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Fenris looks up from drafting a long and intricate motion to dismiss tainted evidence when his email chimes to let him know he's gotten a new message. He's waiting for an affidavit from the court that pertains to his motion, so he pauses long enough to check his inbox.

From: Bethany Hawke
To: All Partners
Subject: Tonight's event

Hi, everyone! I'm so excited to see everyone at the dinner
tonight. I'm really glad everyone could make it. It seems like it's
been forever since we could have everyone and their partners
all in one place. Isabela knows she's banned from the open
bar. I promise.

On that subject, I'd like to remind everyone that you are
responsible for the behavior of your partners at company
events. I am in no way singling anyone out, since that would
be very hypocritical of me after last year's outright brawl, but
we really should strive to set a better example for the
associates, don't you think?

I'll see everyone there!
- Bethany

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He hadn't originally been planning on going to the company dinner. Then Bethany noticed his missing RSVP and came to ask him personally, with a bright and excited smile and those pleading kitten eyes, and he'd found himself agreeing before he truly realized what he was agreeing to.

An all-partners dinner means at least three hours spent in the company of his coworkers, who range from merely irritating to downright insufferable. He will be on display for the associates, paralegals, and assistants, who often take this as an opportunity to gossip about the partners arrayed in stiff suits at the head table, and tonight, there will be an empty chair next to him, for he has no one he wishes to bring with him.

Fenris has no one, period, but that is a state of affairs that does not trouble him.

Unfortunately, the last time he'd shown up to a company event without a partner, Bethany pulled him aside and asked him far too many questions with uncomfortable answers, and Fenris is keen to avoid a repeat performance. He'd gotten the message, loud and clear. It isn't just partners welcome, it's partners required.

How is he going to find one of those in the next eight hours?

Fenris goes back to drafting his motion with more focus than is perhaps required, which lets him finish it more quickly than he ordinarily would. He's glad of that later, when every other partner in the entire firm stops by his office for a quick chat. First it's Bethany chattering away with the transparent goal of making sure he'd seen the email, and then Carver to commiserate – at least he has little to say beyond a sympathetic grunt or two – and after lunch, Varric sticks his head in.

"I suppose you've heard that Anders is bringing Karl?" Varric asks. He's pretending that he's just participating in the normal office gossip, but Fenris hears what's underneath all of that – a warning.

During the last company dinner Fenris attended when Anders brought his long-term partner, they'd spent more time than Fenris thought warranted looking at the empty chair next to Fenris and whispering to each other. It only took two drinks for Anders to offer to introduce Fenris to any number of friends of theirs, with the implication being that Fenris couldn't possibly know anyone worth dating.

He would do many things to avoid that sort of humiliation this year.

Fenris gets up and gestures Varric into his office before he closes the door to afford them some privacy. "I need a date," he says tightly.

Varric makes a sympathetic face. "No one you can call?"

"If I had someone I could call, I would already have done it," he snaps.

Obviously. Sometimes Fenris wishes critical thinking skills were taught in law school, for they seem lamentably absent in most of the people he meets.

Varric lifts an admonishing eyebrow, but he settles back against the doorframe anyway, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, I do know one person who probably isn't going to the company dinner, given that she doesn't actually work for the firm. And so do you."

Fenris begins to frown as he tries to figure out who Varric could possibly be talking about. No one who works for the firm – that leaves out almost everyone that Fenris knows. He's not generally interested in socializing outside of work. Instead, he runs marathons to avoid thinking about all of the things he doesn't want to think about.

But there is one person in this building that he knows who doesn't work for Hawke & Amell, because she runs a small accountant firm on the floor below instead which does H&A's taxes.

It's a family concern.

Fenris groans. "You can't possibly mean – "

Varric pats him a couple of times on the shoulder with one meaty hand. "Give her a call, Broody. You might be surprised."

