Work Text:
It was natural, he supposed, for these reading sessions to develop into something more intimate. Not in the manner Isabela would wag her eyebrows at or in a way that would make Carver pretend to heave, but into something quiet, something personal, their own little world inside Hawke’s mansion. An escape from the chaos of Kirkwall.
It was still only recently that Fenris allowed Hawke to touch him again. The warrior still strongly disliked most skin contact, but it seemed Hawke was, once again, the exception.
At the moment, said touch was simple. Reclined on the couch, lazing in front of the fireplace, Fenris leaned back on Hawke as the man dozed, his mabari snoring somewhere in the other room. Fenris heard Orana singing from somewhere in the kitchen, and he was surprised that the tune sounded familiar.
Hawke’s hand had been slowly tracing random patterns on his arm, and it took a moment for Fenris to realize that it was no longer random; the mage was tracing his tattoos. Marking his page and closing the book, he focused on it.
He expected he would feel a need to jump away from the touch, that the magic beating in Hawke’s blood would trigger pain, as magic always had when in contact with his markings.
But this? He didn’t expect it to feel calming, for it to feel as relaxing as it did.
Perhaps it is because he’s a spirit healer, Fenris wondered. He leaned his head back onto the junction of Hawke’s throat and shoulder, making the mage grumble in complaint as his other arm shifted wrap itself around Fenris’s waist.
“Why’d you wake me up? Finish your book?” he mumbled, sleep lacing his voice.
“No, not quite.” He paused for a moment, forming his question in a way he hoped made sense. “Why is it your magic never seems to hurt?”
Hawke blinked. “I can assure you, plenty of people would say it does. You’ve seen how quickly I can set people on fire, Fenris.”
“Not in combat, Hawke. Like this.” Fenris took Hawke’s loose hand and wrapped it around his wrist, the lyrium coming to life under it. “You don’t try to use the lyrium, yet it reacts like it expects to be drawn from. Yet it has never caused me pain, not like - not when it’s you.”
Hawke rubbed his thumb in circles around the inside of the other man’s wrist. “I would never hurt you, Fenris, you know this. My magic will never be aimed at you in a way that would cause you harm. It never has, and never will. I swear it.”
“Nor would I turn my blade on you. I thought that it was related to your talents with spirit magic,” Fenris offered.
“Maybe,” Hawke hummed. “Or maybe we’re just that in tune with each other. Your lyrium reads my magic, and my magic feels no need to react to your lyrium.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Both of their voices dropped nearly into whispers, Hawke’s fingers following the lines of lyrium, the soft blue lighting up the room nearly as much as the fire was.
“Yes, it would.”