.i.

"Hawke, I don't think I can do this," Fenris says. He stands, head bent in front of the fireplace in her study. She doesn't say anything for a few moments, but finally sighs, shoulders dipping a little.

"Fenris, nobody learns to write overnight."

"I've had a great many nights to practice," he grouses, casting an irritated glance over at Hawke's desk. A stack of rumpled parchment is spread across the gleaming mahogany surface, covered in illegible slashes. "It's too difficult."

"I managed it. If I can, you certainly can." He can hear the grin in her voice. "Put it aside for tonight, if you're that irritated, but don't give up." He grumbles, knowing she's right, but he doesn't really want to admit it.

"And," she rises from her chair, taking up the parchment, "I like your handwriting. It fits you."

"That isn't a compliment."

"Yes it is. It's strong and elegant. Just like you."

Suddenly the fireplace isn't the only thing warming his face. Strong and elegant. It still amazes him after all this time that she's sees beauty in him where he does not, where he thinks there is none to be found.

"Very well," he concedes, moving away from the fire and gathering his writing materials, laying them carefully in a drawer. She's still looking at the paper in her hands with a grin, tracing the curve of a 'U' with her thumb when she notices him watching her, and hands him the paper with an unapologetic smile.

When he is finished he returns to the fire, pressing his arm to the warm brick. At his feet, Hawke's hound Galahad twitches in his sleep.

"When I was young, I had a terrible time of learning new skills," she admits, marking her place in her books and setting it on the desk. Standing, she moves to the fire, stopping to pet Galahad as he sleeps. He sighs contentedly at her touch.

"I have a hard time believing that. It seems there is little you are not capable of."

She shakes her head, smiling. "Flatterer. It's true, though. I expected that I would be able to learn things instantly. Not because I was special, or anything, but because I felt that was what was required of me. Such is the burden of the oldest sibling, I suppose. If I couldn't do it right and do it well the first time, I felt like a failure. I would get so frustrated." She clenches her hands, frustration still palpable. "It often ended in tears. My own. Mother and Father were very patient with me." She smiles ruefully. It has taken her time to overcome the grief over the death of her mother, but over the years the sadness that used to fill her eyes when thinking of her lost family has seemed to all but disappear.

"You haven't changed much," he comments. It takes a beat, and a quizzical look from her to realize the words have not come out as he meant them to. "You still get frustrated at failure, even when it's not your own, or anything you could have prevented."

"I think you might know me too well, Fenris." She grins, looking surprised yet pleased about the fact. "Hopefully, it means I always do the best I can. ...I think."

"You do," he assures. He has never seen anyone so dedicated to doing the right thing, to helping everyone in need, than Hawke. Beautiful, bright eyed, kind hearted Hawke, who still tolerates -no- enjoys his company, despite the many times he has been less than completely kind to her.

"I'm glad you think so," she grins. When she smiles like that, he can't help but reciprocate it.

"Lady Hawke," Orana calls into the study, sticking her head into the door, "it's time for dinner." She spies Fenris, and dips her head in acknowledgment of his presence. "Should I set another place?"

"What do you say, Fenris? Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"I wouldn't want to trouble you-" he begins, but Orana is shaking her head.

"It's no trouble at all, Master Fenris."

He shifts uncomfortably at the title, and swears he hears Hawke laugh under her breath.

"No enchantment soup, I promise," she winks at him. He can't resist the gesture.

"Then I gladly accept your invitation."

Orana breaks into a controlled, but genuine smile and flits off.

"She really admires you, you know."

It's not very becoming, but he snorts as they make their way through the foyer to the dining room. "I can't image why she would."

"Who wouldn't? I think-" She bites down on her next word, rubbing her neck. "I think you're very admirable."

He doesn't snort at that.

"Ah! Messere Fenris!" Bodahn says invitingly as they enter the dining room. He nods in greeting.

"Glad to see you joining us! Our lovely Orana always makes so much food, we really need more people over to eat."

