Title: To try again
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: T
Length: 1,280 words
Content notes: Mild discussion of canonical traumatic memories during sex.
Author notes: This is a very rough draft of a scene that didn't end up where I was expecting it to.
Summary: Fenris finally has a chance to be alone with Hawke again, but the past is hard to escape.

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He understood the mechanics, of course. But the prospect of putting them into practice was surprisingly intimidating. He not only needed to do it, he needed to do it *well*.

The first time Fenris had gone to her estate, it had been without thought of what would follow. He had been driven by the urgency to tell Hawke how she had been dominating his thoughts. He had been unprepared for her enthusiastic response, with pitiful results.

But now that he had time to think, it did not seem any easier. The prospect of failing in his duty was heavy in his chest, shortening his breath.

Anders had pointedly told him he would be working late in the clinic that night, all but winking to convey his meaning. A twinge of gratitude flickered in Fenris's chest, only to be immediately smothered by a crushing weight. What if he failed her again?

He trailed his fingers across the bottles on display at the market. Antivan wines bore a Chantry stamp while Orlesian vintages were crowned with mask trinkets, but he could see none with Tevinter's snake-and-dragon seal.

Fenris looked up at the merchant.

"Do you have any from Tevinter?"

The merchant stroked his drooping moustache as he eyed Fenris suspiciously. Suppressing a sigh, Fenris lifted his coin pouch from his belt and shook it. The merchant's eyes lit up at the heavy sound of coins, then fell to the heraldic shield at Fenris's waist.

"Your master has fine taste," he said. He reached beneath a curtain-covered section of the stall and produced a single dark bottle, covered in dust. "We don't sell many of these."

The Tevinter heraldry was prominent on the swell of the bottle, but Fenris could not recognise the shape of the words beneath it.

"Mistress," he corrected brusquely. "Tell me about the wine."

"Ah, of course. If your mistress is a connoisseur, she will love this vintage. Rowan's Rose is renowned across Thedas for being delicate to the nose, comforting to the tongue, and a half-remembered whisper to the ears. There are not many bottles left."

Fenris narrowed his eyes. He had not heard of the wine before and the merchant's description was overly flowery. Was he being swindled? He reached out and brushed the dust from the name of the wine, but it did not make its shape more recognisable. The merchant could be telling him anything. Should he purchase an Antivan red instead? He touched the seal on the bottle. The wax was the right colour and cracking at the edges. The embossed symbol was also correct. It was at least probably from Tevinter. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"How much?" he asked.

"Five gold," the merchant said.

"What do you take me for?" Fenris asked, letting the anger colour his voice.

"This wine is very rare, serah," the merchant said. "The vintner was a master of his craft, but has unfortunately since passed. Would you pass up the chance for your mistress to have a taste of history?"

Fenris looked at the bottle. The merchant's claims were no doubt preposterous, but it was the only bottle of Tevinter wine available in the market. He could settle for a different vintage, but it would mean missing the chance to toast Hawke with wine from his birth nation.

"Five silver," Fenris countered.

"You wound me. This bottle has been in my possession for some time, waiting for the right buyer. It can wait longer if your mistress is not interested." He moved to put the bottle back in its curtained section.

"Twenty-five silver," Fenris said, "Not a copper more."

The merchant smiled, and Fenris knew that he'd been had. Yet when the merchant extended his hand, he still found himself counting the coins out.

"A pleasure doing business with you, serah," the merchant said, and handed the bottle over with a flourish.

Fenris scowled, and turned to leave.

He didn't go directly to the estate. Instead, he veered down one of the alleyways that led from the market. It was quieter there. Liveried servants ducked in and out of courtyard doors and clothes fluttered on washing lines while beggars picked through piles of food scraps waiting to be collected. No one paid him any mind as he walked past clutching the bottle of wine. Just another servant on an errand.

He had never gone to Danarius like this. He had sometimes sought to distract him in ways that had predictable consequences, but he had never approached his master with the intention of lying with him. Which meant he had no idea what he was doing. It was still hard to believe that he might be permitted to do this at all, without having the skin flayed from his back.

The absurdity of the situation struck him yet again. Here he was, a former slave in a backwater city, holding an extravagantly expensive bottle of wine on his way to seduce his employer-cum-mistress while her abomination lover made way for him.

His mind shied away from what might happen after he reached her door. The first time had been foolishly unanticipated. Unaware of the fire raging within her, he had opened the door and been engulfed. She had simply, unconsciously, brushed away his attempts to exert some control on the situation, and he had found himself helplessly swept along in the depths of her passion.

His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, his breath coming in short bursts, and he slowed to a stop. What would her reaction be this time? She still yearned for him, he had seen it in her eyes. Would he freeze again and go limp with memories? He honestly didn't know.

He was almost disappointed that Anders had made himself scarce. The mage knew something of what afflicted him, would intervene if he saw Fenris drowning in his past. The thought hit him like a punch to his gut, stealing his breath. Was that true? Did he actually *trust* the mage?

Hawke, for all her care, was blind to his struggles. She saw him as confident, competent, strong. She did not see the wounds that still festered or the way they distorted what he could have been, like a tree twisted by cankers. The reflection in her eyes was the person he longed to be. But it blinded her to the damage she could inflict, her fingers sinking into invisible lesions.

Anders saw the wounds, had proven he could navigate them with care - or tear them open. And he knew what Hawke was like. Her impetuous temperament, her strength of drive. He would intervene if it was too much, would throw Fenris a lifeline. He had tried to do so before, and Fenris had rebuffed him. He would not this time.

Was he truly hesitant to approach Hawke on his own? Was he scared of her?

No, not of her. Of the way their shapes rubbed against each other. Fenris had never known anyone like her. He had been drawn to her from the moment they had met, and his feelings had only intensified as he experienced the depths of her resolve. Their shapes were so close to interlocking, but there were angles that could cut if they were unaware of them. Fenris knew he could change his shape to accommodate her angles but thought he would never get the chance. And now he was hesitating to see if they fit.

He was a coward, loitering in the alleyway near Hawke's estate. He needed to decide what he was going to do.

Gathering his strength, he took a deep breath, and turned to walk back to Danarius's mansion.