Summary: Hawke and Fenris get stuck in a cave. During a heatwave, early in Act 3... I combined the Dank Cave from Tarahone's Tomes with the Awiergan Scrolls First Aspect.

A/N: The whole point of this thing is that Red!Hawke doesn't get enough fan-loving (and she's just straight badass for the most part). Also, why does Lady Hawke never get on top with Fenris? Come on, there's a lot of good angles to do a sexy glowing elf from!

Warnings: In case you hadn't guessed, smut. Angst, some language, lots of brooding (broody Hawke + Fenris= EPIC BROOD) some violence and some sexy psuedo-violence and auditory voyeurism

Summer heat rolled through Hightown in thick waves, the air a blur of humidity that lent the city the eerie aura of a mirage. It reminded Fenris of Minrathous more than ever, the way the high Dwarven statues and Imperial architecture burned with blinding brilliance under the reflected glare of the sun.

Fenris looked away from his window at the sound of someone entering his room on light feet. "Hawke," he said, folding his arms over his bare chest.

She stared on, unperturbed, her gaze tracing his tattoos up to his face and remaining steady on his eyes. "Fenris," she answered by way of greeting. Short and direct, as always. "I have business up the Wounded Coast."

He appreciated her bluntness, the immediacy of her words. She never wasted time with lengthy sentiments or meaningless prattle, preferring to sit in silence or to discuss something that had merit when she did talk. They had spent many nights drinking wine together before his fire before their single night together, not speaking or touching or even looking at one another much of the time, and he found her companionship comforting in its odd way. He had missed it this spring and last when she didn't arrive for those nights, leaving him to climb to the roof and stare over the starlit city drunk and alone.

The corner of his mouth drew up in a faint smirk. "I enjoy following you," he said, not sure if he said it because it was true or because he also enjoyed the way her brows rose a bit, her eyes widening before she drew them back to their usual hardened stare.

Hawke didn't speak, just turned her back and waited at the door with her arms crossed as he put his armor on. He told himself he appreciated that she didn't look at him as he fastened the straps and fit the pieces over shirt, but some tiny part of him wished she would look. It seemed wrong to him that he should want such soft, tender things from a woman he lo—admired for her stoicism and tenderness.

"What is it you must tend to?" he asked her as he sheathed his greatsword between his shoulders and rolled two shirts up in his pack along with extra water and bread. No matter how often they went, a trip to the Wounded Coast took at least three days' journey.

"I've reason to believe there's some sinister blood magic going on around there," she said, walking down the stairs without checking to see if he was behind her. "I haven't had the time to look for all of them."

He sneered. "More of them?" he glanced sidelong at her face as he fell in step beside her.

Hawke nodded and opened the door.

She led him outside and through the city without speaking. For the first time, as they walked through Hightown, he became conscious of the fact that it was not companionable silence spreading between them but something uncomfortable, filled with unanswered questions and tangled emotions. Fenris held his tongue, unable to think of any conversation and coming up with nothing.

Kirwall had all but shut down in this heat wave, leaving him free to roam the streets unmolested by the stares and hushed comments. Nobles hid in their homes and the merchants of the market fought for places in the shade, many of them closing their stands early when customers proved few and far between. Even the gangs, often prolific this time of year, had sequestered themselves in their hideaways. The residents of the Undercity had it best and worst—while the total lack of sun kept Darktown relatively cool, the heat made the sewers especially rank.

Fenris remained comfortable in his armor, which was designed for the heat of the North. Back in Tevinter, a day such as this would merely mark the beginning of spring.

The sand of the Coast stretched in blistering swaths ahead of them, but Hawke moved forward without hesitation. The uncomfortable silence stretched out as well, and he wished he could say something that wouldn't offend her, or sound foolish, or a waste of time. There was only one thing he could say, though, and jogging up the Wounded Coast in search of blood mage hideouts to destroy wasn't the time or place.

He could see the film of sweat on her skin and knew her leather jerkin was not designed with consideration to temperature. Still she pressed on, leading with sure steps up a winding path to a darkened cave.

"It smells of death and magic," Fenris said as they neared the entrance.

She glanced at him and reached behind her to unsheathe her daggers. "Then we're at the right place," she answered.

He fell in behind her, pulling his sword out and readying the blade for any sign of danger. All remained quiet. A scroll sat on the ground in the center of the cave. Hawke walked up to it with sure strides and pulled matches from one of her pockets. She wasted no time studying the scroll or unrolling it, striking a match and setting it ablaze without pausing.

