Rogue!Hawke is the best Hawke :3 Anyways, there's a reason Fenris doesn't say much while in the deep roads. He's just too damn proud, that's all. Unbelievable UST ahead.
It was a mistake, Hawke decided in growing hindsight, to bring Fenris along in to the Deep Roads.
This was not because the man disliked the elf's company—Hawke somehow managed to like Fenris, despite what Varric called 'excessive brooding' and Bethany declared 'an excess of vitriolic humors.' ("Honestly brother, the only person we know with more vitriol in his soul is Uncle Gamlen!") Unlike some of his companions, however, Hawke did not consider Fenris' brooding nature and sharp tongue some sort of crime. It was… unthinkable to the Ferelden.
The elf had come from hardship that they could not imagine; horrors different from the Blight and Darkspawn back in Ferelden. No, Hawke could not fault Fenris for what life had done to him. Neither did the rogue pity the elf. Fenris simply… was who he was. If he was harsh, he was only giving out what he had been given in kind. If he were given the chance to live as a free man, not a survivor, not as a slave on the run, perhaps then the elf would change.
In fact, that had been part of Hawke's initial reasoning behind inviting Fenris along. (Well, that, and a slight attraction to the exotic man from Tevinter.) Not only was the man a capable fighter, but heading underground into the Deep Roads was an opportunity to lay low from any straggling hunters that might be curious about what had happened at Danarius' mansion. Of course, Hawke hadn't mentioned this to Fenris, but the fugitive was no fool. Fenris had been running for a long time now. He knew it was a good idea to get out of Kirkwall for awhile, so he agreed.
Now Hawke was wishing that he had left the other behind.
"You okay Broody?" Varric adjusted his holster for Bianca, glancing over at the elf in question. There was a sharp curse in Arcanum from the dangerously soft voice. Dusky lips pulled back into a feral snarl, revealing a flash of white teeth. Fenris' reply was dripping with all the vehemence and venom he could muster,
"Do you never tire of this question? Ask me that again, Varric, and you will find yourself without a tongue before the day is out." The markings on Fenris' arm lit up, rolling down from his shoulder to a gauntleted hand, and it was uncertain if it was because the elf was imagining reaching into Varric's skull and removing said prize, or if it was in response to a vein of exposed lyrium in the walls. Lesser men (or dwarves) would have flinched and run away from the man, and his snarling tone.
Maker's Breath! How could he have been so flaming stupid! How could five dwarves not have told any of them how sodding stupid it was to bring Fenris underground, where the elf would be exposed to lyrium?
It hadn't afflicted Fenris right away, of course, but the deeper they went, the more lyrium they encountered, and while Fenris said nothing of its effects on him, it was obvious that the exposure did something to him. The elf would sweat, and sometimes light up without warning as the lyrium in his skin sang in response to the ore around them. The elf's temper also ran shorter than ever, eyes dark and damning—as though daring anyoneto accuse him of being weak. Just so he would have the excuse to rip out their heart. Hawke had no idea if this resonance to the raw material was actually painful or merely uncomfortable, and he was not quite brave enough to ask the elf for the details. So far, all the lyrium they had encountered had been in small veins, but it would only get worse. Hawke did not envy Fenris when that time came.
The Ferelden felt terrible. He hadn't realized what a hell he was setting both of them up for, when he'd invited Fenris along.
Varric shifted, pretending to inspect Bianca. Hawke could see that the dwarf felt awful for not thinking of this before hand. Varric had always been a surface dwarf at heart, didn't know a stalactite from a stalagmite, but he still felt that should have thought about all the veins and pools of raw lyrium that they would be encountering. "It was just a question Broody, no need to get your smallclothes in a twist." This was too much for their other companion to resist remarking upon,
"Do you even wear smallclothes Fenris? Those leggings of yours are awfully tight, and I have yet to detect an outline." Isabela's sultry voice joined the conversation, sparing Fenris a far-too appraising glance. Hawke felt his throat go dry and a surge of warmth between his legs at the realization that Maker, Isabela could be right.
Hawke was surprised, at the clarity and consuming heat that accompanied the sudden mental image. He was tracing his eyes over the dull green cloth now, trying to suppress the vivid image of white lyrium against tan legs, and wondering just how far those markings went. He pulled his eyes away from the lean elf's body, and those amazing leggings. Thank Andraste that the elf's tunic went to his thighs. It was amazing that the pirate did not simply disintegrate from the glare that Fenris threw her way.
"Unlike you, wench, some of us go around decently clothed. Yes I wear underclothes." This did not deter Isabela at all.
"Oooh, what color are they? Are they black? Red?" Hawke tried desperately not to think of what might lay underneath Fenris' clothes. What sort of torture had he created for himself?
Isabela had not been invited along. She simply… decided to come, insisting that Bartrand's speech about "virgins, deflowering, and rewards" had made her unable to resist. The pirate woman smirked and spoke wickedly after a moment's silence, "They're not Orlesian lace, are they?"
Hawke wished even more fervently that they had left Isabela behind.
Of course he knew it was impossible, but the thought remained stuck in his mind, a stubborn, immovable image, with another shock of arousal to his loins. White silk against cinnamon skin and transparent lace clinging to those narrow hips, barely hiding—no, straining—to contain the length within. Again, Hawke found himself wondering if the markings also encircled the man's thighs. Were they the same pattern as on his arms?
"Of course they are," Fenris' voice was now dry with sarcasm and contempt, "I spent seventy sovereigns on a single pair of underwear from Orlais." Isabela laughed, and Hawke was thankful for the distraction, chuckling nervously. He was thankful, too, that the angry edge was gone from the elf's voice. He remembered all too well, on that first night they met, how each snarl and defiant outburst sent a tingle to Hawke's groin.
It was hardly fair, Hawke reflected, that the elf should have such an… affect on him. (The rogue was trying to take in discreet, deep breaths, trying to will the sudden erection away.) They barely knew each other, although Hawke couldn't help but fondly recall Fenris' nervous chuckle when he flirted with the other that first night. Flames, what the hell was I thinking? Bringing him along? It was unsettling to Hawke how consuming this obsession was becoming; he had been attracted to others in the past, but never this strongly, never so quickly.
Hawke was thankful when silence settled between his companions. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, however, when he noticed Isabela glancing at him, that saucy smirk resting on her lips. He felt his cheeks burning red. Of course she had noticed. He felt uncomfortable under her stark gaze, tense. Mostly because he was waiting for the woman to start teasing him mercilessly. Whether the Rivani woman had actually been planning on ridiculing him or not, she didn't get the chance.
Hawke had never been so glad to see Darkspawn in his life.