Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: K
Word Count: 700
Prompt: V: an abandoned place, from whatthefawxblogs.
—
"My, my, my," Hawke says, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind, "what have we here?"
"You brought me here, Hawke," Fenris points out, just in case she has forgotten, and determinedly does not allow himself to be affected by the way her chin drapes over his shoulder. They have been on the road through the Free Marches for weeks since Kirkwall's chantry exploded; they do not have time now for Hawke's vagaries of mood. "You said you had something to show me."
"This is it."
"This?" He blinks, looks up; a ruined chantry in the dead of night, long abandoned by its worshipers, altar and pews alike dusted with a fine coat of neglect in the moonlight. Green ivy has begun to grow over Andraste's gold idol; a piece of the far roof has caved in, stars glinting pale and clear through the rubble. "A ruin, Hawke. Hardly worth the stop."
"You're not looking with your imagination," Hawke murmurs, laughing, and nips at his ear. "Be imaginative, Fenris."
He purses his lips, turns his head enough towards her that she can catch his mouth in a kiss, her teeth dragging teasingly over his bottom lip. Even now it's enough to spark heat low in his gut; he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer against him, and sighs when she eventually pulls her mouth away. "What do you want, Hawke?" he says again, low and rougher than he means it, and a slow, dangerous smile spreads over her face.
"I love you so very much," she murmurs, stroking one thumb over his cheek. "I do hope you know that."
"Yes," he says, because he does, and he allows her when she moves to lead him down the aisle towards the altar, pew after silent pew passing on either side, the white marble-carved statues of Hessarian and Brona and Cathaire peaceful observers of every step. Her hand tightens around his own as they reach Andraste, the ivy wrapped to her waist and higher as if in longing, and Hawke turns to face him with her eyes gleaming.
"I love you," she says again, and shrugs. "I probably will for the rest of my life. Which, for the record, I intend to spend with you. I hope that's all right."
Her eyes are so bright in the moonlight. Fenris takes a step closer, following the tug of her hand in the silence of this forgotten chantry, no witness but the stars and the saints and Andraste, dressed in the green growth of new ivy.
"Hawke," he says, and sees her shudder at her own name. "I am yours."
She lifts her chin; he kisses her, gently, and again, and again, and again. "As long as there is life in me," he murmurs against her mouth, "I will go with you. Do not doubt that."
"Damn you," she says, the first tears tracing down her cheeks, and when she pulls him back with her against the plinth Andraste stands upon he doesn't hesitate to follow. Her fingers slide under his shirt; he finds her belt and looses it, caught up in the quiet rush of her touch, the abrupt loosening of all weight, no worry, no fear.
They do not move again until the moonlight has given way to the early blush of new dawn, the stars at last begun to fade, the ivy that wraps the statue's base fading from green to a new, pale gold. Even the white-stone statues that line the walls seem warmer than before, tinged with the light of a new day.
Hawke kisses him as they dress again, her hands so warm even now, her smile sparking his own in reluctant answer, a constant even after so many years. She smiles again, her hand folding into his, and he pauses only once at the door of the ruined building to look back into the hallowed, silent peace.
"Thank you," he says gravely, "for the loan of your chantry."
He's not sure, but he thinks Andraste smiles.
—
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Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: K
Word Count: 600
Prompt: T. An obscure AU: Galaxy Quest, from perahn.
—
Nothing in his career has prepared him for this.
For a moment he can't even breathe, arrested by the sight of stars unfolding before the window in an endless roll, the curve of the Earth blue and white and so very small in the distant black, and in the bay below them, the clean lines so familiar he sees them in his sleep, the stylized wings along the nacelles as stark and red as he remembers—
"The D.A.S. Dragon," Hawke says behind him, glee in every word, "is ready to fly."
—
As soon as Isabela's managed to steer them out of the dock and Merrill's terrifyingly enthusiastic Dalish have taken the rest of the crew for the tour of a ship he still can't quite believe is real, Fenris pulls Hawke to the nearest empty hallway.
"You cannot possibly be serious," he hisses.
She pulls her arm away, gestures to the window that lines the hallway, some distant planet he doesn't know sliding green and gold beside them. "Serious? Fenris, this is the most serious I've ever been in my life. Look at this!"
It is beautiful. It is also beside the point. "Hawke, they want us to negotiate at a table of war. There's no script for this."
Hawke flaps a hand, the bars of her nonexistent rank glinting at her collar. Fenris wants to tear the damn things off and throw them out the nearest airlock, along with his false ears and Anders's prop staff with the blue LEDs that make the Dalish flinch every time he hits the switch. "It's just talking, Fenris. I've always been good at that. Come on, remember Naples?"
He does remember Naples. That had been the early years of the show, when he'd still thought there was more to his character than the weaponsmaster defeated by an enemy the writers wanted to make a better threat. When he'd let himself believe the tension between his character and Hawke's had meant something off the stage, too.
She'd kissed him, in Naples. They'd had one night, and he'd realized immediately there could be nothing else if the show was to continue. Still, they'd been up to the first hours of the morning, just talking, and he hadn't…regretted. Not that. "Naples was a long time ago."
"And this is now." Hawke steps forward, that same impossible smile on her face, her eyes bright and shining with stars. "Look at where we are. Look at what we can do. Fenris, this is the adventure of our lives. We can't miss it because we're afraid."
