Up now: tactful Rogue Hawke. But wait- she can work it. She is a rogue, after all. Takes place about a year before Act 2 starts (assuming that Act 1 took a few months to a year).
When the bars of the jail cell slam shut, Fenris whirls to face Hawke in an effort to hide his flinch at the sound. He glares daggers at her through the dark and can see a serene smile cross her lips despite the shadows. She sits, comfortable on the narrow stone slab that serves for a cot, with one leg propped up and an arm wrapped loosely around it, unapologetic for the situation they're in.
"This is your fault," he growls, pointing a finger at her face. "If you would just-"
Hawke stands in a fluid motion and raises her brows. "I apologize, Fenris. If I had known we'd be arrested, I would never have dragged you out tonight," she says, her smile softened by the light of her eyes or the dark of the cell. The compassion lurking in the back of her gaze, a sort of gentleness that lends truth to her diplomacy and tact, makes him weak. He hates that in the past three years of acquaintance, her unrelenting tenderness and a strange if strong sense of justice have drawn him in and bound him to her more thoroughly than any chain Denarius might devise.
Fenris snorts and turns away from her before the proximity and his stress at being locked up can conspire to spur him into some foolish action he will regret. "How could you think we wouldn't get arrested?" he asks bitterly instead. He grips one of the bars in his hand and presses his forehead to the cool metal.
He feels her presence near his back rather than hearing her, in spite of his sharp hearing. As ever, she moves without noise, stepping up until it's only the radiant heat of her nearby body against his that alerts him to how close she stands. "Fenris, I'm so sorry," she says, her hand on his shoulder careful not to press down or get too close to his skin. "I only wanted for you to have some fun. And hell, Kirkwall's jail can be fun if you look at as another part of tonight's adventure."
"I had no fun at any point tonight," he grumbles, though he lifts his head from the bars. The oppressive sense of defeat threatens to overwhelm him. "I never wished to be locked up again."
"Maker, I should have thought," she whispers, and that note of genuine sorrow in her voice makes his teeth grit together. "I never meant to do that to you, Fenris. Please know that I never want to hurt you." When her hand starts to slide away from his shoulder, though, he reaches up and grips her fingers to hold them in place. The metal of his gauntlet encloses the soft leather of her gloves and he imagines he is like a normal man, able to touch a woman's skin without fear or resentment.
"It is not you," he concedes, though the words still draw out through his gritted teeth, each one painful to admit. He wishes it was her fault he felt this way so that he could lash out at her. Yet he knows he cannot, if for no other reason than that he can't bear the thought of being so easily forgiven afterward. "It is this place."
"I know," she murmurs, her fingers lacing through his. It is not a comfortable pose, his hand lifted to his shoulder with the elbow jutting out between the bars, but to have her hand in his is a triumph and he will not waste it. He stiffens when something tickles his neck and realizes it's her hair brushing against his nape as she lowers her head. "I only wanted for you to enjoy doing something you had never done before. To experience freedom unlike any other, freedom that no one could give you."
He scowls through the bars, remembering the path that led to their arrest. The clatter of hooves and the chime of her laughter on the wind. "It was not enjoyable in the least," he answers.
The hair brushes against his neck again and Fenris shivers. "Not even for a moment?" she asks, a tone of gentle teasing in her voice. She notices his shiver and gasps, "Oh, are you cold? There's a blanket over here somewhere. It's not much, but-" When she tries to turn from him he keeps that iron grip on her hand and her attempt to pull away sends her rebounding into him as he turns to face her. She lands with a hand caught against his chest and another on the bars behind his head, effectively leaning against him. "Oh," she says again, eyes glittering a string of confusing, unreadable emotions at this distance.
Fenris feels a distant buzz in the back of his head and can't move his mind beyond the pressure of his hand on the small of her back or the intertwined, gloved fingers hovering over his pounding heart. Thank the Maker for the heavy metal of his chest piece, which prevents her from realizing how fast his pulse races. He watches the strands of her hair dance against her cheeks and forehead when his breath washes over her face.
