The flirtations were always there, right from the beginning, and Fenris found himself liking the attention instead of shying away from it, but it was Hawke's kindness that threw him off guard. The man really had no ulterior motive when it came to helping him; just a desire to help. Even when Fenris pushed him away. Even when he left, after their first night together, overwhelmed with grief and longing and memories of trauma. Hawke still showed up for him regardless.

Shouldn't he show up for Hawke, too?

"All I have ever wanted is a family."

It was why he wanted to reach out to Varania to begin with. Not just to get answers about his life before he was Fenris, but to have some kind of connection with someone. And she threw that back in his face. (He wonders if she's still here somewhere, in the city. He paid her way here himself; surely without Danarius, she couldn't have found her way back. Perhaps he could try reaching out again.)

This is another chance at having that connection. There is very little that Hawke could ask him to do that he would say no to, and though he's scared of what it might mean for them, for their future, he doesn't want his fear to dictate their choices.

"You have given me more than I could ever ask for." Love, belonging, freedom. He no longer feels the need to constantly look over his shoulder. Fenris brings his hands up to Hawke's, over his own face, and his heart is so full of warmth and light and... fear too, yes, but it's smaller than the other feelings. "I will likely never get the memories of my family back, not completely. But I have you. And I... want to have a family with you. I simply worry that I have-- too much."

He swallows, and his hands drop back to Hawke's legs, the outsides of his thighs. With a sigh, he leans down and rests his head in Hawke's lap.

Garrett has never told Fenris that he on occasion still sends Varania money, sends Orana to the alienage to leave a package on her doorstep and an unsigned letter hoping she is keeping herself safe. He has more money than he knows what to do with, even on the best of days, and while she had betrayed Fenris, in the end she is also a victim. And Kirkwall is no kinder to elves as they are to mages or refugees. He knows she has not left Kirkwall, despite him giving her more than enough to save for fare on a boat if she wished.

Now is not the time to share such a thing, perhaps some time in the future.

Hawke understands better than most the want for a family, whole and safe. He's failed nearly his entire family, there is a lingering fear that he will ruin this child's life as well. But he will have Fenris, Fenris will have him. There are many things in this life that Hawke doubts, but his ability to do anything when Fenris is beside him is not one of them. He's gentle, when he sets his hand atop Fenris' head, running his fingers across his hair slowly.

There is a chipped teacup full of cooling chamomile sitting on the dining table. Fenris stares at that imperfection for longer than he means to, trying to find something to focus on other than the feeling that he's spinning out of control. He isn't even sure now why he brewed the tea to begin with. Comfort? Distraction? He barely even likes tea.

The rain taps steadily against the high windows, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby. Or a warning.

Fenris sits on the edge of his chair, unarmored, in a simple belted tunic and trousers. His fingers are threaded anxiously through his hair. Since Hawke dropped the news -- that their quick, celebratory 'Maker, I can't believe we really survived that' exploration of each other's bodies has now resulting in creating a life instead of ending it for once -- Fenris hasn't known what to say other than a reassurance that no matter Hawke decides to do about it, Fenris is staying with him.

His eyes flick to Hawke's stomach, then away again, as though it burns him to look. His jaw clenches, and he stands, pacing slowly along the length of the table.

"I was property. I was trained to kill, not to nurture. I don't know if I can even hold a child without... without--"

The children in the village on Seheron. Their terrified screaming. All it had taken was two words -- "kill them" -- and he had, without question. Danarius has been dead for almost a year now to the day, his soft throat torn out, but Fenris doesn't know if he can hold anyone without harming them.

(He holds Hawke, he reminds himself. In the quiet of the bedroom. Holds him, kisses him, loves him. Loves him. Loves him.)

Fenris takes a breath and comes to Hawke's chair, and despite his hatred of doing it, how long he spent avoiding the motion by any means necessary, he kneels in front of him, his hands cupping Hawke's knees.

After everything he's been through, Hawke cannot fathom throwing out the chance to have a family again. Maybe it's foolish. Impulsive, in the wake of losing his entire family and the destruction of the Chantry. Sebastian declaring his upcoming war against Kirkwall. Anders leaving. But are they not entitled to something good?

