It had been a better night for cards than was typical for Fenris.
The pot he'd won earlier had been particularly large, though they'd had one player more at that point. And then Amelle had folded and left the game and the room, ostensibly to tend Sebastian and fetch more wine. Given the look she shot Isabela when she first suggested Amelle bring more drink, Fenris wouldn't have been at all surprised if Amelle brought back the foulest, rankest bottle of liquor in the entire cellar.
Nor would he have expected Isabela to notice or care if she had.
But as time passed, filled with wagers and bluffs and jokes, Fenris could not help but notice Amelle's continued absence. He wondered if she might be sulking, but the notion fell flat. Hawke's sister was not the type to… well, brood. But her truancy was enough to trouble Hawke, and Fenris told himself that was adequate reason for it to trouble him.
"Maker's breath, is she squeezing the grapes herself?" Hawke joked lightly, but the crease between her brows told a different tale.
Clearly making the decision to hunt down her wayward sibling, Hawke planted both palms on the table and began to push to her feet when the library door suddenly flung open, rebounding against the wall with a crash.
In the doorway stood Amelle Hawke, covered in blood.
Fenris stared, taking in the blood slicking her hands and staining her sleeves, streaks of red trailing across the bodice and skirt of her loose dress. A bloody smear marked her cheek. Icy fear kicked up in his chest, the emotion surprising him as much as the clatter that came when he stood suddenly and knocked over the chair he'd been sitting in surprised everyone else.
The library erupted into noise as everyone scrambled to their feet, asking questions, demanding answers, but Hawke's voice carried over all as she checked over her sister for injury.
"What happened? Are you hurt? Whose blood is this, Amelle? Mely? Whose blood?"
It was then Fenris realized Amelle's smile — most incongruous, given the blood. Nausea and dread clutched at him — had he overlooked something when she'd returned from the Fade? Had he missed some crucial clue that it had not been Amelle at all, but a demon wearing her face, her smile? Had he truly failed her so grossly?
But Amelle's own voice, tremulous and giddy and unaltered by any demon, cut off his mental diatribe:
"I delivered a baby."
As quickly as the noise had started, it stopped.
"You delivered a baby?" Hawke echoed, making no effort whatsoever to hide her bewilderment.
"In the wine cellar?" Isabela blurted. Fenris shot the pirate a withering glare she was too distracted to notice.
"Yes," answered Amelle breathlessly, looking at her sister. "And no," she added, turning to Isabela and shaking her head. "Not there."
It was at that point that Fenris saw, beyond the blood upon her and the sweat at her brow, Amelle Hawke's eyes were alight with something that looked a great deal like happiness. She seemed almost to glow with it. He jerked his gaze away to keep from staring.
"I went downstairs into the wine cellar, but someone hadn't closed the trapdoor all the way—" she shot a look at her sister, "so I fixed it, and then… well, I wondered about the clinic, and I just… I went down inside. To… to see. I just… wanted to look. And it was such a filthy mess — so many rats, Maker — but as I was about to leave, a woman came looking for him, and she was pregnant, but she was in so much pain, Kiri, so I…" she trailed off and shrugged.
"So you delivered the baby?" Kiara asked, her brows disappearing behind her fringe. "Have you… you haven't delivered a baby before, have you?"
Amelle shrugged again, the gesture taking on an air of sheepishness. "They would have died if I hadn't," she replied reasonably. "And the father… the babe's father was in the Chantry when—" her voice caught and she swallowed hard, shaking her head. "I had to help." The flicker of pain subsided once again into happiness and warmth. "And they're both fine. The baby is healthy and happy—well, maybe happy is overstating things, the way he was screaming, but…" Amelle blinked as she caught her breath. "Maker. I delivered a baby. I think I need a drink."
"I'd say you needed several," drawled Isabela. "Big ones."
"What in all the Void possessed you to go down to the clinic, Amelle?" breathed Hawke, looking torn between protective worry that she'd ventured into Darktown alone, and fierce pride for what her sister had done while she was there.
Amelle opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I don't… know, exactly. I just…" she shrugged. "I can't explain it. I had to look."
"You weren't… you weren't looking for—"
"No," answered Amelle firmly. "Absolutely not."
Heedless of the blood and mess, Hawke pulled Amelle into her arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
It was Varric who frowned, looking past Amelle, and asked, "But… where'd you stash them, Little Hawke?" The dwarf scowled, giving his head a brief shake. "Sorry. Amelle."
