Too many obsessions

At that time, he’d been confused why she’d chosen to come to him, they’d grown closer over their time in the Deep Roads but not as close as she was to Varric, Aveline, or even Anders. But he’d allowed her in, ignoring the blooming pleasure he’d felt at being chosen. 

Beside his fireplace she’d told him about Carver leaving to join the Templars, explaining how it was her fault for pushing him away and making him feel small. 

Eventually, she’d told him good stories of her brother, and even some rare stories about Bethany; they'd both laughed over Hawke’s colorful narration as she told tales about her younger siblings' antics.

Even so early into their friendship he’d felt a great sense of privilege getting to see this side of Hawke. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in front of a dying fire that night, and woke up full of apologies and bad jokes, revealing that she’d not cried in front of someone else since her father’s death. 

That night the tears were delicate tracks down her cheeks, that reflected the firelight, as she talked about her brother. 

This was different, it was the sounds of a broken woman, and it scared him. 

Leaving the others to comfort Hawke, he’d paced behind them, throwing worried glances at the object of his affections as they whispered words of comfort to her. 

But there were no kind words that would help, what difference would it make if he crouched alongside the rest of them? 

Would she even want him trying to comfort her? 

It was a cowardly question, he knew she wanted him there. Possibly, wanted him there more than anyone else, but he couldn’t do it. 

Finally, the guards arrived and they got Hawke to surrender her mother’s corpse and start the journey home. 

By that point, Hawke had grown fully silent in a way that was almost as disturbing as the screams of grief.

Hawke was never quiet. 

The rest of the party gently cajoled her, trying to convince her she should not be alone, but she hardly responded to them. 

In the end, though, Hawke would not stay anywhere but her home and would not allow anyone to stay with her. 

By the time they were in Hightown only Fenris, Varric, and Anders remained. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said on her doorstep, pulling on her usual mask of genial reassurance, “I’ll be fine. I won’t be alone, Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana will be about if I need anything.”

“They’re your servants Hawke, you need your friends,” Anders reasoned, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. 

The gesture sent a spike of furious jealousy through Fenris followed instantly by guilt. 

She deserved better than his pettiness at a time like this, but the mage’s obvious affection towards Hawke had always irritated him. 

Hawke squeezed Anders hand and let go. 

“I’d rather be alone.” 

Her eyes skittered to Fenris, where he stood to the side, trying to blend into the shadows. As quickly as they’d landed on him she looked away, but he’d seen it. 

He felt hollowed out. 

“Please, just send a messenger if you need anything, alright?” Anders said, squeezing her arm. 

She gave him a hug and Fenris had to look away, fighting the instinctual possessiveness that sprung up. 

“I’m sorry Hawke,” Varric said, “Just- take care of yourself ok? I’ll come back around tomorrow to check in.” 

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a hug as well. 

On his way past Fenris, Anders shot him a glare that was readily returned. 

But Varric leaned in and whispered to him, “Don’t let her be alone.” 

The dwarf continued past him as if he’d said nothing and Fenris looked after them, feeling a bit helpless.

When he turned around Hawke was leaning against the door frame, exhausted, eyes turned to the ground. 

Unsure, he started to fiddle with the scarf on his wrist before quickly dropping it. 

“I’m sorry we could not save her, she seemed to be a good woman.”

His words hung in the air around them, hollow, true, but not enough. 

Hawke nodded, eyes still on the ground.  “She was,” she sighed, “she deserved better.”

Deserved a better daughter, her haggard tone and expression screamed. 

“Goodnight, Fenris. Thank you for your help tonight,” she said, and quietly closed the door.  

Before he knew it, he was alone, and unsure if he felt relief that she didn’t ask him to stay or fury at himself for failing her yet again. 

Surly Hawke didn’t want whatever paltry comfort he could offer her, after what he’d done. He was lucky she even still glanced his way. 

As he trudged home he thought about what it would be like to follow her inside and wrap her in his arms.

He didn’t know what to say in the face of such loss, but he could hold her, let her know she wasn’t alone. 

