Warnings: sexy, teasy sensuality, violence, bitchiness
Rating will rise with the next chapter!
Hawke blinks when Fenris arrives at her door a few nights after she kneed him, fully armed and armored. He stares at her with his unperturbed green eyes and neither one says a word about the last time they saw each other. He comes by a few nights a week and they walk out into the streets to hunt gangs, tearing through thugs in perfect, vicious unison. It becomes routine, taking the place of their arguments at his house. Eventually the burning fury over her siblings' deaths becomes cold, sharp and frigid. Still, he comes by night after night and she finds herself craving the outings, needing to kill to control the new burning that builds in her each time she watches him in battle, or sees rage fill his green eyes, or hears the snarl shaping his deep voice and turning his words to vicious missiles. She needs this combination of proximity and distance, and so she convinces herself that fighting alongside him can satisfy those cravings for more.
For over a year, it works. Until one early autumn night they walk from Darktown to the Docks to Lowtown, checking every corner and peering down alleyways, and as they find themselves full circle in Hightown, she realizes that the streets are empty. The entire city is empty of gang activity, whether because of them or because it's just a quiet night, it doesn't matter. There's no one to kill.
"There's no one out," she mutters, scowling and tightening her fists. She needs to kill someone after tonight's round of Wicked Grace, listening to Fenris and Anders snipe at each other for two hours.
She can keep him at arm's length, can maintain that precious distance she needs while at the same time having proximity enough to satisfy her craving for him. They argue often enough, brutal bouts of verbal abuses that both hurl with equal fervor, but it doesn't come to blows. One or the other leaves before that can happen and she's relieved. Maker only knows what would happen if she dared a physical confrontation, to get so close to him.
He sighs, making his hair rustle away from his eyes for a moment. "Perhaps we missed some alley in the slums?" he asks, though he doesn't sound hopeful, shrugging in the courtyard of the Hightown Estates, a few yards away from his stolen mansion.
Their eyes meet. Her hands tighten at her sides. "We didn't," she snaps. Frustration makes her nerves ache and sing. She scowls at him. "What now?"
"Come," he says, motioning for her to follow as he walks up to his door and pushes it open. She hesitates a moment but he stops in the doorway to look over his shoulder and her feet move toward him of their own accord. The Blight take him and that stare.
A chair from somewhere else in the mansion has been dragged over the broken tiles to sit in front of the fire opposite his usual chair. He gestures toward it as he hunts through his shelves for a bottle of wine and she recognizes the return to that too-comfortable ritual. She shivers and takes the bottle when he passes it, takes too long a drink to set her frayed nerves at ease.
"Do you like it?" he asks her, deep voice breaking through the furious circles her mind keeps spinning.
She takes another sip, tasting it this time, surprised at the rich, smooth flavor. It's much better than anything they've had before. Her eyes dart to meet his and narrow to restrain any flush from rising to her cheeks as she passes the bottle back to him. "It's very good. What is it?"
He shrugs and looks at the label, tracing an ornate leaf with his fingertip. "The last bottle of the Aggregio," he says. His eyes meet hers and she sees things below that viciousness that frighten her, aspects of a troubled soul that remind her too much of herself. "Seven years since I escaped. Tonight makes seven years."
"How?" she asks, not meaning to sound eager. She knows it must be a story full of blood, and if she can't kill anything a war story is the next best thing.
His penetrating gaze lingers for a long moment and he lets his chin rest on his hand as he stares at her. Then he takes a languid sip from the bottle and offers it to her with a smirk. "Not many beautiful women want to hear stories about death and destruction," he comments.
Her hand tightens around the bottle as she lifts it and she takes a larger gulp, not caring that it's too good to waste like this. Since when has he become suave? Her teeth grind together and she glares at him. "What did you say?" she asks, clutching the wine between them as if to ward him away. That precious distance she's worked so hard to maintain crumbles like an old bridge under her feet and the rapid falling sensation that dizzies her.
"I said that you are beautiful," he answers, still watching her face. That smirk of his grows smug at her flustered appearance and enrages her.
She shoves the bottle at him and stands up as she starts yelling, lightheaded from the wine or his proximity or both. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snarls, unable to come up with any real reason to be angry except that he's ruined that precarious balance with just one word. But that ruin and the terror that ensues seems reason enough to be livid. "You just can't ever let up. If it's not the mages, it's the magisters, or it's the rest of my friends, you know: the ones who don't berate me all the time."
