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Frigid, slender fingers tightened around his throat, marks burning a violent blue glow into his retinas. For a harrowing moment, Garrett Hawke had never been more certain he was within inches of his promised reunion with the Maker. A second, glowing fist launched toward his chest, ready to punch a hole between his ribs. Choking, Hawke barely managed to shoot out a hand, magic crackling under his skin, pump an unintentional Dispel Magic spell into taut, trembling flesh as his callused fingers wrapped around Fenris’ wrist and held fast.
Magic had been the unfortunate cause of this altercation, and he doubted the addition of yet more magic would de-escalate the situation.
He watched helplessly, big brown eyes gazing apologetically as the markings on Fenris’ arm and hand momentarily ceased glowing from the effect of the spell. That was two boundary violations he was going to have to atone for.
“Fenris!” He tried to call out, his free hand trying in vain to loosen the grip crushing into his windpipe. “Love, please. It’s just me!”
It had been three days since anyone had seen or heard from Fenris. He hadn’t shown up to Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man, and knocks on the mansion door had gone unanswered. The rest of their merry band hadn’t seemed overly concerned. After all, Fenris was prone to bouts of brooding and preferring isolation. And, after their ill-advised night together, a night Hawke never could bring himself to regret despite how it had left them, he didn’t think himself the appropriate person to check in. The last thing he wanted to do was violate Fenris’ boundaries any further. He considered himself lucky Fenris still spent time with them at all, let alone still spoke to him, still wore his red favor around the wrist.
But, by the third day, his resolve had all but crumbled to dust. Each time he had passed the stairs leading to Fenris’ Hightown manor, he felt a gnawing sensation in his gut that something wasn’t right.
He had made another attempt that day to call on Fenris at his home, but his knocks and shouts had led to nothing but confused and mildly irritated neighbors, many of whom had poked their heads out their doors to see who or what was making such a scene. Hawke knew Fenris well enough to expect he would have been so mortified by the racket that he would finally come to the door to drag Hawke inside and read him the riot act. That he wasn’t, that the door remained stoically and silently shut, raised another alarm bell in the Champion’s mind.
Force magic he only ever used to fight had been repurposed, then, to rattle one of the windows of the dilapidated manor. Glass shattering had granted him entry. He’d help Fenris patch it up—hells, he would pay for a new one if that’s what was asked. As long as he found Fenris safe, that’s what mattered.
The pointed silence that had followed the shattering of glass, and the cold darkness that faced him through the open window, had raised a primal panic he hadn’t felt since that ogre in Lothering had grabbed Bethany.
The hearths, usually bright and inviting, had long burned out, smoldering in the chimneys and leaving the mansion just as frigid on the inside as it was in the early Kirkwall winter outside the walls. Hawke shivered, drawing his cloak closer around him. By all rights, it looked like Fenris had left in the night without a word.
It would be just as well, and exactly what Hawke deserved.
Unwilling to quit while he was ahead, before he had a certain answer, Hawke had pressed on deeper into the mansion, calling Fenris’ name into the frozen darkness.
The pathetic whimper that had answered his call was a sound he would never forget.
Hawke had found Fenris on the floor of one of the drafty upper rooms of the mansion, curled up on a makeshift pallet in front of the dead embers of a fire, trembling violently and twitching in restless sleep. He was pale, the life and color drained from his face but for the splotches of dark red on his cheeks. That ruddiness, combined with the sweat beading on his brow and the heat radiating from his body, told Hawke something more sinister, more dangerous, had transpired.
The closer he had drawn to the improvised bed, the more panic lanced his middle as he realized Fenris’ chest was barely moving, breaths shallow and thready.
Prone as he was to acting without thinking, Hawke dropped to his knees beside the shaking figure of his barely-clinging-to-life friend and began pumping Healing magic into him.
