Fenris walked away that night feeling guilty, feeling like he failed to be there for Hawke how the man needed him to be. That he made things worse. Perhaps he should have reached out to Varric instead, to ask him to be there for Hawke, to cheer him up and give the right words of kindness he needed.
Because Fenris is a weapon, all sharp edges and cold steel, being soft was foreign to him. Or so he thinks of himself.
Either way, the next couple weeks were... awkward to say the least. There were no missions to go on or quests that needed handling, so it was only really card nights that they would see each other and even then Fenris took a seat away from Hawke even if he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mage. Of course his yearning was blatant enough for the others to see. The snide barbs from Anders and tittering observations by Isabela. Varric... was quieter than normal on the subject. Probably for Hawke's sake.
A mission request finally comes in and it's Fenris that Hawke chooses to come with him. He didn't expect it to be honest, not after everything - Aveline was just as capable of a warrior afterall. Still, he wasn't one to question Hawke's decisions, so he arrives early the next morning ready to go.
"Hawke," his tone is gracious as he nods to the mage in greeting.
Hawke had been up most of the night going over mission plans with Varric. A customary ritual, typically consisting of pouring over maps, marking ambush spots, and cross-indexing reports from the area, thanks to Varric's vast network of contacts. But when Hawke had named Fenris as one of those he wanted to bring along, the dwarf had paused.
"...you sure that's a good idea? These are mages, y'know."
Hawke hadn't looked up from the map. "I'm sure."
Varric's mouth had quirked; he'd taken a long swill from his tankard, emptying it, then tried again. "You do know how Broody gets around those of the magical persuasion, right?"
Hawke had glanced up then, peering at the dwarf over the map's tattered edge. "They're being persecuted, Varric. By Tevinter mercenaries, no less. I think Fenris would make an exception in this case."
Sensing it was, perhaps, unwise to question further, Varric just shrugged and made a note. "All right. You're the boss. I'll send the word." And so he had, to Fenris and to Isabela, respectively. All four were to gather at Hawke's house right at sunup, for a quick breakfast and to swiftly go over the mission details.
"Good morning, Fenris," Hawke greeted the elf, already in his battle gear, staff lashed to his back and gauntlets under his left arm. Warm, cordial, but absolutely in work mode. Neither of them could afford anything less, not right now. "Come in and have some breakfast. Varric's in the library with the food, we're just waiting on Isabela."
There was a deep respect in him for how Hawke goes into work mode for missions, how the man gets focused on the task at hand and doesn't let distractions sway him from his course. Fenris could trust that anything that was between them was not on the table right now, not even a concern.
Perhaps later, but right now they had work to get to.
"She should not be far behind," he says before moving towards the library. As much as his heart yearns to say more, to connect, have a private moment, now wasn't the time. Fenris was all too used to ignoring his needs and wants for survival sake - be it from a master's ire or running for one's life or leaving the man he loves - it was easy to apply it to many aspects of his life.
This was one of them.
Coming into the library, he nods to Varric, giving little more than that as a greeting. Ever silent and broody. Still, he dishes up enough food to get him through the day and sits down where he won't disturb the paperwork, giving a nod of thanks to Orana.
They have a few minutes to eat in peace before Isabela inevitably arrives with her usual fanfare, dragging Hawke in behind her.
Isabela's customary charisma was still a bit truncated; Hawke had yet to fully forgive her for all of that bullshit with the Qunari. Hawke took his usual chair with a loaded plate, he and Varric laying out the plan between bites as everyone ate.
Tevinter refugees, on the run from the magisters, young apprentices wanting to get out of their homeland and make a new life away from servitude, indentured or not. They were being pursued by Tevene mercenaries, no doubt a mage-hunter among them, and the refugees were very nearly out of resources, hope, and time.
"It's good pay," Varric told them. "They managed to filch some valuables when they ran and they're willing to hand over whatever they have for safe passage to the Marches." Hawke took up the thread then. "We're going to get them through the Marches to a supply caravan heading back to Ostwick. The mages in their group are more than willing to join the Circle; at least there they'll be safe."
He drained his cup and looked at Isabela. "You and Varric cover them once we get them out of the merc's cave. If we're very, very lucky, all of them will be able to move and fast." Glancing at Varric for confirmation, he added, "There are...fifteen, I think, in all? Mostly teenagers, a few kids, but a couple in their twenties who can make sure everyone keeps up. Cover their tracks, lay traps, take out any that make it past Fenris and me."
To the elf, he said, still all business, "You and I will take the fight to the mercs. Last report put their number at about twelve, with some hard hitters and mages among the lot." Then he grinned, that lopsided smile known throughout the city. "But nothing we can't handle, eh?"
Fenris goes tense at the mention of Tevinter and mages as always, but soon he relaxes when he hears the rest. That they are willing to join the Circle and so on. He knows that to many mages a Circle is a terrible sentence and in a way he's realized that he wouldn't wish such a life on Hawke, yet... he respects what a Circle is meant to do, help mages curb their urges for blood magic and demons, to teach them, to hold them accountable.
