A while ago, I told Impressioniste that I wished I could write her comfort fic when she was feeling down, but I was then and have been too busy all the time to even think of writing much. But I finally managed to finish the fic I started back then, and so I’m posting it now. It’s nothing much, really—just sleepy fluff, to be honest—but I hope it can at least make people smile. PG for some references to sex.
“Can you roll over a little?” There was breath warm on the back of his neck, shifting slowly through the sleepy fog inside his head. He recognized the voice, so his shoulders relaxed rather than tensing automatically as they otherwise would have done.
“I’m not your dog,” he muttered, still half-asleep, “I won’t just roll over whenever you say the word,” but he rolled onto his side obligingly, and then Hawke was sliding into bed beside him, his strong form warm where his body settled into place at Anders’ back. His nightshirt and trousers were cool and silky and clean against Anders’ own ratty old pair, and Hawke’s hair was damp where it brushed against the back of his neck, his cheek.
“No,” Hawke replied in a low voice, a smile in the words, “you’re not. Your breath is much better, for one thing, and I’m afraid you’re quite a bit skinnier.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Anders’ cheek, lips trailing softly over stubble and along his jawline. “I didn’t expect you to be in, love, or I’d have come to bed earlier.”
Anders yawned, blinked, trying to wake himself up a little. “Was it a good party?” he asked after a moment.
He could feel Hawke shrug behind him. The other man trailed a hand down Anders’ side, stroking gently over the curve of his ribs, the shape of his hip beneath the blankets, and kissed the back of his head. “I would much rather have been here with you,” he murmured into the soft skin behind his ear. His breath was hot and damp, and it made Anders shiver a little, though he was still half-asleep. “It was all stuffy nobles preening and talking about themselves, and the food was a joke—tiny portions not even big enough to cover a plate, all tarted up, nothing substantial enough to fill a man’s belly.”
“Orlesian food’s like that,” Anders said on a yawn.
“I’m starving,” Hawke murmured, and curled his tongue along the curve of Anders’ ear, flicked teeth and tongue against the lobe of it.
“Mmm,” Anders said, tilting his head for Hawke’s mouth as little tingles of heat spread through him. “And I’m tired.” He spread his legs obligingly all the same, so that Hawke could slide one long leg between them.
“Aww,” Hawke said, but subsided, his kisses gentling and cooling as he pressed his lips down along Anders’ neck, soft and chaste. “Ah, well,” he said. “I suppose waiting wouldn’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” His hand ghosted along Anders’ stomach, resting just under his ribs and steadying there, warm and solid.
Anders blinked in confusion, bit back another yawn and tilted his head back. “No,” he said, “I mean, I just meant—I won’t be up to much. We can still … if you’d like to …”
“Shh,” Hawke said. “It’s all right. You’re tired.” One broad hand curled around Anders’ jaw, and he tilted his head back a bit further to bring their lips together, simple and sweet. His breath was soft against Anders’ mouth before he pulled away, and tasted of fine Orlesian wine, rich and heady. Anders shifted to follow him, rolled over onto his other side.
“Are you sure?” he asking, knitting his forehead in concern even through his sleepiness. “I didn’t mean—it’s all right, I can manage.” But even as he spoke another yawn caught in the back of his throat, threatening to break free and betray him. He locked his jaw against it stubbornly.
Hawke grinned a little and leaned down to kiss Anders’ forehead. “Give me a kiss and we’ll call it good, sweetness,” he said. His hand slipped back down along Anders’ side and slid under the edge of his shirt, coming up to rest, warm and heavy, against the skin over his ribs.
Anders leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Hawke’s throat, up over the pulse and trembling breath beneath the skin. He traced his lips up and over Hawke’s jaw, wet and slow and warm, before pressing their lips together, reached up with both hands to sink his fingers into Hawke’s hair and kiss him thoroughly. Their tongues brushed and slid slick against each other, their breaths tangling humid and damp, and the kiss lasted for endless moments of trembling breath and warm, dragging touches. Hawke pulled Anders closer, his hand sliding around to press flat at his back, to seal their lips together in a pure, perfect fit before he pulled away, panting, ran a hand back through his hair and kissed Anders’ nose briefly, his other hand rubbing warm circles into his skin.
“There,” he said. “Perfect.”
“Really?” Anders asked on another yawn.
“Yes, without a doubt in the world,” Hawke said, his fingers starting to work into the knots of tension along Anders’ back, pressing and kneading. Anders sighed, let his eyes flutter closed in a moment of pleasure. “Hard day at the clinic?” Hawke asked, his breath warm on Anders’ cheek.
Anders nodded and sighed. “Long,” he said. And it had been followed with working with Bancroft to move a group of would-be apostates out of the city, but Hawke didn’t need to know that. At least Anders hadn’t actually gone into the Gallows. This time.
“I can tell,” Hawke said. “Your back’s solid knots.”
“It’s like that anyway,” Anders sighed, with a pang of guilt for concealing the truth from him.
“Hmph,” Hawke said, working his fingers more firmly against the knots, his hands warm enough against his back to make Anders shiver and sigh. “Any exciting stories of healing and salvation today?” Hawke asked.
“Just everyday complaints,” Anders said, “and you’re teasing me.”
“Who, me?” Hawke asked. Anders could hear the grin in his voice.
“Yes, you,” Anders sighed into his shoulder. “Are you ever going to let me live that down?”
“Hey, I thought it was dramatic and intimidating,” Hawke said. “And kind of sexy. I liked it. Here you were, this rebellious apostate, ready to stand up for his patients and his work without a second thought like the noble healer he is—”
“Stop it,” Anders yawned. “You’ll make me blush.”
Hawke grinned, tilted his head down to press a kiss against Anders’ cheek, then traced one finger along it, just over his cheekbone. “You’re not blushing yet,” he observed, then kissed his lips, sweet and soft. “Go to sleep, love,” he said.
“You’re sure?” Anders asked one more time, but he was already yawning again, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer.
“Perfectly,” Hawke said. “And dream of something nice. Kittens, meals with decent-sized and not fiddly Orlesian portions, I don’t know.” His hand came up behind Anders’ ear and rested there, his thumb stroking gently behind his ear, down over the nape of his neck, fingers sifting gently through his hair.
“I already have my something nice,” Anders mumbled sleepily, curling closer and choosing not to point out that robust Ferelden dining sounded more like what Hawke was going to be dreaming of that night. “Right here in front of me.” He rested his cheek against Hawke’s chest and sighed, feeling the silky fabric of his nightshirt shift over prickling hair and warm skin over the beat of his heart.
When Hawke’s hand tightened, curving sudden and warm around the back of his head, he looked up to see him grinning delightedly, rather pink in the face. “That was ridiculously soppy, love,” Hawke informed him, and his grin was brilliant, touched, thrilled, bright enough it could have guided ships in past the Twins on a cloudy night.
“I’m tired,” Anders said as an excuse, and leaned up to brush his lips lightly against his one more time. Hawke leaned into the kiss, their lips pressed close, warm, and he felt the whisper of Hawke’s breath for long moments before he pulled away. “And I wouldn’t say no to dreams about kittens, either,” Anders muttered, laid his head down against Hawke’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. “Good night.”
Hawke’s arms were warm around him as he drifted off into sleep. “Good night,” he murmured back, his lips pressed against his hair were the last things Anders was consciously aware of, like a talisman to ward his sleep against the dark paths of the Fade.