#grimsister

“The Champion of Kirkwall – a lazing sack of potatoes.”

The elf’s voice was low and warm, fond. Hawke lifted hishead only briefly, enough to see him there, in the doorway, watching him withthat soft private smile, his arms crossed and his shoulders relaxed. That hewas wearing nothing more than one of Hawke’s large sweaters made it all thebetter.

“You know,” Fenris added, “When potatoes, start growing thatmuch hair, it’s usually time to throw them out.”

“Try it,” Hawke said, and Fenris chuckled. He padded acrossthe floor, bare-footed and silent, stirring up dust that danced in the shaftsof sunlight that poured in from the skylight Hawke had installed some yearsago. The mattress shifted as the elf climbed back into bed.

“How long do you intend to laze here?” Fenris asked, asHawke let his head fall back again.

“Indefinitely,” Hawke answered. “No one knows I’m here butyou.”

“Hmmn,” Fenris’s body was unusually warm as he stretched outat his side. Relaxed, languid, no longer on constant alert, he rested his headon one hand, and buried the other in the dark curls that covered Hawke’s chest.“If they’re clever they do.”

“I’m not workingtoday.”

“A well-deserved rest,” Fenris said, and he sounded pleased,and Hawke made a pleased sound as he let his eyes close once again. “Are youpurring?” the elf taunted. “That’s adorable.”

“That feels good,” Hawke answered it. “Keep doing it.”

Fenris made a low sound, his fingers combing through Hawke’schest hair, making swirls and patterns, idle in his ministrations.

“I enjoy seeing you so relaxed,” Fenris said at last, morequietly, an unintentional copy of Hawke’s own thoughts in reverse. “The weight ofan entire city, set aside for one slothful day. I suppose it’s something to begrateful for.”

“You only suppose?” Hawke asked, without opening his eyes.

Fenris grunted. Hawke couldn’t see it, but somehow he knew itwhen the elf shrugged. The mattress shifted beside him, and he felt the warmweight of the blankets as Fenris dragged them over his body. A moment later,and his head came to settle against Hawke’s chest.

A block from The Blooming Rose, Fenris spoke. The words weresudden and a bit too loud, as if they had been pulled from him withoutpermission – an unwilling exclamation yanked from the darkness of privatethought and thrust, naked and struggling, out into the open air.

“Hawke is not the kind of man to take up that offer.”

It was an odd sort of declaration, neither question norstatement, and there was something confrontational about it, too – a challenge,as if the idea that Leopold Hawke might return some night to the Rose for theoffered dalliance with Jethann was something he found personally insulting.

“I take it the elf doesn’t approve of whores…” Varric said,as if musing privately to himself.

Fenris was stiff and tense, caught off guard by his ownoutburst. His interactions with the rest of the crew had been brief and coolthus far, with the exception of Hawke himself, who seemed to possess thesurprising talent of being able to pull full conversations from the elf.

“I take little issue with whores,” Fenris said. “They havechosen a means of survival.”

“You just take issue with Hawke visiting one,” Varric said.

Fenris pursed his lips. His eyes darted to Hawke’s broadback, where the mage had paused to haggle with a merchant over lettuce. Hefrowned darkly.

“I don’t care what Hawke does. I was merely…curious.”

“Well, what do youdo when you need your bone polished?” Carver asked. Fenris looked at himsharply.

“When I what?”

Something in his tone had the other warrior palingconsiderably. Carver lost his amused expression, and almost squeaked when heanswered. “Sex!” he said. “What do you do when you need sex?”

The elf’s expression grew colder, more closed. In clippedtones he answered, “I – don’t – like – sex.”

Carver’s surprise bypassed his better judgement. “Who doesn’tlike sex?” he demanded, loud enough that Hawke and the lettuce merchant both lookedtheir way. His brother was frowning at him, too, now, and as he began makinghis way back to the group, Carver thought that he was beginning to feel ratherganged up on. “You’ve got to be lying.”

“Would you care to repeat that?”

“Well, everyone likes sex! Varric, back me up.”

“Leave me out of this, will ya?”

“What’s going on here?” Hawke demanded, reaching them at last.

“The elf said - !”

“You’re making a scene. Let’s go.”

“Well, just answer one thing,” Carver said. He pulled hisarm out of his brother’s grip. “You haven’t been laid in ages. Are you goingback to the Rose?”

His brother looked more confused than annoyed, which wasprobably a good thing. “Why would I do that?”

“Jethann’s offer. He said – “

“Flames – why wouldI care about that? Get your mind out of the gutter. We’ve got work to do.”

