Chapter Text
He needed to talk to her. He'd meant to talk to her the day after wandering drunkenly to her home, but his courage had failed him. He had apologized, at least, laid a balm on the wound that his words had left. Hawke appeared to accept his apology, and now treated him near to, if not quite the same, as their other friends. While he was still a constant companion, she joked with him less, teased him less. Where she would lean on Varric or hug Merrill, he noticed that Hawke was very careful never to touch him.
Did being near him make her uncomfortable? Was she afraid that her touch might uncover more painful memories? He couldn't deny that he too was afraid of what else her touch might bring to light. These thoughts were almost enough to extinguish what little hope he could still hold onto; and yet he noticed that she always fought near his side. He was the first that she checked on after a battle.
But she would move on, she should move on, he reasoned. She should find someone who wasn't afraid of his own past, who would let her in, talk to her. It was foolish of him to still hold out hope, and yet Varric claimed that she still had feelings for him. Despite his earlier reticence, Fenris checked in with Varric from time to time in the early hours at the Hanged Man. According to the dwarf, Mabel still did the same.
“Just talk to her already,” Varric urged, “she wants you back and you want to be back, so talk.” But that was easier said than done. He found excuse after excuse to put off talking with Hawke, some more valid than others: He didn't know what to say, he didn't want to burden her with his past. Most pressing on his mind was the fact that Hadriana had mentioned a sister.
He had a sister! He had a family . He had someone who could tell him more about his past. For the first time in so many years he might not be alone–
But you weren't alone, you had Hawke.
The thought would immediately flip his mind from hope to grief.
You had Hawke, and you pushed her away.