"It's been nearly a decade since you've hurt anyone you didn't mean to." Physically, at least. There's still a hole in their past, gaping and painful, when Fenris had so quickly made his way out of his life. Hawke hadn't had anyone to talk about it with; Carver gone, Bethany swept up into the Wardens for a mistake he had made, certainly he couldn't tell his mother about it. He hadn't brought it up with their friends, it hadn't been any of their business and the last thing he wanted was to make Fenris regret it more. "You're a better man than you think you are."

Isabela makes sure he gets into the bath safely before she starts to remove her own clothing. There's no interest in sleeping with him tonight, not when he's so drunk and such an emotional wreck he's cried, in public no less. But she's had a long day and she'll be damned if she doesn't feel like slipping into a warm bath with Zevran at the end of it.

It takes her a little longer to get undressed, with all the rings and the necklace, turning to look at him while he asks about how warm the bath is.

"Most the time the sort of baths I get on my ship aren't even fresh water, let alone warm, I find it's worth a few extra coin to get warm water." The real misery of sailing, bathing in salt water or the occasional luck of rain. "If you fall asleep and drown, I'm not going to bother to dress you before I get a healer in here."

Once she's down to nothing, she pushes him forwards a bit by the shoulder and slides herself into the bath behind him. His hair is caked with mud in places, knotted in others. The rest of him is dirty, but it feels so odd to see his hair so out of place. Decidedly, she starts there, cupping handfuls of water over his head. Working out the knots once his hair's been thoroughly wetted.

He wants to lean back against her, sit between her parted knees and let her hold him, but instead, she starts rinsing his hair and picking at the knots and tangles. It's nice, too, in its own way. Zevran winces just a little when she tugs his hair by mistake, but he doesn't complain.

"You know I will always be around," he says. "Like a cockroach, me. Never having the decency to die when I should."

It's meant to be lighthearted, but the words are too close to the truth. Didn't die during his trials to become a Crow, didn't die after killing Rinna, didn't die in those Denerim back alleys at the end of Taliesen's blade. Didn't get the Blight despite how often he wound up coated in darkspawn blood. Couldn't even die in the jaws of the archdemon.

If he did walk into the sea with his pockets full of stones, knowing his luck, the waters would find him distasteful and spit him back out anyway.

Softer, he admits, "I am grateful, too."

He wishes he had died with Alice. Isabela is not her, and will never be her, but he loves Isabela, too, even still. Zevran thinks a part of him never stops loving those he loved before. Once he gives his heart to someone, it is theirs forever. There is an infinite well of love to give and it never seems to diminish, no matter how often he pulls from it.

Some part of her wants to argue that he has never had a moment where he should have died, but it's simply selfishness talking. They've both been through plenty and done more than that, they should both be dead times and times over. Yet, here they both are. In some nameless place, tucked away into a cheap tavern. Her taking care of him as he had her all those years ago.

She can feel the grim coming off of his scalp as she runs her fingers through his hair and drags her nails across his scalp. Watches the soap turn to suds turn to brown suds and once she's thoroughly coated his hair, she's back to dumping water over his hair. One hand rinsed into the water around them to place it over his eyes and avoid getting soap in them.

"I don't blame you for what happened." She did, for a very long time. For a long time she wanted to know why, wanted to find out why it is he had liberated her from her marriage to Luis to only leave her there by herself. She had been hurt, angry and most of all felt betrayed. But all of it had faded with time, with seeing him again. The rest of it has been washed away with the knowledge now of why he left. "I looked for you, for a while after."

But she had other things to worry about. Had started to make a life and a name for herself separate from her husband and her mother. Suddenly, it'd been a year.

Suddenly, he was suddenly there when she'd stopped looking.

Are you becoming what you've always hated?

Isabela pulls him up gently by his hands, not letting go of one of his hands when she's gotten him on his feet. Her jewelry clinks together as she turns her head towards her towering first mate, pursing her lips together to whistle at him for his attention. Whatever he's saying is abruptly cut off to turn his head in her direction.

"I'm going to stay here for a few days, I trust you can take care of that delivery we had. And not wreck my ship in the process."