The ground shuddered and magic crackled throughout the cave as a lesser demon arose from the ground to fling spells at them. Within moments they were swarmed by shades. For a second he panicked when Hawke disappeared, slashing through the ethereal foes in wide arcs. But as always, she reappeared with her daggers sunk into the back of the mage, flipping out of the way before the others could attack her.

Her blades slashed, one straight with a razor's edge and the other serrated to tear into flesh and sever bone. She had a way of twisting the knives when she struck home, killing weak enemies instantly and leaving lacerations on the stronger ones. Her lips drew away from her teeth in a savage smile as she destroyed each enemy, dark hair flying around her face as she whirled through the crowds.

Fenris never tired of watching her fight, catching glimpses of the rapid series of acrobatics and slashes as she darted around opponents. She moved too fast for him to keep track of much of the time, which was fortunate because it meant their attackers couldn't see her either.

The battle ended and their eyes met across the cave. He saw a gash along one of her bare arms and a bruise forming on her cheek as she tossed her head and sheathed her blades with a flourish.

"That was too easy," she said, her tone serious. Her eyes met his and he saw that this was not one of her rare, morose jokes.

"We should move on," he replied, pausing to glance around the small cave for any hidden entrances or cracks through which a foe might materialize before he turned to follow her to the entrance.

She stood there, staring at the outside with her hands at her sides. He saw the tension in her muscles, the way her fingers flattened out from her palms and drew into fists in a reflexive pattern. And as he drew up to the entrance and saw the blurry barrier between them and the sunlight outside, he knew something had gone awry.

"Wards," she murmured, answering his question before he could ask it. "We're trapped in here."

If the cave didn't provide them with some shade, Hawke knew they would be half-dead of dehydration and sunstroke, no matter the elf's tolerance for heat. The confined space and sweltering air that circulated through a tiny hole in the roof of the cave meant that the heat grew unbearable within the first hour.

"I'm going to look around and see if there's another way out," she announced to Fenris. He turned toward her, opening his mouth to argue, and she silenced him with a sharply upraised hand. "You wait by the entrance in case someone comes along."

His lips flattened into a disapproving line but he nodded, turning back to the unreachable sky with his arms crossed. For a moment she stared at the taut muscles of his back, the way they shifted under his armor, flexing the lyrium into new patterns. She wondered if her nails had scarred him that night when she dug them into his skin as she gasped in his arms, and for a second her hands tingled with the remembered sensation of his warm skin and the cool metallic lines of his tattoos.

She turned, irritated with herself for having such foolish thoughts, refusing to look at the red scarf tied to his wrist. It wasn't a scarf, either, she knew, but a piece of the robe she wore around the house that he'd torn from her in his haste to remove her clothing. For two days she'd searched for that scrap of fabric in vain, methodical in her effort to repair the torn robe. It was almost a comfort to her, the thought of restoring it to its previous state, of denying what had happened between them. And then she'd seen him at the Hanged Man for the weekly game night wearing the red band and knew that things could never return to the way they were.

Sweat dripped down her back, plastering the leather of her armor to her skin. She gritted her teeth against the notion of stripping it off, though she knew she'd have to sooner or later. The longer she held out, the more of their precious water supply she needed.

The cave had the main chamber that they had found the tome in and a short hallway to the entrance, but she could hear water somewhere. If she could find it, their odds of surviving this imprisonment would increase.

Hawke walked around the perimeter of the cave, testing each chip and crack with her fingertips. No passages. Nothing. As she rounded back toward the entrance, she felt dampness on her hand. She squinted at the stone, running her hand over the trickle until she found the source.

"Fenris," she said. A moment later he stood at her shoulder, peering through the dark at her hand.

"You have found water," he stated, glancing at her. He stood too close and she shifted away before she could smell the intoxicating aroma of firewood and blood and sweat and magic that surrounded him.

"Is it safe to drink?" she asked, lifting her finger between them and peering at the droplet that clung to the tip. She knew his elven eyes could see more than hers, and she had keen sight for a human. After a moment of useless staring, she extended her hand toward his face, careful not to let the water drip down to her knuckles.

