Some Lovers

A 100 prompts challenge on Fenris/LadyHawke by Marianne Bennet

A/N: There was no coffee in medieval Europe so it stands to reason that there would be no coffee in Thedas. Nevertheless, that was the prompt. Coffee supposedly helps you sober up in short period of time but it doesn't really work very well. With that in mind, I started thinking about the little things that should sober us up and yet they don't. And then I wrote this. I hope you enjoy it!

012: Coffee

Maybe that spirit living in Anders's head was on to something: Mages should never be allowed to get drunk. If this was what happened to someone like Hawke, Fenris shuddered to think of what would happen should someone like Anders partake of too much of the Hanged Man's "finest."

"That's it," said Isabela decisively. "Hawke is officially sloshed."

Hawke, daring Deep Roads explorer and model for apostates everywhere, jerked a single finger at Isabela's nose, a gesture that ended up being aimlessly directed at the empty space above Fenris's right shoulder. "Says you!" the mage accused with a delighted cackle. "And Maker knows and I know and he," out went her left hand to nearly slap Varric in the forehead, "knows that you would know."

She had such a stupid grin on her face; Fenris almost begrudged her alcohol-induced mirth. Why was it that his drinking bouts made him bitter and angry when in others that same wine would induce gleeful ignorance? Though, judging by the way her dilated pupils roamed around the room, never settling on one object for very long, Fenris was quite certain that Hawke would find herself passed out before too long. To have one's faced pressed against on the Hanged Man's filthy wooden floor… he winced. That was a fate he would not wish on his worst enemy. Though perhaps Hadriana…

The sound of her voice called him back from his past as it often seemed to, slurred words and all: "It's Varric's fault," she mumbled, aimlessly waving her hand about, "and yours. You said… you said I was no fun. That I was as bad as Aveline. Well, where is Aveline now? She's not here. I'm here. I'm fun."

Good question: where was Aveline or, more to the point, someone who was willing to step up to the plate and be sensible? The hapless grin on Varric's face told the world that he was far from being sober enough to bear any responsibility over this situation. Was Fenris really the only one who could somewhat keep his wits about him while under the influence? He might be bitter but at least he was able to keep his head. To some degree, that is.

"You should probably head home, Hawke," said Isabela, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder –probably keeping an eye out for either templars or the bad poet, Fenris reflected –"Your… mother is probably worried. After what Carver pulled, she's probably convinced herself you've signed up for the Grey Wardens or something equally dramatic."

"It's my life," Hawke groaned into the tabletop, her voice muffled by the messy waves of blonde hair pooling against the wood on either side of her face. "I can… eat as much wine and drink as many cookies as I please."

"You can't 'eat' wine, Hawke," Varric chortled into his drink, raising the cup to his lips. "It's a liquid."

"Sure you can." In a flash of movement, she jerked the glass away from the dwarf and slammed it down against the table. Fenris watched in mute disapproval as she cupped her hand over the rim, took a deep breath, and then turned the glass over onto its side. Scarlet colored ice tipped out onto the surface, slush crawling across the counter to stain Isabela's bodice. Satisfied, Hawke turned back to Varric with a sloppy grin and a cocky attitude. "See? It's solid now."

"Yes, we all see," Varric too was looking over his shoulder at the bar, searching the crowd for templars, Fenris was now certain. "You'll probably want to get home while you can still walk, Hawke." He glanced at Isabela. "Should one of us…?"

Isabela empathetically shook her head. "Not I. I have a man waiting for me upstairs."

Her gaze wandered in Fenris's direction. She began to stare at the elf pointedly and Fenris buckled under the pressure of her chocolate brown eyes. "I do live closest," he allowed.

"Not him," Hawke was shaking her blonde head now. "We'll get in trouble with the city magistrates. Fenris hates magistrates. They sacrifice elves for their sons in ancient ruins with lava and skeletons…"

Isabela giggled. Varric rolled his eyes. "Get her home, Broody. Go with him, Hawke."