Perhaps they aren't perfect, humans aren't perfect and can often be worse than demons themselves, but Fenris stands by his belief that most mages should be in the safety of a Circle.
Right?
Even with his musings, he's laser focused on listening to the plan, taking in everything that's being said, nodding where appropriate. And then Hawke's attention is on him, on their part in this play. His heart skips a beat at the smile.
He's about to answer, but Isabela cuts in, "Good, you could use a date, just the two of you. The tension has been killer," she throws a wink, trying to act herself despite knowing she's not in good standing with everyone.
Fenris does little more than shoot her a scowl before returning his attention to Hawke, "Simple enough, I expect we'll make quick work of them."
Hawke simply turned a dry, very dry, look towards Isabela, noting without meaning to that Varric actually gave her a smart kick beneath the table. She winced, scowled, then turned to no doubt bluster at the dwarf, but Varric just glowered right back, slowly lifting one thick eyebrow.
Once the floor show wound down, Hawke finally dismissed everyone to take their plates to the kitchen and get ready to head out, but after the rogue and the dwarf had left the room, he gestured for the elf to wait a moment.
"You all right with this, Fen?" The sternness in the mage's bright blue eyes had shifted to sincerity, and they were warm, not cool, as they searched Fenris' verdant gaze. "I mean, these are mages we're trying to save... If you'd rather not, I can rope Aveline into going along." It was almost habit to reach out, rest a hand on that slender shoulder, perhaps give it a comforting rub or squeeze, but Hawke refrained.
Fenris was about to follow when Hawke gestured him to stay. It gave him pause, but he was not one to doubt, so if the man has something to say to him, then so be it. Setting down his plate once more, he turns his full attention to Hawke, head a little tilted in curiosity.
Ah, Hawke was checking in with him. It wasn't necessary, but...
"I--," his brow furrows heavily as he considers how to say this. "You chose me for this mission, I have no reason to doubt your choice in the matter," because if Hawke has one thing, it's his undying loyalty. At least, if the red cloth around his wrist means anything.
Still, he continues, "Even if that were not the case, I cannot find it in me to deny someone's plea for aid to escape the cruelty of the magistars, the fact they're mages is... eased by how they wish to join the Circle. Without that I would be conflicted about this venture."
If Anders were here there would be a huge argument he's sure. He can already hear it, mages going from one slavery to another without even knowing what slavery really is, but... Fenris just doesn't see it that way. It was safer for everyone that mages were properly educated and monitored... Right?
That was precisely why Anders wasn't here. Hawke loved the man like a brother, but Maker's breath, there was a time for advocating for mage rights and there was a time for getting the work done, and Anders always had difficulty separating the two. And Hawke was also sure that there was at least one of their charges skilled in healing magic, so it was better to bring the muscle for this particular outing.
"They're just kids, Fen," Hawke reminded him quietly. "Looking for a place to feel safe. To be able to sleep without fear, and have a full belly and warm clothes." The grin slowly curved again. "They just want a place to belong, too."
Nevertheless, if Fenris hadn't wanted to participate, Hawke wouldn't have held it against him. While having never lived in a Circle himself, his father had, and Malcolm had shared stories of those places with his magic-imbued children and allowed them to draw their own conclusions. He never gilded the truth, nor did he hide the hypocrisy. If nothing else, his eldest son respected him for that.
"The Ostwick Circle has already agreed to take them in. Varric's arranged everything. All we have to do is get them from Point A to Point B." Hawke's grin widened. "In one piece and with no bad guys in hot pursuit."
Now, he did reach out and clasp Fenris' shoulder. Firm. Strong. "Ready?"
The fact they were kids helped too. They were still young enough to not be tainted, to become mages like Hawke. He knows the man was never part of a circle, but he still had to guidance of his father. That counted for something from the stories he heard.
Still, it was hard for him not to look at things so black and white, but he was learning, trying. Hawke was a beautiful shade of gray in his world, proof that there could be good mages. But... then things like the mage who killed Hawke's mother happen and it feels like Hawke is an exception, an outlier in a world full of evil magic. Even their companions are a man possessed by a demon and a blood mage...
He looks into those bright blue eyes - he could gladly drown in them - and sees a man who still views the world with hope. Still can see the good in other mages despite everything. How? Fenris was so jaded and cold, all the kindness and warmth was burned out of him, cut and bled from him, until he was nothing but a weapon. He wants to kill every mage, every magister, every slaver, every--
Then Hawke is touching him and he feels the warmth of the man through his armour. Perhaps... he can just trust Hawke to not lead him wrong. Have faith in his choices about mages.
"I follow your lead, as always," he says with conviction before slipping away to take his plate to the kitchen and meet up with the others.
