#(it was a whisper aroo not even an inside voice aroo)

[abirddogmoment]

wow eternally grateful to Mav for fixing something in me (the deep-seated anxiety of being embarrassed in public) by being the most best boy (the most endearingly embarrassing animal to ever go in public)

[musetta3]

for the hurt/comfort list! “Can you please come and get me?”

Hi @5lazarus! I present to you a FenHawke prompt. I wrote it so Hawke could be whichever Hawke you choose. Hope you enjoy!! <3 

This…wasn’t the way home? Fenris peered down the shadowy alley, trepidation setting in. He’d followed the directions Hawke had given him—they were right there, in the Notes of his phone. Left out the door, pass three intersections, a left, and then a right. He used those directions every day, and had memorized them. Fenris knew what was he was doing, why did the street look so different tonight? He stuffed the panic down.

“Alright,” he said, looking down the street, “let’s be rational. Retrace your steps.” He turned around and headed back the way he came. “If I turned right, then I should turn left, and then—” He stopped on some street, eyes wide. Despite his best efforts, everything got jumbled; even after looking at the directions in his Notes app, he was confused. Venhedis, he did this every day, why was this so hard?

‘You’re going mad,’ the voice in his head hissed, ‘the lyrium’s leaching; won’t be long until you forget everything, and Hawke will leave you—’ the brands flickered through his leather jacket, blue light weak against the brickwork.

“Stop,” he said, breath shallowing. “S-Stop it, I’m not listening.” 

There was truth to those words, he knew, an ugly truth. The brands were leaching, albeit slowly, the doctors said. They were doing all they could, going from specialist to specialist—Fenris’s pill boxes were filled from all the medications they prescribed for lyrium poisoning—but if they couldn’t find some way to stop the leaching soon, he’d end up in a retirement home for Templars… Those homes where the Chantry sent the useless, witless ones to eke out an existence before they forgot everything and death finally took them. And Fenris would join them. Fenris Hawke: thirty-something years old, author still in his prime, forgetting who he was and how to eat or drink. The thought terrified him.

‘You weren’t this bad before, you know. It’s getting worse,’ the voice said. ‘Only a matter of time—’

“Shut up!” Fenris held his head in his hands, his shout bouncing off the walls. An apartment window flew open above, a stream of expletives and demands for quiet floating down to him. A police siren wailed in the distance; Fenris looked around, heart pounding so hard, it made his head clench, took his breath away. He fumbled with his iPhone, trembling hands pressing the home button repeatedly in his panic. Siri pinged into existence, waiting for a request.

“C-Call Hawke,” he said, voice cracking.

“Do you mean ‘Colin Dock?’” she asked, once again not understanding his accent. Fenris bit back his frustration; he hated voice recognition software with a passion; it never worked for him.

 “Hawke. Call Hawke,” he said, voice going sharp. He huddled against a wrought iron fence, wondering where in the Void he was. The autumn wind blew right through his jacket; he shivered, and not just from the cold.

“Sorry, I don’t understand ‘colic’—”

“Fasta vass, you piece of kaffas,” he exclaimed. The world went blurry; Fenris wiped his eyes and raked his hand through his hair. A sob escaped; he slid down the fence to the sidewalk below. The concrete sucked the heat out of him, leaving him cold and hollow. He felt even more desolate. 

“Come on, get a hold of yourself,” he whispered, “one step at a time.” He tapped the Notes app, scrolling through entries “It’s here, I know it’s here…” He pulled up the document with the directions home and tapped the phone number. He was beyond grateful when he heard the dial tone. “Pick up,” he whispered. “Please, please, please, please—”

“Hullo?” Much to his dismay, the tears started again from sheer relief.

“Fenris? Fenris, are you alright?” Hawke asked, voice alarmed. “...Are you crying?”

“I—” How could he even voice his shame, that he was no better than a child? “C-Can you please come and get me?” he asked. “Hawke? H-Hawke, please—” There was a faint jingle on the other end, from what he assumed were keys.

“On my way. Where are you?” There it was, The very question he would’ve given anything for an answer to. Fenris’s breath hitched.

