fic; on trust
Feb. 11th, 2012 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lyriumwolfOn the Nature of Trust in two stories;
Fenris/FemHawke. Assume sarcastic magehawke. NSFW, some references to sexual abuse. I know the lovely David Gaider said this wasn't what those memories were, but Hawke doesn't know that, so roll with it. :B
Her fingers pause midway down the line of his shoulderblades, and he knows that she is bothered by something. Given how today has gone, there is a limited amount that would actually bother Hawke enough that it’s so easy to read, and Fenris waits for her to eventually ask what she did not that night three years ago.
[gnarled fingers are rough, calloused and chilled by magic, digging furrows deep into his shoulder every time he twitches away. For a mage, for a man who’s never held a blade for anything but ritual, his grip is strong and suffocating]
It’s only in the pleasant exhaustion after they have quite successfully broken much of the remaining furniture in this old, decaying memory of a mansion that he decides to at least give her a prompt; he does not mind her asking, for Hawke (and only Hawke) has a right to the answer, but she will not unless he gives her the opening.
“Something is troubling you,” he states the obvious, not a question, however muffled by the pillow he hasn’t quite managed to peel himself up off, cracking one eye open to watch her. A twitch run through her shoulders, and for a moment her (brilliant, sea blue) eyes open just too wide, before she covers it under a smirk and a light laugh that comes a bit too fast. Definitely upset, if she does such a poor job hiding it.
“The city’s trying to eat itself and I am, last I checked, still an apostate in spite of everything, can’t imagine why I’d be troubled.”
“But it’s not about that.” Pushing himself to his elbows is harder than it should be—he blames the last several hours for the fact he still feels much like very contented jelly—but he manages, waiting on her to stop holding herself back on his account. It would be annoying that she even did in the first place, if it were not for the fact that Hawke does this with everyone, in some measure.
“…I’m not really even sure where to start.”
“Then just start, and I will listen. You know this.” In her exasperated sigh there’s a smile, and Fenris takes care to remember that, as with every other moment he treasures, before she speaks again, uncertain and wary of the answer itself.
“…The way he spoke, it sounded like…” She trails off, and Fenris reaches over to uncurl her fingers from a fist before she clenches it so tight it begins to bleed. No need for Danarius’ accursed memory to leave any mark on her—he’d very much wish to kill the man again, but raising him to do so is naturally impossible.
“…I never asked what you remembered that night.” He feels his blood chill a little at the question, even though he was waiting for it, and it takes a very long moment, memorizing the lines in her hand before he can look up.
[he can’t breathe, he can’t see, he’s choking on the gag shoved halfway down his throat as punishment for biting, and everything hurts, blurring out stinging insults meant to sound like honeyed whispers
it hurts something so much more than the burns in his skin but he cannot break now, cannot--]
Fenris is only aware he’s let too much time pass between question and answer when her hand touches his cheek, almost hesitant in it’s comfort, and he realizes that Hawke is not really asking for what he remembers. In this roundabout way she is asking if she has also hurt him, a thought so ridiculous he almost laughs at it.
“Listen to me. I would not be here right now if I did not choose to be.”
“Well, yes, but—“ He presses a finger to her lips, quieting her (and fully prepared for her to lick it as a sort of revenge) before he continues. It is surprisingly easy to say, after all this time, and he wonders, quietly, if he could have said it sooner, what would have happened.
“No. You have always let me choose to stay or go, even when it hurt you. You are the first to do so, and so I will always remain at your side.” There’s a bitter twitch in her lips at what he hasn’t said, a flare of anger directed at a dead man and Fenris leans just enough farther forward that his forehead rests against hers. The difference in her sheer presence is almost intoxicating, warmth and trust against cold memory.
“…You are nothing like him.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you’ve come to that conclusion after all these years.” He flushes at her bone-dry sarcasm, and Hawke laughs, tangling long fingers into his hair out of habit.
“I-I didn’t mean—“
“Relax. I know. I’m just glad you trust me.” Glad you trust an apostate like me, he translates, and sighs. He could tell her that she has a strength he’s seen in no other mage, could tell her she has proven over and over and over again that she doesn’t need the watch of the Chantry’s templars. He could tell her that she’s given strength to the apostates around her as well, but he’s not sure she’d believe that, and given mages are the only thing they have never fully agreed on…
“Mm. You’ve more than earned it.” She smiles again, leaned into him, and for a little while it’s fine to just stay here in this warmth.
---
She builds a series of graves in Lothering when they reach it, but there’s one too many.
Fenris knows the extra isn’t a family member because she builds it separate from the little markers she’s made for Bethany and Leandra, next to the stone that is undoubtedly her father’s. Leandra had been given a funeral service in Kirkwall, but he supposes Hawke wished her near the person she’d loved in life. The extra marker, however, Hawke builds with a sort of grim purpose, and Varric quietly shuffles the rest of them off towards the slowly-rebuilt city somewhere through the halfway point. Fenris stays, and it’s when Hawke has spent a good ten minutes glaring at a daisy instead of leaving it there that he pegs to whom this belongs to.
