Fenris awoke, and had his hand around his sword before his eyes were open. The door to Danarius' manor creaked open, and the heavy tread of thick soled boots echoed throughout the otherwise silent house. He was looming by the bedroom door, veins flush with lyrium and glowing like a burning thing, when he heard a clatter, and the familiar cadence of Hawke cursing the furniture.

He exhaled, and the lyrium faded to its usual discrete smolder. Then, he tossed his sword into the ragged armchair in which he had been sleeping, and tossed himself onto the moldering mattress in the far corner of the room. He let Hawke do as he pleased; even with his habit of breaking into every room that wasn't locked and most of the ones that were, he would respect Fenris' non-presence, and let him continue to pretend to sleep. Besides, he wasn't strong enough to move the ironwood bench Fenris shoved in front of the door every night.

Now that Fenris was awake, he couldn't return to the blissful nothing of sleep; not that Hawke made it easy for him. For a man as skilled in combat as he was, he was certainly a klutz. Fenris quietly suspected it was entirely an act, put on to disarm and placate. A bumbling oaf was certainly less threatening than a skilled mercenary, or whatever it was Hawke had been in his previous life.

Fenris rolled over, rucking the blankets loosely around him. It wasn't sleep, and it certainly wasn't empty, but lying awake staring at the peeling wallpaper had its charms.

There was a crash downstairs.

"Fenris!" Hawke sounded nervous, which was unlike him, unless he was currently being cornered by a dragon. Or his mother. Fenris pulled himself out of bed, quickly, quietly, and efficiently. He spared a second to sneer at himself before grabbing his sword.

"Hawke?" He descended the stupidly lavish stairs, one hand curled loosely around the hilt.

"Kitchen!" Hawke swallowed a nervous laugh. "Did you know you had mice?"

"Of course I have mice," Fenris entered the kitchen, "it's—Hawke?"

Hawke looked down at him, and shuffled his feet nervously. He was crouched, cowering on the only table that wasn't cut to battered pieces. A beady-eyed mouse scampered across the floor beneath him. It darted for the open door behind Fenris, careening wildly over his bare toes. He absentmindedly bent down and plucked it off the ground, holding it by the scruff. There was a basket of fresh vegetables and bread scattered across the floor, probably Leandra buying food for him and pretending she didn't have space to keep it. Her pity annoyed him, but he was too practical to turn down a free meal. Besides, he'd just throw it away when it rotted.

"Should I ask?" He said, brow raised.

"Oh, I don't know," Hawke crawled to the edge of the table, peering nervously over the side, "how much of my dignity do you think I've got left?"

"I think it depends on how many mice are hiding in the cupboards."

"Ha. Haha. He's so funny." Hawke sounded practically hysterical. How could someone face down a Tal-Vashoth suicide charge without flinching and then be reduced to panic by mice? His eyes lighted on the mouse Fenris was holding.

"Oh, Andraste," he gulped and squeezed his eyes shut, "put it somewhere else. Please."

"It's a mouse, Hawke."

"You don't need to remind me!'

Fenris put his sword on one of the empty tables—out of reach of any panicked, clumsy men—and looked around.

"I'm just going to kill it then."

"What?" Hawke's eyes snapped open and he groaned. "Oh, don't do that."

"What?" Fenris furrowed his brow. He'd been doing that a lot since meeting Hawke. "Why?"

"I can't stand the little shrieks. Please, Fenris."

"Alright, then I'll go into the other room and do it." He turned to leave.

"Just put it outside, please?" There was a certain lilt, a certain desperation, to Hawke's voice.

"Fine." Fenris crossed the room and headed down the servant's entrance. It let out around the back of the manor, into a desiccated garden. Fenris tossed the mouse on the ground, and watched it scamper into the bushes. He stayed outside long enough to squelch his irritation with Hawke, then dusted off his hands and went back inside.

Hawke was sitting on the edge of the table, his legs dangling cautiously over the side. He rubbed his face and looked up guiltily when he caught sight of Fenris.

"I hate to kill them."

"Hawke, you've killed dozens of people. Why does a dead mouse bother you?"

"Usually those people are trying to kill me, Fenris. I have less of a moral compunction about not dying."

"Death is death. It doesn't matter if there was a reason for it."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Not really." He could excuse himself by claiming that Danarius had long since trained any moral scruples out of him, but there was no point to it.

Hawke frowned, and finally lowered himself to the floor. "Guh. I hate mice. I hate rodents in general, really. Mice, rats—I twisted an ankle running from a squirrel once. Carver never let me live that down." His face took on an odd twist whenever he spoke about his dead brother, but he shook himself out of it.

"Any sort of…" Fenris searched for the word, "story behind this?"

"Nope. I just can't stand their eyes." He crouched and started picking up the scattered food from his basket.

Fenris snorted. "Don't go to the bloodmage's then. Her house is full of them."

"You visit Merrill? I thought you couldn't stand her."

"I can't. She keeps leaving things on my doorstep, and saddles me with returning them to her."

Hawke looked at him. "You sure they aren't housewarming gifts?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure the bloodmage is leaving her spare tunics on my porch as a housewarming gift. I've been here for three years, Hawke. It's far past time for 'housewarming'."

Hawke boggled. "What?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Is this… some sort of," Hawke flapped his hand, "elf… thing? Should I tell my mother so she can start planning the wedding?"

"The Dalish have bonding ceremonies. And no. Please don't."

"Ah, she'll be so disappointed."

