Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1

Rating: E / NC-17

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and gore; intimations of domestic violence; and het smut.

Paring: f!Hawke/Fenris

A/N: Late Act 3. Follows _Sleep Without Dreams_, but can be read alone. Apologies to those with actual knowledge of the languages Google Translate and I have butchered.

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><p><strong>Old Habits<strong>

**1.**

The High Dragon shrieks at Fenris, hissing and snapping between gouts of flame and smoke as he dodges another strike and his sword slices into its side. The smell of blood and lyrium hangs over the sand; the tang of magic coats his skin along with streaks of grime and sweat.

Through the din the dragon makes, he can hear the ratchet and twang and whistle of arrows that means Varric has released another volley. Anders is shouting his tired battle cries about fearing and taunting mages, but at least he has forgone fire in favor of something slightly more useful. Electricity sparks off around them in a dizzying chain of light.

And Hawke, casting from the side of the dragon opposite him, is coming far too close. When he sees her rush in, staff moving in showy arcs, all he can think is she has underestimated her enemy.

It's then something from his past digs claws into his mind and pulls.

He knows this feeling all too well. It is a disgusting thing born of conditioning and magic worked in blood. It's the tug of well-patterned memories at the edge of his mind, the yank of an invisible leash. A habituated response he thought long since purged from his being.

He wants -_is compulsed_- to protect her.

The fact he recognizes it as a remnant of the past does nothing to lessen the feeling which uncoils and threatens to overwhelm him. He falters, wavering in his attack.

He can feel the power of her magic, the way the runes set in her rings and staff channel Fade energy before she sends a curtain of ice crashing into scaled hide. Then she's running, scrambling back to a safe distance, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The moment of distraction costs him. The dragon lunges and jaws slam closed around his shoulder, cutting into muscle and bone and he can feel its teeth inside him. As the animal bites down and lifts him from the ground he can see the detail of each scale and the way the great slitted iris contracts in hate as it stares at him.

He shifts, becomes a ghost, and the lyrium in his skin burns with power as he drives his blade into the dragon's neck one handed. The blow is weak, but when he tears the sword free with a curse, fresh blood spurts, coating his armor.

The beast drops him, then it screams and turns with surprising speed. He sees its tail sweep toward him, and tries to roll out of the way. From the way his arm refuses to move, the way the pain radiates through him, he knows he can count ripped tendon and broken bone in the damage.

The spikes of its tail whistle past and he levers himself awkwardly from the ground.

Blood runs down his forearm, hot under his gauntlet before it drips from the tips of his fingers. He grips the hilt of his sword tightly in his good hand and readies himself for another assault, but he feels the _snap_ of magic that means Hawke has cast again and the dragon roars again before it crouches and launches itself upward.

Torn wings flail and dust billows up and everything is obscured.

He can hear Hawke shouting for Anders to _just fucking heal Varric already_ and then he's running toward her voice.

When the air clears enough for him to see, he wavers again.

Hawke is standing under the High Dragon.

She's between its forefeet, dodging its clumsy swipes at her and using the bladed end of her staff in an attempt to parry its snapping jaws.

Anders is bent over Varric, blue light swirling around them. No help to be had there.

Almost a decade of fighting by Hawke's side means he knows her, the way she fights, the spells she casts, the unique way her magic feels when it sparks against his markings.

He also knows she's almost done, mana almost drained. He sees her reach for her belt, for a potion, and drain the blue liquid in one motion. He can tell when she starts to gather for a spell, a hex or glyph or an equally flimsy barrier to throw in the face of a monster.

The others - Hawke even - have grown accustomed to the markings. He doubts they have ever considered the permanence of contract between master and slave, how much more deeply such things could be branded on the mind than the flesh.

The thing so engrained within him, a reflex hardened and honed with equal parts magic and cane, responds.

This is what he was trained for; this is what he once was, the entire sum of his existence. It makes no matter what he is _now_, or that Hawke can stand on her own and is not a magister whose life he must guard, because his markings flare again and he charges forward as the creature lifts one clawed foot.

Hawke is a vague shape inside the glyph, a figure distorted by ripples of heat and power.

Her magic washes against him, as familiar as the sound of her voice or touch of her hand. The spell stutters and breaks apart when he slides to a stop near her. She looks at him and her eyes are narrow as she takes in his damaged shoulder and useless arm.

_She could have held the glyph, its bounds so small. Now she is not strong enough to cast a wider mark, to protect them both_.

Not relinquishing his hold on his sword, he loops his arm around her waist. Pivoting, he lifts her away from harm as the dragon slams its foot through the remains of the glyph.

Behind them, he can hear Anders spouting nonsense once more, and Varric crooning to his crossbow, and knows that mage and rogue are back in the fight.

More immediately and importantly, though, the dragon is closing on them and Hawke still hasn't gathered enough energy to cast again.

It's conditioning, again, that makes him step in front of her when the dragon raises its foot. Fenris shoves his sword up just as the creature slams its foot down. One-handed, he manages to bury the sword to the hilt.

The dragon screams, jerking back, ripping his sword from his hand. He can see the sword has gone farther than he could have hoped, the tip protruding out near a scaled ankle. The dragon makes high-pitched, pained sound, smoke curling from its nostrils as it retreats, three-legged.

"Hawke!" Anders shouts as he moves in and tosses her a lyrium potion, and together the mages advance on the dragon, flinging ice and electricity in tandem. Varric adds to the attack with an exploding bolt, and the dragon staggers, finally going down.

Fenris doesn't wait for it to stop twitching. Dodging its flailing limbs, he steps in and grabs the hilt of his sword even as the dragon scores the ground with a final spasm. Pulling it free, he turns to Hawke, only to find she is gone. He can see her walking away with stiff, jerking steps toward the path that leads to the mine proper.

Anders is leaning on his staff, frowning at a splash of blood on his coat. "Hate it when I get too close. Do you know how hard it is to get dragon blood out of feathers? Have I mentioned the last High Dragon I fought had the decency to not bleed at all?"

"The Kittenmarsh dragon, again?" Varric starts pulling bolts from the dragon, wiping them on its hide as he goes.

Fenris takes a step as though to follow Hawke, but Varric stops him with, "I wouldn't. Give her some time to cool off."

He scowls, but doesn't move further. He's aware of his shoulder, excruciating pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat. She is right to be angry; he faltered in battle and disrupted her spell.

Knowing the _why _of it, knowing his actions were partially the result of something done to him without his consent doesn't help his state of mind. The thought of keeping this from Hawke, or worse, explaining it to her, only serves to darken his mood.

He curses under his breath.

His fingers are starting to go numb and he looks at Anders. If it were not for the potential loss of function of the limb, he would have taken a healing draught and waited to find Hawke. As it were… "Mage."

Anders grins and Fenris wants to rip the smug off of his face, especially when the man puts hands on him, one laid flat on either side of his shoulder, fingers making contact with bloodied skin through the holes in his armor.

Fenris hisses in warning. Anders ignores it.

"And, suddenly my magic is good enough for you," Anders' grin holds no kindness, but the light pulsing from his hands is numbing, a not unwelcome feeling as bone crunches and grinds back into place. "For the record? Much better healer than Hawke."

Varric has propped the dragon's mouth open, is digging out fangs with a dagger. "Sorry to tell you, Blondie, you might have her beat in patching people up, but her balls are bigger than yours."

"Point," Anders chuckles, but the healing magic prickles unpleasantly against Fenris' skin.

Fenris jerks away from Anders. "Enough."

"You want my advice about Hawke?" Anders doesn't pause for a reply. "Actually, this is sort of all-purpose. It never pays to piss off the mage you're sleeping with."


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

"I'm sorry."

Of all the things he expects Hawke to say when she comes to his mansion three nights later, this is not one of them.

He sits on the third step of the entrance-hall stairs, legs stretched over the treads below him. He's been testing the strength of his shoulder, swinging the greatsword over and over until his muscles tremble with exertion.

She walks in without knocking and leans with her hip against the banister, crossing her arms over her chest. Without his armor, dressed only in thin linen pants, he feels defenseless under her gaze. He tells himself the reaction is absurd; she knows every inch of his body as intimately as he knows hers.

Sweat is cooling on his skin, he feels a droplet run from the dip of his collarbone, not quite crossing the freshly healed injury as it trickles down his chest and abdomen and the faded scar left by a Qunari blade.

