#it threatening fenris and hawke just immediately brushing it off

[shadowglens]

ok but here lies the abyss still drives me absolutely bonkers, it’s so good!

[juliafied]

Pomegranate

Fenris/F!Hawke | Rated: G | AO3

Tiny droplets of what looks suspiciously like blood spray into the air. Hawke curses, drops her knife onto the now-stained cutting board and grabs the washcloth by the sink, diving to the floor to clean the floor that Orana mopped so meticulously just this very morning. Once the traces of her failure are more or less wiped away, Hawke rises to assess the status of her endeavour.

“Felissa Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, bloodthirsty killer of the Qunari Arishok in single combat, bested by a fruit,” she says out loud, derisively.

The tell-tale sound of bare feet slapping on kitchen tile announce Fenris’ entrance, though he doesn’t immediately look up from the book in his hand, absentmindedly setting his empty mug onto the kitchen table. It’s only when she waves to him with sticky, juice-stained, and what she imagines look like ominously bloody hands that he glances up and blanches.

“Hawke, what are you doing to that poor granatus?”

He immediately puts down his book and walks over to look at the carnage – drops of dark red liquid are all over the cutting board, some reaching as far as the stove. Hawke grins at his disapproving look and points to her knife.

“I’m trying to get this open. The trader said it was a pomegranate.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “That is a stupid name. It sounds like the Orlesians decided to tack ‘apple’ on before the proper name. Since granati are obviously native to Tevinter.”

It’s Hawke’s turn to roll her eyes. “Alright, serah ‘I’m learning Orlesian’, do you know how to open it? I think I’m not doing much aside from crushing it. So far, all I’ve gotten is juice.”

He bites his lip, looking critically at the partly mangled pomegranate. “In truth, I have only watched others open these – and I’ve only tasted it once or twice, for Satinalia or the like.”

Taking the knife into his hand, he studies the top part that Hawke has already sliced off, and transfers the pomegranate into his left hand, making quick, shallow, decisive slices all along the sides of the fruit, extending from the sliced portion in an arc toward the bottom. When he has made six or seven cuts, he puts down the knife and takes the fruit in both hands.

“Would you get a bowl?”

Hawke dutifully fetches one, placing it under the lifted fruit in response to his nod. He cracks open the pomegranate, which complies and separates easily into several clusters of blood-red, shiny granules surrounded by white flesh. Some of the granules fall away from their brethren and are caught by the bowl below.

“Oooh,” Hawke says as she watches Fenris peel the skin away from the little ruby nuggets. She’s delighted when he places a little piece in her hand.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “How do I eat it?”

He prepares his own piece and gently worries at the granules until most of them come away in his mouth. Some escaped juice drips down his slender fingers. “There are seeds, but they’re edible,” he says, mouth half-full, teeth stained red.

Hawke mirrors him and is delighted by the popping of each ruby nugget into sweet, tangy juice on her tongue. She puts the remains of the white flesh onto the cutting board and Fenris hands her another peeled piece.

They finish the pomegranate together, and Hawke manages to extract several pieces by herself, popping them into Fenris’ awaiting hand. She gives him the last piece, and watches as he sucks the red juice from his fingers with great satisfaction. This makes her laugh, and after carefully wiping her juice-stained hands on the washcloth, she throws her arms around his neck and gives him a long, languorous kiss. He hums into her mouth, pulling her closer by the waist. His lips taste like pomegranate.

When she pulls away and drops her arms from his neck, his smile is lazy with contentedness, eyes narrowed sleepily.

“What was that for?” he asks, not letting go of her waist.

She presses her cheek into his shoulder. “Why’s it have to be for something, hmm?”

The rumble of his laugh vibrates against her chest, and she brushes her lips against his chin. Her arms wrap around his chest, stroking his back lightly. He sighs into the embrace.

“Y’know, you’re kind of like a pomegranate,” she remarks with a grin, after a time.

Fenris’ lips meet her forehead before looking down at her, a wry look on his face. “Aside from us both coming from Tevinter, I fail to see the resemblance.”

She considers. “Hmm, you’re both from Tevinter, that was one of my points. But… you’re also hard to open up.”

“True.”

“And… you’ve got a lot of red stuff inside. I mean, I assume, I’ve never really seen it, but…”

He snorts. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out. Perhaps I should have duelled the Arishok in your stead.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “No, thank you. I’d rather not actually find out what your insides are made of.”

“Mmm.”

“The most important thing, I think, is that when one does open you up—”

“—through excessive and invasive badgering, I might add—”

“Yes, yes, I ask too many questions, I know. What I was going to say is that when you open up, you get something beautiful and rare and precious.”

She sees him roll his eyes, but the tips of his ears are pink, and his smile widens, his hands tighten around her. She squeezes back, and for a moment her world is limited to just them, no dirty Kirkwall streets just outside her door, no magnitudinous powers that threaten the stability of the world.

“I do hope you’re not planning on trying to eat me, Hawke.”

She bursts into laughter, and Fenris joins in, the gentle rumble mingling with her sunny peals. In that moment, it’s just Hawke, basking in the light of Fenris’ smile, and that’s all that matters.

[jewishzevran]

build me up from bones

After a night of wine and laughter, Pippa Hawke and Fenris share their first kiss. [ao3]

How beautiful to find a heart that loves you, without asking you for anything but to be okay. ~ Khalil Gilbran

The fire was still flooding the room with warmth, and Pippa leaned closer, eyes heavy lidded from the wine, and fixed on Fenris' mouth. Their lips met, and for a second, she was breathless, but then Fenris pulled away and she looked up to see him rigid in his chair, boring a hole through the floor with his stare, resolutely not looking at her.

Embarrassment washed over Pippa in waves, and tears burnt in her eyes as she stumbled over half formed apologies and got clumsily to her feet, just about ready to jump into the harbour. At the last second, a hand snapped out to grab her wrist and she froze.

"Don't go." 

”Don’t go.” Fenris pleaded, so quietly she could barely hear him over the crackle of the flames. Pippa paced backwards until she was level with his chair, and waited, stomach still lurching and shame still prickling up the back of her neck. Fenris released her. "I was a slave. I won't bore you with the details, but I'm... not used to people asking for my permission."

He still couldn't meet her eye, and her heart ached for him. "Fenris," she said quietly, "I want you to know I won't ever do anything you don't want me to."

He flinched at that, curling in on himself a little. "Don't -" he said before making a visible effort to stop himself speaking, to sit up and look - not at her, but at least in her direction. "That's what I mean," he continued, hands fisting in the lavish velvet of his seat. "I don't – I can handle cruelty, or violence, or indifference, even. But I - I don't know what to do when someone is kind to me. Everything I've learned just tells me it's a trap."

Pippa perched gingerly on the edge of the table. "Do you want to kiss me?" She asked, gently, patiently.

"Yes," Fenris breathed, finally looking up and meeting her gaze. "Very much."

Pippa couldn't stop her heart from fluttering. "Do you want to take the lead then? You kiss, I kiss. You stop, I stop." She smiled encouragingly.

Fenris' brow slowly unfurrowed as he processed her words. "I... yes. All right." He slowly got to his feet, standing in front of Pippa and taking a long, steadying breath, before leaning down to brush his lips against hers.

As their mouths met, warmth flooded through Pippa. Even chaste like this, the gesture felt heady and sweet. Fenris' arms remained at his side, so Pippa kept hers in her lap despite an overwhelming urge to pull him down by his shirt and kiss him until she was dizzy. Still, she couldn't stop herself smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

Fenris pulled away, looking a little perplexed.

"All right?" Pippa asked.

"You're smiling."

"Yes," she replied, unable to refrain from teasing, "That tends to be the reaction when I'm happy."

Fenris' mouth twitched at the corners in response, and it only made the butterflies in her stomach multiply. "You liked it, then?"

"I did," she murmured, suddenly aware of how close his face still was to hers. "And you?"

Fenris reached up to gently cup her cheek, humming appreciatively. “I did.” His thumb stroked over her skin, and when he spoke again, his voice was practically a purr. “May I… do it again?”

Pippa nodded, tilting her head up in invitation, and when Fenris covered her mouth with his this time, she couldn’t help but let out a little moan against his lips. Her face felt hot where he was touching it, and then he inhaled sharply and deepened the kiss, his other hand coming to rest on her back, pulling her closer. She made a small noise of surprise when she felt his tongue, but it quickly shifted to a soft moan, and she mirrored him, placing her hand on his face. He flinched a little in surprise, but didn’t pull away, continuing to kiss her with a desire so tangible it made her clothes feel far too tight. She was aching for more, wanted to ravish him right there on the rug in front of the fire and trail her tongue down his chest, but she’d be damned if she let her enthusiasm push Fenris into something he wasn’t ready for, and given that this was undoubtedly the most wonderful kiss she’d ever experienced, it was easy to suppress those urges, and store them away for another time.

When Fenris finally pulled away, Pippa chased his lips with a small noise of protest, before opening her eyes and blushing, ducking her head with a shy smile as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Fenris was frowning a little, and Pippa regarded him questioningly.

“What is it?”

“It didn’t hurt,” he murmured, only half looking at her. Pippa tilted her head slightly, and Fenris continued. “The tattoos, they - if someone touches them, it’s unpleasant. Mostly, it’s just discomfort, like an old injury that hasn’t quite healed. Sometimes it’s painful.” He held his hand out, staring at the white, vein-like markings stark against his palm. “But it didn’t hurt when you touched them.” He looked up, eyes meeting Pippa’s, and she felt her stomach lurch.

Without breaking his gaze, she very slowly took her hand, and traced the lines from the base of Fenris’ palm to his fingertips. He inhaled sharply, and Pippa immediately withdrew, but he shook his head and reached out his other hand to cling to hers.

“Don’t-” His eyes flicked down to where his fingers curled around her wrist, breathing heavily, and shaking ever so slightly. “Please, Pippa,” he breathed. “Do it again.” He pulled her hand up to his face to touch the lines on his chin, “Here. Please.”

“Fenris-”

“Please.” He urged.

Pippa relented, and feather-light, ran the pad of her thumb over the markings. Fenris inhaled again, and Pippa watched in surprise as his eyes fluttered a little, and he leant into the touch. “What is it?” She asked, softly.

“It’s… good.” Fenris said, as she continued to gently brush over his skin.

Pippa blinked. “You… you like it?”

Fenris nodded, and slowly lifted her hand away from his face so he could press his palm flat against hers, sighing again softly at the touch. “It doesn’t hurt,” he repeated, voice full of wonder, an almost child-like awe on his face as he stared at their hands.

Before Pippa could ask anymore questions, or work through the implications of what had passed between them, the markings on the back of his hand began to glow. In fact, his entire body lit up. Not the searing blue she had become accustomed to in battle, but a gentle luminescence, like soft candlelight from behind a linen screen. Pippa was awestruck, but when Fenris noticed, he started and jumped back, staring at his hands in confusion and slowly dawning horror.

“What is this?!”

The light was already fading, like it was sinking back into his skin, and sensing his growing terror, Pippa launched forward and grabbed one of his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his palm and then clutching it tightly. “Fenris, Fenris it’s alright. You’re safe, I promise, you’re safe.” When Fenris caught her eye, the fear in his eyes began to subside and his breathing returned to normal. Pippa held his gaze. “You’re safe.” She repeated, smiling reassuringly, and reached up to cup his cheek. He smiled back, and as the tension left his shoulders, the glow returned, not as brightly as before, but unmistakable, and Fenris shimmered in front of her like starlight on a lake. It was the most beautiful thing Pippa had ever seen.

“What’s happening to me?” He asked hoarsely, clutching Pippa so tightly he was threatening to cut off the blood supply to her fingers.

“This has never happened before?” Pippa asked.

Fenris shook his head. “No.”

They remained in silence for a long while, before Pippa began to speak slowly, ideas forming as she spoke them aloud. “"Fenris," she asked carefully, "have you... has anyone ever touched you because you wanted them to? Really wanted, not just... because you couldn't say no?" Fenris frowned at her, and Pippa carried on. “Your markings are everywhere. It’s hard not to touch you without making contact with them somehow. And for most of your life, whenever someone put their hands on you, it was unwelcome. You didn’t want it. Then you were fighting to survive and in battle and people were trying to take you back to Tevinter, so - could it - is it possible that the markings don’t always hurt, but just when they are touched without permission? When the touch is unsolicited?” Fenris remained quiet, staring at his hands and processing Pippa’s words, and the silence encouraged her to continue. “Could it be that this is how they react when you want someone to touch them? When you’re happy?”

Fenris continued to stare at his hands in silence for so long that Pippa was afraid she’d broken him, but then the corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk and he looked up at her. “Pippa, if you wanted to know if I fancied you, there were much easier ways to find out.”

Pippa started to laugh, and it was so infectious that Fenris joined in. She’d never been so delighted to be teased in her life. “Well,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye, “Carver always said I had a knack for turning men on, you’re just the first person to take it literally.”

Both of them collapsed into giggles again, and Fenris stepped back between her legs and pulled her in tightly against his chest, still chuckling heartily. “I knew you were going to be trouble as soon as I set eyes on you, Miss Hawke.”

“How dare you,” Pippa said, muffled against his shirt. “I am a delight.”

“Yes you are.” Fenris agreed, and Pippa could hear the smile in his voice.

She pulled back, and smiled at him coyly, her eyes as sultry and seductive as she could make them. “Trouble or no, you still wanted to kiss me.”

“Yes I did,” Fenris said, leaning closer and tilting her chin up with the side of his finger. “And I find myself very much wanting to do so again.”

“What’s stopping you then?” Pippa murmured, and Fenris’ reply was to close the gap between them and press their lips together, and he shone so brightly that Pippa could still see it behind her closed eyes.

