Work Text:
The warehouse was empty now, save for the three corpses that lay near the centre and the crates stacked against the wall. These were adorned with a fancy crest. Orlesian, from what Hawke knew, so they at least they had found Martin’s goods. The smell of burnt timber still lingered in the air, though he and Varric had managed to stamp all the fires out quickly enough.
There would not have been fire if it wasn’t for Fenris. Hot-headed as even, he had charged into the room just as Varric had called out that he spotted something astray. A second later, Fenris had hit the tripwire and attempted to dodge the burst of fire from the exploding barrel hidden behind the door. Luckily there had only been three guards in the warehouse, and Hawke and Varric had quickly dispensed with them as Fenris hauled himself to his feet and away from the flames.
Fenris was now leaning against a pillar, his jaw set and one arm held stiffly away from his body. Hawke could see that the fabric of his shirt was scorched black along one side and the skin on his arm was an angry red and beginning to blister.
Varric broke the silence first. “You know,” he said, reloading Bianca with exaggerated care, “most people wait until the room is clear before charging in. Doors and corners, elf. That’s what’ll get you.”
Fenris shot him a glare. “The trap would have gone off regardless,” he muttered.
“Sure,” Varric said skeptically. “And I’m the Viscount of Kirkwall. I would have had it disabled in a second. Next time, maybe let the dwarf with nimble fingers go first.”
Hawke crossed the room to Fenris. “Sit,” he said, not quite ready to handle the argument he knew would come.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” Fenris just glared at him and refused to move, so Hawke reached for Fenris’s arm. He flinched under Hawke’s touch, fingers tightening into fists as his nostrils flared. Hawke considered the wounds and glared at Fenris. “Take the shirt off.”
Fenris stared back. “Absolutely not.”
Hawke planted one arm against the pillar beside Fenris, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. He raised a brow. “Unless you’ve suddenly learned to heal yourself, I suggest you cooperate.”
Varric smirked. “I’ll just—ah—stand over here. I’ll check for more—uh, traps.”
Fenris growled under his breath, but he relented and unbuckled his armour. He hauled the ruined shirt over his head and Hawke caught the brief grimace as the movement tugged at the burn along his side.
The lyrium markings along Fenris’s skin glowed faintly, blue light tracing muscles and the sharp planes of his body. The burn cut through it all, raw and ugly, and Hawke let his fingers hovered just above the sensitive skin, close enough to feel the heat but not touch.
“This could have been a lot worse,” Hawke said seriously.
“It has been worse,” Fenris replied. His voice was flat and defensive. “I am fine.”
Magic bloomed under Hawke’s hands, soothing and gold. He let it trail over Fenris, following the line of his ribs, down his side and along his arm. The worst of the damage faded quickly and angry red marks dissolved into soft new skin. Once the surface was mended, Hawke flattened his palm and slowed, guiding the spell deeper. The magic obeyed, sinking into muscle and bone, knitting what couldn’t be seen and easing the aches that Fenris would never complain about.
Hawke’s hand moved again—back along Fenris’s arm, over the rise of his shoulder, then down his side. Fenris inhaled sharply and Hawke felt it then: a different heat, sudden and unwelcome, spreading from where his hand now rested against Fenris’ narrow waist. It had nothing to do with the magic anymore.
He told himself to stop but he didn’t.
Hawke’s hand lingered a second too long, fingers splayed, and all senses aware of the warmth of Fenris’ skin, the tension held in the muscles beneath and just how close he really was. He was all too aware of the way Fenris stood perfectly still but still he did not pull away.
Fenris was not unaware of the shift. Hawke could feel it in the way Fenris’s breath changed and the faint tightening of his body beneath Hawke’s palm.
Anger flared in Hawke, the heat plunging into his chest with a sharpness that left him unsettled. Hawke hated this feeling, and hated Fenris for provoking it without trying. Most of all, he hated himself more for noticing. Fenris infuriated him: the constant challenge, the bitterness, the way his jaw clenched when he was angry, the fire in his eyes that refused to dim. Hawke could not step back and Fenris simply met his gaze, head tilted and unflinching, eyes locking Hawke in place.
Hawke pulled his hand away as if burned.
The magic faded at once. The glow vanished, leaving only faint pink skin where the burn had been. Fenris straightened and rolled his shoulder experimentally, testing the strength of it.
“Thank you,” he said at last, the words tense, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.
Before Hawke could answer, the door slammed open.
Isabela strolled in, eyes flicking immediately to Fenris’s bare torso and Hawkes hand now clenched at his side. She grinned at them. “Oh, great. You found the cargo. But seriously, I leave you boys alone for five minutes and suddenly it’s shirtless hour. Should I come back later, or can I join in?”
Fenris reached for his shirt with a scowl.
Hawke sighed, already turning away. He had let this happen. It had been his hand that lingered and his thoughts led astray. The attraction sat heavy and bitter in his mind. It was an infuriating truth he had not asked for and did not want. Fenris was a complication he couldn’t afford and Hawke despised the fact that Fenris got under his skin with a look or a well-aimed word.
Or with the simple act of not moving away.