(Written for a Tumblr prompt #29: Which one holds the umbrella over both of them when it rains?)

"It's only rain, Hawke," Fenris sniffs when she balks at the open doorway.

Lisbet Hawke frowns and folds her arms over her chest, warding away the chill from outdoors. "Only six days straight of rain, Fenris," she amends.

"And yet, surprisingly, Kirkwall seems none the cleaner for it."

"Maybe after the first day it did," she says, looking over his dripping shoulder into the courtyard, or the puddle that once was a courtyard. "At this point, it's more of a surprise that the whole city hasn't floated away."

"Well, the Hanged Man still stands. Are you coming to Wicked Grace tonight or aren't you?"

Lisbet sighs. "Better than another night cooped up here, I suppose." She turns to pull on her boots. "But not without an umbrella, at least! Bodahn, have you seen…"

She turns to find her dwarven manservant waiting, arms laden not just with the umbrella but with a covered basket from which the most delicious smells waft past the rain-scent. "For Wicked Grace night, messere," Bodahn says, holding out the basket toward her. "Orana thought you and your friends would enjoy some of her muffins."

"Indeed we shall," Lisbet says with a smile, filling her arms with the basket, its warmth a shield against the chill of the still-open door. But then she frowns at the umbrella still dangling over the dwarf's arm, her own hands now too full to –

"Allow me," Fenris says, stepping forward to take the umbrella.

"You're already all wet," she points out.

He shrugs, opening the umbrella and gesturing her under it with a half-smile that distracts her for a moment from the way his soaked hair is dripping over his eyes. "I'd offer to carry the muffins, but then they'd be drenched, too."

So they set out, awkwardly, Hawke and the muffins sheltering under the umbrella that Fenris holds aloft from a cautious distance.

A distance which, somewhere along the way, shrinks until Hawke shivers at the sudden drip of water on her neck where he now hovers near enough to stand under the umbrella with her. Their eyes meet; he starts to back away again, mouth opening with apologies –

"Wait," she says, moving with him, now face to face over steaming sweet muffins.

"I didn't mean to get you wet," he leans away even as she leans closer.

"Admit it," Lisbet grins, not letting the distance grow, not in the least, keeping him in her rain-sheltered circle. "It's nicer under here with me."

He arches an eyebrow. "The rain does not bother me."

"Aha! So it's not the umbrella you were inching towards?" She stifles a giggle when his eyes widen, and it's hard to tell in this downpour but is that a blush spreading behind the waterlogged hair clinging to his face?

Then the half-smile returns as he meets her gaze. "It was not," he confesses, "the muffins."

She laughs outright; when his smile widens at having made her laugh, she leans in past the muffin basket to catch his smile in a kiss. It is a brief and tender thing, without her hands free to reach around his neck, to catch in his hair and pull him in close, but he does not retreat, holding the umbrella as steady above the pair of them as his lips are steady on hers.

In the end, she is somewhat damper than anticipated, but there is a warmth in her bones that chases away the weather's chill, even as they walk on through the streets so close under the umbrella that all that side of her will be damp enough to draw their friends' questions.

The muffins, at least, remain undrenched.