———

Instead of calling, Fenris elects to stop by her office and speak to her in person in the hopes that there will be someone else in her office, which would allow them to avoid their usual shouting match. When he gets there, the door to Hawke's office is open, though she's alone; she's bent over her laptop, reading something so intently that she doesn't notice him. She's dressed neatly enough, but she's ruffled her short hair into a bird's nest, and her eyes are tired behind her glasses.

Fenris wishes he could put his finger on the thing about her that irritates him so. Seen like this, she's pretty enough in a quiet sort of way, obviously intelligent and hard-working, and dedicated to her family. Those are all traits that Fenris admires in a person. So why is it that when Hawke turns those strikingly blue eyes on him, and she grins at him as though he's a trained animal who's performed a trick to her liking, his temper rises up under his skin like a festering boil – as though she's under his skin in more than just a figurative way, and she knows just how to drive him mad.

He's never caught even a hint that Hawke does it on purpose. But how could she not? How could she so perfectly set every single one of his nerves to vibrating at that intense and agonizing pitch if she wasn't trying? Perhaps she'd summed him up in a single glance that told her where all of his weak spots are, even the ones hidden so deeply he doesn't know they're there.

When he looks at her this way, Fenris very nearly likes her, which is a strange thought when –

Hawke glances up, her eyebrows raising, and when she catches sight of him a smile blooms on her face that has nothing to do with happiness. It's a smirk, sharp and knowing, and she sits back in her chair to aim it at him like the weapon it is. "Fenris!" she exclaims. "How perfectly lovely to see you."

"Hawke," he returns in a grumble that he knows she has yet to deserve. He's being churlish, and it's beneath him, and yet –

And yet.

The hot and dangerous feeling in his stomach forces him to grit his teeth and say as little to Hawke as possible. If he speaks to her when he's feeling like this, Fenris has no idea what will come out of his mouth, and that seems like a very inauspicious start for a man who has to ask for a favor.

Her smirk acquires a knowing, amused edge to it that makes the fires banked inside of him flare for an overwhelming moment. "You're not usually the kind of man who comes around to gossip, so I can only assume that you need something. What can I do for you, Fenris?"

This is possibly the most humiliating moment of the whole humiliating affair, Fenris is forced to admit to himself. And yet this is what has to happen. He grins his teeth together just once, just to make himself feel better, and then he takes care to speak in his most neutral voice. "The firm is having a dinner tonight, and your sister has grand visions of everyone bringing their partner and enjoying the happy state of dining with family."

"Oh," Hawke says, her eyes softening with understanding. "And that means you'll be alone."

"I am happier that way," Fenris insists.

He can't understand what makes her smile fade in that moment. It's true. It's always been true, and he expects it always will be true. There is no reason for her to look so pained, not on his behalf.

"I know," Hawke says, offering him a different smile, far smaller and lopsided.

Fenris takes a big breath and lets it out again in a despairing sort of sigh. "That means that I need a date," he admits. "One who will understand. Someone they might believe I would spend my time with."

"And you came to me?" Hawke asks, leaning forward over her desk and planting her chin on her palm. She's laughing now, with no lingering trace of that pain anywhere to be found. She's mercurial, always, the woman never takes anything seriously – "I mean, of course I'll do it, but you'll have to figure out how to look at me with any emotion other than outright murder."

"I don't do that," Fenris growls. It's a lie. He knows that he does. It was on his list to worry about after she agreed, if indeed she did so at all.

He can't believe that she did. There was no reason for her to do so. She stays as far away from the family firm as she possibly can while still taking care of their taxes and billing – Fenris has always suspected some sort of sibling rivalry or something of the sort as the cause, but it was none of his concern as long as the law firm operated in a reasonable manner. Bethany Hawke is both smart and dedicated to the low-income clients that he prefers to serve. Fenris has no complaints about his job.

Except this.

Hawke raises her eyebrow in a skeptical look, but she mercifully declines to comment. "It's at the Cosworth, yes? What time?"

He arranges to meet with her outside the hotel five minutes before the event is to start and escapes back to his office, pulling out his tie as he goes so he can take a deep breath for the first time in what feels like forever.

