A/N: Emotional overload. I haz it. This one drained me a bit, so maybe some frivolous smut is in order for the near future. You know, to recharge the ol' battery. *wink wink* Beginning of Act 3 sometime. As always, you folks are awesome.

Description: Fenris is caught up in a storm of his own making.

Warning: Angst and drama llamas.

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing at all. BioWare's toys, I'm just abusing them.

Storm

Fenris had never been fond of thunderstorms. Too often they heralded terrible or life-altering events in his life, and every time one struck the city of Kirkwall, he would lay awake all night, listening for trouble amid the booming thunder and pattering rain.

This night was no different. Stretched across a worn rug tossed haphazardly in front of the fireplace, the elf basked in the warmth and tried to focus on the book open before him. Hawke had mercilessly drilled the letters and words into his head in a way that often bred resentment between them because of how closely it reminded him of his days as a slave. But once the gates of knowledge had been opened, once Fenris had realized just how much he was gaining by learning to read and write, and how much it meant to Hawke that he have this invaluable skill, the negative feelings had faded. Especially after she brought him the book by Shartan and asked him to read it to her.

And he had read it to her. Every night for weeks they spent a few hours sitting in front of this very same fire, sipping wine and discussing the words of the long dead elven slave. Those nights spent with Hawke were simpler times, better times, before it all went wrong.

Thunder erupted overhead, rattling the windows in their frames. The elf sighed and set the book aside to stretch out on his back. His armor rested nearby, freshly cleaned and polished. It felt strange and unnerving to relax in only a pair of loose leggings, but Fenris forced himself to attempt this small measure of normalcy. Only slaves were on constant alert. Free men could afford to rest.

Fenris jerked half upright when he heard the creak of the front door hinges, but he allowed himself to relax again when he recognized the sound of Hawke's inane habit of knocking the mud from her boots on the stoop. The elf had mocked her for it once, amused that she would feel it necessary to avoid further sullying this filthy pit he called home, but she had only shrugged and blamed it on habit.

She was soaked to the bone when she appeared in the doorway of his room, the hood of her cloak thrown back and her hair plastered against her face and neck. Rain water dripped off of her clothes to form small puddles around the motionless Champion's feet. Fenris sat up slowly, suddenly wary at the wild, hunted look in Hawke's eyes, but the woman made no move and did not speak.

After a long, expectant pause, Fenris watched as Hawke's eyes drifted from his face to take in the lines of his bare torso. He felt vulnerable and exposed under her gaze, even as a hidden part of him craved her stares, and it took all of his self-control to keep from reaching for a shirt or even his armor. She would see it as an insult, a clear sign of distrust.

Fixing her gaze on his face again, Hawke abruptly demanded, "Is it helping you?" Her tone was low and measured, something he had come to recognize as a signal that her temper simmered just below the surface.

The elf shook his head, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about, Hawke?"

Her mouth tightened at the corners, and suddenly she was stomping across the room toward the windows, dropping her sodden cloak to the floor behind her as she went. As she paced by him, Fenris rose to his feet, unable to ignore his warning instincts any longer.

"I'm talking about you bedding Isabela," the Champion growled while her back was to him, though she glanced over her shoulder to see his reaction.

"Don't bother," she sneered when Fenris schooled his expression to blank neutrality. "The only secrets she keeps are her own." Hawke stared out the window at the storm and crossed her arms over her chest, her entire posture screaming hostility, defiance and hurt. A flash of lightning blazed in her eyes.

Fenris paced to the desk, then back to the fireplace, anger and guilt boiling inside him though he tried to suppress them both. "What do you want me to say, Hawke?" he demanded as he raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Why did you come here?"

They had worked so hard to avoid each other. It had been difficult at first – old habits die hard, as they say. They would run into each other in the street, at the Hanged Man, in the market, moments dominated by strained civility and a pervasive air of broken longing. But as the months passed, as they each learned the movements of the other, it became a simple thing to never see the woman for weeks on end. Even when they did meet, the strain was faded and casual. He had almost convinced himself that he was comfortable with her.

