I originally wrote this in answer to one of my writing prompts on my tumblr, but because I was so happy with the way it turned out and because it was long enough to stand on its own as a one-shot, I decided to post it separately here.

The prompt was "Red wine stained lips for Lorenna Hawke".

Enjoy. Thanks for reading! :)

Wine Night

When she opened the door, he thought her lips were stained with blood.

He wouldn't put it past her. He had seen her on the battlefield. The way she fought was both terrifying and mesmerizing—for a mage. She was lithe and graceful, in full control of her body and movements, fully aware of where she was and everything around her. She fought more like a rogue than mage, flying into battle with speed and accuracy, dexterously moving about her enemies, hitting them where they were weakest, taking them out before they could react and hit her. Afterwards, she would always be splattered in blood, both her enemies and her own. She was fearless, breathless, enthralling, beautiful even. Though that was a thought he pushed deep, deep down. She was a mage, after all. And not just a mage, a practitioner of blood magic, though she was adamant that she only ever used her own and refused to manipulate her practice to control others.

Considering she lived in Lowtown and regularly found herself under attack for doing the simplest of things (like daring to walk from her house to the marketplace), finding Hawke covered in blood was a regular occurrence. In fact, he was having a hard time remembering a time when she hadn't been covered in blood.

It was nice to see her outside combat.

It was simply nice to see her.

"Fenris?" Hawke asked, cocking her head to the side. "Are you all right?"

"Uh…" He didn't intend to stammer. It just came out that way. "Uh. I was—"

Hawke raised an eyebrow. She did that often, he had noticed. Usually when she was about to—

"Well, regardless of how you're feeling, why don't you come in? Whether you're wracked with a feverish illness or have simply decided to run all the way down to Lowtown for your own enjoyment, I never let friends sit on my threshold with an invitation in doors."

—say something witty.

He barked a laugh.

And immediately regretted the awkwardness of it.

"Why do you think I'm wracked with a fever?" he asked bluntly.

She shrugged. "You're sweaty. And panting. There's two things—three, really—that come with the words 'sweaty' and 'panting.' A fever is one. Running is another."

"…and the third?"

Hawke swilled around the wine in her cup. "Let's leave it at that for now," she said, smiling coyly. "Why don't you come in? It's just me, Carver and Gamlen tonight. Between you and me, I need someone to lighten the mood." She took a drink. "I'm not interfering with your brooding tonight, am I?"

"My… what?"

"You're brooding," Hawke said. "The thing you do when you get very, very quiet and your voice gets very, very growly—not that I mind—and you stew in all those dark thoughts you have about Danarius."

"Hawke," he said slowly, "I would prefer you not make light of that."

She paused, running her fingers along the edge of her cup. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes downcast. "That was a poor joke."

"It's… fine," he said. "I appreciate someone who can find humour even in the darkest of moments. It's a trait that is too rare."

Hawke chuckled. "Fenris, are you giving me a compliment? I never thought I'd see the day."

"I'm surprised myself," he said. "Mage."

"Elf."

Silence fell between them. Hawke's lips—stained with wine, not blood, as he had thought earlier—were smirking. Her eyes danced as she raised her cup and took another drink. "Is that the best you can do?" she asked.

"I admit, I'm out of insults."

"Oh! Already?" She mocked a pout. "And here I thought you were the cleverest of us all."

"I believe that would be Varric."

"Hmm. I concur. He is a writer after all."

"Though I believe you are also in the running. I shall ask our friends tomorrow."

Hawke's eyebrows went up. "Huh," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Two compliments in one night. Fenris, how daring of you."

"Who is that, Lorenna?" a sullen voice called.

Fenris didn't recognize it. It must be the uncle's. Gamlen. Or whatever his name was.

"A friend," Lorenna said. "Fenris. He might join us."

"That slave elf?" Gamlen did nothing to mask the surprise and distaste in his voice. "You're consorting with elves now, are you?"

Hawke lowered her wine. She turned, blocking Fenris' view of the small house's interior. "Who I choose to befriend is none of your business, Uncle," she snapped. "And I should hope that no family member of mine is would ever think to be so blatantly chauvinistic."

"I don't give a flying rat's arse about who you call friend, niece," Gamlen answered. "But as long as you call my house your own, I say who can be invited in, not you—"

Hawke growled and raised her wine. In one smooth motion, she had thrown the contents in her uncle's face.

"Lorenna!" he shouted. "This shirt cost fifty silvers!"

"It's a good look for you, Uncle," Hawke said. "I hear all the bigots are wearing it these days." She stormed out of the house and threw her cup behind her. "Sorry, Carver," she called. "You're on your own tonight."

And with that, she slammed the door shut.

"Well then," she said, turning to Fenris and smiling brightly. "Where shall we go? We could go to the Hanged Man if you've a craving for drink that isn't spoiled by my bigoted uncle."

"I…"

"Only if you want to," Hawke continued. "Or we could go someplace else. Just the two of us. Again, only if you want to."

Fenris stared at her. "Hawke—"

"Let's start with the Hanged Man," she said, seizing him by the arm and steering him down the street. "Varric's there. Or at least the odds of him being there are very high. He's been hankering to introduce you to Wicked Grace, it's all he talks about…"

Fenris allowed himself to be steered away.

He wouldn't remember why he had trekked all the way to Lowtown in the first place.

But maybe that didn't matter, in the long run.

the end