If that was what it felt like just to talk to her for five minutes out of his day, how is Fenris going to survive a whole evening of her company without descending into madness?

———

The Cosworth Hotel is a tall, stark spire in the center of downtown that spears into the night like a frozen flame, pale and still, the only life to be found the coming and going of the rich and powerful in suits and gowns that could feed some of Fenris' clients for a year. It's hard not to begrudge them their finery – it's hard not to begrudge himself the same finery, standing there in the only tuxedo he owns, knowing that at various points in his life, Fenris would have either worn something far finer than this, or pawned it for far less than it's worth to scrape together rent on a rat-infested apartment.

Also, Fenris thinks he must have gained muscle in his neck, for his collar doesn't seem to fit him anymore.

His phone sounds a warning beep at five minutes to the hour, which was the time they'd set to meet; before Fenris can begin to grow frustrated at Hawke's abysmal punctuality, a hired car pulls up in front of him and the door opens. His only warning is the slender foot strapped into some sort of medieval spiked torture device in a bold red. He should hand her out of the car, or so manners dictate, but while Fenris is debating it with himself, Hawke chooses not to wait. She hauls herself out of the car under her own power, and the first sight of her strikes Fenris entirely dumb.

She's wearing a dress with a scoop neck and sleeves that come down to the back of her hands, cut so plain that it should look frumpy, boring, like she'd bought something off the rack without even looking at it.

Except that it's fit so excruciatingly close to Hawke's body that it's clear it was made for her and her alone. And once Fenris looks closer, he realizes that it's made of something that shines, something that gleams, a material far more expensive than the standard cotton or polyester. She wears no jewelry or other adornments: only the bold slash of dark red lips to match her shoes and the tiny clutch she holds in one hand.

Fenris stares and stares and stares.

He's never seen her like this. Never thought she could look like –

The feelings slowly rising behind his breastbone are choking him, full to the brim of a kind of terror that Fenris wants no part of. Hawke's mouth is curling into a smirk as she watches him speechless: him, the terror of courtroom and the man whose motions and briefs have stricken fear into the hearts of lesser men. Speechless.

Incredibly, that smirk brings him back to himself.

Fenris smothers any sort of gratitude that may or may not be welling inside of him and nods to Hawke. "Good evening," he says. He's determined to remain calm tonight. Polite. He won't let her pull him into one of those petty, bickering disagreements that so often turn into screaming matches on both sides. Fenris is a civilized man, and he's going to prove it now if it's the last thing he does.

"Good evening," Hawke says in a low voice, her eyes warm.

Fenris gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

She laughs in that way of hers, too loud, too bold, somehow managing to sound happy and mocking at the same time. "That was the plan." She slides her hand under his elbow and attaches herself to his arm, as though he'd offered to escort her inside. Even through two layers of fabric, the touch of her hand feels like a brand against his skin – too hot, stinging and searing by turns, so thoroughly stealing all of his attention that she's the one who starts them walking into the hotel.

The firm has the large dining room on the second floor overlooking the gardens, swathed in darkness now but lit by small lights in several soft colors, soft cream and icy blue spots glowing velvet against the gathering shadows. The room itself is classic Kirkwall opulence, flirting outrageously with the line of too much without ever achieving gaudy; in Tevinter, this would have been the province of the laetans, a group of people very nearly without any class whatsoever. Danarius would never have set foot in this room, not even if someone had a gun to his head.

They're settled at the head table without too much fuss, though Fenris does notice that Anders has a decidedly petulant look on his face as he watches Fenris and Hawke come in together.

The satisfaction rising in his heart is petty – Fenris is a big enough man that he can admit it – and yet it's sweet nonetheless.

Hawke settles herself in her chair without waiting for help from Fenris, and beams at him as he sits beside her. "I'm assuming that you don't want anyone to know about our little bargain?" she asks in a perfectly normal tone of voice that anyone around them could hear.

But her choice of words is impeccable, Fenris begrudgingly admits. No one would know what she truly means, which is the important part, because Hawke is right. If any part of this gets out to his coworkers, Fenris will quit his job, sell all of his possessions, and move to an ice hut in the Korcari Wilds.

