THANKS TO THE REVIEWERS! You guys are awesome. Much returned love.

Warnings: Continued teasing, drinking, Isabela's dirty jokes, and some character-induced Carver-bashing. I actually love the hell out of Carver, but let's face it, he's kind of a dick to Hawke a lot of the time. Being the proud owner of two younger brothers, I have to opt for an accurate depiction of a little brother acting like an ass.


"I am not my sister."

-Carver

IV.

Fenris was shirtless and half-drunk when his sharp ears detected the noise of someone walking through his front door. He stood, gathering his wits, and reached for his sword before he recognized the soft soles and sure steps of Hawke. He tilted his head, listening, and realized that the usual confidence had leeched from her stride.

She burst into the room, her blue eyes glittering with magic and fury and… tears? He felt his brows knit together as he released the hilt of his claymore and took a step toward her.

"What—" he began, but she spoke as well, interrupting him even as she answered the question he failed to ask.

"It's not enough that he joined the bloody Templars, but now he's outright avoiding me," she cried, a hysterical note pervading her voice. The air around her crackled with heat and power and Fenris drew back, wary. "I was chatting with Ser Cullen and that little prig walked right past me and stood there talking to Cullen like I wasn't even there."

The shrill quality of her words made him flinch as much as the display of raw power did. He had never witnessed her in a full rage before, even when Carver took his vows a year before.

"I am sorry to hear that, Hawke," he said, not yet comfortable enough to use her first name. Not that Varric or Aveline or any of the others used it either, but somehow Fenris felt that he had more right to call her by her first name than they did. Perhaps it was the shy smile that spread over her pink cheeks after she complimented him, or the fact that he felt it was a special smile reserved for him.

Her shoulders sagged and he felt the temperature of the room normalize. Out of instinct he stepped toward her and realized that he was tensed for some kind of battle, though it wasn't fear or anger that thrilled his veins. It felt like adrenaline, but a different heat than bloodlust. Fenris clenched his fists at his sides to hold back the surge of danger in himself. He wasn't angry with Hawke, after all; he was angry with Carver for being such a belligerent fool.

"I would gladly go to the Gallows in the morning and… kick his ass on your behalf," he said, using one of Varric and Isabela's favorite phrases. The words felt alien on his tongue but brought an odd sense of satisfaction as he uttered them.

A faint, distressed chuckle escaped her and pride surged through Fenris. She looked at him with her slumping posture and watery eyes and he thought of that night in the Deep Roads when he had dared put his arm around her, even for a moment. He had an urge to do it again, to hold her against his chest or kiss her or—he couldn't even consider the baser, animalistic urges.

"It's okay," she murmured, her voice softening. "He is still angry. There's nothing I can do that will make it any better." To see the anger drain from her and leave her so fatigued disturbed Fenris. He always knew she carried her burdens in silence, letting them weigh on her soul until she felt crushed, but he had never seen anything succeed in defeating her like this had.

He had always found Carver tolerable at best, irritating and whiny at worst, but now cold fury filled him. What a selfish bastard, to hurt his sister time and again. Gritting his teeth, unable to contain the violence in his voice, Fenris added, "It would be my pleasure to do so."

Hawke blinked and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. A hint of color rose in her cheeks and she lowered her gaze. "You're drunk," she realized. Her eyes darted from his face to the bottles on the table and back again. She folded her arms and Fenris felt a jolt of shame at her posture. It was a level of guilt he hadn't felt since he killed the Fog Warriors and the recollection chilled his veins with rage.

"Do not judge me," his tone was clipped as he turned and paced away from her, unwilling to bear her scrutiny and disapproval.

A contemptuous snort answered. "I was going to ask if I might have a glass, but if you want me to leave—" she said. He whirled to face her again and she cut herself off, but he stood too far away to distinguish whether her faint frown came from confusion or irritation.

His heart thudded. If Isabela's raunchy stories were to be believed, getting drunk alone in his house with Hawke would lead them straight to bed. Or, as the pirate suggested, 'bent over the desk screaming for you,' which called to mind a specific image that had certain side effects he didn't want Hawke seeing. Fenris swallowed in an effort to ease the sudden dryness of his mouth. Then again, he knew that Hawke and Varric often drank alone in the dwarf's suite after discussing business and he was certain that they had never slept together. That and it seemed impossible for Varric to bend a human over a table. He hoped.

Fenris made a stiff gesture toward the table. "Help yourself. The wine cellars are extensive," he said, adding a silent prayer to any god that might listen to keep him from making a complete fool of himself.

She gave him a grateful smile. "I'm sorry. You don't need me coming here and dumping all of my mad family dramas on you as an excuse to leech your wine," she sighed as she picked the bottle up, glanced at the label, and took a gulp. "But Maker, it's good. Much better than anything at the Hanged Man."

"You wound me with such comparisons," he said, striding toward the table and tugging the bottle from her hand. Their fingers brushed, just a moment, but electricity jumped between them in that breath. Fenris took a long draught before she could see any reaction from him.