He grabbed her wrist and drew her hand to his mouth, licking the water from her skin with a hot, raspy tongue. Green eyes met hers, his expression serious as he slowed toward the tip of her finger. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue lingered a moment too long before he withdrew his mouth. "Yes," he said, his voice low and husky, still holding onto her hand with both of his. "The water is safe to drink."

She felt the muscles of her stomach tighten against the heat flooding her groin and snatched her hand away. How could he still smell like firewood in the summer?

"Then we should find a way to gather it," she said, moving away from him to rifle through her pack. That odd sixth sense that had helped her to develop her talents as an assassin and thief warned her of his gaze, the heat of his eyes between her shoulders as she found an oiled canvas and some tent stakes.

He worked alongside her without further comment, even when he had to lift her so that she could secure hooks to the roof. After they draped the canvas to catch the water from where it dripped in the ceiling, she hopped off his shoulders and landed, crouching, on the floor.

Fenris turned to level that intense stare on her again. "How do you intend to get us out of here?" he asked her, crossing his arms.

Her brows constricted and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Can't you phase through the barrier?" she snapped. The sweaty leather of her armor itched and she longed to take it off. It would only be fair after that finger-tasting game of his to lounge in her smallclothes ignoring his stares.

"Perhaps," he answered. Her stomach clenched again as he walked toward her, and then she realized that she stood between him and the entrance.

She watched him strip off his gauntlet and extend his hand, tattoos flaring to life, and press a fingertip to the barrier. Light flared, bright blue and then bright white, blotting out sight for several seconds. A loud popping noise filled the room and the sharp scent of ozone and burning flesh met her nose a second later. Blinking the spots from her vision, Hawke watched as Fenris startled back, hissing in pain and clutching his hand, shaking out his burnt fingers.

"No," he snarled through gritted teeth, "I cannot phase through the barrier."

Hawke sighed and tossed her hair from her eyes, walking toward him with an outstretched hand. "Let me see," she commanded. She didn't wait for his permission, knowing he wouldn't grant it without a fuss, instead seizing his wrist and drawing the hand up to her face. Three fingertips on his right hand were encased in fat red blisters where they had touched the barrier.

"I am fine," he growled as she led him to the main chamber by his injured hand. "There is nothing to be done, anyway."

She answered by turning to face him, hooking a foot around the back of his knee and shoving both his shoulders in a rapid jerk. He landed square on his ass, as she intended, scowling green eyes meeting hers through his pale hair. "Stay there," she said, pointing at him as she moved toward their water-catching tarp.

"I am not some dog to obey your orders," he said, and she could hear the sneer twisting his lips around the words.

"That's true," she answered, finding a small crevasse in the rocky ceiling that she could use as a handhold. She coiled her muscles and leapt, kicking off from the wall and catching her fingers into the crack. It wasn't very deep, but it was narrow, and she had to twist her hips, bracing her feet against the ceiling to relieve pressure on the hand before she broke her fingers at the lowest knuckle. Hanging upside-down, she glanced at him to see the half-dazed expression on his face and realized he was staring at her little show of acrobatics with the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. Her mouth twisted into a matching smirk and she said, "My dog doesn't whine as much as you do."

"That is because you treat that beast with more courtesy than you afford most people," he retorted, but he didn't sound angry any longer. She sighed; it would be better for him to be irritated with her in such a small space than for him to banter and lick her fingers. Especially since she would have to remove her armor soon.

She pulled her waterskin from her hip and drew as much water from the canvas as she could into it, dismayed to realize how little had gathered. Tightening her lips, she held the container closed as she dropped to the ground and landed, crouching, in front of him.

"Hold out your hand," she said, kneeling at arm's length and dribbling the water over his injured fingers. He pressed his mouth into a line, which she recognized as his version of a wince. Her eyes met his for a second before she refocused on his hand and added, "It's good if it hurts. That means the burns aren't deep."

He nodded without speaking as she pulled a small vial of burn ointment from her pack and dabbed it on his fingers. "Where did you learn to do this?" he asked when she finished wrapping short pieces of gauze around the blisters.

"I was a scout in the King's Army," she answered, not looking at him as she cleaned up the supplies and re-packed them. "Most of us were trained in field medicine because of our speed and stealth. They left the warriors to handle the main charge."

"It must have been handy for the healers to carry long knives," he mused. She could feel his eyes on the side of her face and still refused to meet his gaze. Of all the people she might be trapped with, it had to be him. It was just as Bethany said when they fled Lothering: The Maker certainly has a sense of humor.