“…After all this, you’ll build him a marker?” Her smirk is bitter and sharp, so much so he almost winces. If Anders was not already dead, he’d have killed him again for the wound his betrayal had caused. He only hadn’t then because the abomination was Hawke’s to kill.
“I was thinking I’d spell out ‘backstabbing psycho’ but I’d need another flower, what do you think?”
“Marian…” She visibly flinches at the use of her first name, before looking away. Fenris waits, only vaguely patiently, for her to explain honestly.
“...I know that you never had reason to like him. I think both of you only ever saw each other at their worst.” Hawke pauses, and he does not protest that, because he knows she’s not done.
“For a long time, though, he was my friend, while he still could be. An extremist, more than slightly crazy, paranoid friend, but the closest I have to a sane friend is the dwarf who writes romance novels. It makes life interesting!” Her cheery tone is painfully false, and he arches an eyebrow in response, waiting for her to get on with it.
“…Don’t give me that look, this is hard.” Hawke sighs, and looks down at the grave. “…I thought, for…a long time, that I might have been able to stop what was happening. I knew it was foolish, but I had to hope it was possible. Not even just for him. And for a long time, it seemed like it was.”
“…But then it wasn’t.”
“Yes, but then it wasn’t.” She tries to smile again, brittle and breakable, and doesn’t quite hit the mark, making only something of a grimace. “The last year or two…he was gone. I think I’d known it already, but I was too busy watching Meredith and Orsino go crazy to watch him. More fool me, right?”
“You can’t be held responsible for his—“
“And neither could the Circle, and here we are. That’s not what this is about. I…killed the man who betrayed me and every other mage in Thedas. I want to remember the man he was before.”
“…The man who was your friend, you mean?”
“The man who might have been saveable. I’ll never know if he could have been.” She is no longer looking at him at all, and Fenris watches the line of her shoulders. For all her sarcasm and flippancy, she’d always born the weight of everyone’s problems, and to see her feel as though she failed Anders…
“…He used you, you know. Told you what you wanted to hear to get you to help him.”
“I know that. But I think by then, Anders was already dead. That was just what was left of him.” He cannot disagree with that point—while the compassion seems wasted, Hawke’s kindness was what made him fall in love in the first place, and he can’t bear the thought of her being wary of it because of that worthless coward. He hesitates, and then sits, his back against hers, and says nothing. He feels Hawke jump slightly, and then lean against him, and knows she understands what he can’t seem to say.
“…Thank you, Fenris.” He only grunts (I’ll only do this for you) and for a while, they stay there in silence, until Aveline comes looking for them. It’s enough for either of them, anyway.
Fenris/FemHawke. Assume sarcastic magehawke. NSFW, some references to sexual abuse. I know the lovely David Gaider said this wasn't what those memories were, but Hawke doesn't know that, so roll with it. :B
Her fingers pause midway down the line of his shoulderblades, and he knows that she is bothered by something. Given how today has gone, there is a limited amount that would actually bother Hawke enough that it’s so easy to read, and Fenris waits for her to eventually ask what she did not that night three years ago.
[gnarled fingers are rough, calloused and chilled by magic, digging furrows deep into his shoulder every time he twitches away. For a mage, for a man who’s never held a blade for anything but ritual, his grip is strong and suffocating]
It’s only in the pleasant exhaustion after they have quite successfully broken much of the remaining furniture in this old, decaying memory of a mansion that he decides to at least give her a prompt; he does not mind her asking, for Hawke (and only Hawke) has a right to the answer, but she will not unless he gives her the opening.
“Something is troubling you,” he states the obvious, not a question, however muffled by the pillow he hasn’t quite managed to peel himself up off, cracking one eye open to watch her. A twitch run through her shoulders, and for a moment her (brilliant, sea blue) eyes open just too wide, before she covers it under a smirk and a light laugh that comes a bit too fast. Definitely upset, if she does such a poor job hiding it.
“The city’s trying to eat itself and I am, last I checked, still an apostate in spite of everything, can’t imagine why I’d be troubled.”
“But it’s not about that.” Pushing himself to his elbows is harder than it should be—he blames the last several hours for the fact he still feels much like very contented jelly—but he manages, waiting on her to stop holding herself back on his account. It would be annoying that she even did in the first place, if it were not for the fact that Hawke does this with everyone, in some measure.
“…I’m not really even sure where to start.”
“Then just start, and I will listen. You know this.” In her exasperated sigh there’s a smile, and Fenris takes care to remember that, as with every other moment he treasures, before she speaks again, uncertain and wary of the answer itself.
“…The way he spoke, it sounded like…” She trails off, and Fenris reaches over to uncurl her fingers from a fist before she clenches it so tight it begins to bleed. No need for Danarius’ accursed memory to leave any mark on her—he’d very much wish to kill the man again, but raising him to do so is naturally impossible.
“…I never asked what you remembered that night.” He feels his blood chill a little at the question, even though he was waiting for it, and it takes a very long moment, memorizing the lines in her hand before he can look up.
