Summary: The darkspawn ruin everything.

Warning: Angst, Bethany ogre-death, bitter Carver, language (including my author's note). Slight ooc-ness from Hawke and Fenris, mostly because it's a quiet moment instead of a discussion about mages or slavery and I think both have the capacity to have a few... less dramatic conversations.

A/N: Blah, blah, I know that the whole romance scene with Hawke and Fenris happens because of an initial physical contact, but it's unrealistic to think that in three years working with and fighting alongside someone, you would never have any physical contact. From here on, different points will vary from the love story in the game, such as how much Hawke and Fenris see each other, how they interact during those 'dark spaces,' and details about how they manage to go three frickin years without getting their shit together.

And thanks to the reviewers!

"I had better be swimming in gold after this."

-Hawke

III.

"Hawke," the way he said it made her think of a frog. A single lazy croak that formed her name. Perhaps she just missed wildlife too much. Strange how the Deep Roads oppressed her, how they made her feel as if there were no sun or sky or earth, only endless stone.

She looked up from the fire she stared into, toward the elf standing over her with his folded arms. White hair fell to skim his high cheekbones and green eyes fixed on her with that piercing, intent stare. Most days it warmed her, but here, underground, she seemed numb to the power of his gaze. She wondered if anything would ever make her feel warm again.

"You have not slept," he said when she didn't speak. His posture shifted from fugitive slouch to something commanding and she realized that he had yet to put his armor on, his hair still mussed with sleep and only a loose black vest instead of the usual chest plate and spikes.

She was too miserable to appreciate the view.

"It's my watch," she replied, looking back toward the fire. She remembered the flames that Bethany flung at the ogre just before her little sister died. Her poor sister would have hated the Deep Roads, filled with the ghastly darkspawn that drove them from their home. Everywhere she turned was infested with the bastard beasts that killed her sister and led her to— no. She wouldn't think of it, because she would sooner die herself than use it again.

He crouched in a fluid motion, the leather of his pants creaking. She wondered, not for the first time, how old he was. Elves didn't age like humans—the Dalish looked young into middle age and the elves in the Alienages seemed old before they were thirty. Fenris resembled neither; his face had a timeless quality, as if his refined features would remain perfect for millennia. Thinking about his 'perfect face' made her cheeks hot, and she hoped he couldn't see it through the dark, or that any flush could be mistaken for the flames reflecting off the viscous molten rivers and blood-colored walls.

Hawke felt his eyes on her face as she looked at her hands, tracing runes in the fine lyrium dust that coated everything. "You should rest before your shift," she said, scuffing the marks away with the heel of her hand.

When she dared a look at him, her heart seemed to beat in slow motion. The firelight left red and gold highlights across his tan that the lyrium tattoos cut through with a fierce pale glow. The vest revealed so much more of him and without thinking, she stared at the one beautiful thing she'd seen since arriving in the Primeval Thaig a few days earlier.

"My turn begins once I convince you to rest," he answered, tilting his head and watching her face as she stared at him. He reached a hand toward her cheek, pausing before his fingers could touch her, and made a semi-circular sweep with his thumb hovering just above her skin. "Your eyes show your weariness."

With all her strength, Hawke shut her eyes against the image of his face, so close and concerned. Maker, she hadn't been with a man since before the bloody Blight. Part of her wanted to kiss him and pull him into a dark corner, away from the prying eyes of the others on the expedition. The rest of her wanted to collapse against his chest and cry until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Of course she knew that Fenris would be terrified or mortified or so shocked that he killed her before he knew what she was doing. He hated being touched; she saw him nearly break Merrill's fingers once when the other elf tapped him on the shoulder. And Hawke doubted that his aversion to physical contact was reserved for the blood mage. The way he walked through a crowd, prowling, twisting to avoid bumping into people. No, he was not a good choice for a shoulder to cry on or a comforting hug or even a desperate, passionate tumble to forget where they were.

"What is the matter?" he asked. His voice grew soft, almost tentative. She could feel how near he was, but she knew better than to let her shoulder touch his, or to slump against his side, much as she wanted to.

Hawke shook her head and held in a sob. "I just… I hate it here," she said at last. "I hate the darkspawn. They remind me of the Blight… and of Bethany." She felt like a child admitting it, and worse because Fenris must think her a fool already, an incapable leader and an unattractive, sniveling woman. For all she told her mother and Carver to be strong and hold Bethany's memory dear, Hawke couldn't forgive herself for letting her die. It should have been her, not her sweet baby sister. She had used Bethany's death to save the rest of her family—she deserved to die.

She heard a scuffle beside her and opened her eyes again, breathing deep, as if discovering air for the first time. Fenris sat so near that she would bump against him if she sneezed.