[jawsandbones]

for @rennybu

“Tell me, have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?” The first year was one of desperate longing. Of standing just outside Gamlen’s door, fingertips pressed against the wood, remembering all they have lost. All they should have. It isn’t Ferelden that Hawke wants to return to. It’s holding hands with Carver and Bethany as they huddle in the same small bed together, piecing together a bedtime story. It’s inventing games to play as they walk behind their parents, onto the next village which might be safer from the Templars. It’s the warm sense of closeness, of peels of laughter, as Malcolm scoops them up in his arms, threatening to plant all three in the fields just to see what crop grows. That’s gone now, and returning to Ferelden won’t bring them back.

“I grew up in Ferelden,” Hawke says as he wrings his hands together, deciding on a noncommittal answer, “it will always be my home.” Even that makes the whole of his back sweat with pins and needles, the uncomfortable growl of grief and mourning that he thought he had let go of. He’s talked about these things before, easily, with other people. Not with Fenris. He doesn’t want to give half-truths, or stories, easy lies. Not to him. He guesses Fenris has not had a lot of truth in his life.

“Mn.” Fenris sits with unwavering posture on the bench, the entirety of his body unable to relax in this practiced position. A miniscule turn of his head, his gaze slipping from Orson to the floor. He seems to ease with it there, the stern line bending somewhat. A small frown pricks between his brows, banished as he looks back to Hawke, shoulders square once again. “The Blight is over. You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?”

“That’s – a difficult question.”

“Is it?” Orson laughs quietly under his breath, slightly forced, and rubs the back of his neck. His wide smile is faltering, held in place not by mirth but will. He lets his hand fall slowly back to his lap, rubs at his knuckles.

“I could rebuild a barn or a home, you’re right, but that’s not specifically what I lost. I can’t get back what I had before.” He speaks to his knees before looking up to find Fenris. He’s studying Orson, with quiet intensity. After a few quiet moments, he nods.

“I understand,” he says. Orson has the strange feeling that he truly, actually does.

---

“Should we go to Ferelden?” The words take shape, fog around Fenris’s mouth, carried away by cool wind. Snowflakes land and immediately melt, leaving a shining drop against his skin. A gloved hand reaches up, wipes it away. Wild white strands of hair fly about his face, ones which Fenris doesn’t seem to feel it all. Orson feels as though he’s brushing away hair from his eyes constantly. Fenris stands, as he has stood for many years now, at Orson’s side. His sword at his back, the hood of his coat lined with fur. Snow flitters around them.

Orson shakes his head, and closes the distance between them. He puts a hand on Fenris’s shoulder, “where would you like to go?” That hand eventually makes its way around to the other shoulder, resting his arm comfortably around him. Fenris raises his eyebrows, the smile beginning to rise around the corner of his lips as he wraps an arm around Hawke’s waist. They naturally fall together, Orson smiling as he rests his cheek against the top of Fenris’s head.

“You’re leaving this up to me?” Fenris asks.

“We’re deciding together.” A grunt of acknowledgement.

“Will you miss Kirkwall?” It’s the first time he’s asked since the first whispers of having to leave Kirkwall had come up. Fenris doesn’t usually shy away from these kinds of questions, but Orson feels the pang around old scars and understands why he had held off. He raises his head at that, looks over his shoulder at the fading shadow of the city.

“I’ll miss our friends,” Orson says, “I’ll miss sleeping in our estate.” Fenris nods in solemn agreement.

“Do you find it difficult to leave home again?”

“I’m not though,” Orson says as he smiles widely at him. “I’m bringing my home with me.” He pulls Fenris in closer, squeezes him tightly. Fenris bursts into laughter as he leans against him, tilts his head upwards to press a quick but affectionate kiss against his cheek. Orson’s beard tickles him as he does. Seized by sudden insecurity, Orson’s forced laughter warbles as he leans back and levels Fenris with an even glance. “W-what about you?” Fenris smiles with a huff of laughter and reaches up with his free hand to pat Orson’s cheek. Silly man.

“I am travelling with my home as well.” He can practically feel the relief flood through every inch of Orson, leaning his weight a little more against Fenris. “Let’s go to Ferelden, then. You are already familiar with the area and I – I would like to see all the places from the memories you’ve told me,” Fenris tells him.  

[jenniferhawke]

No longer beautiful

Summary: Inspired from a lovely comment from @lethendralis-reblogs

“We don’t have to do this Fenris. Not if you’re not ready. I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes.” Oh, but how he aches for her. A look at what transpires directly after ‘A bitter pill’. 

Content warning: discussions of past abuse (canon to what is said in game), as well as non explicit, tasteful smut. 18+. ----

 He came to apologize, he never meant for any of this to happen.

 Waiting in the alcove of Hawke’s manor, Fenris’ stomach churns with regret. Seeing Hadriana again left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ending her miserable existence did nothing to calm his ire -- the opposite in fact. For years, he’d imagined it, dreamed of the thrill of feeling the beating of her heart in his hands as it faded into nothingness. He spent countless hours awake in his bed, imagining what it would feel like to watch the life drain from her eyes. But instead of satisfaction, Fenris is left with an ugliness -- a hate that they planted inside of him. Today only proved that he is still far from being free. That no matter how long he’s been unchained, in the blink of an eye the shackles might reappear once more. Hadriana failed, but Danarius still lives. His nightmare would continue on, as if a never ending void waiting to swallow him whole.

 But even amongst his stewing, he is fearful to hold on to a new feeling that emerges: one of hope. A sister. Varania. Hadriana dangled the one piece of information she knew he’d been searching for. The same information the slavers used to lure him out of hiding the night he met Hawke. But instead of information on a family that might have been, instead of the details about who he was before Danarius, an empty box, a trap was what awaited him. They deceived him then. Perhaps Hadriana had lied in her final moments, hopeful that the news of a sister would still his ire. He had given her his word he would let her live, but just as the slavers used falsehoods to lure him into a trap, Fenris couldn’t allow Danarius’ star pupil to continue spreading her wretchedness like a plague. He nearly paused for the briefest of moments, Hawke’s influence, no doubt. But regret is the last thing he feels now. The world is void of one less cruel Tevinter magister. No one would mourn for Hadriana, not even Danarius. All Danarius knew was ownership, he used Hadriana as a ploy just as he used his slaves. 

 Now Fenris is left with a name. Varania. If this sister exists, he will spend every meager copper to his name to find her, this much he knows. But before he can begin his search, he must face Hawke.

 Anxiety chips away at his gut as he recalls the cruelty he’d hurdled at his only true friend. “What has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” he’d spat, at a mage no less. And Hawke … she is unlike any mage he’s ever met. Unlike any person he’s ever met. Even with the curse of magic, it hasn’t dulled her shine like he might have once thought it might. Unlike the magisters of Tevinter, she only uses her powers when forced to, and even then she is a formidable opponent on the battlefield. Often, Fenris can smell the way her mana clings to her skin after a fight. She always smells of the air after a storm, favoring magic of the elements, lightning in particular. Her mana smells nothing of the putrid musk of blood magic, nor is it anything like the cursed spells Danarius preferred. And when she heals him of his injuries, her merciful magic feels little more than a gentle breeze on a balmy day, her mana flowing through him, entangling itself in his lyrium, a delightful tingle caressing his skin. It feels nothing of the harsh burn that always followed Danarius’ healing spells. While her use of magic once unnerved him, he has no such reservations towards Hawke. Not any more.

 “Fenris?”

 Hawke’s voice stirs him out of his reverie, and he nervously ambles to his feet. He’s never been good at apologizing to her, and now his stomach feels as if in a million knots. Nausea befalls him. Every time he sees her, she affects him, as if an infection spreading through his veins. But it is not an affliction he wishes to avoid, it is a pang that makes him ache for her in the most delicious of ways. They’ve danced around their flirtation for years, and in recent months it has continuously built up to the point of spilling over, to the point of becoming something more. What he feels for her is dangerous, years of life as a slave haunting his every move, telling him it is wrong for him to want something for himself. But the more he catches himself thinking such thoughts, the more he wishes to rebel against his former nature. He is no longer a slave. And besides his freedom, Hawke is the only thing he truly wants in this world. Many times, she’s made her intentions clear. No longer is it an impossible dream, Hawke is forever within his grasp, all he need do is reach out and take it. But he has been a fool and a coward, and now, his callous words might be the very thing that ends their budding relationship before it had a true chance to flourish.

 “I’ve been thinking about what happened with Hadriana. I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so. I was … not myself. I’m sorry.”

 “I had no idea where you went. I was concerned.”

 Ah, but of course she was. Sweet, gentle Hawke. Whatever had he done to deserve her kindness? Again and again, he seethed with anger when dealing with mages. It would always be a sore spot between them, but despite their opposing views on magic itself, she always remained patient with him, allowing him time to cool off when his temper flared.

 “I needed to be alone,” Fenris says, turning to pace uncomfortably. It is not a conversation he wishes to have, but she deserves an explanation for his unkind behaviour. So, Fenris speaks of Hadriana and of the torment he suffered under her watch. The way she denied him sleep and food, how she used her position to taunt him, knowing he was powerless to retort. Discomfort seeps into his voice as he attempts to defend his actions. Hawke is a woman of compassion. She only ever kills if put in a position where she has little choice in the matter. And Fenris?  He is a trained weapon. Countless lives have been lost at his hand, and while in the past he had little to say in the matter, today he made a choice. Despite giving his word, he killed Hadriana, and would forever be tainted in Hawke’s view. 

 “This hate,” he continues, voice full of distaste. “I thought I’d gotten away from it. But it dogs me wherever I go. To feel it again, to know it was they who planted it inside me… it was too much to bear.” Fenris lets out a heavy sigh. The more he recalls the torment of Hadriana, the more he festers inside, feeling as if the abuses of Tevinter happened but a moment ago. Reliving such memories, breathing into life what he endured … it tightens his chest and fills him with unease. He turns his back on Hawke, ready to leave … he will not let her see him like this, weak and vulnerable, like the caged animal he once was. 

 “But I didn’t come to bother you further,” he says, ready to make his departure. 

 In the blink of an eye, her hand grasps his arm, holding him in place. “You don’t need to leave, Fenris.” she says, but it is not her touch he feels, nor her soft, gentle voice he hears. In the moment, he is a slave once more, a powerless being, and Hawke is not Hawke, not the woman he cherishes, but the monster who tormented him for years on end. The woman he killed just hours before. The lyrium branded into his flesh reacts to his ire, glowing with the power that thrums in his veins. Usually, it is a constant dull ache, but now turns into an angry fire burning from within. Eyes narrowing with hate, he turns without a moment's notice, backing her quickly into the hard wall. As her back connects with the unforgiving surface, a thud sounds from behind her, a puff of breath leaving her lungs, brushing against the flesh of his neck. Ever so slowly, Fenris comes to, realising it’s not Hadriana’s blue eyes that stare back at him, but those of Hawke’s … a cerulean ocean he often finds himself lost in. The blue glow of his brandings slowly diminish, eyes wide with realization of what he’s done. Hawke stares at him, unblinking, a look of surprise upon her face. His eyes widen with panic, and Fenris slowly backs away, shame and regret threatening to bury him beneath unforgiving tides.

 Her kiss is the last thing he expects. Hands suddenly resting upon his shoulders, Hawke gives the briefest of smiles before pressing her lips to his. Stunned, he is unable to move, let alone respond to the frantic dancing of her lips upon his. But he has no time for thought or rationalization as Hawke swivels them in place, mimicking his previous actions as she presses him hard against the wall. A brief gasp flows past his lips, just moments before she reconnects her mouth to his. But this time … this time Fenris responds.

 Following her lead, he moves his lips against hers, hands finding purchase in the swell of her hips. As she flicks her tongue against his own, he is eager to discover her flavor. Hawke keeps her hands pressed against the wall on either side of him, and although she has him pinned in place, she leaves him room to run his hands up and down her sides. Kissing her is unlike anything he’s ever dreamed of, his thoughts paling in comparison to the gentle slide of her tongue against his own. All at once, it is too much and not enough. He yearns for her as if a man starved. He wishes to throw off his gauntlets and feel the softness of her body beneath his hands. For years, he’s suppressed his longing for her, and now, it unravels in the span of a kiss. A surprising, soul consuming kiss.

 As she pulls away, he immediately misses her warmth. But then she offers him a smile so coy, and when she takes him by the hand, leading him to her chambers, he is helpless to do anything but follow.

 Eager as they both are, between the two of them it takes little time for them to divest her of her clothing. Fenris unwraps her eagerly, impatient to expose her flesh to curious eyes. As she stands before him in front of the foot of her bed, bare and displayed before his eyes, he can’t help but admire her impressive form. Eyes roam over her every curve as if committing her to memory. He has longed for this moment for what seems like an eternity, but all at once eternity has become today.

 Fenris slowly removes his gauntlets, allowing them to clang to the floor. As his fingers sit at the buckles at his shoulders, he gives pause. Hawke has seen glimpses of his body here and there, whenever a wound needs tending to, or when they wash off the gore from a battle at a nearby stream. But she has never truly seen him in full, and suddenly he is all too aware of the markings in his flesh, in his strange appearance that has onlookers gaping as he walks by. Her eyes soften at his hesitancy and she places a tender hand on his cheek. “We don’t have to do this Fenris. Not if you’re not ready. I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes.” Oh, but how he aches for her. 

 “No,” he says in a clipped tone. “We have waited long enough. I want this Hawke. I want you.”

 They work together, uncasping the many belts and buckles of his armour, his clothing following soon after. Eyes raking over him, a smile tugs at her lips. “Maker, but you’re beautiful,” she sighs softly, and in that moment, Fenris knows it to be her truth. 