Fenris huffed a laugh, and glanced off to the side. "No, I don't know what she's trying to do. Force a conversation, perhaps? I've been stuffing her tunics through the holes in her roof."

"I never knew you were so avoidant."

"I'm sure you can understand my wanting to not spend time around a bloodmage."

Hawke held up a hand, halting him. "I'm not in the mood to argue. But, ah, have you considered not returning them? I mean, the best way to keep you two from arguing is to never put you in the same city block. I'd have assumed you just wouldn't bother making nice."

Fenris didn't want to admit it was mostly obligation that drove his actions, so he opted for the absurd reason. "What would I do with them? They're not my size."

Hawke laughed. "Fair enough. Do you think it could be something else?"

Fenris raised a brow.

"Oh, well, you are the only other elf she really knows. The elves at the alienage don't really like her—someone spread rumors about the blood magic—"

"Rightfully so."

"—and," Hawke continued, speaking over him, "she seems lonely. Maybe she wants to, I don't know, connect."

"I'd rather she didn't. I'm not Dalish. I'm not even a city elf. She doesn't want to talk to a 'Vint. And I'd rather not talk to a mage."

"I can't imagine your personality helps either." Hawke grinned when Fenris looked up at him, and held up the basket of food. "Mother bought too much, and we don't have room to store it. Want some?"

Fenris' lip curled. No, he did not. But he would take it, spurred by what little good sense he still had.

"Your mother needs to learn how big her kitchen is."

Hawke's grin faltered. Fenris tried to stem the surge of guilt swelling in his chest.

"Well, then?" he said instead, turning away and pretending to inspect his sword. "Put it where you want."

Hawke exhaled slightly and started unpacking the food. "You know, if I see another mouse, I'm just going to start screaming again."

"I suppose I ought to open the cabinets for you; tell you if you should get back on the table."

"Oh, I dunno, Fenris. Are you sure you can reach?"

"I'm throwing the first mouse I find your way."

Hawke whimpered.

"I'm joking, Hawke."

"You couldn't say that when Varric's around?" Hawke bemoaned, stuffing a fat loaf of sourdough in the breadbox. "I've got five coppers riding on the existence of your sense of humor."

"Five coppers. I'm flattered." It was easy to fall into this lighthearted banter—Hawke made it easy. He had a decent wit under his good-nature, and Fenris didn't feel… obliged to keep talking. Conversations with Hawke were not so much the words being said, but the in-between of the words, the silence and pauses. Quiet felt comfortable with Hawke.

That could be romantic, he supposed, but it felt more like having a friend. That wasn't too terrible a thought, falling in… this feeling with a friend.

Fenris snorted.

"Yes?" Hawke looked up from where he was sorting potatoes by size. "Did you say something?"

"No." Just a moment of foolishness. "I'm going to take these to the root cellar."

He grabbed the basket—full of leafy green things he couldn't name—and shouldered open the door. The cool stone was rough, even against his calloused feet, and seemed to leech the heat out of him. He shoved the basket haphazardly onto one of the shelves and glared at the wall. There were mice and roaches everywhere—height didn't deter them. It didn't matter, really. He had an elf's innate slow appetite coupled with a lifetime of intermittent starvation. Food was rarely a concern, and animals didn't go after wine.

Love. A stupid word, and the wrong word for it, too. He just… didn't know what the right one was. Lust was too base, and infatuation too saccharine. Damn Hawke for inspiring this, and damn himself for feeling it.

At least he had the always comforting allure of self-pity to distract him from himself.

"You know," Hawke said when he came back into the kitchen, either too oblivious or too canny to comment on the glacial speed at which he sorted vegetables, "you ought to get a cat. A good mouser could clear this place out for you."

"I thought you didn't want to kill them."

"An animal hunting for prey isn't the same as me stepping on a mouse because it scared me."

"Hn."

"There's this tabby stray around Anders' clinic—he keeps putting out scraps for them—who just had kittens."

"I thought cats hid for that?"

"Ah, well," Hawke said, "she decided that Anders' pillow was a good hiding place. Bit of a shock for him. Merrill told me she heard him screeching all the way in the alienage."

Fenris smirked, perhaps a bit cruely.

"See," Hawke wagged a finger, "I thought you'd find that funny. Ah, anyways, once they're weaned, I can ask for one, for you."

"You want me to get a pet?"

"Well, a working animal isn't really a pet—"

"Is that why your wardog steals your bed all the time?"

"She's tired and she needs someplace to sleep, Fenris." Hawke paused and frowned. "How do you know about that?"

"You complain about it constantly, Hawke."

"Complain about my mabari? What kind of monster do you take me for?"

"The kind who fights bandits covered in dog hair."

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "Am I the one covered in dog hair, or are the bandits?"

"You both are, once the dog has tackled them."

Hawke chuckled at that, wiping his fingers off on his trousers. He finished packing the rest of the food away, where the mice would no doubt feast on it the second he turned his back. He turned back towards Fenris, and his face went a bit solemn.

"Say, Fenris…"

"Yes?"

Whatever Hawke wanted to say clearly wasn't in favor of being forged out of his gaping mouth, so he cut through the ambivalence on his face and replaced it with a static grin. "Aveline and I were planning on scouting around the wounded coast for some Tal-Vashoth. We probably won't find anything—it's just rumors and all—but you're welcome to tag along if you like."

"Yes," Fenris nodded, "I think I'd like that."

Leave it there, leave it be. Fenris was an honest man, and he knew when he was avoiding things.

"I'd like that very much."

And when he wasn't.