"Tell me about her," he used that quiet voice again. She liked it. He spoke at such a pitch that the fire walled them off from the rest of the camp, a bright curtain lent intimacy by his tone.

Hawke looked back into the fire. She took another breath and her arm brushed his. She felt him flinch, shifting so they did not remain in contact, but he didn't move away.

"You would have liked her," she began, staring at the flames. "Even if she was a mage, like me. She hated blood magic, too. But she… she had this way of seeing her powers as something beautiful, as a gift. It was nice. Practicing spells with her, it always seemed pleasant. Special. Like we had something so beautiful to share with the world. She truly believed that our magic was a gift from the Maker."

"She was… Carver's twin?" he asked. Hawke glanced at him, startled.

Of course all of her friends knew about Bethany and how she died trying to protect their mother. It shouldn't have surprised her, but in some dark corner of her mind she had always supposed that Fenris would never deign to care about her siblings. He tolerated her brother well enough, but Hawke always had a sense that Fenris found Carver annoying. She wondered if he would have gotten along with her sister, if perhaps Bethany might have taught him that not all magic was a curse.

If Bethany were still alive, Hawke would still see her magic as a gift. She might never have encountered that darkness inside herself. That evil might never have existed if her sister had lived.

"Yes. She was minute older than him and he hated it, being the little brother to two girls," she said. She chuckled, and then remembered the bitter expression on her brother's face as she left for the Deep Roads without him, the way he stormed off through Hightown with his rigid posture. She had watched him go, knowing that he held back from a fierce sprint back to Gamlen's. As he walked off with quickening steps she saw the little boy who ran off to cry in secret when she teased him and knew her brother would never forgive her. If he only knew what she'd spared him from.

Fenris tilted his head forward, still crouched, and rested his arms on his knees. She stared at his messy white hair. An urge to smooth it to its usual style overcame her and she quelled it. He'd probably rip her arm off if she tried. Hawke studied his profile for a moment, the way the firelight and lava lit his skin, and she wondered if there was anything to their brief, awkward flirtations or if she was deluding herself.

"You are thinking about him," said Fenris and she felt her face heat again before she realized he meant Carver, not himself. Of course he did.

She sighed. "He was just so furious that I didn't take him along… he was like a golden boy in Lothering, the one everyone in town knew, the strong brother who protected his sisters. And then the Blight came and after he enlisted, everything changed. I think he hates Kirkwall, or maybe it's just me he hates. Especially since I didn't bring him along."

The elf stared at her. "Why didn't you bring him?" His gaze was intent on her face. The image of him lit by lava and lyrium seared through her eyes and mind and heart.

Hawke's teeth rubbed against her lower lip. She wanted to look away from him, but he held her trapped with his green eyes. "If I lost him down here," she whispered, her voice cracking alongside the fire. Fenris blurred in front of her aching eyes and she realized tears had gathered in a fine film over her vision.

"I do not know what it is like to lose family, or if I do, I have long since forgotten," he said, shifting to the balls of his feet and glancing around the camp. No one stirred and she wondered what it was he had heard with his sharp ears. Perhaps some scuttling beetle, though she doubted that anything lived down here except for darkspawn. She hadn't seen any other sign of life, aside from primeval ruins that had been overrun by the gruesome beasts.

A moment later one of his lean arms circled her shoulders and squeezed. Startled, she tensed, feeling the hidden strength there, the almost-contact of his bare skin on the fabric of her robe. Before she could relax or react, his arm withdrew and he stood, abrupt. Hawke looked up to see his face turn, hair falling to hood his eyes.

"I'm… sorry," she fumbled for the words, not certain what she had done but flustered nonetheless.

With as much speed as he had stood, Fenris crouched again, this time in front of her. His serious eyes mesmerized her, his closeness terrifying because now his eyes and lips and the edges of tattoos on his chin that she wanted to trace with her thumb were all right there in her face.

"Never apologize for loving your family, Hawke," he said, grasping her shoulders with his hands. For a dizzying moment she thought he might kiss her as she felt his fingers pressing into her arms. Her eyes fluttered down to look at his lips and her heart quickened.

And then he said, "I can hear a group of darkspawn moving a few tunnels over. We ought to wake Varric and Aveline and hunt them before they encounter our camp."

Hawke nodded, forcing her mind to shift away from Fenris, away from her sister's death, and away from her seething brother back in Kirkwall. As she and the elf stood, she realized they were at eye level, chest-to-chest, their mouths just inches apart. He turned for his armor and after watching him for a stunned second, she turned for their sleeping companions.

Maker, the darkspawn ruined everything.