 He’s always hated being gawked at whilst walking amongst Hightown’s uptight nobility. Their leering eyes often remind him of his life as a slave. The way he felt when Danarius paraded him around during his elaborate dinner parties, making him serve wine in little more than a thin cloth. Fenris had been regarded as little more than a creation to be displayed, as if Danarius an artist revealing his masterpiece to the world. That’s what he was to the magister’s. A thing. 

 But Hawke sees him for all that he is. Not just the little pieces of himself that he reveals to her companions, tiny fragments of the elf behind the steely armour. She sees all of him. With Hawke, he no longer feels like a broken thing, a beast with a hideous nature to be contained. With her, he actually feels beautiful as she says. Hawke makes him feel whole.

 Soon, he is lost in her, limbs writhing among her sea of red sheets, her hair fawned out like a dark halo above her head. Fenris knows pain, he knows loss and suffering and anger. But never has he known pleasure such as this. Eagerly, he follows her lead, exploring her as she shows him what she enjoys. He takes his time in this, discovering the many ways to hear his name upon her lips, a sound he wishes to hear again and again. Laboured breathing fills the room, and Fenris is lost in her, lost in the way she feels around him, lost in how she cries his name as if it’s the only word she knows. He kisses her when he is able, when he can spare a moment to slow his movements, when he isn’t so eager to lose himself in freedom. That’s what this is … the freedom of choice. And he chooses Hawke. The weight of his longing threatens to spill forth, for never has he known tenderness or true affection such as this. But he will not ruin the moment with weighty words. Pulling away from the kiss, he peers deep into her eyes before nuzzling his face in her neck as they move together as one. 

 His peak approaches all too soon, and as he crests, he sighs her name against the soft crook of her neck. Pleasure consumes him, but only for a single moment. A bright light blooms behind closed eyes, and suddenly he remembers.

 Everything he’d ever wanted to know, everything he’d been hopelessly searching for is revealed in the span of a few seconds. He sees not the family that might have been, but the family that was. Faces long forgotten spring to life … a flash of red hair as a sister runs by, laughter in her voice. The smile of a mother, familiar green eyes mirroring his own as she peers down and pats his head. A name on her lips … not Fenris, but his real name. But just as soon as the memory flashes behind closed eyes, it vanishes, taking everything it revealed along with it. No longer can he remember their faces, nor the name spoken just a moment before. They disappear into the depths of his mind, as if buried away in a locked box he cannot reach. Fenris wishes to scream, to call after them, but they are gone. And all he feels is emptiness.

 Slowly, his eyes open, and once again, all he knows is pain and despair.

 Rolling off of Hawke, he lays atop her covers, head coming to rest upon a pillow. She sighs happily, resting her head upon his chest. A short time later, the quiet sounds of her slumber fill the room. And while he should be happy to have a tender moment such as this, a pain unlike any he’s ever known consumes him, devouring his soul.

 Suddenly, he needs to flee. He needs to disappear into his stolen abode. He needs to tear apart the walls, break every item that he can find. They did this to him! Six years of freedom and still he bears a lifetime full of anguish. He needs to be alone. But first … he must do what needs to be done. He must end things with Hawke.

 Quite the fool was he, to think he truly could be happy. Carefully moving off of the bed, Fenris dresses himself. With his armour secure around him and his sword hilted at his back, he walks to the hearth of the room, staring blankly ahead at the flames engulfing the wood within. For a moment, he wishes the flames would consume him too, for all he can feel is a deep seeded hate that never leaves for long. 

 All too soon, Hawke wakes from her slumber, a teasing tone in her voice as she sees him in all his brooding.

 “Was it that bad?” she asks, and he grimaces at her playful tone. Her momentary happiness would soon be replaced with hate. Or … so he hoped. It would be better if she hated him. It would be easier to walk away. But as he explains the resurfacing of his forgotten memories, as his voice trembles with the pain of his loss, she seeks to comfort him with gentle words. He is weak, and he needs to end things now before he loses the nerve to do so, instead finding solace in her loving embrace.

 “It’s too much. This is too fast. I cannot … do this,” he stammers, and hopes it will be sufficient enough for her to allow him to walk away. But this is Hawke, and he would never be a simple curiosity to her. He knows to her, this was every bit as real and as marvelous and as beautiful as it was to him. And how his heart breaks knowing it will never happen again.

 “We can work through this,” she pleads, her eyes desperately seeking his own,

 “I’m sorry. I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy … just for a little while.” Fenris lowers his head as he sees the pain in her eyes. A pain he has caused. Turning on his heel, he lumbers towards the door. “Forgive me,” he sighs under his breath, heart lurching from the loss of his memories, at the loss of the only one he ever allowed to see him as whole.

 But now Fenris knows he is still a broken thing. A beast with a hideous nature to be contained, for only a monster could break the heart of a woman as kind and as gentle as Hawke. No longer does he feel beautiful, instead he feels every bit the monster Danarius created. No longer is he whole.

[cruelangelstheses]

something lonesome

fandom: dragon age rating: G characters: fenris/m!hawke, original child character, anders words: 3k additional tags: canon compliant, kid fic, some implied past violence description: when fenris finds an orphaned elven child in the kirkwall alienage, all he knows is that he has to help her somehow. a/n: hello everyone!! i wrote this fic for the @fenriszine and now that the orders have been shipped out i can finally post it!! :D i’m thinking about writing more fics in this ‘verse as well :0 title is from “from eden” by hozier

read it on ao3

—

The alienage is so busy, Fenris almost doesn’t hear the cries—almost.

It’s not rare to hear an infant wailing, but this is different. It’s plaintive, almost mournful, the howl of someone crushed under the weight of a terrible loss. Intrigued, Fenris stops in his tracks and listens closely, furrowing his brow. Some elves bump into him or brush past him, shaking their heads or muttering something under their breath. After a few seconds of standing in the middle of the street like a fool, he hears it again: tiny, high-pitched sobs.

Fenris had planned on just dropping off the food for Merrill and then leaving the alienage before he could get roped into anything. Too late for that now, it seems.

Turning his head to the side, he quickly pinpoints the probable source of the sound: an alleyway partially hidden by barrels and the shadows of buildings. When he takes a few steps forward, his suspicions are confirmed—the cries get louder the closer he gets.

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything in the alley. Fenris peers behind one of the barrels, and there he spots the perpetrator, huddled in the dirt and the darkness: an elven child, probably no older than four, curled up in the fetal position.

The child must have heard his footsteps, or otherwise sensed his presence, because she lifts her head up abruptly, revealing a reddened and tear-streaked face. Her skin is only a shade or two lighter than his, and her pointed ears protrude from underneath a mess of long, tangled black hair. Upon seeing Fenris towering over her, the girl gasps, her bright green eyes widening in fear.

Fenris isn’t quite sure what to do, so he holds his hands up in a universal gesture of surrender. “Hold on,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The girl sniffles and wipes at her eyes, her lip trembling. She doesn’t seem all that convinced.

Fenris kneels down in front of her. “What happened?” he asks softly, trying his best to adopt a less threatening demeanor, a difficult task when he looks quite...well, threatening.

Unexpectedly, the girl stands up and points toward the alienage, her expression suddenly solemn. Without a word, she steps out into the street, gesturing for him to follow her. Fenris raises a confused eyebrow and rises to his feet.

The girl scurries halfway across the alienage, darting in between groups of elves and ducking underneath their hands. Fenris, being much larger than her, almost crashes into a few of them in his effort to keep track of her. Finally he finds her standing in front of a little home similar to Merrill’s, only Merrill’s front door has never been knocked off its hinges (as far as he knows). It lies broken against the wall, a signifier to all who enter that the rest of the place will probably be in a similar state.

“Is this your house?” Fenris asks the girl. She nods.

When he steps into the main room, he catches the distinct scent of corpses and burnt flesh. He doesn’t even need to see the bodies to get an idea of what may have happened—one glance at the broken furniture, bloodstains, charred wood, and half-frozen weapons is enough.

The first body he finds is that of a templar, badly burned, lying near the entrance to the back room. Fenris already knows what he’ll find on the other side, but he forces himself to take a look.

The smell of death is worse in this room, where pools of blood surround two dead elves on the floor. Though neither wear mage robes, the woman holds a staff in her hand; the man seems to have fought with daggers.

“They came for Mama.”

Fenris jumps at the sound of the voice and spins around to see the young girl standing in front of him, speaking to him for the first time. “They wanted to...to take her away,” she continues. “She didn’t want to. And Papa didn’t want her to. And things got scary. So I ran.”

“I...I see,” Fenris says slowly. Templars sometimes take children of mages away, to be raised by the Chantry—perhaps they never found her after she fled the house. “And you have no other family that could take you in?”

The girl shakes her head.

It doesn’t take long for Fenris to come to a decision. He can’t just leave her here. With an awkward half-smile, an attempt at comfort, he says, “Well, I suppose you will just have to come with me for the moment.”

The girl narrows her eyes in confusion. “Huh?”

“I can help you find somewhere to stay,” he explains. “Will that be alright?”

Some part of his mind wonders if it’s silly to negotiate with a child. He hasn’t had much experience with them; he wouldn’t know. But the way the girl looks at him—with trust and possibly even respect—makes him think that it isn’t, or it shouldn’t be.

“Yes,” the girl says finally. “Thank you, messere.”

For a moment, Fenris wonders if he heard her correctly. Messere—the title one uses when speaking to someone of greater social status in the Free Marches. It’s a title he never expected anyone to be able to use for him, not even a four-year-old. Clearly her parents taught her to be polite. Caught off guard, he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I—yes, well—you’re welcome. But, ah, feel free to call me Fenris instead.”

“Okay,” the girl says. “Um...I’m Lyra.”

“Lyra,” Fenris repeats. He likes the way it feels on his tongue. “Well, then, Lyra. Let’s find a place for you, shall we?”

—

“Finding a place” for Lyra turns out to be a much more difficult task than Fenris expected. The Kirkwall Chantry isn’t willing to take in the elven daughter of a mage, so he couldn’t give her to them even if he wanted to. The elves in the alienage are already struggling under the weight of poverty, so none of them can afford another mouth to feed, and none of the other humans want an elven child.

Lyra, for her part, doesn’t seem to want human parents, either. Already naturally shy and skittish, she shrinks in fear whenever Fenris tries to introduce her to a human acquaintance, even Hawke, who has always been popular with children. Hawke offers to take her in—says the estate feels too big and empty without his mother in it—but when Fenris mentions this to Lyra, she simply shakes her head furiously. It doesn’t matter that two dwarves and an elven servant also live there; all that matters is that there is a human.

That just leaves Varric and Merrill, and Varric respectfully declines. “The Hanged Man is no place for a child,” he says, and Fenris is inclined to agree. Merrill offers, but she can barely take care of herself at the moment, so focused on her mirror that she forgets to eat—that’s the whole reason Fenris was even in the alienage that day. It very rapidly becomes clear that Lyra will probably have to stay at his place for a little while, a prospect that alarms him far more than it should for reasons he can’t quite describe.

It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the mansion; it’s as good as anywhere else, and he likes the idea of destroying things that Danarius considers “his,” of letting a symbol of depravity crumble around him. Still, he feels the need to warn Lyra about its deterioration so that she isn’t surprised by the stark contrast between it and the surrounding mansions.

Lyra, however, is in awe of the place, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the double staircases, the statues, the high ceiling. As he leads her up the stairs, she asks timidly, “How come you don’t live in the alienage?”

“It’s a long story,” Fenris replies. “Let’s just say I got lucky.”

The irony of that phrase isn’t lost on him. Having been a slave isn’t exactly something to be envious of.

—

Days turn into weeks with Lyra living in Fenris’s mansion. He doesn’t mind, necessarily, and he has enough coin to feed them both, but Aveline is getting antsy. It’s been hard enough for her to hide an elven adult squatting in a deteriorating Hightown manor; adding a child to the mix has only made the neighbors more suspicious. No one has contacted her about actually taking Lyra, though, even temporarily, so there’s nowhere else for the poor kid to go.

Besides, Fenris realizes that he actually rather likes her. She’s quick and clever, but he soon discovers that she can also be playful once she gets comfortable. Sometimes she asks him to tell her a story, only for her to argue with him the whole way through. Occasionally, he’ll find her trying to lift one of his weapons or playing with kitchen knives. She’ll sneak up on him to startle him or climb onto his back while he’s sitting and demand a piggyback ride—but she also listens when he speaks seriously and comes to him when she gets upset.

Fenris can’t watch her all the time, obviously, since Hawke is always bringing him on some sketchy mission or another, but that’s where Bodahn comes in. Lyra takes to him and Sandal immediately, and she seems to see Orana as almost an older sister figure. When he and Hawke return, though, she shrinks behind one of them at the sight of a human, a pitiful transformation from vibrant and animated to the terrified girl she was when Fenris found her.

Eventually she does warm up to Hawke, who still insists on visiting the mansion for reading lessons, but it takes some time. At first, she just sits on the other side of the room, watching them carefully without a word. It isn’t until Hawke’s third visit that she actually speaks to him, asking questions and making comments. Hawke, of course, takes it all in stride, and slowly but surely, Lyra starts to look at him not with fear but with awe.

After close to three years, the sessions aren’t so much “lessons” as “Fenris reading books to Hawke and occasionally stumbling over a word or two.” Fenris constantly reminds him that he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but still Hawke visits once a week, a grin on his face and a book in hand. “He’s just using it as an excuse to visit you,” Isabela said about it once, smirking, but Fenris didn’t quite believe it. He still doesn’t.

