#still laughing about wondering if coop would be a grey warden

[radiaking]

I wish I could do media a normal amount tbh. Instead my brain goes ‘u must consume all available info about this thing before u can do anything else relating to it or properly enjoy it’

[salexectrian-heir]

Loki

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E* (not every chapter is E, most are rated T. Chapters containing explicit content will be marked with an asterisk*, ex: Chapter 7*) Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly. [Previous Chapter]       [Read on AO3]  

Chapter 4

Their laundry schedules didn’t sync up again for a few weeks, but they kept in frequent communication. If they caught each other in the hall, they always made time for at least a few minutes to chat.

“Please try to get some sleep on the plane,” Anise said, leaning against the doorframe of the laundry room, another ruined pair of boxerbriefs in her hand and a smug Loki perched on her shoulder.

He locked his apartment and pocketed his keys as he turned to face her. “I can make no promises.”

Anise bit back a smile. Clearly he had been in a rush, was still a rush, for his tie was askew and the top button was buttoned wrong.

“If you are on call, I hope nothing happens to bring you in,” he said, switching his briefcase to his left hand, “perhaps you should try and get some sleep as well.”

Her heartbeat bumped up a notch when he gave her a warm smile and polite nod as a way goodbye.

“Wait,” she called, stepping forward and grabbing his elbow to tug him back, “you cannot board a plane or attend a meeting looking like this.” She threw the ruined briefs over her vacant shoulder and reached for his collar.

“Ah, what? Oh--”

Her fingers loosened his crooked tie, and unbuttoned the mixed up buttons. He went stiff. His surprised huff of breath hit her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine. After rebuttoning his shirt, she looped the soft fabric of his tie properly, pulling it snug to his collar. She ran her hand down its length to smooth is out against his shirt. She lingered there a second too long before she realized it. But he definitely noticed, for she could feel his heart rapidly fluttering beneath her palm.

She quickly retracted from him, feeling the tips of her ears burn. The interaction left his mouth slightly agape and cheeks tinted pink. After a second he recovered, clearing his throat.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, tracing the path her hand had taken down his tie with his own.

She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her too warm ear, “It was nothing. You, ah, you better get going! Don’t want to miss your flight.”

“Yes, that would be… less than favorable.”

Anise chuckled, “Go.”

He gave an awkward wave, looking over his shoulder at her as he rushed down the stairwell.

A loud meow sounded off by her ear.

“Shut. Up.”

And when they weren’t in person, they still managed to make time to talk to each other.

Anise would receive a picture of the Arlathan skyline at dawn from various angles with an elven subtitle she would have to decipher every couple days from Solas. Sometimes he would send her pictures of his favorite places, his favorite foods from the city, or of the monuments while breaking for lunch. Her dyslexia made it no easy task, but she enjoyed the challenge.

In return she would send him pictures of Loki. Loki sleeping on his back with his legs in the air on top of the microwave, Loki kneading her stomach while she was laying on the couch, Loki in his new green sweater she knitted with longer sleeves to keep him warm in the colder weather, Loki destroying a ball of yarn she bought to make him the sweater. She had no shortage of Loki material to go around.

Loki’s sweater hadn’t been the only one she had been knitting lately, though she did her best to keep it from Solas. She figured that she had already bought the man underwear, so making him a sweater as a gift for the upcoming holiday would be appropriate. From what she had seen of his wardrobe it was abysmally formal and stiff.  A nice, cozy sweater would be a nice addition, or so she rationalized. What color to make it took her the most time to decide. Her first choice would have been green, but realized she made Loki green sweaters, so that color was claimed already. And she did not want her bald kitten and the bald man she was harboring a crush on to be dressed identically. She wished she knew his favorite color, and thought about asking him via text, but didn’t want to seem obvious that she was up to something.

She had gotten about a third of his sweater done on her day off when there was a knock on the door. Her first instinct was to immediately reach out and feel for Loki to make sure he was still in her apartment. He was. Draped over the arm of her couch, lazily blinking the last of his dreams from his eyes.

