Author's Note: First of all, to anyone who might be keeping up with this, I changed the title of the story a couple days ago (obviously) and I added a few things to the prologue, so hopefully it makes more sense!

This story is kind of short, but it's rather sweet. It's the first one written fully from a different character's perspective. As always, I hope you enjoy and please review! ^_^

Earlier I suggested to Fenris that he should write a story. I managed to convince him to (reluctantly) agree to write one, although he flat out refused to write an introduction! I think he writes pretty well, actually, I don't see why he is so self-conscious about it. Ah, look, he's shaking his head at me now! Well, call it whatever you like, Fenris, I call what you're being now shy, but I still love you!

Anyway, he was thinking about his still fairly new ability to read and write, so he decided to jot down this particular story, about the time I decided to teach him how to read. It's actually a bit of a revelation for me- I'd never realized how much he doubted himself that day, or how he actually saw me back then... (By the way, I can't actually read minds, despite what the others say!)

-Hawke

Hawke's Favor

Fenris paced back and forth in front of his fireplace, scowling at himself and clenching his fists. It was a week after he'd left Hawke, and he was already doubting himself.

He paused in his striding for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Two days after that night, she'd shown up at his doorstep and invited him cheerfully to go with her to speak with the Arishok. Nothing about her was different that day, except for the depressed, shadowy expressions that passed across her face when she thought no one was looking, and the fact that she'd also been staggering a bit and muttering about a headache- Isabela told him later that Hawke had spent the previous day with her and Varric at the Hanged Man. Her sarcastic quips and smirks still leapt easily to her lips, though, which came as absolutely no surprise to him.

Well, that was Hawke, the perfect actress. Fenris only wished he could hide his own pain as well as she could. However, knowing her, she probably saw through his own facade easily- but also, knowing her, the pain would be gnawing away at her insides as much as it was with his. When she looked at him without that signature smirk, she always had that knowing, sympathetic smile on her face, like she could read his mind. Damn, why did she have to be so understanding? It would have been a lot easier to leave her for her own safety if he knew she wouldn't understand his reasons. But that was one of the traits that endeared her most to him: her understanding and her empathy. He growled a few choice words in Tevinter and picked up the wine bottle he'd left on the coffee table. He eyed it distastefully before chucking it at the already wine-stained walls. It shattered into a pile of glass.

"Redecorating the walls?" a laughing voice teased. He whirled around, his hand flying instinctively to his sword, but he knew who it was before he turned. He saw her calculating blue eyes follow his hand to his sword hilt and fall to his side just as quickly. She turned her twinkling gaze to meet his own impassive eyes, her mouth quirked into that mischievous smile. Sometimes, he almost forgot how quietly she moved, but he hadn't expected her to appear in his house so soon after... "Mind if I help?"

"By all means," he retorted, "seeing as you've already broken into my house." He felt a smirk tug at the edges of his own lips, and he felt lighter, less angry, now that he was in her presence. It seemed as if everything was right again. Which, of course, he knew it wasn't. But Hawke always made it feel that way.

She stepped out of the doorway, out of the shadows and into the firelight. He saw now that her expression was a little anxious; she was gazing at the ground, chewing on her lip, her hands clasped in front of her. Her jet black hair slid forward slightly, and he irritably suppressed the urge to reach forward and gently tuck the strand back behind her ear...

"Is something wrong?" he asked, hoping to distract himself but failing miserably, wanting badly to close the small distance between them and wrap his arms around her, holding her close...

Her gaze snapped up and she blinked at him, looking almost apologetic, as if she could see his discomfort. She absently lifted her hand and pushed her hair back, the tiniest flash of annoyance crossing her face. He hid an amused smirk; he knew she hated wearing her hair down, but she allowed her mother to style it for her.

"No," she answered his question, her gaze flickering down to the floor for a moment before she lifted it determinedly and looked him in the eye. "Actually, I brought something for you. A... a gift." He lifted an eyebrow in a rare display of undisguised surprise. He'd never received a gift from anyone before. It was simple: slaves were never given gifts or presents. He was lucky to ever receive even a word of praise from Danarius, though even those were usually sarcastic.

Grinning in triumph at his surprised expression, Hawke drew a small, rectangular package out of her bag. It was wrapped raggedly in brown paper, and tied with a beautiful, red silk scarf. She handed it to him and he weighed it in his hands, eying it curiously, looking almost confused and a little uncertain.

"Open it," she laughed, rolling her eyes with teasing impatience. "It's not going to bite, I swear." A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he smoothly untied the scarf. He hesitated, then set it down gently on the coffee table before ripping the paper off. He found an old, coarse brown book in his hands. Dread coursed through him as he lifted his gaze to meet Hawke's expectant expression.