It’s during one of these sessions that Fenris notices something different about Lyra. She seems more subdued than usual—at this point, she’s gotten comfortable enough to make comments about the story they’re reading from underneath the desk, where she likes to sit and listen (while playing with Fenris’s toes). Today, though, she doesn’t say much of anything, not even at a major plot twist that nearly makes Fenris toss the novel across the room. He tries to engage her by asking what she thinks, but the most he gets out of her is a noncommittal grunt or a one-word answer.

At first, he figures she’s probably just grumpy. After Hawke leaves, though, Fenris hears her coughing.

“Lyra?” he says, peering underneath the desk. He finds her lying on the ground, cheeks flushed, breathing labored, forehead beading with sweat. At the sound of his voice, she gazes up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Fenris tries not to immediately launch into a panic. “Lyra, how long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since...yesterday,” she says weakly. “Got worse...today.”

Fenris groans and runs a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself. He noticed that she seemed drowsier than usual this morning, but other than that, she showed no outward signs of sickness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t want...to worry you,” Lyra says, closing her eyes and coughing again.

Fenris’s mind races, and the solution comes to him almost instantly. Breathing deeply and trying to sound calm, he says, “Listen. I’m going to take you to a human in Darktown. He is good at what he does. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Lyra doesn’t protest. When he picks her up, her head lies limp on his shoulder.

—

The sun is almost below the horizon by the time Fenris reaches the clinic and shoves the door open.

Anders is the only one there, in the process of cleaning a bloody cot when he looks up and registers Fenris’s presence. “What—?” he starts, narrowing his eyes in confusion, before his gaze drops to the now-unconscious child in Fenris’s arms. “Oh, no.”

“Do something,” Fenris says, almost pleading.

Anders doesn’t hesitate. Gesturing to a clean cot nearby, he says, “Lay her down over there.”

Fenris spends most of his time in the clinic pacing back and forth, agitated, his focus always on Anders and Lyra. He should have noticed sooner. He should have paid closer attention to her. He should have made sure she knew to come to him. He should have—

“Fenris.” Anders’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts. Fenris glances over at him, at the way his hands glow with bright blue light as they hover over Lyra. Without looking up from her, Anders says, “She’ll be alright.”

Automatically, Fenris breathes a sigh of relief and sits down on the next cot over, watching them. “It’s a pretty common illness,” Anders continues. “Children just aren’t as resistant to it because their bodies haven’t built up immunity yet. She’ll have to stay here overnight so I can keep an eye on her, but after that she should be fine.”

Fenris nods slowly. He’ll admit, Lyra already looks a bit better. “I...thank you,” he says, somewhat awkwardly.

“It’s nothing.”

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then Anders finally looks up at him with the faintest smile and says, not unkindly, “You’ve gotten quite attached to her, haven’t you?”

That catches Fenris off-guard. He opens his mouth to deny it, but he can’t come up with any plausible excuse. It’s only been about a month and a half, but in that time he’s come to enjoy Lyra’s presence in his life. He hates to think of anything bad happening to her, and he’ll be sad to see her go with another family.

“I...suppose,” he mutters, but now that someone has actually said it, it can’t be ignored. He has gotten attached. It’s almost pathetic.

—

About two weeks later, Fenris learns that Varania is in Kirkwall.

When he returns from the Hanged Man that fateful day, Lyra bombards him with questions. “How did it go? What did she look like? Was she nice? What did you talk about? Am I gonna get to meet her?”

Fenris only answers the last one. “No,” he says brusquely as he opens the door to the mansion. “You will not get to meet her.”

Lyra frowns. “Why not?”

Fenris sighs. “Because sometimes there is a difference between being linked by blood and being family.”

He says it offhandedly, a statement filled with bitterness and loneliness, but as the words leave his mouth, he glances down at the child he’s been caring for and realizes that perhaps it’s true in more ways than one.

—

The next day, things start to fall into place.

Danarius is dead. He is free to do whatever he wishes. More importantly, though, Hawke is still there. Hawke wants to be there. As they talk, Fenris wonders if perhaps Isabela was on to something. He’s never felt such longing in his life, never allowed himself to—but Hawke has proven to be an exception more times than Fenris can count.

When they finally, finally kiss, Fenris feels his chest brim with something akin to hope. He can still have a future. He can still have a family.

As if on cue, Lyra waltzes into the room about four seconds later. “Ewww!” she groans, sticking her tongue out and immediately walking away. “I knew it! I knew you were like Mama and Papa! I knew it!”

Hawke and Fenris separate almost instantly. Fenris can feel his cheeks heating up. Hawke mutters, “How much tension must we have had, for even a four-year-old to figure it out?”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Fenris replies. “She is quite clever.”

Hawke nods and scratches his beard in thought. “You know, speaking of the future,” he says slowly, “what are you planning to do about her?”

Fenris pauses before finally speaking the ludicrous idea that’s been bouncing around in his head. “I’ve...been considering...keeping her. Raising her.”

He waits for Hawke to call him crazy, but it never happens. Instead, Hawke grins and says, “Two can play at that game.”

Fenris just smiles and kisses him again.

—

It happens a week later, at the estate.

One minute, Lyra is running around the house with Sandal. The next, she’s sobbing on the floor, despite not being visibly injured. Fenris and Hawke both rush over to her and kneel down to see her better. Sniffling, she says, “I can tell you anything, right?”

“Of course,” Fenris replies immediately.

“Okay,” Lyra says, wiping at her eyes. “I was...just playing with Sandal, but then…”

She holds her palms out. Almost immediately, a tiny flame starts to form at her fingertips. Fenris thinks back to Lyra’s mother, dead on the floor with a staff in hand.

Lyra buries her head into Fenris’s shoulder. “Don’t let them take me,” she pleads.

Hawke and Fenris exchange glances, but if he’s being completely honest with himself, there was never any doubt. Hawke is a strong mage, a skilled mage, raised by an apostate. If anyone can teach Lyra to control her powers, it’s him.

“We won’t,” Fenris says softly, pulling her into an embrace. “They will not take you from us. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

[eeveevie]

Shadow and Light

Nothing in Varric’s life ever goes as planned, but he’s damn good at improvising with the hand he’s dealt.

Varric introduces Hawke to the Inquisition, and with Garrett Hawke comes Bethany, much to Varric’s surprise. And there was much rejoicing. (Monty Python jokes not included).

Chapter Summary:  More memories, more feelings, and more interrupting Hawke. This time with more liquor. 

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke

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6215 words (chapter) | Teen + | Ao3

Chapter Three:  Après moi, le deluge

Kirkwall, 9:31

The Hanged Man. For the last several years, Varric had called the Lowtown tavern his home, occupying the upstairs suite. It wasn’t the nicest place a person could stay in Kirkwall, but it suited Varric more than the Hightown clubs where the Merchant’s Guild elite tended to dwell. No, he liked being amongst the drunkards and thieves. At least they tended to be more honest people than his business partners.

That evening, it had been an unusually quiet night at the bar. Isabela was off with Hawke on an evening trip to Hightown. For what, Varric was uncertain. He had been left behind by his own request so he could settle other matters. Hawke was almost done procuring the funds needed for the expedition into the Deep Roads, and with that, Varric needed to ensure that it wouldn’t be for nothing. Tonight, instead of rogue companion to Hawke, he needed to play businessman.

It wasn’t until Varric started going through the stack of letters at his table that he realized he had been neglecting this work for longer than he intended. Ever since he met Hawke, life in Kirkwall had become more chaotic than usual. Not that he minded—it was all fodder for an eventual great story. It helped that Hawke kept interesting company. There was tough-as-nails Aveline, sweet and naive Daisy, the brooding Elf, Blondie (okay, that friendship was questionable, even for Varric), the “Choir-Boy”, ever-flirty Isabela and…Varric smiled as he thought about Hawke’s little sister, Bethany. Sunshine.

Before he could let his mind wander too much, he glanced over the letters again. People asking for money, people threatening to send assassins, his editor threatening to shred copies of his latest manuscript if there was no update…at least the content of the correspondence was nothing new. He wasn’t sure how long he was writing for when there was a knock at his door.

“It’s open,” he called. Figuring it was Norah with the evening meal, he didn’t glance up at first.

“Oh, are you busy?” Bethany’s voice rang out and he looked to find her standing in the doorway. “I can come back.”

Varric was surprised at first to find her in the Hanged Man—in his room—by herself. Not that she wasn’t capable of being out-and-about without Hawke or another companion, it just wasn’t the safest idea. Being an apostate in Kirkwall usually didn’t end well. After the initial surprise faded, Varric could only grin as he turned away from his work.

“No, no!” he assured, gesturing for her to fully enter the room. She did so, letting the door close behind her. It didn’t take Varric long to notice she had brought a small bag along with her. “What brings Sunshine to the Hanged Man?”

Bethany’s smile was sheepish. It seemed regardless of how many times he used the nickname, it always made her blush. He’d just have to keep using it.

“Garrett left me with Mother and Gamlen, who are still fighting about, well, everything.” She sat down in the chair next to Varric when he motioned for her. “So I thought I’d…come see you.”

“Glad to know I was your first choice,” he smirked. Bethany’s smile only increased. There was a small pause between them before she moved her bag so it rested on the table.

“Oh, and Fenris gave me this.” She quickly revealed a bottle of wine. “He said not to ask where it came from. Just to drink it with good company.”

“You came all this way to get me drunk?” Varric joked. “My lady Sunshine, just what are your intentions towards this dwarf?”

Bethany giggled, her fingers pressing to her lips. “Purely innocent, I assure you.”

“We’ll see,” he replied and moved to fetch some mugs from another table. As he poured them, he noted the way she was intently staring at him. He was about to tease her again when she spoke.

“Varric,” Bethany paused to take a first sip of the drink. “Why do you call me Sunshine?”

He didn’t really have an answer for her, but that wouldn’t stop him from coming up with one on the spot. He took a sip of the wine—it was strong, but good.

“Why not?” he started. Bethany raised an eyebrow at that and he continued. “Kirkwall is a shit-hole. It’s the shit-hole I live in, but I can recognize that it’s not the greatest city in Thedas.” Varric gestured towards her. “You, my dear Sunshine, are the complete opposite.”

“Here.” Varric shuffled amongst his letters and found an amber pendant that had been sent to him as some kind of bribe. It matched Bethany’s eyes—he wanted to tell her, but he hesitated as she looked over the gem in her fingers. She smiled, and Varric continued.

“Compared to the people around here, you’re a walking beam of light. Clean and promising. Beautiful.” He pointed to the pendant, and then her. “Sunshine.”

Bethany’s cheeks were flushed with color. She certainly hadn’t been expecting him to say any of that. Neither was he, now that he thought about it. The more he interacted with Bethany, the more he found himself saying things he wouldn’t normally say, doing things he wouldn’t normally do. She made him confused, but in all the most delightful ways he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I can call you something else, if that’s what you want,” Varric offered when she didn’t immediately respond.

She shook her head quickly. “No, I…I like that you call me that.”

Bethany observed the amber in her hand for a moment longer before attempting to hand it back to Varric. He only shook his head and hands. “Keep it. As a reminder.”

She tucked it away on her person with a sweet smile. An impromptu gift, but Varric hoped she understood its significance. The two both took long sips from their drinks. Bethany glanced at him, eyes scanning over his face.

“Are you really not afraid of apostates? Me?” she asked. She poured herself some more wine from the bottle.

Varric shook his head and copied her actions. “I’m a dwarf. In case you missed that detail.”

“Dwarves aren’t completely immune to magic, you know.” Bethany swayed a little as she talked. “I could cast a spell on you to test it out.”

Varric wondered if it was the wine that had him feeling bold. Could it really be that strong? “I think you’ve already put one on me, Sunshine.”

“What?” she blinked, not noticing how close she had leaned towards his him, and his face. But she didn’t move away. Neither did he. She seemed to catch his meaning. “Oh.”

The air around them seemed to grow thicker, and Varric only recognized it as tension. He wasn’t expecting this. Was she?

“You didn’t answer my question,” she mentioned. “You aren’t afraid of me?”  

“On the contrary, Bethany.”

Her eyes widened a little, and the color on her cheeks darkened. Her gaze dipped to his lips and then back up again. “You said my name.”

“Sure did.” He nodded.

Bethany moved that much closer to him. “You think I’m beautiful?”

Varric didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The signs were there, but Varric wasn’t about to make a move on her. It didn’t matter that he wanted to. Sunshine. Bethany Hawke. The little sister—Andraste’s flaming knickers, what had he gotten himself into? His mind was quick to answer—something he had been wanting for longer than he cared to admit.

“Varric, if you don’t—”

Screw it. Varric closed the distance between them, surprising himself as their lips met. The shock subsided quickly, and Bethany leaned into him, one hand meeting his cheek while the other grasped the front of his shirt. A few fingers dipped to brush over the exposed part of his chest, and he could only grin against her mouth. They lingered for a moment, before Bethany finally pulled away with a small gasp. She didn’t say anything at first, instead the two just staring at each other with somewhat dumbstruck expressions.

“That wasn’t the wine, was it?” she asked sheepishly. Varric shook his head, and tugged her closer when she tried to move away. Bethany obliged, but still glanced at him skeptically. “Varric…what…”

“I’d rather not ruin this by getting sappy,” he commented, stopping her. He shook his head—they could have this discussion, a definition, later. “I’m not good at sappy.”

Bethany’s smile slowly returned. She laughed, almost beside herself. “Then kiss me again. Don’t stop kissing me, please.”

Varric copied her laugh, leaning back towards her to oblige.

“Anything for my Sunshine.” 

Skyhold, 9:41

Varric grumbled to himself as he scratched out the words he had just written on the parchment in front of him. It was another busy afternoon of answering bills, solicitations and threats—this time coming from more than just the Merchant’s Guild. Turned out, being part of the Inquisition brought one friends and enemies. Being Varric Tethras just made matters worse. He was trying to find the best way to reach out to his contacts concerning the missing Wardens, but found himself distracted and unable to form the right words. He didn’t want to let King Alistair down, but he was in no shape to write impassioned pleas at the moment.

