Chapter Text
ch. 1
She’s puttering in the kitchen. She is always puttering around in the kitchen. A thud and a squeak, followed by even more tiny thuds. Food dropped, Fenris guesses. And now, most likely the broom. The elf sits up slowly, as to not upset the dull ache in his head, thrumming away at the base of his ears. Rising to his feet, he shuffles to the basin and pitcher set atop a simple clothespress, filled already with fresh water. He tips some water into his mouth to rid himself of the fuzziness of sleep, and pours the rest into the bowl, splashing it over his face, digging dirt from the corners of his eyes.
With water dripping still onto the bridge of his nose, Fenris leaves the bedroom, eyebrows raised to the sight of Orana kneeling on the floor, delicately picking tiny flecks of white from the floor boards. She looks up in surprise, painted eyebrows rising in a mirror of Fenris’ own expression.
“I woke you?” She winces in apology, returning to her task as she speaks without looking up. It is a habit Fenris knows she isn’t likely to break, especially not with him. Slaves they both were, perhaps, but never equals in that regard. He kneels down beside her to help.
“You bought rice,” he says, approving. Orana nods.
“Yes, and there’s honey. Porridge for breakfast, doesn’t that sound nice, messere?” The girl tips her handfuls of grain into a metal pot, then holds it out to Fenris. He allows his small collection to join hers with a nod, and she looks absolutely delighted. “Wonderful! You can cut the fruit.”
She bounces to her feet, dusting her skirts off and accepting the metal pot when Fenris offers it to her, resigned to his fate of helping with breakfast. He follows her to the boiling pot of water, nose wrinkling as she picks a few flecks of grass and dirt from the rice before pouring it all into the water. Orana, for her part, ignores him fantastically, finding a cutting board and short, sharp knife for him to labour over. Buffing an apple on her blouse, she places it on the board with a smile.
“Into small pieces, please. No one likes a full apple in their porridge, hm?” Fenris just nods his assent, and she nods approvingly. Amazing, how they can go a full conversation without eye contact.
He hadn’t left Kirkwall’s fires with the girl in tow. In fact, he and Hawke had presumed her dead, when they had done a quick sweep by the estate to find it already ransacked and in flames. The expression of pure dismay on Hawke’s face was one that would stay with Fenris until his dying day, the smouldering Amell crest crumbling apart before his eyes.
No, Orana had been escorted to Fenris’ little cottage, flanked by soldiers bearing an eye and a flaming sword. The eye was a new touch, but Fenris knew enough of Thedosian politic to not trust the flaming sword. Or any sword, really. A letter and a small trunk for the girl, and the soldiers had left without another word.
They didn’t speak of it, and Fenris wouldn’t admit that he was grateful for her company.
After Hawke had left, the house had fallen into ruin, just the slightest bit. It was oddly difficult for a mid-aged man to clean, when he had never truly learned how. He had enjoyed allowing the mansion in Hightown to go to decay and squalor, if only to spit on Danarius’ aborted legacy. Orana had clucked at him something fierce, and found rags and a mop Fenris hadn’t known he (they) owned. Fascinating, this small elf girl.
She swept daily, and Fenris had come to help with the chores she assigned herself. Orana would never be one to admit she needed help, just as Fenris couldn’t admit he was lonely.
Together, they had cleaned the months of despair that had settled over the house, and Fenris himself. A piece of him had left with Hawke’s midnight escape, and Orana (sweet, gentle, no-nonsense Orana) had eased him back into the pattern of living again. He appreciated her, and perhaps even loved her a little. He didn’t need to pretend very hard that her soft blonde was a striking red.
__
Their breakfast was filling, simple and sweet, and Orana was quick to shoo Fenris away so that she could clean the dishes. She was adamant about starting the day off right, the key to which was a good morning meal. Fenris was quick to get out of her way, sneaking an apple into his tunic as he stepped out into the gentle morning sunlight.
Aches with a bone-deep intensity were not unfamiliar to Fenris. In his back and across his shoulders were where the heaviest pains lingered, enough to make even his skin sensitive. The ache drummed in his teeth with every pound of his heart, and on colder days, he could hardly dress himself for the hurt in his hands, twisting his fingers into fists and making him gasp. Orana had a foul-smelling salve for those times.
This was nothing new to Fenris, though on his better days he could even tolerate the touch of warm bathwater. He could count those aforementioned “good days” on either hand. And so, with grinding joints and his vision blurring at the edges, he began his day.
