Chapter Text
Be prepared for him to surprise you often. He is used to walking softly, so as not to accidentally be mistaken for a person rather than furniture. This is not a habit he is likely to shed.
Hightown is so much quieter than Lowtown.
Hawke sits outside of the mansion that she owns, but which belongs to her mother. Even with dust still in the air and slaver blood staining the carpets, her mother is at home here.
Without Bethany, Hawke is at home nowhere. Maybe she's dwelling. Maybe it's justified. Either way, she's sitting in the too-clean street outside of her mother's estate, missing her sister and contemplating rescue plans so absurd they border on suicidal.
“What are you doing?” Fenris asks, the voice so sudden and unexpected that Hawke yelps. She turns to face the sound, her heart beating impossibly fast for the middle of the city.
He has an eyebrow raised in amusement or question, it's always hard to tell.
“Maker, Fenris, you scared the shit out of me,” Hawke breathes, setting her hand down on the stone to push herself to standing.
“It was not my intention,” He comments simply, and Hawke can't help but laugh.
“You missed your calling as a rogue, Fenris,” She teases, and Fenris smiles.
(After Anders, after Kirkwall, she stops startling when his voice comes out of nowhere. Instead, she relaxes, comforted by the knowledge that he has found her in the dark once again.)
Use his name. It may have been given to him, but it is his and his alone, and there are very few things in his life of which that is true.
“Do you have pet names?”
Bethany asks the question in complete innocence. It doesn't matter. Hawke feels Fenris tense beside her for a split second before he pretends he hasn't heard, and she understands.
“No,” Hawke answers, perhaps a bit too roughly, from the hint of hurt in her sister's face. She doesn't want to hurt her feelings, but this is not something she's willing to discuss.
Fenris is not hers to name. Speaking to him like a child, like her dog is not something cute and fun for him, as it might be for another lover.
He is Fenris, and only Fenris.
(The only time it is ever questioned is when a voice who loved him once calls him 'Leto'. But this is not a name, not a life meant for Hawke to touch. She respects that.)
When the slavers come, take up your blade, but let him put his own to use as well. This is his battle, and it is for his freedom. If another fights it for him, it is meaningless. Stand beside him, not in front of him.
The blood of slavers should smell like vomit and be the color of sewage. That they bleed the same as everyone else is an injustice that Hawke can barely stand.
Fenris has a gash across his shoulder and she cannot tell what blood is his as she gently spreads a salve along damaged flesh. It isn't quiet in the street, with Isabela and Varric comparing what they've pulled from the pockets of the corpses. It still feels quiet until Fenris speaks.
“Thank you,” He says, and there is meaning here that goes beyond the salve.
“What kind of friend would I be if I didn't watch your back? Wound-cleaning included at no extra charge,” She jokes.
(It is years before Fenris gets used to having someone at his side. She knows because he stops saying 'thank you', and starts saying 'I love you'.)
Ask. Listen to his answer. “May I kiss you?” “Do you like this?” “What do you think?” When he answers with no, nod and change the topic. Respect boundaries. Respect opinions. His thoughts are things of endless value; treat them accordingly.
Fenris can be hard to read. Hawke doesn't mind putting in the effort to puzzle out every expression, every word, but even after all these years, she sometimes still has trouble.
Right now, it's painfully obvious what Fenris is feeling. There is open shock on his face, and it makes Hawke's stomach churn that this is his reaction.
“You-- Truly?” He asks, and Hawke frowns.
“Fenris, if you don't want to have sex tonight, I'm not about to throw a fit,” She tells him, nudging him gently with her shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, tugs her closer to him under the blankets.
(He sleeps at her mansion almost every night after that.)
When he looks to you, in the low and flickering light of the single fire in his ruined mansion, and whispers, “I am yours,” shake your head, look him in the eye, and tell him: “No. You are your own.”
He kisses her.
(Nothing more needs to be said.)