If she heard the nickname, her dislike for it did nothing to dim the radiance of her smile. "Well, that's why I'm here." She glanced up at Hawke and the smile turned wry. "Delivering babies in the clinic is one thing, but I knew you'd murder me if I went walking around Darktown on my own at night."
Hawke huffed a laugh, her eyebrow quirking upward. Fenris' fingers twitched, and he closed one hand into a fist. No, Darktown was safe for no one walking alone, especially since…
But Amelle continued, "I asked Ianna if she and the babe wanted to stay here tonight, but she… I think she wants to be back in her own home, surrounded by her own things." The faintest shadow passed over Amelle's face, and afterward her smile held just an echo of sadness. "So I thought I'd see if I could muster up an escort."
Before Fenris could offer, Varric clapped the pirate so hard on the back that she stumbled and glared at him. "Rivaini and I'll do it."
"We will?" Isabela groused.
Fenris shot her a look, which she ignored in favor of reaching across the table to drain the last of his wine. "What?" she said. "You get to stay and have more."
"We can all go," Hawke decided, but Varric was already shaking his head.
"Come on, Hawke. You know Aveline'll have a fit."
The shadow that passed over Hawke's face was in no way faint.
"Besides," Varric continued, his cheer just a little forced, "it's practically on the way home."
"It is?" Isabela asked. This time she caught Fenris' glare and returned it, but she was the first to look away.
"If you're sure…" Hawke said softly.
Varric puffed out his chest and crossed his arms over it. "Sure thing, Hawke. Looks like Lit—Amelle did all the hard, messy work. It's no problem."
Half under her breath, Isabela added, "Isn't it?"
Varric turned and snapped over his shoulder, "Isabela, that's enough. Pull your head out of your sodding ass."
Isabela blinked. Even Fenris was startled by the shift in tone, but a moment later the dwarf was all congeniality again. "Why don't you take us down and make the introductions, L—Amelle. Then you can head back up here for that drink—"
"And a bath?" Hawke asked lightly.
"Definitely a bath," Amelle agreed. "And definitely that drink."
Amelle took a moment to wash her hands and wipe away the red streak of blood upon her face before walking Varric and Isabela downstairs to the secret — though Fenris doubted how secret anymore — passage to the clinic. Once they were gone, Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out in a deeper sigh, returning to her chair and all but collapsing into it.
"If I never see my baby sister covered in blood again," she said, "it will be too soon."
Fenris perched on the end of the chair opposite her, resting his hands on his knees. "At least it… was not what any of us feared?"
The look Hawke sent him was a wry one. "And what sort of trouble were you afraid she'd got herself into?"
"I… would prefer not to say."
At that, Hawke lifted an eyebrow. "Blood magic?" When he didn't reply, she shook her head and looked almost fondly at him. "Forgive me. I forgot that when you say you'd prefer not to say, it actually means you'd prefer not to say. However, I am now wondering what could possibly be worse than Amelle deciding randomly to be a blood mage."
"And smiling about it."
"Indeed. We should be sure to tell her the next time she comes into a room covered in blood, she should perhaps not grin like a maniac." Hawke chuckled before sliding into a somewhat pensive silence. "Maker," she breathed. "My baby sister delivered a baby. I know people have been doing it since the beginning of time, but still. My baby sister."
"She is a competent healer, Hawke. This cannot have escaped your notice."
She looked vaguely surprised then, as she always did when he said anything that could be construed as a compliment toward Amelle. "Such a far cry from a viper in the nest, hmm?"
Fenris looked away, scowling into the fire, hoping Hawke did not notice the sudden warmth that heated his cheeks. "I have long since realized my… initial impression of your sister was…"
"Inaccurate? Off? Bloody arse-backward wrong?" she supplied, laughing now. "Maker, she was so indignant that night when we got home. I just thought it was funny. Rabbit? A viper? Rabbit? Honestly."
"You have mentioned that nickname before," he said. "But I do not believe I understand it."
She shrugged and went to the sideboard, peering into the bottles, but every last one had been drained dry. "You never asked," she answered, scowling at the last empty bottle. When Fenris offered no other reply than a shrug, Hawke sat down again.
