For @dadrunkwriting Friday!

In which Hawke offers Fenris the Book of Shartan, reading lessons, and a piece of her heart, and Fenris just… doesn’t know what to do with all of this. (Angst alert.) Also, Varric is a good friend. 

Part II is planned; will appear in the future. 

Read on AO3 instead.  (It’s a bit long; ~4600 words.)

***************

Fenris sat in the dank study of his mansion, staring resentfully at the rows of moldy books that lined the shelves.

He rarely came into this room, having no use for it. The books might as well be spoiled meat for all the good they were to him, and any other furniture this room had held had long been used for testing his weapons.

He shouldn’t even be here now; staring at the books was only worsening his already-thunderous mood. But Fenris didn’t feel like shaking off his anger today, preferring instead to wallow in it as the late afternoon sun cast its slowly moving shadows across the shelves.

The source of his ire was Anders. Fenris usually just deflected the self-righteous mage’s pointed comments and criticisms; in Fenris’s opinion, Anders was the last person in their little group who should be giving advice on life choices. But for some reason, he just wasn’t able to ignore Anders’s words today.

He’d called Fenris an animal. Accused Fenris of reacting to threats in the thoughtless and instinctive manner of a rabid dog, and then of being no better than a rabid dog for all the lack of changes he’d made during his time in Kirkwall.

“We’ve all been here for years, and you’re just as pissed off as you were when you first stumbled upon us,” Anders railed. “You haven’t tried to make anything of yourself in all this time. All you do is brood in your mansion or complain at Hawke while you follow us around! At least some of us are trying to change things for the better here.”

“Ah, yes. And your so-called ‘spirit companion’ threatening that girl in the Gallows Dungeon really improves the state of affairs in this blasted city,” Fenris snarled.

Predictably, the conversation had devolved into a furious shouting match which Varric had watched with raised eyebrows and folded arms until Hawke had sauntered out of the Chantry and broken it up with a joke. Fenris has promptly taken his leave, unable to stand another second in the miserable maleficar’s company.

In some ways, it was good. The normalcy of Anders’ blind idiocy was almost a comfort. Fenris would have hated it more if Anders was – ugh – sympathetic in the wake of his and Hawke’s… split, or break-up, or whatever one would call it when something promising ended before it had even begun. But Fenris couldn’t seem to rein in his rage as much as he used to when he and Hawke had been… whatever they were before.

The most aggravating part was that Anders’s words held a kernel of truth. Fenris sat in this stagnant mansion night after night, and it felt like he was stagnating along with the abandoned walls around him. Everything in his life seemed stalled somehow: he was stuck looking over his shoulder for the next attack from Danarius’s men, and he was lingering in this odd and aching imitation of friendship with Hawke, and meanwhile Hadriana’s information about his sister sat unused and untouched at the back of his mind. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t acted in some way on the information about Varania. Was it mistrust? Caution? Or worse, cowardice?

His rumination was interrupted by a brisk rapping at the door. Fenris rose wearily to his feet and trudged to the main entryway.

It was Hawke, her bronze eyes as bright as her smile. She was holding something rectangular in her hands, and as soon as he opened the door, she thrust it towards him. “Look what I found!” she chirped, then strode into his foyer.

He studied the item. “It’s… a book,” he said blankly.

“You are correct, sir! Ten silvers to the handsome elf in the front row!” She planted her hand on her hip, looking very pleased indeed. “It’s by Shartan! You know, the elf who helped Andraste free the slaves-”

Fenris cut her off. “I know who he is,” he snapped. “What do you take me for?”

Her face fell slightly, and Fenris immediately wanted to punch himself. This was why he shouldn’t be sitting here stewing self-indulgently in his own rage; it was spilling over like soup in an overfilled tureen and burning the one person who deserved it the least.

He took a deep breath. “I know of Shartan,” he said more calmly. “I certainly didn’t learn from books, though. You think they teach slaves to read?”

He was grateful when Hawke ignored the sharpness of his tone this time. “I know you can’t read it,” she said. “But I thought maybe you’d like to learn! I helped my parents to teach Bethany and Carver, so I’m – well, not qualified, but I’m not as stupid as I look, I promise you that.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I bet you’ll pick it up much faster than Carver,” she added. “Even when we were kids, he never was the sharpest nail in the box.”

“So that’s what this is? Let’s teach the poor slave to read?” Fenris snapped. The book was heavy in his hands, another reminder of how he was wasting his freedom. For over three years he’d lived in a mansion full of books, and he remained as ignorant of their contents as the day he’d first claimed this blasted house.