Her eyes follow the movement and he thinks the next breath she takes is held longer than the last.

Somewhere, beyond the decay of the mansion, a dog barks, a high-pitched series of yelps. Other than the noise it makes, the silence is heavy, stretching between them.

"I thought I would tell you," she shrugs, then as if she's come to a decision she straightens and turns away, "but I guess you're not in the mood for company."

"Wait," he says, before she reaches the doorway. "What… do you have to be sorry for?"

She stops, looking at him with an incredulous expression, hands moving to punctuate her words. "Oh. I don't know. Walking off like that, knowing you could lose your arm?"

The thought never entered his mind. He rolls the shoulder slowly, demonstrating the range of motion, then shrugs. "It's fine."

"I see. Well then," she seems about to say something, but shakes her head. "I'll go."

It almost sounds like a question.

"You could stay," he knows he's possibly inviting the very conversation he doesn't want to have. "There is wine."

She doesn't quite smile as she looks down.

"There's always wine." There's a crack in the tile near her foot, she prods it with her boot. "But I get this feeling… something isn't right with you. Maybe you need some time."

She's too observant by half.

"I am not good… at this," he says.

He knows he needs to tell her, offer her the chance to understand markings such as his go much deeper than skin. The schism between _knowing _and _doing_, however, feels infinite.

"I don't expect you to be," she looks at him, walks across the broken tile floor and stands at the bottom of the stairs between his feet. She worries her lower lip with her teeth and he can see the tiny chip on her incisor. He knows from experience how it would feel - the jagged corner so very sharp - against his tongue.

"What do you expect then?" he turns and puts the sword on the tread above him, then pulls his feet up, rests them flat on the bottom riser. His hands feel empty so he grips the edge of the step; the stone is solid, an anchor.

"Honestly? Nothing. I never have. I mean… three years, Fenris. Three. _Long_. Years," she puts her hand on the end of the banister, the place where the wooden rail curls in on itself.

"I am sorry. As well," he says, a bit too quickly, perhaps. The current topic has enough difficulties without including the turmoil he struggled with during those years.

She picks absently at a place where the wood is broken, not meeting his eyes. He thinks he remembers Aveline slamming through a shade into the rail. "For what?"

One of his eyebrows lifts. "I faltered. Froze. Disrupted your casting."

"No," she says, pulling a long sliver of wood free, flicking it away. "What happened was you were so worried about what I was doing, you almost got yourself killed."

"And … this is the reason you were angry?" his surprise is genuine; her concern is unexpected. The things he thought, possibly, to admit to her are forgotten in his confusion.

"Were?" her eyes snap up and her calm splinters. "I'm still so damn furious with you! You do these things without thinking, charging in like you're the invincible hero in a stupid story Varric tells! Let me tell you something. I'm not some damsel, I can hold my own on the field, and I don't need a prince or a knight or even you to rescue me."

He blinks under the rant, under the raw anger, a thing he has never suffered directly, and feels his own temper flare. This is _not_ what had happened.

He releases his grip on the stair and stands slowly. "You should not speak of things of which you have no understanding."

"What?" she deliberately pulls her hand from the banister.

He is still one tread above her and she has to look up at him. Something related to reflex and training that tells him he must not stand over her scrabbles in his mind and he can't help but feel revulsion for thinking such a thing.

_Will he never cleanse himself of this?_

"You think so little of me," he steps to the floor, "to assume I would see you in such a light?"

"What should I think? With you acting like that? I was _fine _and you put yourself needlessly at risk," she moves closer, eyes narrowed on his. He's fought beside her for almost a decade. He knows when she's squaring off for a fight.

"Perhaps you should more closely examine your own actions," he retaliates without thinking.

"Excuse me?" closer still, until he can feel her breath against his bare skin.

"You are a mage," the implication should be obvious; mages belong safely out of range.

_Especially her._

"A fact you never fail to remind me of," she hasn't raised her voice, but he can tell she is near that point. "It always comes back to the evils of magic, doesn't it?"

"That is _not _what I meant," he lifts his hand, pointing a finger at her and feeling like rationality of the situation was quickly dissolving. "How can a person so intelligent be so imperceptive?"

"Imperceptive? Is that your idea of a joke?"

"I see no humor in your -"

"Then tell me, what did you mean? You go around cursing the evil of mages and magic without ever stopping to think about the mage standing beside you!" her voice finally cracks and she's shouting and gesturing in the close space between them. "You act like I had a choice in being born this way!"

She slaps his still-upraised hand away, and then she places each of her palms on identical whorls of lyrium on either side of his chest. "I didn't ask for my magic any more than you asked for these."

She doesn't press hard enough to cause more than discomfort, but her words…

His control shatters.

He grasps both of her wrists not caring that he's nearly crushing delicate bone as he forces her backwards. Her eyes are wide and furious, but she is a _mage_, powerless unless she casts, and he is so angry he doesn't care that he shoves her against the wall, once, then a second time. Her head snaps back against paneling and even the sound of impact doesn't break him from his anger.

"_Tu audeat aequipero pravitatis cum accidens!_" The common tongue escapes him and he leans in close, voice dropping rough and low. "You dare compare depravity to accident."

Her body is shaking against his. He can feel her pulse in her wrists and every harsh breath she takes hitches against his chest.

"You need to let me go. Now," she isn't shouting any longer. Her tone is something new, something made of ice and barely contained power. Feeling this -from Hawke who he has never known to lose control of her magic- is almost frightening.

It's then he sees her teeth punctured her lip when her head collided with the wall. Two droplets of blood well inside a wider bruise that follows the curve he has so often touched and tasted.

He realizes exactly how tightly he is gripping her wrists and releases her as though burned, backing a step, holding his hands up.

She tilts her head back, resting it against the wall and the tip of her tongue darts to touch her lip. She winces and makes a grim noise that might have been mistaken for a laugh. "By this point, I had hoped we could disagree without slamming each other into walls."

"Hawke," another step back. "I -"

"Here's what it comes down to," she says, dabbing at her mouth with the sleeve of her coat. "You can't get yourself killed. You're the only family I have left."

She pushes away from the wall and with hands curled into fists at her sides, brushes by him and walks towards the door. As she goes, she says over her shoulder, "Figure out what you need to, Fenris. Just try not to take three years this time."

"Hawke. Wait," he says, but this time she doesn't stop. The door slams with enough force he feels the vibration in his chest.

-o-

"No, messere. Mistress Hawke is playing Diamondback tonight with her friends," Orana blinks up at him, as guileless as the day Hawke freed her from Hadriana.

"It's not the usual night," he says, stupidly.

"I wouldn't know, Messere Fenris. You should speak with the mistress' _friends _at the Hanged Man," she says, and it occurs to him as she closes the door in his face perhaps he will give her a bit more credit in the future.

He stands there for a long moment, the sound of crickets and warm summer air around him. When he turns to leave, he thinks he can smell the perfume Hawke sometimes wears, on those nights she goes out, but never the nights she visits him.

Her family crest, the same image he wears at his hip, hangs near the entrance. He stops and stares at the stark, interwoven lines.

_The only family she has left._

What did he - who would have slain his sister - know of family?

He takes a slow breath in, lets it bleed out ragged, thinking of the two drops of crimson on her lip, that he was the reason for them.

Family. Would she wish it so if she understood the rage stems from the things branded into him far deeper than lines of lyrium?

He turns away from her home.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

The stench of the Hanged Man greets him with a familiarity he no longer finds disturbing. He still thinks the smells of vomit and piss and the stew offensive, yes, but is no longer bothered by the fact the odor has become somewhat… a constant in his life.

The inn is busy; every seat is taken and he scowls. Even if most of the patrons have become accustomed to the sight of him, without Hawke's presence he never fails to garner unwanted attention. Even now, he feels more than a few blatant stares.

He threads his way toward the stairs to Varric's suite, glaring at anyone who doesn't move from his path quickly enough.

His annoyance is a distraction; he doesn't see Hawke until he almost collides with her.

"Fenris. I didn't expect… That's not your armor," she has a bottle of whiskey in one hand and is holding several shot glasses on the fingers of the other. There is no warmth to her tone.

"The armorer is repairing the other," he looks down at the long coat. "The damage was extensive."

