A/N: Okay well, I really struggle with where to split things into chapters. Obviously. So I'm sorry for that! I never know if something is going to feel too lengthy or too short or what. I still don't own Dragon Age or the characters. But here you go, chapter two! I hope you guys like it! Please R/R!
"Hey, Fenris. Sorry to bother you. I know it's late and all. I just was ah—in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd check on you." The woman laughed quickly, awkwardly. She'd been about to ask him, really. But somehow the idea of admitting her situation to this proud, reserved elf left her stomach in knots.
He peered at her for a long time with those large, moss-coloured eyes and, his face betraying nothing, opened the door wider. "Why don't you come inside?"
"Are you sure? I'd hate to be a bother. I mean, if you were asleep or anything I can always come back another time." She replied, though her feet were already carrying her into the mansion. Winston was right behind her, effectively cutting off her path of retreat.
Fenris shut the door and locked it, peering at her still. "I rarely sleep. It is no bother. Have… have you eaten?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm really not hungry. But thank you…" she mumbled awkwardly, glancing away at the smooth tile floor of the entryway. Despite being in out of the rain, she was still freezing.
"Alright. Give me a moment and I shall try to find you a towel." The lanky elf spun on a heel and hurried off.
Hawke watched him go, feeling a tiny frown tugging at her lips. His kindness surprised her, and she wasn't sure why. He hadn't made it a secret that he disliked mages. Hated them. But in that same breath, he'd never been unkind to her, during the short time she'd come to know him. No, he really did seem to be willing to give her a chance to prove that she was not like the Danarius who had enslaved him and ruined his life.
The little mage wetted her lips with her tongue, brow furrowing. It was awfully chilly in here. And she was thirsty, which she considered ironic considering she'd endured a veritable deluge of water over the course of the day. She didn't realize she'd sat down until she heard Winston whining as he butted his head against her arm.
"Must be more tired than I realized, huh?" she asked wearily, giving the mabari a little pat on the head. The dog huffed, seemingly unconvinced, and walked over to an empty corner where he proceeded to shake himself dry.
The minutes slid by and Hawke found herself stifling yawns. Well, maybe she could just rest her eyes for a moment and then when Fenris came back in she'd get back up. Yes, she just needed to rest her forehead on her knees and shut her eyes for a few seconds…
Hawke was startled back into reality as she felt the weight of a strong hand on her shoulder. The touch was surprisingly gentle, however, and somehow hesitant.
"Hawke? Hawke, you must wake up now." A deep, rich voice drifted deliciously along her senses. It was a voice that both thrilled and intimidated her, and it was not a voice she could disobey.
As Hawke cautiously squeezed an eye open, lifting her head to peer up Fenris, his hand swiftly left her shoulder and returned to his side. Suddenly she felt embarrassed. Mortified, even. What a fool she was making of herself! "Fenris? Oh—Maker, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. Here, let me just get going-"
"Hush. It's still pouring outside, and you are in no shape to go anywhere."
"I'm fine!" Hawke protested, wobbling her way to her feet. Truth be told, she didn't feel fine. She was still cold, and her joints ached in protest of the movement, and she was definitely thirsty. She was vividly aware of the hand that swiftly darted out and caught her arm, keeping her from sagging right back down to the tiled floor.
"You are not fine. Come, let's get you cleaned up. I am sure there is a spare dress somewhere around that you may wear." His tone was gentle, so she didn't think he was too angry, but it was firm. He obviously wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer. And so the mage let him guide her through the mansion and to a washroom complete with a large, claw-foot bathtub.
Hawke glanced around. Even in her weariness she noted that he'd already left what seemed to be a spare towel on the counter near the bathtub. She felt an intense surge of gratefulness for the taciturn elf. "Fenris? Thank you." She said, her eyes meeting his own.
He shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and released her arm as delicately and carefully as if he'd been worried she would detonate. "Think nothing of it. Have a bath and I shall find you some clean clothes." Not waiting for a response, he turned and silently disappeared back out into the hallway, shutting the door after himself.
Hawke gazed at the door a moment longer, mulling over his behavior. It was apparent that he still didn't really trust her, since she was a mage and all. But he was still willing to give her a chance that she wasn't like Danarius, and as such he was trying to do what any good friend would do for another.
