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Hawke supposed this was what death warmed up felt like.

He’d expected to feel a bit more… victorious after defeating a dragon. But, right now, he just felt singed and bruised and there was a horrible claw mark down his left thigh from where one of the bastard dragonlings had gotten a wee bit too close, and it was throbbing like mad. His mouth tasted liked ash, his legs were weak and his entire body ached from head to toe. Overall, he didn’t feel much like celebrating as much as keeling over. The only thing keep him upright was adrenaline.

The worst off, however, was Varric. He’d been knocked unconscious at some point, and an almost-depleted Anders was hastily checking him over for head injuries, despite the obvious fatigue in the healer’s face, pale, drawn and caked with soot.

It was a mark of how tired they all were that Fenris was leaning on him. Actually leaning on him, in public (inasmuch as a woozy Varric and a drained Anders in the middle of an abandoned mine constituted public), as if he couldn’t take his own weight. Hawke himself could barely hold up his own, but soldiering on through the exhaustion was well worth it if it meant having Fenris’s forehead pressed against his shoulder, warm through his robes, making adorable little snuffly sighs of weariness every now and again. He slid an arm round the elf’s shoulders, and Fenris folded into the touch, curling as deep into Hawke’s side as he could while they still stood upright.

The elation over Fenris’s open display of affection more than compensated for the lack of elation over the dragon’s defeat, he thought. Even smelling of sulphur, smoke and dragon’s blood, clothes scorched and face blackened, Fenris was beautiful. And finally, finally, Hawke could show his affection and appreciation openly after holding it in for three and a half blighted years – in moderation, of course, otherwise Fenris would dart away like a spooked rabbit and they’d be right back where they started.

Anders stood, stumbling slightly, and Fenris raised his head, blinking owlishly.

“How is he?” he asked, his voice a thin rasp from all the smoke.

“He’ll live,” Anders mumbled, rubbing the heels of his filthy hands into his eyes as if trying to shove them back into his skull. “No discernible haemorrhaging. He’s going to have a killer headache for the next day or two, though.”

“I can feel it already,” Varric groaned, kneading his forehead. He had a horrible bloody smear on the side of his head thanks to a particularly good hit with the dragon’s tail.

“We should make a move,” Hawke suggested. The stench of burnt flesh and blood was beginning to make him feel sick, and the Bone Pit was a horrid place to be even when it wasn’t strewn with the products of violent death. Even the air about the place seemed to bear them ill will, malice watching them from the very rock, and the chilling tales of the Tevinter masters’ deeds were never far from Hawke’s mind.

Before his imagination could run away with him and he started seeing things that weren’t there, he stumbled into a walk, passing the immense dragon carcass with barely a glance, gingerly circumnavigating the huge pool of blood that spilt from her rent sides. Fenris fell into step beside him, limping slightly, and the other two followed, each at their own pace. They were all silent during the trek back to Kirkwall, all too bone-weary to open their mouths.

They – Hawke and Varric, at least – bade Anders a quick farewell at the door to his clinic. Just in case. Patient and helper alike stared at him as he entered, still reeking of smoke, charred leather and dragonhide. The other three made their slow way to Lowtown, the stench of dead dragon a primordial warning to any thieves and cut-throats on their way. Besides, it was Hawke, and you didn’t mess with Hawke.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Varric asked at the door to the Hanged Man. Hawke shook his head as vehemently as he could when he could barely find the energy to keep upright.

“Thanks but no thanks, Varric,” he muttered. “All I want to do is go home and sleep until the next age rolls around.”

“And you have had a head injury,” Fenris warned. “You should not be drinking.”

Varric groaned. “Stupid dragons,” he muttered.

Both Hawke and Fenris offered a final goodbye and trudged up to Hightown. Fenris looked relieved to have the smooth, cool stone under his feet after the rough grit of the quarry, the caked, shard-ridden dirt of Darktown and the sandpaper-like streets of Lowtown. They got a few odd looks from passing nobles, a few wrinkled noses and exclamations, but neither cared.

When they reached Hawke’s door, the mage turned, biting his lip.

“Do you… do you want to stay?” he asked, both hopeful and nervous. It could take so little for Fenris to turn tail and bolt like a deer after the snapping of a twig.

Fenris glanced up from between his bangs, offering a reassuring and grateful smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “I do.”

.

A bath was in order.