Ignorant. Instinct rather than intellect, anger rather than reason, a rabid wolf just waiting for his master to arrive so he could bite him clean through to the bone.

Hawke’s cautious voice broke through the blackness of his thoughts. “Fenris, that’s not… You haven’t been a slave for years.”

“And?” he retorted. He gestured emphatically with the book in his hand. “Have I not been learning your ways quickly enough to suit you? Am I not civilized enough for your liking? Is that it?”

“No! That’s ridic- Why would you…” Hawke trailed off with a frown, then tilted her head. “What in the bloody Void did Anders say to you? Something tells me he needs a good roughing-up. I could get some of Athenril’s people to make it look like a slip-and-fall.”

Fenris exhaled slowly and ran his fingers through his hair. He was being too transparent, too open with his anger, and it wasn’t even meant for her. Why she always got stuck bearing the brunt of it… “It was nothing. Ignore me,” he muttered. “You are not responsible for my deficiencies.” With some difficulty, he met her eyes. “I do appreciate your gift,” he added in a gentler tone.

Hawke’s frown deepened. “What deficiencies?” she said. “What do you mean by that?”

He stared her blankly for a moment, then with a jolt of horror, he realized what he’d said. “I… n-nothing,” he snapped, feeling put uncomfortably on the spot. This whole conversation seemed to be slipping away from his control, unwittingly giving her access to exactly what he’d meant to keep to himself: his shortcomings, his failings and the things he lacked. “I misspoke,” he insisted. “A slip of the tongue. I meant nothing by it.”

She raised one eyebrow, but her expression was otherwise serious. “You don’t have any deficiencies,” she said, as though stating the obvious. “I mean, not more than the rest of us. I really do think you’d learn to read quite fast. You’re the second smartest person I know, after Varric.”

“Thank you. I think,” he drawled sarcastically.

She punched him chidingly in the arm. “I mean it. You’re thoughtful, your vocabulary is bigger than mine, you’re a fast learner – at least with weapons and combat stuff. And you speak three languages, which is more than most of us can say.”

By the time she’d finished, Fenris’s ears were positively burning. He couldn’t look her in the eye. He couldn’t. Her words were a balm and a poison, a reassurance he couldn’t accept, because if he accepted it, that would mean letting her in and letting her see, and that had gone so disastrously before –

“Come on, Fenris. Give it a chance,” she said, in that sweet and honeyed voice of hers. “Honestly, you’ll probably be reading rings around me in a couple months. And hey, once you learn to read, you can read Anders’s manifesto and pick him apart that much more effectively.”

“I thought you agreed with his manifesto,” Fenris muttered. He was stalling and he knew it, but he needed time to think about her offer.

“I agree with parts of it. But think how much more argument material you’ll have once you can read it for yourself!” She tilted her head and smiled wistfully. “I can already picture all the bottles of brandy I’ll drink while listening to the two of you screaming well-informed political rhetoric at each other. It’s like a beautiful wet dream.”

A small snort of laughter escaped him. Trust Hawke to drag him from his dark thoughts and straight into the gutter.

Finally he shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to learn more of Shartan,” he said slowly. “Perhaps this is my chance.”

She grinned slowly. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Yes. Fine. You can teach me.” He offered her a half-smile.

She clapped her hands and did a happy little hop that would have made Merrill proud. “Yes!” she chirped. “We’ll get started tomorrow.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Not today?” he asked. Given her bubbly enthusiasm, he was surprised she wasn’t dragging him over to the table by his ear right now.

She shook her head. “I need some things from home,” she said as she reached for the doorknob. “And to make sure I remember how to, you know, teach this to someone.”

Fenris grunted. “I thought you said you were qualified.”

“Wrong,” she sang. “I said I wasn’t as stupid as I look. You, however, will get to be the judge of that!” She winked at him, then slipped out the door.

Fenris smirked and closed the door behind her. He idly ran a hand through his hair as he looked around the mansion. The quiet darkness was restored now in the wake of Hawke’s departure, but it somehow felt less dour than before.

He cast a glance toward the study with its daunting collection of books. He wasn’t entirely convinced that learning to read would be as easy as Hawke was promising, but… well, he was willing to try.

After three years of stagnating, it was something he could do.

*********************  

The first few reading lessons went well enough. Hawke taught Fenris the runic alphabet and the sounds each letter made, and Fenris was secretly pleased with himself when he mastered them in less than a week. Hawke then taught him to put the letters together to sound out the words, giving him slips of parchment with individual words to practice with. That went all right as well, though it made him somewhat uncomfortable to have her watching him as he laboriously read the words out loud.