She stuffed the partial sweater into a crevice in the couch and covered it with a pillow. She compulsively tucked strands of hair that had fallen loose from the bun atop her head, wishing she would have at least run a comb through it before getting to the door. Solas had said he wouldn’t be returning for another day, but her heart seemed to ignore that fact hoping he might have returned home early.Peering through the peep hole, she couldn’t deny that her heart sank when she saw it wasn’t Solas.

“Ms. Ruiz, good morning,” she greeted the elderly woman as she opened her door.

“Buenos dias Anise, I baked you these.” She pushed a tin into Anise’s arms. It was warm. “Fresh from the oven. Be good and share them with that man down the hall I’ve seen you hanging ‘round with.”

“What? Ms. Rui--”

“Don’t ‘Ms. Ruiz’ me, I know things.” She tapped her temple with a crooked finger, and grinned.

“Fine,” Anise sighed, opening the tin a crack to smell the freshly baked cookies. They smelled heavenly. “When he gets in from his flight, I’ll let him know about the cookies.”

“That’s my girl.”

"Your decorations are lovely as always," Anise commented, pointing to the hall behind her elderly neighbor.

Beautiful ornaments had been hung from the ceiling, as well as tinsel and lights, giving the sterile hallway a much warmer feel. Anise noticed that everyone's door had a wreath hung on it, including her own.

"Oh thank you, sweet thing," Ms. Ruiz smiled proudly, "This place needs more cheer. Everyone seems to rushing around, barely enjoying themselves. I just," she sighed, "I just want to make seem a little brighter."

"You've outdone yourself."

A mischevious glint appeared her eyes, "Including the laundry room."

Anise fought the response to blush and lost. "Goodbye, Ms. Ruiz."

Anise watched as Ms. Ruiz crossed the hall, laughing to herself, and knocked on the door opposite. The man who lived there was rumored to be a former Grey Warden, which made people weary of interacting with him. If Ms. Ruiz knew, she didn’t let it bother her. He did not get very many people knocking at his door. In fact, Anise wasn’t sure if she had seen anyone visit him. She felt guilty for not being a better neighbor, but she rarely had time for socializing outside her job. As she closed her door, her neighbor opened his. His blonde hair was a mess and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. She wondered what he was up to cooped up in there. Ms. Ruiz was right about us, Anise thought. She shrugged and stole a cookie out of the tin and bit into it.

Loki jumped from his perch and meandered around her feet, mewling.

“I’m sorry baby, but these are not for kitties,” she said through a mouthful of delectable sugar cookie.

[jawsandbones]

Threnodies for Leto, Songs for Fenris - Part 1/3

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

He learns to say no. He whispers it to himself in the dead of night, up at faintly blinking stars. He practices. He takes pleasure in it – the sound of it on his tongue, the way it feels in his mouth. The ability to speak his mind. To have choice. No. At first he fears the use of it. He has been taught how to bite his tongue too well. Fenris knows what comes with hesitation, denial. It begins with the dark frown, the biting word and ends in the lash, in punishment. Hawke asks if he would like to come with them on a day he had planned for other things. “No, I – I would rather not,” he says as he braces himself. Stiffens the line of his back, the square of his shoulders, prepares for the reprimand. She only smiles, leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms.

“That’s alright. I’ll bring you back something,” she tells him. He still feels it even after she leaves. Leaning against his closed door, hands in fists against the wood. The heavy beating of a nervous heart, the faint rush of adrenalin that pumps through every vein. He smiles, laughs to himself, presses a hand against his forehead. It is that first ‘no’ which gives him the allowance of more. He tells Varric that no, he does not want to try the Hanged Man’s mystery soup. The dwarf shrugs, chews on some unidentifiable grey meat. Merrill asks him to pick mushrooms with her and he tells her no, and she goes to ask Anders. He steps back when Isabela holds out a fish for him to hold, a very flat no, and she throws it at the back of Hawke’s head.

He learns acceptance. The right of rage, permission of grief. Fenris mourns the life he never knew, bitter to the one he has left behind, learns to take joy in the one he is creating. Hawke is a welcome figure on his doorstep, and he finds he likes the sound of her voice. They speak of anything that comes to mind, Hawke an attentive listener to anything he has to say. Some nights it is no more than comfortable silence, shared space, and a few times Hawke falls asleep in the chair. They find which bakery he likes best, learns that apple pastries are his favorite. She brings him a bottle of Ferelden ale. They drink it together, and it’s Hawke who smashes this bottle against the wall.