When he lowered the bottle she extended her hand toward him with expectation in her eyes, a faint smile playing on her lips. His fingers rose, prepared to caress her palm and twine with hers, but before he could summon the courage to make such a daring gesture, she snatched the wine back. Fenris blinked and watched her tip the bottle back, her throat making tiny twitching movements as she finished the contents.

"Is this a competition?" she asked, her tongue swiping a few spare drops from her lips. She smiled, but her eyes retained a painful crinkle at the edges. The dark red wine stained her mouth pink and he found himself drowning in her yet again.

Hawke could play the noble almost too well; years of running around in intricate mage robes had left her comfortable and graceful in even the ridiculous brocade of Orlesian fashions while her keen awareness prevented her from making any scandalous social missteps and her ability to listen and weigh every situation according to individual merit made her a brilliant conversationalist in even the stuffiest company.

But for all that she made as lovely a lady as any of the prissy noblewomen haunting the Viscount's Keep, Hawke stood apart in her distinct lack of prissiness. She drank from the bottle, danced to Fereldan folk tunes in the Hanged Man, laughed and bantered with Varric and Isabela after a few rounds, fought with ferocity equal to any warrior and commanded respect with a few words, binding her friends together with the confidence she inspired and the considered compassion she offered.

Fenris wished that he could still be startled to have such thoughts of her, but as he grew accustomed to freedom and to her he could not help but to grow accustomed to the feelings she inspired in him. A woman like her could never feel such for an embittered runaway like himself, and though he did not enjoy it, he was accustomed to that understanding as well. Perhaps if he had made his desires clear sooner, while she still lived in Lowtown, before wealthy suitors and titled nobility came swarming for her attention, he might have claimed her for himself. Now he could not doubt that she was too good for him.

Rather than ruminate on his conflicting emotions, Fenris focused on her teasing words. "Is that wise? I do not know that I will be in any condition to carry you back to your home once you lose consciousness," he smirked, catching her dazzling eyes with his. For a moment he could have sworn he saw her gaze flick across his bare skin, from the loose pants hanging low on his hips up to his lips, before she smiled at him.

"And my mother would have Dog trained to chase you off the property if you stumbled into the foyer and dropped her drunken daughter in the middle of the carpet," she added, shifting her hands to her hips.

Fenris raised a brow, confused and intrigued at her choice of words. "You think I would drop you? Do you doubt my ability to lift you?" He wanted her to challenge him while the wine had him lightheaded and giddy enough to accept, when an accidental brush of lips might be forgotten or at least forgiven. His hands flexed at his sides of their own accord, tensing with anticipation.

"I don't doubt that you could lift me, but drunkards never fail to overestimate their capabilities," Hawke laughed and turned toward the assorted wines on the table. "And in a competition of drink, you have already given me the advantage, haven't you?"

He felt his stomach flutter in answer as he watched her lean over to grasp a new bottle. She rummaged through a few empties and he found his eyes drawn to her backside while his mind fell to the bend of her waist and the primal simplicity of Isabela's obscene yet brilliant idea. His feet shuffled forward and he caught himself just as she turned around. Blue eyes widened at his proximity and he heard her heart pound.

"Hawke—" he started to say.

"Fenris, I—" she caught a hand against the table, leaning away, and turned her face aside, looking down as if she couldn't bear to finish speaking.

Maker, Creators, Ancestors, he wanted to reach out and run his hand along the edge of her face. His markings tingled under his skin and in his tipsy torpor he knew that touching her would bring no pain, that only his unquenched desire caused the agony he felt while staring at her.

She took a breath and looked at him. "I am sorry for burdening you with my problems. They are nothing compared to yours," she said. Her words seemed to choke her as she spoke. "I forget how lucky I am to still have a brother, even if he won't talk to me."

Fenris blinked. He had forgotten his brooding when she came in, grateful for a distraction from his constant fury and paranoia. And she had forgotten her brother for a moment, smiling and even laughing at his subtle humor.

"I do not mind," he said, his chest tight and warm in spite of his lack of a shirt. "You are always welcome here."

Hawke tilted her head to one side, straightening away from the table. She stepped toward him, too close to believe, her pale face inches from his. When she breathed her clothed breasts brushed against his bare skin and his short nails bit into his palms. He felt dizzy, drunk with her closeness, more drunk than the wine had made him.

"You're a good friend," she said, lifting a hand toward his face. "I truly don't know what I would do if I didn't have you in my life." He thought for a moment that she might cup his cheek, draw him close and kiss him. But her palm paused, hovered near his skin, and lowered.

Fenris wanted to catch her wrist, to drag her hand up to his face and kiss her fingertips and her lips and drag her to the musty cot in the corner. The idea thrilled him and terrified him at the same time. She would never look at him the same way if he pressed himself upon her like that. Her rejection would break what shattered fragments remained of his heart and soul, and he could not afford such pain. Not just as he had begun to live a true life.

He felt a faint smile curve his lips in spite of his doubts. "As are you, Hawke," he responded. He leaned forward, felt her sharp intake of breath as his cheek brushed near hers as a shiver of strange pleasure against his ear, and grabbed the last full bottle of wine from the table.