Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. It makes me smile and want to keep writing this.
Warnings: Isabela pisses Fenris and Hawke off. Language, references to Isabela dirtiness, references to minor drug use, and an almost-kiss.
A/N: Takes place about 30 months after the Deep Roads (two and a half years for those that don't want to do the math). A semi-explanation for the riot that Isabela starts between the Deep Roads and the Qunari conflict. And I know Spindleweed is for terminally ill patients, but so is medical marijuana and I just really liked the idea of writing an angry, stoned Fenris bitching about Isabela being dirty.
"That taut, controlled body, the brooding demeanor…"
-Isabela
V.
The door of the Hanged Man crashed shut behind Fenris, the sound rattling through Hawke. Fear and fury filled her and she turned accusing eyes back to the pirate across the table.
"How could you?" she hissed, standing up and slamming an open palm against the tabletop. The pages strewn there rustled like leaves in a pre-hurricane wind.
Isabela shrugged and sipped her whiskey. "I was trying to help you," she said, unconcerned as she leaned back and draped an arm across the back of her chair.
Hawke shook her head, feeling strands of her short hair stand on end with building magical fury. "Well that worked well, didn't it?" she asked through gritted teeth. Her nails dug into the nearest pages, wrinkling and tearing the edges.
"Hey, watch it," Isabela exclaimed, reaching out to rescue her story. Of course she would be more worried about saving the obscene things she'd written than about the mortification and horror she'd caused her friends. The pirate cast pouting amber eyes toward Hawke. "I worked hard on that," she chuckled, overemphasizing the word 'hard.'
Beside her, Varric piped up, "It's pretty well-written."
"Shut up," snapped Hawke, pointing a finger at him. The dwarf blinked and looked at Isabela just as Hawke's attention turned back to the pirate. Her eyes narrowed to deadly slits. "You had no right."
Like Fenris before her, she threw the pages that were in her reach into further disarray and stormed out of the tavern. She walked through Lowtown at such a speed that she didn't recognize the passing scenery, didn't even realize how far she'd gone until she passed her own house and turned into the Hightown Estates.
Hawke took a deep breath, steadying herself, and knocked on Fenris' door. As far away as the lone study he used for his apartment was, she knew his elf ears could hear her walking up the steps. Part of her hoped he wasn't home, that she could put this conversation off for another day or at least a few hours.
The door swung open to reveal Fenris, his white hair mussed and his green eyes bloodshot, lanky form hidden by a loose black shirt and pants. It made her miss his fitted armor, and the thought made her blush.
"Come in before that pirate wench's spies see you," he growled. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping like steel around her arm, and he jerked her inside.
Hawke stumbled through the doorway and landed against his chest, her palms splayed across his pectoral muscles as the door slammed with a heavy echo through the dim foyer. She felt hard muscle and buzzing lyrium through his shirt and pulled back, turning away and shivering. Perhaps he hadn't seen her face, the longing and fear and confusion that felt so naked for that second.
"I'm so sorry about Isabela," she blurted, covering her eyes with a hand. She didn't want him to see how distraught she was at the pirate's joke. Harmless, indeed. "I had no idea she was going to do that."
The same strong fingers dug into her shoulder and forced her around, while a hand on her wrist shoved the cover away from her eyes. "What did you say to her?" he demanded.
She opened her eyes. Fenris' face hovered close to hers, furious sneer curling his lips away from his teeth. The violence in his form terrified her and aroused her at once but for all the brutal power he exuded in that moment, he never hurt her. She would have no bruises where he gripped her, no marks from his fingertips. His scent filled her senses, the tart smell of wine and the underlying metallic smell, covered in another, more pungent aroma—something smoky and sour, like a combination of pine needles and skunks.
"I didn't say anything," she said, shaking her head. "She just… I don't know. Made assumptions and invented the rest."
It was true enough; Isabela noticed how Fenris and Hawke sat together every time their group gathered at the Hanged Man, how they walked there together from Hightown, and the glances she gave him when he wasn't looking at her. The final straw had been late one night last week when the elf slipped and called her by her first name in front of their drunken comrades. Only Isabela had recalled the mistake or even noticed it, aided by her heroic tolerance for alcohol. Of course Hawke had to admit her feelings when the pirate confronted her with a notebook full of observations and information, but she couldn't just admit that to Fenris. Not in this mood, at any rate.
He let go of her and stalked away, turning around after a few steps and pacing. After a tense minute during which neither spoke, he stopped and stared at her. "This was not an attempt to… mock me?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest. She saw the tattoos flare under his clothing, their light shining through the fabric for a second before it faded.
Hawke shook her head. "It was an attempt to mock both of us," she answered, helpless. "Believe me, I had words with her."
Fenris snorted, contempt dripping from each word as he spoke. "I am sure," he tossed his head and for a moment she could only see the bright red of the capillaries flooding his eyes.
Her brows drew together, and though she knew she was angry with Isabela, not him, the fury she felt lashed through her voice. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He shifted, letting his arms drop to his sides, and hung his head for a moment. When he lifted it, he seemed weary. "You have no talent for cruelty, Hawke," he sighed, "Only forgiveness. To one such as her, that means she can endure your anger without apology, knowing you will forgive her in the end."
The rage left her limbs and she shook her head. "I can't forgive her for this, Fenris," she said, watching him as he watched her. "That story was just awful. I can't believe she would write something like that, much less read it aloud at the Hanged Man. It's humiliating and disgusting and I'm afraid…" She couldn't finish, couldn't give voice to her fears lest they come true.