A promise made to Hawke; “You’re the one who will have to keep our veggies alive. I haven’t seen a green thumb like that since Lothering.” To which Fenris had responded that the key was patience, a thing his Hawke lacked. As such, Fenris dedicated the best hours of daylight to watering, pruning, and harvesting. Since Garrett’s departure to Skyhold (the nightmares twisting his sleep often insisted it was an abandonment), Fenris had acquired hens for their laying. Surprisingly, neither he or Orana had the heart to butcher the birds ones they stopped laying, so that is where he often found the mabari. She was there this morning, predictably.
She took her job as guard dog quite seriously, something that the elf appreciated as he set aside his basket of fresh-dug potatoes and whistled forth for her. Dog and elf had established their routine. Royal, with her muzzle flecked with gray, would curl her great bulk atop her master’s bed, at Fenris’ feet. When he had drifted reluctantly into the arms of the Fade, she would take her leave, and he would, without fail, find her the following day beside the chicken coop. He had yet to figure out how she opened the door without alerting him, as Orana denied that it was her own doing.
At Fenris’ beckoning, she rises, nosing his knees and bare feet as he crouches and reaches intrusively beneath the younger hens, placing their warm clutches in a second basket, lined with scraps of cloth to cradle the fragile burdens. He would keep half, he decided, and trade the rest in the closest market with a decent handful of the vegetables he had gathered from the garden. Only recently had the folk of the tiny Orlesian village taken to trading with him. Rightfully so, they were wary of the hermit-like stranger.
Waving away Royal’s whine of complaint, Fenris turns back up the path to his not-as-lonely home.
“Hush, dog,” he chides, stooping to pick up the vegetable basket. He winces and groans as he straightens, his back protesting the movement. “Eggs are food, not friends. You will not find yourself whinging once they have been cooked, and you are eating them.”
The dog grunts and huffs, and Fenris thanks his companion as she pushes open the door for him, stepping into an empty kitchen. Orana is likely hanging laundry, or changing linens. Setting the small harvest on the uneven table, Fenris breathes a sigh and wipes his pained, dirty hands on the old leather of his tunic. How long, since he had lifted his blade? His eyes stray to the bedroom. He had made no attempt to assuage his own paranoia, and slept with it propped close to the oft-unmade bed. The knife under his pillow was easier to draw in an emergency, though. He always feared the vague notion of an emergency, but he feared the silence far more. Hawke had taken the excitement from Fenris’ days, the hours drawing far too long and too quiet in his absence. The clench in his heart is fierce, and the elf drops himself into a chair with the intensity of it. Eight months with no word.
He should know better than to hope, but he cradles that warm, gentle feeling close to his heart, safe behind his breast bone. In the name of distraction, Fenris rises slowly and moves through the small kitchen, placing the eggs in a wire cradle on the countertop and the now-empty basket hooking on a peg in the wall. Very domestic, he thinks to himself, finding the thought to not be as embarrassing as he once might have. He supposes he ought to feed the hens as he digs a courgette from the vegetable pile, wiping it on his tunic briskly before snapping it in half for easier eating. The dog whines for a share, so Fenris holds it out for her. Royal is delicate about taking it from his hand.
The chicken feed bag is nearly empty, but thankfully seeds are a cheap copper in the high heat of summer, so Fenris isn’t very worried. Still chewing his meagre snack (his appetite hasn’t been much, recently) Fenris takes the bag out to the coop, the dog at his heels as he scatters the remaining seed for the birds to pick at at their leisure. Their clucking and soft coos are soothing, and he stands to watch them with the empty burlap clutched in his hand. He looks at the courgette in his hand, his stomach giving a protesting lurch, and sighs as he drops it into the dirt for the hens to peck.
As he begins to turn back to the house, yearning the comfort of his bed, a furious beat of wings and offended squawks have him whipping back around in alarm. A crow— no, that is a raven, sleek and large and fully aware of how handsome it is. The raven gurgles an ugly noise, and Fenris frowns at it.
“Shoo,” he tries, waving a hand at it. It croons another ugly noise, reminding him of the noises the gulls at the Gallows would make. The bird hop-skips closer, and it is then that Fenris finally notices the brassy glint of the canister on its leg. “A messenger,” he says in realisation. The bird holds out a leg, wings spreading for balance. Royal is eyeing it with continued distrust. Hawke had said she was used to chase birds from crops, and Fenris is sure ravens fall in that category.