"Our father used to call me kit." She fingered a lock of her vibrant hair and made a face. "Fox-red, he used to say. His theory was that I learned how to be cunning just so I'd fit his name for me a little better. When the twins came along… well, Carver was such a bruiser of a child. He lumbered about, knocking into things when he learned to walk — Father said Carver reminded him of a bear cub. And 'cub' stuck, much to my brother's dismay.
"Amelle was… quieter. Where Carver was loud and brash and where I was strident and bossy, Amelle… thought. She would lapse into these long silences and just watch until all you could imagine were the horrible things she just had to be thinking about you." She sank into her chair again, her smile wide with pleasant memories. "That was what Carver complained most often about — Papa," she said, imitating a child's whine, "Amelle's looking at me again! Make her stop!" She shrugged. "Quiet as a rabbit. And it stuck."
Before he could think better of it, he replied, "I am not certain it suits her any better than viper."
He regretted the comment almost instantly, and doubly so when Hawke propped her chin on her hand and stared at him. Fenris felt himself bristle at the attention, and at the shrewd look in her eye. "No? Why's that?"
It occurred to him to deflect the question, but instead he replied succinctly, "Rabbits are prey."
"Said the wolf," said Hawke a little sharply, soothing the sting of her words with a smile. With less rancor she continued, "Though maybe that was accurate enough for a while, too. And not even that long ago." Interlacing her fingers behind her head, Hawke leaned back until her chair balanced precariously on its back legs. "I don't disagree, actually," she said, directing her words to the ceiling. "But once a nickname sticks…"
"Yes," Fenris agreed gravely. "Broody."
This startled a laugh from her. It pained him that a sound once taken for granted was now so rare. "You must admit you are more broody than Amelle is timid."
"I must admit nothing."
Hawke let the chair thump to the ground as she wrinkled her nose at him, but her eyes still sparkled with mirth. "Poor Varric. At least Amelle does't hate Rabbit."
"From you," Fenris conceded. "I doubt she would be well-pleased if its usage became widespread."
Hawke grinned. "Don't give me ideas!" Reaching for a wine bottle, she realized it was empty and scowled. "Maker's balls. What's the point of having a whole bloody wine cellar if there's nothing on hand?" Rising, she brushed her hands down the front of her dress. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
"Unless there are more babies to be delivered."
She laughed again. "Maybe you're not all that broody, Broody."
"As I keep saying."
"Okay. Unless another expectant mother shows up actually in my wine cellar, I'll be right back. Stay here and try to think up a good nickname for my sister."
Fenris scowled at her. "I will do nothing of the sort."
"Spoilsport," Hawke singsonged as she left him to the silence of the now-empty library.
At loose ends, Fenris moved about the room, gathering the empty wine bottles, and clearing the used glasses to the sideboard. He was in the middle of stacking the cards—the game had been forgotten, but somehow the entire pot of coins had disappeared… likely into Isabela's purse—when the door creaked open and Amelle entered, the collar of her dress damp from her still-wet hair.
"Maker, I'd almost forgotten the house could be this quiet," she said, an easy smile at her lips as she let the door fall shut behind her.
Fenris froze, but only momentarily, and then continued straightening the cards and put them in the sideboard drawer. "Your sister seemed not to mind."
"Oh, I don't doubt that." She went to the sideboard as well, and frowned in puzzlement as she took in all the empty bottles and used glasses. Her mouth fell open and her cheeks went pink as she closed her eyes and lightly slapped her hand over her eyes. "Andraste's knickers, I forgot about the wine."
His chuckle was little more than a breath, but it startled Amelle all the same. Her hand fell away from her face and soon the full force of her smile was upon him, and he saw the quality of her smile was somewhat different, but no less delighted. No matter Hawke's words, he felt nothing at all like his namesake in that moment.
What had he done to make her smile like that?
"Fenris, did you just laugh?" she asked, her own words tinted with surprised mirth. "More to the point, did I just make you laugh?"
"I apologize," he said stiffly, as a strange, uncomfortable warmth crept up the back of his neck. "I only thought it was not quite so surprising you forgot your initial errand in light of certain events."
"I remembered to grab a bottle of whiskey."
"And?"
"And I was so terrified I was going to do something wrong, I forgot to drink it."
He looked at her then, unable to reconcile Amelle's words with that he knew of her skill, of what she'd done so far. "You truly believe so little of your skills after healing Sebastian's wound?"
