Fenris had woken, like always, at 6:45. His body didn't seem to care that he had only fallen asleep two and a half hours before. He knew that eventually the lack of sleep would catch up to him—and probably at an inconvenient time, like in the middle of his Ethics and Economics class that evening. But he also knew trying to fall back asleep would be a wasted effort.

Waking the woman sleeping soundly next to him was not an option, and as he slipped out of the bed, he was grateful for once that he had spent so many years sneaking in and out of various foster homes and orphanages and had learned how to be silent. It only took a moment to collect all of his clothing as almost everything had been tossed haphazardly on the floor next to the bed. He checked his phone one last time and slid it in his coat pocket as he crossed the room to the front door were his shoes were.

The sight of his canvas sneakers next to her well-worn boots made him pause and glance over his shoulder at the bed.

She was curled in a ball and burrowed so far underneath the heavy quilt that all he could see of her was a tangle of copper curls. And it would be so easy to go back, so easy to just crawl under the blankets with her and sleep the day away.

He couldn't deny that the idea was tempting. She was tempting. She reminded him of the lightning storms back in Tevinter. It was the way she had snuck up on him, appearing at his side completely unannounced and then refusing to let him do anything at all without her presence being known.

He let himself get caught up in her. And just like those storms, it was too much, too fast.

He was a fool. He had no idea what he was doing.

He frowned to himself and turned back to his shoes, kneeling and tugging at the laces.

There is something about the comedown after a really great book that had always been disappointing to Hannah, and as she slowly woke up and took stock of her situation, she couldn't help but think the morning after had a similar feel. There was no soft, blissful feeling, no comforting warmth, nothing like the stories other girls talked about. Instead, her hair was matted on one side, her hips and back ached, and her skin felt stiff and itchy.

And the bed next to her was empty.

She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face into her pillow to muffle the scream of frustration. But she couldn't be mad at him, could she? He had said he didn't date. She could have sent him home at those words, but she didn't. It had been her choice, and it had been the wrong one. Anders always told her she was best at breaking her own heart, just to make sure no one else had the chance.

She gave herself a few moments to wallow in self-pity before the urge to shower dragged her from her nest of blankets.

Normally hyper-aware of her utility bills, Hannah decided she deserved an extra hot, extra long shower. In an effort to avoid replaying every moment from the night before, she wrote practice text messages in her head—telling Anders that she'd sabotaged herself after all and telling Isabela she'd finally had a proper one night stand. She knew they'd both see right through her attempts to make light of the situation, and decided she'd have to wait until later in the day, when her heart hurt a little less, to tell either of them anything.

As she stepped out of the bathroom and her gaze fell on her disheveled bed, she closed her eyes and sighed.

She really had liked him.

She pulled on a well-worn pair of jeans and the ratty old Blight Orphans t-shirt she'd stolen from Carver ages ago—skipping the bra altogether. She had no intention of showing her face at Lirene's this morning and had no need to dress properly until it was time to leave for rehearsal at 2:30. Her eyes drifted again to her bed, and she changed her mind, reaching for the bra after all. She didn't really want to stay home all day.

She had been taught that one part of making a good jazz song was the tension and release. But as she walked from her house to the music building, away from her still unmade bed and too raw feelings, all she wanted was release.

Most girls are raised with fairy tales. They grow up with stories about valiant knights or dashing Teyrns rescuing the fair maiden, stories about love at first sight and happily ever after. The stories Hannah grew up with were a little different—because the blues are based on heartbreak and jazz standards about the Shartan or Andraste don't come with happily ever afters. She learned quickly that she was no fun at sleepovers when she was little. She didn't care much, in the end because she'd also learned quickly that she would would trade a sleepover with the popular girls at school for an afternoon sitting on the floor of her dad's studio, listening to him play.

When he died, Leandra sold the piano, and Hannah didn't fight her on it. The piano was her father. Jazz was her father. It was something that she knew was flowing through her veins, but at that point, all she wanted was something she could feel in her bones. And the local punk scene had given her exactly that.

