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He stands in a fog. Wavering in his steps, the tips of his gauntlets against the walls as he walks. He moves slower than he means to, in a heat more intense than he’s used to. Sweat prickles at his back, beads at his temples, and yet, he shivers. Leaning against the entranceway, resting his head against the stone. Closing his eyes as he weakly knocks, crossing his arms afterwards. Turning his face against the wall, the cool cracks between wisps of hair. Distantly, he thinks he might hear steps, the sound of a door opening. A touch at his arm, another at his cheek. “You’re burning up,” she says.
“I am well enough to aid you,” Fenris says, and hopes he speaks it clearly. The sword is heavy on his back, and he finds some comfort in wearing his armor. Hawke sweeps away the hair from his brows, tucks it behind his ear. Both hands on his arms, pulling him gently forward. He only barely manages to open his eyes, to see that concerned knot between her brows.
“Absolutely not. You need to rest,” she says. She closes the door behind him, puts a hand on his back. He allows himself to be lead, still in that fog, and up those stairs. He stops only at the threshold, and shakes his head.
“I should go back,” he says.
“Stay,” she says, and then, softly, “it’s alright.” Allowing himself to be lead forward once again, standing with her in front of the fireplace. She undoes the clasps of his sword, rests it against the wall. Deft fingers at his breastplate, his gauntlets. Pulling back the blankets, and he gratefully curls up in her bed. Laying on his side, and she pulls the blankets over his shoulders as he closes his eyes. “Are you warm?” He shakes his head. With a flick of her wrist, she lights the fireplace, before leaving the room. She returns with arms full of blankets.
One by one, she lays them over him. The bed shifts under her weight as she sits on the edge of it. “Are you still cold?” she asks. His only reply is to unclench his jaw, show how he chatters, how he shivers. She leans forward, a palm pressing into the bed, and places her hand at his forehead once again. It starts lightly. She shares her heat with him. Blooming from her palm, traveling into him. He has his hands fisted near his chest, but now he moves one of them, slipping free of the blanket. His fingertips tap at her wrist, and she moves her hand from the bed, winds their hands together. The other she keeps at his forehead.
“Did you wake up feeling like this?” A muted groan. “I can’t believe you got dressed and came here.”
“I promised to aid you,” he says. Whether she realizes it or not, her thumb is moving gently over his, wearing some affectionate circle. Her other hand drifts from his forehead, brushes against his cheek. Settling again at the nape of his neck, letting the warmth of her magic twine around his spine.
“I know you did,” she says, “but nothing is more important than your wellbeing.”
“Hawke?”
“Mhmm?”
“I love you,” he says. Her thumb stops moving. In the fireplace, a log cracks, breaks, ash on the inside. The bed creaks as Hawke leans over, presses a kiss to his temple. It’s a slight thing, barely perceived, deeply felt.
“You should get some sleep,” she says quietly. Her hand slips from his neck and she’s moving from the bed. He wants to hold onto her hand tighter, but he can’t hold it in the right way, and oh, it’s much colder when she goes. He falls into dreams, things of bright colors and confusion. When he wakes, evening is waning and yet the fire still burns. Someone has filled it with fresh logs. His head spins as he pushes himself up to sit, and he spends a moment on the edge, one foot pressed against the floor. It takes more than a moment to realize where he is.
His hands clench as he recognizes Hawke’s bed, bedroom. The faintest memory of walking to her door, but the rest is kept locked away in that fog. He takes one of the blankets from the bed, keeps it around his shoulders. The door is cracked open, and there’s a single voice wafting up the stairs. Hawke is singing some song, voice clear if unsteady. Unskilled but enthusiastic, and Fenris smiles at the sound of it. He takes the steps carefully, his world threatening to topple from underneath him. A single step groans underneath his weight, and immediately, the singing stops.
Hawke appears in the kitchen doorway, an apron wrapped around her waist, and she goes to meet him. “You should stay in bed,” she says, tone slightly scolding. Still, she keeps a steadying hand at his arm, helps him to sit at the kitchen table. He settles in, pulls the blanket closer, as she goes back to the stove. He crosses his arms, leans forward, and rests his head as he watches her move. The knot of her apron is haphazardly tied, bare feet padding against wood floors. She tests whatever’s in the pot, reaches for more salt.
“Have you ever been sick like this before?” she asks, briefly looking over her shoulder.
“A few times,” he says.
“In Kirkwall?” She turns completely this time, leaning against the counter, a wooden spoon in her hands. He quietly nods, and her shoulders fall. “I didn’t know,” she says, “no one should have to be alone when they don’t feel themselves.” Fenris smiles, breathes out laughter. “What? Why are you laughing?” Her cheeks flush with sudden indignant red.
“I’ve never had anyone want to take care of me before,” he tells her. Her grasp around the spoon tightens, and she stands there for a few moments before she places it on the counter. Moving forward, pulling up a chair beside him. She brushes away the few strands of hair that cover his eyes, rests an elbow on the table. The flat of her hand finds her temple, leaning against it as she watches him.
“Do you remember what you told me earlier?” she asks. He frowns slightly, wracks his clouded memory.
“I remember coming here,” he says, “after that, I don’t –”
“It’s alright,” she interrupts. “It wasn’t important. I hope you like stew, by the way.” The chair scrapes against the floor and she’s busying herself at the counter, the spoon in her hands once again. She rifles through cupboards, places down two bowls. Filling them with food, bringing one to him. He sits up, holds the bowl in his hands. He keeps his face over it, closes his eyes, enjoying the steam which rises upwards.
“Are you still cold?” she asks, taking a seat beside him, her own bowl in front of her. He nods, and she reaches out. Fingertips at the bare skin of his arm, and when he doesn’t brush her away, her hand settles around it completely. Her magic, once again, threading through his bones, weaving warmth.
“Thank you,” he says, opening his eyes, looking at her, “for this. I will repay you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m just glad you’re not suffering through this alone,” she says.
“As am I,” he tells her, means every word.