[he can’t breathe, he can’t see, he’s choking on the gag shoved halfway down his throat as punishment for biting, and everything hurts, blurring out stinging insults meant to sound like honeyed whispers
it hurts something so much more than the burns in his skin but he cannot break now, cannot--]
Fenris is only aware he’s let too much time pass between question and answer when her hand touches his cheek, almost hesitant in it’s comfort, and he realizes that Hawke is not really asking for what he remembers. In this roundabout way she is asking if she has also hurt him, a thought so ridiculous he almost laughs at it.
“Listen to me. I would not be here right now if I did not choose to be.”
“Well, yes, but—“ He presses a finger to her lips, quieting her (and fully prepared for her to lick it as a sort of revenge) before he continues. It is surprisingly easy to say, after all this time, and he wonders, quietly, if he could have said it sooner, what would have happened.
“No. You have always let me choose to stay or go, even when it hurt you. You are the first to do so, and so I will always remain at your side.” There’s a bitter twitch in her lips at what he hasn’t said, a flare of anger directed at a dead man and Fenris leans just enough farther forward that his forehead rests against hers. The difference in her sheer presence is almost intoxicating, warmth and trust against cold memory.
“…You are nothing like him.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you’ve come to that conclusion after all these years.” He flushes at her bone-dry sarcasm, and Hawke laughs, tangling long fingers into his hair out of habit.
“I-I didn’t mean—“
“Relax. I know. I’m just glad you trust me.” Glad you trust an apostate like me, he translates, and sighs. He could tell her that she has a strength he’s seen in no other mage, could tell her she has proven over and over and over again that she doesn’t need the watch of the Chantry’s templars. He could tell her that she’s given strength to the apostates around her as well, but he’s not sure she’d believe that, and given mages are the only thing they have never fully agreed on…
“Mm. You’ve more than earned it.” She smiles again, leaned into him, and for a little while it’s fine to just stay here in this warmth.
---
She builds a series of graves in Lothering when they reach it, but there’s one too many.
Fenris knows the extra isn’t a family member because she builds it separate from the little markers she’s made for Bethany and Leandra, next to the stone that is undoubtedly her father’s. Leandra had been given a funeral service in Kirkwall, but he supposes Hawke wished her near the person she’d loved in life. The extra marker, however, Hawke builds with a sort of grim purpose, and Varric quietly shuffles the rest of them off towards the slowly-rebuilt city somewhere through the halfway point. Fenris stays, and it’s when Hawke has spent a good ten minutes glaring at a daisy instead of leaving it there that he pegs to whom this belongs to.
“…After all this, you’ll build him a marker?” Her smirk is bitter and sharp, so much so he almost winces. If Anders was not already dead, he’d have killed him again for the wound his betrayal had caused. He only hadn’t then because the abomination was Hawke’s to kill.
“I was thinking I’d spell out ‘backstabbing psycho’ but I’d need another flower, what do you think?”
“Marian…” She visibly flinches at the use of her first name, before looking away. Fenris waits, only vaguely patiently, for her to explain honestly.
“...I know that you never had reason to like him. I think both of you only ever saw each other at their worst.” Hawke pauses, and he does not protest that, because he knows she’s not done.
“For a long time, though, he was my friend, while he still could be. An extremist, more than slightly crazy, paranoid friend, but the closest I have to a sane friend is the dwarf who writes romance novels. It makes life interesting!” Her cheery tone is painfully false, and he arches an eyebrow in response, waiting for her to get on with it.
“…Don’t give me that look, this is hard.” Hawke sighs, and looks down at the grave. “…I thought, for…a long time, that I might have been able to stop what was happening. I knew it was foolish, but I had to hope it was possible. Not even just for him. And for a long time, it seemed like it was.”
“…But then it wasn’t.”
“Yes, but then it wasn’t.” She tries to smile again, brittle and breakable, and doesn’t quite hit the mark, making only something of a grimace. “The last year or two…he was gone. I think I’d known it already, but I was too busy watching Meredith and Orsino go crazy to watch him. More fool me, right?”
“You can’t be held responsible for his—“
“And neither could the Circle, and here we are. That’s not what this is about. I…killed the man who betrayed me and every other mage in Thedas. I want to remember the man he was before.”
“…The man who was your friend, you mean?”
“The man who might have been saveable. I’ll never know if he could have been.” She is no longer looking at him at all, and Fenris watches the line of her shoulders. For all her sarcasm and flippancy, she’d always born the weight of everyone’s problems, and to see her feel as though she failed Anders…
“…He used you, you know. Told you what you wanted to hear to get you to help him.”
“I know that. But I think by then, Anders was already dead. That was just what was left of him.” He cannot disagree with that point—while the compassion seems wasted, Hawke’s kindness was what made him fall in love in the first place, and he can’t bear the thought of her being wary of it because of that worthless coward. He hesitates, and then sits, his back against hers, and says nothing. He feels Hawke jump slightly, and then lean against him, and knows she understands what he can’t seem to say.
“…Thank you, Fenris.” He only grunts (I’ll only do this for you) and for a while, they stay there in silence, until Aveline comes looking for them. It’s enough for either of them, anyway.