Isabela teaches him how to skip stones. She laughs as he growls frustration at the third one that simply sinks. She cheers when the sixth finally goes, three pathetic hops, but more than good enough. Anders and Varric double over in laughter together as he wakes to find Merrill has braided daisies into his hair. He spars with Aveline, helps her bridge the opening she leaves on her right. She gives him a small bag of cookies in thanks and a “please don’t tell Isabela I bake.” Times spent at the Hanged Man with everyone else, and they shout over the table, slap down coin and card. He watches them argue and laugh, smiles to himself.

He reacquaints himself with loneliness. Kirkwall seems harsher now that Hawke has gone to the Deep Roads, a little quieter, somewhat cold. A sudden realization of what her presence means. Fenris misses her most on the nights alone with himself, mind moving in torturous circles. Speaking with the others is never quite the same, they don’t listen the way she does. Her presence in his mansion has always been welcome, while others feel intrusive, a churning in his gut. She had leaned forward and smiled, put her hand over his. “Go see the others while I’m gone,” she had said, “you can’t stay cooped up in here all the time.” He does his best to honor this promise.

Merrill has found herself managing the clinic in Darktown, fielding questions of where Anders had gone. He brings her the supplies she has in her house, buys more with his own coin when she runs out. Fenris walks the late patrols with Aveline, knowing she takes the more dangerous routes. She tells him he doesn’t have to. She thanks him anyway. She tells him how proud she is of the guards in training, gives glowing admiration of the others. One in particular. He tells himself he must find a way to meet this Donnic. He helps defend Isabela from those who call her a cheat, and from behind the safety of his sword, she proudly admits it. He pulls her arm over his shoulders, walks her to her room, and puts a bucket beside her bed.  

Fenris lies in his own bed, looking through the cracks in his roof. He likes it best when it rains, falling into the buckets he carefully places. The sound of drops against tin, the fluttering moonlight that cascades into the room. He knows that Hawke is sleeping under a different sky, one of rock and stone, in a place she’d rather not be. “I’m frightened of being underground,” she had confessed, “all of that above my head… just makes me uneasy.” He lies awake and wonders if Hawke is wondering about him. Rolling over to bury his face in his pillow, shame in wanting one of his only friends. A desire that had lain dormant, feelings he didn’t know he could have. He dreams of her laughter, of blue eyes and freckles, and brushing hair behind her ear.

Bartrand returns, but she does not. His stomach rolls, knots, churns in worry. He wears a path into already worn floorboards, unable to stop pacing. He resolves to find the dwarf, ask him where Hawke is. Aveline finds him first. Asking to speak with him, sitting in the chair. Long moments spent in silence before she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I spoke to Bartrand,” Aveline says, “They got separated. A cave-in.” Her hands tight together, fingers digging into flesh, knuckles white with the effort. “He doesn’t think they survived.” That pit falls, and Fenris sinks into the opposite chair. Hands grip the armrest, staring pointedly at the fire. Long enough until his eyes burn, blink back pain, shaking his head.

“No,” he rasps. “I will question him myself.”

“Fenris,” she says his name quietly, a warning in the syllables.

He plans to leave Kirkwall. He will book passage on a ship south, leave the Free Marches entirely. Hawke had asked him once, if he might stay. Those early conversations, getting to know one another. “Perhaps you’ll find a reason to stay,” she had said with a smile. He had taken her kindness with a measure of suspicion, hard to trust, unwilling to settle. She had slowly carved a place for herself in him, settling in locked spaces, dusty corners. He’s stayed too long. There’s nothing left keeping him in the city anymore. On the third day of the second week, he packs a bag. He takes all the things Hawke has given him, the only mementos he cares to keep. In his hands, a red scarf, soft against his skin. On the fourth day, there’s a knock at his door.

There are dark circles under her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in days. She is thinner, her hair longer, but her eyes still burn brightly blue. She stretches out her arms, steps through the doorway as she wraps them around him. Burying her face against his chest, holding him tightly. Fenris still hasn’t recovered from the shock of it, slowly lets his hands settle on Hawke’s back. “Bartrand trapped us down there. Carver caught the blight. He’s gone with the Grey Wardens and I,” her hands fist in his tunic, tremble and shake, “I missed you. This. I cried when we saw grass, can you believe it?” He can. He holds her a little tighter.