Leandra had been tolerant of Hannah's interest in punk music at first, assuming it was a phase. But the longer it lasted—the more time she devoted procuring obscure vinyls and throwing herself into mosh pits—the less tolerant Leandra became. It became a sticking point between mother and daughter, one that was at the heart of a number of screaming matches. Hannah never once admitted that on nights when she couldn't sleep, she still played her dad's favorite jazz songs.

It didn't take her long to lug an old combo amp from the music building's storage closet down the hall and into one of the empty practice studios. She was grateful that someone (more than one someone, actually) had decided to sleep through their reserved studio time, leaving a studio available for her. She'd brought her bass from home. It was the first one she'd bought—one of those little-known brands that was actually a subsidiary of the big guys. It was half-covered in stickers, the black paint had been scraped off one edge from the bracelets she used to always wear while playing, and there was one pickup that she could never remember to tighten. It was kind of a piece of shit, actually. But it was all Hannah could afford at 13, and it held a lot of memories.

Hannah slung the strap over her shoulder, snapped the cord into the amp, and cranked the volume. She started with one of her favorites—the first song she'd ever seen the Blight Orphans perform live.

It felt good—playing fast and hard in a way she couldn't with the jazz ensemble. She switched to some newer Blight Orphans songs, songs she remembered blasting from the car speakers the day she took Carver for a drive on the coast, pretending to not notice him crying over getting dumped by that bitch Peaches.

It was Bethany that Hannah was thinking off when she played with first, bright notes of a Dust Town Dolls song. Leandra had gone pale the day Carver asked if he could go to a show with Hannah, but she nearly fainted when Bethany chimed in that she would go, too. Bethany never got into the scene the way Hannah or Carver had, but she still liked to sing along with the Dust Town Dolls.

She was three songs into what she remembered of Varterral's Heart's first album, her thoughts finally settling on Fenris, when movement at the small window facing the hallway caught her attention. Her fingers froze at the sight of Isabela and Varric grinning at her. As soon as the amp went silent, she heard the knock at the door.

Hannah's stomach dropped. She was not ready for this interrogation. She didn't know why they were there anyway. She had purposely not texted any of them. She flung the door to the studio open, curse on the tip of her tongue, and froze once more.

Hannah blinked. And Fenris blinked back.

She blinked again, and she and Fenris both spoke at the same time.

"Is that a Blight Orphans shirt?"

"You left."

She frowned down at her shirt. They both spoke at the same time again.

"You know them?"

"I left a note."

Hawke looked up again, but neither of them spoke.

"I told him," Isabela said, appearing next to Fenris and draping an arm over his shoulder, "that you never use that desk. A note left anywhere else, and you probably would have seen it."

Fenris shrugged her arm off, and Hannah looked to Varric, hoping for a more clear explanation.

"Broody came into Lirene's looking for you, Hawke. Said he'd gone for breakfast and your door was locked when he came back. Blondie looked like he was about to eat the kid alive, so we offered to help him look for you." Varric's shrug looked casual, but Hannah was all too familiar with the gleam in his eyes.

Hannah's eyes darted from Varric to Isabela to Fenris, who lifted the bag in his hand slightly, drawing attention to the evidence of his errand.

She took one step forward, grabbed Fenris by the lapel of his coat, and yanked him into the studio, slamming the door shut behind him.

"The room is soundproof," she said quickly. "And I don't want to have this conversation in public."

Fenris nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Hannah eyed the bag, and Fenris followed her line of sight.

"Was this…wrong?" He asked, holding the bag up again.

"I thought you said you didn't do this."

She couldn't help the edge of bitterness to her voice when she said it, and his frown deepened.

"I thought you wanted to talk. I thought—" He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

Hannah sighed through her nose, pulling her bass from her shoulder and turning away from him to set it back in its case.

"If you're going to do the whole 'I don't date, I don't want to be tied down, I need my freedom' speech, can you go ahead and get it over with?"

"Is that what you want me to say?"

"Well…no," she admitted, standing and facing him again. "I just figured…with what you said last night and my luck with relationships…" She left that thought hanging when she saw Isabela and Varric watching intently through the window. She sighed again, moving to sit on the floor, back to the wall where the window was. She watched Fenris look from her to her friends outside and back to her. His expression was impossible to read.