But no, it was a bad idea all around. What if he did go to her, hold her in his arms, kiss her, tell her he loved her… 

Fasta vass! 

He needed to leave her be, he’d been the one to walk away, it would be wrong to continue to confuse their relationship. 

But the sounds of Hawke’s cries echoed in his ears all the way through Hightown, up the stairs to his room, as he took off his armor, and finally as he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

Crystal clear, a memory of Hawke from years past came to him. 

Hungover, wearing a tentative smile she’d said, “Thanks for putting up with my blubbering,” she bit the inside of her cheek, a charming blush setting in, “I promise I’m usually more mysterious and alluring. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of someone else since my father died,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “keep it under wraps, can’t ruin my image.” 

He didn’t know what he’d done that night to make her feel better, but it had worked. She’d left his home with a smile that was more genuine than he’d ever seen from her.  The memory of whatever he’d said to comfort her was lost to time and wine but he had helped her once, perhaps he could again. 

Growling, he tossed off the blanket and began to pull on his armor.  Then, he took some time to pace around, pulling at his hair, swearing up a storm, before trudging out of the mansion. 

If she turned him away then so be it, he would leave, but if he could ease some of her pain he had to try. 

Despite his conviction, when he reached her door he just stood there staring at the ornate wood, suddenly forgetting how to knock. 

He’d need to think of something to say to her, but what was there to say? 

Hawke was blaming herself, but she would do so no matter what any of them said, it was her way. Her life would never be the same and there were no words to change that.

It would come to him. He hoped. 

His knock was almost too soft to hear and when there was no response he groaned and knocked again, slightly harder. 

Bodahn came to the door, eyes red and puffy, handkerchief in hand. 

“Oh Messere Fenris,” the dwarf said, shuffling his feet a bit at his late and unexpected visitor, “my lady has said she will take no visitors, I’m sorry.” 

The servant did seem sorry, and conflicted. 

“Do you believe that is what is best for her?” 

Bodahn looked back into the mansion, as if Hawke might be standing behind him, and sighed. 

“It is what she asked of me, ser, I do not want to disobey her at a time like this,” the man looked defeated, heartbroken for his employer who he cared for so deeply. 

“Bodahn, she will not blame you. I must see her.” 

Fenris tried to sound gentle, but his voice came out rough and desperate. 

“Alright,” he said finally, moving aside to let Fenris in, “but please ser, she cannot take more sadness.” 

The dwarf’s words stung; he wasn’t surprised that Bodahn knew of his early morning escape from the Hawke mansion, but his ears grew warm at the kind reproof. 

Nodding, he made his way to Hawke’s room, stopping in the foyer to remove his armor. 

He’d been to the mansion since their night together, but they’d been in the study. 

Walking to her room brought to mind the last time he’d lingered on those stairs. 

Pressing Hawke against the railing, lips on her neck, hand on her breast as she whispered that they needed to keep moving to her room only to be silenced by more kisses. 

Fenris hesitated, pain and arousal intermingling followed by a good amount of shame.

Here he was lusting after Hawke, while she mourned her mother a few stairs up, he needed to pull himself together.  The walk to her door felt too long and doubt began to take hold, but then he was at her door, and could not turn back.

At first he reached for the knob, but decided better of it and knocked. 

“Thank you for your concern, but you can go to bed. And please sleep in tomorrow.” 

Hawke’s reply drifted through the door, gentle and reassuring. 

He sighed and walked in. 

When he entered, she was staring at her hands, face blank, but her eyes and nose were pink from crying. He desperately wanted to hold her. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he started and she turned eyes wide, “but I am here.” 

“Fenris…” she whispered, eyes full of so much affection it nearly knocked him over, “you didn’t have to come.” 

“I could not stay away,” he replied truthfully.

“Thank you.” 

Choked up, Hawke didn’t seem capable of saying anything more for the moment, but she scooted over on the bed.

He stared at the vacated spot, not sure if he wanted to run to or from her. 

But she didn’t pressure him or even seem to be waiting for him to sit, she just stared into the fire.

