[2/2] Years later, Geralt still has the pouch, but rather than remembering a time from before his hair blanched, his skin paled, and his eyes turned to those of a viper, he remembers a friend who despite the unforgiving circumstances allowed Geralt this small act of kindness.
[1/2] Imagine, Geralt refuses to cut his remaining (birth-hair colored) hair when it starts growing out white after the trials; he finally (hesitantly) agrees, because his hair is too long. Eskel tells him about how – where he was from – the parents often kept a lock of the child’s hair from the child’s first haircut as a memento. Eskel sews a beautiful pouch, embroidered with patterns of Geralt’s favorite flowers, to keep Geralt’s lock of hair in after the haircut.
This is beautiful and there’s really no more I can add? So, I’m publicising. Anon, step up and claim your beautiful idea. (My only addition could be Eskel clutching it after Rivia, because that’s where my mind is at the moment - so many beautifully bittersweet possibilities).
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Anon, you gave me this gift in my inbox in April. I have read it over and over again, but I never posted it, and I have no excuse. I’m sorry. You continue to overwhelm me with your generosity, and I can’t tell you how many times this has picked me up over the last few months. You are amazing and I don’t deserve you, and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to post. These things are beacons in some of the most difficult parts of my year, so seriously, thank you.
<3
"Before I forget," he replied pointedly, "I have something for you." Her eyes rounded out in curiosity as he hefted the wad of brown paper and string into her hand. "I'm not much for wrapping I'm afraid." She held out her glass and he obliged her taking it, trying not to watch so closely for her reaction. Paper dropped to the ground with the pieces of confetti and ribbon already littering the place. What was left was a jutting, three-pointed pieces of crystal the color of an ocean.
"Damn it." Over and over Fenris muttered the same words as he walked, police-grade coat drawn against the wet cold of creation. For half the neighborhood this would simply be the time to gather around the fire and drink something warm. But for Hawke (and the other half of the neighborhood surely invited), it was a day to celebrate.
The detective inspector palmed the paper wrapping in his pocket, trying to reassure himself. Hawke had never been averse to celebrating her birth, and certainly never objected to an occasion to have any sort of party, but he'd never seen her make a big deal out of it. Only in the recent years, as memories of family and city turmoil began to fade, had she shown any real interest. So naturally, he had to do everything in his power to help make this an occasion worth remembering.
Or at least passable. He wasn't even certain he had that kind of power. "Stop your fussing, inspector," Isabela had purred earlier, half-bent over a local wine counter to ferret out a vintage worth tasting. "You being there will be enough. Trust me." Kind, but he couldn't just show up! Could he? "Look, if it bothers you this much, buy her something nice," Varric had said, exasperated as his attention was snatched away from his pen for the fifth time. "You know what she likes."
He'd found this advice far more reassuring, making his way out of the Hanged Man with a spring in his step only to realize a small hitch to his plan: he had no idea what Hawke liked. Well. He knew what she liked. But there were so many things she -did- like, and how would he know if she'd really like what he picked out, or if she'd just put it on a shelf somewhere? It was her business to do so of course. But he had to make this count. It had to mean something.
And now he was standing in front of her large home, freezing his ears off, thinking about the day off he'd taken out of the few he had to spare and wondering if it would mean anything. A cloud of breath wafted into the air. "Damn it," he whispered, and knocked on the door three times soundly. To hell with it. He was here and there was nothing he could do anymore except wait.
Noise spilled out as the door opened. Soft lights, warm, delicious smells, the clinking of glasses. The company at least looked like the type he kept, or the type that wouldn't stay long enough to bother with her scandalous parcel of acquaintances. Orana smiled, moving aside for him. "Evening, Inspector. Would you like me to take your hat?" He reached for his head, felt his hat come away. What happened to it next was quite lost to him though.
At precisely that moment, Hawke rounded the corner dressed in yards of something soft and floating, beaming up with her impossibly wonderful eyes, and all motor function was lost to him. "Inspector!" she exclaimed, arch sweet, gloved hand already reaching for his arm. "How nice of you to drop by!" "Er, thank you for having me," he muttered, almost forgetting to grab the package out of his coat pocket.
