fawxdraws:

beautifultoastdream:

fawxdraws:

Fenris would probably be a really great dad

“Hawke, where is that book?”

Marian Hawke frowned, sitting back on her heels in the dirt. After six months of hard work, their new kitchen garden was finally beginning to yield some returns–but no matter how much of a Fereldan dog-lord dirt-crawler turnip-head mumble-mumble xenophobia-xenophobia she was at heart, she’d been spending a whole afternoon weeding and her back was one solid ache. Her darling husband, though, was apparently looking for books instead of watching their son like he was supposed to be. She shifted in order to better aim her frown at the back wall of the small house, where a tattooed elf was leaning over the windowsill.

“Which book?” she said, a little more sharply than meant. “We only have about five thousand of them.”

“That idiotic Antivan one that the Inquisitor’s friend sent you. Lady Something’s Guide to Raising a Genteelly Useless Child, I think.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow at Fenris. He was smiling, which meant he was up to something.

She had never expected to have something approaching domestic tranquility … and in truth, she really still didn’t. The little cottage in the little village at the back end of nowhere was supported not by farming or trading, but by the hoard of gold a pair of skilled killers had once acquired; even though Kirkwall eventually had burned, both Hawke and Fenris were more than paranoid enough to keep their resources stashed in secret places. (Isabela teased them about buried treasure, but that only happened once, dammit.) Her husband, perpetually restless, was prone to disappearing into the woods on long patrols, just to make sure the area was absolutely triple-secure. And there had been that little incident a few years back when a leftover Red Behemoth came crashing through the back door while a pregnant Hawke was trying to cook. Most village women, even the tough peasant stock, couldn’t eviscerate a slavering lyrium-mad monstrosity with nothing but a meat fork. Still, they did have something special, and her bad mood eased a little at the sight of Fenris’s smile. He smiled so easily now.

But her curiosity had been piqued. “Oh, that one,” she said. “I think I gave it to Grigor down the road. He needed a doorstop for his new outhouse. Why? You hated that book.”

“True. Most of it was useless twaddle. But it did have some information about–er, when to expect certain … behaviors.” Fenris’s smile faded. “I confess, I did not believe he would begin so soon …”

Hawke’s heart stuttered. “What?” she said, jumping to her feet. “Is he okay? What was it? Is it magic? He’s only four, it can’t be magic!”

“Not magic. Although I fear he is indeed showing signs of a family curse.”

She frowned, now concerned and confused. “He summoned a Darkspawn magister?”

“Worse.” Fenris shook his head. “Hawke, the worst has come to pass. Not fifteen minutes ago, your son gave me the most knowing, sarcastic smirk I have ever seen on a child.”

“You bastard!” Hawke threw a clod of earth at the elf, which he ducked with infuriating ease. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again! I thought it was serious!”

“It is,” Fenris informed her solemnly. “I’m afraid there’s no hope for it now. He’s begun acting like a Hawke.”

His beautiful deadpan–the low voice, the sad eyes–was impossible to resist, and Hawke’s irritation melted away in a snort  of laughter. “You bastard,” she said again, but fondly. “Just for that, I’m going to let you break the news to Carver that we’ve got another me in the family.” She grinned. “The whining is going to be legendary.”

It was. But Carver eventually found himself in a bind, because while one can scream at one’s annoying older sister, one cannot do the same thing to one’s adorable nephew. Especially not when the nephew’s father is proudly anticipating his son’s first truly terrible joke at Carver’s expense.

*POINTS AND YELLS*

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