how am I so bad at inboxing, seriously, how, because this is from THREE MONTHS AGO. Anon who sent this, I am just absolutely the worst and I am so sorry I never posted it. It’s wrecked my heart all over again rereading it, if that’s any consolation, and you are far, far too good for someone the likes of me who can’t even answer asks in a reasonable time frame.
Seriously, you’re the best.
March 31st 2015, 10:21 pm · 3 months ago
He knew he was a bitter man. Hawke, however, sees more than these
things. She remembers the new days of their acquaintance, when they’d
pass through towns and he’d see children or families. Her companions
would speak of what they saw, but Fenris said nothing. He just looked
on, eyes caught for just one second between a gentle happiness and a
desperate, aching sadness. There had also been times when (to her shame)
she’d had far too much to drink.
And though there would be dryer-than-dry words for her the whole way
home, his hand would be around her arm or her shoulder with care,
catching every time she stumbled, careful not to pinch her with his
gauntlets or hold her too tight even as he kept her from falling. And
once time, just once, he found her crying. She’d had the old toy of a
dead sibling in her hand, was startled at him finding her. They’d had
much to sort out between them still, their days as lovers barely
numbering a month.
He’d been by her side within the blink of an eye, hand around her wrist,
sure but gentle. “Hawke.” Embarrassed, unable to run, she’d thought
that maybe hiding her face was the best decision. “Hawke,” he’d said
again, in the firm way all lovers did when they insisted but cared
beyond measure. Fingers lifted her tear-stained face. “I miss—” She
couldn’t even say the name. She didn’t have to before arms were around
her, a hand cradling her head as she pressed her cheek to his shoulder
He had no memory of a sibling, no memory of a father, barely of a
mother. But not once did he pull away as she recounted the memories.
Surely part of him had wondered. Maybe a part of him, unable to recount
anything, was a willing participant in such grief if only to be able to
experience it. Regardless, there is no ire from him even as the hours
wear on. And at the end of the evening when she gently refuses his offer
for him to stay, he parts with a kiss to her forehead.