, too, if I decide to go, and somehow I figure there might be a beautiful partnership in here if I play my cards right. And why not? It seems like fun.

They'll need someone to photograph the honeymoon tour, after all.