Amelle breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled through her teeth as she walked past him to one of the comfortably stuffed chairs before the fire. As she passed him, Fenris caught the scent of her soap and he chastised himself when he realized he was breathing in a little deeper. You're acting the fool, he scolded himself silently, and instead turned to where Amelle was folding herself into the chair, tucking her legs up beneath her skirt. She tilted her head, indicating the other chair, tacitly inviting him to sit. Quiet as a rabbit, Hawke's words echoed back to him. He lowered into the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.
"It's different, healing a wound," she began slowly. "There's… there's an injury — something broken that must be mended. But Ianna wasn't… she wasn't injured. It wasn't simply a matter of fixing something broken. I'd never been in a situation like that — where simply applying the magic and convincing the injured muscle and bone and skin to become whole again… wouldn't work."
"And yet you were victorious."
Her smile returned, wide enough to reveal the dimple in her left cheek. "To my endless surprise and relief." She cocked her head slightly, glancing down at her hands as though she half-expected to find them still bloody. He followed her gaze to her hands; they were pale and slender, her fingers long and graceful, with close-cut nails, but for all that there was very clearly strength in those hands. Amelle Hawke, not unlike her sister, was a strong individual. And, for once — though it was becoming more common lately — the thought was not followed by the words, for a mage.
Amelle spoke again, jarring him from his reverie as she turned her hands over and stretched out her fingers: "I'm not sure I want to pursue a career in midwifery, though."
Fenris found himself at a loss for words. It was a… peculiar sensation. He was used to choosing silence over speech, but this was different. If Amelle noticed, she gave no sign of it, sighing happily and leaning back into the comfort of the chair. "Maker," she whispered. "A baby."
After another long moment he spent wrestling with words that would not come, Amelle lifted her head and peered around the room. "Where did she go?"
"The wine cellar," he replied. "She said she would be right back. But that was… some time ago."
"Scrounging in the kitchen, I'll bet. I've never met anyone with such a weakness for middle of the night snacking. Mother used to catch Kiara eating in her sleep sometimes, when she was a child."
"You jest."
"I don't!" Amelle protested, giggling. "She always went straight for the cookie jar and then claimed innocence in the morning."
Fenris debated his next words, but something of his struggle must have shown on his face, because Amelle's laughter ceased and her brow furrowed. "What is it?"
"She seemed… well, tonight. Better than she's been."
Amelle nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip. "I think it was good for her to… to see all of you. Things haven't been…"
"As they were," he supplied, when it appeared she would not finish her sentence.
Her eyes were very green in the firelight as they turned to meet his. "Things are never going to be as they were. It's just… it's just now we have to figure out how they are, and how they're going to be." She said the words with conviction, with spirit, and once again he was certain both her nicknames were wrong. Perhaps she was quiet, but she was no timid prey. Perhaps she was a Hawke, but there was nothing diminutive about her.
Before he could take the thought further, they were interrupted by a crashing thud, and Amelle leapt to her feet, flinging the door wide. Hawke stood on the other side, bottles under her arms and hands supporting an overflowing platter heaped high with bread and cheese and fruit. Fenris thought he spied a little pile of tarts, and he smiled. He was fond of the elf-woman's tarts.
Amelle took the food and gave her sister a fond smile. "We're feeding an army?"
"I'm hungry. You just delivered a baby, so you must be hungry. And Fenris is always hungry." Hawke grinned at him over Amelle's shoulder. "Tarts!"
"And Aggregio, I see."
Hawke gave him a look. "Obviously. You know the good stuff always comes out when Isabela's gone. I swear I could serve her piss in a cup and she'd drink it down and ask for more, but anything that's actually any good? Wasted on her entirely."
Amelle's eyes widened and she laughed. Hawke joined her. Even Fenris found himself chuckling as he reached for a tart, though he swallowed the sound when he caught both Hawke sisters giving him identical looks of incredulity. Then they looked at each other, and burst into gales of hilarity anew.
#
Some time and several bottles later, the three of them sat around the fire in the library. Fenris and Hawke occupied the two armchairs, while Amelle rested upon the floor before the fire, her arms braced behind her and legs stretched out. She wiggled her toes in front of the hearth.
Fenris reached for the nearly empty bottle upon the table between his and Hawke's chairs, pouring some into his glass, and then some into Hawke's. But as he leaned forward to pour the last of the wine into Amelle's glass, she tipped her head back and smiled up at him, shaking her head.