"Oh don't be like that. I'm more than happy to have you here. We spend so much time together already as it is!" She wove around one Bodhan and grabbed a glass of something strong, handing it to him. "Does that help?" His own predictability gnawed at his conscience, and he took the glass with with a polite slowness to indicate he was here for more than the usual nightcap. "Thank you," he repeated. For this she had another one of her smiles. It was almost enough to make him dizzy.
Before he could lose himself, he snatched up the lifeline of her conversation, allowing her to tease him about his horrible hours, the resting scowl, and the cases he wouldn't let her her touch. "Fenris, you know me rather well at this point I'd like to think. It's only a matter of time before I get to them," she said blithely, eyes sliding away oh-so-innocently as she took a sip of her own drink. Maker, she was maddening. He didn't know whether to arm wrestle her or kiss her.
"For focusing your magic," he said, quick, quiet, hoping his voice wouldn't falter with his heart hammering so. "You told me you break these often." For a moment she said nothing, merely turning the crystal over in her hands. Her thank you was just as quiet, eyes holding his, drowning him with their sincerity. Someone called her name, breaking what felt like an eternity, and they both averted their gaze. With a helpless shrug she let someone pull her away for a speech.
More drinks. A wonderful cake. And enough laughter and good conversation to last a lifetime. They spoke again, several times, but it was never enough, even unbroken. The party continued deep into the night, only dwindling at last when dawn was just an hour away. He lingered last, trying to make the process of retrieving his coat and hat a slow one. His hopes to talk one last time were answered when he turned around and found her holding out a scarf. "This isn't mine, Hawke."
"It's mine, actually. But it wouldn't do to have the brilliant Detective Inspector catch cold after a night of revelry on my watch." She looped the piece of fabric around his neck, tired, gentle. He smelled her perfume on it, caught a glimpse of the bright red birds embroidered on the edges. "Thank you for your gift," she said softly, fingers arrested on the ends of the scarf. "You're welcome, Hawke," she said, echoing her tone.
Another eternity spent on her threshold, staring at her eyes, wanting to do more but not sure how. Her hands pulled away at last and he told himself not to miss it. The cold no longer bit at his neck, shoes clicking down the steps. One day he would find a way to say what he felt, find the courage to act. He could not leave this up to her alone. It wasn't fair to either of them. But for now, turning around one last time to wave at her through her window, he knew he at least had a chance. (end)
((It has been an awfully long time since Nonnyland sent out it's seasonal greetings. Please have this beginning-of-the-summer ice cream cone to cool you off. We hope that all is well, or all is at least bearable. And if it isn't, we hope all will become better again. Stay cool, drink water, and may work be fulfilling! *rushes off in a flurry of gusts and sunglasses*))
Picture if you will: Hawke being voted in as Viscount and reading the official induction letter with a heavy sigh. Hawke being more disappointed about having to relearn etiquette skills more than anything. Fenris coming to her rescue with his knowledge. Hawke feeling a little awkward about learning all this because, on top of being in a raging indignity over how she has to put up with a few formalities now, there's her Elven lover using the knowledge from his times as a slave to help her.
Upon finding out where this awkwardness comes from (it took one too many mix-ups with the dinner fork and a splitting headache), he sits down beside her and takes her hand very gently, callused tattooed thumb brushing over her scarred knuckles. Fenris explaining that yes, that time was one he did not wish to relive, but that these things were not evil in themselves. And if anything, this was his chance to liberate these fanciful, useless things from the memories of Danarius.
Fenris getting Hawke to tastes wines and drilling her on the differences. Fenris making her work around a place setting. Fenris working (bribing) Hawke into the handful of truly stuffy outfits she is obligated to wear. This seems to be the favored set of lessons -- "It might have something to do with how you work me -out- of these outfits, serah" -- and neither of them begrudge each other the fact.
