Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3500
Notes: Kind of a long set-up for this one. In essence, servantofclio made an awesome post about writing what you want, I reblogged it and added something goofy about pretend marriage telepathic secret spy AUs, and then silksieve told me to write it and this happened.

Original Notes: This isn't exactly telepathic, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances. It's also not quite as I'd imagined it in my head, but I don't think it's ever going to be anything more than what it is, and I don't want to invest a thousand hours into research and remodeling when I have giveaway fics still tap-tap-tapping at my chamber door.

So anyway, here. Have 3500 words of tropey unresearched unbetaed goofy fluffy Fenris/Hawke secret spy pretend marriage, because how could I not?

—

She can't get his voice out of her head.

Figuratively, that is, which is part of her damned problem. For someone who ought to be desperately in love Fenris is standoffish as an iceberg, and even the small comms they've had tucked into their ears since before she'd arrived at the airport hotel haven't transmitted a sound except an occasional deep, annoyed mutter. It'd been bad enough when her handler had let her into one of the hotel's tiny rooms near midnight—Varric gives her the worst shit-eating grin she'd ever seen when he opens the door to let her in—and then she sees this so-called Fenris behind him, perched on the edge of the perfectly-made bed: freshly-dyed black hair, bizarre tattoos, crossed arms, a scowl dark enough to crack glass. The silence lasts all of two seconds before he starts talking, and even though he's so irritated at the whole situation he lapses into Italian twice Hawke can't muster the slightest inclination to stop him.

That his accent is spine-meltingly smooth doesn't hurt, either, even if his Italian curses are rather more vivid than his English ones.

But Fenris's anger tapers off behind cold control soon enough, and he doesn't offer another word as Varric registers their comm frequencies and distributes both new passports and a sizeable sum of miscellaneous currency. He doesn't even say goodbye when Varric leaves them to it near one in the morning, still grinning like an ass; instead he only takes the one small bag allowed him into the tiny bathroom adjacent and starts a shower hot enough that even through the closed door Hawke's hair begins to curl. When it becomes apparent he has no intention of joining her anytime soon—in their one bed or otherwise—she gives up on conversation, checks the locks on the windows and doors twice, and crawls under the covers. Cheap hotel sheets, lumpy hotel pillows, grumpy handsome man in her hotel shower…

Stop it. Idiot.

Her training keeps her from real sleep with a stranger so close, but she manages to coax herself to a light doze for almost an hour before she hears the water cut off. She'd left the small bedside lamp on for his sake—even a master-class spy with a penchant for punnery had the occasional consideration for the stubbing of bare toes—and she cracks an eye to watch him as he crosses the dim room, still scowling, his damp black hair still dripping, his tailored button-up replaced with a soft, long-sleeved shirt and sleeping pants two inches too long.

He doesn't stub his toe. Instead he drops his bag in front of the dark television, glances once at the empty place in the bed—and at Hawke, watching quietly—and then crams himself into the faux-leather armchair next to the room's overworked air conditioning unit.

Fine. She turns out the light and rolls to her other side, unconcerned with his determination to pull every muscle in his back. He's not the one playing bodyguard, after all.

He shifts twice during the night. She gets up the second time, throws one of the bed's extra blankets over his shoulders. His eyes fly open, instant and wide and terrified—then in the space of a second it becomes embarrassment, and anger, and—nothing. His hands curl around the blanket's edge; she takes herself back to bed.

She's seen that hunted look before.

—

The morning, however, brings little improvement to their relationship. Fenris scowls through her morning workout, scowls through their room-service breakfast, scowls as she lays out, step by step, her rather meticulously-organized briefing on how she plans to keep him alive, considering he's the current target of organizations in power so long they've become dynasties. Three words she manages to eke out ("no," "no," and "no") between him changing back into the button-down (achieved in the bedroom, while she's blow-drying her hair), Hawke herself changing into her neat, unremarkable vest and dark jeans (also in the bedroom, after he goes back to the hall mirror for the third time to frown at his black hair). Then she slings her duffel over one shoulder as she tosses him the other, and all that's left is—

"Here comes the bride," she says, and holds out her hand palm-up to Fenris.