"Dragon teeth have that effect," she says flatly and he can see the bruise on her lip is gone, healed. A patron, reeking of ale, staggers into her and she frowns and shoves him away. "Idiot."

Fenris recognizes the drunk as the same one who continuously spouts bad poetry. He steps closer to Hawke and it's somewhat gratifying to see the man visibly pale under his glare.

"It's not the usual night for cards," she says.

There's tension in her shoulders and the corners of her eyes, and when he leans in so he doesn't have to raise his voice above the noise of the crowd, he can smell perfume. She had no expectation of seeing him tonight, no intention of visiting his mansion.

"And yet, here you are."

"Varric needed to talk to me about something. And then, well…" she looks at the bottle and shrugs. "What's your excuse for braving this place?"

He settles for the truth. "You. I would speak with you."

Some of the stiffness in her eases, but she jerks her head toward the stairs and Varric's suite. "I need to get back… you're welcome to come, of course."

"What did Varric want of you?" he asks, as he follows her through the crowd, then up the stairs.

She pauses at the top. A quick, almost guilty glance at him before she starts down the hall. "You don't want to know."

He follows her to Varric's door, raising an eyebrow at her as she faces him.

"Fine," she uses the bottle to tap against the door twice and gestures with the other hand. The shot glasses make a _tink-tink _sound with the movement. "He thinks it's the Crows again. Happy?"

"No," he replies without thinking and then considers their last encounter with the assassins and frowns. "That Arainai?"

"I don't think so. And, as misplaced as it is," she says and this time it's something small and private instead of steel or ice or power, "your jealousy is flattering."

"I have mentioned I'm not good at this." His scowl deepens at the gross understatement; he is so far out of his depth it's a wonder he hasn't drowned. He reaches up carefully, places his hand along her jaw, and runs his thumb over her lip. Even though it's a struggle, he meets her eyes when he says, "I am sorry."

She blinks, surprised, and her eyes move over his face. "I -"

The door to Varric's suite swings open and they're greeted with Isabela's throaty laugh.

"Look at this. They touch in public now. Next thing you know, he'll have her in the alley out back, nailing her to the wall."

Beyond her, Varric chuckles and there's even an amused snort from Aveline.

Hawke's skin flushes warm against his palm, but she doesn't pull away and he counts it a small victory.

"Later?" she asks.

He nods and drops his hand.

"Boots? And…new armor," Isabela watches him as he and Hawke walk in, eyes traveling up and down. "Very… blue. And those leggings are… snug. I _like _this new look."

Hawke is setting out the glasses and gives a short huff of sound, like she's covering a laugh.

"Tired of the black and spiky look?" Varric doesn't take his eyes from the deck of cards he's shuffling, but makes no attempt to cover his grin. "I, for one, approve. Your gauntlets were hard on my cards."

Isabela laughs and says something under her breath that might have been _and Hawke's ass_, but when Fenris turns his head to look at her, she only winks at him and perches on the arm of Aveline's chair.

"What's next, elf," Varric says, "hosting fancy dinner parties in Hightown?"

"I wouldn't place bets on it, dwarf," Fenris takes the seat closest to Hawke and pulls one of the glasses to himself. "Hawke mentioned Crows? "

"Rumor has it some people with bad accents are sticking their noses in the wrong places, asking questions about apostates in Kirkwall," Varric squares the edge of the deck on the table with a sharp rap.

"It's more than that," Aveline says. "My guardsmen broke up a fight outside the Rose two nights ago . They arrested several men and this was on one of them." She pulls a piece of folded parchment from her armor, unfolding it on the table in front of her, resting her fingertips on it.

"He claimed to only be a messenger, but…" she shrugs and slides the parchment past the whiskey and glasses until Hawke can reach. From what Fenris can see of it, it looks to be a list of names.

Hawke looks down at the list and because Fenris has spent more time observing her reactions than he would ever care to admit, he knows there's reason for concern.

"Anders coming tonight?" Hawke looks at Varric, but the dwarf only shrugs.

"Don't know. I'm sure you've noticed Blondie's been a little… uptight lately."

"Hawke -" Aveline starts, only to have Hawke interrupt her.

"I need to talk to him," Hawke is tapping the paper with one finger. "Some of these names are mages in the underground."

_Why does that not surprise him? Counting an abomination among her friends can come to no good end._

Aveline sits back in her chair, and when Isabela drapes an arm around her shoulders, Fenris doesn't miss the guard captain's small frown.

"It's all right, she has her big girl pants on," Isabela says, and then she looks to Varric, "You're wearing the suits off of those. Are you dealing or not?

"But the Crows… again?" Fenris asks, looking from Aveline as Varric deals the first hand.

"Smart money's always on the Crows, Broody," the dwarf slides cards across the table with practiced ease, shrugging as he flicks cards to each of them.

"And there is this," Isabela perches on the arm of Aveline's chair and with a rogue's slight of hand produces a gold coin. She tosses it to Fenris.

He catches it one handed, turning it over to examine the markings, sorting out the lettering. "_La confiance en Dieu_," he glances at Hawke. " 'Trust in the Maker'. This is an Orlesian _pièce de monnaie_."

A quick look from Hawke as she picks up the cards dealt her. "Since when do you know Orlesian?"

He can feel the others looking at him as well and shifts in his chair. "I… hm. Would an Orlesian coin not indicate… Orlesians?"

Varric takes one of the glasses, swirling the liquid critically. "My sources think it's a misdirection."

"Or it's not," Isabela leans forward to take her cards, arranging them slowly.

_Because nothing is ever simple where Hawke is concerned._

Fenris empties his glass, swallowing with a grimace. The cheap alcohol burns a path down his throat into his stomach and the fumes threaten to make his eyes water. Aggregio it is not.

Hawke looks at her hand and then shrugs. "Either way, they're poking into mage business and I don't like it."

Aveline twists in her chair, holding her cards to her chest as she glances up at Isabela. "You don't seriously expect me to let you sit there."

"Spoilsport," Isabela slides into her own seat, and as she does she smiles -entirely too sweetly- at Fenris. "Ask Hawke what her plan is to get to the bottom of this."

"Thanks, Isabela," Hawke pulls three cards from her hand and discards them. "Short version? We make it too expensive for them to operate here."

"You wish to steal from the Crows?"

"I did consider asking nicely," Hawke says. "I don't think the Crows answer to 'nicely'."

He considers his own cards, a marginal hand at best and holds up two fingers to Varric as he discards a Serpent and a Knave.

"True," he answers, taking the whiskey bottle and filling his glass.

Hawke's is still empty and after a moment of consideration he pours for her as well. When he pushes the glass towards her there's a question in her expression.

He meets her eyes and nods slightly, a gesture meant only for her, hoping she will understand the value he places on this.

"Thank you," her fingers brush his and he doesn't overlook that some of the warmth has returned to her voice.

He's spared any further comments from Isabela about he and Hawke touching when Varric coughs and gestures with his cards pointedly.

"Are we going to talk, or play?"


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

The second bell of the new day rings as Varric secures the back door to the Hanged Man behind them, leaving Fenris and Hawke alone.

"Are you really that dead set looking into this more?" Hawke asks, skirting a particularly foul puddle as they follow the alley toward Lowtown.

He shakes his head. "Even magisters, with the power of the Imperium backing them, hesitate to confront the guild."

"We wouldn't be confronting them."

He sees her teasing smile and thinks of the expression she wears each time she persuades Varric to open yet another locked chest.

"A tiger can as easily be provoked by pulling its tail, Hawke."

This makes her stop. He follows suit and the new boots scrape loose gravel over the cobbles. The only torch in the alley has burned down to more smoke than light and he can't see her annoyance, but he can hear it when she says, "If they're asking questions about mages, how long until they uncover things the Templars have missed, until they get to Anders or Merrill? To me? I want to know why."

"Hm."

"I get it. It's a mage problem and I'm too tired and drunk to argue about mages," now she sounds weary rather than annoyed. "Count you out."

This was not what he was expecting to hear. Hawke is persistent in their arguments, always, and he blames the whiskey for the disquiet he feels at her words.

He steps closer without completely intending to.

"I would leave only should you command it," he leans in, close enough he can smell perfume again, "…and I find the thought of being sent from your side… unwelcome."