By the end of the year, Fenris is now able to think of Hawke's snort when he sees wine glasses of a particular cut, and of her coy little wink over a bare shoulder when he sees a corset that Danarius' apprentice wore. Even in her impetuous decisions not to wear shoes under her very long dresses and the one time she tries to give a toast and ends up breaking her glass with a knife, his memories are liberated until it's only her left to associate with frivolities, and how to break them all. (end)
why anon
how did you know i am 100% here for fenris reclaiming parts of his past for his own
Picture if you will: Hawke coming home alone from bandit-hunting. Hawke collapsing on her bed (their bed, but Fenris will be away for another two days) staring at the sun outside slowly setting. Stars. A little rain. She takes off her sweaty armor at least -- "If you were here I know you wouldn't like it" -- with a ribcage that aches to see a sleepy scowl next to her. Hawke waking up the next morning very warm (bludgeoning bandits has always helped with stress), sheets pooled at her waist.
Her back is bared and therefore chilled because of it, but pleasantly so. The sheets account for the heaviness around her waist too. Or so she would think. But there is a careful hand resting against the small of her back just now. No stranger would know this to be the way to wake her gently. The bridge of his nose presses against the back of her head, along with his forehead. “Where were you,” she mumbled at last, voice muffled by the pillow, tears of happiness stinging the corners of her eyes.
He breathes out a laugh, warm breath brushing the back of her neck, making her shoulderblades shift beneath skin. “Did you have a peaceful trip?” He makes a noise in the affirmative, but is far too busy brushing his nose against the back of her neck, lips ghosting over her skin there. Shoulderblades shift again, nerves urging her spine to arch just a degree. “I suspect,” he says quietly (his voice has laughter in it) “that is because of you.”
He plants a kiss directly between her shoulders, reverent and a little warmer than chaste, and her voice is a smiling one. “Glad to know I’m good at at least one thing. I couldn’t catch the thief.” A warm arm hooks itself gently around her, pulling her closer, lazily, and she lets herself be dragged into the vast, warm expanse of elf that is her husband. Again, a noise in the affirmative. But it’s a rumbling, low sound, and she keeps her eyes closed as she feels lips beneath her jaw.
“You didn’t happen to see him on the way here, did you?” Hands bring her closer, until she is flush against warmth and soft sheets and feathery hair. There is a smile branding itself against her left collarbone. “Hawke.” “What?” She cracks her eyes open as fingers tuck her hair behind her ear. His eyes burn with tender care and mischief. “Rest.”
“Serah, your words and your mouth suggest two entirely different concepts.”
“-Hawke-.”
“-What?-”
“Ssh.”
He manages in so many words (most of them not words at all, and not entirely coherent either) to say that yes, he ran into said local thief and that yes, he was not a problem any longer. “Well,” she murmurs, gravel in her voice, his head resting against her shoulder with her fingers in her hair, “no matter. I’m just glad you’re back. Even if you made me think I had to wait.” He musters a noise of half-hearted contempt before his arms wrap tighter around her middle. “So am I, Hawke.” (end)
Greetings! We at Nonnyland believe in polite service and genteel exchange. Following this policy, we send our first seasonal greetings of the summer with a very gratuitous ice cream cone! We also hope with our little gray hearts that all claims against the trouble-maker go through without a hitch. Hang in there! *wooshes off in a flurry of cape-flowing and sunglasses*
Oh, anon. I don’t know how you have the wherewithal to do this after all this time. You are this truly ridiculous bastion of warmth and coziness every time I have the temerity to complain about a bad day, and I cannot tell you how much this has been a comfort to me after all this time (and especially today). I just…I really, really hope you know how much I appreciate you, because I do so much.
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Picture if you will: Fenris padding around at 10 pm freezing his ears off -- "Fenris, will you ever believe in socks?" "When you stop stealing them I will, Hawke." -- trying to put on every article of clothing he can find that has long sleeves. Hawke drags him upstairs to the cherrywood trunk sitting at the foot of their bed (her mother's, somehow escaping the damage done to their old estate) and pulls out the largest sweater he's ever set eyes on.
