A/N: set just before act three. marian loves to bake, and the family cookbook is filled with illustrations done by six year old bethany.
"Fenris, you picked the apple tarts last time."
"Oh… I… yes. I enjoyed them."
But Marian remembers the way his face had scrunched up in disgust, and the plate full of pastries that had quickly found its way out of the estate and at some party full of nobles. She says nothing; partly because she doesn't enjoy arguing with Fenris, especially over something so petty, and partly because she catches his hesitation, the scowl that begins to form – a scowl that's obviously meant more for him than for her – and she knows he's hiding something from her, something he's not yet comfortable admitting.
"So… I know I said you could pick what I bring over," Marian begins softly, "but what if I make a suggestion this week? I'll make the tarts if you want, but maybe we could try something new? Like a…" Flipping through the pages, she searches for Carver's favorite: a simple cinnamon twist bread. "Grandma Amell's Cinnamon Twist," she reads. "It's simple, but it's always been a family favorite."
Fenris stares at the little green scribble in the margins of the cookbook, which appears to be a lumpy bow-tie atop a platter. "It looks… appetizing," he shrugs, throat tight. "I… promised Varric I would meet him. I should leave."
He's gone before Marian can respond, leaving her alone in the too-big kitchen. What is it about this that makes him so uncomfortable? she wonders, eyes locked on the cookbook. Is it being alone with her in the estate? Is it that she's cooking for him? Is it her?
Every week he shows up at exactly the same time, and every week she reminds him he doesn't have to. She doesn't want him to, not if it makes him as uncomfortable as it seems to; but just like Fenris, Marian has something she can't admit.
She cherishes what little time they spend together, even if it's only to chose a recipe.