"I would rather they didn't," Fenris admits, trying on a slight smile. It doesn't feel too unnatural.

Hawke winks at him, so quickly that no one else would have noticed it, but she leans in, too, like she's flirting with him. "You got it."

Varric arrives just then in a clamor of noise and laughter, with someone that Fenris recognizes as Miss Kirkwall on his arm; Bethany and Isabela are hard on his heels, and just that quickly, the table is more than half full. The conversation flows easily, like the free wine at the open bar. Bethany comes over and gives Hawke a long hug, murmuring something in her ear that Fenris doesn't catch, but it must not be too serious; Hawke only shakes her head, that flirtatious smile fixed on her face. "We're trying it out," she says, glancing at Fenris with naked affection in her eyes.

How is she so good at this?

"Yes," Fenris says, trying to match her ease. "We've been keeping it quiet, but as you said tonight was for partners..."

Bethany laughs, leaning dangerously close to Hawke's shoulder. Isabela wraps an arm around her waist. "I'm so glad!" she says in a delighted voice. "You two are so cute!"

"Like puppies," Isabela puts in. "Or unicorns."

Bethany turns her head to pout at Isabela. "Don't make fun of me."

"Then stop giving me so much ammunition."

"Maybe some food," Varric suggests from across the table. He sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

Isabela sighs and heaves Bethany along to their seats. "She pre-gamed," she says in an aside as she passes Fenris. "I think this is my punishment for last year."

The rest of the firm trails in one at a time, Carver at the opposite end with Sebastian, Merrill and her androgynous partner on Varric's other side; Donnic is seated on Fenris' other side, which he counts as a small mercy, since Donnic is the sort of man anyone can get along with. Aveline is on his other side, and Bethany and Isabela, then Karl and Anders round out that side of the table.

It's been a long time since they were all together. Over the first half of dinner, the conversation turns to catching up on everyone's personal lives, which is a subject that Fenris has only passing interest in; he listens in a desultory sort of way, applying himself to his dinner and trying to ignore Hawke's bright laughter in his ear as she chats with Sebastian's date. It's harder than he expected it to be, since Hawke insists on pulling him into the conversation with little asides meant only for him; once or twice they're whispered directly into his sensitive ear, which sets it to twitching.

He'd expected someone to point out that they're obviously not dating, whether through a failure of body language or Fenris' famous dislike of being seen to enjoy himself while other people are around, but even Varric, who'd suggested he ask Hawke in the first place, seems to think nothing of the two of them together. Bethany keeps looking them with eyes that shine with delight. Even Donnic gave him an approving glance over the fish course, as if Fenris has done something of which he should be proud.

What is happening?

As the night goes on, and the drinks continue to flow, the general volume in the room just keeps getting louder. Their associates are enjoying themselves, at least, Fenris thinks as he watches a few of them laughing uproariously. Contrary to expectation, Fenris is feeling more comfortable as the rest of the room loosens up. It's likely they'll pay him even less attention than before. At least the wine is excellent, he thinks, taking a long draught from his glass.

When Fenris sets his glass down, Hawke takes his hand and sends him a laughing glance. "Isn't that right, darling?"

He can't breathe.

He looks down at her hand lightly laying alongside his, her fingers loosely weaving between his, the unexpected warmth of her skin and the strength in her hand he's always been able to see inside of her upright form. He should feel trapped – bound – caged, the irritation rising within him like a tsunami to push frankly heinous insults up his throat and out of his mouth, just like every other time Fenris has started their customary arguments. He should hate this. He hates anyone touching him, and surely she should be the worst of all –

But he feels real where she touches him, as though every other part of him is ephemeral, wasting away into nothing. He finds himself wishing she would touch him in those other places. Everywhere. All over his body. If she can call him out of this shadow he's been living under his whole life, she could touch him anywhere and Fenris would thank her for the privilege.

