With her admittedly busy schedule, it was a fortnight or so before Hawke considered bringing along Fenris on their loosely described "missions". She was lounging on a bench in Varric's suite, studying a map and listening to Anders get cheated out of a few silvers by Isabela over a "clean" game of Wicked Grace. Even with her alternative tactics, Isabela was still behind Varric, who had racked up a solid amount of coin. In the opposite corner, Bethany and Merrill were discussing the trials of giant spider attacks: that is, until Merrill was abruptly distracted by a large moth in the rafters, and she attempted to catch it.

"Varric, what do you think about bringing in our glowy associate for some of what we've got lined up for this week?"

Varric gave his cards to Bethany (perhaps not the best choice) and sat down on the bench next to Hawke.

"I assume you aren't talking about Anders?"

"We might as well have as much glow surrounding us as possible. It's not like we didn't stick out before," she grinned. Varric stroked his chin in consideration.

"I don't know, Hawke. He doesn't exactly seem like the most stable guy, and he definitely has a hate-on for at least half of our companions," he said, gesturing over to Merrill, who had the moth in hand but no idea how to get down.

"Can you really blame him? He's definitely extreme, and don't quote me on this, but his perspective might...even out...our overall outlook." She glanced over at the cheerful blood mage, who had managed to crash down on top of the entire game of Wicked Grace, scattering coins and cards alike.

"It's up to you. I trust your judgment, we all do. And with Aveline as the new Guard-Captain, we could use some extra muscle around."

"I'll talk to him," she said, springing up from her seat and exiting the suite, brushing past Isabela (who was surreptitiously stuffing coin in her bodice) and Anders, who was pinching the bridge of his nose and taking deep breaths.

Fenris was accustomed to being alone. He was not surprised, but maybe a little disappointed when Hawke failed to call on him within the days following their meeting. He felt he owed a debt to her, and wanted to apologize, though he didn't know why. Perhaps it was the pink of her face when he jumped at her touch or the hardness in her eyes when he growled at her on the porch. Despite the company she kept, Hawke had helped him, when he had no one to turn to. She could have easily refused to assist him once she had found out the truth, or even cut all ties with him after his outburst over the mage. But she had helped him. She wanted his help. She said that she would take him up on his offer.

So why hadn't she?

His interest waned as the weeks passed, and he cursed himself for being so...involved. He didn't know this woman, not really, save for that she helped him and she kept poor company and her name was Hawke. He resolved to focus on finding Danarius, and on ensuring Danarius didn't find him first. Thus, he was surprised to hear a knock on his door.

His markings flared briefly at the unexpected noise and he reached for his sword, leaving behind the bottle of wine he'd been nursing for the past hour. He already had his armor on, always vigilant, always aware that he was being hunted and had to be ready for an attack at any time. Fully expecting a throng of slavers (though why would they knock? An elaborate ruse, perhaps), he held his breath and peered through the peephole to find…

Hawke.

He blinked for a moment, then realized he should act as she rapped on his door again with a slim fist. She looked almost nervous, crossing her arms and rolling an ankle like it was bothering her. He looked at the sword in his hand, thought about hiding it, realized that Hawke might leave if he didn't do something, and, without thinking, opened the door.

"Hello," she said, a small smile crossing her face. She looked at the massive sword in his hand. "Expecting someone else?"

He started, then quickly put the sword on his back. They stood in silence for a moment, until Hawke cocked her head and asked, "Mind if I come in?"

"Of course," he murmured, face flushed. Turnabout was fair play, apparently. He stepped aside as she walked through the door, a dark cloak pulled about her shoulders. He tensely led her to the makeshift living room, then went off to get a chair for her, as there was only one at his table. When he returned, he found her holding her cloak in one hand, stretching toward the ceiling with the other, and once again heard the crackle of her spine. He quickly placed the chair by the table and gestured to it, and she gave him another little smile and sat, folding her cloak in her lap. He sat opposite her, then proferred the bottle.

"Thanks," she grinned, taking a moderate gulp before setting it back in front of him. He wanted to speak, to apologize, to ask her what took so long, to explain himself, but he waited for her to talk first.

"I was wondering if you were still interested in getting into some trouble with me and my friends," she said. He raised an eyebrow at that. "It's the best way to describe it," she winked.

"I think I would like that."

Her smile grew.

"I've all sorts of random requests from just about everyone in Kirkwall, and I'm planning an expedition that I will certainly need help with, so you can do whatever strikes your fancy. Come to the Hanged Man tomorrow night and meet everyone. We'll train sometime later this week so we can work better together." She paused.

"I know you feel a certain way about mages, and you definitely have the right to feel that way, but I can assure you that all of my companions are good people. Some are rather stupid, but they all have good intentions. You needn't worry."

He sat back in his chair, the wine in his lap. She had a strange look on her face, cautious and hopeful. Perhaps she wanted his help more than he had thought.

"You have my sword. As for the mages...I will try and keep an open mind. Cautiously. While keeping a close eye on them."

She relaxed, and the smile returned.

"I can't ask for more than that."

He took another swig of the wine, then placed it back in front of her. She picked it up by the neck and drank deeply, shifting to sit cross-legged in her chair.

"I quite like this. What is it?"

He smirked. "Aggregio Pavale, a favorite of Danarius's." He looked past her into the fire. "He used to have me pour it for his guests. They found my appearance...frightening."

He didn't look to see her reaction. He had said too much already-he must have had more wine than he had realized. Then she said the last thing he would expect.

"I don't find your appearance frightening."

He looked at her, sitting in the chair with her chin resting on her hand, elbow on his table, eyes on his. It was his turn to cock his head.

"Should I be offended by that?"

She threw back her head and laughed, reaching once again for the bottle.

"No. Not at all. I wouldn't pick a fight with you unless I had to, but that has more to do with the brutal swordsmanship. I think…" she blushed faintly. She gazed at him intently. "I think it's nice. Your appearance."

He needed more wine to process that.

She was quiet for a moment, and he realized that he needed to say something.

"It's lyrium."

She sat up straight at that.

"Lyrium? How is that possible?" she wondered.

He extended a forearm and ignited the tangles around it, prompting a look of concern from her.

"Did that hurt? You look like you're in pain."

He thought that after so many years he had learned to hide it.

"It is...unpleasant. It's better when I purposefully trigger it, but surprise or adrenaline can do it, too. And touch."

She looked up from her focused gaze on his arm. Realization crossed her face, and she clapped her hands to her mouth.

"Oh, Maker. I tried to touch your shoulder. That's why…" she flushed even darker.

"I am so sorry, Fenris, I had no idea."

"That was more from surprise than anything else. You would've touched my pauldrons, not my bare skin," he snorted. She put her face in her hands, mumbling incoherent apologies, until her head darted up.

"Fenris...how did you get these markings?"

"A gift from my old master."

She exhaled.

He threw the bottle against the wall.

She looked at him, amused.

"That wasn't empty, you know. You might've let me have another sip."

"There's more in the cellar, if you're really interested."

"Only if you let me throw the next one."

He grinned.

As he went down to the cellar, she called "do you happen to have anything to write with? We've already got our ears peeled for this Danarius, but we could use specifics, and I'll be damned if my wine-drunk brain forgets anything."

He stops.

Should he pretend not to hear her?

"Afraid not," he calls up to her, and misses her reply.

He glances at the seals on the bottle, selects the proper black one, cracks it open, and drinks deep.