Precious anon, I’m so sorry for making you wait so long for this. I hope things have gotten better for you since the day you sent this, and I hope it does give you some joy.
Fenris was still groggy when he woke, and he didn’t likethat. Groggy meant he had slept too long, too deeply. Groggy meant vulnerable.
He forced himself to remain still, calm, should anyone bewatching. He forced himself to keep his breathing steady until he was sure ofwhere he was, and the fact he was alone. His eyes slowly, blurrily, opened to pickout the details of Hawke’s bedroom, and he felt his shoulders begin to relax byslow, cautious increments. Danarius was dead a week, and Hawke was his again,and Fenris was somehow, unbelievably, miraculously, free. Forever. He remainedstill until he was certain he hadn’t merely dreamt it. There were no morechains.
The curtains at the window were drawn, the light thatmanaged to leak through grey and weak. Fenris could still hear the fall of rainoutside, though the crash of thunder had grown few and far between. A nap.Hawke had talked him into a nap, because they couldn’t work in the rain, and itwas silly for Fenris to walk home, and somehow, bafflingly, Fenris had agreed.
More of his tension eased, like a series of knots slowlybeing pulled free. Fenris stretched, cautiously. Hawke’s bed was toocomfortable, his sheets too soft, too warm. Fenris was reluctant to get up. Healmost scolded himself for failing to realize the danger – only to rememberthere was no danger, not anymore.
Fenris could – Fenris could nap. In the middle of the day. Through a storm. He didn’t need torush out into it, didn’t need to take advantage of tracks and scents beingwashed away in the downpour. He could stay where he was, warm and dry, and hecould take a nap.
All these years, and Fenris’s mind still followed thefamiliar well-worn tracks of self-preservation. As close as Kirkwall had cometo being home, he had always harbored a certain certainty that the day wouldcome when he needed to flee it once more, and he hadn’t been willing to losehis edge by relaxing for a single moment.
And now those days were over, and Danarius was dead, andFenris was free.
He sat up, and he swung his bare legs around the side of thebed. He wiggled his toes in the Hawke’s plush, colorful rug.
Fenris contemplated getting dressed before he went on hissearch for Hawke. At the moment, he wore only one of the man’s infamousflannels – red and pink and white, warm and soft, comforting, rich with Hawke’sscent. They hadn’t made love before their nap – they’d been caught in the rainon the way back from their favorite bakery, soaked through so thoroughly thateven the pastry they harbored inside its little paper sack had been soaked bythe time they reached Hawke’s door.
Fenris pushed his hands through his hair and fought afoolish smile at the memory. He and Hawke had helped peel one another out oftheir cold, dripping clothing. They had dried each other off with Hawke’s soft,fluffy towels, teasing, laughing at one another, touching at any and everyexcuse, kissing in between soggy layers.
“The Champion shrinks back at last,” Fenris had taunted.
“I’ll show you a Champion,” Hawke answered.
Hawke had offered Fenris the shirt because he alreadysomehow knew, understood, how he hated the vulnerability of being nude. They’dclimbed into bed to get warm, intending to get to fooling around eventually,taking their time, enjoying just being together again, the return of theircomfort and ease. Fenris often found cuddling to be stifling after a while,even, sometimes, panic-inducing, but today it had felt good to have Hawkecurled around his back, his arms around him sure and strong as they drifted offto sleep.
Fenris left the room clad still in Hawke’s shirt, his legsbare and chilly, his feet silent as they found the stairs.
The Hawke household was often dim and silent, more haunted,in its way, than even Fenris’s stolen mansion, and yet somehow it was never aneerie place, even shuttered against the outside storm. Fenris was safe here,welcomed, wanted.
The sound of voices eventually led him to the kitchen,solving the mystery of the house’s missing occupants. Uproarious laughter wasfollowed by a terse, “Best remember who signs your paychecks, dwarf,” and morelaughter. There were a number of vociferous, if insincere, apologies mixed inthere as well.
Fenris hovered in the darkened dining room, just outside thekitchen door. Unnoticed and inobtrusive, he took in the sight of one of themost spectacular messes he had ever laid eyes on.
The sad soggy remains of their dearly departed morningpastry sat on a plate on the counter, carefully cut open and splayed apart likea magister’s sick dissection. A number of jars of likely spices were laid outnear it, some seemingly more creative than others, to Fenris’s admittedlyinexpert eyes.
With his jaw set in a familiar, remarkably stubborn expression,Hawke stood nearby, his hands in a bowl of batter. Several similar bowlscovered every surface of the kitchen – proving, maybe, or else rejected, Fenrissupposed. Hawke’s hair and beard were dusted with flour, as were his arms,white nearly to the elbow. He wore a pink frilly apron that strained valiantlyover his muscular chest and shoulders.
Orana was sitting on a stool near Hawke, ostensibly toassist and instruct him, though she was laughing too hard to likely be of muchuse. Twice she almost fell off, so caught up was she in her mirth. It was adrastic change from her early days in Hawke’s employ, wherein she had been afraidto make more noise than a mouse. Fenris still found it difficult to interactwith her, but there was something nice in seeing how comfortable she had gottenhere.
Bodahn and Sandal were also present, seated at the kitchentable with some clearly-forgotten repair work. Though Sandal seemed lost on thehumor, his father was utterly caught up in it, antagonizing his employer withuncharacteristic glee.
“I think your apples are burning again, messere,” he said,without any intention of getting them himself. “Or are they supposed to be aflame?”
“Maker’s bloody asshole!” Hawke swore, and shot out a handblindly behind him toward the stove, coating it in a sheet of ice. The actionslung Sandal with batter, which only seemed to delight the boy.
“I could have had four batches ready and cooling by now,”Orana said. “Are you sure you will not let me help?”
“That’s not the bloody point,” Hawke answered, and she washaving too much fun to shrink back as she might once have. They all knew that,to them at least, Hawke was harmless.
“Messere, I think you used salt instead of sugar again,”Bodhan said, when his son tasted the batter, then pulled a face.
“Why do they look so bloody similar?” Hawke bellowed.
It was Fenris who started laughing first, at that, unintentionallyannouncing his presence, earning everyone’s attention, intruding on their disastrousendeavor. Whatever lingering ghosts remained of the tension Fenris felt onwaking, they could not remain in the warmth and light of the kitchen, theservants’ comfort poking fun of their master, Hawke’s sweetness in his doomedattempt to recreate Fenris’s favorite treat while the elf slept. If not that,then maybe it was the apron that did it. Fenris laughed, and Hawke turned aparticularly interesting shade of scarlet, and Fenris laughed all the more.
His face hurt from smiling, by the time it was over.
