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“What are you doing back there?” Fenris asked. It was late, and his voice was thick with the sound of sleep, but he didn’t look up from his book. He and Hawke were bundled together in a blanket nest in front of the fireplace in the study and he was far too warm and comfortable to even consider moving.
“Your hair is getting long,” Hawke answered from behind. He was tugging gently at a few strands, his thick fingers clumsily knocking into each other as he tried his hand at a braid. When he was younger, he used to braid Bethany’s hair for her. He’d gotten quite good at it and at one point he could even fashion a few intricate Orlesian braids, but it had been years since then and now he could barely manage something simple. Frowning, he added, “I thought maybe tying it back would be a good idea.”
“It doesn’t feel like you’re doing a very good job,” Fenris said, turning a page. Hawke made a face at the back of his head and tried his best to tighten the braid. More and more hair fell out of it as he pulled and, with a sigh, he let it go and leaned back against his hands. Fenris reached up without turning around and tugged gently at his hair to untangle it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to give up.”
“I guess I can’t be the champion of everything,” Hawke laughed. Pulling the blankets up around himself, he leaned forward to rest his chin on Fenris’ shoulder and pressed a kiss behind his ear. “I’ve got to leave some things for other people to be good at.”
“You mean like Wicked Grace? Because you’re terrible at that."
“You wound me,” Hawke muttered. He started to make another face but Fenris reached up again to lay his hand against Hawke’s cheek.
“Come on,” he said, marking his place in his book with a piece of scrap paper before closing it. “It’s late. Let’s sleep, and you can try again in the morning.”
As they butchered their way through slavers on the Wounded Coast the next day, no one commented on Fenris’ new braid, tied back with a red ribbon that matched the cloth at his wrist.