Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: G
Word Count: 1200
Notes: Not for any specific prompt; rather, I was inspired by some fanart of a grumpy Fenris in a dapper 1940s style hat. I wrote the first section as a little tag on that piece; then, at an anon's request, I borrowed jillyfae's magnificent Dragon Age mafia world to expand it a little further.
Fanart, by needlesslycryptic, here: tinyurl dotcom /nwx4sh2
Jilly's original AU here: tinyurl dotcom /qazsm8q
—
I knew the man was trouble when he walked in.
Not that I saw him enter—the first inkling I had that I wasn't alone in my office in the middle of the night was the cold smooth barrel of a Smith & Wesson sliding tenderly under my right ear. Not the friendliest greeting I've ever had, but when you're a struggling private eye in one of the seediest districts in a seedier city, you take the jobs you get. Varric would've said I deserved it. Isabela would've said I enjoyed it.
But hey, steel muzzle tickling my jaw, I wasn't going to complain—not where the guy could hear me, anyway. I turned real slow, hands up, not even looking down at the glass of whiskey holding my notes from my last case in place on the desk. I couldn't see his face properly in the dim streetlights slatting through my blinds, dark skin even darker with how low his hat was jammed over his face. Then he stepped forward into the little pool of light spilling out of my desk lamp to get the gun back against my neck, and I couldn't help but sigh.
Isabela was right about the nose for trouble. I've always had a weakness for big sad green eyes.
—
A dime novel would've called him a leggy blond with soulful eyes, but I figured I should stick to Fenris, at least until he put the gun away. He had a jaw like an anvil and a voice that purred smooth as a Cadillac, and a trigger finger itchy enough to keep me safe on my side of the desk.
He had a penchant for lurking, too. Once I got him off the subject of introductions—namely, concerning his revolver and my face—he loosened up just enough for me to think his shoulders might be a little more flexible than marble. He stuck to the shadows of the room like a hunted rat, pacing side to side; I stayed where I was, both hands on the desk, wondering if he was the kind of man to shoot someone over a drink.
Most people were in my business, I'd found, but we weren't getting anywhere like this. I picked up my glass, nice and slow. He twitched a little, like a stranger had just tickled his toes, but it kept his eyes on the drink and not my other hand, sliding open the lap drawer in the desk where I kept my own special companion: a .38 special with a custom grip, to be exact. The whiskey was warm all the way down, and when the glass was empty I tipped it in his direction.
"I am not thirsty," he said, proving us both liars, but Kirkwall was made of lies and one more couldn't make much difference.
I left the bottle on the desk anyway, sitting in the little pool of light spilling out of the one lit lamp in the dark room. "Fine by me," I said, sweet as sugar, and set the empty glass down on the notes for old lady Meredith's case again. Not my favorite job—I never liked going after runaways—but the battleaxe had friends in high places and I had friends in low ones, and when your brother's boss called in a favor it wasn't easy to say no. "You got a reason for the visit, or you just wanted to stare into my eyes?"
He made a noise like a steam-engine hissing and came closer, just enough I could see those deep greens under the brim of his hat again. "I was told you could…find people."
I wasn't one for playing cagey, but something told me this wasn't my typical philanderer. "Depends on who told you."
"I have a sister," he said, desperate-like, and then before I knew it he was spilling out the whole sordid story. It wasn't my usual fare, full of twisted experiments and an Italian madman and a hostage nobody was sure even needed to be rescued, but I didn't have any doubts I could get the guy his sister back until he dropped a name like a gallon of icewater on me right at the end.
"Le Monstre," I said, shaking my head, and sat down again behind my desk. The chair creaked dangerously as I leaned back, but it'd been doing that for years and hadn't broken yet. I hoped this wasn't going to be a day of firsts. "Sorry, pal. You'll have to find someone else."
"There is no one else," he growled, and for the first time I got a real sense of how this guy might be dangerous too. He smoothed a hand over his jacket, his mind obviously a million miles away; then he snapped back like Indian rubber and stalked fast enough towards me I reached for the .38. He stopped just as my fingers curled around steel, his fists coming knuckle-down on the far side of the desk, making the cheap gold whiskey dance in its bottle. "I tell you, no one else will help me."
"I don't care if she's my sister. Any friend of Le Monstre's off-limits."
"Danarius is not his friend. He is—a business associate. A distant associate."
"You're a damn poor liar."
He swore in some language I didn't know, then tore off his hat with one hand and reached into his suit-jacket with the other. The .38 leapt to my hand like it was born there, aimed square between his eyes—he froze, just for a second, and then just as slow as I'd moved earlier, he pulled out a fat stack of greenbacks and tossed it to the desk between us. Enough to feed Beth and my mother for a month, easy. Better money than I'd seen in years.
"It's all I have," he snarled, and then he leaned forward into the light of the lamp at last, close enough I could see the ink on his chin. His hair wasn't even blond—white as china where it fell over his face, and his eyes even greener than I'd expected. Desperate and angry and even worse, flickering with hope. "I need your help."
He might as well have played me like a piano. I sighed, set the gun back in its drawer, and reached for the whiskey again. Cheap as sin and burned all the way down, and this time when I offered him the bottle, he took it. Suspicious, and he coughed when he swallowed, but it was enough for me to figure out how far I'd gone over the edge already.
"Pull up a chair, wise guy," I told him, already weary from how many sleepness nights I was about to get myself, and reached for the folder of blank contracts my secretary Orana had drawn up ages ago. "I'll take the case."