This scene just kept building, and I wasn't sure where it was going. I'm still not sure where it went, but I'm happy with how it came out. I hope you all enjoy it, too!

Sheets of rain pounded against the windows and wind howled viciously down the narrow alleyways of Hightown. Fenris always found great amusement in the irony that the rich and exclusive Hightown suffered far more in any large storm than did the squalid little huts of Lowtown. Tucked into the pocket formed by the mountains and the harbor, Lowtown tended to flood, but even that was rare. The high cliff walls protected the harbor from seaborne storms.

But up in Hightown it was a different story. The mansions were at the mercy of the winds and the rain. The inhabitants tended to celebrate the storms, because what else could they do? They held storm parties, congregating together to drown out the sound of the storm with music and gossip, leaving their servants to clean up the mess left behind.

Fenris didn't have servants, nor did he attend the parties, since technically he was not a resident of Hightown. Hawke didn't, either, he knew. With her mother gone, she had withdrawn herself as much as possible from the social whirl of Kirkwall, keeping to herself unless there was work to do.

More wind shook the windowpanes, and Fenris shivered. He didn't like storms; never had, at least, as far back as his memories went. He didn't much want to sit here alone in the dim light of his last few candles.

He supposed he could go to the Hanged Man. Varric and Isabela would be throwing their own version of the nobles' storm party—the cheap booze would be flowing, Isabela entertaining the crowd with tales of storms at sea, Varric with stories of Kirkwall's past bouts of bad weather. The witch would no doubt be there, hanging on every word and interjecting occasional comments about Ferelden's weather, and the abomination would come up from the depths of Darktown, which often flooded with backed-up sewage in rainstorms. He would sit in the midst of the tavern hunched over a glass of water, and mutter about the mages and their precious freedom. Fenris appreciated freedom, no one more so, but he also appreciated the need to keep power harnessed, to keep it from overcoming the powerless. And mages were power in its rawest form.

Something banged against the wall, and he wondered which servant would be lashed tomorrow for having let some noble's belongings blow away. That led to dark thoughts of Danarius and punishments past.

After several minutes of that, Fenris shook himself out of the memories. Danarius had no power over him here. Pulling himself out of the depths of his armchair, Fenris paced the room restlessly. Aveline would be out tonight, patrolling with her guards. She led by example, taking all the worst weather and hardest posts herself on a regular basis. Fenris admired her for it, and would have considered joining her, but she would not have appreciated his assistance. Sebastian, no doubt, was kneeling in the chant with the mothers and the other residents of the Chantry. Fenris would be welcomed there, at least by Sebastian, but he had no desire for the Maker tonight. What, after all, had the Maker ever done for him?

He was left, Fenris thought, with only two choices. Remain here in the dim light and wallow in his memories, both good and bad, or ... walk the steps to lower Hightown, the comparatively safer, warmer part where Hawke lived, and brave her tempting presence.

Had there, truly, ever been another option? He shut the door of the mansion carefully behind him—no one would be watching, tonight—and ducked his head against the rain and wind.

The walk across Hightown and down the short flight of stairs that was slick with puddles and fallen leaves seemed longer than it had any right to be, and he was miserable and shivering by the time he stood in front of her door. He knocked, fighting the impulse to turn and go back to his mansion, and stared down at Bodahn when the dwarf opened the door. Water was dripping from Fenris's nose by now, and running from his wet hair into the back of his armor.

"Messere Fenris! Terrible night to be out—must be important, eh? Do come in; Mistress Hawke is in her study. No doubt she'll be glad to see you."

Fenris followed, letting the dwarf's cheerful commentary roll past him all but unheard. Bodahn never gave the impression that he knew what had happened between Hawke and Fenris, here in this very house, but Fenris assumed he must. He would never forget the eyes of Bodahn's son, Sandal, burning with disappointment, as Fenris let himself out that early morning; Sandal must have told his father what occurred. He supposed he should feel grateful to Bodahn for pretending that nothing had changed, but it made Fenris more self-conscious than outright hostility would have. He deserved the hostility, after all. He did not deserve to be treated as a welcomed guest. Not any longer.

"Mistress, you have a visitor," Bodahn announced, throwing open the door to the study.

Hawke was sitting by the fire, a book open on her lap. She was wearing her house clothes, and the short skirt had pulled up to expose her bare knees and a glimpse of beautifully toned thighs. Fenris swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. He remembered so clearly the silky-soft feel of that flesh, the taste of it as he kissed the inside of her knee.

What would she do if he pushed Bodahn out of the way, knelt before her, and began kissing her bare skin? If he begged her to forgive him and to allow him to earn his way back to where they had been before he was such a colossal fool?

"Fenris? What are you—You're soaking wet!" Hawke had risen now, looking at him with concern, and he realized that he was still staring at her legs.

"I ..." What could he say? That he was cold and afraid and didn't want to sit alone in the dark? What would she think of him then? "It appears to be raining rather heavily."