Most of the storms had passed, but the air was still damp and cold, making travel miserable even in the warmest parts of the day. The further they went from the city proper, the worse conditions became; the roads were hardly maintained and were more often mere wagon ruts filled with filthy water in places, and guard outposts were more often than not cold and dark, no signs of life for miles.
But Hawke and his companions were seasoned travelers and despite the adversity, they made reasonable time the first day, striking camp right at sunset as it was still half a day's travel to their rendezvous point. Though it clenched Hawke's heart to think that the mage kids had to endure yet another night in the clutches of their captors, there was little help for it; better their rescuers arrive later, well-rested and focused, than earlier, exhausted and dragging.
Hawke got the fire going while Varric handled the meal, the dwarf a better cook than most of their companions, and Isabela plopped down near the fire and began meticulously sharpening her daggers, while Hawke in turn folded down next to Fenris, propping an arm on a bent knee and heaved a small sigh.
He sniffed, and remarked to the elf, "A sovereign it's nug fillets again. I smell the thyme he's used to try and cover that smell."
The cold was rough on Fenris, not that he showed any struggle or flagging because of it. But because he ran cold, the cold seeped in and clung to his bones, making his limbs feel more numb with every step. Still, he trudged on without complaint, pulling his cloak closer around himself and continuing forward.
When they set camp, he gets the extra firewood - looking for the driest and dead wood he can find. With it gathered and set aside, he finds a seat close enough to the fire for him to stretch his legs towards it, letting it warm his tired cold feet. He was used to it, but all the same.
Hawkes' comment gets the faintest of smirks from him as he feels the warmth radiating from the other man. It makes him want to lean closer, but he doesn't.
"The meat is fatty and tender, what we need to fuel our journey, no matter how it smells," though Fenris admits he rather hunt a halla and have something more appetizing. Still, nug fillets was better than hard tac and dried jerky.
Rations like that, while he endured them without comment, they reminded him of the food he ate as a slave. Yeah, he'll eat whatever Varric offers.
Looking at Hawke from the corner of his eye, he can see the crease of worry... "We will be there soon enough, see that you're ready when we are." Aka get a lot of rest and eat well, save your strength and mind.
Having lived in Ferelden for most of his early life, Hawke was well-used to the cold. And possessing fire magic left him warmer than most, which was why he was most often the center of their "cuddle pile" whenever they bedded down for the night. But he didn't mind; it was better than letting any of his friends shiver miserably until sunrise.
On the subject of a nug supper, however, he couldn't help but grimace. "Yeah," he grudgingly agreed, "I know." Varric was a virtuoso with his spices, though, and always managed to make everything at least palatable, if not downright delicious.
Fenris' next comment earned a sideways look, Hawke a bit surprised to have his thoughts read so easily. But he shouldn't be; Fenris was intuitive, sometimes scarily so, and Hawke knew his poker face wasn't worth a damn. "Oh, I'll be ready." A thread of steel wound into his voice. "Believe me, I will be."
"Good, and I will be ready at your side," he likes to hear the steel in Hawke's voice, the resolve and determination. It eases him to know he follows a man like that, that he trusts him with his life and others. He never has lost faith in Hawke, but he has lost faith in himself, so sometimes he needed to look to the other man to find it again.
He doesn't think, just instinctively leans towards Hawke's warmth as he has many times in the past. Seeking out the man's fire, his heat. Honestly, Fenris doesn't even notice that he does it, so used to it after all these years.
The lyrium in his skin saps his heat and causes him pain, yet Hawke's touch, his warmth, have ever been a comfort against his tired body. Even if he's given that comfort away now, he still remembers the feel of it, how their bodies moved together, how it felt to be pressed against each other.
Ah... the thoughts make him flush a little, but he doesn't lean away.
Hawke had no problem at all leaning over in turn, just enough so that his shoulder rested lightly against Fenris' leaner frame. He was always willing to share what comfort he could, no matter which companion it might be at the time. All of them needed a shoulder to lean on, sometimes.
And the nights were cold out here in the Marches.
It wasn't long before Varric announced that dinner was ready, and it was indeed nug fillets again, but this time with delicious baked potatoes and chives to go with them. The potatoes, at least, made the meat bearable, and the dwarf magnanimously accepted his accolades for the meal, smirking all the while.
Then it was time to bed down, and per the usual, all four friends piled into one tent, the large bedroll (specially made just for this) warmed to a comfortable temperature by their gracious leader, who said after the orange glow faded from his hands, "All right, kiddies. Time for bed. Everyone pile in."
Fenris watches everyone get ready for bed, doing so himself as well. Taking off some of his armor and gauntlets. He focuses on tending to his armor while that all do before putting it away carefully and approaching the bedroll. He always thought the one big one was strange, but he wasn't about to argue it, this was just another part of the group dynamic.