His hand lifts despite himself, wraps around the red sleeve of her commander's uniform. Cotton and polyester and so mundane for where they are, and somehow the familiar texture is a comfort even through the prosthetic tattoos lining his fingers. Two hours in makeup this morning for the con, the same as it's been every working morning for ten years, ever since he'd left Shakespeare and Marlowe for a soundstage in California with terrible air conditioning and a roof that leaked when it rained.
"Hawke," he says, his voice low, "be careful."
"I'm always careful," she says, grinning, and then her head ducks another inch towards him, and some bone-deep reflex has him leaning his own in answer. How many years—
"Oh!" Merrill says brightly. "Here you are!"
Fenris jerks his face to the window as Hawke turns to answer the cheerful elfin woman. Idiot, to let starlight and an impossible ship weaken him so quickly. Six years of resolve, six years of watching Hawke date her way through the rest of the crew, a number of fans, and a short fling with the showrunner himself; six years of steadfastly ignoring the looks after every private scene between their characters. They'd never even kissed on the show.
An adventure. Nothing more.
—
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Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: K
Word Count: 800
Prompt: C. A moment's respite, from rannadylin.
—
"That man," says Corda, collapsing with a gusty sigh next to her on the log, "is the most difficult, unpleasant—"
"I told you—"
"—uncivil—"
"I said from the beginning you were wasting your time—"
"—handsome—"
"I said—what?"
"—unfriendly elf I have ever had the displeasure of meeting."
Charlotte purses her lips around another bite of the tired, overcooked vegetables the camp cook has prepared for tonight's supper. They're not that big a party, out here only for reconnaissance on the templars afflicted by red lyrium, but the elf accompanying their Inquisitor might be utterly alone for how much attention he pays anyone but Lady Trevelyan. "Didn't you say you liked a challenge?"
"Lottie," Corda whines, drawing out the last syllable. "He told me he wasn't interested in conversation!"
Charlotte laughs, and when her twin nudges her in the shoulder she nudges her back. "Just because you've finally found someone willing to be honest with you doesn't mean you should give up."
Corda gives a long groan and stretches out her feet before the log. Her boots are crusted with mud and silt, testament to the rough pace Fenris had set for his small team over the hill today, and her shortbow has stains spattered by the handgrip Charlotte can't quite identify.
"I think," Corda says at last, her eyes closed and her face turned up to the night sky, "I'll braid my hair tomorrow."
"Well, you're not the only one with news. If you can stand to hear me talk about someone that isn't you, anyway."
"Don't tease, Lottie. I'm too tired."
"The Champion of Kirkwall's supposed to come to the camp tonight."
Corda jerks upright, knocks Charlotte's sheathed sword from the log, and nearly upends the boiled vegetables into the dirt. "You're lying."
"Never so. Inquisitor got a raven this afternoon."
"Really." A faraway look enters Corda's eyes, always the more romantic of the two of them. "Do you think she's like the stories?"
"They never are, are they?"
"She might be. She might be willing to talk about it. Maybe she'll let us ask."
"You are too caught up in dragons," Charlotte says severely, and that's when the hoofbeats sound through the trees at the bottom of the hill. A few minutes later, they ride into the camp together, the Champion ahead on a black gelding, Varric and Cassandra behind on their own horses with heavier packs lashed behind their saddles.
"Ta-da!" the Champion sings out, her laugh carrying through the camp, and as Senick takes her horse's head, she dismounts with a good deal too much energy for someone who's been tramping through the Emerald Graves all afternoon. "I told you we'd find it eventually."
"Only because I had a map," Cassandra says, dismounting herself, but she's smiling as the Inquisitor comes to greet them. They chat for a few minutes, too low for Charlotte to make out at this distance, and then Cassandra and Varric peel away to head towards the campfire and dinner, and the Inquisitor turns with Hawke towards the camp table spread with maps and documents.
"Lady Trevelyan's taller than she is," Corda observes at last.
"You sound disappointed."
Corda hums, toying with the end of her ponytail, and Charlotte's just about to return to her vegetables when her sister stiffens. "Ooh," she hums. "This should be interesting."
Charlotte follows her eyes across the camp just in time to see the elf emerge from his tent. His shoulders are high and tense, his jaw set, and he doesn't hesitate as he goes directly to meet the Inquisitor and the Champion. He says something to them both, his voice too low to hear, and then the Champion leans forward with a wink and flicks something from his shoulder.
"Well," says Corda, but the rest is lost in an embarrassed little gasp as Fenris catches Hawke's wrist and pulls her directly into a kiss. It's neither prolonged nor improper in any way, but it's certainly familiar to the both of them, and by the time they part Fenris has a smile on his face warm enough to make him look wholly different in the firelight.
"I think," Charlotte says into her sister's silence, "that might be why he was putting you off."
"Not one time does he mention he's taken," Corda says at last, letting out an aggrieved sigh as she leans back on her hands on the log. "Well, she's rather fetching too, now that I think of it."
"Corda."
"She'll be staying for a few days, won't she?"
"Corda."
Her sister laughs, and across the firelit camp Fenris and Hawke walk beside the Inquisitor to the broad camp table, smiling, hand in hand.