41 for fenhawke?
“Show me your scars.” “But… why?” “I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there.” Took the opportunity for a bit of a modern gangster AU.
He says little as they drive. Sitting in the back, one leg crossed over the other, an elbow resting against the window. Mouth against knuckles, studying the passing lights. One after the other, underneath streetlamps. He says little so she says nothing, hands on the steering wheel, checking the mirror. A careful left, turning off the headlights as they move down the alleyway. Crawling to a halt, and the other cars behind them do the same. She opens the door for him, closes it once he’s out. He holds a gun in one hand, other arm in a sling. She reaches for the gun at her belt.
He allows her to lead the way, following behind her, the rest of them like a circle around him. Another opens the door, and she walks through – two quick shots, silenced, catching the bullets and the body, lowering it slowly to the floor. He steps over it as he follows her. They clear the building room by room, and there’s blood on her suit, flecks on white. The last room is louder. She kicks the door open and the rest flood in, she close behind.
Throwing over the table for cover, taking a quick look at those in the room. Two to her left, three on the right. He checks his watch as he waits outside the room. She’s breathing heavy two minutes and thirty nine seconds later, gun in her belt, running a hand through her hair. “We’re ready for you sir,” she tells him. Pushing himself away from the wall, entering the room, and his finger is tapping at the trigger. The one they’ve left alive is sitting on a chair, guarded with hands on shoulders.
“Hadriana,” he says as she pulls up another chair for him, and he takes it, “bold of you to try and kill me.” He gestures at the arm in the sling. Hadriana has blood on her face, but he can’t tell if it’s hers or not. It paints the side of her head, drips around her neck looking not unlike a noose. He lets his elbow rest on his knee as he taps the gun against Hadriana’s knee. She’s glaring at him, lips pursed, a sheen of sweat covering her skin.
“It almost worked,” she spits. At his side, Hawke subtly flinches. A twitch of her brow, nothing more, remembering the failure. Fenris leans back in the chair, chuckles under his breath. This sudden amusement seems to frighten Hadriana more than his anger, and she trembles where she sits. He raises the gun, smiling as he levels it with her head. The others dig fingers into flesh, hold her steady. “Wait! Please! I can tell you where he is, I can give you –”
“I don’t want anything of yours.” The flash is quick, the gun loud.
He says little as they drive. Sitting in the back, one leg crossed over the other and he’s loosening his tie. Light against glass, one after the other, underneath streetlamps. Fenris says little so she says nothing, hands on the steering wheel, pulling up to the building. Hawke opens the door for him, closes it once he’s out. “Come with me,” he says without looking at her. They ride the elevator in silence, stopping at his floor. He passes her the keys, and she unlocks the door. Locking it behind them, and she stands at attention, hands clasped behind her back.
“How long have you been working for me Hawke?” He opens the bottle with one hand, pours a small amount of amber liquid into the glass. He downs it quickly as he leans against the desk, watching as she moves to stand before him. Her hands are still behind her back, and the gun in her belt.
“Seven months, sir.” He puts the glass down on the table.
“I told you not to call me that,” Fenris says, “come help me out of this.”
“Yes sir,” and he scoffs as she moves forward, careful hands at the sling. Putting it on the table as she undoes the button of his suit, gently removes the jacket. Swiftly at his tie, folding it over the jacket, and onto the button down. Button after button, and he remains at ease as she goes. He reaches upwards with his good arm, warm hand at the back of her nape. Pulling her face down, capturing her lips with his. She steps into the kiss as the shirt falls onto the desk, her hands moving over his shoulders, his arms.
She stops when she finds the bandage, the cause of the sling, and frowns. He watches her carefully. “May I look?” She asks. He shrugs. At the metal clasp, rolling the bandage in her hands as she goes. She brushes fingers over the healing scar, the angry red.
“Why did you want to see?” She looks up as his question, as his other hand pulls at her waist.
“I should have protected you, sir. You needed me and I –”
“Ran after the shooter. Interrogated him. Brought me the right information. Allowed for my retribution,” he tells her. “Stop calling me sir.” She keeps her hand over his arm, and that mark, the other at his face. Thumb over cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw.
“Yes sir,” she smiles against him, swallows his noise of frustration.