A/N: Aaaaah okay enough messing around. Here's the real deal. Like I said. I skipped the Deep Roads. Sue me. They're awful and boring and ain't nobody got time for that. I still don't own DA2. Don't sue me. Please. I'm broke anyway.

"There you are! Talk some sense into your brother!" Leandra's first words left her mouth in a tumble as soon as Hawke walked through the door. What would have been a stinging pain was only a dull ache at this point—the weeks spent in the Deep Roads had given her more than enough time to think about her relationship with her mother. So it didn't hurt as badly as Hawke had expected it to, for Leandra not to even welcome her home, to ask how things went, if she was alright. It only left the mage with a hollow sensation in her chest. But considering she was expecting to feel much worse about it, the emptiness wasn't unwelcome.

Carver's appearance, though, drew her up short. "That's—Templar armor." Hawke felt herself saying, her voice smaller and tighter than intended.

"That's right," Carver's own tone was clipped. "I already signed up. It's done and it can't be undone. I'm joining the Order, and there's nothing either of you can say that can stop me."

"But why?" Hawke asked. She wanted to feel anger, confusion—and the only emotion she could grasp onto was weariness. Weeks down in the Deep Roads, no sunlight, the constant threat of Darkspawn and other dangers—the Profane, the Rock Wraith—it was all too much. Bartrand's betrayal. The seemingly endless passages, the fear of never making it out alive…

And even now, it seemed, she wasn't allowed to rest. Even now she has to solve everyone else's problems, to be strong for those who couldn't stand on their own.

"I needed to stop living in your shadow, Sister. I need to do something for myself. I want to live my own life." Her brother was bristling at this point, all dark hair and brows knitted into a scowl and clenched fists.

Hawke couldn't even look at Leandra. She just moved to a chair and sat. Winston trotted over to her, panting, as she began loosening her auburn hair from its bun with deliberate slowness. "So go. Live your own life." She said, unable to even make herself sound annoyed. She was too tired.

"Dearest, you can't mean that! Tell him—" Leandra began, but Hawke lifted a hand, cutting her mother off.

"His mind's made up. As he said, it's done. Children grow up."

"I'm not a child!" Carver snapped.

"I'm not saying you are. You're an adult. Cast your own shadow. Become the best Templar there ever was. Hunt down every apostate you can find and put them to the sword. I don't really care. Just stay away from my friends." She mumbled, her eyes lidding as she sat back in her chair. Winston nuzzled his way under her hand, and she half-heartedly scratched behind the mabari's ears.

"Don't worry about that. I know the value of family." He practically spat, and stormed for the door.

"Right. I sure don't." she muttered, bitter sarcasm dripping in every one of her words. But it was too late. Carver was gone.

"How could you let him go that way?" Leandra demanded, tears in her eyes. The woman clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling sobs.

Hawke shifted in her chair, looking anywhere but at her mother. "What did you want me to do? His mind was set and he'd already signed up. I suppose I could have stopped him by breaking his legs. That would have been great, huh?"

"Noel…" Leandra mumbled through her sniffles.

Hawke inwardly cringed. Even her mother hardly ever called her by her first name. Just another difference between her and the twins, she supposed. Bethany and Carver… and "Dearest." She drew a hand over her face, sighing. "The expedition was a success. We're set for life. Varric is taking care of the arrangements and splitting the money. We'll be out of here within a few weeks. I suggest packing." The mage rose and headed for the door, rumpling her fingers through her hair.

Leandra spoke as the mage's hand was on the doorknob. "You think all I care about the money?"

"I don't think anything," Hawke said, the words more harsh than she'd intended. More softly, she tried again. "I don't think anything. Start—picking out a house you like. Or get back in touch with the Viscount about your estate."

Hawke immediately fled then, running away from Gamlen's house, from Leandra, from Lowtown—from everything. She was outside Fenris' mansion before she knew it, knocking on the door. But there was no answer, and Hawke knocked again. Still nothing. She knew he'd be home. Who wouldn't after getting back from the damned Deep Roads? Well. Aside from her.

The mage gingerly tried the knob and the door swung silently open. She entered the mansion and glanced around the entryway as she shut the door behind herself. It was an awkward feeling, entering his home, his—den… without his permission. She felt like an intruder despite the tentative, awkward friendship they'd established in the recent months.

"Fenris?" she called softly, peeking into the kitchen, the sitting room, the hallway, all in turn. No answer. Maybe he was already asleep? It wouldn't have surprised her. She was exhausted, herself. It was selfish of her to run to him, to seek the comfort offered by his strong, steady presence. But she couldn't help herself. He'd said he didn't mind… and she needed him.

As Hawke crept up the stairs, though, heading toward the bedroom to see if he was asleep, a sound gave her pause. That sound sent shivers up her spine, her breath escaping in a sigh.

Fenris was singing.

As she cautiously edged down the hallway, the sound became slightly louder—not full volume, by any stretch of the imagination. She halted outside the bathroom door as she heard a sloshing noise.

The gorgeous, infuriating, perfect elf was singing under his breath in Tevinter while he took a bath.