“Come on,” he muttered desperately, laying a hand on Fenris’ stuttering chest. “Don’t do this to me, love. Open your—”
He had only just registered the magnitude of his mistake when green, unseeing eyes flew open as though on his request, and a glowing hand shot out from under the blankets at inhuman speed to grip his throat.
Hawke choked again, his attempts to pry Fenris’ fingers away from his throat proving futile. Dark spots danced in his periphery, threatening to overtake his vision. He struggled to maintain his weak grip on Fenris’ favor-wrapped wrist in fear that letting go would spell the end for them both.
Then, as quickly as he had felt the crushing weight on his trachea, he felt a tiny, merciful whisper of breath enter his lungs. Daring to hope, Hawke dragged his gaze toward Fenris’ expression.
Awareness, sluggish as it was, returned to Fenris’ fever-bright, formerly unseeing eyes. The panic that had caused Fenris to launch off the pallet and attack seemed to be subsiding, and his grip had loosened just slightly.
Then, as quickly as it had seemed to come to him, all strength seemed to leave. Fenris went limp like a snapped bowstring, his hand slipping off Hawke’s neck.
With dexterity he didn’t know he had, Hawke lurched forward, catching Fenris and resisting the urge to pull him in close. Instead, remembering the lesson he had just been taught the hard way, he lowered Fenris back down onto the pallet, gently as he could manage.
“Hawke?” The word was barely a whisper; had the fire been going like it should have been, Hawke was certain he would have missed it.
“Yes, it’s just me,” Hawke said, sighing with relief. “Are you back with me?”
Fenris swallowed hard. It looked like it hurt.
“Wh’t… happened?”
“I was sort of hoping you could tell me,” Hawke responded, covering the cold hand Fenris had just used to choke him with his significantly larger and warmer one. “It’s been three days. Nobody’d seen or heard from you. I got… worried.”
“Mmnh,” Fenris groaned noncommittally. His gaze was still fixed on his hand, now covered by Hawke’s.
A long moment passed between them in silence, Hawke wound tight and eager to act. He felt useless, sitting here, barely able to offer a shred of comfort. He wanted to be helpful, to stoke the fire, to find a potion or some other kind of medicine before Fenris could get any worse, to do something with his hands when he knew holding the other man was out of the question.
Fenris’ voice startled him out of the silence: “I hurt you.” It wasn’t a question.
“My fault,” Hawke assured him quickly. “I shouldn’t have tried to heal you with magic when you weren’t expecting—”
“Could’ve… could… have killed you,” Fenris rasped, cutting him off. He chanced a pained glance at his free hand and then at Hawke’s throat.
Hawke was nearly certain there would be a bruise there in the exact shape and size of Fenris’ fingers come morning.
He could think of worse battle scars he’d worn with less pride.
“But you didn’t,” Hawke said, his tone light. “And if you had… I’ve had it coming a long time anyway.” The withering look he received told him Fenris was not in the mood for his lighthearted banter, though it was far less intimidating when Fenris looked ready to keel over at any moment.
“I’m afraid… ‘ve come down with something,” Fenris said, as though he were offering brand new information. He stared into space so long, Hawke almost believed he had fallen asleep until he spoke again. “I… apologize. For… everything.”
Hawke burst out laughing, nervous energy exiting his body in a most inappropriate and undignified way.
“You think?” He teased, daring to flex his fingers and squeeze Fenris’ hand affectionately. “No apologies needed. Given how badly you must be feeling, I’d say you earned the right to lash out on someone breaking in.”
“You broke in?” Fenris growled. “Fenhedis, Hawke!” But there was no bite behind it. It could have been exhaustion or the fever, but to Hawke, it was the barest hint that Fenris would eventually be willing to forgive him.
“Add it to my growing list of charges,” he agreed. “For right now… what do you say we get the fires going again, and get a potion or two in you?”
The pleasant squeeze to his hand in response was a welcome contrast to what had come before.
But, this time (as with every time after), Hawke did still wait for verbal consent before proceeding.