"Fenris?" Hawke asks, her expectant smile fading somewhat. "Are you all right?"

She glances down at their hands and makes some sort of a face. He finds himself wishing quite desperately that he knew what it meant. Does she find the touch of his skin unpleasant? Did she forget who she was pretending to date, and so she's angry at herself for touching him when she doesn't want to? Or is she regretting the whole sorry business? He can't blame her, if that's the case. This is not going the way that he expected.

Hawke opens her hand and lets him go.

The panic that surges inside of him is not reasonable. It makes no sense. But it makes Fenris lace his own fingers around her hand, holding Hawke tightly so that she won't try to slip away.

"I wasn't following," he says, attempting a smile. Hawke is staring at him, her eyes wide. "What was that?"

Sebastian leans over to peer at Fenris from behind Hawke and his own date. "I must say, Fenris, you seem to be enjoying yourself. I don't think you've ever stayed this long at a company dinner."

"It must be the excellent food," Hawke says, laughing rather breathily. She casts Fenris a fond glance. "I am sorry I tried to cook for you last night."

Even Fenris can recognize a cue when it's fed to him. He offers her that slight smile that shouldn't be so easy to find. "No matter. What was the question?"

"I didn't realize the two of you were involved," Sebastian puts in, his eyes gleaming. For someone who purports to be a sober, religious man, Sebastian has an ear for gossip that would put a Chantry Mother to shame. "When did that happen?"

Fenris glances at Hawke, his heart full of what he's sure is poorly hidden nervousness. They hadn't thought to coordinate a story. Who would be interested in the details of someone else's relationship? There are lines of tension drawing themselves over Fenris' neck and scalp. He holds Hawke's hand tighter, and swallows hard before he opens his mouth. "I wanted to – "

Hawke laughs, cutting him off. "He's trying to spare my pride," she says with such a soft and pleased smile that it glows in her eyes. There's a strength to her, an intensity, a strong and focused vitality that radiates from her and makes everything else look less by comparison. "I told him I'm in love with him, you see, and he agreed to give me a chance. So I'm on my best behavior tonight – Haven't I been?" she appeals to Varric, who raises his hands, implicitly declining to get involved.

She sighs with mock offense in her voice. "I'll remember this when you want me to do your taxes," she warns Varric.

"The day I let you do my taxes is the day after I'm laid out on the slab," Varric says, his eyes narrowing in challenge.

From there the conversation wanders away into other teasing and then even further afield, which Fenris is grateful for, because he hasn't recovered from the blow to the chest he'd received from her words.

I'm in love with him, you see.

Language is one of Fenris's great joys. He's a polyglot who speaks his native language of Tevene, Qunlat, Rivani, and a fair smattering of Orlesian. He drafts legal briefs of great length and complexity every day as part of his job. He understands words in a way few other people can grasp.

He can't understand this.

She'd said...

Fenris drains the rest of his glass of wine to give himself some breathing room, but there's none to be had. Because Hawke said am. Not was. Not I told him I was in love with him, which would have been more natural in terms of the story and introduced an element of distance between Hawke and those supposed feelings she laid out on the table as though they mean nothing.

Am.

Hawke said she is in love with him.

And worse, Fenris believes her.

It explains everything that's confused him about this whole night: her unexpected agreement to his frankly insane idea, the facility with which she pretended to be fond of him, the kindness and consideration she's shown him all night long. Fenris has little experience in romance, but he's not so much a fool as to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes.

He thought Hawke enjoyed tormenting him. Was he wrong about that, too? Frantically, Fenris casts his mind back over their interactions, trying to see them in a different light, but each incident that he remembers is tinged with his own feelings, his own emotions, and he can't disentangle them. Perhaps Fenris reacted too quickly to perceived insults. Perhaps. Or perhaps he was right, and Hawke needles him as though she was born to do it.

The wine isn't helping him think.

At some point during his mental decline, Hawke attempts to draw her hand away; instead of allowing it, Fenris holds on tighter, somehow afraid that if he doesn't keep hold of her, she'll slip away like a figment of his imagination and he'll never find her again. Hawke isn't given to retreating – Fenris knows that better than anyone – but there is no rational thought left in him.