"We were not healers," she snorted, moving to sit against the wall with her knees drawn to her chest. She kept her distance from him though she stole a glance at his face. "Just men and women with bandages. In the end, it didn't help."

"The Blight has ended, has it not?" he asked, green eyes boring into hers across the space between them.

"Not because of the army," she muttered, pulling her arms tight around her knees. The inward hunch only served to warm her further and she drew her shoulders away from her ears in an attempt to cool off.

Silence fell again, this time for long enough that she measured the passage by light creeping across the floor of the cave from that lonely, faraway pinprick on the ceiling. She used to revel in the silence she shared with Fenris, enjoying the long hours they could spend with few words, enjoying simple sounds and sights and one another's company without irritating prattle or useless small talk. Since their encounter, the silence had felt pregnant with unspoken words and ambiguous glances and she'd learned the hard way why others kept trying to fill every minute with conversation.

Hawke took a few sips of water, and after a while kicked her legs out in front of her, loosening the ties of her armor to let air flow through the sparse gaps. It didn't help, particularly when the elf began to remove each metal piece of his armor until he sat in nothing but his pants. When he re-wrapped his red wristband on his bare arm while staring at her, she shut her eyes and pretended to doze. She knew he wouldn't believe the ruse, but at least she didn't have to watch.

Fenris broke the quiet with his low voice, green eyes still staring at her through the dimming light. "We have never spoken about that night all those years ago," he murmured.

Sharp eyes met his at the statement. Hawke's brows drew together and her lips turned down. He could see a muscle in her jaw tighten, but she didn't speak.

"I was a fool," he continued, glancing down at the delicate wrap of bandages on his fingers. When he looked back at her, she had pulled her knees up again and hung her head. He ground his teeth at the sight and pushed on, fighting to speak. It was as difficult as any battle he'd faced and each word came slow, painful. "I should have asked your forgiveness long ago."

"What do I need to forgive you for?" she asked. Furious blue flashed through her bangs.

Fenris clenched his hands into fists and glared at her. "For leaving," he answered, unsure why it bothered him that she seemed to have forgotten. Until that moment, he had been certain that she felt the same tangle of desire and confusion and loss that he did. Now, seeing the cold flint of her eyes, he began to doubt she had ever felt anything for him.

"You left," she shrugged and he felt an agonizing tightness to his chest as their eyes met. "What else is there to say?"

For a moment he hesitated, rolling around the words he'd meant to tell her for some time, words he feared she would reject or mock. Over time, he'd realized the truth of why he feared saying it to her, and that was because he knew she wouldn't. That for all the coldness she exuded, for all the flare of her temper, something beautiful and bright glowed beneath the steely exterior, something that had dulled in the time since he left.

"My life is worthless if I live it alone," he said. He felt heat in his ears and at the same time felt as if the blood in his veins ran cold. Across the cavern he saw the brightness of her eyes fixed on him, the careful non-expression marred only by arching brows. He took a breath and plunged onward. "I would sooner die than live another minute without you."

She didn't speak for such a long second that he felt pressure behind his eyes, tension running the length of his arms. He hated her silence, wanted to shake some answer from her, but all he could do was clench his fists and wait.

"It took you three years to say that?" she responded at last, the cold blue of her stare overwhelming him.

He nodded, unable to think of anything better to say. It seemed unfair that she rendered his usual eloquent articulation moot, that one look from her left him mute and fumbling for words that seldom failed him in the face of others.

"Why now?" she questioned, her gaze never flinching. She shifted into a cross-legged position, like an opening lotus flower, and folded her arms.

"I do not know," he answered, still caught in her gaze like a fly in a spider's web.

It occurred to him that he'd done what he most feared, giving her such power over him in that moment. That she held his beating heart in the palm of his hand was ironic; she held more power over him as they sat in that cave than he'd ever held over another, even when he literally held their heart in his hand.

Hawke closed her eyes and took a breath. "You're a bastard," she whispered, arms still clenched around her middle. He saw now that it was the pose of a woman in pain, not of an interrogator.

Fenris hesitated, not moving as she stood up. He didn't know what to expect as she stalked away from him, out of sight as she went to the entrance of the cave. Torpor crept through his veins, the shock of her rejection settling over him. He couldn't move, just stare at the lone point of hallway where she'd disappeared.

