Dragon Age One Shots

Care's Touch, Fenris x Hawke

Hands clawed the ground; the final man's valiant effort to retreat. Too little and far too late. Fenris placed a boot to the back of the gang member's knee and pushed all his weight onto it. Before the bandit had a chance to scream, the elf's greatsword bisected through the back of the throat. The body slumped dead to the ground along with the other ten who'd dared to trail her.

Blood gurgled down the gutters like a spring rain, the scarlet river a consistent of most Kirkwall nights. Fenris eyed up the last man left dying, curious if there was any coin on him worth excavating. It'd been a few days since he'd bought proper food from a stand — they always demanded he pay upfront in the Kirkwall markets. With his back turned from the light, he crouched down to search for what could become a potential meat pie or jug of wine.

"Fenris?"

The voice startled him to the quick, his steady hands erupting to toss a few coppers into the pools of blood. Spinning on his haunches, Fenris gazed up at the woman in red finery. Her hair was yet piled up in curls, a strange sight to the man who typically saw her in a helmet. Instead of the armor, she selected shimmering fabrics to caress her body. Even the hose, crimson as a sunset, looked finer than spider's silk.

"What are you doing here, Hawke?" Fenris mumbled, rising to his feet. He should turn, walk back into the shadows from whence he emerged, but his feet were lead upon the cobbles. Limply, his battle-stained hands hung against his thighs.

"Well," she drew a finger along her jaw in thought, her sharp eyes cutting through him, "I was about to head in for the night when I heard the tell-tale sound of steel swiping against leather."

He'd been too slow this time. Every other night's trip, Fenris would wait until Hawke passed far enough ahead before ending those who'd try to harm her. Whether for a bounty or bragging rights he didn't know, but Fenris always dispatched them before she became aware. Almost always.

"Knowing that someone was about to get shanked," Hawke continued, "I snatched up my daggers and ran to find you...in a sea of blood."

As she gestured to the scarlet puddle at his feet, Fenris snorted, "Hardly a sea."

"Would you prefer a lake?"

"A pond, perhaps?" he threw out, his voice haggard from the burst of exercise. A soft laugh broke from Hawke, whether from his words or actions didn't matter. The sight of her laughing was enough to ensnare Fenris' attentions.

"Here," she reached a hand out, her perfumed, polished fingers wrapping around his. Before he could register that she was now stained in the blood herself, Hawke pulled him closer, "come inside for a drink."

"I don't know if..." he whispered, his voice falling down a hole even as he stumbled towards her door. His feet felt ten miles away encased in ice, the boots slapping against the ground without sensation. "It is very late," Fenris said by way of excusing himself.

He'd allowed the gang draw too close to her door, the bodies practically piled up on her stoop. Foolish. She could have been hurt, caught by surprise as she returned from yet another noble party. "I'm certain you had a long night," he mumbled, frozen upon her threshold as if it were unseemly for him to enter her estate.

Hawke wasn't having any of his excuses. Leaning her hip against the doorjamb, she chuckled, "Not as long as yours, I'd imagine. Come on, one drink. Then you can go back to hurling bottles at the walls at home."

With no recourse, Fenris gave into Hawke's magnetic pull. It wasn't until the door shut behind him that he remembered the last time he'd been here, and the reason why he stopped visiting her at home. His body froze, arms loose, hands open, legs limp to prove he was no danger. That he wouldn't hurt her again.