_Definitely the whiskey._

The torchlight gutters and casts strange shadows on her face as turns to him and makes an open handed gesture. "I'm pretty sure you've noticed, you're not the only one who's not good at this."

She lifts her hands cautiously and places them flat on his chest. He stiffens reflexively and then forces himself to relax under her touch.

He doubts if she noticed the flinch; Danarius would have slapped him for the minor disobedience, an openhanded blow across the face meant to humiliate rather than harm.

_She is not a magister, not Danarius, not Hadriana._

"Case in point," she says and her voice is steady as she slides her palms up to the sides of his neck. "Today I said something -did something- to someone I care about which was unbelievably cruel."

Her fingers wind into his hair and he lifts his hands and places them on her waist, grounding himself.

"I'm sorry, Fenris."

"I… " he swallows because he cannot find it in himself to lie to Hawke and tell her it is _all right_. He thinks of the sound her head made snapping back against the wall. His actions were equally inexcusable and he finds himself frustrated with the conflict.

_If he continues to struggle like this he will drown._

"Three years is not acceptable," he finally says; it is the only response he can offer.

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I will… attempt to explain. The things I would tell you…" a pause while he considers and is thankful he agreed to the last shot of whiskey. "We have spoken of being a slave."

"Yes," there is no pity there, only the same steady directness he has come to rely upon.

"To say that a slave thinks only to anticipate his master's next wish is not entirely accurate. A good -" he makes a disgusted noise at the word, "- slave, one who wishes to avoid punishment, does not need to think, the response is instinctual."

Her gaze doesn't waver, but her fingers tighten in his hair and her jaw clenches.

"Danarius... demanded perfection. I was…" he falters.

It's not as though he can blurt it out.

_No, that is incorrect. _

It is not as though he can easily shape the concepts into words and he finds himself unsure if he is ready to explain to her the totality of his obedience.

"Maybe when we've had more to drink?" she says and when she kisses him it's gentle, as though she's being careful with him.

He can't help the way his eyes close, the reaction as involuntary as breathing.

Hawke is many things. Sarcastic and direct and honest, and yet, he would never think to call her -or their physical interactions - gentle. The unexpected tenderness catches him off guard, evokes an emotion he's unsure he wishes to name, a sentiment which has nothing to do with whiskey or his past.

At his hesitation she pulls back. Her fingers loosen in his hair, but she doesn't let go. "Is this all right?"

"I believe so," he answers and tilts his head to kiss her.

In his life, Fenris has been called many things. Danarius had taken one name and given another. Anders had accused him of being a beast, no better than an animal. He has been called cruel and ruthless and fierce, but now he tries to ignore those things and show the same care -the same gentleness- as Hawke.

He kisses the curve of her lip, tasting the place where the bruise had been, and when he speaks, the words are rough against her mouth. "I know nothing of family."

"I'm not particularly good at that, either," her fingers press the back of his head and she is no longer gentle.

_This _he understands and he opens his eyes. _This _is a thing made of teeth and the heat of her mouth against his. _This _is the small whine she makes when he bites her lower lip and them moves to mark the pale line of her throat.

Her hands go from his hair to his chest and even though her touch is light he yields to it and takes a step backward. Her lips and tongue trace a line along the seam of lyrium that ends near his ear and she pushes him again and then he's against the stone wall.

He issues a low sound made equally of warning and raw want and hears her sharp intake of breath and something that sounds like his name.

She has the belt of the new coat undone before he realizes it and as her fingers dart over the coat's fasteners and he thinks -not for the first time - she moves more quickly than a mage should be able.

The clasps of her armored coat bedevil him. "I don't remember these being so… difficult."

"It's the whiskey. I'm sure."

"_Hnn_," he says, breaking the last clasp instead of working it open, and he can't help a feral grin at her surprise.

"You are such an _ass_," she's looking down at the broken bit of metal, but he can hear barely contained laughter.

There is nothing gentle in the way he bunches the cloth of her tunic under her coat, pulling it up and free of her waistband so he can slide his hands under the fabric and against smooth skin.

In that moment it strikes him exactly the depth to which he has become accustomed to physical contact. He hadn't realized how the loss of simply touching her these past -far too many- days has impacted him. He's missed feeling her move under his hands and hearing the noises he has learned to coax from her. The conscious thought of desiring to be touched.

He slides his hands further up and feels the edge of the cloth that she wraps around herself to bind her breasts and he knows they need to start for Hightown _soon_ because his breeches are becoming uncomfortably snug.

"So much clothing. Too much," he runs a finger along the bottom of the cloth and mutters in her ear. Then he lowers his voice to a tone he has come to know will provoke a strange little shiver. "We should move on. Soon."

She manages the last of his coat fasteners and he hisses because now she's working the laces of his breeches and even though he does not want her to stop, there are already enough whispers and rumors which follow her. "Hawke, we… _Hawke_."

He thinks, with a pang of regret, she has heeded his warning because her hands still and she asks, "It's after the second bell. There's no one here to see us. Is it proving Isabela right that bothers you?"

He breathes out, but it sounds like a sigh, and simply looks at her. "Your troubles are great enough without adding to Hightown gossip."

"As I said. We're alone… and, you worry more about my social standing than I do."

"I am more realistic about the consequences of perception."

"We've been over this," she says and he is suspicious because she smirks.

He doesn't understand her intention when she half-steps back. She is still calculating because her eyes are bold on his and she hasn't stopped _smirking_. It becomes no clearer when she frees her staff from its place at her back.

She holds the staff out pointedly and he frowns, but takes it from her. She shrugs her coat from her shoulders, then down her arms, until it dangles by one hand as she holds the inside of the sleeve.

Her eyes are bold on his and she drops the coat between them, covering the dirty cobbles, and it at _last _occurs to him what she intends because she slowly and deliberately and with eyes locked on his, sinks to her knees on her coat.

"Hawke…" it sounds weak in his ears and he doesn't want to stop her. Not in the least.

_And what of his grand words of consequence?_

She takes her staff from him and leans it beside him and he has been gripping the wood so tightly his fingers ache. His hands hang useless at his sides and he wants to bury them into her hair and tighten his fingers and pull her forward, but still, damnably, he thinks of consequence and…

"You're thinking too much, Fenris," she tugs the last of the leather cords free and pulls his breeches open.

She pulls up his tunic then slides her hand _-palm, fingers, skin-_ against his side, his stomach, and then slips down brushing against sparse hair and finally his cock. Though he is not completely hard, his entire body twitches when she circles him and slides her hand slowly up and then down.

His hips move of their own volition as she strokes back up and he pushes into her hand. She uses less pressure than he and where he bears the calluses of a lifetime of swordplay, her touch is that of a mage's.

_No. She is -not- like a mage in her touch. _

Now he does reach out to her, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She leans into his touch, turning her head to kiss his hand and without thinking he runs his fingertips over her lips.

Her lips part and he can't look away as she takes two fingers into her mouth. The heat makes his breath come short - a stuttering, strangled intake of air - and when she flicks her tongue and sucks he hisses.

She is still stroking him and on the next stroke up, when her thumb runs over the head, he can't help but let his head fall back against the wall.

Another slow slide of skin against skin and he groans because she stops.

"Fenris?" This is said so softly he almost doesn't hear, but he opens his eyes and he looks down at her. She's staring up at him intently and even though the light is low he can see her and thinks she is beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her fingers wrapped around him.

He looks away and then back, quickly, because that _gentleness _has returned. It's in her eyes and expression and he feels _something _flare inside.

Then she smiles and it's the one he will always think of as wicked.

She strokes down, moving and titling her head so that he can see _-watch- _as the tip of her tongue glides over the head.

There is no keeping his eyes open because she strokes down again and takes him into her mouth one smooth movement . He sags against the stone-capped wall behind him and with fingers still wet from her mouth folding into one palm, he fists his hands and tries not to let his knees buckle.

Her mouth surrounds him and all he is conscious of is the feeling of heat and wet and pressure. She draws away and then sinks down again and he thinks he will not last. When she swirls her tongue and moves her head in an excruciatingly slow circle as she pulls back, he absolutely knows it.

He reaches for her again, hand hovering again along her cheek and when she hums at his touch he feels it simultaneously under his palm and around his cock.

This alone almost finishes him and he takes several ragged fast breaths and just as he feels tightness in his gut, she pulls back.