A minute later she returned, her cheeks flushed with rage and damp with tears. She approached him like a storm and bowled him to his back before he could react, knocking his head against the stone of the floor hard enough to set his ears ringing and blur his eyes. While he was stunned she pressed her advantage, pinning him with a knee against his groin, the heel of that same foot jammed into his opposite kneecap. A second knee crushed the nerves of his arm just above the elbow, a hand pinned his wrist and a knife hovered above his throat before he could attempt to fight back, and by then it was too late.

The blade of her straight knife trembled and he was grateful she thought to do him in with such a courteous, swift death. It was better than he deserved for betraying her like that, for breaking her heart. Tears dripped from her face to his, running down his cheeks and to his ears. His heart pounded and the seconds dragged on as they stared at each other through that small space, across that shivering dagger that separated them. He couldn't look away from her face. There could be no better way to die than in the arms of Hawke.

"I should kill you," she whispered. Her knee shifted from his arm and he realized he'd spoken his last thought aloud as sensation rushed back to the limb in pins and needles. The flat of her delicate blade skimmed across his throat, and the cold metal sent shivers down his spine. In a quick flash of flourished silver, it disappeared into the sheath on her back.

"Yet you won't," he answered. He flexed the fingers of his hand against the heel of her boot, all the leverage he needed to flip her to her back.

"Maybe I'm the fool," she murmured, her eyes flicking over his face and pausing a moment. Fenris realized she was looking at his lips, thinking of kissing him, and made up his mind, gripping her boot now that the feeling had returned to his hand and flipping her to her back.

The impulse was too strong to fight and he kissed her, tightening his thighs around her knee to forestall any violent reaction. Her hand dug into his hair and her chest arched against his, the leather scraping over the skin of his torso. He fumbled the straps of her weapons off and she swung her leg around his hips, using the momentum to roll them over yet again.

She withdrew her mouth from his and he growled, opening bleary eyes to see her untying the laces along the sides, a slow process that engulfed his attention. He reached to help her push it off her shoulders and those blighted knees came up to pin his hands again. A faint smirk twisted her swollen lips and blue eyes flashed before she peeled the sweaty leather away from her skin.

"Why do you wear these foolish things?" he asked, wrenching his hands free of her knees and gripping the fabric that covered her chest. This was heavier, holding breasts down under her armor, not the flimsy thing he'd encountered after destroying her red silk robe.

"Do you really care?" she replied, reaching behind herself to find some secret catch that let it fall into his hand.

He sat forward, one hand gripping the back of her head and the other discarding her undergarment in favor of her hip. She slid closer, straddling his lap, her arms winding around his neck. Before she could kiss him he dipped his head, catching one of her nipples in his teeth and tugging. Her nails dug into his shoulder and she pulled his hair, gasping when his tongue soothed the bite and grinding her hips against his.

Fenris groaned and moved his mouth to her neck and then her ear. "Take off your pants," he demanded, scraping his burned fingers down her back to pull at the waistband.

She kissed him, bit his lip, and said against his mouth, "Take off your pants."

He shoved her off his lap and a flurry of movement ensued, a race to see who could strip the last buckles and boots aside. When her long legs were bare he yanked her toward his aching groin. She smirked and slung a knee over his shoulder, her back arching to keep their faces close as she faced him, sitting up chest-to-chest. Maker, he loved how flexible she was.

His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise as he entered her, his face falling forward against her shoulder. He turned his mouth to her neck, raising one hand behind his head to grasp her ankle as her other leg wrapped around his waist and propelled her over his length. They gasped at the same time and he moaned her name, her real name, murmuring a combination of curses and poetry in Arcanum as they picked up pace. Her teeth grazed his ear and her tongue followed and a second later she panted his name over and over, turning the syllables into a new Chant of Light, nothing but breath and desire running over his skin.

Fenris clung to her as their muscles tensed, a strange unison as if they were sparring, and then he saw stars. His teeth sank into her shoulder as her nails scored his back and for several shuddering seconds both gasped and gripped each other. They collapsed at the same time and he fell back against the cool stone of the cave floor with her against his chest, sliding her leg off his shoulder.

Neither one spoke as he wound his arms around her waist and she traced the lines of his tattoos with idle fingertips. They lay together in silence, but this time the silence felt right.

Merrill sat outside the cave, just as Isabela and Varric had ordered her to do, and waited until all the naughty noises stopped. Then she nicked her finger and removed the barrier from the cave door before she headed down the path to meet her partners in crime.