But he had a preferred spot, one everyone knew about because he would fight anyone who got in his way about it. He was always the closest to the exit, always on the edge, because he needed to be ready to jump into action, after all, he was the tank.
So he waits for them to start to settle before claiming his spot. As always, he moves to be on his side, facing away, taking up as little space as possible.
And like always, he half expects Hawke at his back...
And so Hawke was, once the others arranged themselves as they always did - Isabela on Hawke's left and Varric tucked comfortably between the two of them. Before crawling into bed, Hawke had set a barrier around their entire shelter, the gentle but potent magic glowing a dim, cool blue in the inky night.
"Everybody good?" Hawke's quiet rumble echoed through the tent, precipitating a couple of drowsy affirms. Satisfied with half the company's comfort, Hawke "magicked" the layers of blankets up over everyone, shifting over on his right side to instinctively cuddle against Fenris' slim back.
But he paused.
Only about an inch or so away, but he didn't sling an arm around the elf's waist and cradle him close as he'd done so often before. Not this time. Because Fenris had asked for time. And Hawke was determined to respect the boundaries, no matter how painful they might be.
There's something odd about feeling Hawke shift to be be right there, to feel his breath ruffling his hair, but for the man not to sling his arm around him. It makes his stomach curl uncomfortably. He knows whatever the reason is, it's his own fault, he's the one that keeps Hawke at a distance, especially lately.
Yet, the man persists in waiting like Fenris will come back to him one day. Like there is something there that can be salvaged. Maker, Fenris wants there to be, he loves this man with the desperation of a suffocating man.
But he doesn't deserve Hawke and he knows it. Painfully, achingly, he knows that he missed his chance and there's nothing for it.
He misses the days of their casual comradery.
There was nothing stopping him from just leaning back a little though, touching his back to Hawke's chest, just enough that with every breath they brush against each other. The man's warm suffusing his always cold body. It's permission if Hawke needs it, otherwise he will take this small contact for himself, greedy for anything he can have of the man.
If that was permission, then Hawke gladly took it. Swallowing a relieved sigh, he silently and slowly slipped a long arm over Fenris' waist, flattening his palm with spread fingers to rub very lightly over the pale marks, soothing their cold ache with gentle healing warmth.
Varric was already snoring against Hawke's back, so he took a bit more liberty, damning himself for being so needy, and he just as stealthily lowered his head to rest his nose right beneath Fenris' elegantly pointed ear, a barely-heard rumble echoing in his chest as his nostrils filled with the scent of the elf's shaggy hair.
He knew he was pushing his luck - Fenris had asked for time, Maker's fucking breath - but he simply couldn't help himself. Perhaps he could pretend it was an accident, but there was no way to disguise the small shiver that rippled all over when he shifted just so, just enough that his lips pressed against the smooth dusky skin at the slope of the elf's neck.
The constant ache of his markings always felt dulled under Hawkes touch. It surprised him the first time, since all others' touches were sharp and made them hurt more keenly. But it was like the lyrium in his skin wanted to sing for Hawke, to welcome instead of repel. A silly notion, he knows, but feeling that warm hand on him makes him relax in a way he hasn't in many nights.
Hawke... doesn't deserve for Fenris to keep reaching out only to push him away right after, to tug him along and make him hope when... When Fenris doesn't even deserve Hawke in the first place. Yet he wants him more than air, a want so visceral. Yet there was also fear. He never knew this kind of fear before Hawke either.
But when the man leans in enough to scent him so close to his ever sensitive ears makes his breath hitch quietly. Varric's snores might mask it from Isabela, but Hawke might hear, might notice. It makes him tremble for the way he wants this man. Not just carnally but wholly, his good and bad and idiocy all.
Clenching his fists, he doesn't pull away from the way it feels like Hawke might have kissed his neck, it's dangerous, but he leans back into it instead. Just a little as his skin goosebumps.
They were always so careful now. Tentative. Hesitant. It was bloody maddening. But Hawke was willing to endure it, if only for the brief moments like these, when he could get away with the little touches, the tiny bits of affection they were able to share when no one else was looking. When the weight of the past wasn't quite so heavy.
He deliberately licked his lips, stifling a moan to taste Fenris' skin on his tongue, and dared a very slight, very gentle nuzzle beneath the elf's ear, weight of his hand pressing a little firmer, just a fraction. This was torture, yeah, but the sweetest he'd ever endured.
And Hawke wasn't at all ignorant of Fenris' subtle reciprocation. He heard the soft intakes of breath, felt the slightest twitch of lean muscle beneath cool skin; he knew Fenris wanted just as badly as he did. But until something changed between them, this was all they had. It wasn't nearly enough, but Hawke wasn't willing to give up anything while waiting for everything.
Every sound, every movement - not just now but always - would give or take away Fenris' hope. Even if he didn't deserve Hawke, wasn't worthy of the man, he... Maker above, he craved him heart, mind, and body. Even his tortured mage soul. If he needed to follow Hawke into the fade, into the void, he would.
