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. 

Hand on your head. She touches your hair, your cheek, your jaw where your teeth still ache. She touches your hair, restless, ceaseless, hand to your lips wet and smearing.

You bite. Never learned not to. Never could tell the hand that feeds from the hand that hurts, never could make yourself care about the difference when even the feed tastes of ozone and metal (and salt and skin), but first press of your teeth earns a gasp and first taste of your tongue flexes her hand, a new shape in the dark corners of your mouth.

Clever trick, little wolf. What others do you know?

This: you dip your head (saliva smears your cheek, cooling-cold on your scars) and lick, and her thigh trembles lightning-hot static-sharp against your cheek and her moan hits your ears staccato like a sob.

You know your tricks well. Soon enough, your skin is fire, walls and bedsheets and soft bare skin washed foxglove, and there are chasms of ice down your arms, your lips, the frozen ridge of your spine. She touches your neck and says your name, and obedience wraps its jaws around your throat and grips you tight.

“Fenris—”

“Jasper.”

More a growl than a word. Rasping against the soft dark inside of your throat, the last warm place in your body.

“Here—” she’s breathless, wordless, pulls you up and wraps her arms around the searing cage of your ribs, presses herself to your mouth, length of her body eclipsing yours as the pain washes through you. In the dark corners of her world, her bedroom, her mouth, it takes on a shape like ecstasy. “Are you okay?”

Fingers against the crack in the world that should be your spine. You didn’t howl for him, but you could for her. Could for her, if only you could.

“I have to go.”

“Fenris—” frowning, now, fingernails against your ribs as she pushes on her elbows, tries to smile. To meet your eyes. “Was it that bad?”

“It was fine.” You don’t let her. Pull back, cast about for your clothes, so hastily discarded. Metal glistening firelight-umber on her rich warm carpet. It weighs on your shoulders like shame, like anger, knits your body tight in on itself with every buckle. “It– that– no.”

How do you tell her you’re hurting me? What do you have, little wolf, but tooth and jaw and the will to use them? You pull your vambrace too tight, feel the tips of your fingers start to numb. Jasper sits up, head to one side, bleach-bone hair pooling at her collarbone. No shame, nothing to be shy about, she watches you with the same gentle worry she watches all of you, her pack of misfits. The bruise on her ribs is lurid purple, and, ungenerous and possessive, you wonder if she’ll have her mage wipe it from her skin.

So there it is: like a stray snapping over scraps, your teeth ache at the thought. Fiddling with a buckle, you look into the fire.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her voice is soft, pre-laden with guilt. Your Jasper (your Jasper, already, since the day you met–), always taking on others’ burdens. In the face of her offering, brittle bones and brittle smiles, what can you do but lie?

“No. It– it was better than I could have dreamed.” A sideways look; she blinks, eyes firebright. A soft landing for your words. “I started to– remember. Flashes.” Dressed, now, metal and sharp edges against her bared skin. “My life before. I– I can’t do this.”