Then came the day when she sat beside him at the table in her games room and plopped an open book in front of him. “Now read this,” she said, “and I’ll correct any mistakes you make.”

Fenris stared at the page. Sounding out and blending together a few letters at a time was one thing. Picking apart and making sense of the wall of text in front of him was quite another.

He frowned at the book and gestured vaguely at it. “How…?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Sorry. You start up here,” she pointed to the upper left corner of the page, “and you read the lines from left to right. Then keep going on the next line down.”

Fenris pursed his lips. Then he began reading the first line.

It took forever, and Hawke had to correct him at least five times. He was forced to trace the letters with his finger so as not to lose his place. At the end of the line, he released a long exhale, totally uncertain of his success, then looked at Hawke.

She was beaming at him, looking absolutely delighted, and Fenris cleared his throat awkwardly. That odd discomfort was writhing in his belly, making him feel vaguely irritated.

He scowled at the page. “I… I don’t remember what I just read,” he admitted grudgingly.

“That’s normal,” Hawke assured him. “Focus on reading the words accurately. It becomes automatic with practice, and then you’ll be able to focus on the meaning instead of the sounds.” She pointed to the next line. “Read the rest of this paragraph, it’s just two more lines. Then go back and read the whole thing again. It’ll be easier the second time.”

“This is tedious,” he muttered.

She barked out a laugh and propped her bare feet up on the table as she always did. “Isn’t everything, though? I wish I could just be good at things without practicing. Like that whole knife-throwing lark.”

Fenris shot her a tiny smirk. “I did notice you never came back for another lesson.”

She smirked back at him. “That’s because I’m lazy,” she said. She tapped the book. “But you won’t give this up. You’ll learn this much more easily than I could learn to throw knives.”

He rolled his eyes. “You flatter me, Hawke,” he drawled.

“I’m really not,” she said, and Fenris sobered at her warm but serious tone. “I don’t give idle compliments. Okay, fine, I do,” she amended with a grin when Fenris shot her a sardonic look. “But I’m not now. This is well within your reach, Fenris.”

He studied her serious face in silence for a moment, still feeling that vibrating sense of discomfiture in his gut. Hawke was so convinced of his ability to do this. All these lessons she’d given him, the time she’d spent teaching him – she was being so patient and kind. It was… strange.

It was a side of Hawke he wasn’t used to seeing. Not to say she was unkind by any means, but the motivation for her helpful deeds tended to err on the side of necessity or obligation rather than true altruism. And she could be so damned impulsive at times, to the point that it was almost slapstick; patience wasn’t usually her forte, at least not in the field. But during these lessons with him, she was so generous with her time. So… benevolent.

Another wave of defensiveness made his shoulders feel tense. She wasn’t being condescending; it wasn’t that. So why was her gentle attention making him feel so discomfited?

He cleared his throat, then turned his attention back to the book. He struggled his way through the next two lines with Hawke’s help, then risked another glance at her.

Her cheek was propped on her fist, her dimples emphasized by the sweet little smile on her lips. He stared at her for a moment, discomfort rising through his gut and into his throat until suddenly –

“Why must you look at me like that?” he demanded.

Her smile disappeared, and she lifted her cheek from her fist. “Like what?”

As though you love me, he thought with a surge of agonizing realization. The affection and the pride in her face were so transparently obvious. But Fenris didn’t want this kind of protective tenderness from Hawke. He didn’t know how to react to that look on her face. He didn’t know how to cope with this sweetly aching feeling her expression was giving him.

The sudden anguish took him by surprise. Regret and guilt, a hot and painful longing for her, all wrapped up in an instinctive urge to back away from her and raise a wall between them –

He returned his gaze to the book, rubbing his thumb idly on the page. “You’re looking at me as though I am some… small child who has learned to tie their boots,” he finally muttered. “I am not a child. Do not coddle me.”

“I’m not-” She broke off, then tried again with a smile. “Trust me, the thoughts I have about you have nothing to do with children. Adults only in this dirty mind, please.”

Her voice was light and humorous, but Fenris knew how serious she was, and that only made it worse. His gaze drifted from the runes on the page to the red scarf she’d tied around his wrist. The promise she’d made, telling him she would wait until he was ready. This evidence of her patience that he stroked every night before falling asleep and studied every morning when he opened his eyes.

But Fenris’s corruption went too deep, far deeper than the white lines that marked his skin. The anger, the lacune where his memories should be, the distance he maintained from her even though he wanted nothing more than to draw her close…

It was too much. All of it was too much, and he was not enough. Hawke might be patient, but her patience was not going to pay off.