"Is it? Merrill said she felt a big storm was coming. And you came out in it?" She frowned at him. "First things first, then, we need to get you dried off." She looked him over briefly, her gaze businesslike and appraising. Still, Fenris couldn't help but remember her looking at him in quite another way, once. Hawke turned to Bodahn. "I don't believe we have any dry clothes Messere Fenris would thank us for lending him, so let's just get him a towel and a warm place to dry off in, then bring him back in here with some ... cocoa, I think."

Fenris appreciated her forethought. Certainly the only clothes she'd have were her own, and although he was certain she had perfectly serviceable items she could have lent him, neither of them wanted to see that. He'd thought she might have ordered mulled wine, but he supposed it was a good idea for both of them to keep their wits sharp. The lulling qualities of a fine wine would lower the resistance to temptation entirely too much.

He followed Bodahn into the kitchen, where the dwarf handed him a big, fluffy, warm towel and showed him a small pantry where Fenris could close the door and have some privacy. So the dwarf did know what had happened—and knew that Hawke would not want Fenris upstairs.

Fenris dried himself off quickly, and took rather more pains when drying the inside of his upper armor. He knew from experience that once it dried that way, it would take a long time to be comfortable again.

All the time he cared for his armor, he berated himself for coming out in the storm in the first place. Now he was here, and he was stuck here, for Hawke would never let him back out in the storm, not unless he was bent on offending her. And he would have to spend the evening with her, somehow distracting himself from her beautiful legs and her lovely voice and her intoxicating scent and her tempting, taunting nearness.

"Venhedis!" he whispered, softly but fervently. What a prize fool he was.

At last he couldn't pretend to be drying off any longer, and he emerged from the pantry. Bodahn was waiting, his eyes expressionless as he held his hand out for the towel.

"Mistress Hawke is awaiting you in the study."

"Thank you, Bodahn."

Orana, the ex-slave Hawke employed, bent over a bubbling pot of something on the stove, pointedly not looking at him as he came through the room. Which was all well and good for Fenris, because he had never understood why someone would take a position as a domestic servant, even as well-paid as one of Hawke's, after having escaped from slavery. On the rare occasions he and Orana spoke, he was hard put not to lecture her on her folly.

He came back into the study, finding a small table had been pulled up between Hawke's two big armchairs, with a silver coffee pot and two thick china mugs on it, as well as a lovingly polished board with a number of holes in it that were arranged in an oval pattern.

Hawke's legs were covered with a blanket now, despite the room's toasty warmth. He appreciated the gesture, although he wondered whose convenience the blanket was there for, his or hers. "There you are," she said. "I was waiting to pour the hot chocolate until you came back, but it was hard to do—it smells delicious."

"I am surprised Orana knows how to make it. Hot beverages are not exactly common in Tevinter."

"My ... My mother taught her a great deal, and Orana's a quick and willing learner." Hawke glanced at the fireplace, her features drooping for a moment. Then she brightened. "Do you play cribbage?"

"Cribbage?" He shook his head. No doubt that was what the board was for. "I have never heard of it."

"Oh. Would you like to learn?"

He couldn't help it; he bristled. As if having her teach him to read and to write wasn't enough? Must she humiliate him by continuing to point out all the ways in which she was accomplished and he a novice?

Quickly as he tried to catch his reaction and soften it, Hawke had seen it. "Apparently not, then," she said crisply, her tone hovering between annoyed and disappointed.

She reached for the pot, pouring steaming rich chocolate into both cups, then sat back with her own cradled in her hands. They sat in silence for a few long moments, but it wasn't the comfortable kind of silence they had shared so often. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, words unsaid. Fenris thought they had gotten past the need to speak of what had been between them, but the night and the fire and the suggestion of the storm outside all combined to make the memories rise up in front of him. The things they could be doing right now, if he had not been such a tremendous fool. He shifted in the chair, moving as far back into the soft cushions as he could to mask his body's reaction to his thoughts.

"Fenris."

"Yes?"

"What are you doing here?" Hawke sounded tired.

"I … am not certain. The wind—" He broke off, unwilling to admit that he had been unnerved by the storm.

Hawke looked up, pointing her face in the direction of the outer rooms, listening. "I can't even hear it."

"Nor I." But he wasn't looking toward the windows; he was looking at her. "I should go."

"No! I mean, you needn't. Er, I mean, you shouldn't go back out in the storm." Her cheeks were bright, surely from the fire's warmth.

He could feel what it would have been like to be here, sheltering with her, if nothing had ever gone wrong, if he had not retreated from her side like a wounded animal, and the pain of the loss was as acute as any he had ever suffered.

Their eyes met, the exchange of lost glances the closest they had ever come to telling one another what a toll the effort of staying apart was taking on them.

"Very well, then," he said at last, turning to the board laid out on the table between them. "How did you say this game was played?"

And the storm raged on.