"I don't know," Hawke admitted, and she startled away from the window when a sharp gust outside blew a torrent of rain against the glass. "I just…" She took a deep breath and faced the restless elf, and Fenris noticed that her fingernails were digging into her own arms, puckering the wet material of her shirt.

"Is it bringing your memories back?" she asked, almost like a plea, and she seemed angered by her own weakness. "That is why you left, isn't it? Because you said it was too much?"

"And you think I would turn to Isabela for something I could have gotten from you," Fenris snarled, fists clenched at his sides as he prowled the room. "You really think so little of me?"

"I don't know what to think anymore!" she snapped, starting toward him with determined steps.

"Why do you even care, Hawke?" the elf cut her off with a violent gesture. "You have your apostate. Is that not enough for you?"

She flinched and took a step back, her initial surprised reply lost in an ominous rumble of thunder. Judging by her expression, Fenris wagered that was probably for the best.

"You left," she was saying, her sadness swallowed by anger again. "What was I to do, stop feeling? Should I spend my life pining for someone who…who runs away?"

Fenris' shoulders were so tense that they ached. "Clearly you thought it best to jump straight into the arms of an abomination."

"Damn it, you stubborn fool!" she cried, lunging toward him as if she wanted to strangle him. "Anders sleeps on a couch in the library! He has for years!"

The elf snarled in her face, refusing to back away even when she jabbed her fingers against his bare chest. "I see the way he looks at you. Those are not the eyes of a house guest, Hawke!"

The woman wilted at these words, her indignation melting away and leaving behind broken, empty eyes staring up at him. "He knows I don't love him," she murmured, her cold fingers now resting against Fenris' bare chest. He was torn between the disgusted urge to pull away and an errant spike of desire to tear off her rain soaked clothes to warm her skin the only way he knew how. Instead, he stood perfectly still and tried to smother his emotions. All of them.

"He knows I can't give him what's not mine to give," she continued shakily as the storm raged on outside. "We have…been together. But it's not…" She shook her head. "It's pity. It's just…"

"Sex," Fenris supplied flatly.

Hawke's eyes searched his face, but he could not read her expression to understand if she found what she sought. He could feel her trembling, though he did not know if it was from the cold or from emotions. "Fenris," she sighed, her eyes squeezed shut as if that would block out the pain, "how did we end up like this?"

Because of him. He knew it all too well and did not need to hear it said aloud. It was too late now, too broken and ragged at the edges to be repaired. She had to know that. After all this time, after all they had done to hurt one another, surely she understood the futility of hope.

She pulled away, eyes downcast, and fumbled to fetch her cloak before heading for the door. Fenris clenched his fists and tried to stop himself, but her name came unbidden to his lips.

"Hawke." She stopped in the doorway, turning only her head to meet his eyes. He studied her silhouette for a moment before drawing in a long breath. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The woman was still for an uncomfortably long time before she nodded slowly. "So am I."

He stood motionless in the middle of the room as her footsteps faded on the stairs. She had not been gone ten minutes before Fenris had donned his armor and ducked out into the streets, a cloak pulled tightly around him to block out the driving rain. Isabela was in her same spot at the bar of the Hanged Man, just as he expected.

"Well, it's about time," the pirate drawled with a half-smile. "Nice to know she put my 'accidental' admission to good use after all."

Fenris brushed the rain off his face and shook his head at the dark-skinned beauty. "Why did you do it?" he asked in voice that carried hints of both anger and hurt.

Isabela cocked her head to one side and tilted her barstool back on two legs to eye him. "Perhaps I just got tired of hearing you cry out her name," she suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Scowling, Fenris started to say, "I've never…" but the look on the woman's face made him wonder if he had indeed called Hawke's name in the heat of the moment and never realized it. A flush of shame crawled up his spine, a worthless apology already forming on his lips, but Isabela was quick to wave him off with an impatient sigh.

