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drabbles
These drabbles are simply short stories surrounding the headcanon I have for Fenris. Hawke switches between male and female, so do not take these as things that are included in the history of Fenris wherever I play him - they just explore his personality and let me practice with the voice.
01
She brings him a proper meal once a week, despite his insistent protests that he can make his own food. Each time she visits he makes a grudging show of opening the door, and she cheerfully welcomes herself in. They often settle on the floor in front of the fireplace to eat, and Fenris seems more comfortable there.
He eats quickly – politely, yes, but quickly also. How many times has Hawke watched him sit in silence, refusing to meet her eyes when his bowl is empty, and her own half full? She reasons that he is hungry, despite what he says, and thinks no more of it.
This evening Hawke is recounting some battle story, in her usual animated manner. She snaps her hand sharply in front of Fenris’ face, to illustrate a point. His fingers tighten on the edge of his bowl as he jerks it away. Soup spills onto the floor, and she can see a hot, ashamed flush creeping up Fenris’ neck. She watches him hold his breath and look away, soup covering his fingers. If realisation is showing in her expression it doesn’t matter, not with how desperately Fenris is staring at the wall. Thinking to ask where she could find a cloth to clean the mess she opens her mouth -
– and the words stick in her throat, when he begins to eat again despite the spilled soup scalding his shaking fingers. His attempt to erase the last few minutes from at least Hawke’s memory is both desperate and transparent. It is all she can do to play along, launching back into her story with gusto.
01
She brings him a proper meal once a week, despite his insistent protests that he can make his own food. Each time she visits he makes a grudging show of opening the door, and she cheerfully welcomes herself in. They often settle on the floor in front of the fireplace to eat, and Fenris seems more comfortable there.
He eats quickly – politely, yes, but quickly also. How many times has Hawke watched him sit in silence, refusing to meet her eyes when his bowl is empty, and her own half full? She reasons that he is hungry, despite what he says, and thinks no more of it.
This evening Hawke is recounting some battle story, in her usual animated manner. She snaps her hand sharply in front of Fenris’ face, to illustrate a point. His fingers tighten on the edge of his bowl as he jerks it away. Soup spills onto the floor, and she can see a hot, ashamed flush creeping up Fenris’ neck. She watches him hold his breath and look away, soup covering his fingers. If realisation is showing in her expression it doesn’t matter, not with how desperately Fenris is staring at the wall. Thinking to ask where she could find a cloth to clean the mess she opens her mouth -
– and the words stick in her throat, when he begins to eat again despite the spilled soup scalding his shaking fingers. His attempt to erase the last few minutes from at least Hawke’s memory is both desperate and transparent. It is all she can do to play along, launching back into her story with gusto.