“A well-trained guest,” he tells the dog, as if either animal truly comprehends his words. The bird shakes its leg impatiently and Fenris grunts as he kneels beside it, untying the container and popping the top from it to shake out the tightly-rolled message folded within.
Fenris knows the hand that penned this letter as soon as he sees his name at the top the F flourished. It is dated, from nearly a month and a half ago. Comforting. He puts a hand out for the dog, and her large, square head pushes into his palm at the cue.
Varric writes of things he doesn’t quite understand. The breach? He has seen it, and watched as it winked out of the sky. That is where Hawke has gone, Fenris had known in that moment. To help where he needn’t, to meddle his kind heart in affairs that would only use him, bruise him. He scans until he finds what he seeks, not daring to hope until he’s read the letter over twice.
Fenris sinks to sit in the dirt, reading aloud to the dog as her chin settles on his knee. “Hawke left the day before last, with the intent of returning home. Expect him in the coming month, I hope this letter finds you well. Signed, Varric Tethras.” His fingers curl into Royal’s short fur, and her stump of a tail wags as Fenris continues to stare without seeing. Home. Hawke was coming home.
——
It was another week of Fenris alighting between fretting beside the door and wanting to set fire to the cottage in a fit of fury before a second bird comes, signaled by Orana’s squeal of shock as the bird wings through the open window. This one, he gifts a piece of bread, taking the newest letter and scanning it quickly. He feels as if he may lose his lunch with excitement, nerves and fear lighting his blood with unfamiliar heat. Two sentences, in Hawke’s blocky print.
Be there soon. I love you.
He didn’t sign it, not that there was any reason to. Fenris wishes he had a bottle of wine, whiskey— anything. He had quit drinking when Orana had first moved in, knowing that his rages often frightened her. Fenris paces the length of the small home, finally stopping in the bedroom. He smooths the letter and places it on Hawke’s pillow, chewing his lip. The closest he can be to the man at the moment, thought it’s hardly enough as he lays on his usual side of the bed, fingers running over the thin summer coverlet.
When he wakes again, without meaning to have fallen asleep, it is late afternoon. Fenris rises stiffly, his muscles cramping up and down his spine with a fierce vengeance. Slipping from the bed and hobbling his sore, rebelling body to the kitchen, he nearly lets out a scream of surprise, agony gripping him as lyrium light ripples along his skin with his alarm.
Garrett rises from the table with his hands spread placatingly, his gentle eyes lined with more worry than they had been when Fenris had last seen him.
“Fenris,” he begins, and the elf cuts him off with a harsh noise, fury and relief chasing the sensations of the lyrium from him.
“You left me!” Fenris stumbles forward and Hawke catches him with ease, and now, with the man before him, solid and so alive, does Fenris realise with a burn of shame how much he has withered. He allows Hawke to draw him close, his fist thumping angrily beneath the jut of Hawke’s gorget. “Take this off, this— this ridiculous armour. Take it off.” Fenris seeks out buckles and straps with shaking hands and the aid of his memory, but Hawke is quick to take his hands, gloved and gauntleted hands taking Fenris’ naked ones with a heart wrenchingly delicate touch.
“Sit, you stubborn man. I’ll take this off if you sit.” Garrett’s brows rise, and Fenris curses his diplomacy and sensible alternatives, jerking his hands from the mage’s. Frustratingly, Hawke doesn’t seem hurt, and he just gives a nod of understanding when Fenris takes the seat he had previously been occupying. He starts with the fierce talons of his gauntlet, removing each piece of armour and stained leather under the elf’s scrutiny.
The silence is pervasive, and Fenris refuses to break his scowl. Relief he feels, certainly. A tentative happiness, like this may be a dream he has yet to wake from. He knows that isn’t true, though. He’s never been able to land a punch on Hawke whilst asleep. The final piece of metal hits the floor, and Fenris curls his fingers into his loose linen trousers. “Right,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Speak.”
Hawke lets out a bark of a laugh, suddenly loud, and Fenris realises, with sudden fear, that he doesn’t know where Orana is. He makes to stand again. looking towards her room, and Hawke gently pushes him back down. “I asked her to go to the market. She has Royal. Wouldn’t stop crying, the sweet child.”
“She is no child,” Fenris frowns, and Hawke grimaces.
“No, you’re right. She’s an adult. I shouldn’t devalue her that way.”
Appeased by the apology, Fenris makes a motion with his hand for Hawke to speak. The mountain of a man seems to crumble a little, casting about for something to sit on. Finding the stool that the elves use to reach higher cupboards, he drags it close, sitting in front of Fenris, no longer towering over him.