The bottle slams on the tabletop with a resounding thud and he stands as well, just as furious. "How can you be angry at me for paying you a compliment, woman?" he growls, motioning with both hands clawing at the air in frustration. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
Hawke shakes her head and storms out before she decides to punch him, but he catches up to her on the landing of the stairs. He grabs her shoulder to turn her around and his hand presses against her jaw, pulling her face too near his. She realizes that he doesn't have his gauntlets on, that it's his actual fingers bruising her, his warm skin against hers.
She punches him.
As he staggers back, she jumps over the railing sprinting for the door. He seems to be expecting it, and jumps after her, chasing her over the familiar obstacles and colliding with her, shoving her face-first against the wall. She smacks his temple with her elbow and he releases her, a vicious smile on his face as he squares off and starts circling to the left. She recognizes the debris he means to steer her into and darts forward, hooking her foot around his knee and striking out at his neck with her hands. He sidesteps her and she could swear she hears a low growl as he smirks and tosses hair out of his eyes.
He throws a punch at her and she ducks, slamming the heel of her hand toward his stomach and holding when she realizes the metal of his chestplate will only damage her hand. They exchange blows, neither landing any sort of decent hit, for almost an hour, circling each other with vicious, bloodthirsty smiles. The fight ends when she shoves him against the wall and he grabs both of her biceps, spinning them so their positions reverse.
With his face close to hers he murmurs, "You should learn to take a compliment."
Her head drops back against the wall and she stares at him through narrowed eyes, as if to size up the truth of his words. But his eyes, furious as they are, contain no trace of mockery or falsehood. There is nothing but vicious hunger in his gaze. Overwhelmed, she shoves him back and flees the mansion.
But she comes back the next night to fight again.
Fenris hates how soft her skin feels under his knuckles and that lovely sharp gasp in his ear. He hates how her long legs wrap around his and how her eyes flash heat and viciousness and how delicate but strong her arms and hips and face feel in his hands. Most of all, he hates that he can feel all of these things every night as they spar, how this ritual of theirs gives him every sensation of her body that he wants to enjoy while putting those precious touches in the wrong context. He revels in it at the same time: he does not have to flinch from physical contact because it is battle, he gets to feel her and hold her against him all while beating that infernal coolness from her eyes and stoking her rage.
Every night Hawke comes to him like a lover and they brawl in the open spaces of his mansion, breaking still more furniture and halting only when one pins the other to a wall or floor or some surface. He tries to catch her so they're face-to-face, knowing that in doing so he taunts himself with proximity as much as he taunts her. It is some reckless, destructive urge that propels him, a demon-may-care attitude that he's always had about fighting. He tells himself when he lies aching in his bed at night that they are fighting and that's why he flings himself into it with all his skill and little fear for consequence.
As a slave, it always seemed a better fate to die in battle, but his pride prevents him from being sloppy. Instead, he allows that vicious disregard for life to propel him forward where others would falter. The more wounds he suffers the harder he fights and with his skill, he has never lost in combat to his recollection. Short as that may be.
It follows a sort of script when she arrives, the way he paces around until he hears the click of the door behind her, and then he moves out onto the landing as she steps into the main room. Her face will tip back and she'll say his name and he will meet her bright eyes across that gloomy space and answer, "Hawke." For a moment of varying length they will stare at each other and then, at the same time, both will move toward each other, stripping away their outer armor until they stand in tunics and leggings with bare hands. Then they meet at the landing and the fight begins.
The nights follow, one after the other, without words or even arguments, stretching into months. But as the seasons change in the city and winter melts off in hotter, hazier days, the tensions in Kirkwall rise and he sees less of her during the days as she spends time meeting with Aveline and the Viscount, skipping Wicked Grace to spend the evenings being dragged to frivolous balls by her mother in an effort to find her a suitable husband.
One night, after being gone a week, she storms into his mansion and yells his name so loud that he startles, hurrying to the landing to see her entrance. She stalks in wearing a dress, her hair woven with flowers and her face flushed with fury and makeup. He stares at her, eyes taking in the long silk skirts, the darkened curl of her lashes over flashing eyes and the heave of her chest against the low neckline of the gown.