He grimaces. Three rings between the two of them: an engagement diamond and two silver bands, one wider than the other. There's a long, stretching moment where she thinks he's about to protest; then at her look he snatches the man's band with a muttered curse and shoves it onto his fourth finger, where it glints oddly against the silver tattoos. Processed, refined lyrium, those, the gross domestic product of a small country—and embedded in his wrist a microscopic datachip with enough of Danarius's secrets to endanger six of Interpol's most wanted.

Hawke grins and slides on her own rings, impressed despite herself at Varric's taste. "I can hear the bells chiming already. Ready, darling?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Call me such things." His knuckles are so tight around his bag's strap that the tendons have pulled tight under the skin. "My name is Fenris."

"Fenris," she repeats, and tucks her arm through his, sidling close enough she can feel him stiffen head to toe. "You can call me whatever you like, so long as you don't get yourself killed."

"I don't intend to die."

"I don't intend to let you." Hawke grins at his glare, drops a quick kiss on his cheek. "Just relax. We're a couple of honeymooners in the middle of wedding season. All you have to do is put up with a little harmless affection in public; as soon as we get you to the London office you can be as prickly as you like."

A muscle jumps in his jaw as he looks away, but a moment later she feels his stiffness cave with his resistance. "Fine. Do what you must."

She opens the door to the hotel's narrow, brightly-carpeted hallway, laughing as she tugs him after her. "A happy marriage already."

—

If nothing else, he's easy on the eyes. And sturdy, too; she leans on him just a little more than is polite as they work their way through the terminals, glancing up through her eyelashes and smiling every time he frowns. More than once she has to link her fingers through his as he reaches up to scratch his chin; Merrill's disguise tech is weightless and wafer-thin and visually impeccable—she'd started teaching herself in the mirror when she was ten—but the adhesive around the edges is always itchy as hell the first hour or so. She checks the boards in absent habit as they pass, tracking the departing flights for secondary and tertiary escape routes if necessary. Amsterdam, Beijing, Honolulu.

"I wish we were going to Hawaii," she says when they take their seats at last in the terminal's flimsy rows of chairs. Terminal N-7: the absolute farthest walk from the hotel possible. Of course.

"Why?"

"Why not? It's tropical, it's beautiful, it's isolated. And I have some friends there."

He glances over his shoulder at the racket of a toppling suitcase, his eyebrows furrowed, but when Hawke follows his gaze she sees nothing out of the ordinary save a short, red-bearded man sneaking a drink from a flask behind one of the sunglasses kiosks. Fenris closes his eyes, shakes his head; then he says, "I suspect you have friends in most places."

"It happens in this business. They either kill you in the first strike, or you start going to movies together every Saturday as soon as everyone's out of hospital." More than that, if Zev had had his way—

He snorts. "How trustworthy."

"Well, you know. Different strokes." An older woman with grey hair pulled back in a bun is watching them benevolently from the terminal's check-in desk; Hawke turns her whole body towards Fenris, propping her chin on her hand as she leans close enough to him to feel the air change. "Don't tell me you've never wanted to lie back on a white beach with a breeze blowing through your hair, a fruity drink loaded with tequila, and a tiny little umbrella to stir it with."

If she hadn't been so close she'd never have seen it. The corner of his mouth twitches up in just the barest hint of amusement; then it is gone again, though not before Hawke's own grin widens. Fenris sees her smile and looks away, his mouth opening, but he is saved by the last second by their call to board. Right on time, as expected.

"Come on," Hawke says, relenting, and pats his shoulder as she stands. "Let's get this show in the air."

—

It's the knuckles that give him away. His shoulders are loose, his face calm—and his fingers are noticeably white around the armrest as the plane taxis forward onto the runway. Hawke ignores it at first, as he's clearly sensitive about her… well, noticing things, but when the plane's engines open throttle and his knuckles honest-to-goodness creak, she can't help but cover his hand with her own and offer the most encouraging look she has. It helps that business class runs only two seats wide on the window side of the aisle, giving them a modicum of privacy; as it is, the older woman with the bun across the way already has out her reading glasses and her book, a romance novel from last year Hawke had read on one of the worst stakeouts she'd ever had.

