Rating: E / NC-17

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and gore; intimations of domestic violence; and het smut.

Paring: f!Hawke/Fenris

A/N: Late Act 3. Follows Sleep Without Dreams, but can be read alone. Apologies to those with actual knowledge of the languages Google Translate and I have butchered.

Old Habits

1.

The High Dragon shrieks at Fenris, hissing and snapping between gouts of flame and smoke as he dodges another strike and his sword slices into its side. The smell of blood and lyrium hangs over the sand; the tang of magic coats his skin along with streaks of grime and sweat.

Through the din the dragon makes, he can hear the ratchet and twang and whistle of arrows that means Varric has released another volley. Anders is shouting his tired battle cries about fearing and taunting mages, but at least he has forgone fire in favor of something slightly more useful. Electricity sparks off around them in a dizzying chain of light.

And Hawke, casting from the side of the dragon opposite him, is coming far too close. When he sees her rush in, staff moving in showy arcs, all he can think is she has underestimated her enemy.

It's then something from his past digs claws into his mind and pulls.

He knows this feeling all too well. It is a disgusting thing born of conditioning and magic worked in blood. It's the tug of well-patterned memories at the edge of his mind, the yank of an invisible leash. A habituated response he thought long since purged from his being.

He wants -is compulsed- to protect her.

The fact he recognizes it as a remnant of the past does nothing to lessen the feeling which uncoils and threatens to overwhelm him. He falters, wavering in his attack.

He can feel the power of her magic, the way the runes set in her rings and staff channel Fade energy before she sends a curtain of ice crashing into scaled hide. Then she's running, scrambling back to a safe distance, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The moment of distraction costs him. The dragon lunges and jaws slam closed around his shoulder, cutting into muscle and bone and he can feel its teeth inside him. As the animal bites down and lifts him from the ground he can see the detail of each scale and the way the great slitted iris contracts in hate as it stares at him.

He shifts, becomes a ghost, and the lyrium in his skin burns with power as he drives his blade into the dragon's neck one handed. The blow is weak, but when he tears the sword free with a curse, fresh blood spurts, coating his armor.

The beast drops him, then it screams and turns with surprising speed. He sees its tail sweep toward him, and tries to roll out of the way. From the way his arm refuses to move, the way the pain radiates through him, he knows he can count ripped tendon and broken bone in the damage.

The spikes of its tail whistle past and he levers himself awkwardly from the ground.

Blood runs down his forearm, hot under his gauntlet before it drips from the tips of his fingers. He grips the hilt of his sword tightly in his good hand and readies himself for another assault, but he feels the snap of magic that means Hawke has cast again and the dragon roars again before it crouches and launches itself upward.

Torn wings flail and dust billows up and everything is obscured.

He can hear Hawke shouting for Anders to just fucking heal Varric already and then he's running toward her voice.

When the air clears enough for him to see, he wavers again.

Hawke is standing under the High Dragon.

She's between its forefeet, dodging its clumsy swipes at her and using the bladed end of her staff in an attempt to parry its snapping jaws.

Anders is bent over Varric, blue light swirling around them. No help to be had there.

Almost a decade of fighting by Hawke's side means he knows her, the way she fights, the spells she casts, the unique way her magic feels when it sparks against his markings.

He also knows she's almost done, mana almost drained. He sees her reach for her belt, for a potion, and drain the blue liquid in one motion. He can tell when she starts to gather for a spell, a hex or glyph or an equally flimsy barrier to throw in the face of a monster.

The others - Hawke even - have grown accustomed to the markings. He doubts they have ever considered the permanence of contract between master and slave, how much more deeply such things could be branded on the mind than the flesh.

The thing so engrained within him, a reflex hardened and honed with equal parts magic and cane, responds.

This is what he was trained for; this is what he once was, the entire sum of his existence. It makes no matter what he is now, or that Hawke can stand on her own and is not a magister whose life he must guard, because his markings flare again and he charges forward as the creature lifts one clawed foot.

Hawke is a vague shape inside the glyph, a figure distorted by ripples of heat and power.

Her magic washes against him, as familiar as the sound of her voice or touch of her hand. The spell stutters and breaks apart when he slides to a stop near her. She looks at him and her eyes are narrow as she takes in his damaged shoulder and useless arm.

She could have held the glyph, its bounds so small. Now she is not strong enough to cast a wider mark, to protect them both.

Not relinquishing his hold on his sword, he loops his arm around her waist. Pivoting, he lifts her away from harm as the dragon slams its foot through the remains of the glyph.

Behind them, he can hear Anders spouting nonsense once more, and Varric crooning to his crossbow, and knows that mage and rogue are back in the fight.

More immediately and importantly, though, the dragon is closing on them and Hawke still hasn't gathered enough energy to cast again.

It's conditioning, again, that makes him step in front of her when the dragon raises its foot. Fenris shoves his sword up just as the creature slams its foot down. One-handed, he manages to bury the sword to the hilt.

The dragon screams, jerking back, ripping his sword from his hand. He can see the sword has gone farther than he could have hoped, the tip protruding out near a scaled ankle. The dragon makes high-pitched, pained sound, smoke curling from its nostrils as it retreats, three-legged.

"Hawke!" Anders shouts as he moves in and tosses her a lyrium potion, and together the mages advance on the dragon, flinging ice and electricity in tandem. Varric adds to the attack with an exploding bolt, and the dragon staggers, finally going down.

Fenris doesn't wait for it to stop twitching. Dodging its flailing limbs, he steps in and grabs the hilt of his sword even as the dragon scores the ground with a final spasm. Pulling it free, he turns to Hawke, only to find she is gone. He can see her walking away with stiff, jerking steps toward the path that leads to the mine proper.

Anders is leaning on his staff, frowning at a splash of blood on his coat. "Hate it when I get too close. Do you know how hard it is to get dragon blood out of feathers? Have I mentioned the last High Dragon I fought had the decency to not bleed at all?"

"The Kittenmarsh dragon, again?" Varric starts pulling bolts from the dragon, wiping them on its hide as he goes.

Fenris takes a step as though to follow Hawke, but Varric stops him with, "I wouldn't. Give her some time to cool off."

He scowls, but doesn't move further. He's aware of his shoulder, excruciating pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat. She is right to be angry; he faltered in battle and disrupted her spell.

Knowing the why of it, knowing his actions were partially the result of something done to him without his consent doesn't help his state of mind. The thought of keeping this from Hawke, or worse, explaining it to her, only serves to darken his mood.

He curses under his breath.

His fingers are starting to go numb and he looks at Anders. If it were not for the potential loss of function of the limb, he would have taken a healing draught and waited to find Hawke. As it were… "Mage."

Anders grins and Fenris wants to rip the smug off of his face, especially when the man puts hands on him, one laid flat on either side of his shoulder, fingers making contact with bloodied skin through the holes in his armor.

Fenris hisses in warning. Anders ignores it.

"And, suddenly my magic is good enough for you," Anders' grin holds no kindness, but the light pulsing from his hands is numbing, a not unwelcome feeling as bone crunches and grinds back into place. "For the record? Much better healer than Hawke."

Varric has propped the dragon's mouth open, is digging out fangs with a dagger. "Sorry to tell you, Blondie, you might have her beat in patching people up, but her balls are bigger than yours."

"Point," Anders chuckles, but the healing magic prickles unpleasantly against Fenris' skin.

Fenris jerks away from Anders. "Enough."

"You want my advice about Hawke?" Anders doesn't pause for a reply. "Actually, this is sort of all-purpose. It never pays to piss off the mage you're sleeping with."