Of Cleanliness and Godhood

Chapter Three

There are moments one wishes to memorize. Those rare minutes carved out of an incandescent perfection that are worthy of being trapped in amber, made crystalline, forever after. Hawke felt this way, that afternoon. Spoiled and selfishly clutching to minutes before they slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass, as such things so often do.

She wanted to stop time in that room. If an ex-slave from Tevinter hadn't been the one facing her, she'd have jested about using blood magic to stretch the hours out. Instead, she settled for a wistful sigh and a mental "Hush, you" aimed at her loud and thumping heart. This was the moment she wanted to memorize and capture: when Fenris gave a cheeky sort of smile as he popped a slice of apple into his mouth, in response to her question. Still chewing, he reached for the wine bottle and refilled Hawke's glass before standing and bringing it to her. Even with the water on the warmer end of tepid, now, a flush was persisting high in Hawke's cheeks.

When he sat down again, he filled his own glass, and reached for the Book of Shartan.

So I suppose that'd be yes, then, Hawke thought. On the reading thing. She tossed her wine back and closed her eyes to listen, letting the world blur at the edges until it was whittled down to she and him; he opened the book to a page at random. He spoke for a time and never faltered in his reading, no stumbling over sounds or cumbersome words. She sighed in bliss.

Fenris stopped. "Am I boring you, yet?"

She snorted. "Maker, no. Never. I don't think that's possible. Your voice is the music to my every fantasy."

Oh. She'd said that out loud, hadn't she? She glanced at Fenris, looking for his reaction.

"...Really?" Though drawn out and dubious, the way he'd said the word was through a darker voice, one lowered and furtive. Did he—does that mean—does he like when she talks about her fantasies?

Hawke bit her lip and nodded.

He huffed out a short chortle and pressed his lips together as he looked at her. She could see the confidence brewing, an incoming assuredness. He stood, and moved his chair out of the way.

"Stand up," he ordered. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes flicked up to hers, something shy and wicked glinting in them. "Let me look at you more."

Hawke stood without any further provocation, the water rushing from her. She tilted one hip down and brought her arms up to cross in front of herself, hoping to get him to make that request again. Let me look at you more.

He smirked and nodded. "Drop them." He rasped one sword-roughened palm ran down the top of his thigh, "We both know you're not shy."

She gave a coy shrug and let her arms fall. She was nervous, not about her body but about him and this, and couldn't abide her arms hanging limply and awkward at her side, fluttering like a schoolgirl, so she clasped them behind her back and stood up a little straighter: At attention, soldier.

She watched his face and ignored the splotchy scarlet flush creeping up neck and over her ears—a blush borne of excitement, nerves, and tinged with a most decadent trepidation. She let him study her at his leisure.

He kept his face a mask of mild interest, aloof as he inspected her, but forgot to curtail his breathing—Fenris was excited, staring at her. His chest rose and fell with short breaths. When she'd gotten into the bath he'd kept his eyes above the water; and with the business of washing, remained a professional. He'd never seen her like this before, this luxury of naked skin, flushed and wet; full of sin. And waiting for him. When they'd slept together, it had been so rushed and frantic that he hadn't even gotten her out of her breastband, and he'd pushed her smalls to the side to enter. Hawke bit the inside of her cheek at the memory, that feeling.