Casavir just offers her a grin, tells her not to worry and returns back to whatever conversation he was having with what looks like a slightly overwhelmed barmaid. Gently, Isabela tugs him past the crowd and towards the hall of rooms. Privacy will be nice, if only to keep Zevran from feeling like he's embarrassing himself in front of strangers.

But she's also missed this gentle, quiet intimacy between the two of them.

She only drops his hand when the door to her room is pushed open, kicking it closed behind her and wandering off to start to draw the bath. She always pays extra for the enchantments to keep the water warm, the fancy bath oils and salts. What's the point of pirating ridiculous amounts of money if not to spend it on luxuries?

These days, he doesn't even know if this world is one he wants a place in. He feels like a ghost wearing the face of someone he used to be.

Isabela begins to undress him. The knee-jerk reaction is to make a joke, an innuendo, a come-on. To start undressing her, too. But he just lets her unthread the belts on his leathers, loosen the laces on his trousers, and he strips down. The light leather armor peels away, and then he sheds his boots, his shirt. Eventually he's left in the nude, his clothes in a pile on the floor. There are fresh scars from fighting the archdemon, and he idly runs his fingers along one on his arm. One of the last things he has connecting him to Alice.

"Filth is bound to happen when you are traveling an entire country on foot." A country of mostly mud and farmland, it seems. Mud, farmland, and messy politics. Even after the final fight, when Zevran traveled alone and hitched rides in carriages or stole horses, dirt was unavoidable.

He thinks of saying something along the lines of offering to get filthy with her again after the bath, but it doesn't reach his lips. Instead, he follows her to the bathtub and dips a foot in first to test the temperature before climbing in. The water reaches the bottom of his ribcage if he sits normally; he slides so the water submerges most of him, only his head and kneecaps above the water.

Isabela makes sure he gets into the bath safely before she starts to remove her own clothing. There's no interest in sleeping with him tonight, not when he's so drunk and such an emotional wreck he's cried, in public no less. But she's had a long day and she'll be damned if she doesn't feel like slipping into a warm bath with Zevran at the end of it.

It takes her a little longer to get undressed, with all the rings and the necklace, turning to look at him while he asks about how warm the bath is.

"Most the time the sort of baths I get on my ship aren't even fresh water, let alone warm, I find it's worth a few extra coin to get warm water." The real misery of sailing, bathing in salt water or the occasional luck of rain. "If you fall asleep and drown, I'm not going to bother to dress you before I get a healer in here."

Once she's down to nothing, she pushes him forwards a bit by the shoulder and slides herself into the bath behind him. His hair is caked with mud in places, knotted in others. The rest of him is dirty, but it feels so odd to see his hair so out of place. Decidedly, she starts there, cupping handfuls of water over his head. Working out the knots once his hair's been thoroughly wetted.

It wasn't your fault, she says. It causes more tears to spill from his eyes, silent as they roll down his face, wiped away by her careful fingers. Zevran knows he couldn't have convinced her of a different way, but he could have done something, surely. He would rather the world burn than lose her.

He gives a small, watery laugh. He's spent so long building up the facade that now that it's stripped away, he feels raw and exposed, too vulnerable. Truthfully, he's not sure if he'll ever get that mask, that shield, back.

(He will. He did after Rinna, reverting to flirtations and jokes with his back in the mud and Alice looming over him. He struggled after Taliesen, but that was easier to justify -- a matter of survival, once he decided that survival was something he wanted.)

The realization hits him that Isabela is now the oldest friend he has. Part of him knows that if he were to go to Alistair for help, Alistair would assist him; if he wrote to Leliana, she would send aid; even Sten, likely headed back to Seheron, would probably help him if he asked. But the rest of him feels bitterly alone. Isabela is like a beacon in the fog.

"Sounds very much like an excuse to undress me, my dear," he says, weakly. He takes her hands in his. His breaths calm, a little, after another quiet sob. Embarrassing to be doing this in the middle of the tavern, but nobody pays him much mind. Most people in Ferelden have lost someone to the Blight. Family members, homes, entire villages. One woman shouldn't destroy him as much as it is. (A memory of Taliesen slamming him to the wall, trying to shake sense into him. You've never been this broken up over some girl.)