Carver tried to argue, as they set off again.

“Oh, good, you’re back. I missed you.”

“I’ve been gone an hour.”

“Too long.”

Fenris grunted, amused, as he found himself folded into Hawke’sarms, smothered against the burly mage’s chest. He only gave him a momentbefore pulling back, pressing the back of his hand to Hawke’s forehead.

“You’re on your feet. That’s a good sign.”

“I told you – I’m fine.”

Fenris shifted the bag of groceries to his other arm, andtook firm hold of Hawke, steering him back to the armchair the mage hadinhabited for the better half of the week.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he said. “The abomination said youneeded to rest. That’s what you’re going to do. I’ll make soup.”

“I got lonely,” Hawke complained, returning, hunched,falling into his chair, and Fenris again felt that wave of fond amusement. Hewould never say he enjoyed it whenHawke got sick, but there was something endearing about watching the big, gruffman become sweet and needy and almost childish because he didn’t feel good. Itfelt nice, getting to take care of him.  

It seemed they were in their own private world. Hawke’ssleepy smile seemed to banish everything that had come before these happymoments. He rolled, and his forearms came to frame either side of Fenris’shead, his body over him – he kept himself pushed up, wary of his weight, unawarethat Fenris very much liked it. They had all the time in the world to learnthese things.

“Why, hello there,” Hawke said, and Fenris found himself grinningback. How silly they must look, two serious men, staring at one another withridiculous smiles on their faces. Fenris didn’t care. He was barely awake, thesun bright and warm as it poured through the hole in the ceiling, and Hawke wasin his bed.

“I suppose we can count our first true sleepover a success,mn?” Fenris asked, and watched the delight that sparked across Hawke’s normallyhard face.

Hawke said, “I want to wake up beside you every day for therest of my life.”

“Sap.”

Hawke’s grin grew. He leaned down, breaths from kissing him,only to stop himself at the last moment.

“Do I have morning breath?” Hawke asked.

Years ago, when he had been learning, the words had come to Fenris much more easily than he hadever dared think they would, symbols and scratchings rearranging themselves tocreate meaning. This configuration meant dog.That one meant bear.

He rolled onto his back, Hawke’s note in hand, and he readit over again. The sun that splattered over their sleep tousled sheets was alreadydeliciously warm. He traced his eyes over Hawke’s thick, blunt handwriting, sointimately familiar to him after all these years – first from their lessons,and then, more recently, from his letters. It seemed so strange that that terribletime was over. So strange to be back in Kirkwall, as if no time had passed atall, and Hawke’s venture with the Inquisition had merely been a nightmare.

This was not what I had planned. I hope it isn’t entirely ridiculous.

--

A crash of thunder nearly completely overshadowed the soundof the knock at the door. Fenris marked his place in his book as he looked up,and tilted his head as he listened for the sound to repeat. He had almostwritten it off as a trick of imagination when the knock came again – slow,heavy, impatient. Fenris set aside his book.

He wasn’t surprised to find Hawke on his doorstep, though hewas surprised by the sight the man made – soaked thoroughly through, hairplastered to his forehead, suit clinging to his muscular body, once-finetrousers coated with mud up to his knees, and a singularly miserable looktwisting his handsome face. Anyone who didn’t know him might have been temptedto take a step back in fear, for it would have been easy to misinterpret thatheavy brow, the hard clench of that strong jaw, the steely look in those ambereyes.

Fenris tilted his head. He pressed his lips together, and hetried not to laugh.

Hawke said, “Shut up,” and pulled a paper box out from underhis shirt, thrusting it at Fenris’s chest. It was crumpled and a littlesmooshed, damp despite his precautions. In a flash of lightning, Fenris pickedout the familiar decal from his favorite bakery as Hawke pushed past, into hishome.

“Unexpected,” Fenris said, and even he knew he sounded tooamused; the silent I told you so hungbetween them as Hawke turned back, big shoulders heavy, and glowered at him. Hecarefully kept his own expression cool and neutral. “How was the soiree?” heasked.

“All right,” Hawke ground out. “I’m sorry.”

“Pardon?”

“Maker,” Hawkeswore, and rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t even remember what we werefighting about – I’m sorry. This has been a terrible week, and one fucking fantastic shitshow of a day, and Imissed you.”

“Hm,” Fenris said. He opened the box, and examined theslightly squished pastries inside.

“I’m never going to one of those fucking things without youagain,” Hawke said. “I don’t care if you’re ready to murder me - you’re putting on a tie, and being my date.”

Fenris tasted a dollop of frosting on his fingertip. Hesaid, “I had a feeling you would feel that way.”