His breathing has become a series of gasping pants and when he touches her jaw and the curve of her ear, she reaches up and guides his hand past her temple to rest on the crown of her head. Her fingers splay over his and then tighten, twining both into her hair.

She slides back down again and drops her hand from his to rest on his hip. He tightens his grasp in her hair, hard enough to where he knows it will elicit a tiny sound.

_This _is what finally undoes him. She makes that sweet little noise in her throat, a sound he can feel inside her mouth. He knows he is the cause for it and the tight feeling solidifies in the pit of his stomach and shoots to his cock.

"Hawke," he can barely get her name out, but there is no hesitation or pause in her movements and she squeezes his hip encouragingly and that is finally is too much.

His body tightens and she doesn't stop and he climaxes, hips jerking as he spills into her mouth.

She holds him like that with one hand on his hip, steadying him as he finishes with a body-wracking shudder. Then the pressure of her mouth is too much, his skin too sensitive and he twitches as he releases her hair and grasps at the wall behind him.

She pulls away and the air is cold against his wet skin and after several deep breaths, he manages to crack his eyes open.

Hawke is looking up at him smugly.

She stands up slowly and then leans in and kisses him. He can taste himself on her lips and in her mouth, and when she draws away from him, he releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Let me help you with that," she says and for a moment he doesn't understand, but she is already retying his breeches. Her touch is just as deft now as when she had undone the laces and even though he has started to soften she is careful to avoid sensitive flesh.

"Hawke," he says, stilling her hands with his own. "Why?"

"What?" the laces aren't quite done, and her hands fall away. She looks at him expectantly, puzzled.

"This is an alley. In Lowtown. I am -"

"No. You're not. Not to me," she says and there is no compromise in her tone or expression. "But you're right. We should move on. Preferably where there's a comfortable bed."

He doesn't have time to react or think about her words because they hear a sound at the same moment. The noise a boot makes, grating loose pebbles across cobbles is distinctive.

In any other circumstance, it would have been amusing, the way they look as one into the gloom of Lowtown beyond the mouth of the alley.

As it were…

He hurries to finish the last of the laces, quickly redoing his coat and pulling his sword.

Hawke is less calm about it as she scoops her coat from the ground, and tugging it back on. _Fucking asshole bastards_, is the least of the things he hears as she grabs her staff from the wall in an angry jerking movement. "Someone's going to die. Horribly."

The first of the thugs is dressed in smooth leather and has skin as dark as a copper. He wields twin daggers and a smile that flashes a gold tooth. Fenris counts five more flanking him, with what might be two archers further in the shadows.

Torchlight gleams dully on gold. "Sorry to interrupt, but -"

He doesn't finish the sentence. Hawke has encased him in ice. "Always with the talking," she says and begins casting in earnest.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

Fenris shatters the last of the archers with a satisfied grunt. "There _is _appreciably less mess when we do it that way," he says to Hawke as she picks her way through the bodies.

"If I could cast that spell back to back, I would," she stoops to dig through a corpse's pockets.

He wipes his sword on a nearby torso and then -ineffectually- runs a hand over his face. "Says the woman not literally painted in blood."

Hawke doesn't look at him. She's found a bit of broken jewelry and is holding it up in the torchlight, examining it. "For what it's worth, my father did teach me more than magic. I could wade into the thick of things and slash and hack. If you'd rather not be the only one covered in blood."

He pictures her charging the High Dragon and scowls.

Unwilling to negotiate the depths of that conversation, he nods at the man whose pockets she is currently turning out. "You have a mansion in Hightown, Varric has invested your wealth throughout Thedas, and yet you will loot each of these bodies."

She snorts and moves to the next corpse. "Well, I'm also looking for more documents, but… well, you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks."

_Fereldens_.

"No."

"Truly?" she pauses, thinking. "How about 'old habits die hard'?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and sheathes his sword and then brushes at blood on the sleeve of his coat until he's certain the bitterness he feels won't color his voice.

_He understands the sentiment all too well. _

"I am familiar with the concept."

Perhaps he should have waited a bit longer to speak because Hawke looks up at him with one eyebrow quirked. The expression fades as her eyes flick to the shadows behind him.

"Behind you. Two. Rogue and… a warrior," she says it conversationally, as though she has continued discussing her justification for adding to her collection of torn trousers and cracked tiger's eye.

"Hm. Freeze and shatter is much cleaner," he makes as though to reach for his sword, but Hawke shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

"You care to wager? We get the warrior together and a sovereign says I can clean up the rogue alone, without magic." She had laid her staff on the ground next to the corpse and rests her hand on it as she speaks.

"It is an unnecessary risk…" he suppresses the apprehension he feels. "And unless I'm mistaken, it is also a fool's wager."

Her smile is surprised; his words have genuinely pleased her.

"Well, then," she stands before he can respond and sweeps her staff around, "What if I do it just because I can?"

He chuckles despite himself, and then lets the lyrium in his skin light up the dim corners of Lowtown again.

The rogue immediately smashes a miasmic flask on the cobbles and disappears soundlessly, but the warrior charges forward.

The look of surprise on his face is almost amusing as Hawke's spell halts his rush, although Fenris certainly doesn't envy him the fate of being shattered into in a rain of ice chips.

The rogue reappears with a _pop _of sound and it's plain from his grimace that he doesn't like his odds as he looks at the ice and gore around him.

Fenris forces his markings to subside and even though the ghost of an unwelcome response whispers from the corner of his mind, he sheaths his sword and steps back with his hands held open.

Of course, he immediately rethinks this when Hawke begins to taunt the man.

"You're looking for mages?" she plants the butt of her staff on the ground and smiles. "There's one right here. I won't even use magic."

Fenris has seen this smile before and where the smile she saves for him is wicked, this one is reckless and brash.

_Do not underestimate this man._

The rogue balances a dagger in each hand and when he comes on the movement is almost too quick for the eye to follow. He slips inside of Hawke's guard effortlessly and it's only her last-moment backward stagger and block with the end of her staff that keeps him from cutting her navel to throat.

The tip of one of the daggers snags cloth and Fenris chokes at this. His hand goes around the hilt of his sword because he will not see Hawke cut down simply to soothe her pride. Before he can pull the sword, the rogue has darted back and is watching Hawke like a cat with a mouse.

The anger has gone from Hawke's face and it's clear she's calculating. This time, she's the one who presses forward, and Fenris sees surprise on the rogue's face. Clearly he had expected her -a mage- to remain defensive.

As she closes the space between herself and her opponent, Fenris can see that she intends to sweep her staff and knock the man aside. But if he could see it so plainly then so can the rogue.

She steps closer yet, rising on the balls of her feet and Fenris' hand tightens on his sword because this is a critical error and his heart is hammering in his chest. She will surely be killed and the thought of her lying gutted in the street…

The rogue's eyes are bright with victory, but this quickly changes to shock when Hawke shifts her grip and instead of sweeping from the side, brings it up and straight forward.

The blow, with Hawke's weight behind it, catches the man in the abdomen, just below his ribcage, and he makes an almost comical _ouf_ as he's knocked backwards. He sprawls on the ground and lays there making a variant of the noise - more of an _afafaf_ Fenris thinks- as he struggles to regain his breath.

Hawke is breathing hard as well, but she's looking down at her coat, which Fenris realizes is still open from where he broke the clasp. Hawke ignores the man's labored gasping and holds her shirt away from her body.

"Fuck. I liked this one," she sticks her fingers into a hole and shakes her head.

"Be careful," Fenris nods at the rogue, who is starting to gain some semblance of breath, and Hawke -staying well back- points her staff at him.

"Who sent you?" she asks.

The man pushes himself up to his elbows and spits at her before cursing under his breath.

Hawke sighs. "That doesn't sound like any Orlesian I've heard," she looks at Fenris. "You don't happen to have picked up Antivan, too?"

He looks away, annoyed at his own discomfort. "_Un poco más._"

She doesn't react in the slightest, other than to nod. "Tell him…" she looks down at herself and then up again. "He ruined my favorite shirt."

Fenris chuckles and moves to the man's side, kicking daggers away before he crouches down. "_Le envió_?" he asks softly. He holds up his hand -glowing blue-white- and then taps the rogue's chest.