Without hesitation. Even if the man wasn't his, because he will always be Hawke's.
His breath hitches again at the lick, his ears twitching lightly. But it's the nuzzle to his ear that has his cheeks warming and biting his lip to keep from making any noise. They were so sensitive and without markings, so it made every touch to them pure pleasure. Surely Hawke knew what he was doing to Fenris.
So badly, he wants to shift his hips back, to tease the man in turn, but that might be a step too far. Instead he moves his hand to rest on top if Hawkes, to fit his fingers between the other man's. Always such a warmth to his chilled body.
Both Varric and Isabela were asleep by now; Hawke was quite familiar with all of his companions' habits, and it was so very tempting to whisper to Fenris, Turn over, but Hawke bit his lip on the words. Because, again, that was unfair. Fenris had asked for time - and didn't he remind himself of that once an hour? - and damned if Hawke didn't want to give it to him, but it was just...hard.
--and that wasn't the only rigid thing in the tent, either. Which was why the mage was purposefully keeping a good amount of space between their lower bodies.
Though when Fenris settled his lean hand over his, Hawke paused only a fraction, then twined his fingers with the elf's just before deliberately placing a few more kisses beneath that lovely ear. He was more than willing to give what affection he could, as long as Fenris would accept it.
This wasn't fair. To either of them. Fenris was leading them both on by not stopping this, but he so desperately wants the man. To turn over and kiss him properly, to take their cocks in hand and bring them off quick and quiet. Maker help him, he so wants to do just that and chase pleasure with the man he loves.
So why is Hawke indulging him? It's not that he doesn't know Hawke still holds a candle for him, but it's that he shouldn't. The mage should have long snuffed it out and found someone else. Someone that deserves him.
But as they twine fingers and Hawke peppers him with kisses he hasn't earned, Fenris knows now he needs to make a decision. In the faintest whisper, he says, "I cannot promise what you might wish of me, but I... will not deny you either."
He can promise Hawke so much, his entire being, his soul, his body and heart... he just does not believe it worthy enough of the man.
Oh, Maker’s sweet fucking breath… Hawke couldn’t have swallowed the guttural moan that followed those words any more than he could have stopped the moon from rising. His fingers involuntarily tightened around Fenris’s hand, squeezing with the sudden flood of sheer desire that rushed through his veins, igniting his very blood.
This time, there was no hesitation or subterfuge; Hawke buried his nose beneath the elf’s beautiful ear and inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. He instinctively closed the gap between their bodies, slotting his aching groin snugly and tightly against Fenris’s backside, letting him feel just how badly he wanted, just how damn much he needed.
“Turn over.” It was a gravelly whispered plea, an invitation to take what was so freely offered, a supplication to alleviate at least a fraction of this burning desire that blazed so brightly between them. “Please, Fen…”
Hawke gave in to the undeniable urge of gracing that lovely ear with more kisses, soft brushes of worshipping lips that moved over smooth skin in reverent homage. “…I wanna kiss you, Fenris…so badly…it’s been driving me crazy…”
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The Mission
Fenris walked away that night feeling guilty, feeling like he failed to be there for Hawke how the man needed him to be. That he made things worse. Perhaps he should have reached out to Varric instead, to ask him to be there for Hawke, to cheer him up and give the right words of kindness he needed.
Because Fenris is a weapon, all sharp edges and cold steel, being soft was foreign to him. Or so he thinks of himself.
Either way, the next couple weeks were... awkward to say the least. There were no missions to go on or quests that needed handling, so it was only really card nights that they would see each other and even then Fenris took a seat away from Hawke even if he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mage. Of course his yearning was blatant enough for the others to see. The snide barbs from Anders and tittering observations by Isabela. Varric... was quieter than normal on the subject. Probably for Hawke's sake.
A mission request finally comes in and it's Fenris that Hawke chooses to come with him. He didn't expect it to be honest, not after everything - Aveline was just as capable of a warrior afterall. Still, he wasn't one to question Hawke's decisions, so he arrives early the next morning ready to go.
"Hawke," his tone is gracious as he nods to the mage in greeting.
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"...you sure that's a good idea? These are mages, y'know."
Hawke hadn't looked up from the map. "I'm sure."
Varric's mouth had quirked; he'd taken a long swill from his tankard, emptying it, then tried again. "You do know how Broody gets around those of the magical persuasion, right?"
Hawke had glanced up then, peering at the dwarf over the map's tattered edge. "They're being persecuted, Varric. By Tevinter mercenaries, no less. I think Fenris would make an exception in this case."
Sensing it was, perhaps, unwise to question further, Varric just shrugged and made a note. "All right. You're the boss. I'll send the word." And so he had, to Fenris and to Isabela, respectively. All four were to gather at Hawke's house right at sunup, for a quick breakfast and to swiftly go over the mission details.