When he sat, the bed didn’t turn him into stone or break him into a million pieces, as he worried it might.  They stared at the flames in silence for a time, it wasn’t awkward as many of their silences had been lately, but it was suffocatingly heavy. 

“My mother taught me how to play the lute,” Hawke said without preamble. 

Unsure what to say, Fenris simply looked at her, giving her the chance to continue. 

“I was a terrible student, when I didn’t learn a chord as fast as I’d like, I’d quit. Of course I would come right back to it after a few minutes. But she’d never lose her patience with me.” 

“It sounds much like how our reading lessons go,” Fenris said lightly. 

Hawke’s laugh was watery, but real, and he felt relieved at the sound. 

“Oh, you’re much meaner than I ever was,” she joked, nudging his shoulder with hers. 

The brief pressure of her touch reassured him, he smiled at her. 

“We used to play together in the evenings, some days I’d come home and be too tired to move but I’d never miss our little recitals,” her smile faded, “when father died she never touched her lute again. I didn’t understand how she could just give up something she loved so much.” 

Her eyes strayed to her lute sitting next to the bed. 

“I understand now though, all the love songs she’d written for father, the songs they’d sing. So many memories wrapped up in it. It’s too painful,” her face turned back to him, “I want to burn the damn thing.” 

The recollection of Hawke’s clear high voice and quick strumming fingers danced through his mind and he shook his head. 

“Do you think it made her happier to stop playing?” 

Hawke seemed to truly consider the question. 

“I’m not sure if my mother was ever truly happy after he died.” 

“Perhaps that is because she gave up on living.” 

Her eyes grew wet and she looked away.

“You are just full of pearls of wisdom tonight.” 

Elbows on her knees, Hawke dropped her head into her hands, not crying but certainly stewing on an unpleasant thought. 

“Am I to blame for not saving her?”

She said it so softly that Fenris almost didn’t hear the question, he wished he hadn’t.

It was the question he feared she’d ask. Silence lay thick between them as Fenris tried to find the words he needed. 

Finally, he spoke, “I could say no, but would that help?”  Wet blue eyes met his, sad but attentive. 

“You are looking for forgiveness, but I am not the one who can give it to you.” 

Taking this in, Hawke's eyes drifted from his face. 

“Will you stay?” she asked, in the same too soft tone. 

“Yes,” he replied before his mind could catch up. 

Hawke laid her head on his shoulder, just a small touch. He ached to pull her closer but resisted, instead he leaned his own head against hers. 

After some time wordlessly watching the fire, Hawke felt heavier at this side, she’d fallen asleep. 

Slowly, he moved her into a lying position, and took a moment to examine her face, brushing an ebony lock of hair from her forehead. 

In her sleep her face was untroubled, free of her war paint and make up, she looked younger and so vulnerable.  It wasn’t a word he’d normally use to describe Hawke, his heart squeezed. 

He’d told her he’d stay, but he didn’t know where his place was. 

Her bed… Well, it was a little too tempting. 

In the end he wasn’t able to resist his own instinct to lay beside her, though he tried to keep as far to the other side of the bed as possible. 

“Thank you,” Hawke whispered, startling him. 

She curled onto her side facing him, eyes still closed, half asleep.  The sight of her weary, tear stained face broke down his last wall of resistance and he scooted close to her, drawing her against his chest. 

Wrapping her arm around his waist, Hawke didn’t resist his comfort and buried her face against his neck. 

It felt so right, like he was always meant to spend his nights in her arms. 

Tomorrow, though, he would have to leave. 

It was too soon, he couldn’t be with Hawke until he was fully free of Danarius. 

Until then, the darkness inside would always threaten the shining beacon that was Marian. 

Hawke couldn’t stop herself from reliving it all again and analyzing every moment to try to find where she’d made her mistake. He’d come to her, telling her that he couldn’t stop thinking of her and kissing her senseless. They’d had the best sex of her life, and he’d held her as they fell asleep.

Whatever visions he’d seen, happened while she was in the Fade, far away and unable to protect him from the pain as she always tried to do. By the time she’d woken, it was too late.