He learns how to ask. Slipping into old habits, sitting by the fire as she speaks. Listening quietly as her hands move wildly to convey every detail, from sitting hunched to sitting straight, expressions rowdy and vivid as she recounts all that happened while she was gone. They talk for hours until their voices are hoarse and the drinks are emptied, food eaten. Hawke rubs her eyes as she leans back, stifles the yawn. “Would you like to stay?” He asks, playing with the loose thread at the end of his leggings. She smiles, reaches out, touches his knee.

“I don’t want to throw you out of your own bed,” she says. Fenris shakes his head, finds the courage to rest his hand over hers.

“It’s no trouble,” he tells her. They stay there quietly, as his thumb traces over her knuckles. There’s a new scar on the back of her hand, just there, right by her pinky finger. The way she touches has always felt natural. A brush across the shoulders, hand on his arm, at his back. It’s never come easily to him. Even now he feels stiff, awkward, nervous, but still his hand remains. They both look over as a log in the fireplace cracks, breaks, warm light on their cheeks.

“Then I’ll take you up on your offer,” she says, and that smile still remains, so light on her lips. She settles into his bed, lying on her side, watching him as he tucks himself into the chair. “Fenris.” She stretches out her hand towards him. “There’s no reason we can’t share.” He can think of at least ten. Still, he finds himself walking towards her, tips of his fingers brushing against hers. He lies with his back towards her, staring at the wall. The fire burns, dies, and he stiffens when he feels her turning. Her face against his back, an arm slipping around him. Murmuring in dreaming, curling up against him. How warm it is to be held by someone. He indulges himself, lets his hand link with hers. Finger against finger, and palm against palm.

Hawke shows him first. An estate in ruin, a home she means to repair. The others help as well. Merrill worries on the ladder, cleaning the very top of the windows. Aveline is adept at repairing broken walls, cracked bannisters. Those Hawke has hired are also underfoot, but there’s only the cheerful laughter when it’s just the group of them. Isabela paints her name in a flourish before painting in earnest, while Varric buys Hawke a fine desk to sit in the front. A gold tipped quill, expensive ink. Anders has a scarf wrapped around his face as he dusts out the cobwebs, carries the spiders to the garden. There Fenris and their newest addition, Sebastian, work together. Hacking at weeds, planting new flowers.

There are days he gets lost in the labor. Leaning over in the dirt, gloves on his hands and sun beating on his back. Sweat on his brow, dripping at his temples, and he tears at stubborn root, embedded rock. His mind drifts, turns towards a different sun that used to beat upon his back. A labor that wasn’t like this, a work not the same. That was because they told him, this is because she asked and he – bats away the sudden touch, slaps away her hand. Stumbling back into the grass, and he is ready with the apology but Hawke pretends as if it didn’t happen at all.

“Did you want some water?” she asks. His hands clench into fists as his shoulders move with heavy breath, trying to steady himself in the present.

“I – yes. That would be appreciated,” he says. She extends her hands towards him once again, helps him to his feet. He follows her meekly to the kitchen, casts his gaze to the floor. She shifts, tilts, intercepts his vision until he can look naught but at her. When he finally meets her gaze, she smiles, passes him the glass.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, “I should have said something first.” The condensation rolls down the glass, cold against his skin. He watches her as she walks, that easy swing of her arm over Isabela’s shoulders. The women sway and laugh together, and he wants it to be that easy for him. He longs to touch, when he’s shunned all touch before. Unwanted hands under his skin, wrapping around bone and muscle, claiming him for them. Now he wants to reach out, he wants to ask.

In the quiet when all others leave, they sit together in front of Hawke’s fireplace. The Amell sigil sits proudly above it, while the Hawke sigil rests above the door. She sits cross-legged, an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. While she is watching it burn, Fenris is watching her, the way the light flickers on her face. They pass the bottle of wine back and forth, a sort of sharing that comes naturally to them now. “I have an estate,” she says.