His bare feet made no noise as he stepped closer, back into intoxicating proximity. Green eyes flashed through the red lines crisscrossing them. "What are you afraid of?" he asked, his deep voice tense.
The corners of her mouth turned down so severely that her cheeks and chin ached from the sudden strain. She stared at him for a long moment and just as he shifted his weight she lowered her eyes, ashamed. Currents of air eddied around her face and she had the impression of rapid movement being halted.
"How could you ever respect me after hearing such things?" she whispered, unable to meet his gaze as she spoke. "Even if they didn't come from my imagination, you cannot un-hear what Isabela said any more than I can. Who, after listening to such filth, would be able to see me as a leader, as anything but a joke and a whore?"
When she did look up at him her eyes burned with hot tears. His lips hung apart, just a trifle, his brows raised and drawn together in an expression of sorrow and tender concern.
"You have nothing to fear. I can't imagine you as a whore," he said, stepping closer, until their chests just touched and the smoke and silver smell enveloped her again. His hand rose toward her cheek and fell and she thought for a moment of how many times each had made such a gesture in the last three years—reaching and giving up before any contact could be made. How many evenings had they sat in the mansion together, sipping wine and talking about everything from the Tevinter war with the Qunari to Varric's newest medallion, not touching, but comfortable in their companionship nonetheless? Never to have him would be punishment enough, but she would gladly sit unloved at his side if it meant having his friendship.
Her lips trembled at the almost-touch and at the expression in his bloodshot eyes. "I am afraid that after the disgusting things Isabela said, you won't want to be my friend any longer," she admitted. Her hands shook at her sides, her knees weak with the mix of emotions. After all, he had thought she was part of the pirate's scheme, that she had helped Isabela in a cruel effort to humiliate him. It occurred to her that it must remind him of the abuses he suffered as a slave, to be mocked in public like that.
"Marian," he said, and hearing him use her first name made her breath catch in her lungs and the tone, firm and commanding yet wistful and gentle, made her feel as if her bones were melting. His hand rose again and this time skimmed her hair and it took every ounce of strength in her being not to turn her face toward it, to kiss the point on his wrist where two lyrium stripes crossed. Instead she kept her gaze on his face, on the looming red eyes and tangled white hair and chapped lips. "I did not choose to be your friend. You are a mage, and though you are not weak enough to use blood magic or accept a demon's help, you have powers too terrifying to imagine. You think it and a man burns alive before your eyes."
She shifted, tried to lower her eyes, and was startled to feel his hand shift from her hair to her chin, tipping her chin back so she was forced to stare into his eyes. The intimacy of their position quickened her heart to a hummingbird thrum and she knew he could feel the hammering against his chest. His heart beat at just as furious a rhythm against her, but his hand did not move from her face, his fingertips light, the tips pressed just between her throat and jaw.
"But as much as that power frightens me, I can trust it because it is yours. You are all that the Magisters are not: a strong woman with a noble heart and a clear, untainted mind. I did not choose to be your friend because I did not have to," he continues, his face so close to hers now that she can almost taste the smoke and wine on his breath. "Your friendship was always there and I could not help but to offer the same, to take refuge from my former life in your strength and kindness and to pray that I might offer the same to you if ever you need such from me."
Hawke felt her weakened knees loosen until her weight pressed against his chest, felt his arm circle her waist as her hands grasped the fabric of his shirt, her face still tilted toward his by those featherweight fingers of his. He was about to kiss her, she realized, he felt just as she did—relief flooded her alongside the desire she always felt for him and her breath caught as he shifted closer.
"Fenris, I need your help, I can't find Hawke—"
The door crashed open and Aveline stood silhouetted against the soft lamps of Hightown night. The guardswoman stared for a moment at their intimate pose, even as Hawke and Fenris leapt apart and turned away from one another, too embarrassed to explain themselves.
"I need your help," she said, glancing between both of them with raised brows and no comment to the situation she intruded upon. Hawke thanked the Maker in silence for Aveline's surprising tact. "Isabela's started an all-out riot in Lowtown."
"She seems determined to outdo herself tonight," Fenris muttered, shaking his head and looking at the guardswoman. Hawke realized that he had managed to dart several feet away from her, putting a half-collapsed bench between their bodies.
"How did she start a riot?" Hawke asked, shaking her head, willing the tremors in her heart and veins to subside. She focused on her redheaded friend's face. "Why?"
Aveline sighed. "I don't know what it was, but she's raging drunk and started a brawl the size of the Bazaar that's spilled out of the Hanged Man and is moving toward the docks," she said, her reassuring Fereldan accent clipped with annoyance. Her irritated gaze shifted from Hawke to Fenris. "Get your sword and be glad I don't arrest you for smoking Spindleweed in here. You know that's not how it's meant to be used."
The elf regarded the guard captain for a long moment and Hawke watched them stare each other down. The redhead crossed her arms with the clank and clatter of her armor. Then Fenris turned and stalked into the shadows of the mansion to obtain his weapon.
Once he was out of sight, Aveline stepped up to Hawke and gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry for whatever I interrupted. You two deserve a moment of happiness," she murmured, reaching up to pat Hawke's shoulder with a gentle but distinctly metal hand, "Not Isabela's bloody bullshit."
"You didn't interrupt anything," Hawke sighed, rueful, her eyes peering through the dark as if she might see the dark-clad elf through the shadows. She glanced up at her friend and feigned a lighthearted shrug. "We were just discussing Isabela's bullshit, too."