She’d spent the last days curled up in her bed, ignoring the world, but the day had come that she’d promised Anders they would investigate his claims on the “Tranquil Solution,” and it was important enough to get her out of bed.

Hawke had kept her mother and the servants at bay with a fake hacking cough and pleas to let her rest, but she had a feeling her mother knew something was amiss. Leandra had stopped in one evening, as Hawke pretended to sleep and she’d felt her mother’s cool fingers on her forehead. 

“Oh, my dear, it will be alright,” Leandra had whispered as she ran her fingers through Hawkes hair. 

It had been difficult to not start crying to her mother like she was a child, but she didn’t want to have that conversation with her mother. 

Just a few days before Leandra had made teasing insinuations about Hawke and Fenris, the smile on her mother’s face had warmed Hawke’s heart a bit. Her mother approved, wanted her to be happy. Hawke glanced again at the bed, still deep in the torrent of resentment and pain. It would be so easy to fall back into comfort and lock out the world, but many mages didn’t have that luxury. 

“Stupid conscience, always making me do hard things I don’t want to do… Why can’t I be one of those nobles who gets to sit around all day eating chocolate? Oh, but no! I must be the hero of the whole fucking city,” she muttered to herself as she finished getting dressed. 

While applying her Kaddis, a red stripe of paint across her face to match her Mabari, Forte, she stared at her reflection, hoping to find the strength other people seemed to see in her. Hawke didn’t apply the paint every day, but today she wanted the extra armor.  

It was a practice she’d started when she was young, and they’d found her Mabari pup abandoned in the wild. At 14 she’d thought it made her look intimidating, her father had told her she looked like a fierce Ferelden warrior. 

Tired eyes met her in the mirror; she didn’t look like much of a warrior. Just a girl playing dress up. 

She realized that she’d have to stop by Merrill’s and ask if she would come along. The extra task made her body grow heavy. 

Originally, Fenris had insisted on coming and even though she knew it would anger Anders to have him there, she’d agreed. His blade would certainly be useful, and at that time she wasn’t sure she could stop him from following along.

But now… well, now she wasn’t sure when she’d see him again. Fenris had always liked to hide away and lick his wounds after something difficult, and this time she suspected he’d need a while away. 

Or perhaps this time she would lose him for good. 

He’d left with tears in his eyes and her scarf around his wrist, and she didn’t know where that left them. 

Definitely not in her bed, Hawke thought ruefully.

The spot on her vanity where she usually kept her scarf still sat empty, proof that Fenris had been there. There were other ways she could keep her hair out of her eyes, but its absence just brought up more questions. Inexplicably, he’d had it tied to his wrist when she’d awoken to an empty bed, and he hadn’t explained before leaving. 

Maker, she wished she could hate him. 

She shook her head at those thoughts. They didn’t serve her. The mission today was too important to be worrying over Fenris, but thinking about Fenris had become one of her favorite habits over the last few years, and it was a hard one to break.

Her muttering started up again. 

“Stupid handsome face, with that dumb deep voice and dreamy eyes. Why can’t he have a less spectacular ass?”

She dragged herself downstairs, grabbing an apple, her staff, and sheathing her daggers. 

With her Kaddis applied, armor on, and weapons ready, she felt a bit steadier, and as she called her Forte to her, she felt ready to face the day. Swiftly, the Mabari bounded over, eager to please and excited for a fight.

Hawke smiled down at the big-headed beast and began roughly petting her head and neck.  “Ready to go kill some Templars, girl? I bet you are, yes you are…”

She indulged in the baby talk for a moment before opening the door and freezing in place.

Right outside her doorway stood Fenris, leaning against the wall like a handsome, broody statue. Eyes closed and arms crossed, she examined the bags under his eyes and the weariness in his posture.

Maker, he looks exhausted, and she had to fight the urge to start mothering him. 

Then sanity returned. 

What the hell?

A confused, “Fenris?” was all that left her mouth.

He opened his eyes and looked at her like there was nothing strange about his appearance in his usual spot by her door. 

Nope, nothing earth-shattering and heartbreaking had just taken place between them. 

This was a completely normal day.