The man's eyes narrow in defiance, and although Fenris feels a hot spike of rage go through him when the Antivan spouts a string of curses regarding _the elf_ and _his kneeling whore_, his face betrays none of this when he looks up at Hawke. "He offers his heartfelt apologies for your shirt."

"That's one thing, then," she says. "Maker, we're going to have haul him to the Keep. Aveline's guards can sit on him for the night. Think she can get information out of him tomorrow?"

"She is rather convincing," he agrees, but as he grips the man by his baldric and starts to lift him, the rogue grimaces and clamps his jaws together. Frothy spittle spills from the corner of his mouth and Fenris realizes too late he's poisoned himself.

Hawke rushes forward and Fenris feels the wash of healing magic around him, but he knows there's no magic to help this. All he can do is release his hold and they watch the man thrash on ground. His convulsions last only a few moments and then, with a final jerk, his body is still.

"That's…" Hawke sighs, staring down.

"Unfortunate," Fenris finishes.

"Oh, and I'll need to replace this shirt, so I will be collecting on that sovereign," she's examining her shirt again. Her frown deepens and when Fenris looks he sees her fingers come away dark and wet. "Bastard. He did get me."

He goes to her without thinking, pushing her hands away as he pulls up her shirt. She's looking at him with bemusement and he can see it's a shallow wound, with a thin trickle of blood winding its way down her stomach.

He puts his hand over the wound, applying pressure.

_He damaged her coat, broke the clasp. Had she been killed…_

"Hawke…" he can think of nothing to say. Had she been killed, the responsibility for it would rest on his shoulders.

"It's fine. I've had worse, or are you forgetting the Arishok?" she asks and he thinks her tone too dismissive. "I would like to heal it, though."

He nods and when nothing happens he looks at her. Her eyebrows are raised and he realizes she's waiting for him to step away so the magic won't touch him.

"Your magic will not harm me," he says, lowering his eyes to the place where blood is starting to ooze from under his index finger.

There's a long, drawn-out pause while he refuses to look up or remove his hand. Then she casts and he can feel magic through her skin. He thinks the spell feels off, weaker somehow he can't quite define and this makes him uneasy.

"That should do it," she says and he tentatively withdraws his hand.

The wound has stopped bleeding, yes, but it's clear something is amiss, because the cut is forming a dirty margin that is indicative of poisoning.

He looks up, a flare of fresh anxiety sparking in his chest. Her face is pale, yet her cheeks are taking on a flush. "That is-"

"Not good," she interrupts. "I think we need to find Anders."


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

The distance from Lowtown to Darktown has never been so great and Fenris keeps looking sideways at Hawke as they walk. She has one arm around her waist and her head is bowed and he can hear the unevenness in her steps. The fact she is using her staff as a walking stick alarms him the most; the belongings that were once Malcolm's are always handled with the utmost of care.

"I'm fine," she insists, as they reach the final flight of stairs to Anders' clinic, but the strain in her voice indicates otherwise. She starts up, but only makes it two risers before she stops and leans on her staff and puts a hand on the railing to steady herself.

"No, you are not," Fenris says, more sharply than he intends. He steps up beside her and taking one of her wrists in his hand, pulls her arm over his shoulders. Unable to ignore the way she looks at him, he says, "I _will_ assist you."

He helps her up the remaining stairs and by the top she is leaning heavily on him. He considers picking her up and carrying her, but he doubts her appreciation of such a gesture. Instead he leads her across the dirty landing and pounds on Anders' door.

There is no answer and he has a panicked thought that the abomination is away on some fool's errand for his underground.

"Mage!" he shouts, fist striking the door.

"Don't. He'll think you're the Templars," Hawke's voice is low, pained.

There's movement in the room beyond and Fenris can feel magic and -of course- she is correct. Under normal circumstances, thinking clearly, he would have considered something other to shout at an apostate's door in the hour before first light.

The swell of magic from the clinic is becoming stronger and from the way he almost entirely supports Hawke's weight, he knows she's near collapse. "Anders," he tries again. "Hawke is injured."

This works. The magic which prickles against his markings is doused more abruptly than a torch in water and he hears the sound of a bar rattling in metal brackets. The door cracks open with a protesting screech of hinges and mage-light spills into Darktown, casting Hawke's features in sickly yellow.

"Anders," Hawke says, trying to stand on her own. Fenris holds her tighter, thinking she is being unreasonable.

Anders swings the door open further, waving them in, but he looks at Fenris and it is with the same condemnation he usually reserves for Templars.

"What did you do?" he asks.

"He didn't do anything," Hawke snaps, but her voice lacks any force. Fenris dismisses the thought of damaging her armor. There will be enough time to dwell on fault when she is well.

"Right," Anders looks at Fenris, perhaps seeing some remnant of guilt because he seems to want to say more but then he notices the dried blood on Hawke's shirt. He steps forward and lifts the cloth. The dark ring has expanded into a purple-black stain, wrapping around her side.

"That's… nasty. Just…over there," he gestures while he goes to open a cabinet. "You should probably sit down before you fall."

She manages a few more shaky steps, but then stumbles. Now Fenris does pick her up, catching her with an arm behind each her knees and shoulders, lifting her easily and setting her on the wooden surface. Even then he does not release her, keeping one arm around her.

She opens her mouth to speak and he interrupts her, lightly, "You may chastise me later."

"And here I was going to say 'thank you'," she matches his tone and tries for a smile but her eyes are glassy and she leans against him, head resting on his chest. He notices her staff is dangling in one hand and he takes it, laying it across the table behind her.

Anders is back, a vial of green liquid in one hand. He hands it to Hawke, who breaks the seal and drinks it with a grimace. "That's almost as bad as the whiskey."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Anders says as he lifts her shirt again and places his hand over the center of the wound carefully. "It's something with magebane, I can tell that much."

Because Fenris is still holding Hawke he feels the moment the spell touches her. There is no mistaking this is different than when Anders had healed his shoulder, and Fenris has been washed in magic enough times to know it does not lie.

Danarius' had felt like scalding wax clinging to bare skin, where Hawke's is a cooling balm on a fevered brow, and what Fenris can feel now… is that Anders' affection for Hawke is far too warm and honeyed to be that of a mere friend.

Fenris exhales through his nose slowly, schooling his features to calm. Yes, it means pulling from the detached coldness within that is linked so closely to the very things that poison his soul, but the alternative is breaking the abomination's fingers for the way they press against Hawke's bare flesh.

"Just a guess," Hawke says to Anders. "That's not your happy face."

There's a furrow between Anders eyes as he pulls his hand back. "I've stopped it from spreading any further and closed the wound best I can, but without knowing the specific poison I can't mix an antidote. It's going to take weeks to heal properly, it will interfere with your casting while it does, and you're going to have a scar."

Hawke's laugh, choppy and humorless, is unexpected. She looks at Fenris, then touches his abdomen where his coat covers the Qunari scar. "We'll match."

Fenris finds nothing amusing in this and looks past her at Anders instead. "By heal properly, this means she should rest."

Anders shrugs. "Too much activity, it will reopen. She should rest."

"Here's my idea," Hawke says, sounding stronger now. "You two stop talking about me in the third person, and we can go hunt some Crows for the antidote."

Anders' open his mouth to speak, but the sound of the clinic door's hinges squealing in protest interrupts him.

They all watch as the door swings slowly in, momentum carrying it to bump against the wall.

"Not expecting company, are you?" Hawke says quietly.

Fenris doesn't wait for the mage to answer, he moves away from Hawke and shrugs his sword free.

"No," Anders picks up his staff from where he's leaned it against a column and Hawke leans back putting a hand on her own. She glances at Fenris and nods at Anders.

Considering the strange things he'd seen in Kirkwall, Fenris is unsurprised when he recognizes the form which slips through doorway, pausing half in the shadows.

"I wonder, have you never heard that speaking of the Crows will surely summon them?"

"Zevran Arainai," Hawke says, and there's no real surprise in her voice, either. "I think it's more a case of a bad copper always turning up."

"My dear Champion, I am wounded," he grins widely, teeth flashing an almost unnatural white.

Anders has lowered his staff, but he hasn't moved from the protective position flanking Hawke and he doesn't look amused. Fenris can't blame him on either count.

"That could be arranged," Fenris says under his breath and hears Hawke snort.