She closes her eyes at the thought, letting out a breath at the memory of Chateau Haine. She still has some of the scars from that wyvern-genetic-experiment-thing's acid teeth. Some things were just not meant to exist.

Regardless, both she and Fenris survive the plane's ascent to cruising altitude, and by the time they level out most of the color's come back to Fenris's face. He even masters himself enough to give her a brief nod of thanks, which Hawke figures is at least step one in Maintaining a Healthy Fake Relationship With One's Fake Spouse. She squeezes his hand once, then lets go. "You think you'll make it?"

"I imagine so."

"Bad flight, once? Or just a general fear?"

"Both." He looks as if he'd like to end the conversation there, but when Hawke offers a smile warm enough to make a bachelor blush he sighs and drops his voice. "I have never liked the idea. Then my first flight… truthfully, I don't remember much of it. I was sedated for the most part. I only remember a great deal of turbulence worsening every injury I already had."

Hawke lifts an eyebrow, drawing her thumbnail in a short line from the center of her chin down her throat. Fenris's lip curls as he continues. "Just so. The facility had been compromised, and D— my former master was forced to abandon it. I, of course, was brought along."

He looks so bitter. She'd like to say—something, but just as she starts to speak the seatbelt light above the cabin doors flicks off, and that's her cue. Fenris lifts his eyebrow as she unbuckles and leans over to kiss his cheek again; when she pulls back she tugs playfully on his ear. "I'm going to stretch my legs a moment. Don't go anywhere."

His jaw tightens, and when she unbuckles her seatbelt he turns away from her to the tiny square window at his elbow. "I'll be right back," she tells him more softly, meaning it, regretting his anger. "And, for what it's worth—thanks for telling me."

He doesn't look at her. But he nods, short and sharp, and when she looks back his hands have begun to relax around the armrests.

—

"Test, test, one two three."

"What?" Fenris snaps, and Hawke grins. She's never heard a whisper so ferocious before.

"Just checking. All clear in the cargo bay."

"Stop it." He pauses, and Hawke can practically see him readjusting himself to look more unapproachable than he already is, mouth hidden behind his fist, glaring out the window at farmland thirty-seven thousand feet below. "This is the third time."

She zips up the beaten leather suitcase, then stands, stretching her back. "Someone's got a thing for lace. Anyway, maybe I just missed your voice, oh husband mine."

An inarticulate noise of disgust. "This farce."

Hawke grins again, wading through luggage to the narrow access ladder on the far wall. She'd timed it with the airline attendants' dispersal of overpriced snacks and lukewarm sodas; she still has two and a half minutes before they return to their tiny cordoned pantry in the back. Plenty of time. "I told you. The agency wanted the best for you, so you got me. And my best alias has been engaged for three years." She grips the ladder, swings herself up. "And since you happen to be both the right age and gender for her fiancé—congratulations to the both of us."

There's a distant, tinny greeting in her ear as the airline attendant hands Fenris his…whatever drink he's chosen. Something alcoholic, probably. He doesn't thank her where Hawke can hear it—she can imagine the terse nod clearly enough anyway—but as the squeaky wheels of the pushcart go silent Fenris speaks again. There's nothing but cold concentration in his voice now, even if the volume's barely above a breath.

"That woman had a button camera on her jacket."

Hawke goes still on the ladder. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw it first; then I heard the shutter."

"Shit."

"Yes."

"Nothing flagged on the manifest from this morning. I'll double-check. Sit tight."

Silence, as expected. Hawke hooks an ankle around the ladder's spindly uprights and pulls out her phone. Ninety seconds. A bit of Anders's tech lets her get into the records; a few moments later, she's filtered out all passengers with tickets booked more than two days before the flight, when their own tickets had been purchased. Eight names out of a hundred and fifty. Two of them are hers and Fenris's; two another married couple, the other four apparently unconnected. She pulls up their records, grateful for the airline's decent Wi-Fi, and realizes what the grating sound in her ear is. "Stop grinding your teeth."

He makes another noise of frustration, but stops. Then, a second later: "She's coming back."