No, the only words that seemed to want to form in his mind were things he wanted to say to Bethany. Carefully crafted sentences to make her laugh, or better yet, blush with embarrassment. Varric glanced up from the scattering of letters and to the people around him in the great hall. Usually, he was perfectly fine with working alone, but in recent months he had been treated to Bethany’s company. It was almost always constant. He didn’t mean to start to take it for granted, but now that he was sitting there by himself, all he wanted was to find where she was and be there instead.

They had been back from Orlais for nearly a week, and still, he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened at the Winter Palace. Not between the Inquisition and the Imperial Court—no—he was distracted by matters of the heart. Every interaction as of late seemed to bring back more and more memories of their past, and it made Varric feel more than just nostalgic. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with—slightly terrified, but excited all the same. A feeling he wondered if he had been carrying with him for all these years.

It wasn’t just Varric that was preoccupied by his thoughts. When he did see Bethany in Skyhold, it seemed she was just as unfocused. There wasn’t anything wrong, per se, but something was definitely not right. With him, with her…with them. Varric knew it most likely had everything to do with the past, and how it was affecting them now.  

He still cared for Bethany, and it wasn’t a maybe any longer that his care for her was more than just friendship. His only hesitation was he didn’t know how Bethany felt, and didn’t want to assume either. He wasn’t about to risk tarnishing the bond they had only recently been able to recover. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he also knew he’d have deal with Hawke, regardless of the outcome. Varric felt a shiver in his spine that had him shaking his head at the discomfort. He was getting ahead of himself. Maybe it would be better if he just…asked her.

It took a while for him to find her in the Herald’s Rest, Cabot nodding to the second floor when Varric inquired about the mage. He passed the bartender a few silver and smiled when the other dwarf handed over a bottle of brandy and two mugs. If he was going to improvise, he would need the liquid courage. Upstairs, she was sitting at a table near a window, her chair turned so she could peer out at the courtyard below. Her chin rested in her hand, and he could see the small contented smile she wore as she people watched. The sun setting beyond the horizon bathed her in a glow that reminded him of why he called her what he did.

“Sunshine.”

Bethany perked up at his voice breaking through the silence. She turned towards him and Varric noted her sudden nervous behavior. She wrung her hands together and bit down on her bottom lip for a moment.

“Hello,” she softly greeted. She eyed the pair of mugs and bottle that he carried. “Where are you going with that?”

Varric shrugged, and moved to occupy the seat next to her. “Well, right here of course.”

He handed her one of the cups and she took it, watching him carefully as he poured some of the amber liquid for her. Her gaze had strayed from the bottle to his face, specifically his mouth. “Enjoying the view?” he asked with a smirk.

“What?” Bethany responded quickly, her eyes darting up to his.

“The sunset,” Varric clarified, motioning to the window. He laughed to himself. Sometimes it was just too easy to tease her. “You were watching it, right?”

“Yes…” she nodded and eyed the liquor in her mug. “What exactly is this?”

“Trust me when I say it’s better than the Abyssal stuff Garrett usually drinks.” He paused to take a large gulp. “It doesn’t taste like burning.”

Bethany rolled her eyes, apprehensively taking a small sip. Her eyebrows twitched up and Varric could tell he had made the right choice. “See, I knew you’d like it.”

She was smiling, her demeanor more relaxed than when he first approached. They continued to drink in a comfortable silence, the two just staring at one another. Varric could only grin as a rosy color appeared on her cheeks. She blinked her gaze away.

“What?” she giggled nervously, and reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

“There’s that smile.” Varric commented. His tone had dropped, and he hoped she could tell he wasn’t teasing her. Bethany only took another drink of the brandy.

“You’re spoiling me,” she replied. Her hand moved in an effort to hide her blush, but he caught it, cupping her fingers and pulling it away from her cheeks. The move surprised her, but she didn’t pull away.

“You deserve it.”

Bethany’s mouth opened as if she meant to say something, but instead she stayed silent. Between their drinking and conversation, they had scooted closer to each other. It wasn’t lost on Varric that it seemed history was repeating itself in a way. Though, he was certain his heart was beating much faster than it ever did in the Hanged Man. He kept his eyes locked on hers, slipping his hand up her wrist until he was cupping her elbow. With a short tug he brought her closer and used his other hand to brush more strands of her silky hair from her face. She leaned into his touch as he cupped her cheek.

“You’re stunning, you know that?”

A soft gasp fell from her lips as he led her to him. His kiss was soft, but rather quickly he applied more pressure, practically stealing the breath from her. She leaned into him some more, her hand gripping his tightly. He pulled away a moment later, not wanting to get carried away in such a public space. Her expression was still one of surprise, but a small smile lingered as she breathed out.

“Varric?” she snapped a hand to her mouth. “What was that for?”

He leaned back, but squeezed her hand that was still wrapped around his fingers. Looking at her, he found himself momentarily speechless. He had kissed her because it seemed like the logical thing to do at the moment. Because all he had been thinking of lately was how many times he had kissed her in the past. Because he needed to know if it still sparked the same dumbstruck emotions in his brain (it did). He had kissed her because…he wanted to.

It was time for a heartfelt confession.

Or, so Varric thought, until the moment was disrupted. A throat cleared from behind them and almost instantly Bethany pulled away, her expression a mix of horror and embarrassment.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Hawke. Varric closed his eyes tightly for a moment before turning to face his friend. His best friend. Bethany’s brother, the voice in his head reminded him. His face was hard to read—just how long had he been standing there? Varric wondered what Hawke’s reaction would’ve been if he had seen them kissing and decided it wouldn’t be this…reserved. Perhaps it was best to act as if nothing was going on.

“Just some drinks between friends,” he explained.

Hawke glanced between the two, one of his eyebrows arched up. He stared at Bethany for a long moment, and the poor girl just sat with her face growing redder by the moment. Varric couldn’t remember a time Hawke had ever been this quiet for a stretch of time. It unnerved him.

“Varric, I have some business to discuss with you,” he finally spoke. The rogue’s tone had Varric worried. “About the Wardens?”

Bethany took that as her cue to stand up, her hands smoothing out the skirt of her mage robes. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Her eyes darted from each man as if she wanted to say more, but instead she walked away. Hawke watched her depart down the stairs before wordlessly occupying the seat she abandoned. Varric eyed him nervously as the man poured more brandy for himself.

“So…you have news from the Western Approach?” Varric asked hesitantly.

Hawke’s smirk returned for a fleeting moment as he took a drink before his eyes narrowed in a glare. “Did my eyes deceive me, or were the two of you holding hands?”

Varric sighed as he snatched the bottle to refill his mug as well. This was bound to get interesting. “Is this the part where you threaten me with hurt my sister, or else?”

“No,” Hawke responded flatly. “Beth is a grown woman. A grown woman who can set people—dwarves—on fire.”

The mental image had Varric amused, even if it was at his own expense. Hawke shook his head as he drank some more.

“All that being said…” his tone grew serious once more. “I want you to stop leading Bethany on.”

It startled Varric—he wasn’t expecting Hawke to say that. Seconds later, he realized just how unfair that was.

“What happened to ‘Beth is a grown woman’?” he argued, before realizing he was revealing more than he intended. He straightened, shaking his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sunshine and I are just—”

“Varric,” Hawke interrupted him. “Cut the bullshit. I know everything.”

Varric swallowed hard, gripping his mug tightly, if only to steady himself. He thought about arguing with Hawke some more, but eventually realized it wasn’t worth it. After all this time of hiding the past, it was bound to surface sooner or later. “How?”

“What do you think?” Hawke chuckled as he removed folded letter from his coat pocket. “How do I know anything?”

“Isabela.” They both spoke, albeit Varric with a groan.

He ran a hand over his face as he tried to snatch the parchment from Hawke. He needed to know if the man knew the whole story. Just how much of Bethany and his private lives been violated? Hawke folded the letter away again, its contents only known to him. Varric would have to tread carefully.

“Look,” he shook his head. “I’m not leading Sunshine on.”

“Really?” Hawke let out a hearty laugh that was laced with sarcasm. “Then what exactly is it that you are doing? This isn’t your usual friendliness, Varric. Bethany’s been in the clouds since we’ve got here…and I’m starting to realize it has everything to do with you.”

“Then why in the world did you bring her here?” Varric asked in an accusatory manner. After all, it was the older Hawke sibling that had kept it a secret.

“That was before I realized the two of you were…” Hawke trailed and he looked at Varric for a long while. “Before I leaned the two of you…have a past!”

“We do not!” Varric nearly sputtered on his drink. He would fight this—there was no way Isabela knew, and even if she suspected, she would’ve only grandstanded the facts to her lover. “Andraste’s flaming tits, Hawke!”

“I don’t believe you. Isabela told me. She snooped through your letters.”

“You believe Isabela?” Varric mocked. “I’m offended.”

“Varric,” Hawke spoke in a more threatening tone as he leaned towards him. The two men glared at each other for a moment and Varric finally relented with an exasperated sigh.

“We…we kissed, okay?” he threw his arms up in defeat. “A couple of times,” he added with a grumble before falling back in his chair. He swallowed down the last of the brandy in his mug.

Hawke stood up, his chair nearly falling over with the action. He pointed an accusatory finger in Varric’s face, his expression a mix of excitement and self-righteousness.

“I knew it!” The realization caught up with him and he flinched. “Wait. What’s a couple of times?”

Varric paused, eyeing his friend. The liquor they were drinking was strong, but he wasn’t going to let that one slip. “I thought you knew everything.”

Hawke pursed his lips together, eyes darting away as he slowly sat back down. He nursed his drink instead of answering Varric.

“Hawke…”

“I was bluffing.” Hawke showed the letter again, and Varric was surprised to see it was blank. “I didn’t talk to Isabela. But I’d be an idiot—don’t look at me like that—to not notice there was something going on between you two since we arrived.”

“You son of a bitch,” Varric grumbled, but was still impressed. Hawke shrugged, but his frown returned.

“I only thought it was…a recent development, based on her behavior,” Hawke clarified. “You kissed Bethany. When did this happen? How long did this go on for?”

Varric was slightly amused by Hawke’s interrogation. “Do you really need to know how many times I stuck my tongue—”

“Stop!” Hawke raised both of his hands, his eyes snapping shut. He didn’t seem to care that Varric was only teasing. “I’m a pervert, but I’m not a pervert.”

Varric sighed, and decided honesty was the best policy for this situation. “Hawke, what happened between Sunshine and I was…innocent. Stolen kissed in the Hanged Man and at the docks.” He shifted his tankard, staring down at the amber liquid. The same color as Bethany’s eyes. “It all stopped as soon as she went to the gallows.”

The last part was a lie, but Hawke didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know everything. Judging by his lack of a reaction, he didn’t seem to know it was a lie anyhow.

“Oh Bethany….” Hawke lamented. It seemed the brandy was starting to get to him—that and the recent discovery. “I can’t believe the two of you. Varric!” He pointed at him again. “You did naughty things to my sister. The same naughty things I do to Isabela, you did to sweet, innocent Bethany.”

“Nope.”

As amusing as it would’ve been to string Hawke along, Varric knew it was disrespectful towards Bethany. He shook his head at Hawke as the man continued to judge him, his eyes narrowing until they were finally closed. He was leaning against the table, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’d have me believe that you didn’t sleep with her?”

“Not that it would be any of your business,” Varric clarified, knitting his brows together. “But no. She got taken to the Gallows, and that was it.”

Hawke nodded with his eyes closed for an eerie amount of time. Varric let him process the information and decided they might as well finish off the bottle of brandy. He poured until both mugs were full again, closing his eyes as he took a sip.

“That explains why she never let me read the letters you sent her.” Hawke smiled cheekily as he looked at Varric, but after a moment, his smile faltered as if he was remembering something else. “She…she asked me about Bianca.”

“Oh.” Varric clenched his teeth, and his stomach dropped. Whatever relief he had felt from finally telling Hawke some of the truth of his past, it had disappeared with one name. He anxiously eyed his friend. “Did you tell her?”

Hawke shook his head and the two both took long drinks from their cups of liquor. Varric had trusted his friend with the story, knowing that despite one the Champion’s reputations of being a big-mouth gossip, Hawke knew how to keep most secrets safe.

“Just don’t ever make me lie to my sister again,” Hawke insisted. “She believed me, and while I’d typically be happy with how well I can lie, it only made me feel incredibly guilty.” He nodded towards Varric. “That’s your story to tell, not mine.”

“Have you heard from her?” Hawke suddenly asked after a moment.

Varric hesitated to say anything. “She still sends me the occasional letter.”

Hawke’s expression shifted as his eyes narrowed again. “Just like…you and Bethany.”

Varric frowned, but agreed. The parallels were there, if he thought about it long enough. Trouble is, he didn’t want to. But it seemed that Hawke did.

“Your letters were keeping Beth’s hopes up,” he explained. “Sound familiar?”

“Admit it Varric,” Hawke continued. “All those letters you still receive from Bianca. They are nice, they make your heart all goey inside. That’s how Bethany feels.”

“But deep down you know that you can never be together. Lest you start a war or some tragic story I don’t know what dwarves do.” He titled his head. “Poor Bethany probably goes through a similar doubt each time the two of you flirt, or…”

Damnit. Hawke was right. Varric hated to admit it, but the man was right. Still, he flashed Hawke a bewildered look.  

“Would you really disapprove that badly?” Varric asked with a frown. “Bethany and me.”

With his clarification, Hawke seemed offended.

“I—” he peered down at his brandy. “No. I love you, Varric.”