"Good morning, Fenris," Hawke greeted the elf, already in his battle gear, staff lashed to his back and gauntlets under his left arm. Warm, cordial, but absolutely in work mode. Neither of them could afford anything less, not right now. "Come in and have some breakfast. Varric's in the library with the food, we're just waiting on Isabela."
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Perhaps later, but right now they had work to get to.
"She should not be far behind," he says before moving towards the library. As much as his heart yearns to say more, to connect, have a private moment, now wasn't the time. Fenris was all too used to ignoring his needs and wants for survival sake - be it from a master's ire or running for one's life or leaving the man he loves - it was easy to apply it to many aspects of his life.
This was one of them.
Coming into the library, he nods to Varric, giving little more than that as a greeting. Ever silent and broody. Still, he dishes up enough food to get him through the day and sits down where he won't disturb the paperwork, giving a nod of thanks to Orana.
They have a few minutes to eat in peace before Isabela inevitably arrives with her usual fanfare, dragging Hawke in behind her.
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Tevinter refugees, on the run from the magisters, young apprentices wanting to get out of their homeland and make a new life away from servitude, indentured or not. They were being pursued by Tevene mercenaries, no doubt a mage-hunter among them, and the refugees were very nearly out of resources, hope, and time.
"It's good pay," Varric told them. "They managed to filch some valuables when they ran and they're willing to hand over whatever they have for safe passage to the Marches." Hawke took up the thread then. "We're going to get them through the Marches to a supply caravan heading back to Ostwick. The mages in their group are more than willing to join the Circle; at least there they'll be safe."
He drained his cup and looked at Isabela. "You and Varric cover them once we get them out of the merc's cave. If we're very, very lucky, all of them will be able to move and fast." Glancing at Varric for confirmation, he added, "There are...fifteen, I think, in all? Mostly teenagers, a few kids, but a couple in their twenties who can make sure everyone keeps up. Cover their tracks, lay traps, take out any that make it past Fenris and me."
To the elf, he said, still all business, "You and I will take the fight to the mercs. Last report put their number at about twelve, with some hard hitters and mages among the lot." Then he grinned, that lopsided smile known throughout the city. "But nothing we can't handle, eh?"
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Perhaps they aren't perfect, humans aren't perfect and can often be worse than demons themselves, but Fenris stands by his belief that most mages should be in the safety of a Circle.
Right?
Even with his musings, he's laser focused on listening to the plan, taking in everything that's being said, nodding where appropriate. And then Hawke's attention is on him, on their part in this play. His heart skips a beat at the smile.
He's about to answer, but Isabela cuts in, "Good, you could use a date, just the two of you. The tension has been killer," she throws a wink, trying to act herself despite knowing she's not in good standing with everyone.
Fenris does little more than shoot her a scowl before returning his attention to Hawke, "Simple enough, I expect we'll make quick work of them."
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Once the floor show wound down, Hawke finally dismissed everyone to take their plates to the kitchen and get ready to head out, but after the rogue and the dwarf had left the room, he gestured for the elf to wait a moment.
"You all right with this, Fen?" The sternness in the mage's bright blue eyes had shifted to sincerity, and they were warm, not cool, as they searched Fenris' verdant gaze. "I mean, these are mages we're trying to save... If you'd rather not, I can rope Aveline into going along." It was almost habit to reach out, rest a hand on that slender shoulder, perhaps give it a comforting rub or squeeze, but Hawke refrained.
It would only make things...well, worse.
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Ah, Hawke was checking in with him. It wasn't necessary, but...
"I--," his brow furrows heavily as he considers how to say this. "You chose me for this mission, I have no reason to doubt your choice in the matter," because if Hawke has one thing, it's his undying loyalty. At least, if the red cloth around his wrist means anything.
Still, he continues, "Even if that were not the case, I cannot find it in me to deny someone's plea for aid to escape the cruelty of the magistars, the fact they're mages is... eased by how they wish to join the Circle. Without that I would be conflicted about this venture."
If Anders were here there would be a huge argument he's sure. He can already hear it, mages going from one slavery to another without even knowing what slavery really is, but... Fenris just doesn't see it that way. It was safer for everyone that mages were properly educated and monitored... Right?
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"They're just kids, Fen," Hawke reminded him quietly. "Looking for a place to feel safe. To be able to sleep without fear, and have a full belly and warm clothes." The grin slowly curved again. "They just want a place to belong, too."
Nevertheless, if Fenris hadn't wanted to participate, Hawke wouldn't have held it against him. While having never lived in a Circle himself, his father had, and Malcolm had shared stories of those places with his magic-imbued children and allowed them to draw their own conclusions. He never gilded the truth, nor did he hide the hypocrisy. If nothing else, his eldest son respected him for that.
"The Ostwick Circle has already agreed to take them in. Varric's arranged everything. All we have to do is get them from Point A to Point B." Hawke's grin widened. "In one piece and with no bad guys in hot pursuit."