“Yes you do,” he says. Hawke smiles proudly, sits a little straighter, brushes hair behind her ear. It reveals the smudge of dirt on her cheek. He’s moving before he even realizes it, his thumb at the mark, brushing it away. Her face turns towards his. The dirt is gone and yet his hand remains, fingers curling at her cheek. All other sounds seem to slip away, and he can only hear the soft sound of her breathing. The way she shifts closer.

“May I kiss you?” Fenris asks it hoarsely, as though he hasn’t spoken in years, or at least never with meaning such as this. Her nod is instant, her answer voiceless. A palm pressing against stone as she leans towards him and he thinks he might count all the freckles, her stars. The brush of her nose against his. The feel of her breath on his lips. The warmth of simply being near her. Taking her face in his hands, eyes closing. She wets her lips just before, and his are maybe a little chapped, but still they fit together. He pulls her closer until she is sitting in his lap, his hands travelling the length of her back. Arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” Sebastian smiles as he takes the box from Fenris, stacking it with the others in the Chantry basement. Fenris grumbles and Sebastian chuckles. “Things are going well with Hawke?” Fenris blinks, startled.

“With Hawke, I –”

“A blind man could see how you feel for her,” Sebastian tells him.

He walks with Aveline on Wednesdays. Down the twisting paths of Lowtowns, in the back alleys she does not want to send her guard. Most of it is spent in silence, some of it with Aveline asking him to train some of her guard. “There are many in this city who look up to you,” she tells him, but he finds it hard to believe. Especially difficult on the nights Fenris twists in his bed, casts the blankets to the floor. Feet hard against stone as he paces, hands pressed against his head. A voice that does not want to leave him, commands that haunt his dreams.

Fenris holds a ladder for Isabela as she climbs up to Merrill’s roof, smashes through cracked tiles with the hammer. They yell at each other, Merrill in concern and worry, Isabela wondering how anyone could live like this. Hawke wanders into the alienage in the afternoon, passes Fenris her half-eaten sandwich as she clambers up after them. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Fenris calls upwards to them. Isabela’s face appears over the edge, hair hanging down.

“Don’t you dare let go of that ladder!” She tells him. Merrill frets beside him, biting at her fingernails, waiting for them to finish. They reappear when the sun begins to set, covered in dirt and web, cuts on their hands, and more hammers than they went up with. They sit at Merrill’s small table, eat whatever she offers. Merrill seems more than happy to have them all there, pleased pink on her cheeks, squished between Isabela and Hawke.

Fenris smiles as he reaches across the table, sweeps up the hard won coin. Anders glowers at his cards before reaching for the rest, shuffling them together in an angry huff. Varric leans back in the chair, accepts graceful defeat. “You are a menace, elf. One of these days I’ll figure out your tell,” he says. Perhaps it the way his ears perk up when he sees Hawke walk into the Hanged Man, or the way he sits up a little straighter when she sits next to him. Anders is dealing the cards neatly, and Fenris keeps his close to his chest, away from Hawke’s prying eyes.

“I think he’s cheating,” Anders says, “he’s been spending too much time with Isabela.” Hawke has her elbows planted on the table, holding her face in her hands.

“Or he’s just better than you at the game,” she says. Anders rolls his eyes, feigns hurt as Varric laughs. While Anders and Varric stay late, Hawke and Fenris walk home together. They detour into Darktown, so that Fenris can fill the clinic’s donation box with the coin he won from Anders and then some. Knuckles brush against knuckles, finger against finger, and Hawke smiles under star and shafts of moonlight that streams through the cracks between buildings.

Sand underneath his feet. Salt on the wind, the hint of the sea. Long grass that sways in the breeze, under cracked cliff and wounded coast. Signs he thought he would be able to forget come rushing back. He knows this trap. Stopping and the others stop too, look over their shoulders at him. “Hunters,” Fenris says.

“You are in possession of stolen property,” says the one who dares step forward. “Back away from the slave!” It isn’t rage. It isn’t denial. All the things he thought he might feel when they finally found him, and it isn’t that. The first is fear. Fenris expects to see Danarius to step forward next. Little wolf. Kill them. He fears he will listen. Master coming to collect and he, and he –

“Fenris is a free man,” Hawke shouts as she steps in front of him, puts her hand on his chest. Aveline raises her shield beside him, and Sebastian has the arrow notched. He’s forgotten something he learned, something he taught himself. He forgot who he was, but just for a moment.