“Not the heartfelt confession I was looking for, but I’ll take it.”

Hawke grinned. “You’re like my brother, Varric. My closest friend. And ultimately, despite my better judgement—”

“What judgement?” Varric laughed and Hawke chuckled along with him for a moment.

“I trust you,” Hawke finished, ensuring the seriousness of his tone was displayed. “It’s also why I’ll always call you out on your bullshit.”

Varric nodded at his friend, who pushed the blank parchment towards him, as if in some kind of message.

“If you’re serious about…whatever it is you’re pursuing with Bethany,” he paused. “Please don’t do it half-heartedly. Or with unfinished business.”

Varric knew what he meant. Bianca. He took the paper from Hawke and brushed away the uncertainty that was threatening to settle in his mind. He had a letter to write. 

Bethany could not recall a time she had ever felt so mortified. She had left the Herald’s Rest in a rush, not bothering to say another word to Varric or her brother before running off. Had she been of clearer mind, she would’ve stayed and argued her brother’s interruption. But she was far from having a sound mind—not right now. She wondered if she’d even be able to form a coherent sentence if somebody came up to her right then.

Why had Varric kissed her?  

She thought she could only be delighted by his kiss, but now that it had happened, it only left her feeling more confused than ever. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think about her in some kind of romantic capacity. But he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given her much of a warning—at least, not clearly. Did they need to talk about their feelings? That was always the hard part—maybe they really could just pick up where they left off, and figure it out along the way. With a frown, Bethany knew that was foolish. No way for a sensible woman to go about a relationship.

Her heart fluttered. A relationship. Outside of the circle, away from Kirkwall and no longer on-the-run, she realized that the timing seemed only right for them both. While she knew Hawke hadn’t deliberately set this plan into motion, she was still grateful he had brought her to Skyhold. Otherwise, she was sure she would’ve never known, would’ve never answered the lingering question in the back of her mind. What if…?

It was late in the evening when she finally made her way back to the Herald’s Rest. She had not seen either of the men since she left them, but couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to speak with Varric. Delaying the inevitable would only make matters worse. Hawke, she could deal with later.

Maybe.

Bethany groaned as she approached the open tavern door, noting the way her brother stumbled out into the courtyard, an empty bottle tucked under his arm.

“Beth!” he shouted, his arms widening as he recognized her. The bottle fell into the grass, and began to roll away. “Oops.”

“Maker’s breath, Garrett!” she exclaimed as he almost tripped over his own feet. “How much did you drink?”

Hawke leaned against her as she gripped him by the shoulders. His nose brushed against his and he laughed. “Boop!” Hawke shrugged. “I was alone. I wanted to have fun.”

“Ugh,” Bethany grimaced. His breath was heavy with the smell of brandy and whiskey. He had mixed his liquor, it seemed. A brief thought of how Varric had fared crossed her mind. Where had he gone? “Well I might as well get you somewhere safe.”

“Whys that?” he slurred. Bethany moved to wrap his arm around her shoulder before pushing at his legs so he’d walk.

“Before you say or do anything stupid,” she replied.

It was hard work getting her brother to the second floor garden rooms, made all the more difficult by her decision to avoid the great hall. In likelihood, Varric was there at his usual spot by the fire, and the last thing she needed was to run into him while caring for her drunkard brother. She had a feeling that Hawke had already done enough. By the time she got their private room door open, Hawke was standing on his own, though with every breath he swayed. Bethany still helped him inside, guiding him towards one of the beds.

As she settled him into the sheets, his lips curled into a frown. “Were you ever going to tell me about you and Varric?”

“What?” Bethany nervously laughed, wondering what kind of drunken conversation her brother and Varric had gotten into. She hesitated, unable to read his expression. “Don’t be absurd—”

She broke off when she noticed the small smile that Hawke was now flashing up at her. Despite the haze covering his eyes, she could tell he wasn’t lying, or even asking. He was telling her that he knew. Her stomach tightened and she knew there wasn’t anything she could say to convince him otherwise.

“Garrett, why don’t we talk about this when you aren’t so…” she sighed, brushing back his hair affectionately. “You.”

“Can you tell me one thing?” her brother asked in a whisper. “What does his chest hair really feel like?” Isabela won’t tell me.”

Bethany pushed a pillow over his face, shaking her head as he yelped. Eventually, Hawke fell into a blissful slumber—if you could call his loud snoring blissful. Bethany rolled her eyes, still in disbelief at what Hawke had said. He knew about her and Varric. But how much? Maker only knew. Now, she had even more to talk to the dwarf about.

She was anxious as she made her way to the great hall, thankful that most of the usual crowd had retired for the evening. There were a few Inquisition guards, but they didn’t acknowledge her presence past a polite nod. She was right about finding Varric where he usually stayed, his body occupying a seat by the fire, piles of parchment spread out before him. Only…he was asleep, leaned back in his chair. Out cold with quill still in hand. Bethany could only smile, even though she was a bit disappointed. Perhaps she could wait one more day.

She was about to move away when one of the many letters before him caught her eye. Guilt made her hesitate—she was never one to snoop through other people’s things. But right now she couldn’t stop herself. She stared at Varric’s sleeping face for a long moment, waiting to see if he would wake up before she brushed her hands over the various papers.

At first, Bethany was confused. The letters she saw were from her. A random selection of some of the letters she had sent over the years. They were in excellent condition, clearly he had worked to preserve them. There were other letters as well. Written in his hand and clearly addressed to her, and yet, they were letters she had never seen before.

Sunshine,

Are nugs flying yet? I feel like they should be flying with all the shit that is happening. Remember what you said?

I keep thinking I’m going to run into you at one of the mage camps. Can’t say that wouldn’t be wonderful—to have you around again. The two of us gallivanting with the Inquisitor and…

The last word was too scratched out for Bethany to read. But the tone was noticeably different than the letters she had received from him. Sure, there was always flirting, but it was light and sometimes so overzealous that she knew he was joking. With these sentences, it hinted that something more was lingering in Varric’s mind. How long had he been wanting to say something to her?

She searched through the pile of letters until her heart dropped at the final unsent letter at the bottom of the pile. But it wasn’t addressed to her. No, it was addressed to a different familiar name.

Bianca,

You’ll be happy to hear that I’m alive and in Skyhold. And before you ask, my handsome features were unharmed. I have more news, but that can wait. This felt more important.

-V.

He hadn’t sent it, but it only had Bethany wondering why he would write such a letter in the first place if he didn’t mean to send it. A more fragile part of her felt jealous—he had intended to write to this Bianca about surviving the destruction of Haven, and not her? Sure, he had written to Hawke, but that wasn’t the same. She pushed those feelings away and focused on one final letter. It was from Bianca herself, and had been sent while the Inquisition was in Halamshiral.

Varric,

You say the word, and I’m there.

-B.

If only Bethany knew what words had prompted this simple of a response. Her mind began to race, and more than ever she had doubts about everything. She tried to smooth out the papers to the way they had been when she found them, but it was no use. She could feel tears starting to cloud her vision and it only alarmed her further. Maker, she thought she would be able to control her emotions, but it seemed she hadn’t even come to terms with how she truly felt until then. And now, she could feel her heart breaking under the pressure. Disappointment. It wasn’t the answer she was looking for when she set out to find him, but it was an answer none-the-less.

She left the great hall quickly, not before leaving something behind. 

Varric had woken up to the sounds of footsteps, his head pounding with the painful reminder that he had drunk too much. At first, he figured it was an Inquisition soldier come to fetch him for the Inquisitor, but when he finally peeked open his eyes, he realized there was nobody around. It was still dark, the fire next to him dying from being neglected.

And then he saw it on the table, and he had to blink a few times, not sure if he was seeing things correctly. On top of his work sat an amber pendant. Not just any piece of jewelry, but the same one he had given to Bethany nearly a decade earlier. He would’ve recognized it anywhere. But what was it doing here and not with her?

He leaned over the desk and his stomach dropped when he realized the letters had been sifted through while he slept. Within moments he knew that Bethany must’ve read some of them. He frantically tried to determine which ones when he realized it didn’t matter. Even without getting the full story from him, what was there would be enough to make any woman distrustful.

“Well,” Varric gulped as the full realization hit him. He had screwed up, worse than he ever had before. “Shit.”

[regenlen]

To Be A Mother

Wrote three little ficlets to celebrate Mother’s Day! Each one deals with the perspective of each Dragon Age protag, and their life as mothers. Hope you all enjoy.

Pairings: Alistair/Warden Cousland, Fenris/Female Hawke, Cullen/Inquisitor Trevelyan

Warnings: Minor suggestion of smut, but nothing explicit or what I’d even deem NSFW

Note: Yes, I know the holiday doesn’t exist in Thedas. Just roll with it. Also, this is generally set post-Trespasser.

Mother’s Day, like any other holiday or special occasion, comes with guests and schmoozing nobles. Even in Ferelden, nobles pounce on any excuse for a dinner and a chance to gather and gossip. Riona Cousland politely smiles and thanks those who offer her a “Happy Mother’s Day, Your Majesty.” Many are just tossed out, but a few are sincere, and those are the ones she remembers.

But none of that matters. To her, the real joy comes with the arrival of the pitter-patter of small feet hurrying towards her. Despite being surrounded by guests, she ignores all of them and move towards the sound, her smile brightening.

“Mama!” Prince Scott, barely three years old, runs towards her at full speed. Riona bends down and scoops him up, pressing kisses to his face as he squeals.

Alistair follows not far behind, paying no mind to those approaching him to catch his attention. His eyes are on his family, grinning from ear to ear. “Someone demanded his mother’s attention. It is Mother’s Day, after all.”

“Hap’y Ma’s Day!” the little boy exclaims. “Papa and I made cake!”

“You did?” Riona glances skeptically at Alistair. She knows how much of a baker he is not.

He smiles sheepishly. “Attempted, at any rate. Cook might’ve had to step in halfway through, but it’s edible.”

She presses a kiss to Scott’s head, before moving to Alistair and doing the same. “Thank you, both of you. Having you both here, it’s all I could ever hope for.”

Alistair bumps his forehead against hers. “Happy Mother’s Day, dear. You’ve worked harder for it than anyone I know.”

Riona truly did. She went through so much to get here. She remembers all that time on the road, looking for a cure to a millennia-long scourge that threatened to end her life and rob her of any chance of having a family. It strikes her how impossible this moment once was, just five years ago. And now here she stands, alive and holding her son. She couldn’t be happier, and judging by Alistair’s smile, he couldn’t be either.

Her only concern now is to figure out how to tell him they were due to be parents again.

Mother’s Day greets Hawke with the sun trailing through the open window. She feels the bed shift and dip next to her. An arm wraps around her waist, and a nose nuzzles against her neck before familiar lips place a kiss there.

“Good morning,” she says to Fenris.

“And to you. Happy Mother’s Day.”

She smiles, stretching before leaning back against him, humming contentedly. “It seems Shae is honoring it by letting us sleep in. Oh, he knows how to make his mother happy.”

“It is rather late, isn’t it? I wonder if we should be concerned.”

Hawke turns over, facing him. “Well, I don’t smell anything burning and didn’t hear any screams, so he’s probably alive and unharmed.” Her fingers run over his chest, tracing the outlines of his muscles and scars. “And it’s such a nice morning…”

Fenris rolls them over, kissing Hawke deeply. They get lost in each other for awhile, taking advantage of the peace and quiet.

Eventually, from somewhere downstairs, a young voice calls out, “Mum! Mum, wake up! I made something for you.”

Hawke lifts up her head, chuckling a little as she begins to get up. “And there he is.”

Once they don clothes, the pair walk out of the bedroom and to the railing overlooking downstairs. In the main room stood Shae, proudly standing over his creation. Somehow he had gotten his hands on a canvas and had stretched it out over the floor. Jars of paint stand around it, and a few drops dot the floor around it. The painting is of Hawke, carried out with as much artistic skill as a six year old is capable of.

“It’s you!” Shae grins. “Happy Mother’s Day!”

Hawke climbs down the stairs, almost in awe as she rounds the corner and walks up to the painting. “How did you get all of this?”

“Uncle Varric.”

“Ah, I should have known.” Hawke smiles widely as she looks down at the painting. “Thank you. We’ll have to find a frame for this.”

“You really like it?”

“Of course I do.” Hawke really does. Even if it’s no artistic masterpiece, the work and thought he put into it almost brings her to tears.

Fenris steps over, smiling softly as he admires the painting. “Luckily, he has your artistry and not mine.”

Shae snorts. “Yeah. Sorry Dad, but even your stick figures are bad.”

Hawke bursts into laughter, even as Fenris looks (mostly) mock offended. She pulls Shae into a hug, snickering as she kisses his head. “All right you. Let’s clean this up, and see if we can’t make some breakfast.”

But rather than immediately join in, she simply watches for a moment as Shae begins picking up his jars, grinning apologetically at Fenris. The elf huffs out a laugh and ruffles Shae’s hair before bending down to help.

Hawke never expected to be a mother. Shae had been a surprise to her and Fenris, born in the midst of turmoil and uncertainty. She hadn’t been sure she was even cut out for the job. Yet, after having lost so much, especially family, the thought of gaining family, of bringing something good into the world won out. And now, she can’t imagine life without him, the precocious boy who’d stolen his parents’ hearts. She’s been many things: refugee, Champion, figurehead of a resistance. But the role of mother, for all its simplicity, is the one she is most grateful for.

Mother’s Day comes as something bittersweet to Ilia. She once hated the holiday, never wanting to celebrate a mother who looked down on her. Too often on this day, she had to swallow her anger and hurt and pretend that she loved the wretch who tore apart her self-esteem and did everything she could to make her youngest daughter miserable, all because she was miserable, and wanted someone vulnerable to take it out on. When Ilia finally got away, she swore to have nothing to do with the day again.