“I don’t know. I-I don’t know where I am—” His voice pitched, words tripping over themselves on the way out.

“Fenris, can you do something for me? Go to the nearest intersection and tell me the street names.” Solutions, Fenris liked those. He brushed himself off and jumped to his feet, hurrying towards the end of the block. The street names swayed on the traffic light wires; Fenris stared, letters scrambling into nonsensical lines and patterns before him.

“I can’t read this,” he said. “I-I can’t, Hawke. It’s not Tevene, I can’t do this—”

“Darling, remember what I said at the night school, hmm? When you’d just arrived in Kirkwall, and were learning to read Common?”

“‘One letter at a time,’” he whispered.

“That’s right. You can do this.” Fenris took a deep breath and concentrated.

“‘H-A-R-L-M?’”

“Harimann. Harimann and what?” Upon closer investigation, they determined he was on the corner of Harimann and DuPris, not too far removed from his route home. 

“Tell me about your day at work,” Hawke said, no doubt to distract him. “Was the paper busy?” The panic still scrabbled for purchase inside Fenris; it clawed at him before eventually ebbing away, leaving him exhausted.

“I-I wrote an article on Dwarven lichen bread today,” Fenris replied, sheltering against the wind in a doorway. “They brought some in for us to review. New flavor or something.”

“Ooh, from the TV commercial! ‘Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar: from our noble kitchens to yours, find us in your local bread aisle.’” Fenris laughed, wiping his tearstained face; Hawke always made the best impersonations of cheesy TV commercials. It was almost uncanny, how spot-on they were.

“That’s the one. Cinnamon swirl flavor,” he said, shivering.

“How was it? I’ve been curious.”

“Lichen-y.”

Hawke scoffed. “‘Lichen-y.’ Varric Tethras must have been desperate to hire the likes of you.” Hawke’s voice seemed louder, clearer. Fenris poked his head around the corner. He saw no one approaching in either direction.

“Behind you,” Hawke said with a laugh, “your escort has arrived, messere.” Fenris turned around, disconnecting the call. Hawke stood before him, coat over flannel pajamas and hair tied in a messy bun. Utterly glorious, in Fenris’s eyes. He held Hawke in the fiercest embrace he could muster.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “T-Thank you so much.” Hawke patted him on the back.

“One friendly neighborhood Hawke, at your service. I’ll send you my bill, at the end of the month.” Hawke grinned. “Come on, I need to get my husband home.”

‘Husband’ was still such a new, beautiful term, one Fenris never tired from hearing. It made his heart smile in the most joyful manner imaginable. He linked his arm in Hawke’s and walked home to their apartment, where Toby the Mabari greeted him with many ‘aroos’ and tail wags.

“Go wash up,” Hawke said, “dinner’s in the Crockpot.”

Fenris must have been colder than he realized, if the water burned and made his limbs ache. He changed into the warmest pajamas he owned and slid into his seat at the table. A bowl of mutton stew appeared before him. It was good, he decided. Not the curries he was used to from Minrathous, but warm and comforting, all the same. Between the warm food and the soothing cadence of Hawke’s voice, he melted into his chair.

“Fen,” Hawke called, “go to bed.” The spoon clattered out of Fenris’s hand, his head snapped back.

“But I haven’t seen you all day,” he protested, eyes unable to stay open.

 “You’re not seeing much except the inside of your eyelids, messere, go on.” Fenris grumbled, pecking his beloved on the cheek before crawling into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Sometime during the night—he wasn’t sure when without his glasses—he felt the mattress dip as Hawke laid down beside him. Fenris smiled into his pillow, pretending to be asleep.

“I won’t give up, Fen,” Hawke whispered. “I’ll find a specialist that can remove the brands, so you’ll never be afraid like that again. I swear it. I don’t care if I have to fly someone in from Tevinter and sell a kidney to pay for the surgery; I won’t give up on you.” 

Fenris cherished those words and held them close in his heart. Even if the future was uncertain, at least he had someone to meet it with. Words failed to express just how grateful he was for that.