Meanwhile, Hawke was still talking. “This is the only way I know how to teach this,” she said apologetically. “I’m not treating you as a child, I swear. I’d teach anyone to do this in the same way.”

Fenris swallowed hard, then stood from the table. “I’ve had enough.”

“Oh,” Hawke said blankly. “Um. All right, are – are you coming back tomorrow?” she asked.

The hopeful note in her voice was another arrow to his already-aching chest. “Perhaps,” he said, then left her mansion as swiftly as he could without running.

He was running, though, and he knew it. Running and hiding were the two things Fenris did best. Not to forget biting the hand that reached so openly for his heart.

Maybe he was a rabid wolf after all.

****************

Later that night, Fenris stepped into the Hanged Man. He noticed that Isabela wasn’t there, and he was glad; as much as he usually appreciated her lighthearted company, he was really here to speak to Varric. He already knew Isabela’s opinion on his… circumstances with Hawke, and the pirate captain’s salacious bias was quite clear. But Varric was a more neutral party, and Fenris just wanted…

To be frank, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. But now that he was here, he might as well proceed.

He headed for the rear of the tavern, but just before he stepped into Varric’s suite, he realized that Varric wasn’t alone.

“… thought it was going so well, you know? He’s got a damned good brain under that gorgeous mop of white hair. And then… I don’t know. I guess I messed it up. Rynne strikes again with her big mouth.”

Hawke. Fenris’s heart stopped for a split second. He melted into the shadows in the corridor before he could see or be seen by either Varric or Hawke.

Varric replied before Fenris could slip back down the stairs. “What exactly did you say?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it must have been something. I put my foot in my mouth so often, it’s a miracle I can even walk anywhere. Maybe Aveline’s foot up my ass makes up for the one that’s always wedged in my mouth.”

Varric chortled. “As entertaining as this metaphor is, it’s getting way out of hand.”

Hawke laughed as well, then sighed. “Varric, why does he hate me?”

Fenris’s stomach sank with dismay. Was that really what she thought?

“He doesn’t hate you,” Varric replied in exasperation. “You’re being melodramatic. He’s just-”

“I know, I know. I don’t really mean it,” Hawke said hurriedly, and they were silent for a moment.

Fenris’s gut writhed with guilt. He shouldn’t be hearing this. He took another step back toward the stairs, but when Varric spoke again, the temptation to listen was too great.

“I know you’re biding your time or whatever. But what happens if the broody elf just… doesn’t stop brooding?”

“I’m not giving up, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hawke said firmly. “I can’t. I’m wrapped around his lyrium-laced little finger. And what strong and handsome fingers they are.”

Varric groaned in disgust, and Hawke chuckled. There was a soft creaking sound as though she was rolling over on Varric’s bed, then she spoke again. “I think he just needs time. I can give him that. I’ve got nothing but time. I’m practically made of time!”

Varric cleared his throat delicately. “I’m pretty sure the Viscount would disagree. I think he’s still hoping you’ll magically fix this whole Qunari-squatting-on-the-docks-and-converting-the-citizens situation.”

“Oh. Right. That,” Hawke said slowly. “I guess we are due for a friendly chat with the Arishok.” She sighed. “We’ll go tomorrow. I don’t know how everyone expects me to help, though. I’m the worst possible diplomat.”

Varric huffed with amusement, and they were quiet again for a moment. Then, while Fenris was agonizing over whether to knock and announce his presence or just sneak back down the stairs, Varric’s voice broke the silence. “Hawke, can I ask you something?”

Her tone was cheeky when she replied. “The answer is yes, Varric, you do need to trim your chest hair. Quite frankly, it’s getting out of hand. Isabela’s ovaries don’t quite know what to do with themselves.”  

Varric snickered, and despite his agitation, Fenris smirked as well. “Thanks,” Varric drawled. “That clears things up. But seriously. What’s the deal with you and Fenris? You in love with him, or…?”

A prickle of horrified guilt ran from the crown of Fenris’s head down his spine, and he bolted silently for the stairs before he could hear Hawke’s reply. That was definitely too much to hear – he had no right. And he really didn’t want to know her answer.

He sat hunched in the darkest corner of the main room until Hawke’s lovely dark-haired silhouette left the tavern, then made his way to Varric’s suite and cautiously poked his head in. “Varric,” he grunted.

The dwarf looked up, his booted feet propped on the table in a posture very reminiscent of Hawke’s usual lounging pose. “Hey, elf,” he greeted. “Come on in.”