But now, there’s happiness in the day again.

As she walks out into the kitchen, her brow raises at the sight of Cullen standing in the kitchen, perching little Owen on his hip as he helps their daughter, Aislin, stir something in a bowl. He murmurs instructions to her, holding the bowl still as she stirs the spoon.

Owen turns his head, and he lets out a sound at the sight of his mother. Cullen and Aislin turn, and the little girl abandons her task for the moment to run over to the table. “It’s Mother’s Day! We got you flowers!”

As stated, there stands a vase of wildflowers. “We’ve been busy this morning, I see.” Ilia lets her daughter hand her the vase, carefully taking it from her with a smile. “Thank you, lovebug.”

“She insisted,” Cullen says with a smile. “And also on us making you breakfast. Though I can’t attest to how it’ll turn out.”

Ilia sets the vase down, herding Aislin back into the kitchen. “You’ll be all right, so long as you’re not planning a full Orlesian spread or something.”

“Like we’d make something Orlesian in this household,” Cullen says with a scoff. He glances down at the bowl. “Just eggs and some bread. We were hoping you’d sleep in a little while longer so we could serve it to you in bed.”

“The lack of commotion woke me up,” Ilia teases, leaning against him. “Peace and quiet are usually signs of trouble.” She smiles at Owen, reaching around and brushing some of his curly hair out of his eyes. “I can help out-”

“No!” Aislin pouted and pointed to the kitchen table. “Momma’s not supposed to work today! Daddy and I gotta do it.”

Ilia suppressed a laugh, though she couldn’t quite smother a smile. “Are you ordering me to not help?”

“Yes!”

Cullen snorts, a smile playing at his lips and lighting his eyes. “Best do as she says, love.”

“All right, all right. Want me to at least take Owen?”

Cullen nods, handing the baby to her. It’s always difficult, with only one usable arm, but Ilia decided a long time ago that it would not stop her from being able to hold them. After some adjusting, she has him secured and walks over to the table. She sits down, placing him in her lap.

It’s such a tame thing, she thinks, taking joy in watching her husband and daughter chatter away as they make breakfast. But only because of the life she led just a few years earlier makes this seem so modest. She once led the Inquisition, felling Corypheus and going up against an elven god. Some might even think she’s fallen from grace. To her, the domesticity and contentment she finds here is not a trade-off, but a reward. Here, amongst her family, she’s finally learned to be happy.

[shadowyin-yang]

Saw that you're taking prompts and if you want, what about 22) "Did you just hiss at me?" with Fenris and Anders? ;) (loved the one you wrote for tearsofwinter!)

Send Me Prompts!

First off, THANK YOU!!! Aaah @tearsofwinter was the first to prompt me so I feel like I didn’t do a good enough job on the first drabble. Like I was super rusty??? But I’m glad someone liked it enough to send me a prompt due to it!!! So thank you again!

Usual: “idk if this is what you’re looking for” (b/c I imagined it being funny before it…didn’t turn out funny) + “this is too long for a drabble”

No seriously, I kind of feel I should start posting these to AO3 at this rate. 

Verse: Modern-AU with magic

Misc notes: Pre-fenders to potential fenders; mentions of tranquility (regarding Karl); Anders+insecurity issues/self-loathing/probs other things; Fenris gets beaten up by Pounce a few times (bites and scratches); everyone is an asshole (I’m watching someone play DA2 and I was kinda reminded that…everyone shits on Anders. A lot)

Link to ao3 chapter: here.

“I never hated you.”

All these years and the stupid mage decided to simply announce that tidbit of information (okay it wasn’t that simple but that would be another story)? Fenris found he was not only in disbelief but annoyed. All the wasted time spent hating on someone who did not even hate you in return! “Right, you never hated me.” He made sure to sound extra dry in his response. 

“Believe whatever you wish. I already know the same can’t be said for you towards me.” 

That part Fenris knew he could not argue with. The seething burning sensation he felt every time the mage spoke was proof enough. Except…

Maker, Anders did not seem so bad when you know he wasn’t hating you. Still annoying though. If Anders spoke the truth then everything that came out of his mouth sounded less like a personal attack. 

What followed soon after for Fenris was guilt. 

Why verbally attack someone who does not hate you? It suddenly seemed wrong to talk down to Anders when seeing the mage look away in hurt (along with anger), and retort with his own string of ugly words. Now the elf only felt like the bad guy. Say something mean and someone’s feelings gets hurt. Go figure. But it was how it always was. That’s just what they did. Why change it now? 

Fenris sought comfort from the quips Anders received from the others. A little from Aveline, mostly regarding the amount of work Anders and other mages put on her and other cops with all the meet-ups and protests; and Isabela making light of said-protests. It didn’t make Fenris feel alone when he decided to give Anders a hard time. The guilt didn’t go away though. If anything it got worse and his friends, well, now they just seemed a little…too mean. Sure, Fenris knew no one here was an angel but you’re not supposed think everyone’s suddenly worse either. The look of shame and hurt on the mage’s face became hard not to notice every time someone took a jab at his plight. It was all in good fun wasn’t it? Anders took it too seriously anyway, and it only brought everyone’s mood down so they’re just changing topics…right? So Fenris didn’t stop. He’ll keep hating the mage like always (maybe with a little less intensity). It was better this way, to keep everything the same as it was. 

Anders had confessed his feelings to Hawke. The news tightened something within Fenris, though the elf wasn’t sure what it was. A different tightening feeling occurred right after the first when it became evident Hawke did not return said-feelings. Everyone seemed to have understood that Anders needed some space and didn’t comment of his absence from game night. 

That only seemed to apply for the first few times. 

Now Anders needed to “get over it.” The mage missed so many nights since the whole thing with Hawke. It was only one excuse or another: “sorry, I have a rally to go to,” “sorry, I volunteered at the shelter,” “sorry, I volunteered at the downtown clinic,” “sorry I don’t have a lot of money right now.” 

“I’ll go talk to him.” Hawke was either foolish or the only brave one here. But who could judge when no one opposed the decision? 

Anders showed up to the next game night, and things seemingly went back to normal. Just as it should be, and just how Fenris liked it. 

“My cousin’s in town for about a month,” Hawke announced one day in game night, after Anders left. “Probably won’t be seeing Anders for a bit.” 

“What? And they don’t come to see little ol’ me?” Isabela feigned offense, “But I supposed they have always been fond of Anders. Oh well. I suppose that’s for the best though.”

“Mm? Why’s that, Izzy?” Merrill asked in curiosity. 

“The two have always gotten along. Anders always seemed very happy around them. He seems…very down lately. He could use some cheering up.”  

Fenris concluded there might’ve been some truth to that. He only met this Amell family member once, only for the sake of introductions. They were a mage though. It didn’t take long for them to show an obvious distaste for Fenris the moment he expressed his own strong opinions on mage matters. It was no wonder they got along with Anders. Whatever. It wasn’t his business. If anything, Fenris might feel his own form of distaste. This visit ruined the routine Fenris grew accustomed too. Game nights without Anders felt…different. 

During the month’s stay, Fenris often saw Anders out at night with cousin-Amell in the streets of Hightown from his apartment window. Anders never goes to Hightown without good reason, and especially not doing so at night, while smiling and laughing as he walked. Hawke was never with them and no one seemed to see Anders at all during most of this month (alone at least). It was always a curious sight whenever Fenris caught Anders out and about during the busy night with someone that wasn’t part of their main group, looking as happy as he was. Has Anders never smile or laugh? Well of course he had! But it was…different here somehow. More joyous. More genuine…

The guilt still hasn’t left.The guilt also got worse (again) when Anders resumed his regular attendance to game night again, indicating Hawke’s cousin had left. Fenris never saw Anders smile and laugh like that since the last time he watched the pair pass his apartment window. Now every chuckle and grin Anders displayed only seemed to disconnect Fenris from the reality he was viewing. It seemed wrong. Was Anders not happy? Was he not having fun? After all, why bother coming at all if you’re so damn miserable?

Fenris could not bring himself to say anything when Anders showed up one night with a small cut on his forehead. Fenris knew he usually did say something, mostly along the lines of the mage being his usual foolish self. It wasn’t the first time, nor was it the last, that Anders would show up with minor injuries from his protests and rallies for mage rights, and sometimes even elf rights. Anders never seemed to have enough mana for himself. It seemed silly to ask, not that Fenris ever did, but if one was not healing yourself and you still run out of mana…then how much healing was required? 

“You seem broodier than usual.” 

Fenris sighed. Figured Varric would be the first to notice. At least the dwarf had some decency to bring it up after everyone left for the night. “Am I?” 

“Sure. A bit quieter so it throws off your whole brooding thing a bit. Too depressing, not even charm. Did karma come around to bite you in the ass?” 

Maybe. Perhaps. Fenris wasn’t sure. “It is just the mage. Why must he show up as rugged and disheveled as he is every time? If he is so tired he should just not come at all.” 

“Well, you gotta remember he did not show up at all. You don’t just…not show up when Hawke prefers it.” 

Ah. Right. Hawke dragged Anders back. 

“Right…perhaps I am the tired one. I have had some difficulty sleeping recently.” Guilt apparently made it difficult to rest up well…

“Blondie may help you with that. Well, depends how professional you want of a diagnosis. I can give you sleeping pills if needed. Blondie just…advised I do not offer it as a first resort. But we all know how you are with him, so I just won’t mention this to him and let you get by without him breathing down your back over it. But just say the word and I can get you some!”

“Thank you, Varric. I will think about it.” 

“Take it easy on him if you see him though. Blondie seems to be having it rough lately. Well, rougher, anyway.” 

Fenris vaguely recalled where Anders lived. He never had a reason to really go see him (and that goes for all the places Anders frequented). Maker, it was disgusting. The streets were littered, the buildings looked old and worn, the roads were unfixed, and Fenris could’ve sworn there was a dead animal somewhere with every corner he turned. He had known this man for years and he could never fathom how Anders could stand living in this part of Kirkwall. Last he checked, Anders was a bloody doctor. What kind of doctor earned less money than…literally everyone else in the group? That guilt feeling started coming back again…

Fenris eventually spotted the mage standing next to a bus stop. No time like the present. He swiftly approached and touched Anders’s shoulder for his attention. Fenris swore he barely touched the man, but just from mere brush against the hoodie he heard a terribly threatening hiss, and withdrew his hand immediately. Anders turned slightly and took out an earbud. 

“Did you just hiss at me?” Fenris questioned before Anders could say anything. 

Anders only looked at him in confusion. “Did I what?” Anders looked down before even waiting for Fenris to repeat the question. “Oh Pounce, what’s the matter?” 

As Anders lifted the bottom portion of his hoodie up, Fenris spotted an orange ball of fluff. That hoodie was already ugly when he first saw it, but Fenris wasn’t sure if the little built-in pouch holding a cat made it better or worse…

“Are you scared? It’s alright, I won’t let Fenris hurt you~” Fenris had never heard Anders us such a childish tone to talk. Nor had he ever seen Anders nuzzle and kiss a cat with such love and affection. “There, there. That’s it, Pounce. It’s alright. No need to feel scared.” Maker, this man adored his cat… 

Upon calming the cat down (though Anders still cuddled him), Anders finally paid his attention to Fenris again. “Is there a reason you’re waiting on me?”

“Erm…yes. Varric recommended I go to you for suggestions. I have had some trouble sleeping as of late.”

“Oh, now you seek out a mage’s help? Tch…”

“As I’ve stated before: magic has its uses. Now will you make use of it?”

“Right, right…” Anders muttered without looking at Fenris. He sighed as he gestured down the street they were on. “Come on, my place isn’t that far from here.”

As they walked, Fenris saw the bus pass them. Anders didn’t say anything. 

Anders placed a small jar on the counter that held oddly colored leaves inside. “Take this before you sleep. Stay off your phone though. After a couple of days, tell me how it is and if you have any allergic reactions to them. You don’t need to chew it. Just drink down a leaf with water. It doesn’t have a taste so it shouldn’t be difficult.” 

Fenris looked curiously at the item. “That’s it?” and no magic?

“Yeah. It’s natural. Nothing like those over the counter stuff. Which I guess are fine for the short term, but not if you need to rely on them. Hopefully it’s just a passing thing, but might as well get used to this stuff if it works for you. Just in case.” 

“I see…” Fenris picked up the jar. The leaves looked thin and loose enough to just drink down. “You are not going to ask questions on my change of sleep problems?” 

“I would, but I figured you don’t like telling me anything. So I decided to not waste both of our time and just give you what you wanted.” 

“Right…and what are you charging?”

“Just take it. I can always get more.”

The guilt came back. “I do not wish to owe a mage anything.” Okay, that may have came out wrong. 

“Tch, fine. Just throw in a few sovereigns to the clinic or animal shelter. Or both.”

The guilt got worse. Fenris resisted pointing out the ripping wallpaper, the table with a wobbly leg, the dripping sink, and the too-easily-to-break door. He was afraid to sit down or lean on anything in fear of breaking it. 

“I…shall then…” It was the only response he could think of. 

“Alright. Well if that’s all there is. You can go. Pounce and I are taking a stroll to the grocery store.” 

And what? Buy bread and feed it to the geese? Okay Anders might actually do that…

Anders looked around for the cat. Fenris saw the orange tabby on the floor on his side of the counter licking his paws. He reached down to retrieve him for Anders, just out as an act of being nice. The cat hissed and without warning, the claws came down on the hand that reached for him. Fenris yelped as he pulled his hand back. 

“Pounce! No!” Anders quickly picked up the tabby. “Bad, Pounce! You do not attack people like that!” he used a scolding tone, though it was probably as ineffective as scolding a child. Anders sighed as he readjusted his grip on Pounce while approaching Fenris. “I’m sorry about Pounce. He…doesn’t like most people. Do you need something for that?” 