He keeps her there, next to him, as Isabela finally talks Bethany into going home; that's the signal for the associates to start leaving, too, until there's only a few people left in the room. Hawke has withdrawn into silence, her chin in her hand, watching those who are departing with thoughtful eyes and a little smile playing around her mouth.

"Are you ready?" Fenris asks her.

Hawke cuts her eyes to the side to look at him warily. At least she knows. "If you are," she says quietly.

Fenris stands and helps her out of her chair, pleased to see that Hawke doesn't stumble or wobble. She's not drunk. He's glad to see that, because he needs to talk to her about this, and if Hawke were drunk, he'd have to wait.

Sometimes, Fenris is a patient man.

Not tonight.

He finds himself acting the gentleman as he ushers her toward the front door of the hotel: his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, watching for anyone who might walk into her or places where she could trip. It's an unfamiliar feeling. For most of Fenris' life, unfamiliar has meant wrong or painful or hopeless. This is different. This feels like possibility.

When they exit the hotel and Hawke turns toward the cab waiting in front, Fenris takes her by the elbow and draws her with him down the street. It's late, and the sidewalk is empty: just the two of them, the night sky, a light breeze. And secrets.

Hawke turns to him and sighs when she takes in the look on his face. "Oh, go on, then," she says carelessly, a little flip of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "You look like you're about to have a heart attack."

Fenris resists the urge to shake her. "Is it true?" he demands.

"I'm surprised at you," she says, studying his face. "I thought you knew. Of course it's true. Do you think I let other people walk into my office in order to bicker like children?"

Her smile is just as bright and brilliant as ever, but her eyes are still tired – No, Fenris realizes. They're even more tired than they were before. Is it a physical exhaustion from being on all night, as Hawke is always on? Or is this something deeper?

Is he hurting her? Fenris lets go of her elbow immediately. Hawke laughs.

"I'm not a leper," she says, stepping closer to him. "I don't mind if you touch me."

Belatedly, Fenris realizes two things: Hawke is using him as a shield against the light breeze, for she's wearing something thin enough that it might be classified as tissue paper with the smooth expanse of her legs completely exposed, and she must feel the chill. And second, he would like to return his hand to the small of her back, that place that already feels like his, and draw her closer to keep her warm.

"I don't want to give you false hope," he protests weakly.

Though whether it would be false, in this numb and shocked mood, Fenris could not say –

Hawke smiles at him. "I know better than that," she says, very gentle, very soft, a secret only for the two of them to hear. "You're happy alone. Fenris, I have always known that about you."

He'd said that to her only hours ago, and meant it, every word. So why does it hurt so much to hear it now?

What has he been doing to her all of these years?

She takes his hands in hers and smiles up at him. "I don't need your pity," Hawke says firmly. "I'm all right. I'm sure I'll get over you one day, but until then, I'm just enjoying our arguments, all right? I'm strong enough to take this, Fenris. I wish you wouldn't give it another moment's thought."

Fenris is sure that it's a very pretty speech, but he hadn't heard a word past get over you, for the very idea makes something small and hot inside of his chest burst into searing flames. And that means –

He feels safe with her, for that's the only reason her touch would affect him the way that it does. He wants her, he cares for her, she makes him feel things that Fenris never thought himself capable of – or perhaps Danarius burned them away with everything else – but here they are, as though they were only waiting for this intolerable woman to burst out of his chest and wrap him in roses.

"Don't," Fenris says to her, gripping her hands tightly. She makes a soft sound; he can't tell if it's pain or shock or pleasure, and forces himself to be gentler with her. "Don't try to get over me. Please."

Hawke watches him for an interminable moment, her eyes flat and unreadable. "You've been drinking," she says quietly.

The implication is that he's only saying this because he's been drinking. Fenris hears that as clear as day. He cannot offer as his defense the fact that he only put away two glasses of wine tonight, when he's used to drinking the whole bottle, because he knows how that sounds.

