Title: Messy

Rating: T

Genre: Humor/Romance/Frienship

Characters: Sherwood Hawke, Fenris

Pairing: Hawke/Fenris

Disclaimer: Still don't own it, though I suppose in the most technical of ways each Hawke is my creation.

"This- shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."

The words were like a solid punch to the stomach, driving the wind out of him and leaving him speechless, paralyzed. Sherwood had never been- well, he'd always taken sex, relationships, casually. His flirting with Anders, with Merrill, Isabella, hell, with Aveline and even Varric was all in good fun; he didn't mean anything by it.

Anders seemed to have developed quite the little crush on him, but everyone else seemed to realize he was just playing, and he was pretty sure Anders's crush was exactly that. He'd found a kindred spirit, a friend, and someone who made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to the person, not the body, and become enamored.

That…wasn't something he'd have said no to, to be honest. Anders was, frankly, gorgeous, for starters. And they shared the same intensity, the same red-hot passion, the belief that oppression was wrong and mages should be free as the next man. He had a sense of humor that snuck up on you, under his grim intensity, coming out at all the most unexpected moments and making Sherwood bark with surprised laughter.

And he was gentle. So very gentle, and there was a part of Sherwood that wanted to protect and shield and support him, to take away the hurt, the anger, the things that made him cry out at night when they camped together or made his hands shake when they talked, sometimes.

If Fenris had never entered the picture, he would have rolled with it, willingly, let it go where it would and enjoyed the ride the whole time. But Fenris had shown up.

And Sherwood's throat had gone utterly dry. The elf's voice alone was enough to send shudders down his spine; but those eyes, huge and green and expressive, under a mop of white hair that looked soft as silk and skin so dark, broken by lines of beautiful, swirling patterns of lyrium that hummed when he accidentally touched the other man. (Causing them both to jump back more then once.) And when he activated them, he glowed like a star, a haunting, ghostly figure.

He'd wanted to touch and pet and kiss and oh, Maker, he wanted to lock the others up for an hour or two and just have.

Time had not made things better.

Fenris hadn't ever rejected Sherwood's advances, but he'd never taken him up on them, either; coy as a cat, flirtatious in his quiet, subtle way, he'd danced circles around Sherwood. Hawke was used to having people fawn at his feet- he was well aware of his own appearance. Slightly spooky, very exotic; he looked exactly like his father. The twins had taken after Leandra, but Sherwood was practically a carbon-copy of Malcolm. So his utter inability to get Fenris to give him what he wanted…

Well.

And then there was their relationship. They grated on each other; each seemed to do their best to annoy the piss out of the other. In a way, it reminded him of his relationship with Carver (oh ew, bad idea.) But it was the same antagonistic, push-and-push-back relationship. Fenris disliked mages and magic. Okay, fine, he had his reasons for being that way- Sherwood didn't give a shit. Not all mages were the same.

Sherwood was strongly pro-mage, pro-mage freedom, and while he didn't snap and snarl the way Anders did, he made no secret of it.

Sherwood was flippant, uncaring, more then a tad insane. He said what he wanted to and didn't care if you liked him or not. Fenris was serious, intense, and often took Sherwood's attitude the wrong way. (Oriana, for a screaming example; he'd never meant to actually make her a slave, stupid fool Fenris was. He'd only gone along with it because he'd been pissed that the elf would even suggest it, and was getting sick of Fenris taking his anger out on the nearest target.)

The pair butted heads worse then a pair of goats. And Sherwood loved it.

Because despite that, he'd found a kindred spirit in Fenris; someone with his same, protective instincts, the same strength and honor and courage- someone who seemed to want to protect Sherwood even as a mage. He understood Sherwood's jokes were often used as a shield, and he saw through them. He was cool to Sherwood's hot, the rock to his storm. He was a steadying presence when Sherwood needed it, and a blazing inferno when he wanted to be.

He was so much. He was fun and freedom, excitement and danger, he was- he was-

Fenris. And Sherwood realized after everyone else in the entire fucking world that he was helplessly, hopelessly, in love.

And finally, finally, oh Maker he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted for three years, after that horrible debacle with Hadriana. Fenris, in his arms, in his bed, in him.

The elf had been every bit as soft as he'd looked. Soft hair, soft skin, soft lips. His touch had been shy and skittish, and Sherwood had coaxed him like a timid, wild thing. Restrained his urge to simply take what he wanted and let Fenris move at his own pace, gave him control, let him do as he would until he thought he might loose his mind.

Then they'd fought for it, and that had been hot and sweet and delicious, and Sherwood found himself laughing with delight, with affection, with the sheer joy of a horrible evening turned wonderful.

And then he'd woken up, and everything had gone cold and tight in his stomach again. A hard knot of anxiety and realizing that this battle wasn't one he could win. Fenris was talking himself away.

Fenris. Did not. Love him.

And Maker, Maker, what a stupid fool he'd been. What a stupid, stupid fool, to let himself fall in love. To let himself even think about love.

This shouldn't have happened.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't gone head over heels like an idiot. A one off, no big deal, friends with benefits, okay, fine.

But…

But.

Maybe it was all one-sided. In his head. Maybe Fenris's anger had none of the overtures of play and good-natured debate he imagined they did. Maybe Fenris really did simply…hate him.

And this…this was just a mistake.

He was just a mistake.

He was well and truly on his way to self-pity when he saw it.

The red cloth tied around Fenris's gauntlet. His red cloth, in fact; he recognized the scrap of material from…somewhere in the house.

Tied around Fenris's wrist.

Like some sort of old-fashioned…

Favor.

"Oh, Fenris." It was as far as he got- the door slammed behind the elf as he left the room.

Well. He'd waited three bloody years. He could wait a bit longer.

He smiled, somewhat tiredly, somewhat sadly to himself, running his hands over his face.

He hadn't been a mistake. He could only hope he didn't make one before Fenris realized he had by walking out.

"Well." He said, to the empty room that still smelled of sex and Fenris, "We'll just have to make sure it doesn't take too terribly long."

(It took another three bloody years, which Sherwood never let Fenris forget. Ever.)