Now, he did reach out and clasp Fenris' shoulder. Firm. Strong. "Ready?"
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Still, it was hard for him not to look at things so black and white, but he was learning, trying. Hawke was a beautiful shade of gray in his world, proof that there could be good mages. But... then things like the mage who killed Hawke's mother happen and it feels like Hawke is an exception, an outlier in a world full of evil magic. Even their companions are a man possessed by a demon and a blood mage...
He looks into those bright blue eyes - he could gladly drown in them - and sees a man who still views the world with hope. Still can see the good in other mages despite everything. How? Fenris was so jaded and cold, all the kindness and warmth was burned out of him, cut and bled from him, until he was nothing but a weapon. He wants to kill every mage, every magister, every slaver, every--
Then Hawke is touching him and he feels the warmth of the man through his armour. Perhaps... he can just trust Hawke to not lead him wrong. Have faith in his choices about mages.
"I follow your lead, as always," he says with conviction before slipping away to take his plate to the kitchen and meet up with the others.
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But Hawke and his companions were seasoned travelers and despite the adversity, they made reasonable time the first day, striking camp right at sunset as it was still half a day's travel to their rendezvous point. Though it clenched Hawke's heart to think that the mage kids had to endure yet another night in the clutches of their captors, there was little help for it; better their rescuers arrive later, well-rested and focused, than earlier, exhausted and dragging.
Hawke got the fire going while Varric handled the meal, the dwarf a better cook than most of their companions, and Isabela plopped down near the fire and began meticulously sharpening her daggers, while Hawke in turn folded down next to Fenris, propping an arm on a bent knee and heaved a small sigh.
He sniffed, and remarked to the elf, "A sovereign it's nug fillets again. I smell the thyme he's used to try and cover that smell."
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When they set camp, he gets the extra firewood - looking for the driest and dead wood he can find. With it gathered and set aside, he finds a seat close enough to the fire for him to stretch his legs towards it, letting it warm his tired cold feet. He was used to it, but all the same.
Hawkes' comment gets the faintest of smirks from him as he feels the warmth radiating from the other man. It makes him want to lean closer, but he doesn't.
"The meat is fatty and tender, what we need to fuel our journey, no matter how it smells," though Fenris admits he rather hunt a halla and have something more appetizing. Still, nug fillets was better than hard tac and dried jerky.
Rations like that, while he endured them without comment, they reminded him of the food he ate as a slave. Yeah, he'll eat whatever Varric offers.
Looking at Hawke from the corner of his eye, he can see the crease of worry... "We will be there soon enough, see that you're ready when we are." Aka get a lot of rest and eat well, save your strength and mind.
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On the subject of a nug supper, however, he couldn't help but grimace. "Yeah," he grudgingly agreed, "I know." Varric was a virtuoso with his spices, though, and always managed to make everything at least palatable, if not downright delicious.
Fenris' next comment earned a sideways look, Hawke a bit surprised to have his thoughts read so easily. But he shouldn't be; Fenris was intuitive, sometimes scarily so, and Hawke knew his poker face wasn't worth a damn. "Oh, I'll be ready." A thread of steel wound into his voice. "Believe me, I will be."
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He doesn't think, just instinctively leans towards Hawke's warmth as he has many times in the past. Seeking out the man's fire, his heat. Honestly, Fenris doesn't even notice that he does it, so used to it after all these years.
The lyrium in his skin saps his heat and causes him pain, yet Hawke's touch, his warmth, have ever been a comfort against his tired body. Even if he's given that comfort away now, he still remembers the feel of it, how their bodies moved together, how it felt to be pressed against each other.
Ah... the thoughts make him flush a little, but he doesn't lean away.
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And the nights were cold out here in the Marches.
It wasn't long before Varric announced that dinner was ready, and it was indeed nug fillets again, but this time with delicious baked potatoes and chives to go with them. The potatoes, at least, made the meat bearable, and the dwarf magnanimously accepted his accolades for the meal, smirking all the while.
Then it was time to bed down, and per the usual, all four friends piled into one tent, the large bedroll (specially made just for this) warmed to a comfortable temperature by their gracious leader, who said after the orange glow faded from his hands, "All right, kiddies. Time for bed. Everyone pile in."
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But he had a preferred spot, one everyone knew about because he would fight anyone who got in his way about it. He was always the closest to the exit, always on the edge, because he needed to be ready to jump into action, after all, he was the tank.
So he waits for them to start to settle before claiming his spot. As always, he moves to be on his side, facing away, taking up as little space as possible.
And like always, he half expects Hawke at his back...
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"Everybody good?" Hawke's quiet rumble echoed through the tent, precipitating a couple of drowsy affirms. Satisfied with half the company's comfort, Hawke "magicked" the layers of blankets up over everyone, shifting over on his right side to instinctively cuddle against Fenris' slim back.
But he paused.