“Hawke,” he returned, his face giving away little.

Then there was silence between them. Silence used to be a comfortable thing with them; they would talk for a time and then lapse into quiet as they stared at a crackling fire or a book and shared a bottle of wine. This silence was brittle and strange, and Hawke longed to go back to that old comfort.

At that moment, she wished their night together had never happened. She wished they could go back to the comfortable longing that had existed between them, instead of this knowledge and hurt.

“Can I help you?” Hawke finally asked, unable to stand the quiet any longer.

“You’re going into the smuggling tunnels with the abomination today, correct?” Fenris said as if they’d just discussed it the night before.

“You—you want to come?”

His eyebrows drew together, and he pushed off the wall. “If you insist on doing something so foolish, I insist on being there.”

“Fen—look, you don’t have to do this. I was going to get Merrill,” Hawke stuttered out her reply, still feeling lost.

Fenris’s slight frown turned into a full scowl. “You intend to venture forth with three Mages as you potentially face Templars?”

Hawke shrugged, fully aware that he was right and that she hadn’t given it that much thought.

“Well, I can’t very well bring Aveline, and Isabela said no. Varric will be there,” she said, as if any of that would be a comfort. 

An image of her, Anders, and Merrill all purged of magic, while their Dwarven friend and his crossbow fought on, filled her mind like poison. 

On the other hand, this conversation was torture, and she tried to imagine walking to Darktown in that same dreadful silence. 

Maybe mass death was preferable. 

“Well, there is no need to bring Aveline, Isabela, or Merrill, since I am coming,” he said, lifting his chin and crossing his arms.

Conviction was written in every line of his body, and Hawke couldn’t be more baffled. As they stood locked in an awkward battle of wills, Hawke’s confusion turned to irritation. 

Most of her anger had been at herself for letting them carry on before he was ready. 

But here he stood, not letting her feel heartbroken in peace with his stupid, lovely eyes that bored into her now as if he hadn’t gazed at her tenderly while they made love just days ago. 

How could he stand here like nothing had happened? 

Instead of chasing the anger away like usual, she embraced it. 

“I can handle myself. You’re not needed,” Hawke finally bit out after her frustration reached its peak.

And finally, she got the reaction she’d wanted out of him, as those same beautiful eyes widened before skittering away.

It didn’t feel as good as she thought it would, and she sighed, rubbing above her eyebrows where a headache was already starting to form. 

When she opened her eyes again, she noticed something new on his person: a small Amell crest hanging from his belt. 

Maker, help me.

For a few terrible seconds, she thought she might cry. She closed her eyes, counted to five, and got herself back in check. 

“You’re wearing the Amell crest,” she stated, forgetting their disagreements from a minute before.

Fenris looked down at his belt as if he had just been made aware of it.

“Oh. Yes,” he agreed, running his hand over the crest.

Why was on the tip of her tongue, but the word struggled to get out. There were so many ‘whys’ sitting between them, and she worried that acknowledging them would push him away. “Where did you get that?” she asked instead, a safer question. “Bodahn.”

Ah, yes, of course. Hawke couldn’t stop her eye roll at his easy answer.

“I requested it by note. He had it delivered,” Fenris supplied quickly, as if that was the most pressing thing she was curious about.

She fought with herself, desperate to understand what was in his heart but terrified of driving him away. 

Maybe this would have to be the new normal, Fenris acting cool and collected while wearing his affection for her on his body and Hawke trapped in a prison of longing that she would never escape. Only this time the longing would be worse because she knew what she was missing. 

Knew how his kisses felt, his hands, his… well other pleasant areas. 

But there was nothing for it. She’d rather have him in her life as a friend, than not at all. 

Finally, she pulled her mind from the gutter and let out another long sigh.

“Fine. If you’re so desperate to trudge through the sewers to fight, and probably be killed by Templars, who am I to stop you? To Darktown.”

She punctuated her words with a wave of her hand and started off, not bothering to turn around, knowing that he followed behind as he always did.

As they made their way, the silence still hung around them. A hungry ghost from the days before they’d slept together.