As she peeled off her sodden robe and smallclothes, Hawke chanced a glance at the cracked mirror in the corner and noted her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She absently pressed the back of her hand to her face, trying to check her temperature, but she couldn't really tell if she had a fever or not. She certainly didn't feel great. She probably had a little cold from tromping around in the rain all damned day.
The mage let out a sigh of delight as she turned the water on in the tub and realized that it was hot. Hot water! Shit, the only way they had hot water at Gamlen's was if they boiled it over the stove or if she got inventive with her magic. Greedily, she climbed into the tub as it filled and stretched out her pale, slender legs. She could have stayed right there and not moved at all until the water went cold, but, with great effort, Hawke forced herself to pick up a washcloth she supposed Fenris had left for her, and a bar of soap.
As she scrubbed at herself and washed her hair, she was seized by the sudden thought that she was naked in the home of the most gorgeous man she'd ever laid eyes on. Suddenly grateful that her mother didn't know where she was, Hawke snickered to herself and rinsed out her hair.
There was a knock at the door. "Hawke? I found some clothing that may fit you." Fenris said, though he made no attempt to enter the room. The elf was a damned gentleman, on top of everything else!
Hawke shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "Thank you, Fenris!" she called, rising and causing the water to slosh around the tub audibly. Pulling the plug and letting the water begin to slowly drain, she stepped out and wrapped herself in the towel he'd left for her. It was clean and soft, though it smelled slightly off, somehow—as though it had been shut up in a cupboard for ages and never aired out. Well, all things considered that was rather likely. "I'm decent, you can come in."
The door slowly creaked open just a crack and the elf's arm snaked through the opening, a small bundle of fabric in hand. "Here. I am taking the liberty of preparing some dinner as well."
Hawke almost—almost!—giggled as she watched the patient arm holding the clothes out for her to take. Instead, she stepped forward and accepted the bundle. "Thank you. I mean it." She said gratefully.
The arm vanished and the door shut once more, as though the elf was trying to think of an appropriate response. "It is… no problem. I will be in the kitchen when you are dressed. Do you remember the way?"
"Yes, thank you. I'll be right down."
Hawke heard the faint sound of his feet slapping lightly against the floor as he departed, and she felt a sudden pang of panic. What if he resented her for this? What if he hated the idea of having to wait on another person again like this? Resolving to get out of his hair as soon as possible and find some way to pay him back for putting up with her, Hawke shifted her attention to a more innocuous subject—the clothes he'd left her.
He'd brought two dresses—robes, really. One was a soft, dusky purple in colour with a more diaphanous, flowing white material accenting the wide cuffs of the sleeves and the skirt, giving the robe a rather dream-like quality. It was very, very beautiful and looked very, very expensive. Feeling uncomfortable with this, she turned her attention to the other garment, which was a pretty, deep green in colour. It was a much simpler design, a plain dress likely meant to be worn by servants, not fancy houseguests. That was the dress for her.
Of course, this left her with another problem. She'd spent so much time trudging around in the rain that day that even her smallclothes were wet. And Fenris either hadn't found any or didn't think of it, because he hadn't brought her any. Well, if she was going to bed soon she supposed it wouldn't be a huge problem. Pulling on the green dress, Hawke then hung up her robe and smalls to dry. The dress was slightly too large for her, but it was comfortable and, most importantly, dry.
Feeling much more human again, Hawke ventured out of the bathroom and downstairs, her bare toes curling against the cool tiles of the floor. She could smell food, and the aroma made her realize she was famished. As she came to the doorway of the kitchen, she hesitated for a moment as she watched Fenris.
His back was to her, but she could still see a glimpse of his face as he busied himself with slicing a loaf of bread. Hawke found herself fascinated by the elf's profile—by the proud, dark line of his brow, furrowed in concentration, by the strong curve of his nose, reaching downward toward his thin, sculpted lips. Just below his bottom lip, curving down along his chin and to his neck, those pale lines of lyrium branded into his skin vanished into his tunic. The musing thought of just how far those markings went slipped into her mind unbidden, and she thrust the question away with a mixture of anger and deep embarrassment.
He was an attractive man, certainly. But he was her friend, and one who probably only barely tolerated her. Andrastae's flaming sword, he probably only barely trusted her! Not only that, but he was clearly an emotionally-damaged person. She couldn't blame him for that, not after everything he'd been through. He'd only briefly gone over the very basics of what his former life had been like, and she'd been sick from the thought of all the pain he'd endured. It was wrong of her to ever hope for—for what? Romance? Messiness? Emotions—love?