Zevran crosses the room and sweeps his gaze up and down Hawke with familiar ease. "Ah. That would be a new concoction my former associates have begun using. If I may guess, you did not even know you were injured at first?"

"I was more concerned about the shirt, to be honest," Hawke tugs at the hole.

"If we can set Hawke's wardrobe concerns aside for a moment," Anders crosses his arms over his chest. "Why are you here?"

Another wide, white grin. "Repaying a debt."

"A debt," Fenris knows he sounds doubtful. He doesn't care and pointedly flexes his fingers around the grip of his sword.

"You say that with such disdain. _Tch,_" Zevran looks at Hawke. _"_Yes, I learned the Crows had come calling again and felt it only right to repay the debt I owe you, Champion."

"You were just… in the neighborhood?" Hawke says and Fenris can tell her patience is slipping.

"The circumstances surrounding my arrival, I am very sorry to say, I cannot explain," his expression becomes harder, colder. "But, the fact remains I owe a debt."

"Because you haven't offered an antidote, I'll assume you can't put that out there as a repayment option," Hawke pushes off of the table, but she leaves a hand against the top to steady herself. "So, I'll also assume you'll help me find the person who can."

"I would gladly offer my services to a beautiful woman such as yourself, should you wish them."

Anders coughs, but it almost sounds as though he's gagging, and Fenris is tempted to allow a smile at the sound.

"Where do you suggest we start?" Hawke shakes her head, but she's smiling too. Whether it's because she agrees with Anders or she's genuinely amused, Fenris isn't certain; he often finds her sense of humor to be somewhat questionable.

"Good. The docks would be -"

"Hawke," Anders' expression can only be called doubtful. "What part of 'rest' and 'not casting' didn't you understand?"

While he agrees with the mage, Fenris in no way feels badly the other man receives Hawke's glare.

"You think I'm sitting here like some -"

"Damsel?" Fenris supplies the word without thinking. He almost regrets further aggravating her; as it is Anders on the receiving end he decides he can suffer the feeling.

"Invalid?" Zevran is obviously a quick study.

Anders puts up his hands before Hawke can launch into a full-out rant. "Of course not. I think you've been poisoned with a magebane derivative and you probably can't cast enough ice to cool a mug of Corff's finest."

Hawke rolls her eyes and points a finger at the vial on the table. The resulting puff of white is comically predictable. It floats around the vial for a moment and then evaporates into the warm air of the clinic.

"You would be a liability," Fenris says flatly.

Her lips thin and she is obviously fighting an angry retort, or given her stubbornness, more likely attempting to form some argument.

He can think of only one way to persuade her. He steps close enough so that Anders and Zevran cannot hear. This is none of their concern. "Hawke. Marian. I will not beg of anyone, but I will ask you…please."

Her eyes search his as though for an answer to a question not yet asked. Finally, she nods, the slightest movement of her chin.

"Fine. You take Zevran and hunt some Crows. I'll go home," she says. "And, no. I won't go alone. Anders can walk me in case I get a case of the vapors."

He hadn't considered this outcome, that she would ask the abomination to accompany her, but is reluctant to argue. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow. "You will go home?"

Even though he can see she is still searching for something in his expression, she shrugs and gives an odd half-wave. "Yes, but," a pause while she begins tucking her shirt into the waistband of her pants. She keeps her eyes down, but he sees her chipped tooth as she worries her lip. "Be careful?"

He nods and turns on his heel, leaving the clinic without looking back. The unspoken and unasked will wait.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

Lowtown stirs with the first of the day's activities as Fenris slips through the market, Zevran beside him. A small number of the merchants have arrived and although some glance a second time at two armed elves, Fenris knows by the way their eyes slide away from him that Varric's peculiar brand of diplomacy has spread even here.

He has to check -once mistakenly looking to his right- to ensure Zevran keeps pace. He thinks with some annoyance the assassin is too quiet; he has grown accustomed to a mage's presence.

_He has come to prefer being at one mage's side._

He shakes himself mentally, returning his thoughts to the present, focusing on the task at hand.

He pauses before descending the stairs to the docks, looking at Zevran. "Where?"

Zevran looks out over the harbor and the ships shifting against their tethers and moorings. "There, the _Windsong_."

"A ship?" Fenris says. "Not a warehouse? It's always a warehouse."

"Am I to understand you have a sense humor buried under all of that smoldering angst?" Zevran doesn't look from the _Windsong _and Fenris knows he's searching for guards.

"There. See the smoke?" Fenris nods at a curl of white smoke. It lazes away, almost invisible in the early morning light. A sailor steps from behind a stack of crates, pipe clamped firmly between his teeth. He stops at the railing, looking down at the dock for a moment, and then turns away again, disappearing from view.

"Ah. Indeed. It is no wonder the Champion keeps one such as you… close."

Fenris sighs, an exasperated puff of air. "Do you have a plan?"

"Yes. You don't get killed. I would rather keep my guts where they are currently located, thank you, as well as uncooked by a stray fireball."

"She prefers ice," he watches the smoke drift and thin, thinking they should move on before the sun breaches the horizon.

"Yes? My Warden as well."

He nods, partly to himself, thinking of Danarius' nephew. The magister's sister was long since dead, killed in an unsanctioned duel, but her overgrown brat Capios had been gifted in electricity as well. "Yes, hardly surprising. He and Hawke share common ancestry in the Amell name. These things run in families."

At his words, he thinks he sees something cross the assassin's face. It's an emotion there and gone so quickly he wonders if he imagined it.

The sailor on guard completes another pass at the railing and Zevran nods. "Well, then. Shall we?"

They keep to the shadows, or rather Fenris attempts to follow Zevran's lead. He knows he is not without grace, but trying to conceal himself as well as the rogue is pointless.

They slip farther down the wooden dock, to where a line winds and knots around a post. Zevran gives a flourishing half-bow and another gleaming smile. "After you."

"Good. I didn't want to look up your skirt." Fenris jumps, catching the line. He braces his feet against the ship's side and pulls himself hand over hand easily. The hawsehole serves as a handhold and then he's able to reach another line and climb to the railing.

He pulls himself up to check for the guard and sees his way is clear. Dropping over the rail to the deck, he freezes, because he hears the guard tapping his pipe. There's a whisper of sound next to him and he knows Zevran has reached the deck as well.

A movement from the guard has them both darting behind stacks of coiled rope and wooden crates and empty barrels. They crouch together, waiting for any sound signaling they've been spotted.

"Tell me this does not get your blood pumping?" Zevran whispers, almost in Fenris' ear.

Fenris scowls at him and receives a cheeky grin in response. They can hear the guard walking the length of the deck again and while Fenris has no doubts that they could overcome any challengers, he is equally certain if an alarm is sounded their prey will bolt.

He settles against the crate and balances his sword on his knees while Zevran lifts himself up enough to peer between the ropes.

"This may be a problem. There are… now two others with him."

"Of course there are."

"Aha. Again with that humor. No wonder she has eyes for no other."

Fenris thinks unwillingly of Anders and from the way Zevran makes a _hmm _of interest, he knows the thought is obvious.

"You worry she will stray to her fellow mage," Zevran's voice is pitched low, but Fenris can hear the amusement.

"Yes. Mock me," he raises up just enough to confirm that, yes, there were now three guards. He watches them for a moment, then drops back to the deck.

"My brooding friend, a blind beggar could see the two of you are terribly, madly -as we say- _en emor_."

_In love._

"No," he whispers, making a sharp cutting motion with one hand. "You are mistaken."

Zevran tilts his head back and rests it on a crate, but his eyes examine Fenris as though he is a puzzle to be solved. Then the assassin looks skyward, where -appropriately- black carrion birds circle.

"Tell me this, then. Why do you follow and guard her as though your life depends on hers? In my experience that degree of loyalty is seldom earned by any other means than… attachment."

Fenris goes very still. He thinks of how he would have given his life to guard a magister. Without thought or hesitation.

_No. He will not allow thoughts of Danarius to corrupt what he thinks he feels for Hawke._

"That is not open for discussion," he says the words carefully, attempting to control his anger.

"But we are stuck, behind ropes and crates and barrels. And I have been told I am somewhat incorrigible."