“I am not a slave!” Hawke reaches upward with fist and magic, pulls down their attackers. Fenris sprints forward, ready to face them head on. The steady sounds of Sebastian’s arrows, burying themselves into the soft spots between armor. Hawke’s magic is the warm hand at the back of his nape, a watching presence that’s a comfort and not a prison. Aveline at his side, facing faceless attackers. Cowards hidden behind metal, the flash of a sword and the Tevinter crest.

It builds with each step towards the caves. He has tried to forget it, to leave it aside. Haunting him for far too long, an anger he cannot shake. Bitter to all they robbed him of, fury to what they put inside him. An outrage that has been growing, pulled forward through the years he thought he might be free. Fenris wants to be better. More than what they made him, past all they gave him. Hadriana trembles below him and a different man might have let her go. He kills her in thinking it might kill the despair, only makes it worse. Pushing away her touch and “what has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” He regrets each word, calls himself a coward as he runs.

He did not face Danarius when he could have. Standing side by side with the Fog Warriors who called him friend, the taste of what life could be still fresh on his tongue. He cannot face Hawke when he should have, told her that it is not her magic he fears. That it is Fenris who is the ruin, and that she deserves better. Instead he runs, and she lets him go. Those first days all over again. He paces through the mansion, afraid the hunters are waiting in each dark corner. He cannot stay. Wandering the city until he finds himself on her doorstep.

He can hear her running down the stairs at the sound of his arrival, breathless in clothing casual, tucking hair behind her ears. She opens her mouth to speak, but closing it again as he walks towards her. Looking at the floor, her bare feet against stone, struggles to raise his gaze. “I was… not myself.” Not the man he wants to be. “I’m sorry.” Finally able to look upwards, expects the anger he knows he deserves. He doesn’t find it.

“I had no idea where you went, I was concerned,” she says softly. She crosses her arms, as though stopping herself from reaching out and touching him. He appreciates the gesture. His skin has been fire since he felt Hadriana’s heart in his hands, markings raw and sensitive, and a vulnerability he’s still trying to fix. He struggles with the explanation of it, only knowing that he wants her to know. Hadriana’s claws still at his back, Danarius’s teeth at his neck. Paltry. Lacking. He leaves in frustration, he leaves her in worry.

He decides to tell her. His regret, a shame, one action among many he wishes he could take back. Fenris goes to the wine cellar, takes the last bottle from the shelf. He knows its name, the shape of the label, the style of the cork. He knows it from it being pointed out to him. As he holds the bottle in his hand, his thumb traces over letters he cannot understand. “Today is the anniversary of my escape,” he tells her as he holds it out to her. She takes it instantly, pulls her chair forward. “Would you like to hear the story?”

“I enjoy listening to you talk,” she says. He leans forward, touches his forehead against hers.

“There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman.” Warm with wine, feeling bold, letting himself let go. Speaking the words makes them real, the truth of what he’d done. Killing those who had taken him in, who believed he deserved his freedom. He took too long to believe it as well. Ghost of shackles around his wrists, the collar around his neck. It chokes him on the days he least expects. He feels them even now, tight and cold, but Hawke reaches out, brushes her thumb against his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says softly, “I know it can’t be easy to speak about.” He misses her touch as she pulls her hand back, folding her hands in her lap. She knows and yet she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t rage at him for what he’s done. She lays acceptance at his feet, dares for him to take it. He stands on the precipice but cannot fall. Reaching for the bottle, wine rich on his tongue. A taste he was never allowed, a privilege never given, but he has taken it for himself.

“I… have never allowed anyone too close.” How many times had they been sent to his bed to tempt him? A touch was betrayal, affections were punishment. Difficult to shake such a thing. Setting the bottle on the table, hands in fists on his knees. He’s still getting used to it. The closeness. The permission to find solace in another person. The realization that Hawke is no pawn, no trap set to close around his bones. There is no rope. No chain. Naught for the one he extends to her of his own will.

He seeks her out three days later. “Command me to go and I shall.” Hands on his cheeks, her face so close to his.

“No need.”