"What is it?"

"Your new weapon!" she cried dramatically. "May you give all our enemies paper cuts and feel the satisfaction of watching them bleed out!" He chuckled somewhat reluctantly and she smirked at him. "No, really, it's a book by Shartan. I thought you'd like it."

"Where did you get this?" he stalled, his eyebrows pulling together slightly. She shot him a curious look as she answered, "Earlier this evening, I was visiting Merrill and I found it on the way home. In a barrel." He raised his eyebrows and she shrugged. "Do you like it?" she added, her eyes glowing excitedly. The glow faded at his hesitation, and she watched him a little anxiously now.

"It's a thoughtful gift," he hedged. She sighed. Her gaze was searching, and her jaw tightened in disappointment after a moment; trying to read him, he was sure, but she didn't find any answers.

"Shit, Fenris, what's the problem?" she all but demanded, looking almost desperate.

"Slaves... aren't taught to read." He shifted uncomfortably. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him, dumbfounded with horror and dismay.

"Oh, damn! Maker, Fenris, I'm so sorry! I should have realized- shouldn't have been so insensitive..." Her eyes were wide, chagrined. He found himself rushing to reassure her, appalled to have startled her so badly.

"It's all right," he insisted, again fighting the urge to grab her hand comfortingly. "You couldn't have known..." She scowled in irritation.

"Danarius was such a bastard," she snapped, surprising him again with her sudden mood swing. "I can't believe he didn't even let you read." Her eyes flashed with anger, her nose wrinkling in an undeniably adorable way.

"No slaves are permitted to read," he pointed out. "It's too much work for the magisters to teach them." She rolled her eyes contemptuously at his words. Her scowl of anger darkened even more before completely dissipating a moment later. Her eyes lit up again, and he sighed inwardly with relief. He recognized the gleam in her eyes she got before she blurted out a crazy idea.

"I can teach you how to read!" she exclaimed, grinning triumphantly. Her joy was contagious; he smirked and lifted an eyebrow, excitement at the prospect rippling through him and lightening his mossy gaze.

"Don't I get a choice in the matter?"

"Nope," she answered cheerfully. "This is a skill that, as an illegal resident of Hightown, you are required to possess." He chuckled.

"By whom?" he asked teasingly.

"By me," she declared. She dug through her bag and whipped out a piece of paper and a quill. "Good thing I always carry paper with me," she informed him, her eyes sparkling. He lifted an eyebrow. "It's for the paper-cut thing. It's actually very useful," she added, winking. He rolled his eyes.

"You amaze me, Rathina Hawke."

"If only I had a copper for every time someone told me that," she retorted laughingly. There was a slight shadow lingering behind her excitement, but it was gone almost instantly and Fenris was unsure that he'd actually seen it. There was definitely something on her mind, he could tell from having known her three years, but that same amount of time had also told him that he probably wouldn't get a straight answer if he asked her about it.

She grabbed his wrist and yanked him over to his desk, shoving him playfully into the chair and drawing up another one beside it. She dropped the paper on the table and dipped her quill in some ink before turning back to the paper and scrawling letters on it. Fenris peered over her shoulder curiously. Since he couldn't read, he just admired her handwriting; it was loopy but somehow still elegant, slightly slanted, and fairly big. It seemed to match her personality perfectly. She finished writing out the letters, and he counted twenty-six of them.

"Now," she began and pointed to the first letter, "this is the letter 'a'..."

Midnight found Fenris sitting at his desk, still studying the small letters thoughtfully. Hawke had left a little while ago after blithely commanding him to study his letters. She had shown him how to write out his name, and, after some persuasion, her own. He blinked in wonder at his name on the paper, written first in her handwriting and beside it with his own hand, which was very sloppy comparatively. She assured him it would get better with practice.

His gaze roamed over to her name. It looked almost as beautiful as it sounded out loud, and a small, tentative smile crossed his features at the thought. He continued to eye the words for several more minutes, committing them to memory. Finally the letters started to swim before his eyes and he yawned, shoving the chair away from the desk and rising to his feet. He ran his hand through his shock of white hair and padded over to the coffee table. He picked up the book, holding it gingerly in fear of dropping or damaging it in any way. He set it down on the desk and turned back to the room, flickering with the dying embers in the fireplace. He spotted the little red scarf that his gift had been tied his gift with, and he picked it up, running his fingers thoughtfully over the silky surface. He found a little, gold inscription at the edge: it was his name, now recognizable, sewn into the scarf. A surprised, tender smile curled his lips and, after a brief moment of hesitation, he wound the scarf around his wrist. The flames in the fire died completely, leaving the room pitch-black except for the small ray of moonlight drifted through the window.

"Thank you, Hawke," he whispered to the empty, dark room.