He called Orana to draw the water, thanking her when the stone bath was finally full. He'd never felt quite as relieved as when he stripped off his robes right then, leaving them in a filthy pile in the middle of the bathchamber floor. They would probably have to be burnt, being already halfway there, but Hawke couldn't have cared less. Unable to stretch for fear of pulling something aching but important, Hawke sank into the hot water with a drawn out hiss. That was exactly what he needed, more pain, as the viciously sadistic liquid managed to find every single cut on his skin and seep into it. The welts on his thigh screamed in agony. Taking a breath, he screwed his eyes shut and ducked under the water.

He counted to ten, then re-emerged, spluttering and shaking his head like a dog.

“Trying to drown yourself from exhaustion?” Fenris asked. Hawke turned and frowned. The elf was still irritatingly dressed, hovering in the doorway like some sort of nervous butterfly.

“Only if you don't join me,” Hawke said, smirking. Fenris's brow furrowed.

“Hawke...”

“What?” Hawke pouted, drawing the word out in a way that was completely inappropriate for a man his age. When Fenris simply raised an eyebrow, completely unamused, he turned away and reached for the soap, only allowing him a small, well-hidden fistpump when the heard the sharp clang of armour meeting the floor. He turned again, leaning on the edge of the bath, chin on folded arms, and unashamedly enjoyed the show.

He couldn't deny that even with the special kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from dragon-slaying, his cock stirred at the hot, dark skin that was revealed with every scrap of fabric that Fenris removed. First his shirt, those lithe, muscular arms Hawke loved having tight around him. That smooth, toned back he knew every inch of with his fingertips. Then, oh, joy of joys, that perfect, pert arse, those long, supple legs... the memory of having them wrapped around his waist as he buried himself to the hilt was enough to make him stifle a groan in his arms.

“Ogling me, are you?” Fenris half-turned, warm and soft in the candlelight, and even still caked with soot and gore he was the most radiant thing Hawke had ever seen. The hot ball of sheer, unadulterated affection he felt for this man bubbled up in his chest, reminding him violently that no, this was not just lust, this was something strong and powerful and it consumed every part of him. Hawke raised his head and smiled.

“It would be a shame to ignore such a perfectly handsome elf,” he said, and there it was, that small, embarrassedly flattered chuckle that made metaphorical lambs skip in Hawke's heart.

He watched Fenris cross the bathchamber, swing a leg over the side of the stone tub and hoist himself in, flaccid cock hanging enticingly, whole body making Hawke's nerve endings twitch with longing, and he sank into the hot water with a deep, relieved sigh. He tilted his head back against the edge, eyes sliding shut, a rare expression of bliss on his face.

“One of the few perks to having such a large house,” Hawke said. “The bathtub's to die for.”

Fenris chuckled. “We almost did. I believe my aches and pains have aches and pains.” He reached up to wash his face and paused to rub his shoulder, wincing.

“We did run into that one, didn't we?” Hawke mused. “Guess she hadn't heard of me. You'd think my fame would have stretched far and wide by now.” He sighed. “It was a shame we had to do that.”

“Your obsession with dragons is slightly worrying.”

“Isn't it, though?” Hawke said, laughing. Fenris opened his eyes, running a finger through the water. Hawke watched the ripples, made a few of his own and kept watching, until they collided and merged with Fenris's.

The silence was pleasant and calm. It was the silence of familiarity and weariness, not of shame and nerves. Of course, Hawke had to be himself. He stood inside himself, a spectator to the eventual failure. He cleared his throat and opened his arms.

Fenris looked at him for a long, long time, long enough for Hawke to think he'd fucked up yet again and everything was going to explode in his face like things had a habit of doing. Then his lips spread into a smirk and, rising from the water like some decadent temptation, he slid forward into Hawke's welcoming embrace. His mouth met Hawke's in a languid kiss, sword-roughened hands sifting through the wet hair of Hawke's chest, straddling the mage's lap unhurriedly.

It never took long for Hawke to get hard, not like this, with Fenris there, well within his grasp. Sometimes it felt like he lived half-within a sort of dream-like haze of desire, every other moment just a stop-gap until he could be here, like this, on the verge of weeping with how perfect it was to have Fenris in his arms again. Maker, he was so far gone about this elf, wasn't he?

He slid his arms around Fenris, pulling him as close as possible, the kiss slow and deep and so sinful it made every inch of him ache. It brought his hardness flush to Fenris's, pressed them together, and they both gasped into each other's mouths. One of Fenris's hands dipped lower, finding their cocks, and began slowly exploring, gently, with fingertips. It made Hawke's head spin.