From the first time he saw her lift her bow and fire a string of arrows, he was intrigued, though not necessarily impressed. But she could pull out a dagger and wreak rapid damage on a foe at close range. Once he saw her throttle a man with her bow and drop him in time to slam the arched wood into the face of another. She dodges around the battlefield with ease, sighting foes with her keen eyes, just as those keen eyes seem able to penetrate through to the heart of any person and see them for who they are. After all, she recognized the danger of that Chantry mother with cold tact and has both the courtesy and patience to attempt to understand the furious giant Arishok stewing at the Docks.
For all of her gentle tact and calm compassion, she is still a fighter, willing to kill and die for what she believes in. He wishes he could have her faith in man's better nature, that through trust one could more easily find those unworthy of such trust and deal with them accordingly. But he cannot trust, cannot even trust her fully, much as he may want to. Fenris knows that if anyone could ever fully understand him it is her, that she tries each day to comprehend him and to help him. Misguided as her help may be at moments like these, he muses, realizing that he's got her pressed against him in a jail cell.
"Hawke," he says, trying to keep his voice level. It comes out raspy and he takes another breath, lowering his hand from her waist slowly, in case she isn't steady on her own. "I do not like horses."
Just like that, the interminable moment breaks and she hops back from him. "I'm so sorry, Fenris," she says, shaking her head and pushing her hair away from her eyes with a shaking hand. "I didn't mean to, I mean, I'm sorry." He smirks to see her, usually so composed and able to lie with such ease and grace, fumbling for words around him. Her eyes widen in the gloom. "You're laughing at me," she accuses, but she smiles at him. It's the same smile she gave him earlier when she dragged him out of his mansion an hour before midnight: raw and real, abandoning that careful composure that enables her to walk into the Viscount's office (or, he thinks darkly, to enter a ball on his foppish son's arm) and walk out to hire the Coterie for security on her mine shipments and set apostates free while lying that they are dead with such smooth grace.
"I am thinking about what your neighbors will say when they discover you have been locked in jail for stealing a horse during a midnight excursion with an elven squatter," he answers. It occurs suddenly that even Aveline might not be able to keep him safe, new to her position as Guard Captain after only two years. He might be forced to abandon Denarius' manor and move to the Alienage with that irritating gnat of a blood mage.
Hawke settles on the bench and draws her leg up again. "They will say, 'For shame! Those Amells have the worst luck with their daughters,'" she answers, and her smile fades too fast. She sighs and he watches her for a long moment. He knows she's had a few letters from her sister since she was sent to the Grey Wardens, but he can see that for all her smiles when she receives such mail, her eyes look a bit too bright when she folds the paper away.
Silence descends and he takes a deep breath. He moves to sit beside her on the bench, which is too narrow to maintain much distance, but they are not touching and she does not move, simply turning her head and resting her temple against her knee as she watches him with serious eyes.
"Shame be damned," he says quietly, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.
"I'll sneak around at night if I damn well please," she smiles again, eyes twinkling at him in spite of their surroundings. "You're right, Fenris. And to be honest, even if you didn't like riding the horse, I'm glad I stole it. I had fun."
Fenris reaches out and touches her hand where it rests against the metal of the bench. After a moment their fingers weave together again. They sit in silence like that for who knows how long, before the sound of the jail opening rouses his head from where it's tucked on top of hers. Sometime in the night they tangled into a strange embrace made uncomfortable by the narrow space, so they are both sitting up with their legs tangled, her head against his chest and his arms around her shoulders.
The guard captain and the dwarf stare at them from the other side of the now-open bars. The dwarf sighs and hands the guard a clinking pouch which she takes with an outstretched hand, never relinquishing her pose of irritation that promises a stern lecture in the near future.
"You two are costing me a lot of money, you know," Varric grumbles.
A/N I love Varric.