"Stay calm. I'm on my way." Forty seconds. A well-known businesswoman, an artist, a divorcee with two small children, nothing—she just needs a little more time—

His voice is edged. "Hawke—"

She knows the face the instant it pops onto her phone's screen. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn— "I've got it. ETA twenty seconds."

"Do you need a refill?" The woman's voice, professional, perfectly solicitous.

"No," Fenris says in her ear, just low enough she almost misses it behind the creak of the hatch over her head. The attendants' nook is empty, the curtain still drawn just as she'd left it; Hawke takes the precious two seconds to smooth her hair back and dust off her jeans, and then she's through the curtain and closing the cracked bathroom door to her left with a slap. The aisle's clear all the way to business class, dozens of heads all facing forward, dark and blonde and red and in the distance one single silver, turned to the lovely airline attendant leaning towards him over Hawke's empty seat.

She can see the woman's lips moving with her words, the comm in her ear barely carrying the thin sound. "Are you sure? You don't look too good."

"I'm fine." Close enough to hear that one with her own ears—

She doesn't run. She's very proud of that. She manages one quick whisper: "Going to kiss you, please don't kill me—" and sees Fenris's eyes flick back towards her, and then she's sliding between the attendant and the armrest into her empty seat and her hand's on Fenris's shoulder as she leans in, and she's kissing him.

It's not long, not intimate, nothing inappropriate for a public place. It's still as familiar as she can make it between two near-total strangers, though to his credit Fenris neither flinches nor tries to hit her, and he doesn't pull away until she does. All in all, it's a pretty good kiss for someone who's been complaining in her head for the last ten minutes.

"Welcome back," he says, and she just barely suppresses the eyebrow trying to shoot into her hairline. That's not bad either, for an amateur.

Instead she says, "Thanks," and offers him one of her best crooked smiles, and then she looks up at the woman still waiting in the aisle. "Sorry, was I interrupting something?"

"Just thought your husband might like another drink. He wasn't looking well."

"Oh?" She glances over. "Are you all right, honey?"

His eyes close as he turns to the window, and Hawke bites down hard on the inside of her cheek. "I'm fine."

"If you say so. Actually, I'll take a bottled water, if you've got one."

It's four damn euro, but she does, and once she hands it off the attendant vanishes into the back with the pushcart. Hawke settles back into her seat, annoyed at her own pulse's racing as she opens the bottle; Fenris glances at her from the corner of his eye, silently, but she can hear the question loud as a bell.

She unfolds her hand between them in answer. In her palm, black and pristine and still clicking away happily, lies the attendant's button cam.

—

"What are you doing?" Fenris hisses, and Hawke clamps a hand over his mouth.

"Shush."

He grips her by the wrist—and he's strong, stronger than she'd realized—and drags her hand away. "We should leave. Now."

"We will," Hawke insists, and flattens them both into the nook in the shadows just inside the terminal's exit. They're hidden in a small recessed hallway, meant for the employees-only maintenance door behind them; the rest of the passengers stream by to Hawke's left, unbroken, entirely uninterested in the pair of tired travelers taking a breather out of the line of traffic.

"If you mean to kill me—"

"Then I'd have done it last night while you were giving yourself the back cramps from hell. Stop talking."

He snarls in Italian, his jaw tightening enough she can hear his teeth grind again, but he doesn't try to leave a second time as the flow of passengers begins to slacken, then drops away altogether. A few minutes more and two of the attendants pass by, then three, then four—and at last the pilot and copilot, laughing about some coworker's rough flight that morning.

Then silence.

Fenris is stiff as a poker beside her. Hawke puts a calming hand on his wrist and considers it a victory he doesn't shove her away—and at last, just as the distant mechanical whine warns them the covered walkway is being retracted, she hears the click of high heels echoing down the hall's laminate tile.

They stop just before her branching hallway, just so that Hawke can see the flash of long, brown leg, the uniform's skirt slid two inches too high for regulation. "Hello, sweet thing," says the airline attendant.

Hawke grins despite herself and steps into the light, flicking the button cam into the air between them. "Hello, Isabela."

"Good to see you too." She catches the cam without looking, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, and gives Fenris a brilliant smile. "And if you two'd like to survive the next twenty-four hours—which I think you would—you'd better come with me."

—