ᴀᴍᴀʀᴀɴᴛʜ

I.



Isabela would point out the obvious, he thinks, when she deems to snicker near his ear as she makes a passing comment about their leader's backside. "Don't scowl so, sweet thing," she practically purrs, and Fenris hates the shiver that dances up his spine. "I'm only speaking the truth."

With a roll of his eyes, he looks back at her. "I am not oggling Hawke," he grumbles.

"Oh, come on. Who isn't oggling her? Look at those fantastic hips." He does not, in fact, look at those (admittedly) fantastic hips. Just like he doesn't look at Isabela's as she skips ahead to drape an arm around the mage's waist and tug Hawke along with her. He frowns at her back as she walks, knowing full well that the smirk she flings at him from over her shoulder is a warning for more to come.

Varric chuckles beside him and Fenris huffs out a breath. "I didn't ask for your opinion, dwarf."

"You never have to, broody."

Ugh. Rogues.





II.



"So, Fenris," Isabela drawls, golden gaze fixing on her partner across the table.

Hawke eyes her from over the rim of her tankard, one eyebrow raised. "What about him?"

The pirate settles her arms on the table, propping her bosom up just so, daring Marian to slide her gaze downwards. When she doesn't fall for the ruse, Isabela tsks beneath her breath. "You know what. Those eyes, that physique. Those markings..."

"Those markings hurt him, 'bela," Hawke points out. "I don't think he considers them assets."

"You're even starting to sound like him," she tuts right back. "Come on, sweet thing. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it." Who wouldn't want to go for a romp with someone like Fenris? Give the man a little bit of liquor, ignore the cold exterior, and he's probably perfect. Loyal, strong, graceful... He's everything any typical woman would want.

A woman like Hawke, perhaps.

Marian touches the tip of her knuckle to the bottom of Isabela's chin, getting her attention. She smiles. "Why would I when I have you?"

Isabela smirks, grabbing her partner's wrist and tugging her up from the table. "Everyone has fantasies, you know," she whispers silkily, arm wrapping around Hawke's waist.

And when you realize you don't want a pirate, I want to know that you'll be happy.

Lips crush together, impossible to tell who initiated first, and then it's just a tangle of hands and smiles as they work their way upstairs and to the bedroom, where they know they won't be disturbed.




III.



Fenris' brands do not awaken under Hawke's touch, as much as he expects them to. He can feel the prickle of their power beneath her hands just as surely as he can feel the instinct to flinch away, but this is a practice they go through often enough that he's learned to hold still and let her work. Her hands are warm, barely touching his body as she works her magic over the wounds in his side. Skin and muscle knit together beneath her magic, the kinder side of the curse that mages have. Even still, every pass of warmth reminds him of crueler times, of a hand that offered false care and harsher punishments. Each time her magic touches him, his body waits for the inevitable backlash of power, for pain he knows will surely come.

Time and time again, she proves him wrong.

"There, that's good," she says, withdrawing. Pain has given way to a dull ache and there are still marks on his skin as Hawke pulls out a health potion and hands it to him. "This will fix the rest."

"Thank you," he says, his tone muted behind the lip of the bottle she's given him. With a nod, she settles near his side in the alleyway, shadows keeping their location hidden for the moment. The moon has slipped behind the clouds, small aid at a time like this.

Hawke smiles when she speaks but he can see there's no mirth behind it. "I'm sorry you always seem to get hurt when we're out at night. I swear I'm not cursed." It's a mild joke, one that doesn't bring laughter from either of them.

"I blame the fools of this city, not you," he says and it's the truth. "You cannot help the idiocy of those who believe every person who passes through Lowtown and Hightown should be beaten and robbed." He shakes his head. "But perhaps one day you will not be so quick to leap into an argument that isn't your own?"

She laughs and stands, turning to offer him her hand. "Do you really think that will happen, Fenris?"

His smile is brief and wry but, Maker, does it make her heart ache. He takes her hand. "Not a chance."