Prompt: Hawke/Fenris, kiss in the rain (from bearfootscar over on tumblr)

Originally Written: Today!

Notes: The Hawke in this fic is the only Hawke I've ever written besides my own, namely the lovely Euphemia Marian "Eppie" Hawke who features in nearly all of LoqaciousQuark's epic Dragon Age II fanfiction. If you're a Hawke/Fenris fan, you've probably already read her, but if you haven't, GET TO IT. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this offering.

"You're welcome," and he paused, and Hawke felt something more than drunken hesitation in the silence, "to stay the night. If you want."

Hawke considered the offer through the prismed wineglass dangling from her fingers, the last dregs of her drink casting the occasional berry-red sheen over the room. The thought did appeal to her—more than appealed to her, was the thought she'd been trying to ignore for three long, long years—but it wasn't quite…right. Time. She wanted to stay, but not like this, not after a night of companionable drinking while Fenris tried to decide what to do about his sister's letter. He had too much worry on his mind, and too much drink in his blood—she didn't want to be his distraction, though she knew that wouldn't be all there was to it—but she wanted all the other parts to be the whole of it, unburdened, and now it would just be…oh, Maker's breath, she was too tipsy and tired to chase Fenris 'round her thoughts.

"Thanks," she said, filling the word with alcoholic cheer, as she'd filled her every word to counteract his fretful pacing (though lately it had been more of a frantic weaving into various bits of broken furniture), "but I probably ought to be going home."

He sighed, not quite relief, but too much time had gone by for her to be offended by it. "Then I shall escort you."

"Fenris," she said, "you don't have to walk me home."

"I insist," he said unsteadily, crossing over to her side of the table and offering a hand. She watched it tremble before her face for a moment before taking it and pulling herself up, leaning all her weight on him. He stumbled, as she had known he would, and so she reached out—slowly, because even after all these years he still startled when he was drunk—and touched his elbow, letting him know she was there, before grabbing it to steady him.

"Fenris," she said, because she was tipsy and enjoyed the feel of his name in her mouth, "I don't think you can walk me home."

"Of course I can," he said, and she felt him leaning into her grasp and oh she wanted to stay. "It's far too dangerous—"

And of course they were still having this conversation, even after all these years, and she would always be offended even as she was touched. "We cleaned out the Follower of She's hideout last week," she pointed out. "There won't be anyone on the streets for months, and even if there is, Aveline's guards will be on patrol."

"Aveline's guards didn't stop the Followers," he almost slurred, his head hanging as he tried to find his footing.

"You're right. I shall have to speak to her about that," Hawke said, standing perfectly still as he continued to lean on her. "And you shall have to sit down, and let me be on my way."

"Hawke—"

"Fenris," she said, steering him to her chair and bumping him into it until his knees gave way and he sat with a metallic thump, "I will be fine."

He looked up at her from the chair, entirely too much worry and care in his green eyes—and they were unfairly bright for how drunk he was—and said again, "Hawke—"

"Good night, Fenris," she said firmly, tamping down hard on her desire to plop herself on his lap and drown in those beautiful eyes, and she turned away and walked away—in a very straight line, if she did say so herself—and collected her staff from where it leaned against the wall.

"Hawke," he croaked, and she turned back as she fiddled to fit her staff in its sheath. He closed his eyes, creased his forehead, and said, slowly, "Good…night."

She smiled, trying to hide her laughter, and said again, "Good night, Fenris," drawing out the syllables of his name because they were just so nice to say, and she left the house before she started admitting such truths aloud.

It was raining.

She sighed, standing on Fenris's covered stoop, and fished her hood from one of her pockets—and wouldn't her mother have been horrified to see her wearing something so wrinkled in public, but it was far too late (for little girls to be out and about, her mother teased) for anyone to notice or for Hawke to care. She secured the ties under her chin and stepped into the rain, watching the water fall on either side of her, leaving her dry. Anders had called the hood's enchantments frivolous, but it kept the rain off her hair and more than once he'd been the one with the headcold after a night spent fighting cultists in a thunderstorm. Besides—and this she hadn't told him, because she knew he never meant to hurt her feelings—the hood was one of the few things she had left from Lothering, where the pouring rain had been good for crops but less good for those who had to work the fields. She still remembered her father bringing it home for her after her mother complained about how muddy her eldest daughter was on a daily basis—and it hadn't stopped her from getting muddy, but it had kept her warm and dry. She had her father's staff, now, a reminder of the strength and discipline she'd inherited; the hood reminded her of her father's care, and his love.