"I don't have a speech of any kind prepared," he said. Then he crouched and rummaged through the bag, pulling out a familiar white box and holding it out to her.

"You really only left to get breakfast?" She eyed the box from Lirene's for a moment before taking it from him.

"I…Sigrun told me breakfast was an…appropriate gesture, yes."

"Sigrun told you…?"

"I texted her. When I woke up, I—" He shook his head and his shoulders sagged a little. "I apologize, Hawke. I should have just waited for you to wake up. This is not…I am in unfamiliar territory here."

When Hannah had first dragged him into the studio with her, she was still buzzing with energy, chest vibrating with emotions she refused to put name to. But looking across at Fenris, his usually confident posture softened by uncertainty, and Hannah felt all of that agitation and restlessness seep out of her. She gestured to the spot next to her.

"They can't see you if you sit under the window."

Fenris's eyes darted to the window, hesitating a moment before crawling across to the wall, leaning his back against it and stretching his legs out beside hers. Hannah opened the box, revealing the same pastries she always ordered, she took one and held the box out to him. He took the box and in exchange passed her a thermos of coffee. They ate in silence, silence that was making Hannah's pastry feel heavy in the pit of her stomach. She retraced the awkward conversation they'd had, searching for some way to jump start it again, finally settling on the first thing he'd said when she'd opened the door.

"The Blight Orphans were one of my favorite bands when I was in high school."

He turned his head and met her eyes for the first time since she'd dragged him into the room.

"Sigrun and I were…kicked out of a Blight Orphans show when we were 14."

Hannah couldn't help but laugh at the slight twist of distaste on his face as he said "kicked out." The laughter seemed to shake the last of her bad mood off her shoulders.

"That sounds like a story."

He stared at her for a moment before his lips quirked up in something resembling a smile.

"It was."

Hannah's eyes lingered on his lips for a moment, that almost smile of his making her hyper-aware of just how close he was sitting, reminding her of the night before. She ignored the warmth growing in her cheeks and asked, "You really texted Sigrun this morning?"

Fenris's cheeks darkened and his eyes dropped from hers.

"In another life, I probably would have just left," he said. "I have always said I would not let a relationship distract me from me goals. I would have…walked away. Convinced myself that letting you hate me was the better option. Though I admit I'm not sure what's I did was much better."

Hannah studied the half-eaten pastry in her hand. She wondered idly about those fairy tales the girls she'd known in elementary school were always giggling about. Somehow she doubted that the prince ever had to text a friend to ask how to woo the fair maiden.

"I think it's fine," she said, eyes still trained on the pastry. "I mean, I don't…I guess I still don't know what you want. And I don't really know what I'm doing either. But…I'm here, Fenris." She looked up at him and smiled. Then she nudged his shoulder, like she had the night before. "And it's always good to have someone at your side when exploring unfamiliar territory."

Fenris's lip twitched at the corner. "Is that so?"

"Yep," Hannah nodded, taking another bite of the pastry.

"Well," Fenris said, grinning now. "If there is unfamiliar territory to explore, I would walk into it gladly at your side."

A/N: Well. This was half written in over a year ago in response to Emilinia-sama's prompt, "music," and half written a few days ago when someone (coughcoughxandercough) started asking me questions about Hannah. I figured I'd update and call the story done because it's probably as done as it's gonna get. Could I add chapters of these two navigating the beginning of a relationship, sure. But there are better writers who do the same thing, and I don't want to leave y'all hanging for another year (or longer), which is probably what it would take just to get something mediocre out of me.

Also, for anyone wanting more on why Fenris didn't leave (especially since him leaving is canon), here's my logic: In game, Fenris leaving makes sense. He's not emotionally ready for a relationship. That's sort of what he's hinting at in his "In another life..." line here. But in this story, Fenris and Sigrun are bros and have been for years. I figure this Fenris would have matured a bit when it comes to relationships just because of his friendship with Sigrun and therefore be more willing to stick around for Hawke.

To those of you who actually came back to this a year+ later, thanks for sticking around. And to those who only found it because of the new update, I hope you enjoyed these five little chapters. What I learned from this fic is that it's actually really hard (for me, anyway) to write a story in multiple styles and have it ever feel cohesive.