Silence draws out between them, Fenris staring resolutely at the new scar splitting over Garrett’s cheek. His nose looks as if it had been broken again, though it was set well. Bones creak as Fenris’ fingers close into tight fists, and Hawke finally speaks again.
“Orana says you’re in pain,” his eyes are on Fenris’ hands, and Fenris wants to slap the concern from Hawke’s honey-brown eyes. A look like that shouldn’t be wasted on him.
“I am fine.” His jaw sets stubbornly, and frustration tenses Hawke’s own. “Stop dancing about. Why did you not take me?”
Garrett tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling, and Fenris is pleased, deeply, that there is not a single web in the rafters. A large hand ruffles Hawke’s dark hair, greying just a little bit when he pulls it away from his forehead, and Fenris’ pleasure is replaced by something bitter. His lover has aged much in the time they’ve been parted.
“There was— fuck. Darkspawn were involved, and—“
“You took me into the Deep Roads. Surely, you know I have experience with Darkspawn now.” Fenris’ mouth curls in a sneer before he can stop himself.
“The red lyrium is Blighted, Fenris.” Hawke says in a rush. “Lyrium, it— it lives, okay? It can sicken, just like Carver did. I couldn’t let that happen!” He’s on his feet in his passion, gesturing sharply at Fenris, who resolutely doesn’t flinch from the motion. “You are, if you haven’t noticed, a little bit covered in it.”
Something ugly twists Fenris’ heart, and he ignores the burn in his eyes and throat. “That was not your decision to make, Hawke! Sit. Sit down, do not loom over me like… like that.” He leans back in his seat, and Hawke falls back onto the stool with a whoosh of breath, as if the strength is suddenly gone from his limbs. Fenris wonders how long it’s been since Hawke last rested in a proper bed. Miserably, Hawke is scrubbing his hands over his face, and Fenris slowly reaches forward to take one rough, scarred hand between his own. Garrett watches their hands in surprise as Fenris’ thumb strokes over his knuckles.
“I do not know if I yet forgive you,” Fenris says, slowly, tasting the King’s tongue even as he speaks. “I was terrified, and then furious. And then I despaired, and Orana happened upon my doorstep with a guarded escort.” He arches a brow as a small smile tentatively curls Hawke’s mouth.
“Varric found her. It was his idea. Is… is she happy, do you think?” He drops his eyes to their hands, reaching to take both of Fenris’ in his own, savouring the warmth, mapping each new scar with his fingertips. A familiar place with new roads.
“She is a terrible bully, and she makes the songbirds feel shame when she sings.” Fenris declares with pride. “I am rather fond of her.”
Hawke grins. “Sounds like she’s right at home, then.” His expression grows more solemn, and he releases Fenris’ hands to pick up his faded, beaten belt from the floor, fidgeting with the clasp of one supply pouch. “I don’t expect you to forgive me for leaving, Fenris. It was cruel, but they— the Inquisition, that is. They needed me, my experiences in Kirkwall…” He gives a one-shouldered shrug, hand withdrawing from the bag, clutched tightly around something small and secret. “Imagine, they were hunting us because they wanted me to lead that whole shebang. You’da thought they learned after Varric wrote a damn book—“
“Hawke.”
Garrett jerks and guiltily draws his eyes up to meet Fenris’ suspicious gaze. “Yes, my love?”
“You are hiding something in your hand.” Fenris allows himself a smile as Garrett scoffs.
“Nonsense. Gimme your hand.” He reaches for Fenris’ wrist, and the elf merely stands and moves away, putting the distance of the table between them. “Fenris!” The mage rises, expression one of exasperation. “Elf, I swear.”
“Tell me what you hide,” Fenris doesn’t forgive Hawke, no. Not yet. He’s not sure if he can. But the infuriating man is home, and that is more a miracle than Fenris had hoped for. He doesn’t flee as Hawke circles the table, standing his ground firmly and staring up at the man as he stops before him. And then, curiously, drops to his knee before him.
Nervousness returns with a vengeance, sitting heavily on Fenris’ chest. “Hawke. Garrett, what are you—“
Hawke takes up Fenris’ left hand with the one hand, dusting a kiss over his knuckles, and Fenris feels his throat close up tight enough that he nearly chokes. “Hawke. Get up.”
“I did something really terrible to you, Fen.” Curse that petname. “And if you’ll let me work to make it up to you, I will.”