She took the long way home, the warm summer rain clearing the air of the usual stink of city life, washing the cobblestones clean, and there was something lovely about the city at night, the torches sputtering in their sconces, their light splintered across a thousand little puddles gathered between the uneven stones. She caught one of Aveline's patrols huddled under an alcove in an alley and waved as she skipped over a larger puddle, resisting the urge to splash through it—but even with the burdens of her friends and her enemies weighing on her mind, she felt remarkably free, wandering her city at night, tracing memories of battles and intrigues alike, seeing the pockets of peace she helped create amidst the turmoil of the years.

And there was her house, settled amongst her neighbors, the Amell crest well-lit so that she could always find her way—and if she'd cheated and conjured a magelight to shine no matter the weather, it was still a bright promise of cheer for anyone who saw it, and she liked that. She stopped and looked up at it, taking a deep breath of the rain-fresh air, and as she exhaled she heard the unmistakable sound of someone splashing through a puddle behind her.

She turned around, already reaching for her staff—and froze, as frozen as Fenris was, standing ankle-deep in that one puddle by the column where the stones had formed a gutter of their own accord. His head was lifted just enough for her to see his eyes, staring at her with an expression of…defiant guilt, if she had to guess. His clothes were soaked, pinched in waterlogged wrinkles and clinging to his skin, and his hair was plastered to his head, oddly disarrayed from where he'd no doubt shoved it out of his eyes, and rain dripped from the end of his long nose, clearly ran down his neck into his upturned collar, magnified the lyrium running down his chin. He looked, plainly put, pathetic.

Hawke relaxed her stance, crossed her arms, this time unable to hide her laughter and she said, "Why, Fenris, whatever are you doing?"

His body was still tensed in stillness, ready to take another step but unsure of the ground beneath his feet. "Taking…a walk," he said slowly.

"It's a bit wet for that," she observed.

"Yes. I…" and he broke her gaze, thinking. "The rain is…sobering."

"I see," she said. "And are you quite sober now?"

"Yes," he said, "thank you. And you are home…safe?"

"As I told you I'd be," she said. Then, because it really was a sad sight, she said, "You're welcome to come inside, if you'd like." She saw the hesitation in his stillness, and added, so that they were clear, "There's a fire, and it's warm. You'll have to share the hearth with Dog, I'm afraid, but so long as he doesn't get wet it shouldn't smell too bad."

"Ah," he said, and slowly he straightened, relaxed as much as he could when anyone that wet had to be shivering with cold. "Yes. I would…appreciate that."

"Then come on," she said, still amused, waiting for him behind the safety of her rain shield as he approached. This close, she could see every drop of water lingering on his skin the way her lips had once—"I don't think," she said, "the rain is as sobering as you claim."

This close, the defiant guilt held every ounce of concern she'd been trying to treat lightly, trying to shield herself from because she'd already given him her heart and to know that he held it so carefully, even after all this time—

"I am glad," he said, with a sober, carefully measured tone, "that you are safe."

And she was careless and free, and the city was beautiful and the elf was handsome and she loved him with words she hadn't been allowed to say, and without another thought she slipped her hand around his neck and pulled him close for a kiss, and even her father's magic couldn't prevent her clothes from becoming just as soaked as his as his arms went around her, kissing her back, long and sweet and relieved, unspoken hope between their lips that maybe, one day, they could share freedom together.

The kiss ended, not-quite-broken, and Fenris's breathing rasped against her skin and Hawke looked down at her wet clothes and whispered, "You did that on purpose."

Fenris's laugh startled out of him, and oh she loved surprising him, even if the cost was his arms falling away as he said, "You mentioned a fire?"

"Yes," she said, reaching out and taking his hand, and he let her. "Follow me."