Perhaps that's something to think about – tomorrow.

"I am not saying this because I had two glasses of wine with dinner," Fenris growls.

She steps closer to him and frees one of her hands so she can rest it on his mouth. "I don't need this, Fenris," Hawke says to him. Her eyes are sad now. He hates that he's done this to her. "I don't want pity." He tries to say something, but she presses down harder, and he's forced to stop. "You know where my office is. I'm not running away. Take the weekend and think about it. You'll see that I'm right."

Hawke smiles at him again, fever-bright, her lipstick turned to darkest maroon under the full moon. Then she turns and walks toward the idling cab that's still waiting outside the front door of the hotel without looking back, not even once. Fenris clenches his hand as he watches her go. He hates this. He wants to follow her, to demand that she stay – to beg if he has to – but she wants him to wait, and to think.

Fenris owes her that, if nothing else.

———

Over the weekend, Fenris does his laundry, and thinks about Hawke, and cooks for the week, and thinks about Hawke, and lays in his bed trying to think of anything but Hawke – and failing miserably. He thinks about everything: the day they'd met, he shouted at her for billing one of his clients at the regular rate instead of the pro-bono rate. Hawke took it on the chin, as she always does. Fenris thought that she'd done it on purpose for a long time, until he looked back at the file and realized he'd used the wrong billing code.

His fault. But Hawke didn't say anything to defend herself.

Naturally, that made him even angrier.

He thinks about every other fight they've had, and the anticipation that ran through his veins every time takes on a new meaning now that he understands more of himself. He thinks about Friday night's dinner, and all of its revelations –

And he thinks about the future. Quite a lot, actually.

Fenris has plans to make, after all.

———

Bright and early Monday morning, Fenris is wearing his best suit on a day when he has nothing but paperwork to do. He's writing an addendum to a filing in his office when Hawke bursts through the door like a battering ram.

"What the hell is this?" she demands, throwing a bouquet of red roses on his desk.

Fenris looks down at it and raises an eyebrow. "I should have thought it was obvious," he says to her with a small smile.

Some of the anger drains away from Hawke's eyes as uncertainty swells to replace it. "I told you to think about what you were doing," she says. There's an unaccustomed note of wariness in her voice, something Fenris has heard from her so rarely that he barely recognizes it.

"I did," Fenris agrees. "And then I went to a florist's this morning and bought three dozen roses. For you." He sits back in his chair. He's discovering that he's enjoying having the upper hand, for once. If this is what Hawke has felt all of these years, he can hardly blame her for starting arguments with him.

And it's not as though Fenris wasn't enjoying them, if he's to be honest. He hopes that there are many years of arguing in their future.

Hawke presses her mouth together tightly, but there's a shine to her eyes that wasn't there before. "This isn't a joke?"

At that, Fenris gets out of his chair and goes around his desk to take Hawke's hands in his, the same way she'd held his that night. "Is that what you think of me?" he asks her gently.

Her smile is tired and tear-bright and beautiful. "No," she admits. "I don't like roses."

Fenris laughs. "I should have expected that," he says, just to tease her. "What, then? Belladonna? Foxglove? Oleander?"

"Bluebonnets," Hawke says, lifting her chin and staring him in the eyes. "It's also known as lupine."

He softens all over, a queer edge of something so sweet blooming in his heart that it might almost be pain, and he frees a hand to slide it up Hawke's neck as he leans in to kiss her. She matches him in every motion, in the slow, unhurried pace and the soft slide of her mouth over his; it's like one of their conversations, the few they've had without shouting, which consists of pushing and challenging each other to be better, smarter, brighter.

It's them. It's who they are together. And Fenris loves every second of it.

He loves her, he acknowledges in some secret, hidden part of his heart. Hawke laughs against his mouth – Fenris allows himself to smile back, quietly pleased at the sound of her honest joy.

Varric is going to be insufferable when he finds out. Fenris can't bring himself to care.

He's got more important things to think about.