“Yes, well, you were right, and I’m sorry, so can we pleasemake up now?”

Fenris glanced at him, and whatever temptation he had feltto draw it out, to make Hawke beg a little longer, vanished when he got areally good look at the man – at how exhausted he looked, how defeated.

“Please,” Hawke said again, and Fenris set the box ofgoodies down on the floor, and stepped closer to him. Hawke actually shudderedas his arms went around him, his forehead lowering to press against the elf’sshoulder.

“You’re freezing,” Fenris realized, and Hawke made a soundlike a laugh – helpless, defeated, harsh. He clung to Fenris as if it had beenmore than a week since the stupid little spat that had left them each too proudto apologize for.

“I wrestled the Orlesian dignitary into the earl’s pool,”Hawke admitted. “I didn’t like what he had to say.”

“Was this before the rain started, or after?”

“During,” he mumbled. “Do you think that’s considered a fauxpas?”

Fenris pulled his fingers through Hawke’s wet hair. Even tohim, Hawke’s skin was icy. The nights had been chill lately, though he hadascribed that merely to sleeping alone.

“Before that,” Hawke said, “I tried to use one of those tinydinner forks…”

“Oh, no - not again.”

“It wasn’t my fault the countess’s wig was flammable.”

Hawke’s answer was too quick, too defensive. Clearly something had been his fault.

Hawke could feel the sun, the heat of it spreading acrossthe broad expanse of his bare back, growing a little brighter, a little warmerthe longer he lay there, splayed on his stomach with one hand outstretched,fingertips just brushing the back of the neck of the elf who slept beside him.Fenris liked to cuddle after sex, but for sleeping he liked to be free – havinghis arms or legs confined by the weight of Hawke’s body was a recipe fornightmares. Some nights he couldn’t bear to share a bed at all.

But when he did –

Hawke cracked open an eye. Even bleary and half asleep, hischest swelled with love at the sight of that snowy head, the back bent, curledaround the pillow Fenris clutched to his narrow chest. When they had firstbecome lovers, the elf slept stiffly, on his back, jerking awake at thesmallest noise, always ready to leap out of bed at the first hint of a threat,his back to the wall so that nothing could sneak up behind him. He didn’t sleeplike that anymore – and it was Hawke he kept at his back now.

The mage smiled. His fingertips shifted, taking a moment tostroke that bit of skin they touched.

The warmth spread as the sun rose higher, filtering inthrough the window behind him, bathing them both in light. It was getting late,and he needed to get up. There were things to see to – the animals they raisedon the little farm they had come to own after leaving Kirkwall, business downin the village, breakfast. Fenris stirred at his touch, and after a moment heshifted, looking back at Hawke. His eyes were still cloudy with sleep, his haira sleep tousled mess.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Hawke asked.

Fenris grunted, and rolled over, toward Hawke’s side of thebed, flinging an arm and a leg over him, slotting his head under Hawke’s chin.

He could feel Hawke watching him.

For a long time that morning, Hawke’s eyes lingered on hisface. Fenris knew, even with his own eyes closed – knew the weight of thatamber gaze as surely as he knew his own heartbeat. He had spent three yearsstudying the art of pretending to be unaware of it and now, here in the fragilesilence of dawn, he felt it again.

Hawke’s fingertips brushed his face, featherlight, ghostly,and had he not already been awake he might never have noticed it. He started athis forehead, tracing the path of the trio of dots there, brushing hair back,gently, away.

How many, Fenris wondered, would be surprised to know howgentle their fearsome Champion could be? When he traced his index down the archof Fenris’s nose, his touch was so light that Fenris couldn’t even feel thecallouses he knew were there. Hawke brushed his fingertip over his lips, thendown, two fingers tracing the lines on his chin.

Fenris opened his eyes, and Hawke dropped his hand. Theywere silent, staring at each other, there in the new light of day.

“Sorry,” Hawke said, softly, sheepish, Fenris’s stern,serious mage, lying there beside him with bedhead and morning breath, andFenris thought it so strange that he should feel such happiness now. A weekago, he would have thought such a thing impossible.

“It felt good,” Fenris said.

“You stayed.”

“I stayed,” Fenris agreed. “It seems I’m developing a habit.”

“Maker, you’rebeautiful.”

Fenris felt his lips twitch. He couldn’t understand whyHawke might think such a thing, knowing all the deepest, ugliest parts of himas he did. But this morning he was content to leave the discussion at Hawke’sblatant admiration. Today, he thought, it would be nice to pretend himselfdeserving.

Fenris tilted his head back, exposing his neck.