"You're both stubborn fools, if you ask me," she informed him with an amused rumble around the lip of her pint. "There's far too many strings attached to the pair of you, and I'll be damned if I find myself tangled up in them."

Fenris sighed and slumped against the bar, accepting the whiskey Corff offered in his direction. "What a mess," he grumbled under his breath.

"Well, it doesn't have to be," Isabela scolded with an incredulous snort. "I can't tell who's worse – you or Hawke. It's like you both get off on misery."

Fenris grunted and drained his drink, idly wishing Aveline was around to offer a much needed, "Shut up, whore," but he settled for ordering another drink instead. The door of the tavern banged open a few moments later, bringing with it a gust of icy wind and a soaking wet Anders.

The apostate glowered when he spotted Fenris, but headed straight for the stairs, two heavy bags slung over his shoulder. The elf exchanged a curious look with Isabela, who had already risen from her stool, and the pair shadowed the mage to Varric's room.

The dwarf looked up from the letter he was writing with some measure of surprise at the sudden crowd in his room. Anders dropped his belongings unceremoniously to the floor and shifted awkwardly for a moment.

"Would it be all right if I hole up here until the storm passes?" the mage finally asked with an uncomfortable frown. "I have other places I can stay, it's just…"

"Sure, Blondie," Varric gently interrupted, curiosity now edging out the surprise on his face. "But, what…"

The dwarf looked from Anders to Fenris to Isabela, then back again, nodding slowly as he came to some conclusion or another. "Ah," he said, pushing out of his chair and offering the apostate a sympathetic smile. "She kicked you out."

"In a manner of speaking," Anders shrugged, and Fenris could see the mage was struggling to smother his feelings and seem casual. "It's not as though I didn't see it coming. Just, well, not in the middle of the night. In a thunderstorm."

"Make yourself at home," Varric assured him. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

"Hmm," Isabela purred with a long, suggestive look at the rain-drenched apostate, "my room is just down the hall, Anders. Should you…need anything."

Anders glared at her, but turned his ire instead on Fenris. "You know," he spat at the elf, "I always knew you were an ass, but I didn't think you were a fool. If she looked at me the way she looks at you, it'd take an army of templars to keep me from her."

Fenris wanted to lash out in return, to snarl and sneer and tell the abomination to mind his own damned business, but all he managed was a tired sigh. "It's not that simple."

"And why not?" Varric demanded wryly, just as Isabela and Anders both scoffed, "It should be."

"It's too late," the elf answered, bristling a little at being outnumbered. "She deserves better."

Anders snorted and turned his back on Fenris. "If that's all you can say," he sneered, "then maybe you're right."

Fenris could take no more of the accusing stares and frustrated head shakes, so he turned on his heel and all but fled the Hanged Man. The dark storm outside embraced him, wrapping him in sheets of cold rain and drowning out his slapping footfalls with disquieted rumblings. Too many thoughts and feelings fought for control of him, and he instead focused on sensations – the freezing stones beneath his bare feet, the bright, blinding dance of lightning across the bottoms of the clouds, the stinging drive of the droplets against his upturned face.

It did not matter where he was going, where he would end up. He just had to move, had to keep going, just as he always had, hunted even by his own emotions. No matter how he tried, thoughts of Hawke kept rising in his mind, memories of her snarling in vicious battle, smiling over him, laughing at Varric's stories, arguing bitterly with Sebastian, reading passages from a book in the firelight – and her voice filled his ears as if she were standing right beside him.

He should have known. He should have expected where his thoughts would lead his traitorous feet, but he was still startled when he looked up and realized he was standing at Hawke's door. And there she was, her body poised in the entrance, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and honest, expectation and fear bright in their depths.

Fenris stood up straighter and drew in a deep breath. Maker, he hoped he would not disappoint her this time.