Fenris could see the claw marks on his fingers. “No. It is nothing.” he tucked his hand into his pocket and resisted the urge to hiss himself as it the pressure stung. “So you are to say that beast is picky with his company?” 

“Well I guess so…I’m not sure what it is. Pounce seems to hate everyone. Except the Amell family. Well, Carver’s the exception. Oh but he adores Hawke.” Anders chuckled as he nuzzled Pounce. It was the first time Fenris recalled seeing such a warm smile since Hawke’s cousin was over. Was a cat always this effective for Anders? 

“Oh yeah, Anders loves his cat,” Hawke said when Fenris approached them the next day. “The cat loves him too from what I can tell of cats. Which isn’t much I guess.”

“I was informed this…Ser Pounce…is rather fond of you.”

“Oh yeah,” Hawke laughed in-between drinks, “It’s really funny. Maybe I’m just good with animals. Pounce likes Bethany too though, and myself of course. And um…my cousin, and their lover. Pounce absolutely hates Carver though…and others I assume. Anders says we’re the only ones he recalled Pounce liked. Us and Karl.” 

“Karl?”

“Oh, you remember. Anders’s old lover. The one who got turned Tranquil despite passing his Harrowing. That big case a few years ago.” The case that the mages lost, and justice was never served. Fenris never really thought much about it, but being reminded of that case only made him feel…bad. 

“…And you are saying you never had to change the cat’s opinion of you?” Fenris asked instead of delving further into the negative feelings. 

“I mean I guess? Well, Pounce didn’t like me right away. Probably because I’m a stranger. But he warmed up to me. Sort of around the same time Anders did.”

Fenris blinked curiously. “Anders was swift to like you though.”

“Yeah, and so was Pounce!” 

There was no way. It can’t be.

“I wish to see your cat.” Fenris announced to Anders as he stood before the man’s apartment door. 

“…Why?” Anders put himself before the door frame, guarding the entrance. 

“I’m interested in cats.“

There was a flicker of interest in Anders’s eyes. “I…suppose you can come see him. I guess it’s not a bad sign if you want to see him even after he attacked you.” 

Anders let Fenris in and the elf searched for the orange tabby. Pounce was laying in the sunlight coming in through the window. Fenris only got a chance to kneel down beside him before Pounce woke and immediately got his claws into Fenris’s jeans. He immediately felt the sting in his knees…

Fenris came by again later that same week. This time he brought a cat treat for Pounce. He offered the food on the floor and tried to push the little treat closer. Pounce sniffed it for a moment but promptly ignored it. 

“Strange. He usually eats anything you give him,” Anders noted out loud, watching from behind the elf. Fenris tried pushing the treat in front of Pounce’s path again but before he could pull his hand away, Pounce, well, pounced. Well…at least he can make up a story to why his knuckles bled…

Fenris came by again by the start of the next week. This time, he handed Anders a box of pizza. “I had some from work. Brought it in case you were interested.” Fenris didn’t say more as he went to scan for the cat. Pounce was on the couch this time and watched the strange exchange between Anders and Fenris. 

“Um…thanks…?” despite the confusion, Anders didn’t want to complain about the free food and happily hummed as he started getting out a plate for himself. Fenris went over and knelt before Pounce who eyed the elf with intent. Carefully, Fenris slipped the treat before the cat. Pounce sniffed it before taking the treat into his mouth. After Pounce finished, Fenris offered his (bandaged up) hand to the cat. Pounce didn’t look aggressive. Taking that as a good sign, Fenris tried to pet the head like how Anders would do it. Before he even touched the fur, Pounce bit his finger. 

Fenris stopped by once again. This time, he handed Anders a new box of bandaids and a new bottle of disinfection. Both acting as a replacement for taking up all the supplies from Anders. Fenris found he was able to pet Pounce’s head today, but only for a moment. Pounce bit him again when he felt he was being pet for too long. 

Another day Fenris came by with nothing. But he did mention the silly cat shirt Anders wore was charmingly funny…in its own way. He caught a small smile from the mage, and Fenris found he was able to pet the cat’s head a bit longer than five seconds before he started hearing a growling sort of noise and he retreated his hand before he got attacked again. 

And that’s how it went. Fenris visited at the rate that it would be considered ‘often’ to a lot people. He would bring over food for himself and Anders sometimes. Anders seemed to always be hungry. One time he brought a movie that he felt Anders might enjoy (he did. It involved cats). Otherwise, he offered some words. Nothing too out there. Just a nice compliment here and there. “Why is your hair not up today? No, it is fine. But perhaps you should wear your hair down more often-if that is something you like,” “You make good cookies. The children would like them,” “No, keep the movie if you like it so much.” 

Slowly, Pounce seemed to accept his presence. Not completely, as even at Pounce’s most patient days, Fenris had walked out with a new scratch on his skin. Anders always apologized for them, even when there was nothing Fenris felt that needed to be apologized for. 

Finally, by the end of the month, Fenris was able to get his hand to start from the top of Pounce’s head and down his back without being attacked. 

“Hmm, wow, I think Pounce is warming up to you. Your effort is pulling through! I’m so happy that Pounce gets a new friend!” Anders sounded proud, as if Pounce was a child…

Fenris stood and went over to the kitchen counter were Anders was pouring tea for the two of them. “Did Hawke have as much trouble?” 

“Not really,” Anders flushed slightly, “Hawke is…Hawke. They’re a bit irresistible…” 

“…why Hawke?” Fenris dared to ask and Anders froze in mid-pouring. He stopped and put down the hot water as he eyed Fenris suspiciously. 

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. The cause of your temporary absence.”

Anders shrugged and went on to pour into the next cup. “What’s there to say? Hawke’s nice.” 

“Nice…”

“Nice,” Anders stressed. 

“…That’s it?” 

“What else do I need?” Anders put down the water and took out the teabags. 

Compassion, listening skills, supportive, probably at least likes cats, and appreciate each other’s interests, just to list a few. 

“I assumed more than just…nice.” Fenris replied with instead. 

Anders shrugged as he pushed a cup towards Fenris. “I can’t expect my lover to be perfect. No need to be picky. I don’t have much to offer anyway…and I know I’m annoying and such.”

Fenris swallowed, feeling more and more uncomfortable whenever Anders talked down on himself like that. “That is a dangerous mindset, Mage. Anyone can be nice. Many have for the sake of saving face.” 

“Yeah but you can usually tell when they want something in return or not. You eventually start to pick up that stuff. Hawke…Hawke’s kind. They…really listen to me…” 

Fenris felt his brow twitch. “Mage…has no one mentioned to you that you need to raise your standards?” 

“Why would they tell me that?”

Fenris had to resist smacking himself in frustration. “That aside, Mage. If you are so good at telling when someone’s trying to trick you, then what is my purpose for feeding you?”

“You want to see Pounce, what else?” Anders gestured to the cat. 

Fenris stared. “Why do you not assume I wish to see you?”

“Why would you want to see someone you hate?” 

“…Maybe you are not so hatable.” Maker it shouldn’t have come out so easily. But it did become rather difficult to hate someone who eagerly wanted his cat, never mind himself, to make a new friend. 

“Heh, right, sure. I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“…you do not believe me.” Fenris stated matter of factly. 

Anders raised a brow. “You’re trying to convince me you do not hate me?”

“Should I try harder?”

“See!” Anders pointed with accusation, “You’re never serious with me! It’s always hatred or sarcasm!”

Fenris glanced over at Pounce. The cat looked like he was staring into his soul…

“I…did not mean offense. I apologize.”

“You…apologize…?” Anders looked away in discomfort. “I…that’s…nice of you…I guess…um…thanks…?” 

Fenris just hoped that Anders (possibly) believed him. For now. Mostly because Fenris could not remember why he hated this man anymore. 

Fenris wasn’t sure what to do. He had spent over a month seeing Anders and Pounce, most of that time spent trying to befriend the cat. It was meant to be an experiment, a way to put out the growing curiosity. He didn’t think Pounce would actually respond the way he did. Before he knew it, he got carried away with it. 

But now Anders seemed almost content being in the elf’s presence, excited even, on some days. He expressed a similar shy smile that he used to have when around Hawke. Fenris froze in his thoughts. Oh no…

Fenris ran his hands through his hair. Okay, so maybe there is a possibility he accidentally made Anders have more-than-friendship-based-feelings for him now but…a part of him felt he should still be liked beyond just being nice! Did he even do anything especially nice? Sure he knew he fed Anders on some days. There was also the minor compliments of course. There was the time he brought over a used, but large, jacket for Anders upon noticing Anders’s current one was getting too worn down. Fenris could’ve sworn Anders used the same jacket during winter and he was fairly confident the one he owned was warmer. It got difficult to get Anders to (eventually) accept it.

Okay so that was one nice thing he went out of his way to do. ONE! Or maybe two if one counted the time he shared his wine with Anders one night at the Hanged Man. 

This was trouble, and bad, and…probably something to be expected after all the acts he had done to appease Pounce. Or…appease Pounce for…Anders? Fenris wasn’t sure anymore. 

If there was anything he was sure about now it was that Anders didn’t eat enough. The only time he’s ever caught Anders with food was when he was the one giving Anders the food! He also knew Anders didn’t splurge on many luxuries except for the cat. Pounce was spoiled rotten. It wasn’t hard to notice the soft cat bed looked a bit too new in comparison to Anders’s mattress that looked like it was sagging from the one time Fenris went into the mage’s bedroom. Fenris also knew Anders cared (too much in Fenris’s opinion). There was always someone to help, always something to fight for, and always some poor animal to save from the rain. 

Just thinking about it felt like it was too much…But as Fenris felt his heart ache at the thought of Anders constantly moving through life like this, he knew he too cared a bit too much. Maybe he was more sure than he originally thought. 

Game night came once again, and Fenris waited outside the Hanged Man for Anders to arrive. He almost expected Anders to give a look of suspicion but…not as of late. If Pounce approved a person, it somehow spelled ‘good’ in Anders’s mind. When Anders arrived, he looked surprised, and then looked away with a tint of red on his face. Fenris felt the insides of his chest getting particularly warm as well. Maybe not enough things were said between them, but avoiding it now wouldn’t do. 

“Um…is there a reason you’re out here…?” Anders looked ready to enter, but Fenris didn’t budge from the entrance. 

“I was waiting for you.”

“…oh. Um…I’m here? What’s going on? Am I in trouble for being a big bad mage?” 

Fenris sighed and closed the distance between them. Anders stiffened as the other got closer. Fenris felt his heart pound a bit too loud for his liking, but he had a feeling Anders might be feeling it just as a bad. Or worse. With a shake of his head, Fenris tried to meet with Anders’s gaze. Anders only persisted to not look at him. Not wanting to push his discomfort, Fenris stopped and let a moment’s pause pass before speaking. “…Do you wish to have coffee with me sometime?” 

Anders’s head snapped up. “…What?” 

“Do you wish to have coffee with me sometime?” he repeated patiently. 

He could’ve sworn Anders’s face changed color as he tried to get out a response. “Wh-What?! Wait, a-are you inferring something? Wait, is this a joke? Because if it is, it’s not a very funny one you know!” 

“It is not a joke.”

Anders only folded his arms in disbelief. 

Fenris continued. “I…know I am not the most ideal-”

“What?!” Anders exclaimed, cutting in, “Fenris, you’re like one of the most desirable bachelors in all of Kirkwall!” 

Fenris blinked. This was news to him. Never less… “It does not change my question for you.” 

“…But you can do better than me!”  

“I fail to see how that relates to what you want in regards to my question.” 

Anders fell silent, looking rather torn. 

Fenris sighed again as his heart started to ache once more. “As I said…I know I may not be the most…ideal person. I have treated you badly, and I do not know if I ever truly apologized for it. I would not hold it against you for saying no. I am…prepared for it. You deserve someone who will treat you well.” 

“Not really…” Anders let out an empty laugh as his hand wiped at his eyes. “Heh…wh…what am I supposed to say to that, Fenris? I…I don’t know, I just…”

“Say whatever you fe-”

“It’s not that simple!” Anders suddenly exclaimed. “Of course I want to! I just…don’t want to disappoint you…Heh, I mean, I hear that I’m rather good at that! Disappointment. Being a mage does that you know. I often disappoint people without even having to open my mouth usually.”

“Well whoever suggested such a thing is wrong,” Fenris stated harshly. Anders dropped the forceful smile he just put on. “This is not about everyone else and they will think. It’s about you and your happiness, and whether or not you feel I am capable of helping in providing some of it. This is not about Kirkwall, or Hawke, or mages, or any of whatever you think has to do with who ‘deserves’ what! Just once, can you do that? For yourself?” 

Fenris wasn’t sure what kind of look Anders was giving him. He had never seen it before. The mage looked confused, and something else. Maybe he was in thought as he tried to decipher what was said. Fenris couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t sure if many people expressed such a thing to Anders before this moment. 

Anders fiddled with his hands, and looked away again. “I can…try.” Anders finally replied quietly. 

“That is all I ask from you. Regardless of how you wish to answer me. Just know that there is more to me than just simple acts of kindness. Believe me when I say: I may disappoint you before you could ever disappoint me.”  

“Never,” Anders shook his head. Fenris could see how much the mage genuinely believed that. “I think…one cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt.” And Fenris saw a small smile on the other’s face. 

It was almost a relief to Fenris. He never really saw himself as nice, but it was a rather good trait. And he could always show he had other qualities to like, at least, he had hoped he did. Like Anders, Fenris decided he had to at least try to bring those good qualities out. If not for his own sake, then for Anders’s. 

It was the least Fenris felt he could do for him.