Only about an inch or so away, but he didn't sling an arm around the elf's waist and cradle him close as he'd done so often before. Not this time. Because Fenris had asked for time. And Hawke was determined to respect the boundaries, no matter how painful they might be.
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Yet, the man persists in waiting like Fenris will come back to him one day. Like there is something there that can be salvaged. Maker, Fenris wants there to be, he loves this man with the desperation of a suffocating man.
But he doesn't deserve Hawke and he knows it. Painfully, achingly, he knows that he missed his chance and there's nothing for it.
He misses the days of their casual comradery.
There was nothing stopping him from just leaning back a little though, touching his back to Hawke's chest, just enough that with every breath they brush against each other. The man's warm suffusing his always cold body. It's permission if Hawke needs it, otherwise he will take this small contact for himself, greedy for anything he can have of the man.
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Varric was already snoring against Hawke's back, so he took a bit more liberty, damning himself for being so needy, and he just as stealthily lowered his head to rest his nose right beneath Fenris' elegantly pointed ear, a barely-heard rumble echoing in his chest as his nostrils filled with the scent of the elf's shaggy hair.
He knew he was pushing his luck - Fenris had asked for time, Maker's fucking breath - but he simply couldn't help himself. Perhaps he could pretend it was an accident, but there was no way to disguise the small shiver that rippled all over when he shifted just so, just enough that his lips pressed against the smooth dusky skin at the slope of the elf's neck.
Torture didn't even come close.
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Hawke... doesn't deserve for Fenris to keep reaching out only to push him away right after, to tug him along and make him hope when... When Fenris doesn't even deserve Hawke in the first place. Yet he wants him more than air, a want so visceral. Yet there was also fear. He never knew this kind of fear before Hawke either.
But when the man leans in enough to scent him so close to his ever sensitive ears makes his breath hitch quietly. Varric's snores might mask it from Isabela, but Hawke might hear, might notice. It makes him tremble for the way he wants this man. Not just carnally but wholly, his good and bad and idiocy all.
Clenching his fists, he doesn't pull away from the way it feels like Hawke might have kissed his neck, it's dangerous, but he leans back into it instead. Just a little as his skin goosebumps.
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He deliberately licked his lips, stifling a moan to taste Fenris' skin on his tongue, and dared a very slight, very gentle nuzzle beneath the elf's ear, weight of his hand pressing a little firmer, just a fraction. This was torture, yeah, but the sweetest he'd ever endured.
And Hawke wasn't at all ignorant of Fenris' subtle reciprocation. He heard the soft intakes of breath, felt the slightest twitch of lean muscle beneath cool skin; he knew Fenris wanted just as badly as he did. But until something changed between them, this was all they had. It wasn't nearly enough, but Hawke wasn't willing to give up anything while waiting for everything.
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Without hesitation. Even if the man wasn't his, because he will always be Hawke's.
His breath hitches again at the lick, his ears twitching lightly. But it's the nuzzle to his ear that has his cheeks warming and biting his lip to keep from making any noise. They were so sensitive and without markings, so it made every touch to them pure pleasure. Surely Hawke knew what he was doing to Fenris.
So badly, he wants to shift his hips back, to tease the man in turn, but that might be a step too far. Instead he moves his hand to rest on top if Hawkes, to fit his fingers between the other man's. Always such a warmth to his chilled body.
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--and that wasn't the only rigid thing in the tent, either. Which was why the mage was purposefully keeping a good amount of space between their lower bodies.
Though when Fenris settled his lean hand over his, Hawke paused only a fraction, then twined his fingers with the elf's just before deliberately placing a few more kisses beneath that lovely ear. He was more than willing to give what affection he could, as long as Fenris would accept it.
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So why is Hawke indulging him? It's not that he doesn't know Hawke still holds a candle for him, but it's that he shouldn't. The mage should have long snuffed it out and found someone else. Someone that deserves him.
But as they twine fingers and Hawke peppers him with kisses he hasn't earned, Fenris knows now he needs to make a decision. In the faintest whisper, he says, "I cannot promise what you might wish of me, but I... will not deny you either."
He can promise Hawke so much, his entire being, his soul, his body and heart... he just does not believe it worthy enough of the man.
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This time, there was no hesitation or subterfuge; Hawke buried his nose beneath the elf’s beautiful ear and inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. He instinctively closed the gap between their bodies, slotting his aching groin snugly and tightly against Fenris’s backside, letting him feel just how badly he wanted, just how damn much he needed.
“Turn over.” It was a gravelly whispered plea, an invitation to take what was so freely offered, a supplication to alleviate at least a fraction of this burning desire that blazed so brightly between them. “Please, Fen…”
Hawke gave in to the undeniable urge of gracing that lovely ear with more kisses, soft brushes of worshipping lips that moved over smooth skin in reverent homage. “…I wanna kiss you, Fenris…so badly…it’s been driving me crazy…”