Hawke cupped Fenris's arse, hands trembling in reverence, his fingers finding the elf's tailbone and from there, they slipped lower, searching. Fenris had to break the kiss to gasp, eyes heavy-lidded and pupils blown like a cat's. He licked his lips and shuddered when Hawke brushed against his hole, arching ever-so-slightly.

“Not all the way,” he murmured, and Hawke nodded, letting out a whimper as Fenris's hand tightened around the both of them. He began stroking, lips pressed against Hawke's ear, breath hot and ticklish in the most pleasant of ways. Hawke groaned, the sensation rumbling through his whole body, and the hand that wasn't occupied with teasing Fenris open joined Fenris's on their cocks.

He searched for Fenris's neck, Fenris tilting his head to the side, and he bit, gently, licking, sucking, just tasting the unique mix of skin and lyrium that was entirely Fenris. He'd missed this taste, he'd missed the heady rush of lyrium on his tongue, and the tiny shocks along his nerves, igniting the deep part of him that was in tune with his magic. Fenris dug his fingers into his hair, gasping for more, trembling as the onslaught on cock and arse ramped up.

“Haw... Garrett,” Fenris moaned, and the sound of it shot straight down Hawke's spine, right to his cock. His entire body throbbed, chasing his own release and Fenris's.

Their hips moved together now, actively searching for the friction needed. The water sloshed back and forth, over the edge of the tub, unheeded. Hands sped up, finding a counterpoint in their pumping. The tip of Hawke's finger slipped inside Fenris's hole, stroking gently, and Fenris ground down with a cry, mellowing out into Tevinter curses. He could feel Fenris trembling, holding himself back, for Maker only knew what.

“Come on, Fenris,” he murmured, reaching up to mouth along the edge of Fenris's ear. “Let go for me.”

His thumb pressed beneath the head of Fenris's cock, slipping up, playing the slit, and Fenris arched with a choked cry, half Hawke's name. Hot come spurted onto Hawke's fingers, and it was enough to drive himself over the edge. He went stiff, hips trembling as he came, hard, Fenris's lips pressed roughly to his own.

It was always a shame to come down from a high like this, his chest heaving, Fenris sprawled on him, foreheads pressed together. He slid his finger out, making Fenris twitch, and held him close, something inside him singing a song of absolute joy. And exhaustion. The dragon-fighting exhaustion was mingling with post-coital bonelessness, and it probably wasn't the best combination. The water was cooling fast, cloudy and well, that wasn't exactly the best combination either.

Fenris's eyes flickered open and a slow, lazy smile spread over his slightly blurry features. “I missed this,” he admitted, and Hawke's chest tightened in sweet agony. He grinned.

“Me too,” he said, tucking Fenris's hair back and kissing him lazily, trying to get across with his lips what he couldn't with words. Because he had missed this. He'd missed Fenris like water, like air, like... like life itself. It had been three years of torture, stamped on deep down until he could ignore it, walk on without it tearing him apart at every step. Ignore it, but never forget it. But now... now Fenris was here again, kissing him again, and it felt like all was right with the world. It really wasn't, this was Kirkwall, but let a man have his denial. “Bed?”

Fenris hummed his agreement, raising himself off him and even though Hawke had just had a pretty good orgasm, seeing Fenris's body in full view still caused a stir. He watched as Fenris dried off, smiling dopily. Yes, this was very good.

“I take it you're going to stay in there forever?” Fenris asked with a raised eyebrow.

“If it means watching you, why not?” Hawke said with an impish twitch of his eyebrows, but Fenris merely scoffed and threw the towel at him. It slapped him in the face, but it was more than worth it to be able to have this with Fenris again, whatever it was.

Once Hawke had dried himself off, he left the bathchamber to find Fenris in bed. In his bed. In his bed which they would share. Not, however, spread out enticingly for him, as he'd hoped, but... asleep. Fast asleep, damp hair curling around his face, coiled under the blankets like a sleeping cat. Hawke sighed, trying for fond exasperation, and ending up with lovesick foolishness.

He slipped into bed, settling down, relieved to finally be stretched out and able to deflate after a day like today. Hawke's thigh throbbed beneath the covers, still aching from the dragonling's claws, and his bones still felt like lead, but... well, it was more than worth it when Fenris instinctively sought him out and nuzzled into his arm sleepily.

He only hoped he didn't have to kill a dragon every time.