Isabela pulls him up gently by his hands, not letting go of one of his hands when she's gotten him on his feet. Her jewelry clinks together as she turns her head towards her towering first mate, pursing her lips together to whistle at him for his attention. Whatever he's saying is abruptly cut off to turn his head in her direction.

"I'm going to stay here for a few days, I trust you can take care of that delivery we had. And not wreck my ship in the process."

Casavir just offers her a grin, tells her not to worry and returns back to whatever conversation he was having with what looks like a slightly overwhelmed barmaid. Gently, Isabela tugs him past the crowd and towards the hall of rooms. Privacy will be nice, if only to keep Zevran from feeling like he's embarrassing himself in front of strangers.

But she's also missed this gentle, quiet intimacy between the two of them.

She only drops his hand when the door to her room is pushed open, kicking it closed behind her and wandering off to start to draw the bath. She always pays extra for the enchantments to keep the water warm, the fancy bath oils and salts. What's the point of pirating ridiculous amounts of money if not to spend it on luxuries?

"That is the problem," he insists. Too much love in him.

As a Crow, he had no problem killing strangers, holding little regard for the lives of anyone he didn't directly know. Even some he did. He had killed plenty of fellow recruits leading up to his graduation. Yet his attachment to Rinna, his attachment to Taliesen, had destroyed him.

It takes a moment for her words to catch up with him, and he props his chin in one hand, finishing off his drink. He waves the barmaid down for another. It is a story he's told exactly once, and not very thoroughly. But he's numbed to it a little now, the alcohol and grief dampening the swell of pain the memory brings.

"After he killed Rinna."

The new drink comes, and he downs half of it, sets it down, and scrapes his hands through his hair. His braids are out, and he could probably use a bath, but he can't find it in him to care.

"We thought she had betrayed the Crows. Tal found evidence that she took a bribe, gave our target the location of exactly where we would be when we struck. Maps, our cipher, all of it. Taliesen convinced me that she needed to die." His voice chokes, and he curls again, hands over his eyes. "She begged for her life, right before he cut her throat. Told me she loved me. And I spat on her and told her I didn't care."

When he told Alice, he hadn't cried. He'd also been stone-cold sober, and had used the last of his tears when he'd draped himself over Taliesen's body, letting the droplets fall onto that familiar face. The brandy digs up all the emotions he thought were buried, and he finds himself silently letting tears gather behind his hands.

"We discovered that she hadn't betrayed us after all, but it didn't matter. The damage had been done. And I-- I felt like a monster, but Taliesen--" His voice hitches, goes high for a moment. "He prioritized the Crows. He did not care for Rinna. For me. We argued about it, I... tried to get him to see reason, but he had killed something inside of him. I lost both of them, Isabela. I couldn't live with myself."

Wiping his eyes, he stammers out, "Teyrn Loghain contracted the Crows to kill the remainder of the Grey Wardens, the only two left. I fought for the job, begged for it, even offered to do it for free, because I knew I wouldn't come out of it alive. I wanted to die, and what better way than to...?" He's weeping. It's humiliating, being stripped down, the fresh loss making him careless. "I chose to leave the Crows when Alice Cousland offered me mercy. And Taliesen tracked me here to kill me the same way he killed Rinnala. We had to kill him or he was going to kill her, and either take me by force or kill me too."

The two people he'd known the longest, who understood him the best, dead within only a few years of one another. And Alice, too, only weeks after that. Isabela says he will always have her, but he doesn't -- he can't. There is something broken and wrong inside of him, and he will ruin everything good about her before she is lost, too.

She doesn't try to pull him back, when he leans away. Orders another drink. Isabela's searching for the right words to say when he tells her what Taliesen did. She feels suddenly nauseous as all the pieces fall together, the more than Zevran talks.

For a moment, she has the mental image of Rinna in her mind. Pinned to a floor, begging for her life, only to bleed out and be discarded like yesterday's trash. She's grateful Zevran's face is buried in his hands, as she swipes away the single tear that escapes her. As she bites her tongue and decides to never mention running into Taliesen just months before the end of the Blight.

Instead, Isabela throws back the last of her drink and shuffles to kneel in front of him. Gently, she tucks her hands into his and pulls them away from his face. Lets them drop to the side and wipes at his face. She's frowning, looking up at him in silence for a few moments.