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Hawke's mother's hands are only lightly wrinkled, and very soft; that is all Fenris can think, staring at her bewildered that she would dare touch him. How could anyone-- why would anyone want to touch him? And with such soft fingers, such gentle hands?
Especially the woman who knows what he just did, who heard what they just shouted upstairs?
He could feel Hawke's tension over the possibility of his mother finding out when they were working their way to the bedroom. Now that it's over-- and he tells himself it's OVER but that doesn't convince him very well-- now that Hawke is in his bed, stunned, and Fenris is trying to get to the foyer, he has Leandra Hawke to answer to.
And she doesn't yell at him, or belittle him, or demand to know who does he think he is, an ELF sleeping with her son? Does he know that they are of the noble Amell line?
She doesn't do any of those things, she just closes the distance between them with anguish on her face, and touches his cheek, and smiles the saddest smile he has ever seen. He sees all the years of love and all the love she has lost, written in the lines around her mouth and eyes. How beautiful she is now, and how beautiful she was when she was younger; and how many people she has loved, who have loved her in return.
"...Lady Hawke," he says when at last he feels too uncomfortable, with her pity boring into him. "To what do I owe this honor?"
"Oh, don't be so formal," she scoffs, and steps back to let him pass her if he wants, folding her hands together and looking tiredly toward the fireplace. "Why are you leaving, my dear boy?"
He wonders if she means, why are you leaving my dear boy?, instead. He doesn't say as much. He swallows down a meaningless slur against her son that would be uncalled for. It isn't Hawke that needs to leave.
"I-"
And Fenris stops, and feels that horrible sensation of dizziness again, that awful feeling that he's spinning in a storm and doesn't know up from down.
"I don't know," he tells her, in a low voice that is raw with years and years of pain. "How to love him."
Her outline is a smooth silhouette, elegant and poised, her right shoulder turned toward him. She still stares into the fire; the shadowed smile on her face is dark and ageless as the deep roads. "Take care of him. Love him. Hold him." She turns back to him, sees something he has not yet noticed himself, pulls out a soft purple-dyed kerchief that rustles in her hands and gets too close again, daubing at his eyes.
It is unnerving, Fenris thinks, to realize that he is shedding tears. Didn't he choose to leave and wasn't it his own fault that he had spent these years winding tighter and tighter with desire, never acting on it before now?
Leandra hands him the handkerchief, closing his clawed gauntlet's fingers about it delicately. "He needs someone to love him. He already loves everyone else."
Ashamed, he can't look at her any longer. He doesn't feel worthy of the handkerchief or her kindness or the sweet kisses Hawke showered on him less than twenty minutes ago, trying to savor the moment forever while he fell back into reality terrified and spineless. He shakes his head, and when he speaks he is choking on his own disgust with himself. "I can't be that person. I don't know what to do. I'm sorry."
And he leaves, the little silk cloth clutched in his right hand, without even remembering to bow to her as he passes.