"You can take my share, Fenris." Then, with a mighty groan, she pushed to her feet, collecting her glass and the leather slippers she'd been wearing. "It's been a very long, very full day, and I think it's time I turn in."
"Yes, I imagine delivering babies takes it out of a girl," Hawke teased, shooting her sister a grin.
"Don't kid," Amelle said, setting her empty glass on the sideboard before a wide yawn clutched at her. "I'm nearly dead on my feet."
"Best go to bed then, I think."
Amelle nodded, but instead of leaving the room and turning her steps up the flight of stairs, she disappeared down a hallway, returning a few moments later with a folded blanket and pillow loaded in her arms.
Hawke squinted at her sister. "Mely? What are you doing? You have a bed."
Amelle set the pillow at one end of the divan and the folded blanket at the other, then sent them a grin. "We aren't actually going to make Fenris walk all the way back to the mansion tonight, are we?"
"It is a trip I've made before," he replied. But Amelle just waved a hand.
"This is easier. Besides, you may decide you want your inevitable hangover dealt with. Better if you don't have to walk all the way back here just for that."
"Healer's got a point," Hawke said, taking a drink.
Fenris looked at the divan and then at Amelle, not sure what to say. Finally, after far too long a silence, he thanked her and was rewarded with a smile.
"It's nothing," she said, leaning over the back of Hawke's chair to press a kiss to her sister's hair. "Good night."
Her steps were almost silent as she went up the stairs.
"I don't think we'll be hungover," Hawke announced. "Mely worries too much."
Fenris nodded silently. He wasn't sure whether Hawke was right or not — he didn't feel particularly inebriated, after all. The warmth of the wine hummed through his veins, leaving him pliant and content.
"Your sister," he said quietly, looking once more at the pillow and blanket.
"Hmmm?"
"It is odd she has not…" Fenris struggled a moment, forming the words. He spoke them slowly and deliberately. Not a sign of overindulgence or inebriation, but rather a desire to treat the matter with the gravity it deserved. "Odd she has not… found some measure of… companionship over the years."
"Friends?" Hawke asked. "Mely's got plenty of friends." She counted off on her fingers: "Isabela, Varric, Merrill, Aveline, you—"
"No, Hawke, I meant—"
Grey eyes widened. "You aren't Mely's friend?" Hawke looked genuinely distressed at the notion. "Why not?" Before he could answer, she leaned forward and asked with something very near forlornness, "Is it because she's a mage?"
"You are drunk, Hawke."
She widened her eyes, astonished. "I'm not. Tipsy, maybe." Hawke folded her hands around the stem of her wineglass and frowned down at the liquid within. "I really thought… you know, after everything, I thought maybe you'd… made progress."
He grimaced. "You misunderstand me. On more than one count."
Hawke pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and furrowed her brow. "You—do consider Mely a friend, then?" Fenris did not dignify the question with an answer, which evidently served as reply enough, because Hawke's worried expression turned into a brief but brilliant smile. "Well, that is progress, isn't it?"
He did not dignify this with a response, either. When it appeared she was not going to return to his previous line of questioning, he hazarded a second attempt, rephrasing it slightly. "I have known you both some time, Hawke. You have friendships enough, but nothing more… intimate. It seems curious."
"Oh," Kiara breathed. "Oh, I see." A shadow crossed her face. "The hopeless Hawke sisters. Has someone been spreading rumors again?"
A flash of irritation stabbed at him when he thought of the rumors Hawke alluded to. He could not claim to be ignorant of them, but he disliked the unhappiness even the mention of them brought. He wondered if they troubled Amelle the same way. "Nothing specific."
Hawke sighed, raised her glass, and emptied it in a heady gulp. Evidently fortified by this, she said, "It is because she's a mage, I think. Why she doesn't… you know. I-I don't mean to cause offense with the comparison, but… how much time did you spend pursuing companionship when you were running from Danarius? I'm going to hazard a guess and say not much. Amelle's basically been running her entire life. Even if she… and even if she did care for someone, the… the trust she'd need to have… and that's only if the person involved was able to see past any prejudices they might have. Maybe another mage, but…" She made a face and gave an exaggerated shudder. "Maker knows that wasn't going to happen, with the option she had on hand. And thank Andraste for it."