"I will warn you only once more," Fenris can feel fury building in himself. "My 'attachment' regarding Hawke-"

"Shh-shh," Zevran cuts him off. There is movement on the deck behind them and the assassin pulls himself up too look again. "They have gone from sight once more. We can continue our discussion later, no?"

-o-

Fenris looks at the destruction of the cabin around him and has the urge to pick up one of the bodies on the floor and shake it. Broken glass and blood-stained papers and the remains of what was once a wooden table litter the floor.

"I love it when a plan comes together," Zevran says with a grin.

"They are all dead," Fenris jabs a corpse in the ribs with his foot. "This one is dead." He points to another. "That one is dead. The dead do not speak. They cannot provide an antidote for Hawke and what is worse, we have yet to discover why they are here. How is that a 'plan coming together'?"

"You are alive. My innards will remain inside and unfrozen. I did mention this plan to you, no?" Zevran is rifling through the debris, reading papers, and occasionally folding one into a belt pouch. He stops and picks up a pouch and after digging through the contents, tosses something through the air toward Fenris.

Fenris sees that it is a vial before he catches it and feels at least some relief. Fatal poisoning or not, the memory of her being unable to cast -_defenseless_- is fresh in his mind.

"And what of…" he gestures at the paperwork Zevran is assembling.

The other elf nods slowly, distracted by what he is reading. He picks his way to Fenris, stepping over a body to hand him a sheaf of papers. Fenris has spent enough time sitting at Varric's table while the dwarf groaned and moaned over a ledger to know that he is now looking at accounts.

"Financial records."

"More on the… bribery and extortion end of the business, yes?" Zevran says this with a bitterness Fenris did not expect to hear. "The Crows have taken advantage of those without the power to resist for too long."

Another unexpected statement. "This is the reason you are in Kirkwall again?"

Zevran laughs and the sound is short and harsh, with some of the same coldness he'd shown in the clinic earlier. "You are quite the clever one, but as I told your Champion, I cannot discuss that."

"None of this points to why they hunt mages in Kirkwall?"

Zevran tilts his head slightly. "They appear to be financial records, do they not?"

"Not an answer."

The answering smile is as laced with ice as any of Hawke's spells. "Are we to have a problem?"

"Perhaps."

"Very well." Zevran takes a breath in and for a heartbeat it seems he is readying for an attack, but he merely hooks his thumbs in his belt. "Understand, there are things I cannot speak of, but certain parties have shown an interest in the Amell family. I take offense at this, naturally."

Fenris frowns, trying to connect threads of thought. "And I assume you can't tell me why, or who is behind this?"

"In truth? I am uncertain. Those -" he points the papers Fenris holds, "-will be analyzed by the Wardens. If they should find anything… we will surely let you know."

"Wardens? They are involved?"

Zevran raises one shoulder slowly and drops it again.

Fenris debates on another question, but hands the papers back wordlessly. He has an antidote to deliver and -his stomach tightens- concepts such as _attachment _to discuss.

"Until next time?" Zevran tucks the papers away and flashes his wide grin.

"Truthfully, if I never see you again, it will be too soon," Fenris says, but he does allow slightest of smiles.

"Oh. With that smile… if you ever tire of your Champion…," Zevran begins, but the words are lost as he is already gone from the hold, melting into the shadows.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

Orana answers the door of Hawke's estate when Fenris knocks. She looks up at him curiously, and Fenris realizes he hasn't take the time to properly clean the blood from his face.

"Mistress Hawke said to let you in," she says, but she doesn't move from where she blocks his path.

Fenris frowns at her. "Obviously you wish to say something."

"You hurt her. Mistress doesn't know I saw her lip, but I did," she is glaring at him now. _Glaring._ "You should know better."

He looks away and swallows and then back again to meet her eyes. "I apologize, Orana. I would speak with Hawke now."

"I don't need apologies," she snips, but steps back and lets him pass, closing the door with more force than necessary. "And Mistress may think she doesn't need them, but she does deserves them."

"I-"

"Mistress is in her room. Messere," she interrupts him and nods curtly, and it is clear she is dismissing him as she walks toward the kitchen.

He watches her until she disappear from view and thinks, yes, he will definitely give her more credit in the future.

Fenris climbs the stairs slowly. He will have to bathe soon; the dried blood at his hairline is starting to itch. He frowns as he walks down the carpeted hall, pausing outside her bedroom door. Closing his eyes and letting a long breath out, he then knocks.

"Fenris? Come in," she says, voice muffled behind the door. As he pushes it open, she continues speaking. "If that's you, you better have an antidote for this…"

She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, dark circles under her eyes and papers fanned out in a half-circle to one side. She smiles at him, though, and pats the bed. "Please tell me you found something. I had to light my candles and heat my bathwater and start the fire by hand."

"_Hnn_," he shakes his head as though in disapproval, at the same time knowing full well Hawke never uses her magic for such things.

He sits on the edge of the bed carefully, mindful of his soiled clothing until Hawke reaches forward and catches the sleeve of his coat between her fingers. She smiles and jerks her head, patting the space next to her.

As he moves to sit nearer, he produces the vial. "I would advise caution, but one would imagine there are easier ways to kill you than sending poison with me."

"But think of the scandal," she grins and for the second time in less than a day, he watches her drink down a potion and grimace.

"I would prefer not to," he takes the empty vial from her, setting it aside.

It surprises him when she leans forward and kisses him, teeth grazing his lower lip before she sits back again.

"Thank you," she says.

He touches his tongue to his lip and tastes something like unripe pears. "You are welcome."

He looks down at his hands, not accustomed to seeing them bare; he assumes his armor will be repaired by the morrow.

"You should wear this again," Hawke has the fabric of his sleeve in her fingers again, but she pulls a face. "After you get it cleaned."

"Hawke. I… my actions. I would apologize again."

She releases his sleeve and picks up one of the papers. He thinks it a diversionary tactic, but she hands it to him wordlessly. He takes it and recognizes the list Aveline had given her.

"Read it," Hawke says at his questioning look.

He does as she asks. It is a list of surnames only, some of which he can place from the very few times he's accompanied Hawke with an errand for Anders' underground. Then he reaches the last few names and snaps his eyes up to look at her.

"Amell. The assassin… Arainai. He spoke of this. Someone is interested in your family," his eyes narrow and the anger he feels surprises him. "You knew of this and said nothing?"

She picks at the coverlet, then shuffles some of the other papers. "Yes. I didn't want you to worry. You've… you haven't been yourself, lately."

"I haven't been myself?" he parrots this back. "Perhaps that is because -" He stops abruptly, setting the paper down. "I do not wish to argue. I wish to explain my actions."

"Fenris…" she says, taking the list and folding it carefully. "I'm not as… imperceptive as you might think."

She uncrosses her legs and moves to kneel beside him. The dark rings under her eyes have started to fade. He thinks she truly looks less fatigued and surely the antidote is working. She reaches out slowly, as though he might bolt, and brushes hair from his forehead and then traces the outline of his ear. "I was in the Hanged Man when we killed Danarius. I did hear what he said to you."

He almost flinches away from her. "It is not as simple as you might think."

"I don't imagine there was anything simple about it. But what you need to know is I am…"she pauses, slipping one hand inside his. "You are my family and I -" her voice is thin, stretched tight as though this costs her dearly to say. "I am terrified of being alone."

He looks at her hand, so fragile in his own, and thinks of past _attachments _and _affections _and _responses_. He knows he must explain or drown. He nods once, as if affirming the decision. When he looks at her, he sees only the directness so unique to Hawke.

"Family," he says the word carefully. "I… can think of nothing I could want more. But there are things about my past you must hear first."

Her fingers curl around his palm and she lifts his hand to her lips, kissing the inside of his wrist.

When he begins speaking, it is while holding her hand tightly.

**END **

* * *

><p>Author's notes:<p>

A very special thanks to the LJ crew for the test-reads. :-)

Yes! I am working on the next story for these two. I'm slow, however. Expect a few months' wait as it's plotting out around 25-30k.

Yes, I am on LJ and Tumblr (same username) and absolutely _love _to interact with people.

-o-

I'm currently without a beta reader and would like to find someone to work with. I'm specifically interested in a reader who has a firm grasp on sentence flow, plot logic, and thematic elements.

I don't necessarily need my hand held, but do like exchanging dialogue with my beta. I very much need someone who is not afraid to speak his/her mind or challenge me as a writer.


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