Fenris slowly entered the suite and sat at the table, and Varric wasted no time diving into his comfort zone.  “So,” he said. “How much of that conversation did you overhear?”

Fenris scowled shamefacedly at his hands. Of course Varric had known he was there. “Not all of it,” he muttered. He shot Varric a furtive sidelong glance. “Did Hawke know I was…?”

“Nah,” Varric said airily. “No way I’d mention that. I mean, I like making fun of her as much as the next guy, but not about this kind of shit. That’s way too far.”

Fenris grunted an acknowledgement. Both men were silent for a moment.

Then Fenris tugged his ear. “I am… I am being an ass,” he admitted. “I do not hate her.” Quite the opposite, he thought, with a surge of regret.

Varric waited quietly while Fenris struggled to find his next words. “I don’t want her pity,” he finally said. “That is the last thing I want.”

But that wasn’t really what he meant. That made it sound like this whole horrible impasse was Hawke’s fault, when nothing could be farther from the truth.

He slumped back in his chair in frustration, and finally Varric spoke. “You’re the only one who sees yourself as a charity case,” the dwarf said bluntly. Then he waved a hand at Fenris’s lyrium-stained chin and neck. “You define yourself by these weird tattoos. It’s up to you if that’s all you’re ever going to be.”

Fenris scowled. It was the you-need-to-move-on speech yet again. He kept hearing variants of this: first from Hawke with her incessant optimism, then Anders with his sanctimonious blathering, and now Varric. Fenris hated hearing these words, and not only because he knew they were true.

It wasn’t enough to acknowledge the truth. He had to act on it if he wanted to break free of his past, and be reunited with his sister, and become somebody who was whole and undamaged and… ready.

But taking action was the hardest part.

Fenris glared at Varric, but the dwarf just gazed back at him undaunted until Fenris relaxed his shoulders and sighed. “Wise words,” Fenris said snarkily. “You should write a book.”

Varric lifted his hands graciously. “What can I say, I’ve got a gift.”

Fenris gave him a small smirk, and Varric settled back in his chair. “So. You going to continue the reading lessons or what?”

Fenris shrugged, feeling rather melancholy. Now that Hawke had planted the idea of literacy in his mind, he was actually quite keen to continue. But learning to read with her, sitting so close to her night after night with her glowing smile and her glowing amber eyes…

“I’m not sure,” he said finally. The idea was tempting, but Fenris feared that he wanted it for the wrong reasons. He toyed idly with the ends of Hawke’s red scarf as he mulled it over.

“I guess I could teach you,” Varric offered. “If your, uh, other arrangement doesn’t work out.”

Fenris bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I… appreciate the thought. I will consider it,” he said. “But for now…” He hesitated. A small idea had taken root in his brain, and maybe it was a stupid one – he’d barely just learned his letters, how could he be considering this already? But Hawke did it, and if it was good enough for her…

He turned to Varric. “Can I borrow a plume? And some ink and parchment?”

Varric raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sure,” he said. He smirked. “You gonna write her a ballad?”

Fenris snorted. “Of course not,” he said scornfully. “I must practice the alphabet. I don’t want to forget the little that I have managed to learn.”

Varric shrugged, easily accepting the excuse. “Fair enough,” he said, then rose from the table and went to fetch the supplies.

While Varric was rummaging, Fenris considered his burgeoning idea. Being around Hawke for too long was difficult now, and Fenris felt like he was either biting or tripping over his tongue in an attempt to quell his furiously spinning emotions. Talking about this with anyone but Varric was out of the question, but even telling Varric felt like too much exposure.

So Fenris would write it all out.

He’d seen Hawke doing this: writing in a journal sometimes, her hand flying across the page as she wrote about her day. Fenris hadn’t really understood it, but now…

Now, he spent too much time thinking about Hawke, and it hurt. He’d think about her childish pranks and her lewd jokes and how they cheered him up. He’d think about her unequivocal support, her patient teaching, the promise she’d tied around his wrist and the belief she had that he could be more than he was.

He’d think about her, and it would hurt, and he would push away from her to escape it, spreading that pain where it wasn’t warranted. But if he wrote it out instead, poured the poison into parchment and stuffed it under his bed, maybe it would be contained.

Varric handed him the supplies, and after a quick negotiation about the time and date of their next diamondback game, Fenris left the Hanged Man.

He knew the first thing he was going to try to write when he got home. He would start with something simple, something he’d known since their one shining ill-fated night. Something he’d failed to tell her then and couldn’t tell her now.

You are the one good thing in my life.