#fitz ask

1. The original timeline is about to get screwed to hell.

2. First chapter is set before the Deep Roads Expedition. Fitz will get to meet Bethany!

3. Fitz will stay in Kirkwall longer than last time around.

4. Marcella is dead, but that doesn’t mean all is well on the Sewer Mage Front.

5. Fitz will get a bit more talkative and possibly confide in the others to some extent (I figure it’s more realistic that way, and it won’t change what has to happen too too much).

6. There’s gonna be a few more OC side characters…not a lot but like, I think I’m gonna involve them more in Fitz’ story.

7. I want to update every week. WANT. But, sadly, I don’t have much faith in myself and can’t forsee a reliable update schedule in our horizon :( my b :((( there will be attempts tho...I promise

There is definitely so much more I want to say but I can’t think specifics at the moment… that being said

(set near the end of Act I)

The clanking of metal woke him.  It was a distant sound; made quiet by the sleepy haze that still clouded over his thoughts and body.  Fitz was on the second day of a rather vicious cold that had him sleeping endlessly, even in the middle of the day, and as a result he was rather lethargic, to say the least.  And so, listening to the clanging, Fitz remained where he was, despite the underlying distress over the fact that, at that very moment, there was apparently another person besides him inside Merrill’s home.

It had been more than five days since the Expedition party had been expected to return.  Merrill had gone with Hawke too, and so she wasn’t back either.

Fitz’ eyes shot open as he realized it might not be a stranger with him, but Merrill herself.

Sitting up was harder work than simply opening his eyes; Fitz’ ribs ached and a coughing fit overtook him as the room spun around him.  He was faintly aware that his nose was running.

“M’rrl?”

“I’m afraid not, kitten.”

Ah, Fitz thought as he closed his eyes.  Not a stranger, at least.  It was only Isabela.

Rubbing his eyes with one hand, and searching for his handkerchief with the other, Fitz found the strength to pick himself up off of his bed.  He swayed, and continued swaying as he stumbled across the room, making it to the dining table just in time for his legs to give out.

Fitz sank into a chair with a sniffle, and then promptly blew his nose for a good minute.

“Darling, you look absolutely wretched,” Isabela said, with only a mild smirk.  “When Anders said you hadn’t been showing your face the past few days, I expected to find you in a ditch.  Not in a…sniff.”

“I’m sick,” Fitz muttered, like he almost couldn’t believe it.  He couldn’t help but frown as he tried to figure out what Isabela was even doing, but she had turned her back on him almost as soon as she called him ugly.

“You don’t say,” she replied sarcastically, and Fitz heard the same clank of metal that had first woken him up, only this time he was vaguely aware that it was because Isabela was the one doing it.

A dry swallow reminded Fitz that his throat was burning, and he was more than likely dehydrated.  He nearly spilled the water pitcher three times before successfully pouring himself a cup, and it was a true testament to his current state that he didn’t so much as scowl when Isabela laughed at him.

A sip of water made him cringe, and there was no relief to be found in the drink whatsoever.

Fitz was content to sit glumly at the table, paying no mind to whatever had caught Isabela’s fancy that day, and think of nothing at all, but Isabela started to talk just as he began his second attempt at forcing water down his throat.

“I suppose I ought to have gotten Anders over here, but then again, the last thing you must want right now is that mug giving you a lecture on how to take care of yourself.  Tell me I’m right?”

Fitz huffed.  “Yo’r right.”

He blinked when Isabela suddenly spun around, a bowl in hand, and he blinked again at the bright smile she was sending his way.  

Fitz was so distracted by the show of teeth, he almost missed it when Isabela placed the bowl she was holding down in front of him.  She took a seat across from him, watching.

Fitz stared back, the cogs in his mind not working properly, and he sat there in silence for just a moment too long for Isabela’s liking.

“I made you breakfast,” she told him slowly, like she thought he was stupid, and she even nodded towards the bowl.  Fitz couldn’t take offense, for he was reasonably sure that he did in fact have a very dumb expression on his face at the moment in time.  Case in point, Isabela’s nod had him looking down at the bowl in front of him like he’d never seen such a thing in his life.

Isabela’s patience twitched at Fitz’ prolonged silence, and she continued, “It’s soup, nimwit.  As in something you eat, particularly when one isn’t feeling well.”

“You made…” Fitz murmured, feeling a bit amazed at the prospect of Isabela cooking for anyone.  Amazed, and suspicious.

“Is it poisoned?” he asked, voice lilting upwards with perhaps a bit of delirious panic.  He tried to rack his brain for any misdeeds he may have done that would deserve Isabela’s ire, but it was much too hard of a task.  If only he weren’t so sick…

“Are you ill and brain-addled?  What kind of question is that?” Isabela scoffed, throwing herself back in her chair, arms crossed, as she scowled at him.  “If you weren’t so pathetically cute and sick right now, I’d slap you upside the head.”

“Since when do you cook anything?” Fitz pressed, leaning in to get a good look at the soup in front of him.  It did smell rather good, and it was steaming something awful.  The thought of pouring burning liquid down his throat was beginning to seem worth the risk.

“Tell anyone I made you anything, and I promise I won’t hold back even an ounce next time we spar.”

A promise and a threat all in one, albeit unnecessary as Fitz wouldn’t dream of telling anyone that he had gotten so low that Isabela of all people took pity on him.  

He ate the soup without another word, ignoring the way Isabela’s eyes felt as she watched him do so.

“Next time you decide to get sick, make sure Hawke is here.  I sure would love to see him ferrying you food and blankets like some burly nursemaid.”

If Hawke ever returned, Fitz couldn’t help but think sourly.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” Isabela commented, as though she had read his mind.  “Those bastards are all just fine.  Don’t be such a giant worrywart, there’s quite enough of that already.”

“Hawke’s mom’s been waiting at the gates every day…for hours.”

“Sweetness, you’re missing the point.  They’re fine.  Think more about how to kick this cold of yours instead, will you?”

Fitz sniffed in response.  Apparently talking to Isabela wasn’t much different from talking to Anders.  He had a similar conversation only a few days ago, right before his immune system decided to riot.  Anders had brushed him off as well, though the man wasn’t as good at hiding his worry than Isabela was.  

Isabela blew him a kiss on her way out the door, along with another kind reminder to keep quiet about her generosity.  

The soup gave him a little energy, enough kick to dutifully store the leftovers for later that day.  He even straightened up Merrill’s house a little bit, knowing she’d be pleased with him for it.  

Fitz felt quite accomplished as he sat back down on his bed, intending to curl back up and reclaim some much needed sleep.  His throat was still sore, and his nose runny, but it would clear up in a few days at the most.  

As his eyes began to close, Fitz felt another wave of gratitude that Isabela hadn’t called for Anders.  Shoving off a sick potion would’ve been annoying, and at least if Isabela decided to make fun of him later on, no one would take her seriously if she called him pathetically sick.  Oddly comforted by that thought, Fitz pressed deeper into his blanket.

He hoped that the next time he woke, Merrill would be home for real.  The house was too quiet without her, even with the many neighbors and the city outside with its endless noise.