It's entirely too big for him -- "Wow, I have my very own living tent." "Hawke." -- with one side constantly threatening to fall off his shoulder, the hem reaching his mid-thigh. It should be hideous, but it's warm and weathered enough to be soft. It smells like the earth, like moss and grass and the soft hint of wood from the trunk. "It was my father's," Hawke says quietly, voice muffled under the covers, curled into his side.
He wonders if he should take it off, but she's contented at his side, no tears, her eyes soft. He slips in a question -- about her father, or maybe the sweater and how she came by it, he forgets which -- and the night carries on with the murmur of her voice spinning tales of camping in forests, living in small houses with warm laughter, walking under a tall man's cloak through biting wind, a large hand in hers, his grinning voice saying: "Don't worry! Dawn is coming soon!" (end)
This. is possibly the cutest thing. I have ever read. And also perfectly heartbreaking, the way my favorite everythings are, and my goodness gracious but you are the most beautiful and perfect anon that ever appeared in anyone’s inbox ever.
Anonymous said: August 1st 2015, 1:30 am · 9 hours ago:
"Good evening, detective." She has no right. She has no. RIGHT. Detective Inspector Fenris - the title still feels odd attached to a name such as his - sits with his feet propped up, hands full of case files, and watches her flounce in. Well, flounce might be too lazy a term to pin on Hawke. Hawke is many things, but she knows exactly what she's doing when she saunters in, red lips curling slowly upward.
It's been a mere month since her first interference, and it's like she's always been there, occupying his station, trying to sit on his desk, smiling at him like she knows two other things that he doesn't and that said things are critically important to life. He barely grunts an acknowledgement now because he doesn't have the energy to spare an eyeroll any longer. She's never going to go away, never going to stop smiling and bringing him baked goods or helping him. And she has. No. Right.
"Up to anything today?"
"Anything being what?" he asks, waiting for her eyes to slowly drift toward the ceiling in feigned innocence and—ah, there she goes.
"Nothing in particular," she replies, and he reigns in a snort, shifting reports. He knows perfectly well she's here about the local trinket thief and probably won't leave until he starts talking about it.
"If you tell me what you know, I will share what I know. If it's relevant." She huffs out a sigh, pretending to humor him.
But she really is, isn't she? They both know he'll listen, scowl, scoff, and then toss her his file and done his hat before she leads the march to the outside of his office, red scarf fluttering behind her like some will-o-the-wisp, or a kite without strings, catching against his fingers, infuriating because it never sits still (like her) and that it's always just out of reach (like h—). "Inspector, please, pay attention. Didn't you tell me this case was important?"
So he sinks into his chair, giving her a pointed look so that she doesn't take up residence on his desk (that spider in a jar did the trick last time, but how long would that trick last?), and watches her pace as she talks. That little determined line between her brow smiles, and he presses his lips together to take the edge of the smile twitching in its confinement.
He'll never admit it (her ego is already larger than life) but before she came along, things were so ordinary in the station. Now, the day is as fresh and promising as any flower in the market. And even with all her terrible humor and her stubborn streak a good five miles wide, never once did she make him feel like he wasn't worth her time. Never once did she make him feel like anything was impossible.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she asks, tapping her foot. He rises (to humor her, of course), and grabs his coat.
"So help me if you're leading me on a wild goose chase—"
"I am not wrong," she interjects good-naturedly, daintily plucking up the case filed from his desk (because of course HE'LL forget unless she's here to remind him) and speeding briskly ahead.
"As you say," he replies, entirely skeptical. Only when she scoffs with her back turned does he grin like the world can't catch them.
((For you, worker and passer of board exams, from nonnyland! Congrats on everything, including jumping on the Phryne Fisher bandwagon!!! *throws confetti*))
--
I AM COMING FOR YOU ANON AND WHEN I FIND YOU I AM GOING TO probably fall at your feet and cry for a thousand years so be ready, have tissues
THIS IS WONDERFUL. good gosh it is everything I love and especially the desk-sitting, seriously, every time I toss around the idea of the AU in my head it ALWAYS involves Hawke sitting on his desk at some point and this is great and you are great and I hope you understand how much I totally, completely, overwhelmingly adore you