"I keep trying to lure them in, Bodahn. I'm doing the best I can."

"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaims, awed as ever by his appearance, eyes glimmering at the delicate tendrils of lyrium covering the expanse of his arms.

"Well it seems we're all here, shall we?" Hawke gestures to the table, filled with delicious looking fare. Everyone takes a seat. Hawke sits at the head, and he settles into the chair to her left. Joining hands, she prays over the food, thanking the Maker for his blessings, and they dig in, happily chatting. It's very comfortable. Everyone laughs politely at Bodahn's terrible jokes, except Hawke, who is laughing so hard in earnest that she has to turn away from the table to catch her breath and dry her tears. Orana bashfully speaks of happenings around town, and the friends she's made at the market where she goes to buy food. Sandal makes occasional editorial comments. The way Hawke treats them is uncommon. Certainly no other noble in the city would deign to dine with servants. Or a fugitive slave.

After dinner, after they have helped Orana clear the table she walks him to the door.

"Did you enjoy everything?"

"She is an excellent cook. And you are an excellent hostess." She rolls her eyes, biting her lips to hide her please smile. "'Hostess' implies that you are a guest."

"I'm not?"

"Of course not. You're, well, family."

He doesn't know how to respond to that. It has been a fair while since their one night tryst, and even now, he still feels himself undeserving of her acceptance, let alone her forgiveness in the face of his rejection. However, he likes the sound of 'family' very much.

She spares him the trouble of trying to come up with an answer. "Next time, we'll have to make your favorite dish."

"Do you even know what my favorite dish is?"

"Fruit salad."

He looks at her

"It's mostly grapes. All grapes. Fermented ones. It's wine."

She throws her head back in laughter, and after a moment, he can't help but join her.

"Hawke." He shakes his head, at a loss for words.

"I was close, wasn't I?" She shrugs, cheeks red with mirth.

"Close enough."

They look at each other for a while in silence. He takes her in, her dark hair gathered up into a knot at the nape of her neck, her long eyelashes fluttering against the freckles that dust cheeks. Her lips, perpetually turned up in a kind, slightly conspiratorial smile. She looks at him too, warm eyes traveling over his face. Sandal shouts something from another room and they both jump as if caught in the middle of doing something they ought not.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?" Her hopeful expression almost makes him feel guilty.

"No. Not tomorrow. I've taken a job. I wont be back for a a few days."

He watches her try to keep the concern from her face, but she is far too easy to read.

"You're sure this is safe?"

He nods. "I've checked. All seems well." She doesn't look entirely convinced.

"Who is it? Tell me that, at the very least, so I know whose neck to break if you don't come back in one piece." He almost laughs at the image of this delicate woman savagely wringing the neck of some purple faced noble.

"Comte di Stasio. A decent enough man. And no connections to Tevinter or the slave trade, before you ask."

"Alright. Good. I'll still wring his neck if anything happens to you." This time, he doesn't bother to hold back his laughter, low and rumbling. "I'm serious! Don't laugh!" Her insistence just makes him laugh harder, and finally she cracks, joining in. Orana glides by the doorway, smiling softly at them.

"What was it Isabela said the other night? 'I doubt you could tear wet tissue paper in two, Hawke'? Or was it 'You couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag'?"

Glowering, she crosses her arms and lifts her chin defiantly. "She wasn't singing the same tune when I beat her at arm wrestling."

"I am sorely disappointed to have missed that."

Outside, the Chantry bells chime the hour. It's late. If he's any hope of being well rested for tomorrows work, he can not dwaddle any longer. Much as he may want to.

"Until next time, then," she says, opening the door and walking outside with him. The night air is cool and crisp, and the cold of the cobblestones seeps into the soles of his feet. "Be careful."

"Until next time, Hawke."

With a last wave goodbye, he turns for home, feeling the warmth of her gaze at his back.

Author's Note: Edited this a bit for clearer reading and fixed some typos.