"Hawke?" he says, unable to hide the note of surprise in his voice. His throat feels dry.
With tight fingers hauling the fabric away from the floor she ascends the stairs as he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from her. As much as the rich fabric of the dress and the fashionable bare shoulders name her for the height of noble fashion, the rich blue color and lack of embellishment fits Hawke just as perfectly as the silver pendant of the Amell crest that hangs between her breasts. As she approaches he smells the expensive perfume from Orlais mingling with the fresh flowers and fresh sweat. He notices the hem of her gown is dirty and even torn in places and presumes she ran over to his house.
"If you say one word, I'll kill you," she hisses, stepping up as close as they do before starting a fight.
He can't help smirking, though he tries to keep his eyes and thoughts from her well-displayed cleavage as it presses against his chest. "Perish the thought," he murmurs, tilting his face closer to hers although he knows how unsafe it is to do so, having been deprived of their fights so much this summer and now to have her here dressed like this.
"I need you to..." she says, eyes lowering as her gaze falls across his face, to settle on his lips. This is the moment when, at the end of every fight, one or the other pushes away and storms off. He can't push her away this time and she doesn't push him away and his heart hammers with anticipation. But she shifts her head back a trifle and her eyes meet his. "Can you help me tomorrow?"
Fenris nods, a short jerk of his chin. He hates this spell she's cast, hates that his eyes drift back to her mouth as his hands brush against the soft fabric that hangs over her hips. It occurs to him in a sudden flash that other men saw her in this, danced with her, flirted with her, touched his Hawke and that this has been going on all summer. Fury descends over him and the silk in his hands bunches as his fists close, dragging her close as he snarls.
"Is this what you wear while your mother whores you out for a title?" he growls, his mouth so close to hers that their lips brush as he speaks.
For a second her eyes widen, but then they narrow on his face and her hands grasp the shoulders of his vest, keeping him as close as he's hauled her. "Jealous you don't have the title it takes to lift my skirts?" she snaps.
She must know she's baited him too far, he thinks, dizzy. This game of unspoken words and stolen touches has gone on long enough and with just one mocking question, she breaks that fragile barrier they've built. He bites her lips and crushes his mouth over hers, his fingers delving into the fabric of her gown until he feels the sharp, familiar bones of her hips outlined in silk and he grips with bruising force. Her arms circle his neck, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, and she arches against him as her mouth opens for his, her tongue hot and vicious against his.
There's no sound but the roar of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart as he kisses her and drags a hand from her hip to cup her breast, his thumb hooking the fabric downward so he can feel her nipple harden in his palm. She hisses against his mouth and her nails bite into his neck, her leg sliding between his thighs to press against the aching hardness of his groin.
"Marian!" a horrified voice cries out, resounding through the entire hall. They tear apart with a gasp and Hawke pulls her dress back in place before he can get a decent glimpse of her.
A dignified woman with gray hair who looks like a much older version of Bethany stands in the doorway with a look of fury and mortification on her face. Beside her Aveline looks away with a small smile and red cheeks, dressed in ceremonial armor for the occasion. Not before she catches his eye and winks at him while Hawke fixes the laces at the front of her gown.
"Hello, Mother," Hawke says, her tone frosty as she moves away from him, descending the stairs with swift, furious steps.
He watches her move away and cannot retreat or follow, standing there staring like a simpleton. He hears the low, sharp hiss of voices and can make out the words with his sharp hearing.
"You insulted Messere duPuis and left the Viscount's ball without notifying anyone, including his son Seamus, who was next to dance with you," her mother snaps at her, "And then I find you in this filthy place letting an elf put his hands all over you like a common whore."
"Seamus prefers men," Hawke answers in the same cold tone, eyes glinting in the light as she crosses the room. "And Fenris can hear you."
Leandra Hawke fixes him with a cold stare that assures him of where her daughter's gaze came from.
The three women make their exit as Aveline mouths 'sorry' and Hawke throws a final heated, vicious stare at him. He's struck with the force of her gaze, with the sense that she is not done with him. And though he waits for her to return until he's nodding off at dawn, she doesn't come back that night, leaving him furious and aching with need for her that he cannot relieve.