Obediently, she followed Fenris to the exit, stumbling over tables and patrons until, out of necessity, Fenris was forced to take Hawke's hand and guide her forward. She giggled at the touch; he wanted to throw something against the wall at the absurdity of the entire situation. The door swung shut behind them. Once they were a few yards away from the Hanged Man, Hawke became surprisingly animated, commenting, "I feel like I'm walking with a ghost. Why don't you talk to me? You never do. All through the Deep Roads, I swear you didn't say three words to me."

"Did you count?" Fenris asked testily.

"Alcohol makes you moody, doesn't it?" The usually tactful Hawke seemed to have no filter on what came out of her mouth. "But you're always moody. You and Carver and Gamlen all are like this; why can't you be fun? Come to think of it," she stopped in her tracks on the steps up to Hightown, "everyone I know has these deep, dark problems. What's wrong with all of you?"

"Maybe you should instead ask yourself why you don't know anyone who is 'fun.'" He stopped with her on the steps and for a fleeting moment he considered leaving her there altogether. No, he couldn't do that. Aveline would be after his hide and Danarius would seem merciful in comparison.

"Bethany was fun," said Hawke thoughtfully, gazing up at the stars with half a smile. "Why can't you all be more like her? I remember she'd…" Her voice came to a sudden halt and her dreamy expression dissipated like smoke to be replaced with a look of sheer panic. "Fenris," her other hand latched firmly upon his wrist; he winced at the contact but she didn't notice. "Fenris, I can't remember what Bethany looks like."

He moved to pry her fingers from his gauntlet but stopped himself before he did; he didn't know why. "You're drunk, Hawke," he told her, trying to be gentle; he didn't know why he was doing that either. "Of course you don't remember. You wouldn't have remembered your own name had we let you continue drinking."

"But I can't remember." Her grey eyes were pleading with him. "She was my family, Fenris; she was important to me. Why can't I remember her face and yet I remember your name? Shouldn't my sister be something that I will never forget?"

That sounded too familiar; Fenris looked away. "You would be surprised," he answered shortly.

She stared at him for a long moment in wonder, as though he were the sun and she a blind woman. He might as well have been Andraste herself if one judged by Hawke's expression alone. For a moment, she looked as though she finally understood. And then she giggled and all illusions were shattered. "You're funny," she told him lightly and with a snort of laughter added, "I could never forget Bethany. There's a portrait of someone who looks just like her back home; Carver and I found it last year. You could come and see it if you like."

"Not tonight," he answered and quickly turned his attention to guiding a drunken Hawke back to her mansion.

She rolled into her four poster bed with the same dreamy smile she had worn all night save for that one moment of panic. Fenris turned to leave her and then looked back in surprise when her hand caught his wrist again. "Stay," she told him.

"No," he replied.

Her hand dropped from his wrist; her head rolled back onto her pillow. "Fine," she yawned. "Go back to haunting your mansion, you ghost. Just stop haunting me."

That last comment made him turn back in surprise. Her eyes were already closed as she sleepily murmured, "I don't know why I think about you so much. You're not very important. But you can't know how much I think or don't think about you. You can't read my mind. You're not even here."

Fenris was taken aback; there were few other words that could so describe it as he gazed into the crackling fire in confusion. Did Hawke think of him? If so, what did she think about him? Did Hawke, pretty, grey-eyed Hawke with her magic and her wit and her temper, ever think of him? Perhaps he could ask her. In this state, perhaps he could get anything out of her.

He turned back again but she was already asleep, her head lulled back against the pillow, one arm curved about her head, the other hand resting on her stomach. She was snoring ever so lightly; the corners of his mouth curved upward to hear such a human sound coming from the indomitable Hawke. Her blonde hair had flopped over her face; strands lay against the curve of her mouth, fluttering slightly. Inspired, he gently pushed the curls from her features so that she could breathe easier.

He ran his fingers against the angle of her cheekbone before he could stop himself, transfixed. How could something as powerful as a mage look so vulnerable? He could have killed her half a dozen times over between the Hanged Man and here but the thought had never occurred to him. Perhaps that was part of the danger.

The mere thought of danger should have made him stop, made him want to run. It should have woken him from whatever this was. But it didn't. He pulled his hand back from Hawke's face and slowly left the room, considering this.