“Do not leave me again, fool.” Fenris tries to pull his hand away, but Hawke holds firm. “Stay with me.”
“I want to!” Hawke says earnestly, his smile nervous. “I will. So, uh…” He holds his other hand palm-up, revealing a simple silver band in the centre of his hand. “Will you marry me? Please?”
Fenris stares. And swallows. And stares a little longer. His first instinct is to bat the damned ring from Hawke’s open hand, and he feels a terrible heat overcome his cheeks. “Oh,” he says, a whisper. “Oh.” Fenris takes the ring, turning it in his fingers, holding it up before his eyes. It’s beaten and scratched up something terrible, and Hawke is watching him with a look of apprehension.
“That’s why I was so late. I stopped in the market to buy it. We can get better ones, nicer ones, later. I just wanted to have something small to give you now.” He lapses into silence, still watching the elf. “Fenris?”
“Yes,” Fenris says, hushed.
“Yes, you hear me, or yes, you’ll marry—“
Fenris jams the ring onto his finger and flings himself at the man, crushing their mouths together for a very belated welcome-home kiss. Hawke is laughing, even as Fenris is gripping his grimy hair. “You taste like sleep,” Hawke says, delighted, pressing close again to pull Fenris’ lower lip with his teeth.
“And you smell like a pasture,” Fenris bites back, stumbling back into the table, legs spreading to accommodate Hawke’s girth. His heels lock behind Garrett’s knees, drawing him near even as he grips the mage’s beard-rough face. Large hands pet down his sides, over his thighs and back up again to grip his hips, and Fenris has to finally, reluctantly, push his returned lover away. “Not here,” he pants. “Tables are for eating, and we have a bed.”
A yelp of protest has him as Garrett hauls the elf up, arms braced under his rear as he hurries to the aforementioned bedroom.
—
Fenris enjoys being naked.
Enjoys it more-so when he is naked, sweaty and sated. His thighs burn, and he isn’t so sure he will ever leave this bed again. He stretches his legs out, toes curling with the final dredges of his orgasm. Hawke is still going, which is something of a surprise, as he was usually the first to tap out between them. Helpfully, Fenris lifts his hips into the motions of Hawke’s final few thrusts, making a low noise in his throat when Garrett grips his waist just a little too tightly, arching up into the friction of the man’s belly against his spent cock.
“Fenris,” Hawke sighs, leaning into his final thrust and nudging his nose against Fenris’ with his climax. Fenris makes another small sound, allowing Hawke the reprieve of enjoying his afterglow before thumping him on the shoulder.
“Crushing me,” he mumbles, too sleepy now to say much else. Hawke slips free of his body, rolling to crash onto the mattress as Fenris’ side. The elf dozes as the mage draws a finger through the quickly-cooling mess on Fenris’ stomach. Pressing his finger and thumb together and spreading the stickiness between them, Hawke snorts.
“Gross,” is all he says, hand dropping to pet Fenris’ thigh.
They lay there for a good while longer, until Garrett groans and rolls his bulk from the bed to wander over to the water basin. Fenris takes no shame in staring at the man’s bare ass as Hawke heats the water with gentle application of magic. He looks away slowly when Hawke turns around, his face carefully blank as he catches the damp cloth thrown at him.
Sitting up slowly, Fenris winces, through not from any lingering pains from such a frantic fuck. His head hurts, which is common enough, but he’s not usually so nauseous. He begins to slowly scrub away the remnants of come from his skin, his flesh feeling tender to the touch of the rough cloth.
“Fenris?” Hawke frowns, sitting beside the elf on the edge of the bed. He’s put pants on. When did he do that? “Are you feeling alright?”
“I am fine,” Fenris manages, and he knows how slurred he sounds. There’s a furrow in Hawke’s brow, and he leans forward to swipe a finger beneath Fenris’ nose. It comes away wet with abnormally bright blood, and Fenris gives a start at the sight of it.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Hawke says unnecessarily, voice flat, and Fenris simply nods as the blood drops from his nose and into his open palm, his tongue catching the metallic taste as it runs over his lips. Hawke takes the washcloth from Fenris and folds it to find a clean corner, using that to stem the flow. “Orana says you’ve been like this for a while, on and off.”
“She frets without need,” Fenris protests, but his hands are beginning to tremble again. His skin feels too tight, and he’s dizzy with a restless stomach all over again.
Hawke doesn’t make a single sound when Fenris pitches forward and promptly vomits on the floor.