That feeling of awkwardness, of invading his privacy, was getting to her again. But his deep voice soothed her, eased her worries away—even though she didn't understand what he was singing about. It didn't matter. It was his voice and his presence, and that was enough. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to just linger for a few moments. She could sneak out when she heard him getting ready to leave the bathroom.

Even as her brain started arguing with her, pointing out the half dozen ways this was wrong and rude and selfish, Hawke's legs bent at the knee and she sat down in the hall, her back leaned comfortably next to the door. Maker, she could have listened to that voice for the rest of her life and still never gotten enough.

He stopped singing then, and after a moment of silence… "Are you planning on saying hello, at least?"

Hawke reddened, freezing on the spot. If she could have melted into the floor, she would have. How had he-? "Uh—hi, Fenris. Sorry to bother you."

"You really ought to stop apologizing for coming over. I like your company."

Hawke was grateful for the wall between them. It meant he couldn't see the downright giddy grin on her lips. "How's the bath going?"

"Would you care to take one yourself?" There was a low edge of something in the elf's voice, something that turned the blood in her veins to fire, something that left her feeling weak.

"I certainly wouldn't mind it." She replied, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. She'd probably just imagined his tone. Dreamed it up because lately she couldn't think about anything without her thoughts coming back to him.

And she knew she had probably imagined that deep, almost seductive tone because when he responded, his voice was normal once again. Still rich, still strong—but normal. "I will be finished in a moment. There are extra clothes in the room across the hall."

"Thanks." Hawke pushed herself to her feet and crossed the hall to the door in question, opening it. The room inside was clearly a guest bedroom. And while it shared the mansion's general state of disrepair, it wasn't dusty like the unused storage rooms were. The bed looked as if it had been freshly made. The mage paused, glancing over her shoulder toward the bathroom door.

Had Fenris done all this for her? The thought left her feeling warm and light-headed. She crossed the room to the closet and opened it, peeking at the garments inside. Robes and dresses. All of them made for a woman—a slight, diminutive woman. Hesitant fingers reached outward and brushed along the sleeve of a soft, deep green dress with gold accents and needlework.

"Do you like it?" His voice made her start, and she glanced at him. The lanky elf leaned against the doorframe, a towel draped over his shoulders to catch the water dripping from his white hair. He'd pulled on his dark leggings, but he hadn't gotten to his tunic yet. She could see his tanned skin, the lean contours of his frame, the sculpted muscles of his chest, his abdomen. The lyrium markings, stark white against his skin, looped and swirled in graceful lines, dipping downward past even his navel, disappearing beyond the hem of his trousers.

Hawke almost died right there.

Somehow she managed to find her voice and she also tore her eyes away from Fenris before her staring got too awkward. "When did you do this?" she asked quietly.

"Just before we left for the Deep Roads. Do… do you like it?" he asked again, more hesitantly.

"I—Fenris, it's wonderful. You didn't have to…"

"I know," he said, his gaze finding the floor. "But I wanted you to know you are always welcome here. And I wanted you to be comfortable."

Her feet crossed the floor before she even realized what she was doing. In another instant, her arms had looped around his midsection, her face buried against his chest. "Thank you." She whispered. She feared he would only tolerate this gesture for a moment, and she was determined to enjoy it before he pushed her away.

But instead of merely tolerating the hug, he slowly returned it, his arms circling around her smaller form. "You are welcome." She was enfolded in his warmth, his steady strength, his scent, his voice… She felt her lips quirking into a smile against his skin, and she resolved that she would not be the first one to run away from the moment.

Fenris brushed his fingers slowly through her hair before saying, finally, "You need a bath."

Hawke flushed, her gaze snapping up toward him, indignant. "Well excuse me!" she huffed.

"Hush. There is a reason I made the bathroom my first stop when I arrived. It was not meant to be personal, or an insult." He said.

Hawke still scowled up at him—months of studying his expressions had turned her from a merely adept scowler to an absolute champion in the art. "I guess I'll forgive you just this once."

"Thank you." He replied smoothly, letting go of her at last. She immediately felt cold without his warmth.

"Do you want me to cook some dinner once I'm out of the bath?" she asked to distract herself from the lonely feeling as she moved to the closet, picking up the green dress that had first jumped out at her.

"No. Once you're finished with your bath, we are going to the Hanged Man for a party." The elf's thin lips curled into one of those fleeting smiles that left her feeling weak.

"A party?" she asked incredulously, arching a brow.

"Dinner, drinking, cards, dancing. Apparently Varric isn't sparing any expense."

"Wait—how long did you know about this?" she asked in a squeak.

He tapped a long index finger to his chin. "I'd say about a week and a half. He started planning it during the early stages of the expedition. He made everyone promise not to tell you."

Hawke laughed, a delighted smile on her lips. "What?"

"Do you remember Arngeir? The dwarf who broke his arm during the excavation?"

"Yeah, why?"

"He was never injured. Varric used it as an excuse to send him back to Kirkwall and put in the instructions for the party, and to tell everyone who didn't come along."

"No!" she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth as she laughed.

"Yes. Now go and have your bath, or we'll be late."

Whooping with glee, her earlier weariness and pain wiped away, Hawke scampered past him toward the bathroom, dress flung over her arm.