"Indeed," Fenris agreed, thoughtful. And somehow just as grateful as Hawke.
Hawke toyed idly with the empty glass, spinning it between her fingers with remarkable dexterity, considering the amount she'd had to drink. "At least I know why I haven't… well, that hardly matters. I know I'm biased, but she's… Amelle's the best person I know, Fenris. She shouldn't have to hide it. She deserves so much better than that. It just… it just makes me so bloody sad."
And it did, Fenris could see that clearly enough. It made sense, what Hawke was telling him — he hadn't been inclined toward companionship while he'd been on the run from Danarius. It hadn't been safe to trust anyone.
But still, surely…
"Even when you were both younger?" he asked. "Before coming to Kirkwall?"
A peculiar shadow crossed Hawke's face, but was gone before he could ask about it. "Lothering was… it was our chance at a normal life. But Mely still had to be careful — she always had to be careful. We all did, for that matter, but I think it bothered Carver more. He was Mely's age and I don't think he really understood until he was older what it all meant, you know?" She sighed and looked at her glass, half surprised and half annoyed to find it empty. "We left when Amelle and Carver were all of eighteen. And our father died three years before that. So at an age when we should have been whispering and giggling over boys, other things were… more important."
"Survival."
Hawke let out a deep sigh as she nodded. "Don't get me wrong — she wasn't cloistered away or anything. She certainly had her moments of being normal." She laughed a little, shaking her head. "I remember once Carver and I caught her kissing one of the village boys behind the barn. It was such a little… innocent thing at the time, but Carver was ready to pound the boy into pulp all the same. She was… Maker, no more than fourteen. Papa died the next year, and she took that terribly hard. W-we all did. And then the years following…" Hawke trailed off. "So… no, there's never been… anyone she's cared enough about or trusted enough. I mean, some of Hightown's young men would come by — or used to, back before everything went straight to the Void — but… no. Unless there's something she hasn't told me, and I… well, I doubt that."
The enormity of what Hawke was telling him about her sister began to sink in. "I see," was all Fenris said. If any vague half-thoughts or notions had been on the verge of forming into something more, into something with intent, that realization was enough to end them. If Hawke's sister was even half as much an innocent as she was implying…
She deserves better than you, a dark thought whispered in Fenris' ear. He scowled and shook it off. It had been a foolish, silly notion. And he a fool for giving it any thought at all. Over the years he'd certainly given Amelle Hawke no reason to—
No. No reason at all.
"She deserves to be happy. She deserves someone good. Someone who can make her happy." Hawke set her glass down and pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I don't think I've seen her as happy as she was tonight since coming to Kirkwall."
Fenris remembered — was finding it hard to forget, in fact — the radiance of Amelle's smile earlier that evening. But he said nothing. Despite the fact that Hawke was clearly in her cups, she wasn't stupid. Saying too much would have been disastrous, and so he looked hard into the remaining wine in the bottom of his glass, twisting it this way and that so the red liquid slid up the sides of the glass.
Unsurprisingly, Hawke didn't notice his silence as anything out of the ordinary. She kept speaking, her voice heavy with melancholy. "Maker knows with what's coming next that's not going to happen either." She turned shining eyes to Fenris. "It doesn't seem fair, does it?"
He drained what remained in his own glass in a single gulp. "Very little about the world right now is fair, Hawke."
When she raised her eyes to meet his, something about her expression—so wounded, so bruised—momentarily stole his breath. "I know," she said softly. "A great deal of it is my fault. And there's not a damned thing I can do to put it right."
"Hawke…"
She rose very suddenly—also with remarkable dexterity—and smiled a brittle smile down at him. "There. I've crossed the line. I didn't mean to. It won't seem as grim in the morning. It never does."
"It never does," he echoed. "Hawke, about Sebastian—"
She chuckled a hard, skeptical little laugh. "Oh no. I'm most certainly not drunk enough for that conversation." Her fingertips ghosted ever-so-lightly over one shoulder, as though she wanted to make certain he was still there. "I am… I am glad you care enough to ask. About her. About me. Even about bloody Sebastian. I find myself oddly… grateful for it." She shook her head slightly and sighed. "Tomorrow, Fenris. I will be better tomorrow."
He wished rather than believed this to be true, but he did not stop her when she threw a last sad smile over her shoulder and closed the door, leaving him with the empty bottles, the dying fire, and his own troubled thoughts.
